The Naked Gardener (18 page)

“I’ll do it,” said Charlene resolutely, almost challenging any of the others to argue it with her.

Roz and Valerie looked at each other. We needed one more to make the canoe count right. One person couldn’t go it alone. And then Hope said, very quietly, almost whispering.

“I think we should do it painted up. Like before. But wearing panties and life vests. I mean we don’t know who might be in town,” she smiled at each of us, a shy little smile but there was something behind it, too, that hadn’t been there when we started out.

Valerie and Roz grinned and nodded.

“Perfect,” Roz said.

“I want to call the doctor and tell him exactly when to pick me up. I want him to be there. And if he says he can’t, I’ll threaten to expose his little affair to the entire club.”

“Fuckin’ right,” Charlene smacked her on the back. “We’re all in then.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE FALLS

The sun had returned. From Mrs. Ward’s porch I could see the rapids above the falls. Bubbly, foamy, rippling cascades splashed excitedly over a rock outcropping now and then which meant the water, still dusty brown from flood, had crested and receded. Enough so you could see the riverbanks again. I spotted one jagged rock pointing up at an angle like a spear.

Lewis stored our gear in a shed so the canoes would be as light as possible. After he left, we took the whole morning to paint our bodies as if we were preparing for a carnival – or maybe a wedding, although there was no bride among us. Erica the bird turned into a blue wave with Japanese woodcut curls that followed the contours around and around her body. Painted with hearts before, Roz now became a series of lollipop circles in vibrant colors. Where Hope had been starry before, now we covered her body in flames flickering from her legs up, over her panties and bra up to her neck and onto the left half of her face. Valerie, who had been a moth, became a sinuous snake, sexy and delicate but a bit foreboding with fangs on her cheeks and scales all down her neck and arms. And they covered me in facets like prisms of glass catching the light, small rainbows of color stretching across my hips and thighs and back, around my breasts and up to my chin. Around my eyes peacock feathers and down my cheeks slender feather-like lashes.

We paired up as we had the first day. I cautioned them about paddling the rapids and advised them on strategies for navigating the falls. Stroke hard until you start the descent; then let up on the bow and the stern paddler just steer as straight a course as possible, while keeping clear of any rocks on either side. The bow person should look out for boulders and fend off when needed, I told them. They all listened intently and didn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell if they were afraid or excited. Probably a little of both. Erica and I would go first and they would follow behind just where we paddled.

“Should we wear life vests?” Erica asked.

“Of course we should,” said Valerie.

We tied on life vests over our painted bras.

“Okay then. The tribe is ready to roll,” Roz called out, fist raised in the air.

By then the water level was about two feet below the dock making it a balancing act to step down into the canoes. I didn’t want anyone tipping over before we even got started. We lined up one canoe behind the other.

“Here’s how we’ll do this,” I said. “Erica and I will hold the first canoe while Valerie gets in the bow and then, Roz, you get in the stern. Then you both hold onto the dock until the rest of us are settled. First toss your paddles in so you can grab them once you’re seated.”

Everything went smoothly. A good omen. We repeated this process with Hope and Charlene. I hadn’t noticed earlier, but Mrs. Ward had thumped down the path to the dock and stationed herself on a little rise from where she watched us intently. Now she ventured down the last few yards over the grass and onto the dock itself. She thump thumped with her cane toward the closest canoe. Erica was seated in the bow holding it against the dock. I was about to climb down into it.

“Well, you girls nowadays. Look at you all painted up like I don’t know what all.”

She laughed and bumped her cane for emphasis.

“Go ahead now. I took those falls some sixty years ago after a spring flood and I can tell you …” she stopped, looked at the river and then at me, waiting to get down into the canoe.

“How was it, Mrs. Ward?” I asked her.

“Watch for the tall pointed rock on the far right just where the rapids end and the falls begin. You’ll want to run left of that spot because it looks like the easy fall. But there’s another jagged peak just next to it that will be hidden by the high water. But only below the surface. Not deep enough so you won’t hit it. If your canoes hit that one you’ll never make it down. So stick as far left as you can and you’ll get down without a problem.”

We smiled at her and I nodded to the others. That meant we had to steer a course as close to the mill dam as possible without going over it. That dam, now completely obscured by water, would present a straight drop-off with no angle at all. And we had to keep going fast enough and far enough to the right of the mill dam to shoot the falls with enough power to steer down without swamping.

“Okay, ladies. Stick as close behind us as possible.”

Erica let go of the dock as I pushed at the wood piling with my paddle tip and we were off into the swirl. The first few strokes were easy. Close to the bank the water was fairly smooth, although the current had a hard tug to it, wanting to pull us into the flow. We paddled to the middle, me steering on an oblique angle across the river and downstream. The current picked up and swept us along fast so that we straightened out in the center and paddled hard straight toward the rapids downstream.

I kept my eyes on the river and concentrated on my paddle slicing into the water, watched the water swirl around the front as I dug down and pulled back hard, feathering to keep us on course. I watched the ripple pattern and looked for pillows. Guiding the canoe forward became like a game. I was the helmsman on the open sea, fighting for the safety of crew and captain alike.

Just before we hit the rapids I glanced back to check on the others. They were right behind us, paddling hard, too. Waves splashed up over the sides and the going was bumpy. We rode them up and down a few times and I heard Roz squeal with delight. It was a kick, this bouncing, bubbling, splashy ride. Then the water shifted.

I sliced into the water deep, again and again, thinking in, out, in, out, stroke, stroke, stroke, as a kind of rhythmic song in my head. The bow of our canoe dipped and then came back up fast as we hit an eddy line and pulled down then up and down again. I almost slid off my seat. Water splashed up against the bow into Erica’s face and she shook her head from side to side to clear the water from her eyes. A wave hit us broadside, splashing me from shoulders to knees. From that point we were in heavy water, jostling us up and down and rolling from side to side. I steered as straight a course as possible and ran us between pillows where hidden rocks might have capsized us in seconds.

Everything was rushing by, the way it’s reported a drowning person sees the past. Stark scenes of lovers and parents and what seem like other lives lived all together again in one kaleidoscopic funnel leading to your own demise. I was dying in a way. Letting the old me go. Saying goodbye to the music man whom I
had
loved. Yes, I had loved him with such an intensity that when the light faded, I could not let it go out completely. So I stayed too long. Hung on too tight. Refused to believe that it would not work out the way I had dreamt it would. Hoped it would. Clung to it the way I used to clutch my old doll Madeline when I was a child. And when you cling so hard, the letting go is that much more painful, the wounds that much deeper, the confusion about why it had to end that much harder to untangle. So I blamed it on him. Blamed him for changing. For abandoning me. For walking out on our deal. Yes, he stayed physically. Yes he slept next to me in bed, he ate breakfast with me, he went to movies with me and had sex with me. But he was no longer there really. The man I had thought would be my husband turned into a vapor of what he had been. I couldn’t hold him anymore, couldn’t even see him clearly anymore. And the reflection of myself that I had always seen when I looked at him, when I turned to him, when I made love to him, had, with his disappearance, also evaporated.Because I no longer knew who he was, I had become unsure of who I was. And that’s what I was demanding of Maze now. To define me with a guarantee that
he
would never change.

While I focused on the roiling river in front of me, a part of my mind was clearer than it had been in months. Somehow the bits and pieces of my past now crystallized like the broken pieces of glass I reassembled into my paintings. I was also busy thinking about Maze. About what was really holding me back from moving forward. It was uncanny, this giving slow consideration to something that had weighed me down for so long, even as I was jostled and propelled forward by the rushing river. This river that was so wild now would once again become calm and clear.

When did I first realize that the music man was shifting in front of me; that life I shared with him was a shadow I was chasing and could never catch? The waves ran along faster than I could paddle to stay in front of them, the crests rolling us up and the curls sinking us down. I had spent years denying what was right in front of me all the time. The music man wanted to make good. That was it. He just wanted to make it. If he couldn’t do it one way, he’d do it another. I should have realized all along that his ambition was not limited to music or art or even a way of life. If he hadn’t inherited that corner lot, would he still be wearing thrift store clothes and begging club owners for pennies? I should have read the signs better. It was only a matter of time. Something else would have come along. He would have jumped at it. And wanted me to jump right along with him. Most women would have been thrilled to move quickly to the moneyed side of the street. Most women. They would have regarded that as improvement. Making it. Moving up. It was me, then. I was the one who really bolted. I was the one who couldn’t accept a tarnished silver dollar, even if it meant giving up a truckload of them.

My life with Maze. I could almost see it projected in front of me like one of these waves. Maybe not completely predictable, but at least reliable. And who would I be in that reliable life? Would I disappear into some wifedom? My distrust of the future came down to that. If I could still be me, if I could know who I was now and be true to that, not become someone else, or be expected to become someone else, but could grow within that framework, then marriage would be all right. Marriage would not be a cage or a trap or an ether that would engulf and transform me. But I had to be sure of me.

The river pushed us forward, floating on it and in it. We had to keep moving. We had made our choice. You can’t move forward if you’re constantly looking back. Change is the only constant on the river and that’s the way it is in life. No guarantees. Only promises and pledges. Life is full of them. Legal pledges and pledges of the heart.

It felt as if we’d been paddling for a long time but in reality it went fast. We reachedthe heavy water in a few moments and I knew that meant the falls were not far ahead. Once we started our descent it would seem as if we were hurtling down. I knew that in my head. But I didn’t know how it would feel. And then, I could almost see the fall off in front of us. A shelf in the water, rounded at the top with nothing visible beyond it. A horizon.

“Here it comes,” I yelled.

Erica would be the first to see the drop-off. Just seconds before me. I waited for her yell. I waited for what I’d have to do to keep us steady. I could hear the roar of them now. Could taste the mist in the air. Could feel light spray on my cheeks and lips. It would be a shock. We would feel as if the earth had fallen away from us. Would hurtle us down into its maw, this falling off, this letting go, this tipping away from equilibrium. Is that what kids love about roller coasters? When they hover at the very peak of a downhill ride. That second before the car starts its descent. That floating moment. When you know you’re about to lose control and you wait for it to happen, know it’s inevitable. Your whole body gears up for it and then wham, you’re dropping, free falling down and down and down with no end to it, nothing but your head thrown back and your own screams filling the air. What Ospreys must feel as they plunge head first into the see, their wings pulled back, their necks stretched to a straight line, beaks pointed down, crashing into the water and then grabbing a fish and up, up, up again. They always come up. They always return to the air to free fall again. Not like Maze soaring with giant ersatz wings, catching the thermals, gliding from a mountain over a valley. No sound except the wind passing by. Not this hurling, crazy diving feeling.

I steered on the right, back paddling some to keep our bow pointed straight ahead while Erica stroked like crazy on the right side and then, after a few strokes, on the left. We had to avoid the last few pillows before the falls. I swung my paddle in ever widening arcs on the left to balance her strokes but still the current wanted to pull us toward those rocks Mrs. Ward had warned us about just at the top of the falls. But how could I know exactly which rocks she had meant? There were so many and they came up so fast. We approached the last of the rapids fast now, and I could hear the roar, see the water churn and spout, and then we were in it, riding down the first dip past the last pillow.

Why had I given in to Maze in Sayulita right after I left the music man? Attached myself to another man before I even had time to breathe? I hadn’t gone looking for him. Or for anyone. I thought I’d gone so far away I would certainly be alone. I had chosen the little fishing village just for that reason. An isolated, foreign, retreat. Yet he appeared. Out of nowhere. That was part of it. So unexpected. To find someone who seemed to understand what I was feeling. Who had lost something, too. Who had kissed a dream goodbye. Those sad gray eyes. Soulful and yet full of a boyish love of life. He didn’t hide his feelings and he let me express mine. There was no pretending with Maze. He made me feel understood. Now here we were. That understanding had vanished. Or I had buried it like a bulb in my garden. With the rocks. Stuck it deep down where Maze could not get to it no matter what he tried.

The water swelled around us, wave upon wave from behind pushing us forward, the canoe riding high on each crest. A few more rock outcroppings stuck up above the churn. Before I grasped it fully, Erica squealed and the canoe nose pointed down and we were falling hard, falling through water and space. Mrs. Ward’s pointed rock slid past to my right and I realized we had avoided that trap. My butt raised up off the seat and then smacked down again as a wave hit the stern just behind me. I paddled, Erica paddled, she shrieked – I didn’t know if it was fear or excitement – and down, down, down we hurled, the fury of that water all around us, a feeling of elation and screaming terror together inside me, and finally with the stern whipping to the right and me holding the paddle as hard as I could to swing us back on a straight course, we plunged into a gigantic froth and then flattened out below it only to hit another and another, bounced up and down by the falls. We slid down the last fifty or so feet of the falls and smack, landed in the eddy pool at the bottom, where inadvertently we spun around and faced back looking up the falls as the other two canoes hurtled down after us.