How Far into the Trees

By Benjamin Ashton

Ben and Joshua met in their youth, working at a summer camp. More than fifteen years after their bitter sendoff, they meet again and spend a weekend together in a secluded house in Vermont, by Lake Champlain.

“Switching back and forth between past and present, coasting on issues of class, gender, and identity, How Far Into the Trees explores the anguish and beauty of growing up and of getting older. A dark, sweet, sour and raw novella, it lingers and haunts.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Ashton
• Release date: Mar 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311447289

Benjamin Ashton

Benjamin Ashton was born in Philadelphia, PA. He lived on both coasts before settling in Washington, DC.

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How Far into the Trees

Benjamin Ashton

The Other Side of the Pool

Benjamin Ashton

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright 2015 Benjamin Ashton

Cover picture by Luis SH, with the permission of the photographer. Discover his work at http://luisshphotos.tumblr.com/

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About the author

1.

It was only later that evening that I would notice some sparse grey hair salting his otherwise jet-black beard. When he appeared on his driveway, walking around his house from the front garden, all I saw was his open shirt, his bare feet and his warm, tentative smile. I immediately looked for signs of his age, the signs I had pondered and speculated about in the three and half hours it took me to drive from Boston to his house, nested in a small Vermont bay on Lake Champlain. I was too self-conscious and rattled, however, to take in anything else than the quaint beauty of the house, of the orange sun low behind the pine trees, the beauty of Joshua himself. As he made his final steps towards me, I remembered in a flash the joke I had silently made as I was filling the tank somewhere on the I-89: this is the longest I've driven for a booty call.

The joke, the picturing of how reaching his late thirties would look on him, the loud singing-along to the Franz Ferdinand CD I had brought for the drive in the rented car, had all been conscious attempts to alternately damp the oddity of the forthcoming weekend and to gear up my resolve to take it in stride. I hadn't seen Joshua in fifteen years and we hadn't parted on the most cordial terms. He had found me on LinkedIn, of all places, and had dropped me a casual message, punctuated by a couple of exclamation points as if to stress an innocuous cheerfulness in his enquiring of my well-being and whereabouts. I had responded in kind and, a few laidback dispatches later, an open invitation had been extended to come and visit him in Vermont, where he now lived and worked.

The logistics had seemed daunting, as I lived in DC and my job afforded me little free time, and the concrete implications of spending a weekend with a man most likely a stranger to his former young self were murky. It would have been disingenuous and futile to discard the likelihood of the invitation involving sex, yet our written exchange had been outwardly chummy and platonic. This would mean, I forecasted and pictured, an awkwardness in the first few hours of my stay, a slow and clumsy climb to mandated intimacy, before a perfunctory round of intercourse with hidden crossed fingers to conjure up the physical sparks necessary to avoid a two-day long disaster.

Then a late July, pre-vacation professional trip to Boston fell on my lap, an omen I found myself quite willing to seize upon. My local friends Charlie and Chuck would be out of town for the summer, depriving me of any good reasons to extend my stay in the city I briefly lived in. I was still drawn to the general idea of escaping from the crumbling moist heat of July in DC however. Fresh air, nature, a lake, an old friend. New England. I messaged Joshua and booked a rental car - it felt a bit like holding my breath and stepping swiftly to the end of the high diving board. Click here to confirm your reservation. I did. Quickly.

As Joshua hugged me briefly and patted me on the shoulders, I came to think, with some relief, that we would neither instantly jump on each other nor limp awkwardly through banalities and discomfort. Joshua was graceful in his greetings and genuine in his polite affection.

I'm so glad you could make it, Ben, he said simply and warmly.

Yes, it worked out well.

Let me show you around, he said with a spark in his eyes, as if that idea had suddenly come to him.

When he dropped my bag in the entryway and said we'd settle me later (leaving the question of which room I would stay in for a later time when it could more comfortably be answered), I felt the last pang of apprehension leave me. Everything indeed can be decided later, when the moment comes, when the moment is right.

I'm sorry it's a bit of a mess. I've been working a lot these last few weeks. Spring and the first part of the summer are always damn busy in my business. I just got home a half hour ago and just had the time to take a shower. He was walking fairly fast across his living room and dining room, opening doors which led to the kitchen, to a bathroom, to a study. The tone of his voice and the set-up of the house indicated he wasn't much invested in interior design and furniture. The rooms were airy and sunny, thanks to large windows and French doors, but the house was otherwise rustic and plain in style, functional even if cluttered in appearance.

No worries, I said. This looks great.

It's alright. Just wait till we get outdoors. That's where this place is truly wonderful.

And it was, as I instantly found out when he led me out to the deck behind the French doors, overlooking a garden sliding down to some rocks and a few wooden stairs, themselves trickling to a long dock on the Lake.

This is fucking amazing, I couldn't help but grin.

Yes. The mountains on the other side, that's Upstate New York.

Do you have a boat on that dock?

I do. It's just not here now. A friend of mine wanted to borrow it for the weekend. His wife's family is visiting and he wanted to entertain them. Sorry.

No, that's fine. This is perfect.

Yeah.

I understand why you moved here, I added, a little disingenuously since I couldn't quite fathom not living in a city.

Well, I didn't move here for this house. I moved here a while ago to help with the family business.

Right. The hardware store.

The biggest independent hardware stores chains in Northern Vermont, thank you very much, he smiled willfully.

Of course. So how long have you been in this house?

I bought it about seven years ago, but did a lot of work on it for over two years. I mean, everything needed fixing: structure, roof, garden, patio. Working almost every weekend.

Wow. Well, it looks great.

I know where to buy the right instruments.

We both leaned on the railing of the deck, staring at the view pensively. He turned towards me and I met his gaze. He still had the same dark small eyes, thick black eyebrows, long straight nose and square jaw. His beard was distracting, however, as if painted over the face I remembered; it was morphing him, costuming the young athletic suburbanite soccer player I knew into a rugged, outdoorsy man. The elegance of his fine features had mixed well with the t-shirts, sweatpants, sneakers and tortured fratboy antics when he was 22; it still complimented the plaid shirt, cargo shorts, various work boots scattered in the entryway, and the solid and warm presence of the 39 year-old man he had become. He used to seemingly take great pains to look like a jock; he now effortlessly and organically had the appearance my hipster friends try to emulate. I wondered if he had any tattoos.

Are you hungry, Ben? he said, breaking softly the silence.

I am, actually, I'm famished.

I didn't have time to shop or cook much, as I warned you. But I can grill some hamburgers and fix a salad if that works for you.

Yes, that's great.

And beers.

And beers, indeed.

Listen, make yourself at home. Walk around, go see the water. I'll start the barbecue and set things up here.

Sounds good, I said, starting to walk down the stairs. As I reached the lawn, I felt the urge to