by Tim Poland
Sandy downed the last swallow of her tea and told Keefe she’d seen a bear the day before as well.
“Here. I hope this will suit you.” Keefe pushed his book aside and set a plate stacked with peanut butter sandwiches on the coffee table. He handed Sandy a smaller plate and a napkin.
“You’ve been part of one of humankind’s most elemental disasters,” he said. “Flood. Forgive my whimsy. Peanut butter sandwiches seemed an appropriately elemental food for the occasion. I should have asked. Would you rather something else?”
“This is perfect, James.”
Sandy tore into the sandwiches, even hungrier than she had thought. She ate two and part of another while Keefe ate only one. Stink sat to her side, his snout projected toward her sandwich, his nose twitching as she ate. She shared a couple chunks of sandwich with him, smiling as his pink-and-purple tongue slid in and out of his mouth, diligently working away at every bit of peanut butter smeared against the roof of his mouth.
After they ate, Keefe resumed his reading. Exhausted and satiated, Sandy pulled her legs up and curled into Keefe’s side, with her dog curled into her own. He was Keefe this evening. He was fine. She would sleep now. It was all she could possibly do. The other would wait until tomorrow. It would have to.
MORNING light was already working its way through the bungalow windows when she woke. This much light, this deep in the ravine, the morning must be well underway, she thought. She was stretched out on the sofa, a blanket spread over her. Sliding her legs off the sofa, she sat up, pawing at her eyes and looking around the room. She was alone. As her mind rattled its way into consciousness, she thought she recalled waking briefly during the night. She had been here on the sofa. Stink had moved to the armchair. A small fire burned in the fireplace, and Keefe sat bent over the illuminated magnifying loop at his tying bench. But the image was far too distant, too hazy for Sandy to tell if it had been a dream or real. She stood from the couch and saw ash and embers in the fireplace. When she held her hand over the embers, a hint of warmth still emanated from them. Real. Or close to it.
She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, and quickly brushed her teeth and hair. She changed into a pair of jeans, but remained in the T-shirt and Keefe’s sweater that she’d slept in.
The aroma of coffee hung heavily in the air when she walked back into the living area, and Sandy wondered that she hadn’t noticed it before. At the base of the coffeemaker, the round, red light glowed, and the pot was half full. Coffee was not her normal preference, but today was not going to be, she feared, anything like a normal day. She might need an extra jolt to push her over this particular hump. She poured herself a mug, sloshed milk into it, and gave the mixture a cursory stir with her finger. As she walked to the window behind the sofa, she licked her finger and wiped it on her jeans. She raised the mug to her lips and took a sip as she looked out the window.
Keefe sat on a slab of rock by the stream, facing the water. Stink sat at his side, looking in the opposite direction, toward the bungalow. Nothing unusual in the scene before her. Keefe, watching the river; her dog, likely ready to come back inside and return to his spot on the sofa. Nothing out of the ordinary. It would be an awful day. She would have to be practical, prepared.
She drank the rest of her coffee while she waited for two slices of bread to finish toasting. Eating the toast brought her no pleasure or satisfaction; she ate it mechanically, knowing she would need something in her stomach if she were to have any chance of keeping a clear head. When she finished the toast, she poured another mug of coffee with milk, then walked to the front door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
Keefe remained at the bank of the river, but he stood now and appeared to be staring down at Stink standing beside him. Sandy watched from the doorway, coffee in hand, as Keefe and the dog held this pose for a few moments longer before turning toward the house. When Stink noticed Sandy, he increased his pace and trotted ahead toward the bungalow. The change in the dog’s gait led Keefe to look up. Seeing her in the doorway, Keefe seemed to pause, as if surprised by her presence in the doorway, before proceeding across the clearing at a noticeably slower pace. Sandy fought back an involuntary chuckle at the image of genial domesticity conveyed by the scene. The woman waiting at the door as her man approached, perhaps returning from work in the fields or from a hunting trip with his dog, and she there awaiting his return, patient and steadfast, dutiful, ready to hand him the cup of coffee she held so he might refresh himself at the end of his labors. A simple man with simple needs, easily met. As if they were a more typical couple, as if they were husband and wife, as if they were from another point in time, as if they were anyone other than the two people they, in fact, were.
As Stink brushed past her on his way to the sofa, Sandy raised the coffee to her lips and wished deeply that Edith were still alive. With Keefe slowly closing the distance between them, she longed for nothing so much as to lay her head to the side of the old woman’s knee, to feel Edith’s gnarled hand petting her head.
“Another day or two and conditions should be ideal. Be able to get a line in the water again soon.” Keefe glanced only briefly at Sandy as he reached the porch and passed on inside the bungalow, removing his hat and jacket and hanging them on the antlers tacked to the wall by the entrance, along with the old creel and waders that already hung there.
Sandy would have loved to talk fishing with him, to discuss water conditions, casting strategies, seasonal fly selection, what specific fish might be lurking in which specific pools, the brilliant orange bellies of brook trout, flush with their fall spawning colors. Yes, that she would have loved. Sandy pushed the door closed behind them and set her coffee mug on the kitchen counter.
“James?”
“Yes, my dear?” Keefe sat down at his tying bench, his back to her.
There was no good, sure way to approach it, so she took a breath and jumped in. “We have to talk about it. I know it’s difficult, but we have to.”
“About what?” Keefe leaned over his magnifying loop and locked a blank hook into place in the vise.
“You. These memory lapses. The disorientation. Do you know how long it’s been going on?” Her words reverberated back to her with their desperate paradox. Could he remember how long he’d been having trouble remembering?
“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.” Keefe looked at her briefly over his shoulder, then turned quickly back to his tying bench.
“James. Please. I was there yesterday. You were trying to get into that little house down the road. You didn’t know where you were.”
“Nonsense.” Keefe’s voice was hushed, a raspy whisper. His hands closed tightly around the base of the vise.
Sandy sat on the coffee table and leaned toward him, so Keefe could at least see her in his peripheral vision. “Yes, darling. You were trying to unlock that door with your key to this place.”
“That’s absurd.” Keefe’s knuckles grew visibly white as his hands clutched more tightly around the vise.
“It’s not. It’s true.” Sandy brought her hands to her mouth, her fingertips in a peak, as if guiding the breath into her lungs. “James. You didn’t know who I was. You called me Alice.”
Keefe’s back stiffened. Sandy could hear the air hiss through his teeth. “Why are you saying these things?”
“I’m so sorry, but it’s the truth.”
“Liar.” Keefe’s hands shook, as if he were trying to strangle the vise on his workbench.
“James. What’s my name?”
Again Keefe hissed the word “nonsense” through his clenched teeth.
“It’s not nonsense. What’s my name?”
“Ridiculous question. Of course I know your name.”
“Say it.” Sandy watched Keefe’s shoulders rise and fall as his breathing grew more rapid. “Say it. Say my name.”
“No.” Keefe’s response was barely audible.
“Oh, James. I’m Sandy. Sandy.” She stood from the coffee table
and began to inch toward him. “There are things we can do to help this, and I’ll be right here with you. But we need to get you to a doctor.” She stepped closer, leaned in, and laid her hand gently on his left arm.
“No!” The word exploded like a roar from deep in Keefe’s lungs. At the same instant, his left arm shot up and back in response to Sandy’s touch, as if to fling her hand and the interrogation accompanying it away from him. Sandy’s hand dropped away from his arm, but the momentum of the act kept his arm in motion. His elbow struck hard into her cheekbone, just beneath the eye, knocking Sandy over the armchair and to the floor. He pushed himself away from the bench, kicking his chair over as he leapt to his feet and turned, looking down at her.
“Liar. Liar!” he shouted, his face twisted with rage.
Aroused by the outburst, Stink lumbered off the sofa and planted himself between the two of them, barking.
Sandy scooted away from Keefe, her feet kicking at the floor, until she backed against the kitchen counter dividing the living room from the kitchen. She reached to the counter to pull herself up, her legs wobbly, her grip unsure. Her hand slipped, knocking her half-full mug of cold coffee to the floor, along with her green canvas purse, still sitting where she’d dropped it when they returned to the bungalow yesterday. The mug broke, splattering its contents on the floor, provoking Stink to bark more fervently.
“Liar,” Keefe shouted again, as Sandy managed to pull herself upright. His eyes were wide and red, frantic—the eyes of a trapped animal. He grabbed the carved wooden walking stick that leaned against the wall by his bench and raised it, cocked in his grip like a baseball bat.
“James. Please,” Sandy said.
“Liar. Get out. Get out.” Keefe raised the club and lurched toward her.
Sandy grabbed Stink’s collar, tugging him away from Keefe. Her hand on her dog, her eyes on Keefe, Sandy reached for the doorknob behind her. She found it and opened the door. As Keefe lunged at them again, she yanked hard on Stink’s collar, choking him, and she and her dog tumbled through the open door onto the porch. Keefe loomed in the doorway, walking stick raised, and Sandy scrambled to right herself. She was halfway up, on one knee, her hand still on Stink’s collar, when Keefe stopped. He stared down at her, his eyes red but blank.
“James. Don’t,” she said, her breath coming in rapid, short bursts. “It’s me. Sandy.”
Keefe took one step back and dropped the walking stick. It clattered against the wood floor and rolled to a stop behind the sofa as Keefe slowly closed the door in front of him.
“James. Please. It’s me.” Her voice was a low gasp, and over the faint sound she heard the firm click of the deadbolt being locked shut from the inside.
Sandy stood up and leaned against the porch railing, waiting for her breathing to return to a normal rate. The side of her face was tender, and she winced slightly when she touched it. Some swelling had already begun. There would be a bruise, but Keefe’s elbow had struck far enough below the eye that it wouldn’t likely swell into much of a black eye.
Keefe was most often a quiet man, his demeanor shifting harmlessly from withdrawn detachment to a sort of old-fashioned, even solicitous, courtesy. Though she understood how rage could erupt as a symptom of this condition, that much of it was beyond his control, she was still shocked by the ferocity of his outburst. How much of it was her fault? Had she pushed too hard, demanded too much, too soon? Certainly, she knew the sensation of her own body responding violently, nearly involuntarily, to an emotional provocation pushed to its limit. She would stand trial for it at the end of month.
Neither was she a naïve, helpless victim. More than once she’d contended with an angry, violent man, and she’d met each confrontation face to face. Vernon was dead as a result of such an encounter. Simple anger, simple violence, could be met simply—dangerous, to be sure, but the danger unfolded in simple terms, could be read easily. This was different. There would be nothing easy about it.
She walked to the door and rapped lightly on it.
“James. Let me in.” She leaned her forehead against the door and waited.
After a moment, she sidestepped to the window and looked in. Her purse, containing her keys, still lay on the floor with the broken shards of the coffee mug. Keefe had righted his workbench chair and stood slumped over, leaning on it, his hands braced on the chair back. His head drooped forward. Never had he appeared so old to Sandy. She tapped the window glass with her fingertips.
“Let me in, please. I only want to help.”
Keefe’s back was to her, and he made no move to turn around, showed no sign he had heard her.
She would wait it out. Until Keefe regained his senses, she had no other choice. Her purse with her keys was locked in the bungalow. The bungalow sat nearly two miles up the fire road from the access road around the lake. Even if walking out in search of help were an option, Sandy knew it was out of the question. If he took a turn for the worse, she needed to be nearby. Worse came to worst, she could break the window and get in that way. She would wait right here.
Sandy looked down at her feet. Besides, she hadn’t yet put her boots on that morning. She stood on the porch in her stocking feet.
With the situation appearing calm for the moment, Stink had wandered off the porch. Sandy sat on the top step, her ears alert for any sound from within the bungalow, and watched her dog sniff and snoop around the clearing. The sun would soon top the ridge, bringing full daylight into the ravine. The stream still cascaded, thick and loud, in the channel across the clearing. Autumn had nearly arrived in full muster. Brown, crisp leaves wafted across the clearing. Broad bursts of yellow, red, and orange leaves on the hardwoods were plastered throughout the deep green of the conifers. Wild rhododendrons lined the banks of the upper Ripshin, their leaves rigid and glistening.
Sandy got up and looked through the window again. Keefe sat at his bench, his back still hunched, hands again gripping the base of the vise.
Stink barked once, and Sandy turned to the sound. Her dog stood at the edge of the stream, his bent tail wagging. His head was raised and turned to the left and right as his nose scanned the air before him. He barked twice more and continued to search out the source of whatever scent had attracted his attention. Sandy looked once more through the window to the interior of the bungalow. No change. Keefe still sat stony at his workbench.
Sandy removed her socks and draped them over the porch railing. They were the only footwear she had for the moment, and she wanted to keep them dry. Barefoot, walking gingerly over the damp ground of the clearing, she joined Stink at the riverbank.
“What is it, sweetheart? Got a line on something interesting?” Sandy briefly ran her hand over her dog’s head as he continued his intent sniffing.
The cave opening was nearly even with their position on the opposite bank. It seemed peaceful, inviting, a fitting place to sit for a spell and reflect on a day like this. If she’d had access to her waders, she might have risked the strong current to get over there, but she’d brought her gear inside the bungalow yesterday as well, though just now she couldn’t recall why. Another day or two, Keefe had said. Soon the stream would drain off the extra water feeding into it from the glutted runs and washes upstream, and she’d be able to fish it again. Hopefully, with Keefe at her side.
“Come on,” Sandy said to Stink. “Let’s go back up to the house.”
She checked again on Keefe. He hadn’t moved but appeared to be in no immediate danger. She tapped the glass twice and softly called his name again. Again, no response. “I’m still here.”
She remained seated on the top step of the porch for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, checking occasionally on the unresponsive man inside, with Stink sleeping beside her. Except for leaving the porch once to pee in the clearing, she held her post without interruption. Once or twice she dozed off for a few minutes, her head resting against the porch railing, but she remained in place. She must have drifted off again when she was startl
ed by the creak of the door opening behind her. She bolted awake, scurried down the porch steps, and set her legs in a firm stance, ready for what might emerge. Stink opened his eyes and raised his head at the sudden movement.
Keefe walked slowly onto the porch, his eyes downcast, avoiding Sandy’s. He carried a mug of chamomile tea. His gaze still aimed at his feet, he sat down on the top step, far to the side. Leaning to the other side, he set the mug on the next step down. Sandy could see the wispy braids of steam rising from the hot tea.
“Thank you,” Sandy said.
Keefe’s elbows rested on his knees. His gaze remained fixed on his hands, dangling between his legs. “Most of the time, if I wait, if I can stay calm, stay still, it will come to me. What I can’t remember.”
Sandy reached for the mug of tea but kept the distance between them.
“Sometimes it seems so close. Right there, but just out of reach. As if I can see it. But not say it.”
Only Keefe’s mouth moved as he spoke. Sandy took a sip of the tea, grateful for the infusion of aromatic heat, and listened.
“It’s like reading a book. The words are there on the page, clear and meaningful, right in front of me. And then I turn a page, and the words have faded, blurred. I can see them but they’re too faint to decipher. Sometimes the page is blank. If I wait, hold on, the words usually appear, become clear again.” Keefe sighed deeply but kept his eyes on his hands. “Sometimes I just have to turn the page, keep turning pages until I can read them again. It’s something like that.”
Keefe raised his head and Sandy stiffened her stance, but Keefe’s eyes avoided her. He stared across the clearing, toward the river.
“You shouldn’t stay here,” he said. “It’s not safe for you. Just leave me here. For your own sake.”
Keefe’s speech was slow, labored.
“You’re a young and lovely woman. Beautiful. And the best fisherman I’ve ever seen. You deserve to have your life back.” Keefe’s lips began to quiver. His eyes grew moist. “Not to be trapped here with a dotty old man. Just leave.”
