The Anything Box

by Зенна Гендерсон

  "Just smell the spruce," said Ellena, sitting up and filling her lungsecstatically.

  "Yeah, and the fried fish," Crae sat up, too, and breathed in noisily. "Andthe swale, and," he sniffed again, "just a touch of skunk."

  "Oh, Crae!" Ellena cried reproachfully, "Don't spoil it!" She pushed himflat on the blanket and collapsed, laughing, against him.

  "Oof!" grunted Crae. "A few more weeks of six fish at a sitting and all therest of the grub you're stashing away and I'll have to haul you home in astock trailer!"

  "Six fish!" Ellena pummeled him with both fists. "I'm darn lucky to salvagetwo out of the ten when you get started—and I saw you letting your belt outthree notches. Now who's fat stuff!"

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  They scuffled, laughing helplessly, until they both rolled off the blanket

  onto the squishy black ground that was still wet from spring and the nearness

  of the creek. Ellena shrieked and Crae, scrambling to his feet yanked her up

  to him. For a long minute they stood locked in each other's arms, listening to

  the muted roar of the little falls just above camp and a bird crying, "See me?

  See me?" from the top of a spruce somewhere.

  Then Ellena stirred and half-whispered, "Oh, Crae, it's so wonderful up

  here. Why can't it always—" Then she bit her lip and buried her face against

  him.

  Crae's heart reluctantly took up it's burden again. "Please God, it will

  be," he promised. "Like this always." And she lifted her face to his kiss.

  Then he pushed her away.

  "Now, Frau, break out the corn meal and the frying pan again. I'm off to

  the races." He slipped the creel on and picked up his rod. "I'm going down

  where the old beaver dam used to be. That's where the big ones are, I’ll

  betcha."

  " 'By, honey," Ellena kissed the end of his sunburned nose. "Personally, I

  think I'll have a cheese sandwich for supper. A little fish goes a long way

  with me."

  "Woman!" Crae was horrified. "What you said!"

  He looked back from the top of the logging railroad embankment and saw

  Ellena squatting down by the creek, dipping water into the blackened five

  gallon can they used for a water heater. He yelled down at her and she waved

  at him, then turned back to her work. Crae filled his lungs with the crisp

  scented air and looked slowly around at the wooded hills, still cherishing

  drifts of snow in their shadowy folds, the high reaching mountains that lifted

  the spruce and scattered pines against an achingly blue sky, the creek,

  brawling its flooded way like an exuberant snake flinging its shining loops

  first one way and then another, and his tight little, tidy little camp tucked

  into one of the wider loops of the creek.

  "This is it," he thought happily. "From perfection like this, we can't help

  getting straightened out. All I needed was a breathing spell."

  Then he set out with swinging steps down the far side of the embankment.

  Crae huddled deeper in his light Levi jacket as he topped the rise on the

  return trip. The clouds were no longer white shining towers of pearl and blue,

  but heavy rolling gray, blanketing the sky. The temperature had dropped with

  the loss of the sun, and he shivered in the sudden blare of wind that slapped

  him in the face with a dozen hail-hard raindrops and then died.

  But his creel hung heavy on his hip and he stepped along lightly, still

  riding on his noontime delight. His eyes sought out the camp and he opened his

  mouth to yell for Ellena. His steps slowed and stopped and his face smoothed

  out blankly as he looked at the strange car pulled up behind theirs.

  The sick throbbing inside him began again and the blinding flame began to

  flicker behind his eyes. With a desperate firmness he soothed himself and

  walked slowly down to camp. As he neared the tent, the flap was pushed open

  and Ellena and several men crowded out into the chill wind.

  "See," cried Ellena, "Here's Crae now." She ran to him, face aglow—and eyes

  pleading. "How did you do, honey?"

  "Pretty good." Somewhere he stood off and admired the naturalness of his

  answer. "Nearly got my limit, but of course the biggest one got away. No

  fooling!"

  Ellena and the strange faces laughed with him and then they were all

  crowding around, admiring the catch and pressing the bottle into his cold

  hands.

  "Come on in the tent," Ellena tugged at his arm. "We've got a fire going.

  It got too cold to sit outdoors."

  Then she was introducing the men in the flare and hiss of the Coleman

  lantern while they warmed themselves at the little tin stove that was

  muttering over the pine knots just pushed in.

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  "This is Jess and Doc and Stubby and Dave." She looked up at Crae. "My

  husband, Crae."

  "Howdy," said Crae.

  "Hi, Crae." Jess stuck out a huge hand. "Fine wife you got there. Snatched

  us from death's door. Hot coffee and that ever lovin' old bottle. We were

  colder'n a dead Eskimo's—wup—ladies present."

  Ellena laughed. "Well, lady or not, I know the rest of that one. But now

  that we've got fish again, why don't you men stay for supper?" She glanced

  over at Crae.

  "Sure," said Crae, carefully cordial. "Why not?"

  "Thanks," said Jess. "But we've stayed too long now. Fascinating woman,

  your wife, Crae. Couldn't tear ourselves away, but now the old man's home—" He

  roared with laughter. "Guess we better slope, huh, fellers? Gotta pitch camp

  before dark."

  "Yeah. Can't make any time with the husband around," said Stubby. Then he

  leaned over and stage-whispered to Ellena, "I ain't so crazy "bout fishing.

  How ’bout letting me know when he's gone again?"

  After the laughter, Crae said, "Better have another jolt before you get out

  into the weather." So the bottle made the rounds slowly and finally everyone

  ducked out of the tent into the bleakly windy out-of-doors. The men piled into

  the car and Jess leaned out the window.

  "Thought we'd camp up above you," he roared against the wind, "but it's

  flooded out. Guess well go on downstream to the other campground." He looked

  around admiringly. "Tight little setup you got here."

  "Thanks," yelled Crae. "We think so too."

  "Well, be seeing you!" And the car surged up the sharp drop from the road,

  the little trailer swishing along in back. Crae and Ellena watched them

  disappear over the railroad.

  "Well," Crae turned and laid his fist against Ellena's cheek and pushed

  lightly. "How about chow, Frau? Might as well get supper over with. Looks like

  we're in for some weather."

  "Okay, boss," Ellena's eyes were shining. "Right away, sir!" And she

  scurried away, calling back, "But you'd better get the innards out of those

  denizens of the deep so I can get them in the pan."

  "Okay." Crae moved slowly and carefully as though something might break if

  he moved fast. He squatted by the edge of the stream and clumsily began to

  clean the fish. When he had finished, his hands were numb from the icy snow

  water and the persistent wind out of the west, but not nearly as numb as he

  felt inside. He carried the fish over t
o the cook bench where Ellena shivered

  over the two-burner stove.

  "Here you are," he said slowly and Ellena's eyes flew to his face.

  He smiled carefully. "Make them plenty crisp and step it up!"

  Ellena's smile was relieved. "Crisp it is!"

  "Where's a rag to wipe my shoes off with? Shoulda worn my waders. There's

  mud and water everywhere this year."

  "My old petticoat's hanging over there on the tree—if you don't mind an

  embroidered shoe rag."

  Crae took down the cotton half-slip with eyelet embroidery around the

  bottom.

  "This is a rag?" he asked.

  She laughed. "It's ripped almost full length and the elastic's worn out. Go

  ahead and use it."

  Crae worked out of his wet shoes and socks and changed into dry. Then he

  lifted one shoe and the rag and sat hunched over himself on the log. With a

  horrible despair, he felt all the old words bubbling and the scab peeling off

  the hot sickness inside him. His fist tightened on the white rag until his

  knuckles cracked. Desperately, he tried to change his thoughts, but the

  bubbling putrescence crept through his mind and poured its bitterness into his

  mouth and he heard himself say bitterly,

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  "How long were they here before I showed up?"

  Ellena turned slowly from the stove, her shoulders drooping, her face

  despairing.

  "About a half hour." Then she straightened and looked desperately over at

  him. "No, Crae, please. Not here. Not now."

  Crae looked blindly down at the shoe he still held in one hand. He clenched

  his teeth until his jaws ached, but the words pushed through anyway—biting and

  venomous.

  "Thirty miles from anywhere. Just have to turn my back and they come

  flocking! You can't tell me you don't welcome them! You can't tell me you

  don't encourage them and entice them and—" He slammed his shoe down and

  dropped the rag beside it. In two strides he caught her by both shoulders and

  shook her viciously. "Hellamighty! You even built a fire in the tent for them!

  What's the matter, woman, are you slipping? You've got any number of ways to

  take their minds off the cold without building a fire!"

  "Crae! Crae!" She whispered pleadingly.

  "Don't 'Crae, Crae' me!" he backhanded her viciously across the face. She

  cried out and fell sideways against the tree. Her hair caught on the rough

  stub of a branch as she started to slide down against the trunk. Crae grabbed

  one of her arms and yanked her up. Her caught hair strained her head backwards

  as he lifted. And suddenly her smooth sun-tinted throat fitted Crae's two

  spasmed hands. For an eternity his thumbs felt the sick pounding of her pulse.

  Then a tear slid slowly down from one closed eye, trickling towards her ear.

  Crae snatched his hand away before the tear could touch it. Ellena slid to

  her knees, leaving a dark strand of hair on the bark of the tree. She got

  slowly to her feet. She turned without a word or look and went into the tent.

  Crae slumped down on the log, his hands limp between his knees, his head

  hanging. He lifted his hands and looked at them incredulously, then he flung

  them from him wildly, turned and shoved his face hard up against the rough

  tree trunk.

  "Oh, God!" he thought wildly. "I must be going crazy! I never hit her

  before. I never tried to—" He beat his doubled fists against the tree until

  the knuckles crimsoned, then he crouched again above his all-enveloping misery

  until the sharp smell of burning food penetrated his daze. He walked blindly

  over to the camp stove and yanked the smoking skillet off. He turned off the

  fire and dumped the curled charred fish into the garbage can and dropped the

  skillet on the ground.

  He stood uncertain, noticing for the first time the scattered sprinkling of

  rain patterning the top of the split-log table near the stove. He started

  automatically for the car to roll the windows up.

  And then he saw Ellena standing just outside the tent Afraid to move or

  speak, he stood watching her. She came slowly over to him. In the half-dusk he

  could see the red imprint of his hand across her cheek. She looked up at him

  with empty, drained eyes.

  "We will go home tomorrow." Her voice was expressionless and almost steady.

  "I'm leaving as soon as we get there."

  "Ellena, don't!" Crae's voice shook with pleading and despair.

  Ellena's mouth quivered and tears overflowed. She dropped her sodden,

  crumpled Kleenex and took a fresh one from her shirt pocket. She carefully

  wiped her eyes.

  "'It's better to snuff a candle . . .'" Her voice choked off and Crae felt

  his heart contract. They had read the book together and picked out their

  favorite quote and now she was using it to—

  Crae held out his hands, "Please, Ellena, I promise—"

  "Promise!" Her eyes blazed so violently that Crae stumbled back a step.

  "You've been trying to mend this sick thing between us with promises for too

  long!" Her voice was taut with anger. "Neither you nor I believe your promises

  any more. There's not one valid reason why I should try to keep our marriage

  going by myself. You don't believe in it any more. You don't believe in me any

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  more—if you ever did. You don't even believe in yourself! Nothing will work if

  you don't believe—" Her voice wavered and broke. She mopped her eyes carefully

  again and her voice was measured and cold as she said, "Well leave for home

  tomorrow—and God have mercy on us both."

  She turned away blindly, burying her face in her two hands and stumbled

  into the tent.

  Crae sat down slowly on the log beside his muddy shoes. He picked up one

  and fumbled for the cleaning rag. He huddled over himself, feeling as though

  life were draining from his arms and legs, leaving them limp.

  "It's all finished," he thought hopelessly. "It's finished and I'm finished

  and this whole crazy damn life is finished. I've done everything I know.

  Nothing on this earth can ever make it right between us again."

  You don't believe, you don't believe. And then a wheezy old voice whistled

  in his ear. Nothing works, less'n you believe it. Crae straightened up,

  following the faint thread of voice. Happen some day you'll want to go

  fishing— you won't forget.

  "It's crazy and screwy and a lot of hogwash," thought Crae. "Things like

  that can't possibly exist."

  You don't believe. Nothing works, lessen— A strange compound feeling of

  hope and wonder began to well up in Crae. "Maybe, maybe," he thought

  breathlessly. Then— "It will work. It's got to work!"

  Eagerly intent, he went back over the incident at the store. All he could

  remember at first was the rocking chair and the thick discolored lips of the

  old man, then a rhythm began in his mind, curling to a rhyme word at the end

  of each line. He heard the raspy old voice again—

  Happen some day you'll want to go fishing, you won't forget. And the lines

  slowly took form.

  "Make your line from her linen fair.

  Take your hook from
her silken hair.

  A broken heart must be your share

  For the Grunder."

  "Why that's impossible on the face of it," thought Crae with a pang of

  despair. "The broken heart I've got—but the rest? Hook from her hair?" Hair?

  Hairpin—bobby pin. He fumbled in his shirt pocket. Where were they? Yesterday,

  upcreek when Ellena decided to put her hair in pigtails because the wind was

  so strong, she had given him the pins she took out. He held the slender piece

  of metal in his hand for a moment then straightened it carefully between his

  fingers. He slowly bent one end of it up in an approximation of a hook. He

  stared at it ruefully. What a fragile thing to hang hope on.

  Now for a line—her linen fair. Linen? Ellena brought nothing linen to camp

  with her. He fumbled with the makeshift hook, peering intently into the dusk,

  tossing the line of verse back and forth in his mind. Linen's not just cloth.

  Linen can be clothes. Body linen. He lifted the shoe rag. An old slip—ripped.

  In a sudden frenzy of haste, he ripped the white cloth into inch wide

  strips and knotted them together, carefully rolling the knobby, ravelly

  results into a ball. The material was so old and thin that one strip parted as

  he tested a knot and he had to tie it again. When the last strip was knotted,

  he struggled to fasten his improvised hook onto it. Finally, bending another

  hook at the opposite end, sticking it through the material, splitting the end,

  he knotted it as securely as he could. He peered at the results and laughed

  bitterly at the precarious makeshift. "But it'll work," he told himself

  fiercely. "It'll work. I'll catch that damn Grunder and get rid once and for

  all of whatever it is that's eating me!"

  And for bait? Take the tears that fall from her eyes …

  Crae searched the ground under the tree beside him. There it was, the

  sodden, grayed blob of Kleenex Ellena had dropped. He picked it up gingerly

  and felt it tatter, tear-soaked and rain-soaked, in his fingers. Remembering

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  her tears, his hand closed convulsively over the soaked tissue. When he loosedhis fingers from it, he could see their impress in the pulp, almost as he hadseen his hand print on her cheek. He baited the hook and nearly laughed againas he struggled to keep the wad of paper in place. Closing one hand tightlyabout the hook, the other around the ball of cotton, he went to the tent door.For a long, rain-emphasized moment he listened. There was no sound frominside, so with only his heart saying it, he shaped, "I love you," with hismouth and turned away, upstream.