Caribou Island (14 page)

The first fall storm. Gary leaned into blasts of wind and rain as he tried to nail the next layer of logs. Time. He hadn’t finished on time, and now he would pay the price. A thirty-degree drop in temperature, the sky gone dark, a malevolence, a beast physical and intent. You could see why the ancients gave names. The lake a corollary beast, awakened also into whitecaps, breaking waves, cresting six feet high, pounding the shore. The wind in blasts, compressed, colder and colder, born in the icefield, accelerated in the wind tunnel over Skilak Glacier, funneled by mountains.

Atol ytha gewealc
, Gary called out, the terrible surging of the waves. Irene in the tent, so he was alone and could speak.
Bitre breostceare
, bitter heart-care,
hu ic oft throwade
, how I often suffered,
geswincdagum
, in days of toil,
atol ytha gewealc
. He had always wanted to go to sea because of that poem, but never had. This storm now perhaps the closest he had come.
Iscealdne sae
, ice-cold sea,
winter wunade
, in winter inhabited,
wraeccan lastum
, in paths of exile, and this was true. He had lived almost his entire adult life in exile, in Alaska, a self-exile as good as any sea, and he wanted now to experience the very worst this storm could throw at him. He wanted the snows to come early, he wanted to suffer. He wanted to pay a price. Bring it on, fucker, he yelled into the storm.
Isigfethera
, he yelled. Icy-feathered.

He tried to catch a glimpse of the boat at the shore, but the rain drove into his eyeballs, pinpricks, the air so thick with water he couldn’t see more than fifty feet. The boat driven onto the shore already, battered and pounded against rocks, but it was aluminum and would survive, unfortunately. Better if it were wood and smashed, its keel broken, no way ever to leave, better if the island were uninhabited by others, no one to go to for help. Gary wanted to be desolate, alone, not even Irene to witness. He wanted her to disappear, vanish, never have been. Bitter woman, sulking in the tent, contriving punishments worse than any storm.

Gary held the wood in place and kept driving nails, compacting the wood, forming a wall that would keep out nothing. Wood a satisfaction because it was once alive. A way to strike back at the earth, a way to mete out his own small punishment.

He stood on the platform swaying and catching his balance in each new blast, anchored by his left hand on the wood. Holding nails in his teeth, more in his pocket. Taste of galvanized steel. Arms and shoulders ropy now, fit, corded from work, enough time out here. Muscles a way to remember and return, hard work the only solace. So he pounded for hours, cut new logs, sawed their ends and lifted into place, hammered again. Rammed braces below, trued the walls a bit, didn’t care they would never be true. The platform become a cage, a place of battle.

The tent a different battleground entirely. Old lump seething, waiting. But none of this was true, of course. He could see he was just getting himself worked up in the storm. Real life not so simple. His relation to the lump not so simple. But it was good to stand out here and blow a bit, and now he was hungry for lunch.

Hey Reney, he said as he unzipped the tent. Room for an old man in there?

He heard what sounded like a grunt, ducked in fast and closed the zipper.

Wow, he said. The storm’s for real.

Don’t get our stuff wet.

I’m being careful, he said. And he kept to the edge near the flap as he stripped off his coat and bibs and boots. Good to have a tent with full standing headroom, he said, but he could see it was catching a lot of wind. Irene lying down in her sleeping bag. Still not feeling well? he asked.

No.

Were you able to sleep?

No.

Is it because of the tent moving around in the wind?

Yeah, that and the pain. And not being home.

Sorry, he said.

It’s okay. I know we have to be out here building to finish before the snows.

Gary crawled over to his own sleeping bag beside her. Midday but dark. It won’t take long, he said. I promise. We’ll be in the cabin and have a roof.

Irene didn’t say anything in response. She was curled facing the other way.

So he lay in his sleeping bag, looked up into blue nylon, faintly backlit. The movement berserk, the sound unbelievable. Like living in a hurricane. Lying here, you could start to feel afraid, even though nothing was wrong. The tent wasn’t going to blow down. The storm wasn’t going to come in. They were safe. But if you spent enough time living in this confined space, you could begin to believe anything. You could feel the end coming. Terror fabricated from nothing, from nylon and wind. The mind that frail.

You could go crazy lying in this tent, he said to Irene.

Yep.

Maybe you should come outside for a bit.

Nope.

It’s not so bad out there. Cold but not that cold. And the raingear works.

No thanks.

She was losing it, he could tell. Going a little nuts in here. But there was nothing he could do, really. They couldn’t take the boat out in this storm even if they wanted to. So he closed his eyes and tried to catch a little shut-eye. Then he’d have some food and go back out to build. It was a simple cabin. It shouldn’t be taking so long. He needed to just nail it all up.

He tried not to think about the cabin. He could never sleep if he spiraled off into thoughts. And he tried to ignore the sound of the tent, but after about twenty minutes, he gave up. He grabbed the peanut butter and jelly, made a sandwich, and put on his raingear as he ate.

I’m going, he said.

My regards to the storm.

Ha, he said, and stepped out into the blast, zipped the tent quickly. He turned his back to the wind, feeling a quick chill even through raingear, and jammed the last of the sandwich. Finished chewing, put some nails in his mouth. A little galvi for dessert, he told himself, and he liked this part, hunching into the wind and grabbing a hammer. He could have been a Viking heading off into a storm wearing only hides and a sword and shield. Or maybe a war hammer, a big piece of iron on the end of a stick. He could have done it. He would have been tough enough. Rowing and sailing, the blast of spray with each wave, days or even weeks on the water waiting for land to appear. And when it did make itself out of the fog, they’d sneak along that coast looking for a town, something small, perched on a headland or hidden up in a cove. And they’d blast ashore right onto the beach, the prow hitting sand, and leap over the side with their hammers and swords and spears and slaughter the men who had come to meet them. The feel of bringing a hammer down on another man’s head. Like nothing else, Gary was sure. Brutal and true. Like animals, nothing deceptive. Just the stronger killing the weaker.

And then they’d run into town, dirt streets and hovels, sticks and thatched roofs, and they’d know that all the men were already dead. Women and children, and Gary standing before a hut with a woman inside. She’d be afraid. Her legs bare, and he realized he was slipping into bad movies here, that no one would have bare legs in that environment, wearing hides only on top. No G-string or Wonder Bra animal hides. But he felt turned on anyway, imagining a woman lying there on hides. He would strip her bare, tear the hides off her.

Gary was really feeling turned on, even though he knew it was dumb, especially for an Anglo-Saxonist. He looked toward the tent. It had been a long time, and rare he felt anything at all. But he knew Irene would think he was crazy, getting a boner out in a storm, coming in wet and cold expecting to do something about it. So Gary walked around to the front of the cabin, leaned against the log wall, his back to the outrageous wind, and opened his pants. He closed his eyes and saw himself spreading this woman’s legs. She was still fighting, trying to pluck his eyes, so as he entered her, he was pinning her arms down.

He felt himself tighten and come onto the wall of the cabin, pathetic little spurts, his hips bucking, and he pressed in close to the wood, his eyes still closed, pressed in against the wall and just waited until his breath calmed.

Then he bent down to wipe his hand on some ferns, grabbed a bunch to wipe off the end of his dick, and buttoned up. He didn’t bother to clean off the cabin. Irene would never notice, especially with all this rain.

Gary walked around onto the platform again and grabbed his hammer and nails. He felt tired now, ashamed of the violence of his imaginings. Raping a woman. This wasn’t who he was, and it shouldn’t excite him, either. It had just been so long since he and Irene had had sex. He didn’t know why that was. The pain in her head, certainly, but even before that. He didn’t understand marriage. The gradual denial of all one desired, the early death of self and possibility. The closing of a life prematurely. But this wasn’t true, he knew. It was only the way it seemed right now, during a bad time. Once Irene got better and returned to her old self, he’d feel differently. He stood in the wind and rain, facing it, eyes closed, and tried to feel close to her, tried to feel what was best, the sense of the two of them providing mutual comfort, animal comfort, not being alone in the world, but at the moment, he just couldn’t feel any connection at all. He didn’t care to see her ever again. And maybe that was his fault. Maybe it was who he was. Maybe he was incapable of that kind of connection. But he didn’t like to think about this. So he put an arm over a wall, cranked down on it with all his weight, and hammered a nail into the top log, kept hammering until he had driven it through, compressing into the next log, compacting the layers, and then he moved back a foot and drove in the next nail.

Rhoda was trying to save a golden retriever, a dog locked in a shed for weeks without food. There had been enough water to keep her barely alive. Red-gold hair filthy and matted, ribs and spine protruding, a skull with slack hanging skin. Still good-natured despite everything. Licked Rhoda’s hand, looked at her with love, then had to put her head down again, no energy left. This killed Rhoda, the abuse of animals. She didn’t understand how anyone could do this.

You’re a good girl, Rhoda said as she set up an IV drip. We’re going to fix you right up. A bit of struggle, frightened at the prick of the needle, but Rhoda stayed close and calmed her. You’re beautiful, Rhoda said. We’ll make you strong again. But she knew the dog might be dead by morning. She hated this part of her job.

So she went on lunch break. She had to get out of here, and it was almost two o’clock anyway. Full raingear just to get to the car. Coming down in buckets, the wind insane. Cold, too. She wondered about the wisdom of driving anywhere in this, idled in the parking lot and tried again to call her mother, but couldn’t get through. She’d given her mom a cell phone, but there was no cell phone service on the island, maybe. They should have tried it before, not waited until a storm. What if something went wrong out there? No way off the island, no way to call anyone.

Damn it, Rhoda said. She tried a couple more times, then backed out and drove slowly onto the spur highway. She wanted a chicken pot pie. Comfort food. Fattening, but she needed something.

Another run through a parking lot with puddles, then she was settled in a booth drinking hot tea and waiting for her pie. She felt lost, alone. Rainy days did that to her, but there was also the abused dog dying, her parents unreachable on that island, and Jim not wanting to marry her. And her best friends had all left over the years, moving to places like New York and San Diego and Seattle, better places. No one stayed unless they were stuck. So there was no one to talk to. Her mother, but she couldn’t reach her mother.

Rhoda put her forehead down on the table and just stayed like that until the pot pie arrived.

Tired, darling? the waitress asked.

No, just unmarried and unloved.

Ah, darling, the waitress said, and gave Rhoda’s shoulder a squeeze. The way I look at it, men are like that pot pie, but God forgot to put in the filling.

Ha, Rhoda said. Thanks.

No problem, darling. Just let me know if you need anything else.

Rhoda lifted the top carefully, set it aside on the plate, portioned crust with filling, not wanting to run out at the end. The pie was good. Gravy for the soul. She felt like crying, but held back. Was it too much to ask for, to get married? She was willing to give everything, her whole life, so was it really too much to ask in return?

Jim was the one who’d asked her to move in. Easy access to sex. Maybe that’s all she was to him. The drive across town an annoyance, and her apartment small and dark, with old carpet. Maybe asking her to move in was just a way to not have to see that apartment again. She was only providing a service. Sex and food and house cleaning, a few errands and help with secretarial crap. She should be getting paid.

She took a bigger piece of crust, because she wanted it, even though the ratio would be off at the end. Everything was supposed to be different. He was supposed to love her and want to take care of her. The care should follow the love. It should be obvious.

Rhoda closed her eyes and stopped chewing, stared into the empty dark space behind her eyes for a while. She could feel her mouth pulled down in a frown, and she didn’t care if anyone saw. Her face heavy, her cheeks old. She finished chewing and swallowed. Nothing inside her except longing. For a home and a husband and the end of worry about money, the end of worry about her mother. She would give up her time to get to the other side. Not live these weeks or months if she could fast-forward to when things would be better.

Darling, the waitress said, and Rhoda opened her eyes. Only dessert is going to fix that one.

Rhoda smiled. A sundae, with everything.

You got it.

Rhoda already felt a little full, but she finished the last bites of her pie to clear the decks for the sundae. Expensive lunch, and she ran out of crust, but oh well.

Her waitress was right. What she didn’t understand about Jim was where his filling was. Nice golden crust on the outside. A dentist, with money and respect. When she first told people she was dating him, they were all impressed. His house fit the dream, too. A buttery life.

And he could be funny. He made up little songs, even, songs about her, though it had been a while now. And he didn’t watch sports or any TV at all, so that was good. He didn’t have disgusting guy friends or really any friends, so that was maybe more a negative than a positive. He didn’t hunt or fish, so she was spared that. He wasn’t building some ridiculous car in the garage. He wasn’t sneaking porn on the side or addicted to computer games. But what was he living for? What did he care about? She used to think it was her, and their future together, a family. He used to talk about kids, but maybe she had been the one talking about kids. She had no idea what he wanted, and if she didn’t know that, maybe she didn’t know who he was at all.

This thought stopped her for a moment. She stared down at the stained restaurant carpet and wondered what it was she loved. Was it only an idea? Did the love she felt have anything to do with him?

The cheap carpet had fleur-de-lis patterns, mock royalty. The divider wall trimmed with a strip of light brown plastic where it met carpet, the heads of the nails showing. She hated cheap, and depressing, and cold, and lonely. That’s all she was. Just someone who hated these things and was running from them. She didn’t have any filling either.

Here you go, the waitress said, and Rhoda couldn’t even respond. She felt like none of it mattered. She stared at the sundae, half a banana on each side, though she hadn’t ordered a banana split, and the three flavors of ice cream that had been served for fifty years or longer, with the four sauces, and three cherries on top. A formula for happiness, no different from a husband and house and kids, the three mounds, and somehow it was supposed to fill you up or make you sick trying.