Primal (6 page)

Up and down. Side to side. The boat rocks, and tosses, and
shimmies. In her seat, Alison sways back and forth. Her stomach churns and the
skin on her hands turn bluish. She sinks down in the seat. There is no relief
from the pounding of the boat on the waves as the wind picks up. Pregnant
clouds, bulbous and ash colored, press down on them. The captain eyes the sky,
and then jams down the throttle, jacking up the power and racing to get to the
camp before the deluge. Alison can’t imagine why it matters to hurry, as she is
already wet to the bone. She does not know about the unforgiving fury of this
lake during a storm. The captain knows it well and this is why he is pushing
the boat’s engine to its limit. She glances at her husband and son. They are in
the same boat, at the same moment, experiencing the exact same thing and they
look energized. I’m such a fuddy duddy, she thinks, dismayed.

Jimmy enjoys the tossing from crest to trough and watching
him reminds Hank of when he used to toss his son up in the air and catch him.
Was it so long ago when he was that small? They all grab the rail as they hit a
particularly large swell. Hank and Jimmy’s faces are splattered with mist and
glee.

Abruptly, Alison spins, leans over the edge of the boat, and
throws up. It is a gut-wrenching heave that sends her chest smacking into the
side. She opens her eyes. The water is only feet away and she swears it reaches
for her. Its frigid spray clouts her face. She heaves again. The retching comes
from deep in her belly, and she feels like her organs are coming out. With her
chest against the cold wood, and her head loose over the side of the boat, she
wonders which is worse, this actual all-encompassing sickness, or the stinging
embarrassment. Even doubled over, ill as she is, she is still the lady her dad
raised, and this is humiliating. And in front of Hank, and Jimmy, and this
stranger. In ten years of marriage, her husband has never seen her shave her
legs, floss her teeth, or go to the bathroom; she has always maintained her
gentility and now this! She heaves again. It is the old seafarer’s irony that
she is now desperate for water to cool the acid in her throat and cleanse her
mouth. She flops back into the seat. Her skin is pasty, her eyes are bloodshot,
and the tip of her nose is mulberry. Cautious to keep his balance in the
unpredictable lurching boat, Hank starts toward her, but she warns him off with
a shake of her hand. She can’t have him near her right now. He sits back down
with no idea how to help her. He knows her well enough to know how she must be
feeling. She places her head deep between her legs and her body sways limply,
without resistance, as if she’s been deboned. Hank looks to the captain.

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Nope” he responds with little interest, “them people just
gotta ride it out.”

Jimmy slides in next to his mother, “You okay, Mom?”

She responds without lifting her head. “Peachy.”

Hank trades a sympathetic shrug with Jimmy and for the first
time, all kidding aside, Hank realizes this is stupid. Look at her, crumbled
up, sick, miserable. Shit, what was he thinking?

“How much farther?” he asks the captain.

“Almost there.”

He yells over the motor, “Honey, we’re almost there.”

Alison doesn’t move, or respond, but she thinks, somewhat
prophetically - just shoot me now.

A few minutes later, the captain’s gloved hand turns the
tiller and angles the boat toward shore. He spies the small dock up ahead, and
the raucous waves now pummel the side of the boat as he powers toward it.
Alison looks up and sees beyond the dock a woodsy wall of green; woods so dense
the ground never feels the sun’s warm palm; a world that never completely dries
out, damp and lush with birch, cedar, pines and wild orchids. The captain
gestures to Hank to leap out. Hank bolts up and jumps off the boat and onto the
shaky floating pier. He almost loses his balance as he lands one-footed, but
manages to hang on. He knows that Jimmy is watching him with a son’s eyes and
Hank is excited to parade his colors. The captain tosses him the dock line.
Hank snatches the rope out of the air with one hand. He is energized, something
here connects him to other men in older times, men who worked the land, men who
fished for their meals, men who provided in the most fundamental way for the
lives of their families, and he feels the history like remembering something he
never knew. He pulls the rope toward the dock cleat. He knows today’s men have
lost something being tied electronically to their lives, instead of through
their bodies. How would he survive if confronted by the Earth’s untamed
elements? How would he light a fire in this dampness, or trap an animal for
food. If he could trap an animal, how would he kill it? He’s never killed
anything larger than a spider. He has no clue which plants are edible or which
are poisonous. He could never make a piece of clothing from an animal skin, and
has little hope of constructing a viable shelter from twigs and leaves. Hell,
now that he is being honest with himself, he doesn’t even really know how
electricity works - only that when he flips the switch - it does. If there were
nuclear war, or a planetary disaster, he would be less useful than Stone Age
man. His survival is built upon a foundation of knowledge that is so far
removed from his life that it is inaccessible, even to his imagination. In this
moment, on this rickety dock, he faces the fact that he is a completely
dependent individual. He has no practical skills, and no idea how to survive.
The sudden acknowledgment of his dependency makes him wonder if maybe he has
lost a bit of what it means to be a man. He feels the fresh cold air fill in
his lungs and he likes it. He feels bigger and taller standing on this dock
with the bitter wind and the spitting lake. He likes the power in his hands,
pulling the boat in by the rope, with its tough spine and coarse bristles slicing
across his palm. He hadn’t realized he was missing this connection. Civilized
living with its take-out food and glossy magazine lifestyle precludes the
opportunity to be a man in this fundamental way. Perhaps every man needs to go
fishing in the wild with his son now and then. He is going to make the most of
this. He gives Jimmy a thumbs up.

Jimmy smiles back at him. Hank knots the rope to the cleat
on the dock. He looks up triumphantly to Alison…and…oh, her head is back
between her legs. Damn. He will get her inside in front of the warm fire, pour
her a glass of wine, and settle her down with her book. She’ll be relaxed then.
It’ll be fine. He will make it fine.

“Okay, everybody out” the captain says. Hank steps down into
the speedboat, takes Alison’s hand, and helps her up onto the moving dock.
Jimmy darts off agilely.

“Just follow that trail about fifty yards up to the lodge.”
The captain throws off their suitcases, reaches out, unties the knot, and
starts to back the boat away.

“Wait!” Alison asks, “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. Need to beat the storm. Easy, just up the path.
Follow the sign.” And he rooster tails back onto the lake.

Alison turns to face the wall of woods in front of her and
is relieved to see that the sign and path are clear. She walks quickly toward
solid ground. “I need to be on something not moving.” She steps off the dock
and plants both feet onto the ground. She takes a long deep breath. She bends
over with her hand on her thighs and breathes deeply. Beneath her feet, the
ground crawls with beetles, rolly pollies, spiders, mites, and the air is thick
with mosquitoes so warlike they bite her through the denim of her jeans. Hank
and Jimmy grab the suitcases and join her.

“Honey,” Hank begins, “let’s get where you can sit down and
relax.” He takes her hand and they start up the path. It is such a good feeling
to have his fingers intertwine with hers. They wrap strongly around her
skin-to-skin, such a simple act with tendrils directly into her heart. Already
she feels better. The dirt path is poorly maintained with large rocks and
arthritic looking tree limbs splayed across it.

“Gives new meaning to the road less traveled by,” she says.
Hank looks over and grins as she continues. “Hopefully it isn’t miles to go
before I sleep.”

“Dad, Mom’s doin’ poetry again, make her stop.”

“Why would I do that?”

Exasperated he responds, “Because I’m on vacation.”

“Oh.”

“Okay, I get it.” She answers Jimmy, “We’re entering a
poetry free zone. Although I’m pretty happy you even recognized it’s poetry. Do
you know who it is?”

“Stop!”

She giggles. Hank squeezes her hand affectionately. After a
few steps, the forest closes in all around them like a giant green fist. This
is where green is born, she thinks. Here in this forest everything is soaked in
lime and jade and covered with a thick verdant moss that climbs up and over
every rock and every log. It is so vivid she can taste it on her tongue when
she talks. She feels the green on her cheeks and on her eyelids.

As they walk up the trail toward the lodge the rain begins,
a few drops at first, and then in earnest. The canopy formed by the trees
serves as a living umbrella. When they become too sodden, they dump a bucket’s
worth on the path. Although it isn’t far from the dock, up the path to the
lodge, the distance she has traveled from her comfort zone feels infinite.
Alison peers off to her left. She notices that even in the middle of the day,
the darkness is edging in from the deep, and the woods appear foreboding.

* * *

Mr. Hobbs meets them out on the porch to the main lodge. The
lodge has a wrap-around plank porch that sits up two feet off the ground like
the lodge itself. It allows for flood flow underneath. Stilts buried deep into
the bedrock make the lodge sturdy and mostly level.

“The Krafts?”

“Yes, hello. I’m Hank. This is my wife Alison, and our son
Jimmy.”

“Hi,” Alison is a little breathless but not from the
exercise, she doesn’t really know why, although it might be because she still
feels nauseous.

“Hobbs. Follow me. Cabins are named. You’re Cabin Four.”
Hobbs is a master of the short declarative sentence. Communication annoys him.

Hobbs waddles off ahead of them. Alison smiles to herself
from the juxtaposition of this man and her expectations of him. This is not the
mountain man type she had envisioned. He is crotchety, with a sour face, and
flaps of sagging skin that nearly cover his deep-set raisin eyes. He doesn’t
look healthy, not like a man breathing clean air and living the proverbial
outdoor life. He looks beaten up by wind, by rain, by cold, and by intentional
neglect. She knows he can’t be over sixty, but he looks a hundred and ten. She
is feeling better about herself. If Hobbs is a model of the rugged natural life
then her life is clearly healthier.

Hobbs smacks open the door to Cabin Four with his shoulder
and they step in. It is an ascetic sight, three cots, a wooden dresser, and a
naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls are not finished, so the studs
are visible, and it is devoid of insulation.

“Our best.” Hobbs says proudly.

“It’s great!” Jimmy beams.

“It’s not finished.” Alison can’t help herself. She couldn’t
have imagined something this primitive. Surely, drywall and paint are not
luxuries.

“Outhouse in back. Dinner at six p.m. Breakfast at six a.m.
Easy to remember.”

Hank steals a glance at Alison and whispers. “No reason why
you can’t sleep late.”

“And really why would I ever want to leave here?” She eyes
him.

“I use the P.A. loudspeaker to wake folks. Boat leaves by
six-forty-five.”

“Cool.” Jimmy nods at his dad.

Hank says, “Took us longer to get here than we expected.”

“Not near nothing.”

“Yeah, felt far,” Hank agreed.

“Getting’ here’s half the charm.”

“Where’s the other half?” she asks herself quietly. She
smacks the mosquito biting her through her sweatshirt. She begins to scratch.
Hobbs shuts the door. Alison looks at her two boys.

“Okay!” Hank starts with comically false cheer, “So, let’s
unpack then. I’m sure the main lodge is great.” Alison stands motionless. Hank
nods to Jimmy, “C’mon, buddy, let’s move these cots together so we can sleep
closer, I think we’ll need the warmth.”

Alison does not want to be the person this adventure is
making her. She doesn’t want to be the complaining wussy woman. It is simply a
role she decides she will not play. She has always been flexible, sort of. If
this is it, then she will pull it together and surprise them all. She rolls the
suitcase over to the chest of drawers and begins to unpack their clothing along
with her new attitude.

She says, “And I saw smoke, so there is probably a great
fire going in there, too. It’ll be nice. I’m sure.”

An hour later, when the storm starts for real, it screams
like the Greek Furies. Hysterical winds whip through the trees and torrential
downpours pummel the fishing camp. Inside the main lodge, there are no happy
campers.

The lodge is one large wood-paneled room, a door on the left
leads to a small kitchen. Covering the floor are a number of Chippewa rugs,
geometric in design, with once bright colors now badly faded. A titanic fire
rages in the brick fireplace warming the room. Two stuffed sofas and eight
armchairs, comfortable from age, surround the hearth. Along the far wall is a
bookcase jammed with old fishing magazines, and in front of that, is a circular
game table with a half-finished puzzle on top. Over by the kitchen-side of the
room is one long rectangular dining table where the meals are served family
style.

Tonight ten people sit around the table. Bella Connors is
the only one who has opted out of the evening meal. A thirty-year-old writer
for Outback Magazine, she came prepared, and she had some granola in her cabin
before venturing out toward the main lodge. Experience has taught her caution.
She has done too much wilderness traveling not to be wary of unknown food
sources. If everyone stays healthy, she’ll eat tomorrow. Presently, she leans
against the stone hearth, looking over into the warming fire, with a cup of hot
coffee.