How Loveta Got Her Baby (20 page)
Ralph had been married for forty years. He was a retired pharmacist with grown-up children. They'd known his wife, Phyllis, forever. They played bridge together, and Scrabble.
“There's nothing we could do. Nothing useful.”
“Maybe we can make up this part, what do you think?”
“You mean, how we did CPR?”
“That's right.”
“Two hours non-stop, for Ralph.”
“We took turns.”
“We pushed on his chest.”
“Till God knows we could push no more.”
“Slapped his face?”
“That too.”
“Shouted out Ralph, Ralph, over and over.”
“We actually did that, the shouting. Remember?”
“That's right. It's not all made up.”
“No, we did that all right.”
“That's good then. That's the story.”
“That's what friends do for friends. CPR.”
“Even, Phyllis, with the cold sore he had. We didn't care.”
“How many hours?”
“Two hours, I'd say. Felt like six.”
“I'll say. It feels like that already.”
They'd been on the canoe trip for twelve days, and they had another three days to go. Resigned, they left Ralph where he was and made some coffee. They fried up back-bacon too, and the smoke from the frying pan curled around the clearing. As yet, there was no wind.
“I guess we don't have to scrimp and save quite so much.”
“How do you mean?”
“The bacon. Only two of us now, but there's food for three. It's the silver lining.” “Oh, the silver lining. Sure, I see. Another slice then please, my stomach is growling. It's been a tough morning. Thank you, Ralph, old friend.”
“That's good?”
“Better than good. Crispy.”
“Mine too. Now what are we going to do?”
“With Ralph?”
“That's the first question.”
“I say bury him. Bury him right here like they would in the old days.”
There was sand and pebbles on the ground but it was all packed tight. Digging through that would not be easy. There'd be roots from trees.
“This is where he'd like to be, I bet. Out in nature.”
“Oh I don't think so.”
“He loved the north.”
“He also loved the easy chair, the Laz-Y-Boy.”
“Well that's true, I grant you that.”
“It's against the law, burying. We can't dispose of Ralph right off, bury him without some sort of official check.”
“We could be charged with murder. You're right. I just thought of it.”
“Murder?”
“They could say we banged him on the head with paddles, we smothered him with a life jacket, then we buried him. We'd be old men by the time we got out.”
“We didn't kill Ralph.”
“Prove it, with Ralph buried here.”
“We'd come back with the police, dig him up.”
“If we're going to do that, then let's not bury him now in the first place. Digging with spoons, that's no fun.”
“I see what you mean.”
“He comes with us, Ralph does, that's all there is to it.”
“The grizzlies, they'd dig him up too, if we left him here.”
“Probably, and where's the evidence then of our innocence, our CPR? He's got to come with us. All the way home.”
You had to have resources to travel in the north. You had to adjust. You needed a compass, a watch, skills with rope, strong legs for portages, and courage for the wild animals you saw along the way. You could not get knocked down by bad luck, you had to overcome everything thrown your way.
“Well, how do we pack him up?”
“He goes in the canoe with all the rest.”
“With the baggage.”
“That's it, baggage. That's what Ralph is now.”
“He's getting stiffer.”
“In the fingers?”
“Everywhere. Soon he'll be stiff as a board. Feel him.”
“That's what nature does. Rigor mortis, that's what it's called.”
“Rigor mortis. I heard of that.”
“Latin. Stiffness of death, something like that. It means we got some thinking to do. Quick thinking.”
“I don't see the rush.”
“You don't? Think about it.”
Up till now, all three of them had paddled the same canoe at the same time, with Ralph in the middle. Compared to the others, Ralph was inexperienced. He did not have the stamina for long hours on the river, nor the skill for the bow or the stern. He made up for this deficiency by singing songs.
“Yes, think about it. There's Ralph. Straight out the way he is, he'll be like that soon, forever. Frozen up stiff as a board. Next portage, a straight uphill for five miles, what are we going to do with Ralph like that? Carry him, the two of us, like he's a plank? No thanks, that's what I say.”
“Drag him on saplings. Tie him on, drag him the way the Indians did.”
“They knew how to do that. We don't. Also, they had horses.”
“We could try.”
“Sure, we could try. And you know what? There goes Ralph slipping down the trail and over a cliff. Tumbling through the air, I can see it plain as day. Then he's at the bottom, food for the weasels and wolves and then the Mounties say, well fellows, where's your friend Ralph, the one you beat over the head with paddles, where's he now?”
“That does not sound good.”
“We need another plan. Before the rigor mortis sets in, we put Ralph into a better shape.”
“What do mean by that? You lost me there.”
“The river's no problem. He can be in any position for the river. Plank shape, it doesn't matter. But for the portages, stiff as a board, forget it, that's impossible. We'd have to make two, even three trips. One just for him alone. No way.”
“So what should we do?”
“Bend him. Turn him into a shape like a back-pack. Look, he's got some give left in him still. We can twist him this way, that way, anyway we like, but not for long. Then, we get him into the right position, we hold him there so he freezes like that. Simple. Twenty minutes, half an hour.”
They went over to where Ralph was lying. They grabbed his coat and bent him at the waist, so he sat up at ninety degrees, and then they took his arms and raised them up to the height of his shoulders. Then they bent his elbows, and they pushed and pulled at his wrists and his fingers till they turned into claw shapes.
“Look. He's got talons now, like an eagle.”
Then they hiked up Ralph's hips and bent them outwards, and they held Ralph in that position for a half-hour or more while the grey jays flew by and the sun rose ever higher in the sky.
“There. We can let him go now. Try it.”
“That's good. Look! It worked.”
“Perfect, I agree. He's fixed like this forever. Now, try him on.”
“Try him on?”
“Like a back-pack. That was the whole purpose of the exercise.”
“You try him on.”
“I closed the eyelids, right? It's your turn. Try him on. Next portage, it's the canoe and the rifle for me, and there's Ralph for you. Up on your back, easy as pie, one-man job. Then, there's no getting around it, we both make a second trip for all the rest of the gear.”
“For me, that's not so good.”
“Why's that?”
“Well first off, there's Ralph breathing down my neck on the portage, plus the fact he weighs one hundred eighty pounds.”
“He's balanced, he's easy to move along with. Try him on. And there's no way he's breathing down your neck. He's dead. The dead don't breathe.”
“The canoe weighs fifty-two pounds.”
“Okay, we'll take turns with Ralph, how's that, that's fair.”
“That's a deal.”
“You do the first turn, I'll do the second.”
“Okay. Boost him up, I'll give him a try. We can't stay here forever.” “There.”
“Hey that's not too bad. What about the hands?”
“Tie them across your chest. Like this. How's that feel? Solid?”
“Well, he's no featherweight.”
“But you can do it.”
“I think I can. How far off my neck is that cold sore?”
“Lots of room there. An inch. Funny thing, from behind, I can't see your head at all. Just his. Looks funny.”
“Take him off, that's enough for now. Stop laughing.”
They broke camp. All the gear was carefully stowed away in the middle of the canoe, and on top of the gear, they placed Ralph's body, firmly tied onto the very top, on his back, with his legs and arms sticking up skyward. He looked like the rack of a deer, so stiff he was, with the rigor mortis set in solid. Nothing could move those arms and legs. They grabbed their paddles and they pushed off into the current.
“Tally-ho!”
It felt good to be back on the river. Cleansing, after what they'd been through. They slipped and danced through the easy small rapids and they made good time.
“Hold on tight there, Ralph!”
Now and then they rubbed the canoe on a low boulder but they slid on by, harmlessly.
“Don't shift your weight like that, Ralph!” they laughed, “That's a good boy! Hold on there, just twelve miles to the next portage! Tally-ho!”
Unknown to the canoeists, on that next portage, three miles up the steep and brambled path, sunning itself on a rock, was a large male cougar. This cougar was four years old, and in those four years, there was nothing this cougar had not killed, dragged and swallowed whole, so big and powerful he was. Now, the cougar felt a pang of hunger, and he yawned, and moved his massive limbs into a more comfortable position. There was still time to wait, he thought, for what might come by. No need to start prowling around.
Indeed, four hours later, he heard a racket. He drew back from his sunny rock. There was a big canoe coming up the hill, and now and then it would sway and bang into trees. There were human legs underneath that red shell, promising enough for a meal, but maybe a bit too much work? Yawn some more, that's what the cougar did, but he shifted his weight again, now onto his hind legs. What's that coming next? This was getting interesting. This had to be the biggest, thickest human being he'd ever seen. He could hear heavy breathing, a lingering funny odour wafting his way. Now's the time. The hiker walked on by, slowly, staggering up the steep rise of the hill, as though sick, so slow, and then it was, with padded feet and teeth like spikes, that the big cougar slipped down from the sunny rock onto the path, and silently gained speed until he hit poor Ralph, the backpack, so hard on the back of the neck that he snapped Ralph's spine in four places. Down went the hiker, pine needles in the face.
The funny thing was, the cougar thought, this piece of meat kept on shouting and shouting no matter how many times he shook the neck, no matter how many times he broke the spine, no matter how he twisted his victim's head around and around again until he could see the whole face.
What's that? Bang, bang, two bullets whipped by the cougar's ears.
He gave up and ran from the spectre of his victim, from the man who stared up at him with his eyes all now open, a scab on the upper lip, the smell of death already upon him.
Ten days later, to his chagrin, the cougar developed a nasty sore on his right upper lip, just above the incisor. Every time he snarled, it hurt. That painful sore, that little ulcer seemed to come back forever, over and over again for the next fifteen years. It served as a cruel reminder, to the cougar, of that big mistake he made, back there by the sunny rock. After that, he left all human beings alone. He stuck to elk and grouse and rabbits.
When they finally got home, Ralph's two canoeing buddies told the whole story to everybody they met. In their excitement, they almost forgot about the hours of CPR they performed down by the river. Then they remembered it, and they got a plaque from the Red Cross. They told everyone how lucky they were, how Ralph had saved their lives when the cougar struck, how he'd stepped in when he was needed, even though he was dead. Their poor friend was buried soon after they got home, buried like the hero he was. Unfortunately, he was unfit for an open casket.
The funeral director said, “No, Phyllis, I am sorry but there is no way, despite my schooling, despite my many, many years of experience, there is no way I can fix up Ralph, as you remember him, for public display. I cannot make your husband acceptable before the eyes of Man. But before God, I swear to you, Phyllis, I assure you, Ralph will be like the driven snow.”
How all the spectators cried, during the funeral, when he repeated that comment. Because of the rigor mortis, Ralph's coffin had to be squared like a packing box, into which he was pushed and jimmied till he fit. Then, because he could not be thrust through the usual narrow slot for the fiery furnace, cremation had to be done outside, in front of a hundred well-wishers, on a bonfire built from pine boughs within a perfect circle of rocks. His two best friends, the ones who tried to save him with six hours of CPR, they were the ones who constructed that stone circle as though it were their last campsite together. As the flames licked higher and higher, they all backed away from the searing heat and sang, en masse, “Old Flames Can't Hold A Candle To You.”
It was a tearful, yet joyful, celebration of Ralph's finest hour, of the sacrifice he made for his buddies, on the last portage he ever made, as a canoeist, a dentist, a friend, a shield.
“
PEACH
.”
“That's a name that just oozes all the good things about life,” said Aaron Stoodley. “Oozes it. Our Justin must be an aberration, for a Peach.”
If he'd been born a Lemon, then that's what you'd expect, misery. That was Aaron's opinion, and Clyde Grandy's too. They looked up Lemon in the phonebook but there were none of them. Nobody wanted names like that. There were lots and lots of Peaches though, a half-column of them, sweet Peaches who they all figured lived in innocence. No Peaches waiting to fall from a tree, or rot on the ground, or get filled up with wasps and honeybees and then get flattened by the next boot that walked through the grass. Like for Apples. Peaches had to be optimists, they figured. For a test case, Aaron phoned up some of the anonymous Peaches and every one of those people sounded happy.
