Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  He loved the river, the fresh air, the countless birds taking off when they drew near, the endless vistas, the sweep of his paddle through the water. The feel of the canoe under him, moving on, moving forward around every bend, everything new, sweet, clean. Better than the ranch, any day, every day.

  He stroked evenly and wondered what Berniece was doing. She didn’t like the water, but she’d come paddling once and she’d been pretty good. Way better than Laura who was thrashing around in the bow. Berniece didn’t thrash. She was sensible. She made turkey soup the day after Thanksgiving, sewed quilts, and never complained. He kept up an even rhythm, which soothed his ragged nerves. Maybe after two months, she’d discover that the preacher she’d run off with— that Stanley Cornelius III—was an asshole. He brightened. He could hope, couldn’t he? Maybe she was already at home, at the ranch, putting up jam, humming to herself at the kitchen window, wondering where he was.

  “E.B.?” Laura asked, breaking his concentration. “Everyone in Montana have a gun? You one of those NRA people?”

  “You ever gone hunting? Is that one of those things you like to do?” He missed going out with Milt, their broken rifles slung over their shoulders, the early-morning mist hugging the ground, the silence of the air.

  “Me, no, but I wish.” She took a stroke. “Maybe it’s time I learned how.”

  “Maybe I’ll teach you sometime,” he sighed. He remembered Campbell’s words: “It’s your job to please the customers, E.B.” If he couldn’t stay civil, he could stay silent like he usually did. He imagined Berniece, hand poised above the phone, pulling back a wisp of hair from her forehead, taking his freshly killed ducks with her other hand.

  The idea made his heart hurt. His stomach didn’t feel so good either. And something odd was flickering across his eye. When he looked for it, the shadow disappeared and wobbling around made him dizzy. He blinked but it wouldn’t go away. His father had had cataracts; was he getting them too?

  “Guns make me nervous,” Laura said. “My girlfriend Stella was held up. Pistol, sidearm, AK-15. What you got?”

  “A rifle. Remington thirty-four, my grandpa’s, single-shot.”

  “Single-shot in LA wouldn’t do much.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  No answer but a bob of her head. That was a start, wasn’t it? “LA. That where you live?”

  Another nod. Laura was something else. Blonde hair, legs to everywhere, soft white skin. She tossed her hair over her shoulder with abandon. Berniece wouldn’t like the fact that he looked at Laura. Even when they were together, she used to grumble when he gazed at other women. What would she say now? He dipped his hat, scooped up a hatful of water, and poured it over his head. The cold water dribbled over his shoulders, chest, and back. Yes. Better.

  “You see any other boats?”

  “Nothing out here but us chickens, E.B.”

  In the middle of a long stretch of river, his stomach took a turn for the worse. He held his gut, and the cramps passed. He’d have to head to shore and soon. He put on some heat.

  “If you don’t mind, I’m going to sleep in the boat tonight. No ticks there,” Laura said.

  “The hull is hard and it’s cold. Besides what are you going to do with the thwarts? Crawl under them?”

  “These things crossing the canoe? They’re not removable?”

  E.B. laughed. “You’ll be all right sharing a tent with me. If that doesn’t suit your fancy, you can bunk with Francine. She probably won’t mind.”

  “I’m not sharing a tent with her. She wouldn’t like it.”

  “Francine doesn’t like anyone. Okay, then. Ask Campbell if you can share his four-man. It’s big.”

  “Wish I’d brought my own,” Laura grumbled.

  “You own a tent?”

  “Uh, no,” Laura said.

  E.B. grinned. “So, where did you meet Campbell?” They were getting along, sort of. Better than her yelling at him any day.

  “At the Union Hotel. Last night. At the bar.”

  “Ah.” He hadn’t that kind of time. Kind of wished he had. Picking up women in bars was not really his thing though.

  “So, about sleeping outside? Are there wolves here?” Laura asked.

  “Some. Yes. A few. They don’t come down to the river, usually.”

  Laura took some long, even strokes. “Hey, E.B., how’s my form?”

  “Fine,” he lied. She was doing it all wrong, holding the paddle out to the side like a wing, flicking water up in the air, and occasionally digging the blade in too deep, slowing them down. He’d teach her later. For the moment the only thing he felt like coddling was his stomach. Tight cramps flickered across his belly like a sharp knife turning and churning then going away. He wondered if it was the All You Can Eat Platter at the Fish ’N’ Fry. Harold had said everything was fresh, you know, fresh frozen, he had said. Right.

  If Berniece was really back in the kitchen, how would she know he was all right? He hadn’t left a note. He pulled on the paddle again, wishing he could call home.

  He bet Laura didn’t even know how to boil coffee. He took a deep breath and a long pull with his paddle. The physical sensation made him feel as if he was at least doing something right. That damn Laura, still messing with her hair. He strained with each stroke, but thought better of asking her to help out.

  Watching her blonde hair flying in the breeze made his stomach feel better. No fluttering sensations this time. The sun was warm on his head and shoulders. He took off his John Deere cap and raised his face to the sun. A hawk flew overhead and headed to the bluffs on the other side of the river.

  “Hey, Laura. See those trees? Those are cottonwoods. Listen. They make this wonderful murmuring noise. You know that Cole Porter tune ‘Don’t Fence Me In’?”

  “Never heard of it.” Laura tucked her knees under her chin. “Frontier country in the movies doesn’t look anything like this.”

  “That’s ’cause the movies are made in the Monument Valley. The west is big country.” E.B. took a drink of water. “I noticed you haven’t been drinking enough. I gave you a full water bottle, didn’t I?”

  “I’m not thirsty.” Laura finger combed her hair. “I haven’t even broken a sweat.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You’re out in the sun, you’re exercising, you need water. Unless you want to get dehydrated?”

  “This is exercise?” she asked, taking a stroke. “Since when?”

  “Even in Westerns, they drink from time to time,” he suggested.

  “Yeah, I guess. Whiskey, though.”

  He laughed. So she did have a sense of humor. There was hope.

  He took a few solid strokes and let the canoe glide. The boat moved just the way he wanted. Watching the skies, the birds, the cliffs, the bluffs, and the swallows dancing—it made him feel a little better. Maybe when he got home, if Berniece was there, he’d rebuild. Who was he kidding? Berniece wasn’t coming back.

  He could smell Laura’s perfume, lightly sweet, not cloying like the ladies in the line at the Pak ’N’ Pay. She sat quiet for a while. Maybe she was getting used to the boat. He stared at the birds. He should talk to her about books, but couldn’t remember when he’d last read one.

  “Hey, E.B., you ever watch movies?”

  “You bet. Gary Cooper, Jimmy Cagney, Orson Welles, to name a few,” he said, thinking of High Noon, Angels with Dirty Faces, The Third Man. “Great, great flicks—heroes as big as yesterday, and a code of right and wrong.” The old movies made him forget about Berniece. Forget about the cold house and empty rooms.

  “Gary who?” she asked. “And who were those others? Never heard of ’em.”

  “Cooper, Gary Cooper. Big Western star.”

  “Okay, my turn,” she laughed. “Owen Wilson, Ben Stiller, Wallace and Gromit.”

  “Who’s Gromit?”

  “A dog, a clay dog. Everyone’s heard of Wallace and Gromit.”

  Hurt and bewildered, he waited a few minutes, watching birds peck on
the shore. “You intentionally trying to give me a bad time, or what?”

  “No. Not really. Sorry.”

  It sounded like she actually meant it.

  “It’s pretty country out here, don’t you think? Even though it’s not in the movies,” he said, looking for something conciliatory, and intelligent, to say.

  “Pretty?” she answered. “Land’s kind of bleak. There aren’t any trees, the grass is dead, and I don’t see any cows. What do you do out here on a farm?”

  Three generations of Bensons surged in E.B.’s blood. The land pleased him—or used to. Even without Berniece, his body belonged to the land. It owned him. He could actually feel the earth course through his veins, his muscles, his heart. The smell of sweet grass in the spring, the steady grind of the combine over winter wheat, the crunch of snow under his boots, the hoar frost freezing the trees, the warm glow of sunshine on his head. Berniece felt it too; that’s what he loved most about her. He reminded himself that Laura was a city girl and didn’t know anything. He pulled over for a break.

  She stared at him, her eyes wide, just like the new mare he’d just purchased from Ralph at the Feed ’N’ Seed. She stood up, stepped onto shore, and stretched.

  He ran his eyes over Laura’s legs, scanning flawless skin and enjoying the view. He saw what looked like a dark mole. “This ever bother you?”

  “Does what bother me? The mosquitoes? The heat? The canoe? Paddling?”

  “The mole at the back of your thigh. Does it bother you when you sit for a long time?”

  “I don’t have any moles on my thighs!”

  He touched the black round shape, feeling it wobble.

  “Got a match?” he asked, then remembered. “Tweezers?”

  “I don’t care what you do to me, E.B., just get the fucker off.”

  “Easy-peasy, hold still.” He tightened his grip over the speck, pinched his fingers, rotated, and pulled.

  He held the tick out to her. “I got it all,” he indicated. “Even the head. If you don’t get the head out, sometimes it’ll become infected.”

  She looked at his face, then back at his fingers. Tiny legs wiggled next to his thumb.

  “Another reason I hate Montana.”

  “By the size of it, it’s been there a couple of hours.” He flicked it into the water. “They can carry Lyme disease, among other things. I had to go to the hospital for an infection one time.”

  “Thanks,” she muttered, her voice hollow. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

  She looked at him with those big mare eyes, brown and luscious and wonderful.

  “Like I said, I can be useful.”

  “Next time I’m peeing in the water.” She stepped deftly back into the canoe.

  “Not really a good idea. Stay on the sand,” he added. “Ready?”

  “Not quite.” She tucked her hand into Beth Ann’s cosmetic bag and pulled out a little tube, trying to thank him in some way. She oozed some onto her hand. “Want some sunscreen?” She held out a tube of Elizabeth Arden SPF Five. She poured a little glob of it into his hand before he could say no. “Your cheeks are looking red.”

  It wasn’t from sunburn. He looked at the glob, then back at her.

  “I already have a tan.”

  “E.B., you need to protect your skin. It’s your best feature.”

  His face reddened even more. He smoothed on the goop, and, feeling greasy, launched the canoe.

  Moving around a bend and peering downriver to search for the others, E.B. took even, slow, steady strokes. He loved the feel of the paddle in his hand, the hush-hush-hush of mergansers taking off, the glide of the canoe, the girl in the bow—everything would be perfect if not for the hurt in his gut. Nausea? Something else? Heatstroke?

  Down at the end of a straight stretch, E.B. saw some color in the distance, something red against the white cliffs. It looked like Campbell’s red canoe. Full of hope he tried to lift his arm, but it wouldn’t obey. A flush of heat rose up his neck, making him dizzy. His blade hit the water at an angle. The shaft rotated in his hands. His gut was going to bust.

  He shook his head. It was like someone had put a blanket over his senses. He weaved around on the seat, trying to stay upright. Trying to stay focused. It was either that goddamn fish or he was dehydrated. All he could see was one little white dot. The river, the shore, and Laura disappeared as the paddle slipped from his hands.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sunday, noon on the river

  LAURA AND E.B.

  Feeling the canoe veering to the right, Laura pulled back on her paddle. The canoe kept heading to the bank. She took another pull. Nothing going. The stupid boat felt like she did after dancing all night, slow and stiff and unresponsive. What the hell? They did a full 360 until she stabbed at the water a few times. The canoe shuddered and slid down the river sideways.

  She listened for the sound of E.B.’s paddle, but there was no dip, slide, or swish from behind her. If she turned around too quick to check on him, she could dump them both. Concentrate, girl. This is no different from what you do on the pole. What’s next in this routine?

  She ran through his instructions step by step, put all her weight into it, and dug in. For a second it was perfect; the front of the canoe rotated to the left. She took another stroke, but then it went to the right. Fat lot of good that did. She couldn’t steer for shit.

  They sped up as the current caught them around a turn. A moment later, the boat drifted toward a rocky shore.

  Turning her head ever so slowly, she saw E.B. resting, his paddle in his lap, head down. Eyes closed.

  “E.B., come on. Help me out here,” she asked. “Pick up your paddle and do something.”

  “What’s going on?” he moaned.

  “I can’t steer this piece of shit by myself.”

  “Yes, you can, just try . . . I can’t, right now,” he mumbled.

  The canoe crept closer, fifteen feet from the rocks, now ten.

  “I need help NOW!” She pulled back on the paddle hard. The canoe drifted close enough to touch land.

  “Just put your paddle in and pull. Hard.”

  “Nothing’s happening. We’re going aground. Please.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  The canoe touched the rocks.

  Laura yelled, “Ezra Benson!”

  He didn’t respond.

  She pushed off with her paddle. The boat drifted onward, hugging the shore. She took a stroke with her right hand, then another with her left. Zigzagging, the canoe slid along ten feet from shore.

  “Jesus Christ. What’s the matter with you?”

  “I knew you could do it,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”

  “Do what? Keep us going in one direction? Are you kidding?” Above her, swallows called, as if to mock her. Their chatter filled the air. She felt a little bad. “Are you all right back there?”

  No answer. Had he fainted? Had a heart attack? How the hell was she supposed to do CPR? She struggled to remember what she’d seen on TV. Compression, compaction? She had no idea. The canoe skidded across the water like a pair of new shoes on a slick floor. “Come on, you big useless dick.”

  A gust of wind caught E.B.’s hat. She watched it spin in a circle, then float away.

  “Don’t you want your hat?”

  The canoe drifted toward an island.

  “What hat?”

  Laura eyed a beach ahead. If only she could pull over there. The canoe shuddered, stalled, and spun. She took another deep, full stroke. The canoe slid sideways.

  “Stupid goddamn boat!”

  The shore was twenty feet away, then ten. The canoe slammed into something and knocked her out of her seat. She landed on the bottom of the boat.

  “Fuck!” She wrenched her shoulder climbing back up to her seat. Then she checked on E.B. He was leaning over his knees.

  “E.B. You alive back there?”

  “I don’t know what to do about these cows, Milt. They seem off today.”

  “
Cows? What cows! E.B., wake up! You dreaming?”

  “Check the bilges, Captain Kirk, I think we’ve gone aground.”

  Was he making fun of her again? Or completely crazy? Whatever it was, she couldn’t help him here. The canoe held still as water rushed around them. The shore, a pole distance away, could just as well have been on Mars. She slid her hands into the water, trying to free whatever stopped them while keeping an eye on the fast-moving river. Branches and twigs broke off, but the canoe held fast. She leaned over farther, water pouring over her arms. The canoe shifted under her.

  She wasn’t going to die out here. Fuck no. Praying the canoe wouldn’t take off without her, she kicked off her flipflops, grabbed the painter, and, holding onto the sides of the canoe, carefully and slowly eased herself over the side.

  Dropping in, she let her legs drift down until she felt something squishy and disgusting with her toes and stood up. She sunk in mud up to her ankles. The water was up to her chin. Holding the painter in her teeth, she moved around the canoe, trying to find out what held it in place. The current pulled at her clothes.

  The boat was hung up on a branch.

  “Hey, E.B.! Can you give me a hand here?”

  Oh God. He was leaning over so far, she thought he’d fall over, into the river. Then what would she do? She eased her hand up over the front of the dumbass canoe. Holding the rope in one hand and bracing herself in the muck below, she dipped her head under and with one hand slipped the canoe free.

  Fuck!

  “Help!”

  The boat was pulling away.

  Digging into the mud with her toes, she grabbed the line with both hands, river bottom sucking at her feet and threatening to pull her in with every step. Nine feet away, eight. “Come on you stupid pile of crap.” The boat was heavy.

  Seven feet, six. She was up to her waist now. Five, four. She pulled harder. Suddenly, the boat rushed at her and pushed her backward into the muck. The water was up to her shoulders.

  E.B. laughed.

  “So. You’re alive?”

  “Not really.”

  His face was the color of milk. He was all still and quiet, like the dead man they’d found in the front row one night after a show.