David Vann - Caribou Island

Run away like the men, Irene said.

That’s not fair, Mom.

Fair. That’s funny.

That’s the problem, Mom. You’re sunk in some kind of pity fest. And you don’t fight fair. Throwing your bowl through the window. How am I supposed to respond to that?

You make it sound like it’s an act.

Well isn’t it?

You should stop now, Rhoda.

Here’s the truth, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your husband loves you. Your family loves you. And there’s nothing wrong with your head, either. You’re just freaking yourself out. Why are you doing this?

You don’t believe me?

No, I don’t. I don’t believe any of it.

Irene felt a strange calm then. Rhoda standing before her, worried, condescending, understanding nothing. And yet Rhoda was the person she was closest to in this world. She stepped forward and gave Rhoda a hug, held her tight. I’ll only tell you this once, she said quietly. I’m alone now.

Mom.

Shh. Just listen. If you don’t wake up, you’ll be alone like this too. Your life spent, and nothing left. And no one will understand you. And you’ll feel so angry, you’ll want to do far more than throw a bowl through a window.

Rhoda pushed away. What the fuck, Mom.

That’s all I have to offer you. Just the truth.

You’re scaring me, Mom.

Well maybe you’re starting to understand.

Everything was working against Gary now. Irene, the weather, time. Old troll brought her bow, said she wanted to hunt. Arrow tips wide fins of razor blade, a compound bow with pulleys, a frightening amount of power, and she seemed in dark enough a mind to consider using it on him.

The wind colder again, building. Another low-pressure system, hardly a break since the last. Gary had expected some warmer weather after the early storm. A kind of Indian summer. But this was starting to look like fall would be short. Another day below freezing.

Not another soul anywhere on this huge lake. The boat heavy with canned goods, loaded to the gunwales. A barge making its way slowly into white, the sky coming down.

All that held them was a hollow in the water, the theoretical weight of that, a depression in the surface. If they dipped an edge, the water would rush to fill the vacuum and they’d sink right to the bottom. Gary could feel the weight of the boat loaded down, could feel its desire to sink. The inanimate world full of intent, and Gary acutely aware how frail his life was. Waiting, hoping to pass safely, and he could do nothing more.

I could have loaded us down a bit less, he called out to Irene. We’re heavy.

Irene turned to look at him a moment, as hostile a presence as ever, then looked forward again.

A slow passage, so slow it felt almost like Gary’s will was all that was powering them, but finally he was able to turn toward shore. He came in slow, aimed carefully, but they were too heavy. They hit rocks fifteen feet out, stopped dead.

It’s not deep, Irene said. I’ll just get out here.

She was over the side and sank to her thighs. Not wearing waders. She grabbed a flat of chili, heavy he knew, and took a step toward shore then slipped and went down. Dropped the canned goods, went in to her shoulders, thrashing with her arms. Stood back up, dripping, and didn’t say a thing. Just grabbed another flat of cans out of the boat, stepped forward again and made it this time to shore. Entirely soaked and must have been freezing.

Gary didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t think of anything safe. He put the engine in gear and tried to ram a bit closer but was caught. So he turned off the engine and climbed over the bags and flats to the bow, handed another flat to Irene, who had returned.

We’ll go back after unloading, he said. So you can take a hot bath and get some warm clothes.

She looked old, very old, the lower part of her hair wet, her face wet. She took the plastic-wrapped flat of soups and turned away again.

Gary swung his legs over and lowered into the water, a shock of cold. Grabbed a flat and stepped carefully on the slick rocks below, made it to shore, cracking through thin panes of ice.

If you want, you can relay everything up to the tents and I’ll do the trips to the boat, he said.

Irene paused a moment. All right, she said.

He was going to have probably fifty trips over the slick stones. Not having a dock or a better beach was something he hadn’t considered enough when he bought this place. One more example of his poor planning. But they wouldn’t have to do this often. Another boatload would last them to the hard freeze, then he’d buy a used snowmobile and bring supplies on that. Some kind of cargo sled. This entire place would be transformed. An open flat plain of white, no boats, and it was coming soon.

Gary could imagine walking out across the ice, the island no longer an island. The air still, no sound. Peaceful.

Irene gone a long time from shore. Changing her clothes, he was sure, and that was a good idea. Might save them a trip back home, too. Gary carried more flats of canned goods. His legs numb, his feet not feeling the rocks well.

Irene reappeared in dry clothing.

Feel better? Gary asked, but there was no answer. Irene picked up a flat of baked beans and walked carefully into grass and alders. The snow coming down heavier now, the world vanishing. No mountain, and the lake shortened. Closing in, leaving only the two of them and their work.

Back and forth, slogging through the water, Gary’s legs no more than stumps. He removed all the canned goods, the tubs of putty, everything heavy. Then pulled himself aboard and was able to motor in to shore.

Eagle has landed, he said to Irene, trying to cheer things up, but she was impervious. Grabbed another flat and walked away.

Gary finished unloading, then helped carry up to the cabin. Irene just setting things randomly in any spot.

How about a little planning? he said. We need to organize this stuff. But she didn’t respond.

Fine, he said, and he looked around. No room in the tents, and they needed the cabin clear for construction. So Gary stacked against the back wall. Soups and baked beans on one end, chili and canned veggies on the other. Bags piled between. If a bear came along, they’d be in trouble, but a bear seemed unlikely out here. Plenty on the far shore, but he’d never heard of one on this island.

By the time he was finished, Irene was sitting on a log.

That’s it? he asked.

Yeah.

We should try to place a couple joists, Gary said, looking around, but he could see the light was fading, the world going dark blue. Looking like winter. He could see his breath in the air. Or maybe it’s a little late for that.

I’ll heat up some soup, Irene said.

Thanks, he said. He walked down to the beach to fish out that flat of chili she dropped. Stepped into the water, newly cold, the waves about a foot high now, the water blue-gray and opaque. Couldn’t see even his own feet, but he’d brought the shovel, so he poked around with that, could feel the tip on rock. A new kind of fisherman, a prospector, almost, prodding at the deep to find what could be unburied. What if he could go deeper? He’d follow this rocky slope all the way to a hundred fathoms, the low valley, where he’d dig deep into silt, make great piles like sand. Who knows what could be uncovered then. The Lake Man, they’d call him, and he’d find everything that had ever been forgotten. A childhood alongside an old shoe, a rusted-out engine full of someone’s thoughts from a summer afternoon. He’d find everything that ever was here. There’s something about water, he said aloud. What is it about water?

Gary pulled the shovel along the bottom like a rake, a farmer tending soil, feeling for that flat, for a rectangular shape softer than rock. He stepped deeper and went for another row of rock, shuffling sideways, combing the area, and finally found it. Eureka, he said. The Lake Man recovers all.