Caribou Island (10 page)

One of your friends told you this?

Yeah.

But I didn’t hear anything.

It was the conversation about beer. No code words or anything, just a feeling about what’s being said. We don’t want anyone else to know. Then every boat in the area would be moving over here.

Wow, Carl said.

Yeah, it’s very James Bond out here, Mark laughed. He was using the binoculars again, looking at the group of boats they had been heading toward before. A couple of them are coming over. They figured it out, too. Maybe just waiting to see us turn. We’ll have to get the net in the water fast.

Carl looked back for a moment but couldn’t see anything at this distance. The whole business felt urgent now. Do you know them? he asked Mark.

Russian boats, Mark said. Bigger, forty-two feet, running a double D, two licenses, so they get an extra shackle, twelve hundred feet on their net.

Russians?

Alaskans now, I guess, Mark said. But Russian. Two communities here, one near Ninilchik. Good fishermen, so they don’t usually need us. Must be having a slow day. They usually keep to themselves, very closed communities, all family, all fishermen and boat builders, highest fishermen per capita for any population here.

So they’re the best?

Mark laughed. The Norwegians are the fish-killing sons of bitches. Out on the other side of the inlet. Towns you can get to only by float plane or boat. They bred the cows and killed the bulls.

What?

Sorry, Mark said. It’s really rude and politically incorrect. Just a saying here. The Norwegians bred all the Aleut women and killed most of the men, so in those towns, everyone has a Norwegian last name, Knudsen and such. Almost no Aleut surnames. I worked in one of them one summer, as a carpenter, and they are serious fish-killers. Have it from both sides. And they follow their own laws.

What’s that mean? Carl asked. The boat seemed terribly slow. Wallowing through the waves, nothing passing quickly. Meanwhile, the Russians were gaining on them, he knew. He could see the appeal of those fast aluminum boats with their gasoline engines.

There was a kid, Mark said, a teenager, who was angry about something—and there’s plenty to be angry about in a village, I’m sure, incest and such, who knows what goes on—so he stole from his aunt, nothing much, but then he stole someone’s four-wheeler and took it down the beach and finally drove it into the water. He ditched it below the low-water mark. But of course no one was fooled. They took him into the center of the village and put a fish sack over him, then all the men came at him with fish bats. His own father clocked him right in the head. I’m standing there wondering if I’m seeing a murder, and I think I did. I never asked about it. I was just there to help build a house. That was it.

Holy shit, Carl said.

I’m gonna let Dora know, Mark said. She’ll come up and grab the helm. Just stay out of the way, and if we catch fish, you can help me throw again.

The water no longer turquoise. A dark, dark blue today, with blackness in it, a clarity, no glacial silt suspended. Irene didn’t know how it could change so completely in even a day. A different lake now. Another metaphor for self, each new version refuting all previous. Who she was today did not fit with two weeks ago, before the headaches, and who she was then did not fit with a few months ago, not yet retired, still in the classroom with the children. And who she was then did not fit with when her own children still lived at home, before they vanished from her daily life, and who she was then did not fit with how she and Gary first came to this place, full of hope, or fit the time just before that, on her own with an education and a job, free finally, a bright moment when all was possible. And who she was then did not fit the unwanted thing she had been for so many years, given cast-off spaces in spare bedrooms or even attics and, once, a basement, and who she was then—nobody, really, a kind of ghost—was not who she had been on that day, coming home, believing she still had a mother.

The air warm and flat, uncharged. The shorelines hazy, Sitka spruce at their odd, bent angles like a forest gone to ruin, survived some cataclysm, unearthings of bare rock. The knuckle rocks, they called one patch. Everything here enormous and also too small, closed in, living under this mountain.

Gary preoccupied as always, caught up in his struggle with the cabin, oblivious to her, no idea what she’d been through last night, not sleeping, no idea what she felt now, the inside of her head spinning like a gyroscope at fantastic speed. He thought she was making up the pain, thought it wasn’t real. She was sitting right in front of him in the boat, facing him, but he managed to look ahead their entire trip across that lake without seeing her at all. Part of how he was letting her vanish.

When they arrived, Irene climbed out and helped pull the bow closer to land. Cold metal even on a warm day.

They hiked across blueberry and deadfall, around a small alder thicket to the platform and squares of logs they had built, the layers of the cabin. Gary set a piece of wood upright beneath where he was nailing, Irene sat on the logs to compress, and the ten-inch nail sank deep into the top log.

Then the log began to split, a crevice on either side of the nail, a ripping sound.

Damn it, Gary said. But he kept hammering until he was deep into the bottom log and the two layers were tight. He pounded the head until it indented into the surface of the wood.

Okay, he said. Good enough.

They moved to the next side, and Gary hammered again, grim and intent, his face looking old, all the lines. Losing himself in work, gone vacant. And Irene didn’t grudge him this. She understood the desire to forget. At the moment, though, she was held present. Each hammer blow a punctuation behind her right eye, a red wavy streak shooting upward, like a cartoon, and she thought she might faint but she didn’t. She could hold on, wait this out. It couldn’t last forever. They nailed all four sides, then stood back to admire their work.

Not bad, Gary said. And it was true. The gaps had closed. No more than a half inch anywhere, or less than an inch, anyway, something caulking or grout could probably take care of.

They dragged a third layer into place, wet wood, four logs, and Gary nailed again. Irene stood back thinking this could go quickly. It might not take that long to build a cabin.

How are we doing the door? she asked Gary. And the windows.

Gary paused in his hammering and sat up straight. Breathing heavily. Yeah, he said. We need a door. And at least one window to look out on the lake.

Yeah, Irene said.

Gary straddling the log wall, one knee on the platform inside. I guess we just cut gaps. When we get to the top of where a window or door would be, I saw down through the logs.

Okay, Irene said. And we buy the actual glass window with a frame on it, and the door?

Yeah, we’ll buy those first and then I’ll cut the gaps.

Gary returned to hammering and Irene lay down in a patch of ferns. Sleep a heavy casing that could never quite close, pain wedged in along the edge. Rhoda would bring more painkiller this evening. She’d promised. Irene had one pill left and was holding out as long as possible. The smell of ferns and earth pungent in close, dark and rich, and she focused on this, tried to hang sleep on smell, but she couldn’t escape, couldn’t remain distracted long enough to forget. And it was unbearable to stay in one position, feeling the pressure build.

What are you doing? Gary asked.

Irene sat up. I need this to go away, she said. This pain. I’m getting desperate.

It seems like it should be over by now. The doctor said a few days, maybe a week at most, and you’d be fine.

I couldn’t sleep last night. Not even for a minute. Not even with the Tramadol.

What?

Yeah, I’m afraid I won’t sleep again until this goes away.

I don’t understand.

Yeah. But it’s real.

Gary came over then, kneeled beside her and held the sides of her head in his hands. You’re crying, he said.

No. Just tears. That happens all the time now. Just something my body does automatically.

We have to find out what’s wrong, he said. Something’s wrong.

Hallelujah.

He took his hands away. Don’t be like that.

Well, she said. It’s about time you believed me.

Sorry. We’ll find another doctor. A specialist. Maybe drive up to Anchorage tomorrow.

They stopped work for the day, Gary noticing her finally, helping her over the bow of the boat, watching her on the way back. She tried to smile. Thank you, she said over the engine, but he couldn’t hear and she couldn’t try to say it again.

At home, she rested in the bedroom while he cooked. Took her last Tramadol, waited for Rhoda. And she nearly fell asleep. She sank deeper and deeper, but couldn’t quite get away from the surface. Then she heard Rhoda drive up. The front door opening, talking with Gary. The bedroom door, and Rhoda was beside her.

We’re taking you to Anchorage, Rhoda said quietly. Jim is making calls now to find someone, and he gave you a prescription for codeine, so I don’t have to steal Tramadol anymore.

Irene found it difficult to rise out of herself to speak. Down lower than she had thought. Thank you, she finally said. Jim’s a good guy.

Yeah, Rhoda said. He is.

Rhoda helped her sit up then, and grabbed her arm to help her stand.

I’m not that far gone, Irene said. I can walk.

Okay.

It’s my head that’s the problem, not my legs. I’m not in a rest home. I’m fifty-five.

Okay, Mom, Rhoda said. Geez.

Sorry, Rhoda. You were always the one I could count on. You’ve always helped, even when you were little. It’s just who you are, nothing to do with me or your father.

Thanks, Mom.

Then they were out in the main room, where Gary had put pasta and salad on the table.

Husband, my husband, Irene said. Prepared the evening’s meal. Thank you.

Gary looked unsure what to say to that. His face knocked back a bit. A sign of guilt, she thought, one more tiny indicator of future betrayal. Face back, slight puffing of his neck at the word
husband
. Caught off guard because he believed he was leaving unnoticed, believed he could let her somehow fall away and be gone.

This looks great, Dad, Rhoda said.

It’s just pasta, he said. How are you feeling, Reney?

Happy to have the two of you here with me, Irene said, looking at Gary and then Rhoda.

Jim gave you a prescription for a sleeping pill, too, Rhoda said. Dad said you couldn’t sleep last night.

She can’t sleep, Gary said. She has to be able to sleep.

Irene tried the pasta. Her appetite gone. She didn’t care whether she ever ate again. Closed her eyes and could feel every part of her pulling inward, as if her center were gravity itself. A rushing of flesh into nothing.

What’s wrong, Mom?

The medication. I can’t eat.

Mom, Rhoda said, and she came closer, took Irene’s arm. But Gary stayed where he was. He had never known how to care for her, and now would be no different. Irene would be on her own, as she had been her whole life.

My mother had terrible headaches, Irene said.

Rhoda and Gary both paying attention now.

She said her head hurt, but I didn’t know what that was. She would ask me to be silent, and I did that. I was silent. I didn’t make a sound for days. I was only a kid, so that wasn’t easy.

Rhoda and Gary silent now, and Irene closed her eyes. She wanted to see her mother’s face. But what she saw was what she always saw, her mother’s form hanging in the air, a shape that couldn’t be her mother, and she didn’t want to see that, so she opened her eyes again.

Rhoda drove away afraid but couldn’t pinpoint the fear. Everyone around her acting odd. Her mother, her father, Jim. None of them being who they were supposed to be. And where did that leave her? Her life was based on them.

What about what she wanted? Did any of them give a shit about that? This pissed her off, which was better than being afraid. She yanked the wheel to the side, then yanked the other way, fishtailing her crappy car down the gravel road, and that felt a little better. Go, cockroach, go, she said.

She took the turnoff to the lower end of the lake and skidded up to Mark’s house.

Hey, fucker, she said when he came to the door. It was late and he looked tired, or stoned.

That’s nice.

Not one visit, she said. You couldn’t stop by just once to see how she’s doing?

How’s she doing?

She died.

Well I guess we’re better off, in a way, Mark said. The weight of her displeasure and all that. But I will miss the Christmas cakes, and a certain girlish hopefulness.

Rhoda kicked him in the shin with her boot, hard enough he fell down howling. Then she ran back to her car before Karen could get into the mix.

Pancakes and canned peaches when she arrived home, so at least that was a return to normal. Jim standing at the counter, clicking his fork against the side of the can as he went for a slice of peach.

I’m putting you on notice, she said.

What?

You’re all acting weird.

All?

You and my mom and dad. You’re all freaks. My brother’s just a worthless shit, but the three of you are driving me crazy.

What did I do?

I don’t know, she said. But it’s not right. You’d better stop.

Jim looked hurt. I’ve been making calls for your mother, he said. That’s all I’ve been doing.

I’m sorry, Rhoda said. She stood in place a moment to try to slow down. She felt like she was running, her heart pumping. She wanted Jim to put his arms around her to help hold her in place, but he just stood there oblivious. Something freaked me out about my mom, she finally said.

What was it?

Rhoda threw her jacket off, sat on one of the bar stools. It’ll sound crazy, she said. But she can’t sleep, she can’t eat, she has this pain all the time, and so she’s leaving us. She’s going away somewhere in her head, back to her childhood, to her mother, and I feel like she’s already gone.

Could be just the medications.

Could be. But it isn’t. She’s going back to a place that’s not good for her.

Well I found her a good doctor. John Romano, the best ear nose throat guy in Alaska.

In Anchorage?

Yep. One p.m. tomorrow.

How expensive is he?

He’s the most expensive, but he’s also the best and he’s willing to cut his fees in half for your mom. Everything will be half price, even if she ends up needing surgery.

Surgery?

Yeah, a sinus operation. It’s pretty common.

Rhoda got up and gave Jim a hug. Thanks, Jim, she said. And sorry for snapping at you. I’m just afraid. Jim put his arms around her, and he put one hand on the back of her neck, the way she liked. She felt safe.

How old was she when her mother killed herself? Jim asked.

Ten. In Rossland, British Columbia. She came home from school one day and walked in and found her. But she never talks about it. A couple weeks ago, she told me what it was like, walking up to the house that day. First time she’s ever told me that. How there was snow on the ground, and how the paint looked. Something’s going on with her, even before these headaches. She’s getting all paranoid and weird, thinks my dad is going to leave her.

He’s leaving her?

No. She’s just weirding out.

Hm, Jim said.

Let’s not talk about this anymore, Rhoda said. Let’s talk about something fun. Let’s talk about what kind of wedding we’d like.

Okay, Jim said, and he let his arms fall, gave her a light pat on the back.

So Rhoda grabbed the brochures for hotels on Kauai and they sat together on the couch.

This is the one I like, she said, opening a full-size brochure of sea views and green-black mountains with waterfalls. Princeville, at Hanalei Bay. Listen to this.
Forever Starts Here. As the sun kisses the horizon and you are bathed in golden light
,
your vows are lifted by eternal trade winds and scattered over a million miles of Pacific.

Doesn’t sound bad, Jim said.

It wouldn’t suck, Rhoda said. Eternity and all that. Look at that pool. Infinity, to go with eternity.

The rooms look nice, too. Pricey?

Rhoda put down the brochure and looked at Jim. The price doesn’t matter, does it? This is our wedding. It only happens once.

Yeah, Jim said. I guess so.

Rhoda elbowed him in the ribs, but only softly, and she opened the brochure again. What about our dance? she asked. We may have to go to Anchorage to take lessons. I don’t think there’s anything here.

Anchorage?

I just want something classy, she said. She didn’t like his responses. Maybe we should talk about this another time.

I’m sorry, he said.

That’s fine.

I’m just new at this.

It’s fine. We’re not even engaged yet. I just like to think about it.

Jim didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. Rhoda looking down at the brochure, sad, and he felt like he was supposed to pop the question right then, to save the moment, but he didn’t have a ring. And there was Monique. The situation was impossible. So he didn’t say anything. He looked at the brochure, and she turned slowly through the pages, neither of them looking at each other.

Carl had run out of money. Not even ten dollars left. He had to leave the campground, so he sat in his tent stuffing his cheap wet sleeping bag into its sack, then wondered what to do with Monique’s. Hers was new, silver and green, in a waterproof bivi sack. Much thicker and warmer than his, but also weighed less. An easier ride through life. Carl lay down on her bag, put his face on the built-in pillow, breathed in deep. And then he was crying out of control again. He didn’t know how to make it stop. Ragged and painful, not a good kind of crying, no relief. And she had never even been nice to him. He didn’t understand this.

He took off his jeans, got into her bag, zipped it tight, and curled up. Another wave of sobbing, his heart this awful lump. He wondered how long this would go on. He wanted her to come back. He wanted her to lie down on top of him, to hold him down. Monique, he said.

Hollows inside him, only hollows. No substance. She had somehow blown the center out of him. He could see her face, when they had first gotten together, when it seemed that she loved him. Her smile a little hesitant, even, as if she were nervous too.

Carl felt tremendously sorry for himself, a sorrow without limitation, and he just lay there for hours until the campground manager came to his tent and told him to get out or he’d be charged.

Sorry, Carl managed to say between sobs. I’m leaving. Just a few minutes.

You need to leave now.

Okay. I’m leaving.

Now.

So Carl crawled from Monique’s sleeping bag and out of the tent into a light drizzle, exposed and cold, the sky dark. He pulled out both packs, broke down the tent. Had to blow his nose again from being such a crybaby.

His backpack was heavy, about sixty pounds, and then he reached down for the straps of Monique’s, which weighed at least forty or fifty. He pulled up and got her straps to go over his shoulders from the front. Slipping a bit, his face mashed against her frame, and he locked his hands low. More than a hundred pounds of packs, and he weighed only one-fifty, so he didn’t know how far he’d make. He had to turn sideways to look where he was going, then walk ahead blind, then check again.

Carl staggered out the camp entrance down a gravel road toward the highway. Drizzle and a breeze. He felt like his knees were compacting into his leg bones, his lower back crunching also, his arms burning.

It was a long way out the gravel road, and when he hit pavement, he dropped both packs and his steps afterward felt like he was leaping into the air, gravity gone. Wow, he said.

He put his thumb out just as a truck roared past. There was no way he could carry these packs three hours into town.

Several cars went by without slowing, and he realized he had forgotten about her for a few minutes. That was the key. He had to keep occupied. He needed a job. Also because I have no money, he said aloud. Maybe Mark could set something up for him.