Caribou Island (12 page)

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.

Me too.

He lay down beside her, put his arm over.

Thank you, she said, happy to have him back. Easier to get through the time, listening to him fall asleep.

Irene watched the clock while Gary and Rhoda napped, and finally it was four p.m. They piled into the truck for the four-thirty appointment.

Romano put CAT scans on an illuminated white screen. Irene could see her own brain, all the soft tissues in addition to bones. Very different from an X ray, everything revealed.

These dark patches right here, Romano pointed, are your sphenoid sinuses.

Irene could see they were tucked under her brain, far back from her nose. A place hidden from X rays by surrounding bone.

Dark means they’re empty, Romano said.

What?

That’s good news, really. And your frontals are clear. That was the other possibility for the pain behind your right eye. Maxillaries in your cheeks also clear, though I doubted you had anything there. You would have had more facial pain.

I don’t understand, Irene said. There’s nothing there, just like in the X ray?

That’s right.

There has to be something.

I’m sorry.

But what are these terrible headaches then? Irene could feel herself breaking down, and Romano put a hand on her shoulder.

I’m sorry, Irene. From what you describe, I think you did have a sinus infection, probably your frontal sinuses. But they seem to have cleared, and I don’t know why you still have the headache.

There’s no other explanation?

Not in my field, Romano said. I’m not a neurosurgeon. It could be the infection and headache, if that’s what it started as, triggered something else, or it could have been the stress from the headache and not sleeping. Is there anything else you’ve been worried about lately, any other cause of stress?

Huh, Irene said. Just thirty years of marriage going down the toilet, my whole life with it.

I’m sorry, Romano said, and it was clear Irene had gone too far. She never told anyone anything about her life, as a general rule—some sort of Icelandic code.

I shouldn’t have said that, she told him. I normally wouldn’t say that. I just wanted surgery. So everything could go away. The pain is real. The headaches won’t stop, and I’m scared of them. I don’t know what to do. I need to make them stop.

You need to stop taking the codeine, Romano said. You’ve already been on it long enough to become addicted, and that can cause new problems.

But I can’t sleep. Even the codeine isn’t enough sometimes.

You have to stop today. No more painkillers beyond aspirin or Advil. And I’d recommend seeing a psychiatrist. You might ask about medication for anxiety. That could help you sleep, and more sleep might take care of the headache.

Okay, Irene said, nodding, thinking there was no way in hell she was going to see a shrink. And thank you. I’m sorry.

No need to apologize, he said. You’re in pain, and I’m sorry I can’t help.

Irene walked to the exit counter and waited to pay, but the receptionist told her there was no charge. This made Irene start to cry, the kindness. The pain had her always on edge, ready to spill over for any reason. But she dabbed at her eyes and walked into the waiting area, trying to figure out what to tell Gary and Rhoda.

They could see her eyes were wet. They both stood right away and came over to hug her.

It’s not my sinuses, she told them. We still don’t know what’s wrong.

Jim received a call from Rhoda. They were coming home tonight, not staying over in Anchorage. She sounded tired on the phone.

I’ll have dinner ready, he said. What would you like?

Anything. I don’t care. I have to go. Sorry.

So Jim drove to the store. He needed to make something nice for Rhoda. Maybe even Baked Alaska. Tried to think of what she liked most and drew a blank. He had no idea what she really liked to eat. All the dishes she fixed, they were all for him, all the things he liked.

He’d been selfish and taken her for granted. He could see that now. And he’d just paid a lot of money to have her not find out. Not a cheap fuck, he said out loud.

The problem was, he still missed Monique. Despite how things ended. She was the most beautiful woman he would ever be with. That was a certainty. There would never be anything better, and he had half his life still to live. That was depressing. Rhoda was safe, though, and available. He’d get a ring, and maybe they’d even have kids, all of which made him want to yank the wheel and flip into a ditch.

Jim tried to hold it together. Rhoda would be able to tell if he was still upset when she got home. He’d have to pretend it was just concern for her and her mom. He could come out of this looking better than ever.

Thanks for fucking me over, Monique, he said.

He parked and went inside, to the seafood section. Enormous king crab legs, even whole crabs, six feet across. Like aliens, crawling along the bottom in darkness, cold as space, under mountains of pressure. A world that shouldn’t exist, far away and untouchable. You could bring a crab up, but you couldn’t go down to them, couldn’t join. And this was the truth about Monique. He could have her for a short time, and his money could make it seem almost that he could fit into her world, but she was untouchable. Even if he had been her age, he would have ended up like Carl.

Fuckers, Jim said.

What’s that? asked the man behind the counter.

Oh. Sorry, Jim said. I’ll take some crab legs.

Then there was the problem of what to go with the legs. Nothing sounded good to Jim. He didn’t care if he never ate again. But he decided on a big salad. Rhoda liked salads. And he got all the goodies. Marinated artichoke hearts, pine nuts, cranberries, avocado, tomatoes, shaved Gruyère, the works. Then the fixings for Baked Alaska. Also some Ben and Jerry’s for backup, though not New York Superfudge Chunk. Cherry Garcia would work.

Jim slumped over his cart in the freezer section and just held on. His face down close to the lettuce. He wasn’t going to cry over her, ever. He had to focus on his breath, let it calm, slowly calm. He’d be all right. He was a dentist, after all. He made more than any of the other fucks around here.

At the moment, though, Alaska felt like the end of the world, a place of exile. Those who couldn’t fit anywhere else came here, and if they couldn’t cling to anything here, they just fell off the edge. These tiny towns in a great expanse, enclaves of despair.

He needed to pull himself together. There was no line at checkout, and he was home quickly, carrying his groceries to the kitchen. And it was only as he was putting the bags down that he realized there had been a change. He had been unfaithful, and even if he married Rhoda now, he had opened the possibility of other women, and he knew he would act on this. He would continue cheating. There was no way to stop it once it was possible. He would find other women, most likely his patients. Or his staff. He could advertise for another hygienist, another secretary to help with the front office. He could tell Rhoda he was doing this instead of bringing in another partner. A way to expand. But he’d be hiring an affair. That’s all he’d be looking for, one at a time, just hire and fire. He didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of that before. Rhoda would catch on eventually, but then he’d just move on to the next wife, if he had to, and the next set of affairs. None of it was a crime. And if he had her sign a prenup, there’d be no damage done.

The question, really, was what his life was about. He didn’t believe in God, and he wasn’t in the right field to become famous or powerful. Those were the three biggies: faith, fame, and power. They could justify a life, perhaps, or at least make you think your life meant something. All the crap about being a good guy, treating people well, and spending time with family was only crap because it had nothing to anchor it. There was no cosmic scorecard. Having kids seemed to work for some people, but not really. They were lying, because they’d lost their lives and it was too late. And money, by itself, didn’t mean anything. So all that was left was sex, and money could help with that.

Jim stood at the sink, washing lettuce, and realized this was it. He would devote his life to sex. Get in better shape and have as many women as possible. He wished he had discovered this earlier, before forty-one, because it would have been a lot easier earlier, but it still wasn’t too late. He had a good ten years at least before his life dissolved into something he didn’t care to think about.

He tore up the lettuce, cut tomatoes, sliced the avocado, threw in the other bits, got a pot of water ready for the crab legs, then had to stop because he didn’t know when she’d be home. And he decided to skip the Baked Alaska. Too much effort.

Carl spent all day at the Coffee Bus. Karen gave him free coffee, and when she found out he had no money, gave him free sandwiches, also. He sat against the side of the bus, a backpack on either side. Nodded hello to the customers and wrote postcards. He wrote one of them to himself.

Dear Carl, Hoping to see you again soon. You seem a little lost. It’s been a while since we talked. I think we have to admit at this point that things are not going well. We both have dreams, but are they leading us in the same direction? Ha ha, Carl.

Carl filled in his address and decided to send it along with the other cards. All of this assumed he’d have enough money at some point to buy stamps. He was waiting for Mark to show up so he could ask for a job.

But Mark did not show up, and at 8:00 p.m., Karen locked the bus.

Fishing ended at seven, Karen said. But they have to get to the dock and unload. Be a while before he shows up, so I’ll just bring you home and you can talk with him there.

Thank you, Carl said, and climbed into her VW with the backpacks.

Where’s Monique?

Carl had been sitting here all day with the two packs, so it was odd that Karen was asking now.

Dumped me, he said.

Karen nodded and pulled onto the road. Sorry about that.

It was inevitable, Carl said. She never liked me. But she could at least come pick up her stuff. Seems a little rude to have me schlep it around.

Yeah, Karen agreed. Then she mumbled to herself. Whisperings and head jerks, low grumbles, aha expressions, the whole bit, like a full conversation with another person. Carl sitting in the seat beside her, only a few feet away, completely ignored. He wondered whether she was on something, or damaged in some way. He hadn’t noticed this about her before. But he didn’t want to interrupt.

Karen drove a slalom course on the gravel road to the lake. Drift to the right side of the road, then a small jerk and drift to the left, then back to the right again. Carl was grateful to arrive.

Karen went in and started cooking, off in her own world. Carl carried the packs one at a time and settled in the living room. Unfinished plywood floor, an old and dirty couch, but comfortable enough. The air surprisingly cold. No heat or insulation, the wind coming in from somewhere. Carl had taken off his jacket but he put it back on, flipped the hood up. Same as being outside.

Carl was hungry. The sandwiches and coffee not enough. A kind of torture to sit here on the couch, knowing food was nearby. He couldn’t just get up and grab a snack. There had to be some smoked salmon. Food within reach but untouchable, though in her mutterings would she even notice?

Mark finally drove up and walked in.

My brother from another planet, he said to Carl. Hail.

Avast, Carl said, trying to rise to the occasion.

Did you bring Monique?

She dumped me.

Ah, Mark said. Have you heard my calculus joke?

No.

E to the X is walking down the street with C, and they run into an integration sign.

What?

You didn’t take calculus?

No.

Well never mind, then. It’s a long joke. I told it to a girl at the cannery today, though, and she got it. She speaks five languages.

Sorry, Carl said.

Mark went over to hug Karen, and they had some odd little ritual involving ear massage. Apparently Mark’s ears got cold on the boat and Karen’s hands were exceptionally warm. Too embarrassing to watch, so Carl sat down on the couch again, facing the other way. He could hear slurpings and murmurings but tried to just look at the trees and bits of lake between the trees.

Carl felt how poor he was. He had to sit here because he had nowhere else to go. If you were poor, you had to ask favors and hang out and wait and spend time with people you didn’t want to spend time with. All the while, you were essentially invisible. Carl was not going to do this anymore. He was going to change his major, even if it meant an extra year of college. And he was going to tell Mark about Jim and Monique. That was the one weak spot of the rich. They had secrets.

Mark finally made it over to the couch, finished with the ear massaging and whatever else. Hombre, he said. There’s a guy at the cannery who can say “Who farted?” in eight languages.

Huh, Carl said. He never knew what to say around Mark. And he couldn’t figure out how to segue from that to, Can you get me a job?

He can say it in Thai.

How was fishing? Carl asked.

Rough, Mark said. Ten-footers. Cut way down on the catch. No one could do volume. We did only a thousand pounds.

That sounds like a lot.

It’s not.

Could you have done more if you had help?

Mark gave him a squinty look.

Okay, Carl said. That was pretty obvious, I guess. I’m broke and I need a job. Any chance of joining you on the boat?

Mark patted Carl on the shoulder, which made him feel real big. Sorry, he said. It’s impossible to get on a boat. You have to live here and know everyone and be around every summer. You have to have experience. There’s a line of guys trying to get on. And it’s the end of the season anyway.

Okay, Carl said. That makes sense. But he felt disappointed. No way in. He stared at the skinny trees, dwarfing out near the lake. They got shorter and shorter the closer they were to the water. A forest for the little people, like Carl himself. I’m a wee man, he said to Mark, using his fake Irish accent.

Hey, Mark said. Go easy, man. You can find something, just not on a boat.

I have to find something now, unfortunately. I have less than five dollars at this point. I maybe should have set something up earlier.

Yeah, Mark laughed. Maybe. But hey, I can probably get you a job at the cannery.

Really?

Yeah. Eight bucks an hour, not a lot, but you don’t need any experience. You can start at the wash table, just pulling out membranes and getting the last bits of blood. Takes five minutes to learn.

Thanks, Mark. That’d be perfect.

Let’s celebrate with a bowl.

Carl was going to say no, as he always did, but then he thought what the hell. Marijuana wasn’t going to kill him. Okay, he said.

My man, Mark said, and he packed a bowl and got it lit, small puffs. Then he took a long drag, held it in, and passed the pipe to Carl.

Carl didn’t like the smell, or the smoke, and he hated to break his record. He’d never tried anything, not even a cigarette or an alcoholic drink. A point of pride, and it would be over now. But what the hell. He sucked in the hot smoke, acrid and constricting, and coughed, his breath gone short.

Mark was laughing, and Karen came over to laugh, too.

Popped his cherry, Mark told her. Right here, in our humble abode.

Karen took a hit then floated away back to the kitchen.

Carl waited for a feeling, a different perception, anything. He was hoping for visions, maybe the walls dissolving. But nothing happened. Mark passed him the bowl and he sucked in again, held it like Mark told him, then exhaled and coughed again.

Is it good? Mark asked.

I don’t feel anything, Carl said.

Nothing? Mark asked.

Nothing.

Try another hit.

So Carl tried again, but really there was no effect other than a low-grade headache at the back of his neck and a foul taste in his mouth, a tightness in his lungs.

Try again, Mark said, so Carl tried a fourth hit, but then he gave up.

Sometimes nothing happens your first time, Mark said.

Carl wasn’t sure there’d be a second time. It was all disappointing. Monique is fucking Jim, he told Mark. And he looked over to the kitchen, to Karen, who was looking at him now. I saw them do it in the living room when we stayed over there, and she’s been disappearing a lot.

Mark was packing another bowl.

Rhoda’s Jim? Karen asked.

Yeah, the dentist.

Mark lit up and took a long hit, then passed the bowl to Carl.

No thanks, Carl said. That’s enough for now.

Mark shrugged and held the bowl up in the air for Karen to come over. She took a drag and handed it back.

So that was it, the big revelation, the much-anticipated moment. Carl’s secret information hitting the world like a meteor.

Dinner’s ready, Karen said.