Caribou Island (8 page)

The logs were not all the same. Some lighter-colored birch, thin bark like paper. Then darker spruce. Every variety of tree from this part of Alaska. And not one of them straight. Knots and bumps and the nubs of sawed-off branches. Gary kept picking up an end and sighting down it, dropping it and moving on to the next.

Raining again, but this time they wore full gear, thick dark green fishermen’s gear, with boots. Irene warm and dry.

Maybe I should have had them planed down, Gary said.

Irene held her tongue. Sat on the edge of the platform and waited. She would do whatever he wanted for this cabin. If he decided to tie the logs together with licorice, or use cake icing to fill the gaps, she’d do it.

Gary selected four of the darker spruce logs finally, measured and sawed the ends so the corners would meet. Forty-five-degree angles, using a handsaw, and he didn’t get them quite right. Yellow sawdust turning orange-red in the rain. The smell of the wood brought out by the sawing. Gary matching corners and wondering at the gaps.

Close enough, he said, but Irene could tell he was getting frustrated already. He had this immaculate idea in his head, and he was seeing the first tarnish now.

She kneeled down and held the logs together while he nailed. Big six-inch nails, galvanized. Her hands wet and cold, the bark rough.

They nailed together four corners and that was the first level of their walls. Two sixteen-foot logs and two twelve-foot logs making a low border. On the uphill side, the log came almost to the floor. The downhill log was more than a foot short.

At the roof, we’ll add partial layers to even it all up? Irene asked.

Yeah, Gary said. We’ll have to do that. Though I guess a roof can be tilted, too. Might look kind of interesting. And he grinned at Irene.

Irene laughed. It would have that rustic feel.

It’s a deal, Gary said. We’re doing a tilted roof.

Irene put her arm around Gary and gave a squeeze. Maybe it would work out. Maybe it would be okay that the cabin would look ridiculous.

Second layer? he asked.

You bet, she said. She was dizzy and had an ice pick in her brain, but she was doing her best to ignore that. Maybe she needed more antibiotics.

They measured again and he sawed the ends. The rain came down harder, blown by more wind, so they faced away from it.

Irene held the corners while he nailed, and she could see enormous gaps between the two layers. In some spots, maybe two or three inches of air between logs.

Damn it, Gary said.

The rain blowing sideways now, as if to show what would happen to these gaps. Irene slipped a Tramadol quickly while Gary was distracted. She was almost out. She needed to ask Rhoda for more.

Damn it, Gary said again. I need a planer, but by hand it’s going to take forever. All those knots and cut-off branches, all the bark. There’s no way I can get through that. I should have had them planed before. I knew that. I knew that and I didn’t do it.

It’s your first time doing this, Irene said.

But I knew it. I just didn’t have enough time. I was starting the project late. So I thought maybe I could make it work. When am I going to learn not to start shit late?

Well, Irene said, I think you’re being hard on yourself.

No I’m not. I’m an ass. I’m an incompetent ass, and that’s what I’ve always been. Every project.

Gary, she said, and she tried to put her arms around him, but he stomped off into the trees. Hard to believe he was fifty-five years old. He could have been twenty, or thirteen, or three. Having a tantrum, just like the children she’d taught for thirty-three years.

And meanwhile, Irene said quietly to herself, this gets to be my life. Because you can choose who you’ll be with, but you can’t choose who they’ll become.

Gary was through the trees at the back of the property quickly, moving fast. The rain coming down heavy, his footsteps just as heavy, snapping deadfall. He felt like he could go forever, hike clear across Alaska into the Yukon and Northwest Territories, hike until his legs burned away and his mind cleared. He found that other cabin again, with the large even logs. He examined the gaps and still couldn’t tell what they used. The prongs of his hammer and the logs themselves curved enough that he couldn’t quite dig in, so he swung hard to bite into one of the gaps, tearing away at the log face. The lighter wood exposed, the surface gone almost black. He was able to free a small piece of the filler. A gray grout or cement or epoxy. It had flexibility but wasn’t rubber or silicone. Slightly grainy in his fingers. He smelled it and couldn’t tell what it was. And he doubted it could fill several inches of gap. Nothing would fill that. He’d have to nail up plywood. Instead of a cabin, the inside would look like a storage unit.

Gary turned and threw his hammer at a tree. It hit with too quiet a sound, nothing satisfying. So he walked over and picked it up and threw it at another tree, closer, and it bounced back at him so he jumped to the side.

He wanted to reach down into the island and tear it apart with his hands, see the lake’s water rise up in the gap. That would be enough. Nothing less than that.

Well, he said. Because it was time to move on.

He hiked back to Irene, who was sitting on the edge of the platform, turned away from the wind and rain, hunched over. He should let her go back home. She shouldn’t have to be a part of this. Just a few more layers of logs and they’d go.

He walked up to her and said sorry. This is just frustrating, he said. There’s another cabin back there, and I don’t know where they got their big logs.

It’s okay. Maybe we can work something out with these.

So they made another layer, sawing and nailing corners, then stood back to look at the gaps. They stood there in the rain and tried to figure out how to make it work.

Maybe you can nail each layer down into the next, Irene said. With longer nails. That might bring them closer together. And she was thinking this was a kind of metaphor, that if they could take all their previous selves and nail them together, get who they were five years ago and twenty-five years ago to fit closer together, maybe they’d have a sense of something solid. For themselves and for their marriage, a marriage not unlike a sense of self, something fleeting and changing, important and also nothing. You could rely on it for years, just assume it was there, but then if you looked for it, needed it, tried to find some substance to it, something to grab on to, your hands closed on air.

That’s a good idea, Gary said. I’ll try that. Thanks, Reney.

They made one more layer, then lifted each layer off and dragged it aside for tomorrow’s work. Tomorrow they’d try to make it all fit together more closely.

Monique and Carl were lying on the bed in Jim’s spare bedroom. Late afternoon, after showers. Carl praying she’d have sex with him, afraid to say anything. Monique staring at the ceiling.

I’m tired, Monique said.

Hm, Carl said.

Monique cracked her toes.

You shouldn’t do that. Arthritis.

Monique sighed. She stood up, unwrapped her towel and tossed it on a chair, naked now, then got under the covers.

Carl tossed his towel and got under the covers, too.

Monique turned onto her stomach, facing away from him, and went to sleep.

Carl dressed and wandered into the kitchen and living room. A rich place, great views, all wood, nice couches. He opened the fridge and freezer and looked for something good. Ice cream bars, which were a possibility. Smoked salmon, always good. But he closed the doors and looked in the pantry, wanting something else. Found a small glass bottle of maple syrup, unopened. It had a handle big enough to put one finger through, and a tiny golden cap on top. Imported from Canada.

Carl brought it to the living room, sat on a couch looking out over the Cook Inlet, darkened with rain. He unscrewed the cap and sipped lightly at the syrup, holding it in both hands in his lap between sips, like a canteen of whiskey.

The clouds over the water formed a low, dark ceiling, almost like a theater, the slanted bands of rain and light a trick of staging, all of it in motion. It was beautiful, and different now that he was removed, in this warm, dry, expensive place. Money wasn’t a bad thing. Maybe he should rethink the anthropology major. Living in that tent was a preview of what his entire life would be like if he went the no-money route.

He laid his head back and closed his eyes. He’d been getting terrible sleep, the bottom half of his sleeping bag wet whenever it rained. The couch incredibly comfortable.

In his dream, Carl was being shaken by monkeys, trying to hold on to the branches in a very tall tree, but this was Rhoda, her hands all over him, and he woke to see the maple syrup spilled over him and the couch, a honey drool that had gone everywhere. Rhoda wiping at his shirt and jeans with a wet kitchen towel.

I’m sorry, Carl said, panicked.

It’s okay, Rhoda said. It’s funny. Let me just get a bit more so you don’t drip when you stand up.

God, Carl said. I’m such an idiot.

It’s fine, sweetie. Your secret is safe with me.

Ah, he said. It’s everywhere.

Yes it is.

He was able to stand up, finally, and helped her dab at the couch, which luckily was a dark brown.

I’m so sorry, he said.

Really. It’s fine.

So Carl slunk off to change his clothes and take another shower, but Monique was awake now and asked what happened and then laughed, of course.

Thanks, he said. I feel real big.

Don’t pout, she said, but he closed the bathroom door and got in the shower. He’d had about enough of Monique.

Rhoda finished cleaning up then set out a platter of cheeses, olives, smoked salmon, crackers, capers, several tapenades. Opened a bottle of shiraz and a pinot gris. She liked entertaining. She was humming “A Spoonful of Sugar” from
Mary Poppins
, her favorite movie from childhood. She could imagine herself putting out platters of treats for kids.

When Jim came in the door, she hopped over to him and put her arms around his neck, gave him a kiss. I have a surprise, she said.

A surprise?

Guests for dinner. A bit of company. I’ve put out a cheese platter.

Really? Who is it?

You’ll like them, Rhoda said. You’ve already met at least one of them. She walked Jim into the living room, where he threw his jacket over the couch and sat down.

The rain is kind of beautiful today, she said. Carl was out here watching it earlier.

Carl?

Rhoda poured him a glass of shiraz. Yeah, he’s up here with his girlfriend Monique. You met her at the Coffee Bus.

Jim stood up then, which was odd. He turned toward her with his mouth open, then turned back toward the window.

What is it? Rhoda asked.

There was a pause, and she brought him his wine. Is something wrong?

No, Jim said. But he looked upset. I just prefer not to see patients outside the office. Monique came in for a filling.

Oh, I’m sorry, Rhoda said. I’m sorry, Jim. And she gave him a hug, rubbed his back.

It’s all right, he said.

Jim sat on the couch again and Rhoda started fixing dinner, caribou steaks from her mother. She set them in a roasting pan with whole cloves of garlic, Maui onions, olive oil, rosemary, balsamic, and black pepper. She had potatoes boiling, and she would steam broccoli.

Monique walked out from the guest room, with Carl following behind. She was tall and kind of glamorous, in a way, though she had a weird little nose. Like an elf whose body had grown too big. Carl was out of his league, though, insecure and hopeless. Rhoda gave their relationship another few weeks at most.

Hey, Rhoda said. Have some wine. And there’s a cheese platter over by Jim. We can all watch the rain together.

Hi Jim, Monique said, and Jim stood up, walked over to shake her hand and Carl’s. He didn’t say anything, though, which was odd. So much older than they were. It didn’t make sense he should be awkward.

Jim said you were one of his patients, Monique. Rhoda said this just to break the tension.

I am indeed, Monique said. I’ve enjoyed the duck feet on the ceiling.

Jim laughed. I put those there for the kids.

For the hunters, Monique said, and there was silence again for some reason.

Have a seat, Rhoda said. Can I pour you a glass of wine? I have shiraz and pinot gris.

Shiraz, please, Monique said. And just some juice or water for Carl. He doesn’t drink.

Thanks, Monique, Carl said.

What? You don’t drink.

Yeah, but I’m not six years old.

Now’s not the time to make a stand for your manhood.

You suck, Monique.

Rhoda laughed, trying to break the tension again. Sounds like the tent has taken its toll.

Yeah, Carl said. How has the tent been for you, Monique? A little uncomfortable?

Carl’s just mad because he’s had some alone time.

And where were you? Carl asked.

I was in Seward. Ever been to Seward, Rhoda?

Rhoda was pissed off they were fighting at her wine and cheese gathering, and she didn’t know why Jim was being such a dolt, but she took this opening to try to change the tone. I love Seward, she said. The most beautiful bay, and mountains all around. I haven’t been there in years. We should go, Jim.

Yeah, Monique said, you should take Rhoda to Seward.

Sure, Jim said. He was in some kind of daze, or maybe just tired. Seward sounds good, he said.

And that was it. Silence again. Rhoda wanted to kill all three of them. She turned back to her cooking and let them stew in their own weird pot of antisocial behaviors. She grabbed the lettuce, rinsed it quick, and tore it into little pieces. She cut up two tomatoes, part of a red onion, and threw in some pine nuts. She decided she didn’t like Monique at all. She liked Monique the least out of the three of them. Her strange tone, telling Jim he should take her to Seward. As if she could pronounce upon their relationship. How old was she, anyway? Like twenty-two or something, acting like she owned the world?

All the while Rhoda worked, she had one ear cocked, and it was just silence over there. Absolute silence. Unbelievable. Who does that? And when dinner was finally ready and they all sat down, it was Monique who started talking.

Rhoda told me this great bear story today, she said. Do you have any bear stories, Jim?

Rhoda didn’t like how Monique said Jim. As if she were talking down to him. And for some reason, he was letting that happen.

Not really, he said. Do I have any good bear stories, Rhoda?

Sure you do, sweetie. You have that one in the river, with the salmon on your back. You always tell that one.

Oh yeah, Jim said. But what about you, Carl? Have you seen a bear here?

No. I’ve been wanting to see one. We even took a trip up to Denali, but we didn’t see one.

That’s too bad, Rhoda said. Denali has a lot of bears. I can’t believe you didn’t see one there. That’s really unlucky.

That’s me, Carl said.

You’re here in Alaska, though. That’s lucky. And you’re with Monique.

Ah, Monique said. That’s sweet. Thank you, Rhoda.

So things were turning around after all. Rhoda was pleased. Monique seemed much brighter now, more friendly, and the conversation moved along normally, just four people enjoying an evening, the way it should be. Oohs and ahs over the caribou. Killed by my own mother, Rhoda said. Then for dessert she surprised everyone with homemade tiramisu.

I bought the ladyfingers, she said. But the rest is mine.

This is terrific, Monique said. What a feast.

Yeah, thanks Rhoda, Carl said. This beats the hell out of the tent.

Only Jim was still relatively quiet, which was unlike him. He’d had two glasses of wine, and usually that got him rambling.

Jim just got back from Juneau, Rhoda said. Talking with another dentist about joining the practice.

How was Juneau? Monique asked.

Oh, Juneau’s nice, Jim said. The Mendenhall Glacier. Pretty hike around the lake at its foot, and if you go up the left side, you can get out onto parts of the glacier.

I’d like to go out on a glacier, Monique said. Maybe land on one with a helicopter and then lie down and do snow angels.

That sounds good, Jim said, but Rhoda could tell something was off, something wrong. She looked at Carl, but Carl was mesmerized by the tiramisu, staring down into it as he savored tiny bites from the tip of the dessert spoon. He had something going on with food.

Carl, Monique said. You don’t need to fuck the tiramisu. You can just eat it. Then she winked at Rhoda.

Carl didn’t even look up. Thanks, Monique, he said. More pleasure in this bowl than I’ve ever had with you.

Ouch, Jim said. And he laughed.

That’s not nice, Jim, Rhoda said.

Sorry.

Hm, Monique said. She clearly wasn’t used to negative comments. Rhoda was secretly a little pleased.

How about a game? Rhoda suggested. We could all play a game.

Do you have Twister? Monique asked.

Carl looked up. Twister?

We have it, Rhoda said. She went to the hall closet and rummaged around. Just leave the dishes. I’ll do them later.

So they all took their shoes off and sat around the Twister mat.

So retro, Monique said, looking at all the bright dots. I love it.

They spun the dial and took turns. Jim ended up in a tough position, his feet far from his hands. Hurry, he said through gritted teeth. He was looking up at the ceiling, hands behind him, his butt sagging dangerously low.

Rhoda was laughing. She had an easy spot on a corner, two feet and one hand.

Then Carl spun and had to go over Jim, in an extended push-up. This got Monique laughing.

Thanks, Monique, he said.

Monique had to go forward on both hands on her spin, but it wasn’t difficult.

Then Rhoda got an impossible one. She had to put her other hand clear over past Monique, and trying to do this put her face right in Monique’s butt, which she wasn’t happy about at all.

I give up, Rhoda said. I can’t do it.

Jim crashed down. Thank god, he said.

That was too seventies for me, Rhoda said. Or sixties, whatever. But we have another old game that might be fun.

So they played Pin the Tail on the Moose, getting dizzy and heading off in different directions with their darts, no one hitting anything they’d intended. And finally it felt like a party. Rhoda was satisfied. She packed up the games when they were done, then went for the dishes.

I’ll help, Monique said. It was late, and Jim and Carl headed off to the bedrooms.

Thank you, Rhoda said, warming up a bit to Monique. She had an edge, but she could be sweet, also.

Rhoda washed and Monique rinsed and dried. You have such a great place here, Monique said.

Yeah, I love it. I always dreamed of a house like this.

How long have you and Jim been together?

A little over two years, living together for a year.

How did you meet?

I was a patient.

Ah.

Jim didn’t seem like much at first, but he grew on me after a while. He’s a good guy. Solid and reliable. He has a good heart.

Yeah, Monique said. He seems like a nice guy. Are you getting married?

Rhoda wasn’t quite ready for this question. She felt put on the spot. Monique was being friendly, though, and she didn’t want to mess that up. Yeah, she finally said. We talk about it, though it’s not official. We’re taking our time. Planning what kind of wedding we’d like.

What are your ideas?

Well, Rhoda said, getting a little excited despite herself. I’m thinking Hawaii. Kauai, the Garden Island.

Kauai’s nice, Monique said.

You’ve been there?

Yeah, a couple times. Hiked the Na Pali Coast, and kayaked it.

The whole coast?

You only go one way, with the current. It’s not so tough.

Wow, Rhoda said. Maybe we could do that on our honeymoon.

You’d like it. It’s beautiful.

Rhoda felt bad for disliking Monique earlier. They finished the dishes and she gave her a hug goodnight. It’s too bad you’re not here in Alaska longer, she said. It’d be fun to hang out more.

Yeah, Monique said. I’d like that.

Rhoda turned on the light in the bedroom but then flicked it off again, because Jim was already asleep. She undressed, bumping around a bit in the darkness, tipsy still from the wine, and collapsed into her pillow.

Jim lay awake beside her, listening to her breathing, waiting until he could feel the tiny jerks of her hands that meant she was asleep. Then he waited some more, just to be sure. Monique had said to meet him in the living room. He was angry, of course, but he also didn’t want to miss out.