Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

  Smoke spiraled off a cigarette Tucker held between his lips. E.B. watched him take a few more back strokes, coming toward the shore in a back ferry move.

  E.B. closed his fingers around the shaft of his paddle.

  Laura studied Tucker, the round rock at her hip at the ready. He was thirty river feet from her and twenty feet below her perch. She could see his stubbly cheeks. He was bailing, studying the shore. E.B., with his hand on her shoulder, gave her small comfort.

  Suddenly Tucker stopped paddling.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered in E.B.’s ear. “I left my paddle on the beach.”

  “Where?” E.B. asked quietly.

  Laura peeled out one finger and gestured to the shore, down near the water’s edge. The orange blade was buried in a bush, not visible from the water, but the other end stuck out, four inches of visible blue shaft with a bright yellow handle.

  “Let’s just pray he doesn’t see it.” E.B. tightened his fingers around hers.

  With a studied look, Tucker put down his bailer, took a drag of his cigarette, flicked it into the water, and pushed off into the center of the river.

  Laura, keeping her mouth down on the dirt and trying not to breathe dust, watched Tucker.

  “He’s heading on,” E.B. said.

  Laura smiled weakly. Her shoulders ached like the morning after a long night dancing on the pole. She went to lift her head.

  “Not yet,” E.B. whispered, placing his hand on her shoulder and nudging her gently back down onto the ground. “He could turn around at any time now. Wait.”

  Once Tucker’s canoe had floated out of sight around the next bend, E.B. cleared his throat.

  “Let him go on for a bit,” E.B. said. “I just can’t imagine how you overpowered him.”

  “Jesus Christ, E.B. Just get me away from that asshole or I will certainly kill him. Or you, if you ask me again.”

  “Got it,” E.B. said. “In an hour he’ll be halfway to Coal Banks and long gone.”

  She stayed down, feeling stifled.

  The sun warmed the air. Tucked in behind a pile of rocks, Laura relaxed very slowly. A little. A chipmunk skittered across an open area in front of them, tail high, sniffing the air.

  She placed her rock down beside her. “Kind of pretty, isn’t it?” she ventured, wanting to believe she was safe.

  A hawk circled overhead, eyeing the chipmunk. “Will he be all right?” she asked. The hawk dove. She caught her breath. Heard a cry. The hawk rose and headed across the river, something in its mouth.

  “Jesus, that was fast.” She felt her heart, banging fast.

  “They miss most of the time,” E.B. said.

  “Jesus. Just a little chipmunk.”

  “Still scared?”

  “Yes,” she answered, shivering. She would never forget that cry. “Can we go now?” Even here, on the bluff with E.B. next to her, she still didn’t feel safe.

  Ten minutes later, they were back in the canoe again.

  The sun’s beams danced on small wavelets. She wished she could enjoy it.

  Hearing the pain in her voice, E.B. tried to lighten her mood. “I’ll sing that song from Frozen.” He stopped paddling and rested a minute.

  “Not that one, I hear it all the time. How about something else?”

  “I don’t know anything else, and I don’t know this one either,” he laughed. He couldn’t remember any songs after third grade. That’s when Mrs. Henderson said he couldn’t hold a tune.

  “Never mind,” he mumbled, “we’ll just paddle for a bit. I’ll hum it.”

  “Oh please, no,” she said and laughed.

  They were gliding near the shore. He could paddle with her forever. She was just as anxious as a wild hare, all quivering and fluttering with nerves. He was big enough, and he’d fought some, but he wasn’t a fighting man—but now, he’d take Tucker out with one shot, no problem. He wished he’d brought his grandfather’s Remington 34.

  Coming around a bend, he pulled back to avoid strainers. The current was fast here. He pulled one, two, three times, just about to pass the last branch, when he felt the canoe stop suddenly.

  Had they hit a snag? He glanced back in the water. He put his paddle in again, and then pulled back. Something hooked on his blade. “What the hell?” he turned and leaned over, tightening his grip. And went in.

  Under the water strong arms grabbed at his head. E.B. fought back, kicking against the force, and then it was gone.

  By the time he came up gasping for air, the canoe was fifty feet downriver, and Tucker was hanging on to the canoe, Laura in it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Monday, noon

  Coal Banks Landing

  DAISY

  Forty miles away, Daisy was hurtling down Virgelle Ferry road toward Coal Banks Landing, in a 1968 Econoline van driven by a guy named Frank who was hitting every pothole while talking on his cell phone, chewing gum, and stubbing the ends of his Marlboro cigarettes into an overfilled ashtray. “Drop Kick Me Jesus Through the Goalposts of Life” blared over the radio.

  Frank weaved back and forth across the double yellow line, getting back in his lane only when they heard the loud wail of a truck hurtling toward them on the highway. Then and only then did he swerve to the right side of the road and his wheels ran along the white line.

  This time Daisy gasped. Two inches away the asphalt dropped off. She closed her eyes. The van straightened out. She finally took a peep. Stay straight, please, oh God.

  Frank dropped into a pothole, struggling to hold the wheel, and bounced back out again.

  Something on the side of the road caught Daisy’s eye. She glanced right. A white cross flew by, covered with flowers, then another and another.

  “What are the white crosses for?” she shouted, over the din. “Religious fundamentalists looking for converts? Don’t you think there’s a better place for crosses than the road?”

  “Road casualties,” he replied, enunciating every syllable, “fatalities.” He bumped into another pothole. They flew out the other side and dropped with a bang.

  “Could you please, please, please, slow down?” Daisy croaked.

  He looked at her and laughed, taking a deep drag from his cigarette and blowing smoke out the side of his mouth.

  “Slow down, ma’am? Why, that’s heresy in these parts,” he crowed, then punched it. The van lurched forward. “The only thing I slow down for is cattle and I don’t see any—not yet, anyway.”

  “Cattle? On the road?” Daisy took another look at the driver.

  “Free range,” he said and accelerated into a turn.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Daisy said. “You’ll run into them.”

  “Sometimes we do,” he said. “But then we have to pay for them. It’s kind of expensive.”

  “Could you please slow down a little? I don’t want to die out here.”

  Frank flicked his cigarette butt out the window, balanced his left arm on the windowsill, and steered with his right. “Nah, we’re all right.”

  Daisy was appalled. Was everyone in Montana crazy? She grabbed the handle on her door, trying to steady herself from slamming into the dash. This wasn’t what she’d planned for. She’d had in mind instead a yellow cab driven by some Middle Eastern guy complaining about the weather or the traffic—not this hick who drove as if he were fleeing a fire.

  “How much farther to Coal Banks?” she yelled, tightening her seat belt and grasping her purse.

  “Not too far—ten minutes, maybe,” Frank answered and thrummed on the steering wheel.

  Daisy closed her eyes. She could do ten minutes. Heck, ten minutes was nothing. She’d waited five years for this day. Two weeks ago at her place on the Upper West Side, Campbell had said he had something important to tell her in Montana. Something special.

  Daisy smiled. At thirty, she was ready to be a bride.

  For their reunion in Montana she’d picked her clothes carefully. She was wearing her white Keds slip-ons, white sh
orts, a candy-apple-red camp shirt, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. It had a wide white ribbon that fell across her shirt. Her extra-large Jackie O sunglasses made her feel cool. She knew she looked great. She opened and closed the clasp on her beaded pink purse, which cost half of last week’s paycheck. It was worth it.

  “Been to Montana before, ma’am?” Frank asked.

  “Nope.” She wasn’t going to say any more to him.

  She preferred to concentrate on Campbell. She closed her eyes. The last time they’d traveled together, they’d gone to Hawaii. Back then, Campbell had run the real estate operation for Mechanics Bank on Wall Street and was always doing deals. It had taken months to arrange a getaway. Their first morning there, they’d been sitting on the lanai, watching the surf roll in, when the phone rang. Campbell flew home that afternoon. Watching the surf lost its allure after that. For a whole week, Daisy had slowly sipped Mai Tais and Rum Collinses, waiting to go home. She’d used his Visa until it reached its limit on Wednesday. This trip there would be no goddamn phones. None at all. Good.

  “You going on the river, ma’am?” Frank asked, jolting Daisy’s reverie. He turned down the radio and smashed another cigarette into the ashtray.

  “Uh-huh,” she muttered, lost in thought.

  “Wearing that?” he gestured with one tobacco-stained finger at her white shorts.

  On the river there’d be no phone, no e-mail, and no goddamn truck driver.

  “Of course,” she answered, fluffing her hair a little and giving her four-inch-wide ribbon a toss.

  He scratched his stubby chin. “You have warmer clothes, like a sweater or something? Raincoat?”

  “They didn’t say it was going to rain,” she answered, patting her Land’s End twenty-inch carry-on by her feet. “Besides, I’ve got warmer stuff.”

  “I bet you do,” the driver said, making Daisy feel a little funny.

  The brakes squealed as he slowed down, whipped the wheel around, and careened onto a dirt road.

  “Hey!” she yelled, reaching out to grab onto anything she could but slamming into the door instead.

  “Good thing it’s locked, huh?” he said. “We’re here.” Frank stopped in a cloud of dust that rose over the bed of the truck and floated onto the windshield. “Coal Banks Landing, ma’am.” He tipped his hat. “At your service.”

  He jumped out of the truck, ran around to her side, and opened the door. He held out one grubby hand.

  Daisy looked at the picnic tables, empty and forlorn campsites, and two seedy trailers near the boat ramp. A door banged shut.

  “I’m sure you’ve made a mistake,” she whispered. She undid her seatbelt and stepped down onto the running board; she looked at the campground, then back at him. She didn’t move.

  “No mistake,” he said. “This is it.”

  She saw him study her.

  “C’mon,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Hop down. You can see the river from here.”

  She was frozen in place, one hand on the door, the other holding her little purse.

  “Hey, lady, you getting out of the truck or not?”

  She buried her fingers into his big paw and stepped down, but stayed near the door.

  “Excuse me,” he said, pushing her aside a little and pulling out her duffle bag. He set it down and walked around the truck to the driver’s side door.

  “Hey! Wait a minute. Don’t leave me here!” she begged, curling her fingers around the passenger’s door handle.

  He gunned the engine.

  “But no one’s here!”

  “Gotta go,” he said, spitting gravel as he sped down the road.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Monday, afternoon on the river

  E.B. AND LAURA

  Laura screamed.

  E.B. was gone.

  The canoe hurtled down the river, backward. She took a stroke, but something was holding the boat. Had she hit another snag? She looked under the canoe. Five fingers clung to the hull, five inches from her legs. Five fingers reaching up from a man in the water—a man she hated. Tucker.

  “Goin’ somewhere, honey?” He grinned. Water crashed around his head as he held on.

  “You bastard!” She pulled her paddle back and swung at his hands, but he moved them under the hull. She tried for his head, but he ducked under.

  She felt him push the canoe toward shore like a kid with a toy boat. When they hit shore, she jumped out and tried to clonk him with her paddle as he rose from the water. He grabbed the shaft mid-blow. “Darling! Sweetheart! I’ve missed you.”

  She stood back, weaponless. She took up the horse stance. She’d go down fighting. “You looked pretty good back there, toasting your nards,” she said. “Need some sunscreen?”

  “I need a gallon, darling, ’cause I’m huge.”

  “Not from what I saw.” She roared with laughter.

  “There, there, now, no reason to be rude,” he said, coming close enough to embrace her.

  “Like I said, Tucker,” she said. “I like forceful guys and I think you’re terrif.”

  “That’s right, that’s what you said!” He spun around. “Was that before or after you hit me? Or tied me to the tree? Oh darling, I love the way you play!”

  “Shall we try again?” Laura asked. “You know, finish the job?”

  “She’s got a sense of humor, ladies and gents! Finish the job! Yes! Let’s! The canoe leaked badly, but the kind guys from the BLM patched it for me. So now, my little chickadee, no boyfriend, just you and me, darling. Alone together, at last.”

  “What’s your pleasure, Tucker?” She licked her lips.

  He twisted her around, so her back was at his chest. His smoky breath in her ear made her cringe. His hands grabbed her breasts, pulling on the flannel shirt she was still wearing. “You look great in my clothes, honey.”

  Laura elbowed him in the ribs.

  “You know I love that kinky stuff.” He backed off a little, then tucked her in closer, holding her arms down. Pressed his hands under her shirt. “Nice,” he gasped. “Sweet Jesus, nice. Size of frigging grapefruits. Mmmm mmmm.”

  Laura twisted her body, held her breath, and pushed him back. Tucker kept so close to her she couldn’t get any purchase. What was that Mr. Lee said? Close combat lessons, Laura, listen and learn. But she couldn’t remember any of it with Tucker’s face at her throat.

  “I’m ready to finish what you began,” Tucker said. Holding her tighter with one hand, he unbuckled his pants.

  “If you like, I can make you really happy!” Laura said and kicked him, catching him in the crotch. He stumbled. She took off up a slope, tripping over bushes, thorns digging into her feet as her flips-flops flew off.

  She tucked behind a rock. He flew by. Panting. She grabbed a big rock.

  She squinted at the river, looked uphill at Tucker fifty yards off. And downriver. E.B. was still too far away. But she could reach the river, couldn’t she? Hightail it to the water and hide? That’s if she could swim, that’s if she could run barefoot through thorns. She ran back to the water anyway; anything was better than being a dead duck. She was halfway to the water when she felt a blow and was knocked down onto her stomach.

  Tucker’s weight forced air out of her lungs. He dug his elbows into her arms and pushed her face into the ground. Sharp pebbles dug into her hips and shoulders. She kept gasping for breath, her mouth gulping dirt. He pulled off her, flipped her over, and crowed, “That’s how we do it in Texas, sweetheart!”

  He sat there, watching her.

  At last her lungs started to fill. She gulped in air and let it out slowly. It was as if her heart had stopped. Everything ached.

  “Let’s take a stroll, shall we?” he asked. “Unless you want to do it here?”

  “In the thorns and rocks? Sure if you want to be a bottom.”

  He grabbed her arm and dragged her back to the shore. “Not yet.”

  She searched for a weapon—paddle, rock, tree branch, her bare hands? Tucker squeeze
d her fingers so hard she thought he’d break them.

  “No, darling, no toys. Not anymore,” he smirked. His hot breath puffed on her neck as he reached over, pushed her down, and lay beside her.

  “I’m not being very ladylike,” she whispered. “Perhaps I should ask you about yourself? Where’d you grow up?”

  “Don’t talk, listen.”

  She eyed a paddle, just out of reach of her right hand. “I’ve always preferred men, but I like girls, too,” she chattered. “Men love threesomes. With big girls. You like big girls?” She let out a gasp of pleasure as his fingers crept toward her delectables. “Bet you never get enough. Just like me.”

  Tucker slipped the top of his pants down. He kept his jaw tight, and lay down on top of her, bracing himself with one hand. With his other hand he dug into her shorts.

  Out of the corner of her eye Laura noticed a movement from the trees. E.B!

  Crack.

  Her wind went out of her as Tucker fell on her chest.

  “Is he dead?” she asked E.B. as she eased out from under Tucker’s unconscious body. A trickle of blood eased out of Tucker’s nose. She bent down to sense his breath. Not yet; she leaned closer.

  He grabbed her throat and squeezed.

  “Asshole,” Tucker croaked. “She dies unless you give me your boat.”

  “Feel like killing someone. Kill me,” E.B. said.

  Tucker tightened his grip around Laura’s throat. “Seen too many films, buddy boy?” He grinned.

  Laura’s eyes felt like they were being squeezed out of her head. She couldn’t speak.

  “My little vixen.” He pulled her arm and forced her to sit next to him in the mud about six feet away from E.B. “Watch this.” With his free hand, he grabbed at her breasts. “Get lost, bud.”

  Laura wished she had a knife.

  “So you think this is a nice way to treat girls?” she croaked. “New way to make me hot?”

  Tucker held her head to the ground, and with one leg forced his foot onto her throat. “Get lost, asshole.”

  E.B. stood back. Walked away ten feet.

  “Farther. Farther. Or she doesn’t breathe again today.”