Hunted Past Reason (9 page)

"In case there isn't a stick or a branch to pull them down," Doug said. He tossed the bag with Bob's food in it up toward the limb. The other bag dropped down so that both bags now hung about twelve feet from the ground.

"That should do it," Doug said, "unless a twelve-foot bear comes by."

"If it does, I'll have died of a heart attack long before it can get our food," Bob said.

Doug snickered. "You and Marian," he said. "Oh, before I forget. Cover your pack with your pack cover in case it rains. And make sure you leave the pockets open so mice and raccoons can check them out without chewing their way in."

"Anything else we can expect?" Bob asked. "A pack of coyotes maybe?"

Doug only shook his head. "A backpacker you will never be," he said solemnly.

That's for
damn
sure, Bob thought.

"Take anything into the tent you might need during the night," Doug told him. "Flashlight, water bottle, toilet paper, et cetera."

As they started for the tent, Doug reached up and broke off a small branch hanging above its entrance.

"Aren't you despoiling Mother Nature now?" Bob joshed him.

Doug didn't seem to get it. "Would you rather have your eye poked out if you get up to piss during the night?" he asked, tossing aside the branch.

Bob watched as Doug clambered into the tent, carrying his bow and arrow holder.

"In case of Indian attack?" he said.

Again, Doug didn't seem to get it— or chose not to get it— as a joke. "Bear," was all he said.

"Doug, you keep on mentioning bears," Bob said as he crawled into the tent. "How likely
are
we to see one?"

"They like to prowl around at night," Doug told him. "But as long as there's no smell of food around the tent, they'll usually move on."

"Usually?" Bob asked.

"Don't worry about it," Doug said, "I've never had a problem with one yet. Except for the time one of my buddies got eaten by one."

"What?"
Bob looked at him, aghast.

Bob laughed. "Jesus," he said, "you and Marian are two of a kind. Real worriers."

Bob drew in a shaky breath. "I presume that was a joke then."

"You presume right, sir," Doug answered with a dead-on imitation of Ed McMahon.

That was his idea of a joke, Bob thought as he put aside the articles he'd brought with him, slid his way into the sleeping bag, and zipped it up. He was glad that Doug had told him not to sleep in his clothes. He did feel more comfortable in a clean pair of long underwear after washing himself off with some of the towelettes Marian had bought him. A clean pair of socks felt good too.

He released a long sigh, then yawned.

"You won't have trouble sleeping tonight," Doug said.

"That's for sure," Bob replied. Abruptly, he wished he'd thought to bring along some Valium to relax his muscles. Oh, well, he thought. Let nature take its course. Whatever that means, he thought. He stretched out his legs, then let them relax.

He watched as Doug began to shake out his sleeping bag vigorously.

"What are you doing now, checking for rattlesnakes?" he asked, repressing a grin.

Doug didn't even smile. "Fluffing it up," he said as though Bob had asked a serious question. "Getting the maximum loft. Traps air in the fibers. Helps to keep you warm."

Jesus, but he knows a lot, Bob thought. I suppose I should do the same thing, he told himself. He was too damn tired though. The hell with it.

"Did you bring a woolen cap to keep your head warm while you're sleeping?" Doug asked.

You
know
you never told me that, Bob thought. "I'll use my corduroy cap," he said.

"Not as good. But . . . if that's all you have . . ."

Anything else I'm going to need you haven't told me about? Bob thought.

"Important to keep the top of your head warm," Doug told him. "I'm going for a walk now."

"A
walk
?" Bob looked astonished.

"Better than having a warm drink. You want to go with me?"

"No, thanks, I am very comfortable in here," Bob told him.

"Okay, suit yourself. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Before Bob could respond, Doug was out of the tent and gone. Jesus Christ, what if something happens to him? he thought; he falls, gets mauled by a bear, anything? He'd be alone then, with no way of finding the cabin. Did Doug know he'd react this way? He wouldn't be at all surprised.

He lay silently— and tensely— listening for the sound of Doug returning. What was with him, anyway, going for a walk in the forest at night? Even with a flashlight that he must have taken with him.

Bob exhaled heavily. Was Doug doing all this to torment him? Why
should
he? They were friends, weren't they? Or were they?

Minutes passed. He grew more and more tense. Jesus, what if something really
had
happened to Doug? What would he—?

A sudden thrashing noise outside, a crazed growl. He stiffened, face a mask of terror.

Doug lunged into the tent, shining his flashlight beam into Bob's face. Seeing Bob's rigid expression of dread, he burst into laughter. "Oh, shit," he said, "you're too easy."

Bob looked at him in fury. "If I'd had a gun, you'd be dead now, you fucking idiot!"

Doug snickered, shaking his head. "Calmdown," he said, "it was just a joke."

"A joke that would have killed me if I had a bad heart," Bob told him. "It's still pounding."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry," Doug said, "I didn't think you'd react
this
hard." He slipped into his sleeping bag and started thrashing his legs.

"What are you doing
now
?" Bob asked him, irritably.

"Isometrics," Doug answered. "Gets the blood flow going."

My blood flow is turned off for the night, Bob thought. Anyway, he felt warm enough. He put on his corduroy cap. He hadn't planned to wear it while he was sleeping but if it helped . . .

The two of them lay silently for a while. Then Doug said, "I haven't seen you in a while. What have you been up to?"

At first, he wasn't going to reply, he was still so angry with Doug. Then he thought: Well, what the hell, maybe he
did
think it was a joke. There were still days ahead of them being together, Doug in total control of the hike. He couldn't afford being resentful the entire time. He closed his eyes and instructed himself to calm down, forget the incident.

He sighed. "Well, mostly I've been schlepping through the forest primeval with a joker I know, doing research for a novel."

"No screenplays lately?" Doug asked, ignoring the remark. "Teleplays? Series work?"

"I haven't worked on series episodes in five years," Bob told him.

"Oh, that's right, you don't have to do that sort of thing anymore," Doug said.

Why was it, Bob wondered, that almost every other comment by Doug seemed to verge on insult?

He decided not to make an issue of it. "I was never very good at it anyway," he said. "I can adapt novels okay or make up stories, but I was never able to get a fix on already established characters in already established environments."

Doug grunted. "No screenplays? Teleplays?"

Bob knew very well what Doug wanted. He was still bucking for available parts. "I did a screenplay about . . . oh, it must be nearly a year ago. They haven't made it yet though, don't know if they even intend to. That's the only project I've been working on this year. I sold a novelette to
Playboy
but I don't think there's a film in it. That's why I decided to take a crack at this backpacking novel."

"You don't want to do it as a screenplay though," Doug said, sounding vaguely accusing.

"No," Bob said. "Novel first. Screenplay later— if it happens. What about you?" He hoped he wasn't treading on Doug's toes. If things weren't going well for him . . .

"Oh, I did a commercial. Ford SUV."

"That pays well, doesn't it?" Bob asked, trying to sound impressed.

"Not bad," Doug said. "It isn't acting though."

"No, of course not," Bob said sympathetically. "Any little theater?"

"I'm supposed to do a Simon play in Glendale," Doug said. "Not sure I want to though."

"Why not?"

"Oh . . . it's a long way to drive. A rinky-dink operation. And the director seems to be an idiot."

"That's no fun," Bob said.

Doug grunted scornfully. "Especially if you're trying to do Neil Simon," he said.

Bob racked his mind for something else to mention. "What about that . . . hospital show you were trying out for?" he asked.

"Not
that
hospital show," Doug said. "
The
hospital show—
ER.
"

"Oh. And—?"

"I'm still waiting to hear," Doug told him. "The director and I didn't exactly hit it off. He wasn't interested in any of my ideas about the character."

"Ah." Bob nodded. Another strikeout, he thought. It was too bad too. He'd seen Doug act on television and the stage and he had a definite presence, a charismatic masculinity. He didn't understand why Doug wasn't further along. Oh, the hell I don't, he thought. Acting is on a par with bond-servanting. Too often, talent had little to do with it. It was who you knew; it was good representation; it was sheer good luck. At least for someone like Doug; he wasn't exactly Robert De Niro or Dustin Hoffman. And even they had their problems. It was a merciless business.

"You're a lucky son of a gun, you know that, Bob," Doug said.

"How so?" Bob asked, genuinely curious as to what Doug was getting at.

"You're a good-looking man," Doug started.

"Well, Jesus, so are you," Bob broke in. "Me times ten."

"Yeah, much good it does me," Doug said. "You also have a good marriage. Marian is a hell of a lady."

"I buy that," Bob said, trying to prevent this conversational approach from dipping too low.

"You have two healthy, successful kids," Doug continued, making Bob wince. He really didn't want to get into that area; it was too raw. He closed his eyes, wondering if Doug would be offended if he fell asleep on him. Probably. He opened his eyes again.

"Life has gone well for you, no doubt about it," Doug said.

Bob didn't want to start a hassle but he felt compelled to answer Doug's remark.

"Well, you know, I had to work awfully hard to get where I am," he said. "Marian and I had some damn lean years when we were first married. I had that night job in the supermarket, I was a bank messenger for a while, I worked in a hardware store for more than a year. It wasn't exactly going that well back then."

"No, but it worked out well," Doug said. "You have your career, your marriage, your kids. I have shit."

"Doug, it's not
that
bad," Bob said. Well, we're into it now anyway, he thought. No help for it. Continue. "You're a handsome, talented actor—"

"—out of work," Doug interrupted.

"You know the way the business goes," Bob said, "a month from now you could be in London costarring with Emma Thompson."

"Not bloody likely," Doug said. "And even if I was, I don't have the rest. No Nicole. No Jenny." His breath faltered. "Artie gone."

Bob swallowed. Well, this was going nowhere fast, he thought. He should have gone to sleep as soon as he'd gotten into the tent. It wasn't that he didn't sympathize with Doug. He did— all the way. But what more could he do that he hadn't done already? He felt a heavy sigh coming on and held it down.

"How old are you, Bob?" Doug asked.

Bob hesitated, then answered, "Forty-four."

"I'm forty-two," Doug said. "How old is Marian?"

"Oh, now, you know I'm not allowed to answer that," Bob said, conscious of still trying to lighten the moment.

"Why not? Nicole is forty," Doug said. "How old
is
Marian? About the same?"

"About the same," Bob conceded.

"Sex still good with her?" Doug asked.

Bob felt himself twitch. What the hell made Doug think that up out of nowhere?

"Well, is it?" Doug asked as though he couldn't understand why Bob wasn't willing to answer the question.

"Well . . ." Bob didn't know what to say.

"I imagine it is," Doug said. "She's a hell of a fine-looking woman."

Bob didn't care for the direction Doug had taken the conversation but he said, "Yes. She is."

"Nicole and I had a great sex life," Doug said. "We screwed like maniacs. She used to really get turned on by being handcuffed to our bed and raped."

"How nice." Bob knew it was an inappropriate response but couldn't think of anything else to say. Like maniacs, eh? Handcuffs and rape? By Jove, good show.

Doug didn't seem to notice the inappropriateness of his reply. Or chose to pay no attention to it. "I can't say I blame her for feeling the way she does," he said. "Most actors' marriages are wrecked by the conflict between career needs and marriage needs. Actors have less time to devote to their marriages than almost any other group of men. The woman who marries an actor has to pretty much dedicate her life to her husband's profession. Not easy."

"I'm sure it isn't," Bob said. He wouldn't say anything about how difficult it also was for a woman to be married to a writer.

"Add to that," Doug continued, "actors are exposed to more opportunities to fool around than other men. Actresses— I
refuse
to call them
actors
— almost
expect
actors to make a move on them. It's part of the fucking game— and I do mean fucking."

Bob had to admit to himself that Doug had more insight than he gave him credit for. For a few moments, he felt a sense of strange ambivalence. Here they were, lying in the dark wilderness, discussing things no primitive man ever discussed— or thought of for that matter. It was as though they were contemporary men lying in an ancient, timeless environment.

"Ever cheat on Marian?" Doug asked, instantly demolishing the odd ambivalence.

For Christ's sake, are we having a goddamn sex seminar here? Bob thought.

"No," he said.

"Oh, come on," Doug said, totally dubious. "Never?"