Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  “You all right?”

  He stirred, straightened, and stood up. Wobbling from side to side, he stepped around her, sitting on her butt in the water, and marched to shore.

  “E.B.?”

  “Stay there.”

  A moment later, he threw up.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Feeling better now?” She tied the boat to a branch, got to her feet, wiped mud off her hands onto her once-white shorts, and gripped his shoulder. The puke stunk but he was near. And they were safe.

  “Goddamn Fish ’N’ Fry. Or it was the heat or something. Good God.”

  She watched him wipe his mouth on his sleeve.

  “Thought my stomach would cave in.”

  “And I thought you had a heart attack.”

  “Me? No, ticker’s ready for a parade. Can you get me some water?” He paused. “You did good, Laura, steering by yourself.”

  Beaming, she walked toward the canoe, trying to avoid looking at the mess he’d left.

  She leaned in, unzipped the yellow duffle, put her hand around a water bottle, pulled it out, and noticed something strange.

  “Hey, E.B.,” she said. “Is there supposed to be this much water in the boat?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday, 2:00 p.m.

  Slaughter River Campground

  CAMPBELL AND FRANCINE

  Campbell paced on shore, pecking at his cell phone.

  No sign of E.B. or Laura or their little red canoe. No cell phone service either. It was getting on toward the middle of the afternoon and time to make camp. Were they stuck somewhere? Lost their paddles? Had Laura fallen in? He threw a few items into his canoe and headed off to tell his daughter his plans.

  He found her dozing under the shade of a cottonwood tree.

  “Hey, kiddo, keep an eye on the others. I’ll be back in an hour—I’ve got to go back and find E.B. and Laura.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “You hear me, Francine?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got it, Dad.” She turned over and closed her eyes.

  Feeling a little uncomfortable leaving her in charge, Campbell threw his life jacket, his paddle, and a water bottle into the boat, stepped in, and went to push off. The canoe jammed on something. He shoved harder.

  “You’re going to break my fingers doing that,” Francine said.

  “What are you doing here? Stick around. Get some rest.”

  “Climb into the bow. I’ll guide us from the stern. We can go faster together.” She yanked the canoe closer, then rolled up her pant legs. “I’m no babysitter.”

  “What if they need something? Get in trouble?”

  “These girls will be fine on their own.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s my job. I can’t leave them unchaperoned.”

  “They’re all older than I am.”

  “But not as bright,” Campbell said, feeling clever.

  “Compliments, eh? Do anything to make me stay? No dice.” She popped her gum.

  “Don’t make this harder than it is.” She was getting so tall. “C’mon, you’ve got to understand. I can’t leave them stranded out there.”

  “Special Dad-daughter trip. You promised.”

  “We can do stuff later, as soon as I get back.” He’d never been good with her.

  “Do whatever the hell you want. You always do.” She shoved him and the boat away from shore.

  “Francine! Don’t say things like that! You know they’re not true.” How and when did their relationship become so strained? His plans for this special trip certainly hadn’t included hurting her.

  The current pulled him twenty feet downriver, the wrong way, fast. Grabbing his paddle, he turned around and headed upriver toward E.B. and Laura. The going was surprisingly hard. The current wasn’t that strong, was it? Still, he could do this. He made up the distance with some effort, and then the canoe slowed down. What the hell? He’d never make it at this rate. He pulled harder and harder. Jason at the gym said he’d been doing great. Damn. He peered forward—and saw some fingers on the gunwale. Francine. In the water.

  “What are you doing? Let go! I told you to stay on shore.”

  “Hi, Dad,” she trilled, pulling the bow aside so he could see her grin. “Can’t go anywhere? What’s the problem?”

  “This time, for a change, Francine, how ’bout just doin’ what I ask?”

  “Not today, not now, and not without me.” She laughed, hung off the hull, hair plastered across her forehead, eyes bright.

  The current pulled them into the middle of the river, past where the other canoeists were playing cards, past the point where she could still swim to shore.

  “For Chrissakes, let me at least get you back on land. You’re a pain in the neck, Francine.”

  “What else is new?” She kicked under the boat and eased them close to a mud bank. She climbed onto some rocks, balanced on both gunwales, water pouring off her, and climbed into the boat.

  “Water’s warm,” she giggled, squeezing water out of her hair.

  “Sit down. Sit and behave. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you. We agreed, on the plane, on the trip over, that you’d try.”

  “Try what? Be cool when you ignore me? That’s not part of the plan.”

  “Francine.” He paddled carefully, keeping an eye on her. She used to be such an easygoing girl.

  She stood up and walked toward the stern, balancing carefully.

  “Sit down!” he shouted. “You’ll dump us.”

  “My turn.”

  “Get your butt down on that seat!”

  “Quit bugging me!” She sat down, fuming. Dad didn’t know diddlysquat about canoeing—or poling—for that matter. They could go upriver twice as fast if they were poling, but he didn’t know how and he was not patient enough to learn. The current was pulling, maybe, two knots, and they were doing a hard three, one knot over the bottom. Shameful. Paddling alone, it would wipe him out in a hurry.

  “We’re not getting anywhere fast,” Francine said a little too loudly. She always had a kind of loud voice, but liked it that way. People paid attention.

  She had tied her hair in a rubber band, back at the neck, the way she liked it, neat, but there were always these stupid hairs floating around her forehead, dropping into her eyes. She used some spit to plaster them back in place. She squinted. A half-mile away and she could still hear the girls’ squeaky voices arguing about the cards. Fate worse than death, that. She could have been in the Pine Barrens, riding Midnight, instead of in a crappy canoe with Dad and a bunch of dweebs.

  “Hey, Dad? Let me steer. My paddle’s got a much bigger blade. I’m stronger than you. I’m younger than you. We’ll get there tomorrow at this rate.”

  “We are not changing places today.”

  Francine could hear the struggle in his voice. “Tomorrow, you’ll forget.” He’d grown a puny little beard since the divorce. She agreed with Mom. It made him look like a dork.

  “Get a grip. Work with me for a change. You might like it,” he said. “Besides, this could be our last trip together.”

  “Promise?” At fourteen she was already way too old to go on a trip with him.

  “You’re throwing too much water. C’mon, I’ll show you,” she said.

  “Bunk.”

  She couldn’t help it if she was competitive. She wasn’t the fastest girl at the Dalton School for nothing. She bit her lip. “Let’s change positions out here on the river.”

  “Knock it off!” he shouted, ending the conversation. His irritating voice coming through the back of her head felt like an ice cream headache. A spider crawled across her knee. Letting it crawl along her arm, she thought about handing it to Dad, but set it on the gunwale instead. He’d probably freak, just like Mom did.

  Beyond the canoe, she saw a scuzzy beach, a bunch of straggly trees full of dead limbs, a buff-colored landscape, and hills far in the distance. The sun was blinding.

  “New Jersey is prettier than this. They don’t call it th
e Garden State for nothing. Why couldn’t I have stayed home? I never wanted to come in the first place.”

  “We are not discussing this now.”

  “What about Bolton? I could’ve stayed in Bolton with Grandpa.” She loved Grandpa. He taught her games, like Texas Hold ’Em, and how to bet. They’d spent summers together since she’d been ten. He never got bored or cranky like Dad did.

  “Pay attention to the river, and stay up with me,” Campbell said. “Try paddling together.”

  “He’s kind to me.”

  “Not at your own speed, Francine. Try mine. Slow down, you’re killing me.”

  “That’s the point.” Francine couldn’t believe he was so dense. “I’m way faster than you. Grandpa’s smart and interesting and fun and he’s a lot nicer than you.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Campbell turned the canoe around and ran it into a mud bank with a thud.

  “I could have stayed there with him and not come on this stupid trip.”

  “Grandpa needs to be at Happy Acres,” Campbell said. “You know this, Francine. We are not talking about Grandpa, either.”

  “He was happy in Bolton, just him and the horses and his watercolors. You made him go. Just like you forced me to come on this trip. He hates it there and I hate it here. I could bring him home, take care of him. It would be a lot better than this.”

  “Hey. I didn’t do anything except ask you to go canoeing,” he replied. “You like canoeing. You said so yourself.”

  “You haven’t done anything with me since I was eleven and you took me to see the stupid dioramas at the Museum of Natural History. And now, you’re trying to make up for it? I’m no fool. You’re too late, Dad.”

  “Just to spend time with you is . . . kind of special.”

  “As if. As soon as we get to Fort Benton, I’m hitching to Great Falls and flying home. I’m done with your charade.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Sunday, 3:00 p.m.

  on the river

  CAMPBELL AND FRANCINE

  “Ah c’mon, Francine. Be a sport. You don’t need to be so negative. I’ve tried, you know.”

  No answer. Her collapsed little shoulders told him everything.

  He shouldn’t have even asked. If she thought his idea of canoeing was lame, wait until he told her about Daisy.

  He felt like a traitor.

  Ten minutes later, an island seemed to float in the middle of the river, as flat as the water itself with a tiny edge of green. Jesus. He had to tell her and he had to tell her now.

  He dug in deep with every stroke, determining where to come in. It was harder than he had anticipated, fighting against a two-knot current. He’d been working out at the 92nd Street Y for nothing. His arms felt like noodles. He took a long stroke, watched Francine’s smooth clean paddling, and wished he had her easy way on the water.

  In his other life, his city life, business was clean, business was predictable. Clear of this ambiguity, this anger. You want to make a deal, we make a deal. Easy. But this business with Francine, this was hard. He’d been a shitty dad.

  “Something bothering you?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  He saw a sandy beach ahead. Beyond, rolling hills broadened onto a wide valley. A homesteader’s cabin stood askew, its door banging in the wind. He needed a rest. Twenty minutes later he nosed the canoe onto the shore. Stepping out, his sandals crunched pebbles and sand. He narrowed his eyes and adjusted his hat. This would be as good a place as any. But first he had to get her out of her funk.

  “Ever see one of these cabins before?” he asked. “You’ve got to see this place.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “What do I care about some rat-infested dump?”

  “Come on, take a look.”

  She stood up slowly, taking weight on her good leg, stretching to hide her pain. Ever since she tore her left ACL in May, her knee hurt like hell. But she wasn’t going to let him know; she wasn’t going to let anyone know.

  “Can you imagine the homesteaders coming here in covered wagons? It’s incredible.”

  “Going back in there with the weeds and shit?” she said. “Ticks and poison oak? Nah. Have a ball. I’m going swimming.” She unbuttoned her shirt, showing a tiny red bikini.

  “What are you doing wearing something so small?” he asked. “Your mother let you buy that?”

  “Dad, all the girls are—”

  He cut her off. “A little modesty. That’s all I’m asking.” “You must be kidding.”

  A wind blew down the river, threatening to take his hat. “And it’s not a good idea to swim alone.” The current was moving fast. “Come on, take a look at this house. Hang around your old man for a little while.”

  “Half the roof’s fallen in.” She scratched at a mosquito bite on the back of her hands. “I get history at school. And from Grandpa. I need lessons from you too?”

  She stood up on tippy-toes so close that Campbell could feel her vibrate.

  “Come on. What has Grandpa ever taught you that’s useful? The guy talks to trees. Can you imagine carving a life out here before cars, electricity, iPhones?”

  She leaned on her paddle, dug her fingers deep into her pockets, and pulled out her phone. “Damn, my batteries are almost dead. Should’ve packed the solar charging kit.”

  A cloud of dust rose and fell, blowing around the cabin. Window frames, long devoid of glass, stared at him with hollow eyes. A rusty plow was set upside down, half-buried in sand. An axle, grass growing around it, leaned against a near wall. Old cans, rusty and full of holes, covered the ground. Broken glass crunched under his feet.

  “Pretty neat, huh, Francine?” He scanned the scenery. “We can see for miles—all the formations in the canyon, funny-looking rock pillars with mushroom-type heads, where the harder rock doesn’t erode as fast as the softer rock underneath. Francine.” He breathed in endless sky, sweet air, listening to grasshoppers hum in the grass.

  Did he just hear something? A hiss? The sound of dry paper, crackling? He knew that sound. He looked down. His daughter’s nearly bare feet were brushing tall stalks of grass.

  Francine jabbed at her iPhone. Held up one thumb and smiled.

  “Turn it off.” His voice was low.

  “Why? You told me to stop arguing with you.”

  “Slowly. Back up.”

  She heard the concern in his voice, with that intonation reserved for crossing streets, hot stoves, danger. She stepped backward and looked down. A snake edged its head out onto the path in front of her. Between her feet and Dad’s. All around deeper, thicker grass. Here just a narrow, hardly used pathway leading to the cabin.

  “Now, don’t move.”

  She held still, frozen.

  He wished he had his paddle; he sure could use it now. The snake was as round as two fingers, neck bigger than its head. A moccasin, a rattler, something big.

  They were too far from civilization for her to recover from a bite.

  “Very slowly now, trace your steps.”

  She stepped back, still within easy striking distance from the snake, which was weaving its head back and forth, flicking at the air with its forked tongue.

  “Farther.”

  “Dad, I—”

  Campbell unbuckled his life jacket.

  “Francine, run!” he whispered.

  “But . . . Dad—?”

  “Run! Now! Get the fuck out of here!”

  Just as she turned to take her first step, he threw his life jacket at the snake.

  The second before it hit the ground, inch-long fangs sunk into red nylon and foam.

  The snake whipped around the life jacket. The rattle was loud, but not as loud as his heart. This one was a fighter.

  He had to get his jacket back, but he didn’t want to come any closer. He stood four feet away, jumping around as the snake twisted and turned inside the life jacket. There wasn’t even a stick anywhere.

  “Give me your paddle.”

  She hesitated.


  “NOW!”

  He caught it, stepped back, and smashed the life jacket. Heard a hiss. Smashed it again. Heard a rattle. Being ever so careful, he slipped the blade of the paddle inside the life jacket and felt teeth clatter on the blade.

  Then he heard a louder hiss. Coming from the grass? Another snake?

  “Move back, Francine!”

  He lifted the life jacket with his paddle and, very carefully, shook and twisted it until the life jacket nearly slid off the blade. The snake fell first, onto the overgrown path, then the lifejacket right on top of it. Standing as close as he dared, he eased the paddle through the armhole, and tried again. He lifted the life jacket and the snake. The snake dropped onto the ground. Campbell flicked the life jacket off to the side and smashed the snake.

  “Again, Dad!” Francine screamed. “Again and again and again!”

  He slammed the blade down, then turned it on edge. Smash! Smash. Smash! Worried about the blade breaking, he turned the paddle up and over and smashed it with the handle, over and over, until the snake was broken open, its lifeless eyes staring at the sky, its tail off to the side.

  “Jesus Christ!” He stood, the stained handle in his hands, the paddle over his shoulder, and studied the snake.

  “Don’t worry. That sucker’s dead, Dad.”

  “Forget about the homesteaders,” he said, his voice shaking. “You all right?” He kissed her cheek, holding her tight to him. He shouldn’t have taken her back here. She smelled of strawberries and wood smoke and earth.

  She pulled back, just a little, then buried her face in his shirt. “Not so bad for an old fart. Cool. One dead snake. One cool Dad.”

  He fingered the holes in his life jacket, held her close, and breathed in.

  Five minutes later they were back in the canoe. Campbell in the bow, Francine in the stern, her strong strokes carrying them forward, downstream, back to camp.

  He listened to her, singing off-key behind him. He took a good long stroke and looked back at her. Her fine paddling, the way she held her head up, her skinny frame. A cold sweat was drying on his temples. His body trembled uncontrollably. Close, way too close. Oh God, he hadn’t wanted to lose her. He lifted his blade, then stopped mid-stroke.