by Serra, D. A.
Hank trades a sympathetic shrug with Jimmy and for the first time, all kidding aside, Hank realizes this is stupid. Look at her, crumbled up, sick, miserable. Shit, what was he thinking?
“How much farther?” he asks the captain.
“Almost there.”
He yells over the motor, “Honey, we’re almost there.”
Alison doesn’t move, or respond, but she thinks, somewhat prophetically - just shoot me now.
A few minutes later, the captain’s gloved hand turns the tiller and angles the boat toward shore. He spies the small dock up ahead, and the raucous waves now pummel the side of the boat as he powers toward it. Alison looks up and sees beyond the dock a woodsy wall of green; woods so dense the ground never feels the sun’s warm palm; a world that never completely dries out, damp and lush with birch, cedar, pines and wild orchids. The captain gestures to Hank to leap out. Hank bolts up and jumps off the boat and onto the shaky floating pier. He almost loses his balance as he lands one-footed, but manages to hang on. He knows that Jimmy is watching him with a son’s eyes and Hank is excited to parade his colors. The captain tosses him the dock line. Hank snatches the rope out of the air with one hand. He is energized, something here connects him to other men in older times, men who worked the land, men who fished for their meals, men who provided in the most fundamental way for the lives of their families, and he feels the history like remembering something he never knew. He pulls the rope toward the dock cleat. He knows today’s men have lost something being tied electronically to their lives, instead of through their bodies. How would he survive if confronted by the Earth’s untamed elements? How would he light a fire in this dampness, or trap an animal for food. If he could trap an animal, how would he kill it? He’s never killed anything larger than a spider. He has no clue which plants are edible or which are poisonous. He could never make a piece of clothing from an animal skin, and has little hope of constructing a viable shelter from twigs and leaves. Hell, now that he is being honest with himself, he doesn’t even really know how electricity works - only that when he flips the switch - it does. If there were nuclear war, or a planetary disaster, he would be less useful than Stone Age man. His survival is built upon a foundation of knowledge that is so far removed from his life that it is inaccessible, even to his imagination. In this moment, on this rickety dock, he faces the fact that he is a completely dependent individual. He has no practical skills, and no idea how to survive. The sudden acknowledgment of his dependency makes him wonder if maybe he has lost a bit of what it means to be a man. He feels the fresh cold air fill in his lungs and he likes it. He feels bigger and taller standing on this dock with the bitter wind and the spitting lake. He likes the power in his hands, pulling the boat in by the rope, with its tough spine and coarse bristles slicing across his palm. He hadn’t realized he was missing this connection. Civilized living with its take-out food and glossy magazine lifestyle precludes the opportunity to be a man in this fundamental way. Perhaps every man needs to go fishing in the wild with his son now and then. He is going to make the most of this. He gives Jimmy a thumbs up.
Jimmy smiles back at him. Hank knots the rope to the cleat on the dock. He looks up triumphantly to Alison…and…oh, her head is back between her legs. Damn. He will get her inside in front of the warm fire, pour her a glass of wine, and settle her down with her book. She’ll be relaxed then. It’ll be fine. He will make it fine.
“Okay, everybody out” the captain says. Hank steps down into the speedboat, takes Alison’s hand, and helps her up onto the moving dock. Jimmy darts off agilely.
“Just follow that trail about fifty yards up to the lodge.” The captain throws off their suitcases, reaches out, unties the knot, and starts to back the boat away.
“Wait!” Alison asks, “You’re leaving?”
“Yeah. Need to beat the storm. Easy, just up the path. Follow the sign.” And he rooster tails back onto the lake.
Alison turns to face the wall of woods in front of her and is relieved to see that the sign and path are clear. She walks quickly toward solid ground. “I need to be on something not moving.” She steps off the dock and plants both feet onto the ground. She takes a long deep breath. She bends over with her hand on her thighs and breathes deeply. Beneath her feet, the ground crawls with beetles, rolly pollies, spiders, mites, and the air is thick with mosquitoes so warlike they bite her through the denim of her jeans. Hank and Jimmy grab the suitcases and join her.
“Honey,” Hank begins, “let’s get where you can sit down and relax.” He takes her hand and they start up the path. It is such a good feeling to have his fingers intertwine with hers. They wrap strongly around her skin-to-skin, such a simple act with tendrils directly into her heart. Already she feels better. The dirt path is poorly maintained with large rocks and arthritic looking tree limbs splayed across it.
“Gives new meaning to the road less traveled by,” she says. Hank looks over and grins as she continues. “Hopefully it isn’t miles to go before I sleep.”
“Dad, Mom’s doin’ poetry again, make her stop.”
“Why would I do that?”
Exasperated he responds, “Because I’m on vacation.”
“Oh.”
“Okay, I get it.” She answers Jimmy, “We’re entering a poetry free zone. Although I’m pretty happy you even recognized it’s poetry. Do you know who it is?”
“Stop!”
She giggles. Hank squeezes her hand affectionately. After a few steps, the forest closes in all around them like a giant green fist. This is where green is born, she thinks. Here in this forest everything is soaked in lime and jade and covered with a thick verdant moss that climbs up and over every rock and every log. It is so vivid she can taste it on her tongue when she talks. She feels the green on her cheeks and on her eyelids.
As they walk up the trail toward the lodge the rain begins, a few drops at first, and then in earnest. The canopy formed by the trees serves as a living umbrella. When they become too sodden, they dump a bucket’s worth on the path. Although it isn’t far from the dock, up the path to the lodge, the distance she has traveled from her comfort zone feels infinite. Alison peers off to her left. She notices that even in the middle of the day, the darkness is edging in from the deep, and the woods appear foreboding.
* * *
Chapter Nine
Mr. Hobbs meets them out on the porch to the main lodge. The lodge has a wrap-around plank porch that sits up two feet off the ground like the lodge itself. It allows for flood flow underneath. Stilts buried deep into the bedrock make the lodge sturdy and mostly level.
“The Krafts?”
“Yes, hello. I’m Hank. This is my wife Alison, and our son Jimmy.”
“Hi,” Alison is a little breathless but not from the exercise, she doesn’t really know why, although it might be because she still feels nauseous.
“Hobbs. Follow me. Cabins are named. You’re Cabin Four.” Hobbs is a master of the short declarative sentence. Communication annoys him.
Hobbs waddles off ahead of them. Alison smiles to herself from the juxtaposition of this man and her expectations of him. This is not the mountain man type she had envisioned. He is crotchety, with a sour face, and flaps of sagging skin that nearly cover his deep-set raisin eyes. He doesn’t look healthy, not like a man breathing clean air and living the proverbial outdoor life. He looks beaten up by wind, by rain, by cold, and by intentional neglect. She knows he can’t be over sixty, but he looks a hundred and ten. She is feeling better about herself. If Hobbs is a model of the rugged natural life then her life is clearly healthier.
Hobbs smacks open the door to Cabin Four with his shoulder and they step in. It is an ascetic sight, three cots, a wooden dresser, and a naked bulb hanging from the ceiling. The walls are not finished, so the studs are visible, and it is devoid of insulation.
“Our best.” Hobbs says proudly.
“It’s great!” Jimmy beams.
“It’s not finished.” Alison can’t h
elp herself. She couldn’t have imagined something this primitive. Surely, drywall and paint are not luxuries.
“Outhouse in back. Dinner at six p.m. Breakfast at six a.m. Easy to remember.”
Hank steals a glance at Alison and whispers. “No reason why you can’t sleep late.”
“And really why would I ever want to leave here?” She eyes him.
“I use the P.A. loudspeaker to wake folks. Boat leaves by six-forty-five.”
“Cool.” Jimmy nods at his dad.
Hank says, “Took us longer to get here than we expected.”
“Not near nothing.”
“Yeah, felt far,” Hank agreed.
“Getting’ here’s half the charm.”
“Where’s the other half?” she asks herself quietly. She smacks the mosquito biting her through her sweatshirt. She begins to scratch. Hobbs shuts the door. Alison looks at her two boys.
“Okay!” Hank starts with comically false cheer, “So, let’s unpack then. I’m sure the main lodge is great.” Alison stands motionless. Hank nods to Jimmy, “C’mon, buddy, let’s move these cots together so we can sleep closer, I think we’ll need the warmth.”
Alison does not want to be the person this adventure is making her. She doesn’t want to be the complaining wussy woman. It is simply a role she decides she will not play. She has always been flexible, sort of. If this is it, then she will pull it together and surprise them all. She rolls the suitcase over to the chest of drawers and begins to unpack their clothing along with her new attitude.
She says, “And I saw smoke, so there is probably a great fire going in there, too. It’ll be nice. I’m sure.”
An hour later, when the storm starts for real, it screams like the Greek Furies. Hysterical winds whip through the trees and torrential downpours pummel the fishing camp. Inside the main lodge, there are no happy campers.
The lodge is one large wood-paneled room, a door on the left leads to a small kitchen. Covering the floor are a number of Chippewa rugs, geometric in design, with once bright colors now badly faded. A titanic fire rages in the brick fireplace warming the room. Two stuffed sofas and eight armchairs, comfortable from age, surround the hearth. Along the far wall is a bookcase jammed with old fishing magazines, and in front of that, is a circular game table with a half-finished puzzle on top. Over by the kitchen-side of the room is one long rectangular dining table where the meals are served family style.
Tonight ten people sit around the table. Bella Connors is the only one who has opted out of the evening meal. A thirty-year-old writer for Outback Magazine, she came prepared, and she had some granola in her cabin before venturing out toward the main lodge. Experience has taught her caution. She has done too much wilderness traveling not to be wary of unknown food sources. If everyone stays healthy, she’ll eat tomorrow. Presently, she leans against the stone hearth, looking over into the warming fire, with a cup of hot coffee.
Around the dinner table are the Krafts, Hobbs, two college boys named Grant and Bruce, the Hutchinsons, a young married couple, and two hard-core redneck fifty-year-old fisherman named Dan and Mike. On the table is a bowl of hearty looking beef stew and a loaf of brown bread. Alison does not eat meat, but would never admit it with this crowd. She notices there is no green anything, no salad, no string beans, no asparagus…nothing. Ironically, she thinks, all of the green is outside. The bread looks okay and she could eat that if she could eat - which she can’t.
Grant continues, “Hey, look, we’re all disappointed, but only a moron would go out in a boat in this kind of storm.”
“Are you calling me a moron, college boy?” Dan riles easily.
“It’s a general comment. Not specific to anyone here,” he answers coolly.
Mike talks to Dan, “Calm down. The kid didn’t mean anything by it.”
Bruce joins in, “Maybe it’ll blow through by morning.”
Dan looks to Hobbs for input, “Will it?”
“Dunno.”
“Yeah,” Dan looks dejected, “I sure as hell didn’t come all this way to play Parcheesi.”
Jimmy says delighted, “You have Parcheesi?” Hank laughs and Jimmy looks at him confused.
Julie Hutchinson says, “Have you ever been fishing, Jimmy?”
“No, but so far, this is the coolest vacation we’ve ever had.” Hank and Alison exchange smiles. “Last year we went to this boring hotel in France.”
Julie holds her grin, “Yeah, sounds awful.”
“Nothing to do there. Mom liked it ‘cause at the beach she got to take her top off.”
“Jimmy, I did not.” The group looks at Alison who reddens.
“Okay you didn’t but other girls did. It was gross. They were all old.”
“Clearly the wrong child to take to Nice.” She looks back at her plate with the one chunk of bread on it. Her stomach lurches again. “How can I still be seasick? I’m on the ground.”
“Sometimes it takes a couple of hours to feel normal again,” Bella says kindly. It only took Bella seconds to recognize this is not Alison Kraft’s idea of a vacation. She is so obviously the gentle bookworm type. Bella doesn’t usually run into women like this when she travels. They are usually more like Julie Hutchinson: Patagonia jacket, hiking boots, scrubbed face, no nail polish. Yes, there is most definitely a type of woman for this kind of travel. Maybe that should be the angle for her story, she thinks.
* * *
Chapter Ten
Out on Lake Superior the defining edge between air and water has become indistinguishable. The lake is apoplectic: spastic water reaches up white-armed toward the sky as saturated charcoal clouds spit back. The storm batters the speedboat carrying the Burne boys. Gravel, Theo, and Kent sit stoically and completely relaxed. The crushing natural display bores them. They are accustomed to sharper stimulation. Ben is calm at the controls. He revels in the icy slap of the elements on his bare cheeks and forehead. He smiles. His biggest complaint about prison is that it was dull. Now, he is moving again and he likes moving. Who was it who wrote, “How dull it is to pause?” Something someone read to him on the inside, probably that annoying librarian who spent more time fucking inmates than lending books. He remembers that poem though because he had liked something about it; it stayed with him. He’s proud of his memory: exacting and steely. He remembers things in distinct detail. He remembers plenty of storms exactly like this one when they were growing up. His mom used to make them stand outside and yell at the lightning. Four little boys, out in the pouring rain, screaming at the sky. It was empowering. She prepared them so well for life. He is so grateful to have been home-schooled, and not contaminated, or brainwashed, by the fairy tales they stuff down the throats of little kids. Mother taught them the truth: beyond each other, there is no one and no thing of value. “Civilization is a pretty dress on a snake,” Mom used to say. “There’s no right or wrong, just winners and losers, and the winners get to write the books to make ‘emselves look good, but the bare-assed truth is any human starving in a snow bank will eat his neighbor. They don’t tell you that in school.” Ben thinks fondly back on his mom. She would say, “There are groups a folks with different ideas ‘bout what is good, and what is evil, and if that’s not proof enough that it’s all a crock of bullshit I don’t know what is.” She was so practical and real. “Worry only about each other, take whatever you can, and don’t be a fool.”
The only interference the Burne boys had growing up was when the school would send a spy to check on them. Ben grins recalling how they would laugh after each visit. The spy, invariably a woman social worker, would stop by and say, “You know, Mrs. Burne, those boys need to play with other kids, be socialized, learn camaraderie and compromise.” Ben remembers how Mom would listen with that I’m-so-interested-in-what-you’re-saying expression on her face, like she was getting superior advice, and after a thoughtful pause, she would talk about music lessons they never really took, and athletic teams they didn’t actually join. And then she’d drop the big bomb; it was
religion after all that didn’t allow public schooling. She would invoke Jesus Christ and the social worker would shift her little ass around in the seat and look like someone shoved a gag in her mouth, which of course, was exactly it. Mom had raised all four of them to be God loving. She followed the Bible, as she used to say, religiously. She taught them that they were made in God’s image and so were meant to be all-powerful. She explained how Jesus would forgive them anything as long as they said sorry after because this was what he said over and over in the Bible - the forgiveness thing is your free ride. She did prefer the Old Testament’s clarity, although Revelations was awesome with all those infants damned (because really how could one enjoy heaven with a bunch of screaming babies) and that everlasting torture stuff, now, that was a good read. How could you not respect a God who came up with ever…lasting…torture? Still, she did explain to them the Jesus forgiving element was goddamn useful. She showed them in the actual Bible verses for the justification for everything: rape, infanticide, slavery. “Just learn your Act of Contrition,” she would say. And they would recite it every night. Kent is the most religious of the brothers because he always liked the idea of saints and spirits, ghosts and witches.
Mother Burne kept her four boys close so she could teach them what they really needed to know. With her gone now, Ben knows that his brothers are truly his wards. Theo is easy. He’s always been more of a pet. When Ben was nine years old and he wanted a dog, his mom gave him Theo. It was a perfect compromise. No one really knows how much is going on inside Theo’s head, but to Ben he really is better than a dog because he’s like a dog with hands. There are times when he does think Theo’s his favorite. Kent is okay, although he’s not too smart, and Gravel has a lot of issues, but the best head of hair. They are brothers. They are blood.
A sputter. A cough from the boat’s engine. Ben looks down at it. “Shit.” He looks out to assess the shoreline and possible landing spots.
