Legend of a Suicide (5 page)

Find anything up there? his father called.

No, he shouted, turning back down toward the cabin. Just two small boards maybe, but I’m not sure what they’re being used for.

How’s the outhouse? His father was grinning when Roy got to him. Is it going to be something to look forward to? The big event?

No way. It gives me the creeps in there.

Wait till you have your butt hanging out over the void.

God, Roy said.

I found a few boards under the cabin, his father said. Not in great shape, but usable. It still looks like we’re going to have to make a few boards. Ever made boards before?

No.

I’ve heard it can be done.

Great. He could see his father grinning.

The first bit of home schooling, his father said. Board-Making 101.

So they cut up what they had and looked out in the forest for support poles and a log or tree big enough and fresh enough for boards. The forest was dimly lit and very quiet except for dripping and the sounds of their own boots and breath. Some wind in the leaves above, but not steady. Moss grew thickly at the bases of the trees and over their roots, and strange flowers that Roy remembered now from Ketchikan appeared suddenly in odd places, behind trees and under ferns and then right in the middle of a small game path, red and deep purple in stalks thick as roots, waxy-looking. And fallen wood everywhere but all of it rotten, coming apart in dark reds and browns as they touched it. He remembered nettles in time not to touch the hair that looked like silk and he remembered what they had called conks on the trees, though that word seemed strange now. He remembered
knocking them off with rocks and taking them home to engrave on their smooth white faces. What he remembered most was the constant sense of being watched.

He stayed close by his father on this initial trip. He was alarmed that neither of them was carrying a gun. He was looking for bear sign, half hoping for it. He had to remind himself constantly that he was supposed to be looking for wood.

We’re going to have to cut fresh, his father said. Nothing here will be new enough. The wood rot sets in too fast. Is any of this coming back to you? Are you remembering Ketchikan?

Yeah.

It’s not like Fairbanks here. Everything has a different feel. I think maybe I’ve been in the wrong place for too long. I’d forgotten how much I like being by the water, and how much I like the mountains coming right up like this and the smell of the forest. Fairbanks is all dry, and the mountains are only hills and every tree is the same as every other tree. It’s all paper birch and spruce, pretty much, endless. I used to look out my window and wish I could see some other kind of tree. I don’t know what it is, but I haven’t felt at home for years, haven’t felt a part of any place I’ve been. Something’s been missing, but I have a feeling that being here, with you, is going to fix all that. Do you know what I mean?

His father looked at him and Roy didn’t know how to talk with his father like this. Yeah, he said, but he didn’t. He didn’t know at all what his father was really saying or why he was going on like that. And what if things didn’t work out the way his father was saying they were going to work out? What then?

Are you all right? his father asked, and he put his arm around his boy’s shoulders. We’ll be all right here. Okay? I’m just talking. Okay?

Roy nodded and stepped out of his father’s grasp to continue looking for wood.

They brought what little they had found back to the cabin, and it was clearly not much of anything, so his father took out the ax, but then looked up at the sky and changed his mind. You know, it’s getting a little late in the afternoon here, and we need food and we need to set up our bunks and stuff, so maybe this should wait.

So they got at the dry wood that was in the small box behind the cabin, which they found had an access door from the inside, and they used some of this wood to get a fire going in the stove.

It will be our heat, too, his father said. It’ll keep us toasty, and we can get it to slow-burn all night if we close off the vents.

We’ll need that, Roy said. Though he knew it wouldn’t be like Fairbanks here. Single digits and below zero would be rare. His father had promised everyone that. He had sat in their living room with his elbows on his knees and stressed how safe and easy it all would be. Roy’s mother had pointed out that his father’s predictions had rarely come true. When he had protested, she’d brought up commercial fishing, the hardware store investment, and several of his dental practices. She hadn’t mentioned either marriage, but that had been clear, also. His father had ignored all this and told them that mostly it would be above freezing.

Once they had the fire going, Roy went for cans of chili in the other room and his father asked for bread, too, to toast on top. It was dim in the cabin, even though it was still afternoon outside
and the real darkness wouldn’t come until very late. He did remember this, all the evenings as a little kid he’d had to go to bed while it was still light. He wasn’t sure what the rules were now, but it seemed like all the normal ones about homework and bedtime were off. He’d never be busy and never have to get up for school. And he’d never see anyone else other than his father.

They ate their chili out on the porch, their booted feet dangling. There was no railing around the porch. They watched the calm inlet and an occasional Dolly Varden leaping. There were no salmon leaping yet, but that would come later in the summer.

When’s salmon season again?

July and August mostly, depending on the type. We might get the first run of pinks in June.

They stayed on the porch after they were done and didn’t say anything more. The sun didn’t set but sat low on the horizon for a long time. A few small birds came in and out of the bushes around them, then a bald eagle came down from behind, the sun golden on its white head, its feathers a chalky brown. It flew to the end of the point and landed in the top of a spruce tree.

You don’t see that everywhere, his father said.

No.

Finally the sun started dipping down and they went inside to arrange their sleeping bags on backpacking pads on the floor of the main room. Roy could see red in the sky outside their narrow window as he and his father undressed in darkness. Then they lay in their bags, neither one of them sleeping. The ceiling vaulted out from Roy and the floor hardened beneath him and his mind wallowed until finally he drifted off, then came back because he
realized he was hearing his father weeping quietly, the sounds sucked in and hidden. The room so small and Roy didn’t know if he could pretend not to be hearing, but he pretended anyway and lay there awake another hour it seemed and his father still hadn’t stopped but finally Roy was too tired. He stopped hearing his father and slept.

In the morning his father was grilling pancakes and singing softly, “King of the Road.” He heard Roy wake, looked down at him grinning. He lifted his eyebrows up and down. Hotcakes and cream-of-mushroom? he asked.

Yeah, Roy said. That sounds great. It was like they were just camping.

His father handed down a big plate of hotcakes with cream-of-mushroom soup on top and a fork and Roy set it aside for a moment, pulled on his jeans, boots, and jacket, and they went out onto the porch together to eat.

It was late morning, a breeze already coming up the inlet and forming small ripples in the water. The surface was opaque.

Did you sleep well? his father asked.

Roy didn’t look at him. It seemed his father was asking whether he’d heard him weeping, but his father had asked as if it were a regular question. And Roy had pretended just to be sleeping, so he answered, Yeah, I slept all right.

First night in our new home, his father said.

Yeah.

Do you miss your mother and Tracy?

Yeah.

Well, you will for a while probably, until we get settled in here.

Roy didn’t believe he could get settled to the point of not missing his mother and sister. And they were going to get away periodically. That had been another of his father’s promises. They would come out every two or three months or so for a visit, two weeks at Christmas. And there was the ham radio. They could pass along messages with that if they needed to, and messages could be passed to them.

They ate in silence for a while. The pancakes were a little burned and one of them doughy inside from being too thick, but the cream-of-mushroom on them was good. The air was cool but the sun was getting stronger. This was like
Little House on the Prairie
or something, sitting out on a porch with no railing and their boots dangling and no one else around for miles. Or maybe not like that, maybe like gold miners. It could be a different century.

I like this, Roy said. I’d like it to stay sunny and warm like this all year.

His father grinned. Two or three months anyway. But you’re right. This is the life.

Are we gonna start fishing?

I was just thinking about that. We should start this evening, after we work on the lean-to for the wood. And we’ll build a little smoker back there, too.

They put the dishes in the small sink, and then Roy went to the outhouse. He held the door open with one foot and inspected all around the seat as best as he could, but finally he just
had to use it and trust that nothing was going to take a bite out of him.

When he returned, his father grabbed the ax and saw and they went looking for board trees. As they walked through the forest, they looked at trunks, but mostly it was just hemlock in here, no thicker than four or five inches. Farther up the draw the trees shrank even more, so they turned around and went down along the shore to the point, where a larger stand of spruce grew. His father began chopping at the base of one that was farther in and partway around the point.

Don’t want to wreck our own view, he said. It occurred to Roy that maybe chopping down trees here wasn’t even legal, because it was some kind of National Forest, but he didn’t say anything. His father had been known on occasion to ignore the law when it came to hunting, fishing, and camping. He had taken Roy hunting once in suburban Santa Rosa, California, for instance. They had only the pellet gun and were going for dove or quail on some land they found beside a road that was fairly out of the way. When the owner walked down, he didn’t say anything but just watched them as they got back into the car and drove away.

Roy took over with the ax, feeling the thud each time through his arms and studying how white the chips of wood were that flung out loosely around the base.

Careful how it falls, his father said. Think about where the balance is.

Roy stopped and studied the tree, then moved halfway around it and gave the last two blows and it fell away from them, ripping down through branches and leaves, other trunks quivering under the shock and looking like a crowd of bystanders at some
horrific scene, all of them trembling and thrown and an odd silence afterward.

Well, his father said, that should be good for a few boards at least.

They stripped the branches and put them in a pile to go through later for kindling and, Roy thought to himself, a possible bow and arrows. They got at each end then to carry it back to the cabin, but it was much heavier than either of them had expected, so they sawed it into sections then and there, most at about two feet but two longer sections for longer boards, for the sides of the smoker especially. Then they carried the pieces to the back of the cabin and stood around afterward looking at them.

We don’t have the right tools.

No, Roy said. We’ll have to just use the ax or saw or something. What do you usually use to make boards?

I don’t know. Some kind of tool we don’t have. I think we can stand them up on end and saw, though.

So they tried a piece like that, stood it on end and placed the saw across at about an inch from the edge and worked it through slowly, trying to keep straight.

The pieces are all going to be different sizes, Roy said.

Yep.

It turned out that it took a long time and didn’t work well and was more of a one-person job since they had only one saw, so Roy went in for the fishing gear and put their poles together on the porch. He tied a Pixie on each line, with a swivel about three feet above it, then walked around back. His father was still working on the first board.

His father didn’t look up but kept at his work. His breath
was puffing out in the cold and his face looked gaunt like a bird’s—small sunken eyes, thin lips, a nose that looked almost hooked right now, and a light fringe of hair that seemed no more than a ruffle.

I have the poles ready, Roy said.

Catch us a big one, his father said and looked up for a moment. And then get your sawing hand ready. I see now this job is going to take us about the next four months.

Roy smiled. All right. I’ll be back.

The point was windier. Roy stood at the edge where the wind waves were up to two or three feet slapping into the shore and he could see whitecaps out there. He hadn’t realized how sheltered their little cove was. He walked up and down the shoreline for a few minutes, gazing at the white polished rocks and into the tree line behind that was up on a ruff of grass and dirt and root that skirted the beach everywhere and everywhere was exposed. He didn’t know how the dirt stayed there, but when he studied it up close, he saw that it was mostly moss and root. He thought of bears and looked around and saw no sign but walked back to the point, within view of the cabin, and threw his lure out across the mouth of their cove to catch the salmon tumbling in or slipping out.

He couldn’t see his lure or any fish at all, but he remembered times in the coves around Ketchikan of standing on the bow of his father’s boat and seeing the fish everywhere beneath him. They would have that here in later months, but still he hoped today he might catch an early one.

When something did hit, it was a small Dolly Varden, a white flash and tug. He pulled it up easily onto the smooth rocks,
where it gasped and bled and he removed the hook and smashed its head and it died. It had been a little while since he’d caught a fish, almost a year. He bent down to look at it and watch its colors fade.