Mink River: A Novel

by Doyle, Brian

  Maybe someday.

  Maybe soon.

  Maybe.

  We’ll figure out the money, Dad.

  Yeh.

  Really.

  Sure we will, son.

  Tus maith, leath na hoibre, says Daniel, and Owen’s mouth falls open just like in the movies or in the cartoons, it opens like the hinges to his jaw suddenly surrendered, he is open-mouthed and gaping, and then grinning in the broad morning light.

  And what does that mean, o young scholar of Gaelic?

  A good start is half the work.

  That’s well said, son.

  Yeh.

  All right, then.

  All right.

  16.

  At noon Cedar and Worried Man are drinking beer and eating salmonberries. Between them is one empty beer bottle.

  It has had many names, says Worried Man. Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark called it Falls Mountain and Timm Mountain, timm being a word of the local people meaning the falls in the river nearby. The French voyageurs who may have climbed it in their pursuit of furs called it Montagne de Neige, the mountain of snow. Some say it was called Waucoma, also the name of the little river flowing north from it to Nchiawana, the grandfather of rivers. Captain John Fremont, the Pathfinder, who was a dog and a coward, saw it “glowing in the sunlight,” as he wrote, from his camp in the Blue Mountains, hundreds of miles away. The Scottish botanist David Douglas may have climbed it in the summer of 1826, after he lost all his papers and tools and seeds in the Fraser River that spring. He was a fine and good man and my greatgrandfather walked with him and told stories of him. A very gentle man, said my grandfather, the sort of man who sat down so as not to be taller than the child telling him the story. Remind me to tell you a story about my greatgrandfather and David Douglas.

  You were telling me about the mountain, says Cedar patiently.

  I walked to it once when I was young, says Worried Man. That was one long walk! I walked as far as I could go, past all the trees, past juniper and ravens, into the dust and snow, where all things are silent, even asayahal, the south wind, and there I found my colors, blue and white, and my work, which is seeing clearly, and my spirit, which is the heron. And now I have to go back. We have to go back. That’s where the time is, Cedar. I know it. I am absolutely sure.

  Did you talk to May about this trip?

  Not quite yet. Tonight.

  At dinner?

  Yes.

  What’s for dinner?

  You know, my friend, I think I will eat with May alone tonight. This is a talk we must have heart to heart, eye to eye, wife to husband, lover to lover.

  Sensible.

  Don’t be hurt.

  I’m not hurt.

  You’re hurt.

  I’ll miss May too, you know.

  I know.

  I love her very much.

  I know.

  She’s an extraordinary creature.

  I know.

  She’s my closest friend.

  Now I’m hurt.

  They grin and stand up simultaneously to get back to work.

  The holy mountain Wyeast, says Worried Man, staring.

  The icy mountain Hood, says Cedar, staring.

  It will save us all, says Worried Man, his eyes closed.

  It will try to kill us, says Cedar grimly, his eyes open.

  Wyeast was a great chief, says Worried Man, opening his eyes, and he was in love with Loowit, the most beautiful woman in the West. So the mountain named for Wyeast is powerful for love. I hold onto that. Names matter, you know.

  If names matter then I worry, says Cedar, for Hood is what people call it now, and the name is an inappropriate accident. A young British Navy lieutenant wanders by one day and names the mountain for a famous man of his place and time, Alexander Hood, and because the young guy, William Broughton, makes a map, the name sticks, but it’s the wrong name, it doesn’t matter here, it’s an accident of history, it’s awkward, it’s ungainly, it’s wrong. So I worry about accidents.

  Then I’ll call you Worried Man.

  I’m serious.

  Cedar. All will be well.

  17.

  When dawn comes Owen reaches for No Horses but she’s not there. Uncommon but not unusual. He figures she’s at the doctor’s with Daniel. He showers and shaves and makes coffee. He ambles down their front path to the mailbox to get the paper and on his way back detours past the back garden to see if the beans are up yet and he finds his wife sitting crosslegged in the wet soil. Robins are whinnying and crows barking.

  Nora?

  She stares at him silently.

  Nora, he says, squatting down to look her in the eye.

  I can’t get out, Owen, she says.

  Out of the garden?

  The room. The black room.

  Owen’s heart goes cold.

  I’m really afraid, Owen.

  Lean on me, Nora. Here now. Take my arm.

  I haven’t told you. I haven’t told anyone. I’ve been crying all the time. I can’t stop crying. I can’t sleep anymore either. I’m really afraid.

  He drops the newspaper on the tiny eager bean curls and hoists her up out of the moist garden. All her lithe lift and verve is gone, she weighs a thousand pounds, his heart quails.

  I’m so tired, Owen, she says.

  Nora, how long have you been out here?

  I couldn’t sleep. I woke up at three o’clock. I wake up every night now. I lie there praying. I think about everything. I can’t get out from under this anymore. I’m so afraid. I can’t command my mind. I can’t command my body. I try to walk and I can hardly move. I try to sing and I can hardly speak. I feel so heavy, Owen. I’m so tired. What am I going to do? I don’t feel like myself. I feel trapped and useless. What am I going to do?

  He walks her into the house and sits her at the kitchen table but her eyes are so hollow and her face so gaunt and pale and her unshakable sense of herself so shaken that he doesn’t ask her if she wants a cup of coffee, he doesn’t tease and josh her, he doesn’t ask questions on other matters to lure her out of her thicket, but he picks her up in his arms and carries her down the hallway and takes her clothes off gently and curls her into bed and all the time that he is taking her wet muddy clothes off she sobs quietly and it is ten minutes later or maybe twenty or thirty until her shoulders stop shaking and she falls asleep and he sits by the side of the bed terrified.

  18.

  Nora was the fastest girl in Neawanaka at age ten, the fastest girl or boy in Neawanaka by age twelve, the fastest girl in the county by age fourteen, the fastest girl or boy in the county by age sixteen, and the fastest girl in the state of Oregon by age seventeen. That year, as a junior in high school, she won state titles in all three sprint events. The next year, when she was eighteen, she won state titles in all three sprint events, and the half-mile, and the mile. There was a lot of talk about her future in track, college scholarships, Olympic teams, national titles, meets in Berlin and Oslo. Reporters from all sorts of newspapers and magazines came to the Department of Public Works to interview her colorful father, who said that his daughter had inherited her natural speed from her mother, who was so fast she could catch birds on the wing. Maple Head, smiling, refused all requests for interviews and Nora never had much to say. I like to run fast, she would say. I just run. I just run and other people measure how fast I run. I just run. She was a striking sight at age eighteen, her long hair flowing out behind her as she flew through the shouts and cheers of the crowd, her legs long and lean as a deer, and photographers jostled for position at the side of the track when she ran. Sometimes, when she ran in city meets or ran against local favorites, there would be jeers from the crowd, but she said she never heard anything or saw anything, not even the other runners. I just run, she would say. One magazine published a story about the mysticism of her running, and another collected all the quotes attributed to her by reporters and rearranged them into a sort of zen poem that was widely reprinted in running magaz
ines. Her choice of a college was briefly a heated matter in sports sections but then she chose a small art college on the coast and after several columnists opined that such a bizarre decision was only to be expected in today’s mangled and twisted moral environment the attention died away. She kept running. The art college had no sports teams but she kept running. She ran on the beach at low tide. She ran faster and faster but no one timed her anymore. After a while people all over that little town where the college was marked their tide charts for low tide and made a place in their day to go to the beach and watch her run. People of all ages would do this. She would start at one end of the beach and run lightly up and back the strand to get loose and then she would start flying. On the days when she had the wind behind her you never saw anyone run so fast in your life. One time an old man who used to be a track coach brought a stopwatch to the beach and timed her and did some calculations and then threw his stopwatch into the sea. That really happened.

  19.

  Rachel is also up at dawn and she dresses for work at the shingle factory but skips breakfast altogether and slips out of the house an hour earlier than usual and walks to the doctor’s and taps gently at his window. He is up and dressed and sipping coffee and he opens the door so quickly that she is startled and wonders if he was waiting for her.

  But that’s not possible, she thinks. He didn’t know I was coming. He doesn’t even know me. Does he?

  May I help you? says the doctor.

  I think I’m pregnant, says Rachel.

  Well, says the doctor. Let’s see about that.

  In his office he asks her name and address but she politely declines to identify herself and they look at each other.

  It would be best if you were honest with me, he says. I will keep all information confidential if you can assure me you are eighteen years old or older. Also a formal record of your visit protects both you and me against possible malpractice.

  I am twenty years old and I would rather not share personal information right now, she says politely. I hope you’ll understand. Also I would like to trust you.

  They look at each other again for a moment and then the doctor says okay.

  He examines her carefully and conducts tests and after she is dressed again he comes back into the room and sits down and looks her in the eye and says, yes, you are pregnant.

  I am, says Rachel.

  You are.

  I thought I was.

  Is this good news?

  No.

  They sit quietly for a minute, looking at each other.

  Thank you, says Rachel.

  Will you be carrying this child to term? asks the doctor gently.

  I don’t know.

  Will you tell your … partner?

  I don’t know.

  You may notice an increase in breast size during the next few weeks, says the doctor, taking refuge in information. Your breasts will also probably become very sensitive and tender. And you may feel nauseous a good deal of time.

  Rachel stares.

  People call it morning sickness but really it can come at any time. That’s why it’s very important to eat well in these weeks. For yourself and your son or daughter.

  My son or daughter.

  Chances are the child will be male or female.

  Thank you. I’d better go. What do I owe you?

  You can pay me later if you’d like me to be your attending physician.

  I’d rather pay now. Thank you.

  Do you have insurance through an employer?

  Yes.

  Then I can bill the insurance company.

  Through my employer?

  Yes.

  Then my company will know I’ve been here.

  Yes.

  No. I’ll pay myself. What do I owe?

  Tell you what, says the doctor. Why don’t you come back in two weeks for a check-up, and we can square away the bill at that time. By then your child will be developing his or her major organs. That’s a critical time.

  No, thank you, says Rachel politely. Do I owe you fifty dollars? A hundred?

  Thirty dollars is the fee for a standard examination, says the doctor, looking at her closely.

  Rachel takes three ten-dollar bills from her purse and puts them on the table between them and stands to go.

  If I can be of any assistance at all … says the doctor.

  Thank you.

  Remember to eat well, says the doctor.

  Thank you.

  Please be careful.

  Thank you.

  He holds the door open for her and watches her walk away and notices that when she turns the corner she breaks into a run.

  20.

  When school ends at three o’clock Maple Head’s students file out of her classroom politely but as soon as they are loose in the sunshine they sprint and sprawl and fling bags and shuck jackets and huddle laughing and drift home in gaggles and flocks and knots and trios and pairs. Four walk alone shuffling home in the four holy directions. Moses drifts over the school dreamily surfing the intricate afternoon winds from the ocean. A hawk floats overhead like a burnished russet tent and Moses dogs it on principle but his heart isn’t in it, the afternoon is too crisp and lovely and bracing for war, and he wheels back over the school, watching the groups of children below disperse and dissolve, some on bicycles, which reminds him of Daniel, which sends him to the doctor’s house, where he lands plop on the porch railing, startling the man with ten days to live but delighting Daniel, who cradles the big bird in his lap like a glossy croaking child.

  Maple Head stacks mathematics papers to the left of her desk and literary essays to the right, glances at her lesson plans for tomorrow (morning theme: statistics and demographics; afternoon theme, theater and debate) and stands to go but finds herself looking into the grinning eyes of her husband.

  May I walk you home, young lady?

  If you carry my book bag.

  It’s an honor.

  Let’s walk along the beach, says Worried Man. Such a clear day.

  Low tide, the tidal flat gleaming and threaded with rivulets and ripples. Here and there a crab shell flipped and emptied in minutes by the merciless gulls. Along the high tide line a wavering green path of kelp fronds, sea-lettuce leaves, tiny crab legs, mole crab shells, sand hoppers, gull feathers, net floats, driftwood, fish bones, occasionally a shoe, occasionally a beam of a boat, occasionally an entire dead creature: murre, cormorant, infant seal.

  Maple Head kneels by the seal pup and examines it closely.

  Such an intricate miracle, she says.

  Such a brief one, says her husband.

  They walk on silently arm in arm.

  May, there’s something I’d like to talk about. I was going to save it for dinner but this is a good time. As good as any.

  What is it?

  I am planning a trip.

  Mm?

  With Cedar.

  You and me and Cedar?

  Just Cedar and me.

  Where are you going?

  To the holy mountain.

  Wyeast?

  Wyeast.

  Why?

  I think time is there. I think it’s stored there. On the north side.

  So you and Cedar are going to find it?

  That’s the idea.

  Just you two?

  Yes.

  How?

  Well, our plan is to climb the mountain carefully, and explore. If my calculations are correct, the north-northeast side of the mountain, where caves have occasionally been reported when the ice is in retreat, is a serious possibility for …

  You are going to climb the mountain.

  Yes.

  You just had a serious heart attack. So serious you told me you thought it was the end. So serious you couldn’t breathe.

  Well.

  Now you’re going to climb a mountain eleven thousand feet high. At your age. With your heart.

  We won’t be going all the way to the summit. There’s no need for that.
r />   She withdraws her arm from his arm and stops walking and turns to look him in the eye.

  Are you asking me or telling me about this trip? she says.

  I’m … asking for your blessing, I suppose, he says.

  No.

  No?

  No. Why are you doing this? You are in no condition to do this. It’s dangerous. It would be dangerous for anyone at any time but for you now it’s deliberate danger and I don’t understand it. I don’t see any reason for this. You could send someone else.

  May …

  I know what you are after and I understand it and I have always thought it creative and quite possible and possibly world shaking but this—this is crazy, Billy. Crazy. And you know it. This is self destructive.

  May, it’s something I have to do. You know that. There are just things you have to do. Things for yourself. Things to be yourself. Believe me I have thought it over. Believe me I know how I am not the best candidate for such a trip. But I feel that I have to do it. I feel that all my work is pointless unless I prove it to be true. And I know in my bones it’s true. I am convinced. Dead sure.

  What if something happens?

  Cedar will be there.

  You’re risking all the people you love. You’re risking losing Nora and Daniel and Owen and Cedar and me. And your work. And all the people you might save with that nose of yours. Your talent. All the people who love you.

  May …

  She spins on her heel and walks off down the beach again and he hurries to catch up to her.

  May, please.

  She takes her book bag from him.

  Do whatever you want, she says.

  May, please.

  I love you, Billy. I love you dearly. But I don’t love this. This is wrong. This is wrong. This is putting yourself in danger deliberately. This is selfish. That’s why I am upset. You’re never selfish. But this is selfish. Do whatever you want. But don’t ask me to like it. Don’t ask me to smile and say it’s fine. It isn’t fine. Go ahead and go. It’s your decision. It’s your life. Do whatever you want.

  21.

  Worried Man tucks Daniel into his bed at the doctor’s house and sits on the edge and cups the boy’s face in his enormous hands.

  Tell me a story of the old days, Gramp.

  Ah, I am filling your head with stories, boy.

  I like to hear them. I feel lucky when you tell me stories that no one knows anymore.