OATH by Jared Ward

Drunken monkeys littered the campsite, empty bottles, cans, and cups strewn around them.  Some, like Sunny, made it to their sleeping bags, though he forgot to relinquish his drink, and it soaked his shirt and bag on a slow leak.  Others, like Little Matt, never came close, his head pillowed by a sopping wet t-shirt.  We were all drenched, since after the beer fight Caddy dove into the lake and we all followed suit.

We lay there, Caddy and me and the dwindling fire.  Hot coals glowed golden.  I used to think the heart of a fire was a palace with shimmering walls.  Wanted to crawl inside.

“Milo?”  He looked straight ahead.

“Yeah?”

“What’s it gonna be like next year, when everyone’s gone?”

“We’ll still be here.”  I looked at the moon.  “They’ll come visit.”

“You think?”

I wanted to say of course.  We’re boys, and that’s for life, except I didn’t know.  Not for sure.  There was a little voice saying, right, because how many high school buddies do your parents still hang with?  What happens when bills need to be paid, kids need to be fed?  You’re out of the picture, if you haven’t pushed them out already.

He didn’t need that.  “It’ll be fine,” I said.

“Yeah.”  He nodded, but I could see something churning.  “I was thinking, what if we’re the ones who get stuck here?”

He was getting worked up and I was tired.  “Is it so bad?”

He shook his head, “Not now, with all of us, but you take this away and what’s left?  Dragging Main when we’re thirty, trying to pick up chicks at Sonic over curly fries and a cheeseburger?”     

           Quietly, from the far side of the fire, Big Matt started laughing.  Louder, louder, and it started to spread, until we’re all laying there chuckling, and I give out a howl and someone else follows and we’re a pack of wild wolves howling at the moon.  And we’re boys.  And we’re brothermonkeys bound forever by this oath, this solemn vow that we pledge to the moon, here, now, covered in sweat and booze and campfire smoke staining our skin a full-flavored scent of something primal and pure, bound forever by this vow more sacred than any, a promise to be in this memory forever, even if the wind scatters us, even if the boys disappear and a bunch of men show up in their place at a reunion ten, twenty, thirty years down the road, because somewhere beneath the added weight and wrinkles is the memory, the howl, and that can’t be forgotten.

   

Jared Ward has had work accepted at Evansville Review, New Delta Review, Concho River Review, Barrelhouse, Hobart, and others.  After finishing his undergraduate work in only fourteen years, he will be attending the University of Arkansas MFA Creative Writing program in the fall.