David Vann - Caribou Island

What I can’t remember, Gary said, is my father ever talking about being part Cherokee.

He was part Cherokee? Rhoda asked.

Yeah, he was one-fourth. His father was half. You didn’t know that?

I didn’t know either, Irene said. What the hell.

I never said anything?

No, Rhoda and Irene both said.

Well he didn’t either. I found out from my mom.

You’re both freaks, Rhoda said. My parents are freaks. And I’m part Cherokee, apparently.

Only a sixteenth, Gary said. Sorry it isn’t more.

Gary turned on the radio then and they listened to old Beatles songs.

They had planned to stop for lunch before the doctor’s appointment, but with the traffic, they didn’t have time. Irene walked into the office dizzy from hunger as well as the meds. She hadn’t had anything to drink, either.

She was seen immediately, right at her appointment time, which was a new experience. Dr. Romano tall, dark, and handsome, grayed hair, a cleft chin. He had beautiful hands, full lips. Like some Roman statue.

He listened to Irene report her history and symptoms, then he put down his pen.

We’ll figure out what’s wrong, he said. Sometimes an infection in the sphenoid sinuses won’t show up in an X ray. They’re too far back, tucked in under your brain, so they don’t show up easily. I’d like you to do a CAT scan.

When can I do that? Irene asked. I’m guessing I need to come back here to Anchorage. I was really hoping to figure out something today.

I’ve already made the appointment, Dr. Romano said. And they’re next door. You can go right now.

Irene felt herself getting choked up. Not being treated like garbage by a doctor was a new experience for her. Wow, she finally managed to say. Thank you.

Within fifteen minutes, she was lying down in the scanner, trying to keep her head still, trying not to move too much from breathing. She kept her eyes closed so she wouldn’t panic from claustrophobia, but she could feel the cold presence of the machine in close as it whirred and clicked.

Gary drove them to lunch afterward. A greasy diner off the highway. Irene ordered halibut fish and chips.

They sat at a plastic table waiting for their food, looking out at the traffic. That was amazing, Irene said.

Yeah, Rhoda said. I can’t believe how quick it was. What a difference.

Frank should die a slow, painful death.

Irene, Gary said.

He should. He treats everyone like crap, and he’s incompetent. He should die.

Maybe a little extreme, Mom.

Irene smiled. Okay. Frank shall live. But I’m just so happy with Dr. Romano. He’ll figure out what’s happening, and I can get better and move on. At this point, I don’t care how awful the surgery might be. I need this pain to go away.

Did he talk about surgery? Rhoda asked.

Just told me the basics. It’s a week of lying down and having your nose packed, which sounds like hell, but then it’s basically over, just a few follow-up appointments.

Hm, Gary said. He was clearly uncomfortable hearing about this. He’d always been squeamish. Every time something happened to one of the kids, it was Irene on her own, from diapers to broken bones to drugs. Gary always found a way to disappear.

You’d better take care of me if I have the surgery, she said.

What? Gary asked.

You know what I’m saying. You always run when there’s anything unpleasant. But if I have this surgery, you’re going to be at my bedside every morning, noon, and night. I’m going to cough up phlegm and blood into your hand and you’re going to like it.

Geez, Irene.

I’m serious. None of your weak shit this time.

Mom, Rhoda said. I’m sure Dad’ll be there for you, and I will too.

You’ll be there, Irene said. But your dad will run. Hey, our food’s ready. I’ll go get it.

Sorry, Dad, Rhoda said when her mom was gone.

It’s okay. She’s just going a little crazy. Nothing new.

That’s not fair, Dad.

Who cares. Fair never matters. No one’s keeping track, as it turns out.

Dad.

Whatever.

Irene returned with a tray of fish and chips. You’ve been talking about me.

Well yeah, Rhoda said.

Irene dabbed at her fish with a napkin, which soaked through immediately. Enough oil? she asked. Then she took a bite with some ketchup. Frozen, she said. They’re using frozen halibut. Who uses frozen halibut?

It tastes all right, Gary said. Good enough, anyway.

Good enough, Irene said. Good enough. Your mantra through life.

Mom, Rhoda said.

And then they just ate. No one felt like talking more. They drove to a Motel 6, checked in, and went to their room.

I need to lie down, Irene said. She took another codeine and tried to sink into sleep. Rhoda took a nap on the other bed, asleep quickly, her breathing rough and heavy in the small room. Gary had gone off somewhere on a walk, disappearing again.

Irene was afraid of surgery, even the possibility of surgery. She’d asked about risks, and Romano said there was a risk of blindness, of hitting the optic nerve. That and possible death from the general anesthesia. And the bones in her head could become irritated and grow after the surgery, blocking everything off again. She didn’t really understand that, how a bone could grow, but apparently it could. And she wouldn’t be able to breathe through her nose for a week while it was packed. Meanwhile, her throat would be filling with blood. She felt claustrophobia already just thinking about it. Imagine not being able to swallow or breathe.

Gary tried to clear his head by walking. He felt accused. For years now, and what had he actually done? No crime that he was aware of. The crime only of association, of being there. His marriage a thing of pressure and weight.

He didn’t like walking in a city, even a city like Anchorage that was mostly one-story and spread out and not really a city. Dirty and empty, endless strip malls. Car and truck dealerships, industrial supply, nightclubs with no windows, fast food and gun shops. A sunny afternoon in a dead place.

Irene was working at him, had been for a while now. He didn’t know why. But she wouldn’t let up. The constant complaints. He was weak, running away, never there for her, always a failure, always a disappointment. She thought the cabin was idiotic, thought his life was idiotic. And what was her goal? Just to make the two of them miserable?

Gary took off his jacket, warming up from walking fast. Hopefully the doctor could make the headaches go away. That would be an improvement. The crazy factor would decrease considerably.

He tried not to think about her, tried to just walk. Mud-spattered pickups and campers rolling past, clogged at streetlights. He liked his trails at home, the path to Mark’s house, path over the first ridge, longer trails up the mountain. More to explore on the island, too, a lot more to explore. But first he had a cabin to finish. He was running out of time.

Gary stopped and closed his eyes and tried to see it, tried to stand inside his cabin, the log walls, an old iron stove in the corner, nickel legs. A rough table, bench seats covered in hides, a bed at the end of the room, his biggest bear hide over that. Timber wolves hanging either side of the doorway, the one window leaded. A rocking chair for looking out this window, maybe a pipe. Maybe he’d take up smoking a pipe.

Gary sighed and opened his eyes, walked on. A lot of work still before he’d be thinking about that rocking chair. And very little help from anyone. Every part of the project would be a struggle. That was the truth.

Gary found himself back at the motel room before long, opened and closed the door quietly.

I’m not asleep.

Sorry, Irene. I wish you could sleep.