David Vann - Caribou Island

Monique was lucky enough to look up in time to see Carl huck his pole into the river. This stopped a few fishermen. Their lines stalled for a moment along the bottom, so then several were whipping their poles back and forth trying to free snags.

Carl came splashing through the water in his waders, slipping a bit on the smooth stones and fish entrails and whatever else was down there. He came right up to Monique, who closed her book.

Fishing not good? she asked.

Carl grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard. God, I feel better, he said.

Monique smiled and grabbed him for another kiss. This was one of the things she liked about Carl. Given enough time, he could recognize shit. And unlike most men, he didn’t persist in stupidity just because someone was watching.

Rhoda came home to find Jim with a drink on the coffee table beside him. Facing the windows, drinking and looking out to sea. Very strange, since Jim almost never drank at all, and certainly never alone. Rhoda began noticing the random things she noticed during tragedies: the refrigerator clicked on only briefly then clicked back off; sunlight reflected off the dark wood of the coffee table but wasn’t hitting his drink; the house seemed unusually warm, also, almost humid, claustrophobic. She set down the grocery bags and walked over to him.

What’s wrong? she asked in a voice that sounded to her like fear. She touched his shoulder lightly as she said this.

Hey, he said, perhaps a bit flushed as he turned to her, but not drunk, his speech fine. How was your day?

What is this? Why are you sitting here drinking?

Just having a little sherry, Jim said, and he picked up his glass and swirled the ice around. Enjoying the view.

Something’s up. I thought someone had died or something. Why the sudden change in behavior?

Can’t a man have a drink? Jesus, you’d think I was burning down the house or writing on the walls with crayons or something. But I’m forty-one years old, a dentist, I’m in my own house, and I’m having a glass of Harveys after work.

Okay, okay.

Lighten up.

Okay, Rhoda said. I’m sorry, all right? I picked up some chicken. I was thinking maybe we’d have lemon chicken.

Sounds good. Which reminds me, by the way. I may have found a new partner for the practice. A dentist out of Juneau, named Jacobsen, and I was thinking I’d have him over for dinner tomorrow to talk about specifics. So I’m wondering whether you’d be willing to make other plans for just a few hours in the evening. Would that be okay?

Sure. That’s fine. I’ll have dinner with my parents. I’ll call Mark tonight to let Mom know.

Great, Jim said. Thanks. Then he looked out to the inlet again and the mountains beyond, the snow on Mount Redoubt, and he thought how clever he was, and how deserving.

Irene was sick and miserable the day after the storm, but the following morning she woke with something much worse, an awful headache that started at her eye socket and spiraled across her forehead. If she closed her eyes, she could see red tracery of the pain. A new pattern with each blink or pulse, a dark limitless sky. Coming from behind her right brow, so she pressed all around the eye, and if she pressed with her thumb at the top inside corner of the socket, this helped briefly.

She couldn’t breathe through her nose. Her throat sore, perhaps from breathing all night with her mouth open. She swallowed, and that felt raw and painful.

Gary, she managed to croak out, but no answer. She curled on her side, not wanting to leave the warmth of the comforter and blanket, but now she could feel the draining from her sinuses into the back of her throat, drowning. She sat up and grabbed a tissue, blew her nose, but it was all locked in, rock solid. Blowing only pressurized her ears. It didn’t relieve anything.

Gary, she called again, more desperate this time, but still no answer. She looked at the clock and saw she had slept late, after 9:00 a.m. She lay back down and moaned. The pain in her head unlike any she’d experienced before, so focused, so insistent.

She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. Needed to pee, and then needed painkiller. Took two Advil, and then two more, and walked back to bed. It hurt to walk. She could feel the impact of her footsteps in her head. The back of her eye a new zone she had never even noticed before.

She slipped under the covers, moving carefully, and tried to blow her nose again, then tried to just fall asleep. She didn’t want to be awake for this.

Gary was at the boat, working on the bent bow ramp. A solid break in the rain, finally, and he was taking advantage of it, though he felt like hell, some kind of flu and fever, his stomach weak. He’d spent much of the day before in bed. Irene even worse off.

With several big clamps and a rubber mallet, he was making progress, swinging hard with both hands, the mallet bouncing but also gradually bending the plate back into place.

You’d think they would have made this bow a bit stronger. It was a ramp, after all. It should have been strong enough to drive on, the boat big enough to carry a small car. But whoever had designed it hadn’t put enough reinforcement across the center. Gary was an aluminum welder and boat builder himself and had thought about just building a boat with a ramp, but Irene hadn’t wanted that. Too many problems with his cost estimates for earlier boats. A lack of faith. So they wasted a lot of money on this one.

No other boats two days ago in the storm, but today there was constant traffic on the ramp beside him, five or ten small boats launched. The fishermen looked him over, and several came by to inspect.

Got a bend there, a man said. He was wearing hip waders with straps over his shoulders, a great way to drown.

You go in with those, Gary said, the waders become an enormous bucket.

The man looked down at the bib of his waders. You could be right.

Yeah, Gary said, and went back to hammering. The man left, which was good.

Maybe it was just that he’d been feeling sick for two days, his stomach weak, but Gary was feeling self-critical as well. Thinking he didn’t have a good friend up here, after so many years. No one offering to help on the cabin. A few friends, but no one he could call up, no real friendship. And he wondered why that was. He’d always had good friends before, in California, still had a couple of them, though he saw them only every few years. Irene hadn’t helped things, not very social — she was shy, somehow, and rarely wanted to leave home — but still he didn’t know why he didn’t have better friends here.

The bow plate wasn’t going to get any straighter. He loosened the clamps and could see the fit at the latches still wasn’t a perfect seal. He’d have some water intrusion. But this was good enough.

Gary picked up his tools and looked at the lake. Small waves, some wind, not like two days ago. No rain. He’d get Irene and they’d take another load out. It was almost eleven, a late start, but they could accomplish something.

Back at the house, Irene was still in bed.

The weather’s better, he said. We could take a load out.

Turn off the light, she said, and rolled over to face the other way.

What’s wrong? Not feeling well?

I have a terrible headache. Worst I’ve ever felt.

Irene, he said, Reney-Rene. And he switched off the light and sat on the bed, put an arm over her. Fairly dark in here, the thick curtains closed, light coming in from the door only. His eyes weren’t adjusted yet, so he couldn’t see her well. Want some aspirin or Advil?

I tried that. It doesn’t work. It doesn’t do anything. She sounded exhausted.

I’m sorry, Irene. Maybe I should take you in to a doctor.