“What do you bet the sap’s running?” Grandpa asks when we’re walking home from the garage. I bet it’s running fast because the conditions are perfect. I also bet he already forgot all about Alex Carter, and about me getting in trouble at school today.
“I think we should be ready to collect,” I say. And as soon as we get to our house I throw my book bag and baseball glove on the porch, grab the empty milk jugs from the shed, and shove my feet in my big Bogs boots that come almost up to my knees.
Out back, we have twenty sugar maples that are bigger around than Grandpa’s hugs. A few weeks ago we drilled two holes in each, hammered in taps, and attached metal buckets for the sap to drip down into. It started running as soon as we drilled the holes, like the trees had been waiting to burst. That’s what happens when you tap them at the exact right time. When it’s freezing at night but sunny and warm during the day.
As soon as we get out to the backyard I can see fat drops of sap falling from the taps into the buckets.
“Time to empty.” Grandpa hands me a cheesecloth.
We have to filter the sap from the metal buckets through a piece of cheesecloth to collect all the bad stuff so it doesn’t get mixed in.
We run the sap through the filters and collect it in the old plastic jugs. Once they’re full, it’s my job to half bury the jugs at the edge of our yard and pack them tight in the snow to keep the sap cool.
Grandpa says we’ll boil soon.
“If you promise to be good at school tomorrow, you can help me split,” he says.
I don’t technically say I promise, but I know I’ll be good enough to keep Ms. Burg from calling Grandpa in. I don’t want anyone else asking him questions and telling him how bad I’ve been and making him shake his head and rub his temples. No way. I can be good enough to keep Grandpa away from all those adults and all their concerns.
I run back to the shed for our work gloves and protective glasses and Grandpa’s ax. The snow in the yard is halfway up my boots, and I like the way it feels to sink in all the way to my rolled-up jeans as I walk back to Grandpa. He only lets me hold the ax with the head down and with two hands, and only if I walk.
It’s my job to put the big pieces of wood on the old stump chopping block. I have to place them perfectly so they don’t wobble at all. It’s Grandpa’s job to swing the ax and split the wood along the grain into smaller pieces that’ll fit in our outdoor fire pit for when we start to boil the sap down into syrup.
Grandpa always breathes out a big “Ha!” when he swings the ax down on the wood, like an umpire calling a strike. Then the wood cracks like a broken bat, split down the grain. Sometimes it only takes one hit like that and the wood just falls apart. Sometimes it’s a little tougher. Like if the wood has a big knot in it, the ax can’t get through it right off and Grandpa has to take lots of swings and then pry it apart with his hands at the end.
“Couple more,” Grandpa says, and I know he’s getting tired because he’s not pulling the ax up as high over his head as he did the first time. But his memory’s not tired. Not out here. He never forgets what he’s doing at his chopping block, like his brain is hardwired. Hardwired to fix broken cars and split wood out by our sugar maples.
And I sometimes wonder if he remembers other things out here at the chopping block while his memory isn’t so bad. Like my mom. And the way her voice sounded and if I look like her or what happened that made him shut up so tight like his tongue forgot how to say her name.
And I’m thinking about asking him. Trying again while we’re out here at the chopping block. I run my work glove against the rough bark of the next piece of wood and open my mouth, but I know he’ll just shake his head and change the subject. Like he always does.
“OK, Robbie,” he says. “That’ll do for tonight.” He lowers his ax and I lob the new split pieces on the stack under the eaves of the house.
The creases are deep across his forehead, and I hope that he is remembering all that stuff out here by the sugar maples, because no matter how deep I search, no matter how hard I think, or how tight I close my eyes and try to see, I’ll never be able to find any memories. And I’m scared he’s forgetting his. Then I’ll never know.
I make footsteps in the snow for Grandpa to follow, and I wait behind him on the porch as he struggles with the key to the front door, pushing the wrong one in over and over even when it doesn’t fit. “Goddammit!” he grunts. “This stupid . . .”
I put my hand over his. “This one, Grandpa.” I point to the silver key hanging on the chain. “That big one’s for the garage, remember?”
“Of course I remember that,” he says.
I smile up at him and know that even if I try to ask now, it’s too late, because he’s all jumbled up and confused. But there’s no one else to tell me about her, so I help Grandpa up the steps and into the warm house.