Mink River: A Novel

by Doyle, Brian

  You think so?

  I do, sweetheart. I do.

  33.

  Today was packing day at the shingle factory and Rachel has glue in her hair, splinters in both hands, sawdust in her eyes, and the smell of cedar in and on and through her from tip to toe. Generally she loves the smell of cedar, such a sharp friendly smell, but on packing day at the factory she hates the smell of cedar and she wants it off her, and it’s such a crisp warm day, and the river looks so clean and inviting that she walks briskly up past the school to where a bend in the river makes the Cool Pool, a haven in the dog days of summer, and there she shucks her clothes in about an eighth of a second and slips in easily, she loves water and the river and swimming, the feeling of moving water against her skin. The water is a lot colder than she expected, but rivetingly clear, and she lazes and luxuriates and ruminates and meditates, her whole body submerged except for her nose and eyes. A thrush pipes.

  A baby, she thinks.

  A robin whinnies.

  Timmy’s baby.

  The salmonberry bushes ringing the pool quiver in the nervous breeze.

  My. Son.

  In the distance log trucks shiver the highway.

  My. Daughter.

  She dives to the bottom of the pool.

  Our son or daughter.

  She holds on to the patient rocks at the bottom of the pool and faces upstream into the current.

  My poor mama.

  She surges up to the surface for air.

  But I don’t have to have the baby.

  She dives down to the bottom again.

  I could make an appointment somewhere.

  A trout whirls past her face.

  I wouldn’t have to tell mama.

  A crawdad pokes his head out from under the rock she’s holding.

  Poor mama.

  She drifts up to the surface again for air.

  So quiet down there.

  Sinks back down to the bottom and closes her eyes and for a long minute she is completely at peace, held gently by the river, cupped by the river, saved and salved by the river, at home at peace at rest in the gentle green light, the furry rocks, the smiling pebbles, the curious crawdad, the murmuring current, the flitting trout fingerlings like tiny silver birds, and then she has a cramp so sharp and sudden that she gasps and thrashes choking to the surface and then another like a horse kicking her in the belly and then another twice as bad as the others she is doubled over her face in the water her hair trailing like kelp she stumbles to the edge of the pool and another and kneels another and something inside her twists savagely another and her salty blood pours into the river another and she sobs terrified another mama mama! another and between her legs her son the size of a finger is born into the river and he spins away end over end a tiny silver bird flying toward the sea.

  34.

  Past a blue heron who snaps at him thinking him a fish, and past Anna Christie rocking and singing with Sara also singing, and past Timmy whistling as he saunters along the river fingering the engagement ring for Rachel in his pocket, and past a merganser duck with eight ducklings soon to be seven courtesy of the female mink watching them, and past Cedar and No Horses who are sitting on Cedar’s hand-hewn salmon-watching bench on the riverbank watching the young osprey in their enormous nest in a fir snag, and past the two mule deer fawns hidden in the cattail thicket behind Trailer Town, and past the man in the big brown coat also hidden in the cattail thicket pondering his options and courses of action and snarling belly, and past Maple Head approaching the thicket her hair silver and black flowing behind her in the breeze her feet light as feathers on the path, past alders mourning into the river and cottonwoods, past salmonberry and blackberry, past Michael the cop in the parking lot behind the fish co-op thinking hard about where Kristi’s father could be hiding, past Owen taking half an hour off to cast for steelhead on general principles and on the off chance that if he catches one the look on Nora’s face at dinner will be a pleasure and a wonder absolutely, under the porch of the doctor’s house where Daniel and Kristi and the man with five days to live are laughing, past Worried Man and the doctor taking a lunchtime stroll along the riverbank, past an ouzel underwater, past trout, past a sturgeon the size of a leg near the effluent plant, under water striders, over beaver kits, under coot, over crawdads, past Grace and Declan and Nicholas patching and hammering the boat as it sprawls like an exhausted walrus on the beach where the river meets the sea, over rocks and sticks and cans and bones, past the pair of hungry sea lions at the mouth of the river waiting for salmon and steelhead, on and on he tumbles and whirls, Inch does, his heart hammering, his arms and legs milling wildly, his eyes open, his mouth open, breathing the moan and whir and rumble of the river, the hiss and roar and ripple of it, but as he nears the sea he fails, he fades, he ebbs, his span is spun, his heart slows, his brain cools, and just as he is startled by salt for the first and last time in the eleven minutes of his life he closes his eyes, puts his thumb in his mouth, and enters the ancient endless patient ocean, where all stories end, where all stories are born.

  35.

  Sometimes sadness swept over the town like a tide or a mist, fingering first one and then another until all of Neawanaka was quiet and still and chilled to the bone. At such times the library was empty and the church emptier, the strand stranded and the streets filled only with salt and wind. The pub was the last outpost of the defiant, with a handful of huddled patrons; but even Stella, not usually prone to prevailing sentiment, sat in the yellow kitchen behind the bar and stared out to sea and wondered at the wander of her life. As a girl she had hoped for only as much as anyone else: someone to love and be loved by, work that mattered, a child or three to be amazed and exhausted by, a home in the wild world where she would feel rooted and safe, warmed and webbed; but the story of her life was fits and starts, roads that led nowhere, lovers who lied, jobs taken out of desperation, insurance lapsing unawares, cars born four presidents ago. Too proud to lean on anyone, she soon trusted no one, and watched wary when man or woman tried to peer through the bars of her gates. By the time she was out of her twenties she was leery of love; by the time she was out of her thirties she was so lonely she would not mouth the word even to herself. When her mother died and she had inherited what there was of her parents’ estate she bought the pub, almost on first impulse, dreaming inchoately of communal verve and laughter, softball and bowling teams, dart contests, impromptu speeches, all you can eats, barbecues, business partners, church suppers, bus trips, surfing competitions, fiddles and guitars, hilarious wakes and solemn wedding receptions, smoking in the back and singing in the front, children and sawdust underfoot, plaques and trophies, framed photographs, decks of cards, regulars, chaos and hubbub, motley energy, a tribe of friends, an almost family; but as the years passed she increasingly found herself alone in the kitchen, staring at the bills, staring at the griddle, staring out to sea.

  36.

  Worried Man spends the afternoon in the Department of Public Works laying in supplies for climbing Wyeast. He is a cautious man, for all his exuberance, and he creates two piles, one for him and one for Cedar. First I’ll make sure each of us has everything we could possibly need and then we can pare the piles. Clothing: boots, gloves, socks, wool underwear, sweaters, hats, sunglasses. Better bring lots of socks because if he doesn’t change his socks it will be a very short journey indeed. Housing: tent, tent stakes, sleeping bags, blankets. Better bring an extra blanket we can share. Tools: ice axes, crampons, rope, more rope, carabiners, skis, ice screws, ice saw, pickets, belay loops, snowshoes, shovel, knives, iodine tablets, matches, more matches. Better bring way more matches. Walking sticks. Two are better than one; for if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow; but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, and hath not another to lift him up. Ecclesiastes. Waterproof match cases. Maps. Batteries. Compasses. Flashlights. Headlamps. First-aid kit. Wristwatches. Ham radio. Toothbrushes. Toothpaste. Because his breath in the morning smells like an old
elk. Bandannas. Because my nose runs at high elevations. That which is far off, and exceeding deep, who can find it out? I applied mine heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom, and the reason of things. Ecclesiastes. Toilet paper. Better bring a couple extra rolls of paper. Notepads. Camera. Film for camera. Dried berries. Dried elk jerky. Dried salmon sticks. Walnuts, almonds, pine nuts, peanuts. Water. Beer? No beer. Aspirin. More aspirin. We are neither of us young. Be not thou foolish: why shouldest thou die before thy time? Ecclesiastes. One whistle each in case we get lost. He perches the bright steel whistles on the apexes of the teetering piles of stuff and grins to think that they look like nipples on breasts which makes him think of Maple Head’s breasts which makes him sit down on the floor with his head in his hands and think What am I doing? What poor fool walks away from such a woman? His mind spins through a thousand moments with her: her combing her wet hair by the river, her eyes flashing green and brown and rebellious and alive, their daughter sliding out mewling and wet, their bitter arguments, their wild hot lovemaking, her helpless laughter, the smell of fresh hot bread, the avalanche of her tears, the hopeful sound of her steps on the path outside, light and quick as the eddying air. But still inside his head like a grain of salt is Wyeast, the castle of ice. Great things are done when men and mountains meet. Blake.

  37.

  Cedar walks No Horses over to the doctor’s house but the doctor is not there, and Kristi has wheeled Daniel over to the river for the afternoon, and the man with five days to live is asleep in his wheelchair on the porch, so Cedar and No Horses keep walking along the beach.

  Uncle?

  Girl of my heart.

  Do you ever … have you ever … been dark?

  O Nora, yes. Yes absolutely, as your father says.

  What did you do about it?

  Do? Well, when I was young I was always trying to find reasons for it. So I could assign blame. And there were some good reasons. There was lots to blame. I nearly drowned, and I don’t remember my childhood at all, and I was in a war when I was young. But blaming those things didn’t seem to help any.

  What did help?

  Work. Friends. Your mother and father have been an immense help to me. Also, how would I explain it … a certain ferocious attention to things.

  How do you mean?

  An intense attention, so to speak, says Cedar. It clarifies your mind. It could be anything. For me it’s nearly everything. See that black bird low in the water there? In front of the last breaker?

  Cormorant?

  Red-throated loon. Stellata, the starred one, because of the shape of the red mark on its throat. And there’s a red-necked grebe, which loves to eat newts. There’s a story in everything and the more stories I hear the less sad I am. See now, those little black ducks in the waves are scoters, which fly underwater like ouzels do in creeks. Ouzels are your spirit birds, Nora, you remember. With their extraordinary songs and relentless spirits. That’s you, Nora, extraordinary and relentless.

  I don’t feel that way, Uncle.

  You will, Nora. I am sure of it. You’ll sing. Not all birds can sing, you know. Grebes yelp, and wigeons say whew, and swans say wow, and oystercatchers yell wheee, and knots murmur want want, and dowitchers mutter tu tu tu, and auklets moo, and … what are you smiling at?

  You are the most unusual man in the world, Uncle.

  No, no, child. That would be your father. Not to mention your husband. And I have high hopes for your son as the eventual world champion most unusual man in the world. He’s got the hair for it, too.

  Tu tu tu, says Nora, and they howl with laughter, howl so loud that the loon at sea turns to look at what it takes to be two new loons on land.

  38.

  Maple Head is trying to write a history of Neawanaka. She has been writing the history for more than twenty years. She is up to volume fourteen in a series of slim black notebooks. She carries one of these notebooks with her wherever she goes. Sometimes she writes in the notebook during study halls or lunch periods at school. Sometimes she writes in the halves of hours while soups simmer. Sometimes she writes when she is on the telephone. Sometimes she writes by the fire at night. She has written at the bedsides of the sick and the dying. She has written during wedding receptions. She has written during meetings at school. She has written during Department of Public Works picnics. She has written early in the morning when the light is pale as the pearl lining of a shell. She has written on the beach as the pages of her notebook fluttered. She has written in playgrounds and parks and on the edges of pools with her legs refracted in the glimmering water. She has written in the library. She has written on her ironing board. She has written on Worried Man’s naked back as they sprawled in bed. She has written in the bathroom. She has written on the porch. She has written in her daughter’s studio and in the cavernous central work area of the Department of Public Works. She has written in every seat of various cars. She has written on buses and trains. She has written in church when there is a visiting pastor during the summer. She has tried to account her town, the poetry and pain and poverty and plainness of it, the bravery and belly laughs, the stunning volume of rain, the sadness of winter, the petty crime, the smell of manure, the squelch of mud, the smell of skunk cabbage, the burble and babble and bubble of the children in her classroom, the endless fleeing of children to the city as soon as possible, the sticky smell of cottonwood buds opening, the prevalence of mold and mildew, the gargling snarl of chain saws, the violet green sheen of a swallow, the hollow eyes of retarded children, the stunning sunlight after rain, the prevalence of car parts in yards, the mustiness of basements, the prevalence of divorce, the slam of screen doors, the paucity of voters, the night oratorio of tree frogs, the smell of fish like a wall near the co-op, the smell of beer like an aura around the pub night and day, the thrill of thrushes, the smell of a crate of new school books, the riotous vegetation, the patient heartless brooding watchful sea.

  39.

  Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days, that’s from Ecclesiastes, says the doctor, and smashes the bottle of champagne against Declan’s newly repaired boat, which accepts the blow wooden-faced.

  I wish the crew of this boat fine fishing, safety, peace, joy, and halibut the size of doors, he says, and everyone cheers. Champagne droplets scatter like sweet rain across the heads and shoulders of those in attendance.

  A suitable baptism, says the priest, smiling.

  Fecking waste of wine, says Grace, smiling.

  Cast thy champagne upon the waters, for it shalt sweeten all that salt, says Nicholas, smiling.

  Thank you, each and every one of you, for coming this evening, says Declan, earnestly. And special thanks to Stella for all the beer. Speaking of which the first round is on me.

  Sometimes in a town a small event grows into a big event. No one plans it, no one directs it. It just happens. It happens with wedding receptions and funerals and sporting events. Spontaneous parades after the high school team shockingly wins the league title. Hilarious evenings in the pub when a boat comes in loaded to the gunwales. Poignant evenings in church when a child thought drowned is found wandering dazed in the woods. Testimonial dinners. The Fourth of July. Car-wash afternoons that get wetter and funnier as the day wears on. Farmers’ markets that turn into block parties. Block parties that morph into neighborhood parties that last deep into the night and in the morning when you go to get the newspaper you see the street littered with beer bottles, lawn chairs, several bicycles, two folding card tables, torn bunting, scraps of cookies, tiny volcanoes of charcoal ash from grills and hibachis, hamburgers burnt to the color and consistency of charcoal, uncooked hot dogs, wine bottles, paper cups, plastic cups, two broken frisbees, a bra on a bush, and someone’s mangled eyeglasses.

  In such a way did the rechristening of the Plover after its repair and renovation become an Event, morphing from three crew members and two dozen friends and family gathered at the main dock to what Michael the cop esti
mated at nearly a hundred people crammed laughing brawling kissing shouting weeping yelling wrestling grinning into the pub long past its official closing hour of two in the morning. Not even Michael, usually a stickler for rules and regulations as the fair bounds of human concourse, had the heart to close down the pub; and when Declan, with a half-drunk’s lurching majesty and rubbery grace, hopped up on the bar, Stella rapping at his legs with a mop handle to get him off, and grandly bought the last round of the night, Michael accepted the pint that Stella poured for him, and sipped it long, and toasted the Plover’s return to the sea. Then he did, without fanfare, with professional skill and calm, shut down the pub, table by table, group by group, couple by couple, with a quiet word; but he also without fanfare drove the incapacitated to their homes. Stella counted three round trips and seven passengers total for Michael before she too, after mopping the floor, went upstairs to bed.

  40.

  As he drove through the moist salty night with his singing or sleeping passengers Michael hummed Puccini but the rear of his mind was preoccupied with a big brown coat. If the guy was smart he’d ditch that coat right off, he thought. The coat’s a marker. The kid mentioned it, Cedar and Worried Man mentioned it, the guy was photographed in the coat at the station. He’s smart enough to know we’ll be looking for the coat. But he needs a coat. The nights are cold. He needs food. He needs a bed. He won’t go back to Trailer Town. He’d know we are watching it. He’s long gone. The guys at the station say so. But I don’t think so. I think he’s here. He’s angry. He wants revenge. He’s humiliated. He’ll want to get even with Cedar. He knows Cedar. He knows where they work. Did he see Worried Man? Does he know Maple Head? And he wants Kristi. He doesn’t know where she is. He’ll hang around the school looking for her. He’ll hang around Public Works looking for Cedar. Cedar can take care of himself. Maple Head is a slip of a thing, though. I’ll swing by their house with my lights off. Just in case. You never know.