Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  “Don’t go wandering far. I’m not going to look. “

  But he was looking.

  “Sorry.” E.B. searched the army bag. “Hurry before you get any colder. Hypothermia’s no joke in cattle country.”

  She started trying to pull Tucker’s jeans over her wet shorts. Grunted a little.

  E.B. heard her struggle. “Not that way. You’ll freeze. Take everything off—even your whitey-tighties. You’re soaked. And hurry, I’ve got to set up a shelter. I could use your help.”

  “All of it?” she questioned, peeling off Beth Ann’s little shorty-shorts over goose bumps on her thighs. Even her underwear? She didn’t like that idea. She looked at him, unsure, and muttered something low under her breath he wasn’t supposed to hear. Feeling fragile, she stepped away, slipped off her flimsy thong, stuffed it into the pocket of her shorts, and pulled on the itchy shirt, the stiff jeans, the huge socks. She stuck the stinky wool cap on her head. She felt like she’d swum in a sewer, but at least she was warmer.

  “See that rock over there? Grab this small stuff—this little line. Put it through the grommet and hand it to me,” he requested.

  She knew he was thinking about her.

  Laura grabbed the small rope and looked at the darkening sky.

  “Thanks,” E.B. said. He set up a lean-to—a tarp stretched over a branch—and carved a trench around the makeshift shelter to keep water out. The wind had come up, threatening rain.

  “You think the others are worrying about us?” Laura asked.

  “Probably. Somewhat. We’ll be fine, have stories to tell Campbell in the morning. We’re lucky. We have a way to stay warm and dry. And we have food. Thanks for getting this canoe and all the gear.” He tightened the lines around some branches, making a squeaking sound. He stopped a sec. He’d given her all the warm clothes they had. He’d freeze. So?

  “Camping is kind of not really what I expected,” she said, holding a line for him.

  He laughed. “Not quite what I expected, either. Good. Now, matches, please.”

  She stared at the flimsy structure, then back at E.B., who cocked his head and asked, “Hungry?”

  “Oh God, yes,” she said, helping him light a small stove the size of a soup can. He balanced everything on top. “Now, please help me find duff for a mattress,” he asked, and she followed his moves, as much as she could, gathering leaves and dead grasses on the prairie ground, always wanting to stay near him, and not go into that inky darkness that lay just beyond the blue flame of Tucker’s tiny stove. “You’ve done this before,” she said, feeling his heat, his reassuring presence.

  They piled a six-inch-tall layer of duff on the ground under the makeshift shelter.

  “A trick I learned from my grandfather, who used to sleep with the cattle when he wandered too late to come home.”

  She watched him. He was being so kind. What was she going to tell Stella? “I met this guy on the river, he dressed me in smelly cowboy clothes, and . . .” Then what? Made sure I was warm. “That all?” Stella would ask. “Yes, Stella, that was all.” Her shivers disappeared.

  “If you hand me that light, I can gather some firewood,” she said a moment later. “Have any paper?”

  “Not a good idea. A glow on the bluff would only draw attention to ourselves,” E.B. warned, gathering what was left of his voice. It seemed more like a croak to him. He tried not to think about how beautiful she was as he picked up the empty coffee can they’d used as a pot and poured out the noodle water.

  He loved listening to the dulcet tones of her voice. Keeping his mind on work usually helped. Some. He laid down the sleeping bag, and didn’t pay attention to his rapidly cooling body. He’d given her all the clothing they had. He’d freeze. So? Would Grandpa do any different?

  He’d curl up tight. What if he fell for her, big time? She would break his heart and head back to LA, anyway. He concentrated on their water supply. They would have only enough for a slight breakfast, if he could find any coffee.

  “Can I do anything else?” Laura offered, sitting with her hands on her knees and watching E.B. in the last dim light.

  In her oversized clothes, she looked vulnerable and sweet.

  The light flickered out. He guided her to where she should crawl under the lean-to. She lay down where he told her. He unzipped Tucker’s sleeping bag; the stench of tobacco, unwashed clothes, and the faint smell of anchovies lingered. E.B. laid it over her, tucking her in and making sure it covered her completely as she lay on her side. Touching her inadvertently, she was toasty warm.

  “E.B.?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re going to freeze unless you come closer,” she said. E.B. lay down and wiggled his way close to Laura, but not touching her, and pulled over a fraction of the sleeping bag to cover himself. He curled up as tight into his own ball as he could, trying not to put his arm on her, trying not to think he was avoiding the most beautiful body he’d ever seen. She was so close. Sweat beaded his upper lip. He felt bad he was not providing her with every comfort of home.

  “Let me know you’re here, and safe,” she said, her voice muffled by the sleeping bag.

  E.B. kept back.

  “I’m so sorry this trip has been such a disaster,” he said, his hot breath blowing on her hair. “When we get back, I’ll treat you to a night in the best room at the Union Hotel. It has a fireplace. I’ve always wanted to stay there.” It would be the first time for him too; Berniece had said it was too expensive.

  He tucked up close enough to feel Laura’s breath on his neck. He swallowed hard. “Laura?” Maybe he could go a little closer? No response. She was fast asleep.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Monday, 6:00 a.m.

  Slaughter River Campground

  CAMPBELL AND FRANCINE

  Sound asleep in his tent and dreaming of Daisy, Campbell felt someone touch his shoulder. He smiled and reached out, but the hand disappeared. He turned over in the dim morning light and reached farther. Finding nobody there, he sat up in a hurry.

  “Jumpy, aren’t you?” Nia peered through his tent flaps.

  “What’s the matter? Everyone all right?” The wolves had come into camp?

  “How do I turn on the stove?”

  Campbell reached into his shoe where he’d placed his watch. Damn. He’d planned to be searching for E.B. and Laura long before now.

  “I’m not sure how, and if I do it wrong,” Nia went on, “whoosh, there go my eyebrows. That’s what you said last night. I kinda like them, even if everyone says they’re too bushy.”

  “It’s only six. Have a heart.” Campbell turned over. Double damn. By the afternoon Daisy would be at Coal Banks Landing, and he wouldn’t be there. He had their sleeping bags and the jackets, and her favorite hat. She was going to freeze.

  “Campbell, I wouldn’t be bothering you, if,” Nia continued, “if you’d showed me how yesterday, like I asked. But you didn’t and I can’t and you’re not asleep anymore anyway, so why not be a champ and help me out?”

  “In a minute. Two.” He lay back down and waited until he heard her go away. But there was no sound of footsteps. He bet she was still standing there. He threw on clothes and with effort spoke calmly. “Been up long, Nia?”

  “Since five.” He watched her rock back on her heels and fold her arms over a lightweight Patagonia jacket. “Nice, this morning,” she said. “No wind. Not like yesterday afternoon when it blew like stink.”

  “I’ll make coffee.” If he hurried, he could cast off within the hour. Crawling out of his tent, he went to stand up, felt a tightness in his back, and collapsed on one leg.

  Nia didn’t notice, thank God; she was standing with her back to him, taking photos. Standing up properly, he meandered over to their makeshift galley, reached into an Action Packer, a plastic storage bin, found a coffeepot, dug for filters, and closed his fingers on a pound of freshly ground Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee at the very bottom of the bin. Carefully and slowly he stood up. Nia frowned
.

  “Got your cup?” he whispered through twinges of back pain.

  “I drink tea. Didn’t you read the form? I filled it out, twice. I was being so careful, wanting to get everything right.”

  “No problem, Nia,” he whispered. He never read those “food preference” sections on the registration forms. The only thing he read was the experience part, and on that line, everyone lied. “Sorry about that.”

  She pouted.

  He set down the coffee, dug back in the Action Packer, and tossed cans, plastic plates, and utensils onto the overturned lid. Finally he found some tea bags behind the canned soup and tossed them up onto the roll-up table. Looked up at Nia. He shouldn’t have.

  “Oh dear. Maybe I wasn’t being very clear. You got any Earl Grey? I don’t drink infusions, unless it’s at Tea for Two on Fulton Street down in the Bowery. You know, New York?”

  Campbell dropped his head back into the bin. Who packed this piece of shit? Ken? Campbell had told him to organize food better than this. Now cans were mixed with dry packets of lemonade, oatmeal, and soup, and the packets were all torn so his hands were covered in sugar and other crap. He tossed out a bag of lettuce that was already starting to brown. A loaf of bread, a can of tuna, and at last, his hand closed on a tea tin. He squinted at the label—English goddamn fucking tea.

  He sat back, and held out a tea bag. A half hour had passed. He hoped she’d take it and go back to bed. He would have.

  “Got half ’n’ half, and sugar?” she asked. “What else ya got in there?” She peered into the bin over Campbell’s shoulder.

  “Oatmeal. Cream of Wheat. Instant. Something easy.” The wind picked up, wrinkling the once-placid river. Oh Jesus, already?

  “But that kind of breakfast isn’t what’s advertised in the brochure. Home-cooked breakfast, it said.”

  “Nia, you’re right. If you’d read the fine print, that was for one morning, not two,” he lied. “If you would, could you be satisfied with something like this? I’ve got to get back on the river, find E.B. and Laura. Just today, okay?”

  “But I’m hungry now, Campbell. You’ll be gone all day. We finished all the snacks yesterday. Bacon and eggs for breakfast makes me a nice girl, and not moody or anything like that, and you don’t want me to be cranky, do you? My friends say I’m really mean when I’m cranky.” She thought a minute. “And the eggs need to be medium.” She paused. “You know—when the yolks are still a little runny but the whites are really hard?”

  Campbell rubbed his face. He stood up, towering over her slender little frame. He remembered what Ken had told him: “Trip’s all about service, Campbell.” He winced. His grand plan—buying into Ken’s business, having a place to go summers with Francine and Daisy, eventually moving out of New York—everything hinged on this trip going well. And now it was going to shit.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, hitching up his pants. Babysitting, that’s all the job was. If he didn’t buy into the business, he could still spend summers in Montana, couldn’t he? Do something else? Start over?

  In the distance, mist rose from the river. He had to hurry.

  “Go sit by the river, and I’ll call you when I’m ready, ’kay?” That way, at least, she wouldn’t be hanging around like a puppy, wanting attention. And he wouldn’t have to keep himself from slugging her.

  She tightened her lips. “Water has to be really hot.”

  “Of course,” he answered, cranking up the little alcohol stove. If Ken had done what he was supposed to, he would have bought a propane stove like Campbell had asked, but he was too cheap, so all they had was this stupid alcohol stove. It took hours to heat anything. Jesus, he was never going to get out of here.

  The sound of Nia’s little feet pounding away on the gravel pleased him no end.

  Digging for bacon, Campbell missed E.B. With the two of them, breakfast would be a snap. He took a look upriver. Where are you, buddy? You all right?

  Back at work he wrestled their heavy as bejeesus water jug so that he could tip it, and, losing his grip, sloshed about a third of it onto his feet. Shit. If he kept this up, they’d have no water before the trip was over. River water, filtered, boiled, or strained, was still too full of pesticides to drink.

  “Hey! Couldn’t you have kept it down?” Jane asked, coming up on Campbell. “But hey, now like I’m up, I’d like a double cap, soy, light on the foam, please.”

  Damn, another one, Campbell thought, and set a second pot of water on the stove. “I wish I could, Jane,” he muttered, “can’t, won’t, don’t care. Go away.” He gritted his teeth.

  “You say something?” she asked.

  “Nope.”

  “I’m just kidding about the coffee, Campbell, I know this is no five-star affair.”

  Campbell kind of wished it was; then he’d have a staff of four. They were working him like a dog with an old bone.

  “You guys keep talking this loud, you’re going to wake Francine.” Nia slid to a stop near Jane.

  “You can hear her snoring all over camp,” Jane giggled.

  My little girl, thought Campbell.

  “Can we change partners? I’m tired of paddling with Kris. She’s too slow.” Jane, standing over him, smoothed her pajamas and flicked back her hair.

  “How’s Jamaican Blue Mountain?” Campbell said. “Black?”

  “Super,” Jane laughed. “You know, I was wondering how you could make all that fancy coffee without one of those Italian gizmos.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been camping before,” Campbell said.

  “Me? No,” Jane said, “just trying to be sociable. My dad says that’s my only weakness.”

  Startled, Campbell poured all the hot water he’d prepared for Nia into Jane’s coffeepot.

  “Hey,” Nia complained. “That was for me.”

  “I’ll make some more.” He refilled the pot and stirred the eggs in the fry pan, eyeing Nia. She was kind of pretty with that little mouth and jet-black hair. But her personality needed work.

  “God, I love the river.” Jane took a long sip and stared at Campbell. She blinked sleep out of her eyes and peered over the top of her insulated plastic mug. “Been doing this long?”

  With more water set to boil, he struggled to open the vacuum-sealed bacon packet. He had to use his hunting knife and stabbed the thick plastic until the strips were free and his hands were greasy. He set the bacon into another fry pan.

  Having forgotten to pack paper towels, he wiped his hands on his zip-apart pants, smearing grease everywhere.

  Something caught the corner of his eye. Kris was up and out of her tent, wearing silky, sky-blue pajamas and red slippers that flapped while she walked. She looked like she’d been sleeping at the Plaza. Now he’d never launch by eight. Damn and double damn.

  The sun climbed up a distant hill.

  While the bacon cooked, he searched the ground for his hat. He soon found it, crushed in a ball by the tent, his Ray-Bans just to the side, a little twisted but wearable. He made a mental note to put all his valuables in his shoes when he slept. He shoved his wrinkled hat onto his head, slipped on his sunglasses, and ran back to the stove where the bacon sizzled and smoked.

  He turned the heat down.

  “Campbell,” Kris said, nudging him, her pajamas sleeves fluttering around her wrists. “Where’s toast? Sourdough toast. I’m hungry.”

  “I can’t make toast on a Coleman,” Campbell replied, pouring hot water into the coffee filter. “Want some?” If he made another pot, that would keep them occupied while he loaded the canoe.

  “Shall we break camp, Captain?” Kris asked. “I can be ready in three minutes, tops.”

  He was about to answer when one of the other girls sidled up to him.

  “My dad makes toast when we go camping.” Alice put her arm around Kris’s waist. “He cooks better camping than he does at home. You got a DO?”

  “I’m not carrying a Dutch Oven in a canoe. They weigh like twenty-five pounds. Are you cr
azy?” He cracked a bunch of eggs and threw them in the fry pan, turned the knob under the burner, and then thought a sec. What else did he need to take today? Water. Apple. Jacket. First-aid kit?

  “Watch the eggs, will you?” He gathered his life jacket and paddles, refilled a water bottle, and took everything down to the river.

  Then he smelled something burning.

  It was the bacon. He ran back, turned off the burner, and flipped the charred sides over.

  “I can’t eat that, it’s burnt,” Jane complained.

  “And I’m a vegetarian.” Nia peered into one of the coolers. “What else you got?”

  “How about a banana and an apple?” Campbell tried to keep his temper. “You’ll find them in the cooler.”

  “Where’s the fresh OJ? I can’t drink concentrate.” Jane dug in the food bin.

  “Sure you can,” Campbell answered.

  “But it tastes like water.”

  “Girls, please. Camping is all about doing things a little differently. Everything tastes better outdoors.” He gritted his teeth. “Please, go get dressed.”

  “Before my second cup of coffee?” Jane asked, bewildered.

  “I’ll make some more,” he grumbled. Catering to other people’s every whim just felt wrong. How the hell did Ken do this day after day?

  After making sure everything was cooking fine, Campbell carried his canoe down to the water. Hearing another voice behind him, he dropped it with a thump, wrenching his shoulder.

  “Having another interesting day, Dad? You said you wanted a change of pace, but maybe not this much?” Francine wiped sleep out of her eyes. “I slept great.”

  Everyone was up. Well, all right then. Time to disappear.

  “Hungry?” he asked. He walked back to the cooler and pulled out the last of the eggs.

  In the distance Alice and Jane were laughing and skipping rocks. He had a few minutes. He threw a chunk of cheese and a chub of salami into a plastic bag and turned up the heat under the eggs.

  Nia stood around the stove, giggling. “Did they teach you how to cook like that at guide school?”

  He turned the eggs over, revealing them to be uncharred on the back side. “See—not so bad.” He doled them out, a spoonful for each, soft and gooey, with streaks of white.