by Craig Lesley
"Stop it, you savage! Stop it!" Turning, I saw her face twisted in rage. Then her weight lifted off me. Jake dragged her by the life jacket toward the shallows.
Astonished, the man stood before me, breathing raggedly. Brushing his nose with the back of his hand, he stared at the smear of blood. Then he splashed past me toward shore, throwing himself across a grassy hummock. He vomited into the water.
My wrists hurt and my forearms bore angry red marks where he had stopped my blows. By evening they would darken to bruises. The woman waded out again and dragged the dazed man to land. "You're insane!" she screamed at me. As she touched his torn ear, he cried out. "You crazy bastard," she said. "He's hurt bad."
"I've seen worse," Jake said. "Just keep him warm. Get him off the river."
"We don't want any help from you," she said. Another party of rafters had pulled to shore downstream, and she started dragging the man in their direction.
She called back over her shoulder, "We're going to report this to the authorities. You don't belong on this river."
"Maybe you'd better figure out how to salvage your raft first." Jake watched them a moment and muttered, "Good riddance." Wading out to where I stood, he gripped my shoulder and steered me toward shore. "How you feeling, champ? Can you go another round?"
I nodded, but couldn't find the breath to speak. A yellow jacket landed on my bleeding leg and I waved it away.
We walked fifty yards upstream along a fisherman's path. I could see our boat, but my legs gave out. "Got to sit." Stumbling to a bleached log, I waited to catch my breath. I felt terribly cold. My knees shook.
"Be right back, champ."
Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply and waited for the shaking to stop. A slight breeze rustled the alder leaves. Opening my eyes, I saw pollen from the redtop dusting my thighs and legs. Sunlight bounced off the water like bright coins.
Jake returned with a handful of Fig Newtons and a Pepsi. "Sugar." He put a wool jacket across my shoulders. After a few minutes in the sun, I smelled the warming wool; it seemed to pull the chill from my body. After I had eaten the cookies and drunk half the Pepsi, Jake held up my arm the way a referee handles a winning pnzefighter. "The winner and still cham-peen!"
I grinned and shook my head. "Maybe I shouldn't have hit him, but the bastard almost killed me."
"What the hell," Jake said. "I wanted to clobber him myself. She was okay, though. Feisty."
I lowered my head. The sunshine felt good across my shoulders, and I was just thankful to be above water, breathing.
Jake touched my leg. "We better take out early, get you a tetanus shot."
"Whatever." I was a little surprised I didn't mind leaving the river. We had planted some trees at the memorial site and planned an extra day's fishing to avoid the Water Pageant. But now, taking out early seemed best.
"Rafters." Jake pitched a stone toward the water. "One fool didn't die today. That means we owe two tomorrow."
15
"I LOVE THE EARTH TONES. So sensual yet restful." The red-haired woman wore a bright purple wraparound dress and matching cap. "Don't you remember, Charles? We saw beautiful work like this in Santa Fe."
Her husband glanced up from his plateful of cheese wedges, crackers, and dips. An enormous man with a full beard, he wore a Western-style beige suit and alligator cowboy boots the same reptilian green as his cowboy hat's band. "Those paintings were more vibrant." He selected a cheese chunk impaled on a red-ruffled toothpick. "It's the light—the slant of desert light."
"You're right." She tapped one painting's frame. "But these are more unstructured. I adore the recklessness."
"With a little luck, I'll get these people on a river trip," Jake said, his voice lowered. "A little more luck and they'll fall overboard. No, come to think about it, that lard-o won't sink." He sipped a glass of wine, but I could tell he wanted a beer or a hard drink. Still, he was being pleasant enough, trying to put on a good face whenever Juniper introduced him to the gallery owners or admirers who had come to the opening.
"See any blue-haired retired schoolteachers?" she had asked Jake during a quiet moment.
"They're all at home taking a few shots of Geritol so they can stay awake for the Festival of Floats."
Now she circulated with ease among the gallery crowd and other artists while Jake worked his way into a section featuring Western art. With his deep tan, military pressed pants, and light gray corduroy jacket, one might have mistaken him for an artist. A roadrunner bolo tie crafted from silver and turquoise was loosened at the collar of his denim shirt. The tie was a gift from Juniper, who had somehow talked him into attending the opening. Only when Jake had suggested heading for Central did I realize that this art show was his reason for taking out early, not his desire to make certain I had a tetanus shot.
Franklin and my mother attended the opening as well. Both wore Italian costumes. He talked on about the art in France and Italy, but they both seemed to be having a good time, even though Franklin appeared a little self-conscious about his wounds. "You could stand him in the corner like a statue," Jake said to my mother while Franklin was discussing Renaissance work with the gallery director. "Dangle a sign off him: BRUISED MAN."
"Don't get started, Jake," she warned.
Upon first learning that Jake planned to attend the opening, she had suggested we all ride up together. "I don't think so," he said. "Sounds too much like a bad double date. Anyway, I don't think I could resist Franklin's cologne round trip."
Juniper's paintings were titled in small capital letters with the prices alongside, WOMEN DIGGING CAMAS 300. HUCKLEBERRY FESTIVAL 350. Three paintings had a small red dot beside the price. "They've been sold," my mother explained. "That dot lets people know."
"Big deal, this art game," Jake said. "I sold two already and I'm not even a gallery. Besides, who knows how much commission these owners gouge?"
Jake deserved to be proud of the fact he had sold two of her works so quickly, both to dudes who claimed the paintings would keep their wives from protesting about the cost of Jake's fishing trips. Juniper suggested our adding the remaining three works to her show, but Jake insisted on leaving them in the store. I wished they had taken down the two of Kalim.
After she'd surveyed all the paintings, my mother cornered me about some clothes she'd seen in a men's store across the way. Franklin had been selecting a couple ties when my mother noticed a navy blue blazer she wanted me to try on. "Culver, I know you'd be even more dashing wearing that lovely blazer." With a lowered voice, she added, "They take layaway. Twenty percent down. The rest by Christmas. We can swing that."
"I don't need a blazer, Mom."
"Every young man needs one," she said. "It's part of the classic wardrobe. I remember your father's. He looked so handsome."
"Where would I wear it?"
"School pictures, the prom." She put her hands lightly on my shoulders and stood tiptoe to look square into my eyes. "You always act the way you dress. Not that I don't expect you to behave perfectly well no matter how you dress." She shook her head. "You're almost taller than your father. I swear, I'm going to put a brick on your head to slow your growth."
"Don't, Mom. Maybe I'll get a basketball scholarship." I paused. "Gateway's got a department store. I can look there later."
She stepped back. "Gateway's very nice, but as far as shopping goes, a little limited. Central has wonderful variety." Her eyes shifted to my pants. "Are those getting too tight? You're standing funny."
"I'm perfectly okay, Mom. Really. I just haven't worn these corduroy pants in a while."
"I think they're a little short. Right after Juniper talks, Franklin and I are taking you across the street. We've got to get you spruced up before school."
She didn't miss much. I was standing funny because the bandage the doctor had applied was stiffening my scraped leg. Before giving me a tetanus shot, he pronounced, "No sign of infection." Scraping off a little of the dressing Jake had applied, he asked, "What's this?"
"Bip," Jake said. "Bag balm and sheep dip. I mix it myself. Patent pending."
The doctor took a tube out of his white desk drawer. "If you run out of Bip, try this ointment."
When about forty people had gathered, the gallery owner tapped his wine glass with a small spoon and announced two upcoming shows, then introduced Juniper and the other artists.
Each offered a few comments. Juniper's talk was simple and clear. She pointed out that her works spoke for themselves, but she also explained they embodied a tradition of beliefs and ceremonies. In conclusion, she noted that her paintings were a way of returning thanks to her land and heritage.
After she finished, nearly everyone clapped politely, then returned to the wine and cheese. However, the red-haired woman pressed forward, taking Juniper's hand and announcing she was an artist herself. "Your words were a gift," the woman said. "A wonderful illumination at this very moment when I'm struggling to find my way through the dark night of the soul."
"Thank you," Juniper said. "It's always good to know people like your work."
"You're such a spiritual person. I was telling Charles earlier how enlightening your work is. Wasn't I, Charles?"
"Certainly." As he spoke, a few pieces of cheese leaked from his mouth into his beard and he tried combing them out with his fingers. I wondered where he was putting all the toothpicks.
Juniper kept smiling politely after the woman released her and then talked to several others who approached. When her admirers thinned, Jake handed her a glass of wine and touched her arm. "Now that you've sung for your supper, I'll buy. Let's head out, put on the feed bag."
She laughed. "Jake, I'd love to, but I've got to have dinner with some of these people. Why don't you come along. It's just a light dinner, nothing fancy."
Jake nodded at the man in the alligator boots. "That puny fella gonna turn up?"
She smiled. "How did you know?"
"I'm getting to know the art game. Hell, I'm already half your agent."
"That's Dr. Spears. Maybe I should introduce you. He loves fishing."
"Never mind," Jake said. "I'd have to buy a bigger boat. What kind of doc is he anyway?"
"You be quiet," she scolded. "He's a heart specialist."
"What does that tell you?" Jake answered his own question. "Never get your rig checked by a mechanic whose truck is headed for a breakdown."
"Go on," she said. "You're bad for business. Dr. Spears is thinking of commissioning some work for his office."
"I'll bet it's a painting of the First Foods Ceremony—huckleberries, salmon, caus caus, venison..."
She tried moving away from Jake, but he held her sleeve lightly. "I've got an idea for a series of paintings." He nodded toward Franklin. "The Bruised Man Collection."
My mother held Franklin's elbow. With his free hand he slipped something into his mouth.
"Bruised Man and Breath Mint," Jake said.
Juniper laughed as she was trying to sip her wine and began coughing. He patted her on the back. "Excuse me," she said when she had regained control. "I've got to use the restroom."
Alarmed, I realized Mom was steering Franklin our way. "She plans to take me shopping, Jake," I whispered. "Get me out of it." I didn't want to go, especially with Franklin. And I suspected if I did, after the blazer she'd force me to try on slacks. I doubted I could keep the bandage a secret. No way did I want her to ask about the near escape at the Combine.
Jake was all smiles when they reached us. "Franklin, good to see you." He held out his hand and, after they shook, said, "Wasn't Juniper's talk splendid? Brief but spiritual, a real gift."
Franklin hesitated then answered. "Why yes, it was ... spiritual." He smiled. "That's a good way to put it."
"I believe we've seen all the wonderful paintings," my mother said brightly. "Franklin and I were going to take Culver across the street to try on some clothes. We still have time before the Festival of Floats."
"That's a great idea," Jake said, and I wanted to kick him, until he added, "There's just a slight conflict." His eyes cut to the gallery owner who seemed about to close a sale on the huckleberry festival painting. "Flora, I don't want to put things in a quandary, but after the showing, the gallery owner and Juniper invited some people out to a light supper. She wanted me to sort of escort her and I thought maybe Culver should tag along. It's a nice opportunity."
"Really? Well, that's very nice."
I couldn't tell if she believed him entirely, but his next move was brilliant. "That distinguished-looking man in the alligator boots—Dr. Spears—is one of the West's top heart specialists. When the governor had that irregularity, they called in Spears for consultation." Jake tapped his chest. "And he loves to fish; that's my part in it. Don't you think Culver deserves a chance to associate with the best professionals Central has to offer?"
"Yes," she said, convinced. "I think so, too. It's a wonderful opportunity. Maybe we can shop later."
"No problem, Flora," Franklin said. "We'll bring Culver up another time."
She squeezed his upper arm. "Thank you. That would be lovely." Looking me over from top to bottom, she added, "I only wish you'd worn something other than those trousers. The wales appear a little worn." She brushed my cheek with a kiss. "Next time you'll be decked out in a brand-new blazer."
Her perfume, one I didn't recognize, suggested apple blossoms, and I knew this was a special occasion for her. "Love you, Mom," I said. "Have a good time." To tell the truth, I felt a little lousy for deceiving her, but I figured it would pass.
After my mother and Franklin left, Jake and I slipped out. "You owe me big time, Shotgun," he said.
***
The streets were festive, decorated for Venice West. Italian flags hung from the lampposts and the window boxes held colorful flowers. People wearing Italian costumes streamed toward the park beside the river. Many of them carried picnic baskets.
"All this excitement!" Jake stopped and thumped his heart with his fist. "Thank God it's not a heart attack. They'd have to call Spears away from the cheese plate."
I laughed. "Maybe you're hungry," I suggested, because I was. "We could try going to an Italian place."
Jake squinted at me. "Are you nuts? This is Central. They're only pretending to be Venice."
We stopped at the Branding Iron, which overlooked a stretch of river below the pond and park. The restaurant menu boasted they served only prime beef from registered Black Angus. "Say, do you know Dr. Spears by any chance?" Jake asked the waitress.
"You bet. He and his wife eat here all the time."
"This must be the place." Folding his menu, Jake winked at me. He ordered the Trail Boss and I had the Scout—both medium rare. They tasted terrific.
After dinner, Jake sipped his Seven and Seven. "Those gallery people put on a pretty good shindig. Wonder how they wound up in the art game, anyway."
"Maybe the way you got into sporting goods. Family business."
Jake nodded. "Could be."
After it grew dark, Central's symphony began playing in the park. I didn't recognize the music drifting across the water and through the open windows but thought my mother probably did. If not, Franklin would.
Fireworks flashed in the sky. Our waitress paused to view the display out the window. "Look there," she said. "The floats are just starting. Of all the lousy deals, I had to pull night shift. Still, you get a pretty good view from here."
After leaving her a big tip, Jake got another drink in a to-go cup, and we went outside to watch. The floats were at some distance, but we saw pretty well. Several resembled gondolas covered with fragrant blossoms. Men and women wearing bright traditional costumes waved as the floats glided on the mirror-smooth water. It was something to see all right.
When a siren went off, I thought it was part of the pageant, until I heard a fire engine race through town. More fireworks brightened the sky. Another siren sounded.
"Two alarms," Jake said. "Maybe their pyrotechnics got out of hand." Glimpsing
the engine through the trees, he added, "That's their outlaw. Fire's outside of town someplace."
The tempo of the music quickened, and I suspected they were approaching the finale. A burst of fireworks outlined Italy's boundaries. The decorated boats faced the audience and we could hear ripples of applause.
"That was terrific," I said.
Jake nodded. "People like it. Of course, it's nothing like Gateway's fair and rodeo." He checked his watch. "I've got to hurry back and stick my face in a few bars. There'll be hell to pay if any of the back-room boys figure out I watched this damn pageant."
The magical boats shimmered like colorful leaves on the obsidian water. Deciding to add Italy to my vacation list of Canada and Alaska, I asked Jake, "You ever think of traveling to Italy?"
He pursed his lips. "I used to think about it. My worst fear is that it might turn out exactly like this."
16
THREE MILES OUTSIDE OF TOWN, we stopped on Rattlesnake Ridge to survey the fire. This spectacle illuminated the whole sky, and Jake guessed you could see the burning for fifty miles.
Most of the industrial buildings on the hill overlooking Gateway were blazing. The stud mill and plywood plant erupted with bright orange flames, and the fire threatened other nearby buildings—the Feed and Seed Co-op, the grain elevators, the historic railroad depot across from the plywood mill.
The cold deck, a log stack twenty feet high that stretched for two hundred yards, faced danger, too. Three sets of railroad tracks separated the cold deck from eight large fuel storage tanks that held gasoline, farm diesel, and home heating oil.
Jake seemed stunned by the fire's size. "They got two sprinkler systems at the mill," he said. "How'd they let that son of a bitch get started?"
Gateway's town siren shrieked steadily, calling all volunteers into action. In the distance, we heard the eerie wail of sirens and saw three red and white pumper fire engines racing toward the fire from the south.
