David Vann - Caribou Island

We need to put it at an angle, Gary said, for the snow to slide off. We’ll make the back wall higher and get some two-by-eights for roof joists to run from the back wall to the front. That should hold it, I think.

Irene stepped down from the stool, looked out the hole for the front window, standing there with her shoulders slumped, holding the hammer. Sounds good, she finally said. That’ll work.

She still wouldn’t look at him, and Gary felt almost like he should make an effort here, say something to close the distance, to make peace. Maybe apologize for last night, for saying he deserved someone better than her. But she was the one who had attacked him, and he didn’t feel like making the effort right now. He felt chilled. He thought for some reason of Ariadne and the passage in Catullus where in her bride’s heart revolves a maze of sorrow , maybe because of the way Irene’s shoulders were slumped. He couldn’t see her face, but she looked like all was lost, staring out into the snow. He couldn’t remember the Latin. Ariadne was watching Theseus take off in his ship, abandoning her, just as Aeneas would do to Dido and Gary himself had been thinking for years, perhaps decades now, of doing to Irene. And maybe now was finally the time to let their marriage die. It might be better for both of them. A thing ill-conceived from the start, something that had made both their lives smaller. Hard to know what was true. Part of him wanted to apologize, wrap his arms around her, tell her she was all he had in this world, but that was only habit, not a thing you could trust.

I’ll go cut the logs, he said.

Rhoda found Mark at the go-cart track. He and his friends always went on the first day of snow so they could spin circles and crash into each other. Fishing was over, and they had nothing to do now except drugs and stupid shit like this. Rhoda clung to the chain-link fence and yelled to get his attention, but of course there was no way he could hear her. The putting of a dozen engines. Mark wearing a camo jacket and a Russian hat with earflaps. His friend Jason wearing a pink Hello Kitty jacket just to be an ass.

The course was rimmed by stacks of old tires, then fence, then the broken-down motor homes of half a dozen fishermen who lived here year-round, Mark’s buddies. The kind of depressing hell Rhoda wanted no part of anymore. The kind of place where she had spent all of junior high and high school, smoking pot and having sex at the edge of gravel lots. She wanted to forget any of that had ever happened.

She grabbed a piece of gravel and threw it at Mark as he flew around the corner. It bounced off the front of his cart. He skidded to a stop, then saw it was her, grinned, flipped her off, and hit the accelerator. Tok, wearing a Red Baron scarf, slammed from behind, threw Mark’s cart sideways into the barrier. Tollef, Tok’s brother, came around fast and rammed Mark again, Mark whiplashing against his seatbelt. He was yelling and stomping the accelerator, trying to get out of there, made it maybe twenty feet before Hello Kitty whipped by and leaned over to cuff him on the back of the neck. But then Mark made it clear and was chasing them down.

Rhoda walked through a gap in the fence to the small set of bleachers, the only spectator. She’d had sex with Jason once on these bleachers, disgusting to think of now. That had been in the snow, too, though much colder, middle of winter. It hadn’t become her life; that was the important thing.

She waited through another fifteen minutes of crude gestures and obscenities, doughnuts and collisions, the life of the penis. Waited until they’d had their fill and sauntered back to the entrance, shouldering each other and going for wedgies. Then they walked past, without stopping, Jason with a little smile. We’re going to Coolie’s if you want a beer, Mark said over his shoulder.

Hey. I came here to talk to you.

Sorry, he said. I’m otherwise engaged. He said it in his Brit voice and of course got a laugh.

I need to get out to Caribou Island. You can arrange a boat.

Mark stopped, at least, and turned around. His friends kept going. Why do you have to go out there?

Our parents, she said. Remember? The people who made you and raised you? They’ve been out there this entire storm, in a tent, and there’s no way to contact them. I need to know they’re all right.

They’re fine, Mark said and turned away.

Listen, Rhoda said, but her voice had gone weak. She was starting to cry. I know you don’t like me, but I’m really worried about them, and I need your help.

Mark surprised her then. Turned around, walked over and gave her a hug, patted her on the back. Okay, he said. I’m sorry. I’ll get a boat. When do you want to go?

Today?

It’s too late for today. How about tomorrow, ten a.m., I’ll meet you at the lower campground?

Thank you, Mark. You can be good, see?

Can’t make a habit of it, he smiled. See you tomorrow. He jogged ahead to catch up with his friends.

Then she remembered. Hey, she yelled. I’m getting married.

Mark waved his arm in the air to acknowledge, but that was all. Didn’t turn around.

So Rhoda returned to work and asked for the time off. She got through the rest the day and went home to Jim. An enormous complex of exercise equipment in the middle of the living room, painted metallic light blue. Jim wearing spandex shorts and a wife-beater, pulling a bar down behind his neck.

Wow, she said. What the hell is that?

This is the future me, Jim said. I figure I have at least ten more good years.

Okay, she said. She wasn’t sure what this was all about. You’d better have more than ten. I’m only thirty.

No problemo, he said. You’ll be living with a hardbody soon.

She watched him finish his set. He was out of breath and red-faced by the end, splotchy, his arms and shoulders looking old and slack.

You’re not thinking of other women, are you?

What?

This sudden getting in shape thing, right after you ask me to marry you. Kind of seems like a panic response, making yourself attractive again so you’re not limited to one mate.

Rhoda.

I’m serious. You said you have ten more good years. Good for what?

Jim stood up and flopped his workout towel over his shoulder. Rhoda, he said. You’re the only woman I want. Okay?

She tried to find anything in his eyes, any sign of a lie, looked at his mouth, also.

Rhoda, I love you.

Okay. She gave him a hug. I’m just stressed out about my mom still, I think. I’m going to Caribou Island tomorrow. Mark’s taking me.

In this weather? You go out on Skilak at the wrong time and you could die.

The storm’s passed. There’s not supposed to be any wind tomorrow morning. Maybe not even any snow.

You shouldn’t go out there. Just wait for them to come in. They have to come in soon for supplies. They’ve been out almost a week.

Ten days.

Well that’s my point then. They’ll come in.

Rhoda didn’t feel like talking about this. She went to the fridge and started pulling things out for dinner. Chicken she needed to use up, olives, feta, red onion. Maybe some couscous. She could hear Jim huffing away. Hard to believe the new muscles were for her.

Cooking always helped. Especially in a kitchen like this. A good stove, six burners. The couscous in water on the back row. Then she poured olive oil in a pan, added minced garlic, got the chicken breasts going. Chopped the red onion. She could calm down when she was cooking. Her breathing could slow. She’d been panicking without even knowing it. Panicking all day, probably.

Hey, she called out to Jim.

Yeah?

I need a satellite phone. They’re expensive. But I need to talk with my mom. It’s been freaking me out.