The River

by Mary Jane Beaufrand

  Once, a while ago, I tried to decide if I was in love with him because he was the only hip guy in town, or if I still would’ve been in love with him in Portland, a city lousy with boys like that, who listened to the Clash and the Ramones and worshipped Kurt Cobain. I decided I would’ve liked him anyway because a) he wasn’t ashamed of being smart—brilliant at science and math; and b) he had this incredibly enticing tuft of chest hair. It always curled over his T-shirts or plaid button-downs which, on him, looked more grunge than yokel. I couldn’t see that tuft without wanting to curl my fingers through it and yank him closer.

  He looked up and saw me skulking. “Oh, hey,” he said.

  “Hey,” I said, embarrassed to be caught staring. I tried to recover. “Monster cookie?” I offered, still holding the tray.

  He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I just heard what happened this morning. I brought you these.”

  He handed me a bunch of purple flowers. Lupine. Just like the ones from Karen’s mud pies.

  “Oh man,” he said, pointing to my apron, where blooms just like it were poking out.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I can always take more.” I put the tray down and took the bouquet from him. “Thanks. I didn’t think these were in bloom yet.”

  Keith shrugged. “You have to know where to look.”

  Another explorer. Like Karen.

  No. Not like Karen. But still, I wondered if maybe in some weird way, he was here because I deserved him after what I’d been through today. Maybe Keith was my reward for enduring.

  I brought the blooms up to my nose.

  “They don’t smell like anything,” he said.

  But they did. They smelled fresh, like rain and growth and something more subtle—the promise of spring, maybe? I buried my nose deeper. Not promise; hope. They smelled like hope.

  And I could tell, even without bringing the other blooms up to my nose, that they smelled different. Those smelled like courage.

  I took in his saturated Eisenhower jacket and muddy Doc Martens.

  “You didn’t walk all the way here to give me these, did you?” I said. Keith and his mom and stepdad had a hacienda-type house on a hilltop behind the ranger station. They had horses and one picture-perfect golden retriever. So even though Keith’s stepdad owned Phil’s Tiki Hut, the skankiest bar in the Cascade Range, the LaMarrs lived like country squires. Keith’s mom wore bolo ties and expensive belted cardigans made from Navajo blankets, though she definitely wasn’t Navajo.

  “Nah, I was up here anyway looking for pinecones,” he said.

  “Pinecones,” I repeated.

  He peeled off his heavy-looking backpack and unzipped the top. It was full of pinecones, all right. Giant, Ponderosa-sized with lethal-looking points. “Ahhhh…,” I said, understanding. I’d forgotten that Keith’s mom made “found art” that she sold at the Victorian Cottage on Highway 22. She slapped googly eyes on the cones and put them in various outfits and poses: pinecone with a fishing rod, pinecone on a toilet, pinecone at the dentist. I didn’t think that was art, but the asking price was fifty bucks apiece.

  “That’s great you help your mother like that,” I said. And I meant it. I loved that he dressed tough but was considerate of the women in his life. And smelling the flowers he’d brought made me want to be one of those women.

  He finally seemed to notice my red eyes and runny nose. Otherwise, why would he have bolted like that? He quickly zipped up his pack. “Gotta run. See you in school!” He took off through the back door, sprinting around the side of the inn like a mule deer, leaving me wondering at what he might’ve said if I had had straight hair or bigger breasts or more makeup or not been wearing this formless khaki uniform and aerobic-looking shoes.

  Instead I was left with another retreating back; another closed door.

  I was still standing there when Sheriff McGarry came out to join me, collapsing on the wicker rocker, which listed heavily under her weight. Another thing rotting from the inside. She looked at the lupine in my hand. “Those from your boyfriend?”

  I’d forgotten I was holding them. I stuck them in another apron pocket, one far away from Karen’s blooms.

  I looked up and caught her gazing out the window. She looked tired, the way Mom had that day Dad broke down, and every day since when she thought no one was looking.

  “Monster cookie?” I offered.

  She shook her head slowly. “Have a seat, Ronnie.”

  I did, and the sofa groaned under me.

  She leaned forward and steepled her fingers together. She did not have a notepad, or a deputy who was scribbling for her.

  “How often do you run alone?”

  “Every Saturday,” I said.

  “Do you have a running buddy? Someone to go with you?”

  “Not unless you count the dog pack,” I said slowly.

  She picked something off her lip. “Oh yeah. I forgot about them. Still, maybe you should take someone big with you. How about Tomás? Would he tag along?”

  “He’s training for the playoffs,” I said. “Coach told him not to work the slow twitch muscles. Listen, what’s going on?” I asked. “Why are you asking me?”

  She didn’t say anything.

  And then I knew. In that one, unguarded moment, I could see in her face what had made her so tired.

  She didn’t think Karen’s drowning was just an accident. And now I could see it, too. Someone had made a trapdoor of Karen’s hair, and then forced her head under the current and watched her drown.

  “Oh my God,” I said, puky again. Who could have done such a thing? To Karen? And I understood in that moment why people needed to create monsters, vampires and werewolves and sasquatches. It was easier to believe in them than someone with a human face bashing in the head of a little girl.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Ronnie. We won’t know until the coroner’s report comes back. But I wanted to put you on your guard. If you have to go out and you can’t find a running buddy, it’s probably a good idea to carry something.”

  “You mean like my cell?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Do you know how to use pepper spray?” She ferreted around her belt and dug something out. A leather pouch that looked like a rustic lipstick holder.

  She popped the cap. “Here,” she said, tossing it to me. “When you’re running, leave it unbuttoned like that. And keep it somewhere handy.”

  I caught it and examined it. “It looks like Bahama Blast,” I said, because that was the first thing my mind fixed on. Pathetic. My only point of reference for a weapon was something you could buy at the Clinique counter.

  “Don’t point it at your mouth,” she said. Then she wagged her finger at me. “And don’t be a wuss now, Ronnie. If something happens, use it. Aim straight for the eyes. Don’t be a girl and hold back ’cause you’re afraid to hurt someone. You use it, and then you run. Do you understand? I know you can run.”

  I just nodded dumbly, but she wasn’t done with her lecture. “I mean it. Be careful out there. You think this is just a nice little town where people help each other. There’s an undercurrent here, Ronnie. You don’t know what goes on.”

  I shivered where I sat. I thought I heard the river wail monster monster monster….

  “What’s happening?” I said, more to myself than Sheriff McGarry.

  She sighed, adjusted her polyester pants, and stood up. “I wish I knew,” she said. “Now I have to face that poor family. Jesus.” I watched as she adjusted her face. All the weariness slid out, and she was once again perfectly poised and composed. She had a job to do.

  She walked away and paused at the door. Then, without looking back at me, she said, “For what it’s worth, keep an eye on your friend Gretchen. She’s on the brink of something, but maybe she can still be pulled back.”

  I thought of Gretchen passed out on my bed upstairs, scratching in her sleep. What was Sheriff McGarry worried about? Allergies? Overwork?

  I wanted to ask her. I wanted to do an
ything to keep her here with me, because she seemed the only adult who could help me thread my way through this new and nightmarish wilderness.

  Instead I let her walk away. She had more important things to do, and the only way I could help was, as usual, letting go and not making a fuss.

  I leaned on the door and watched her leave. She stood straight and refused a) crostini, b) crab cakes, and c) gigantic squares of warm corn bread oozing sweet, tart huckleberry preserves. I thought: so much for the cop/donut stereotype. No comfort food for her.

  And watching the back of her, stately, responsible, was what finally pulled me out of myself.

  Maybe, I thought, the job wasn’t damaging her. Maybe it was what was keeping her upright. While the rest of us stood back and offered each other baked goods and flowers and hair advice because we didn’t know how to help in any other way, she actually had the ability to do something.

  I got up off my butt and threw open the door of the sun porch.

  I didn’t know if Karen’s accident had happened up here or somewhere else. I didn’t know if it had been “straightforward,” or something I still didn’t want to face. But for Karen I would face it. Look, Ronnie. Just look.

  The rain hadn’t stopped. Baguette-size patches of snow remained along the yard on the way to the water. Once there, I stood at the top of the embankment, our embankment, which was tamer than the spot I’d found Karen. There were seven smooth river stones forming a stair down to the current. At the foot of them, more stones had been re-arranged to create a gentle pool apart from the rapids. An ancient cedar leaned out, its branches practically begging for a rope swing.

  Too gentle, said the voice in my head. Even though I hated everything about the inn, including this yard, it still felt safe.

  At Patchworks, a monster was just a big cookie.

  I looked across the river, up the river. There were miles and miles of trees that held miles and miles of secrets. The idea of what they might hide scared the bejesus out of me.

  Slowly, for Karen’s sake, still wearing my white apron and button-down shirt, I turned upstream and began to walk.

  The river is slightly higher now. It rained hard for the first time last night, and I’m trying not to think of that as a harbinger. Besides, today is glorious. Hard to believe frost will ever come. It will be summer here forever.

  Karen walks ahead of me and volunteers what I wasn’t brave enough to ask her before.

  She slips off her flip-flops. Come on, Ronnie, let’s go see what’s on the other side. She puts one foot into the water. It looks cool and accommodating, the way the current flows around her ankles.

  I don’t know, I say. The rocks look slick.

  It’s no big deal, Karen says. I’ve done this lots of times.

  The river changes, I say. At least that’s what Ranger Dave tells me.

  That’s what makes it fun, she says. Who knows what we’ll uncover? Maybe there’ll be cave drawings….

  Are there caves over there?

  … or a new kind of dinosaur.

  I know she means dinosaur fossil, but I imagine something huge with big teeth chasing us.

  But Karen’s eyes are sparkling with the possibility of discovery.

  Maybe we’ll find a sasquatch, I suggest.

  That’s the spirit, Clark.

  I’m Lewis, I say. Clark was an idiot.

  Whatever, she says. Let’s go.

  Hold on a sec. Wouldn’t you rather go for apple cake? It’s got caramel frosting.

  Swear to Jesus, Ronnie. For a big kid you’re a real wuss.

  Karen, I say, channeling that stern tone my father uses when he’s unamused. We should be getting back.

  Fine, she concedes. Run home to the East Coast before we even get to the Mississippi. You’re not even Clark.

  But she follows me back.

  As we turn to go, I watch her face for disappointment. But she doesn’t seem disappointed—she seems resolved, and I know that the instant she shakes me off she will cross over, deliberately going farther than before just to prove she can.

  If I’m really concerned for her safety, I will go with her now. We will explore together.

  Instead I lure her inside my gingerbread house with treats. Come, little girl. Come have some candy.

  I know that by tempting her inside I am caging her, and I know what that makes me. She’s right: I’m not even Clark. I’m much worse than that. But I still don’t want to cross. She’ll get over it, I think. She’s too resourceful to sulk.

  10

  That afternoon I barely made it to Clark status. I was a horrible frontierswoman, but I forged ahead for Karen, threading my way through tall grass and Himalayan blackberries, eyes on the banks and on the current. I was combing, a slow walk looking for something someone else might have missed. I didn’t find anything unusual—coyote sign (that’s what Ranger Dave would have called it—it was really just paw prints and poop), rabbit sign, a hunk of jasper, a thunderegg, and the occasional spent shell casing. I suppose the shell casings were creepy, but even though I was looking for creepy things, I couldn’t make myself believe that this was worse than what it was: poaching sign. There were plenty of mule deer with velvety ears and mossy antlers around, but hunting season ended in December. Either the casings were two months old or else someone didn’t care about silly little things like hunting licenses.

  Ranger Dave once told me that, since it’s only legal to hunt stags and not does or fawns, at the first sign of chill, stags will separate themselves from their families, so in case they do get blown away, the women and little Bambis will be safe.

  When Ranger Dave first told me that, about the stags wandering off at the first nip in the air to save their families, it broke my heart. But not today. Today there were worse things to be than a lone stag. I’d seen those suckers run. At least they had speed on their side.

  Coyote sign; rabbit sign; shell casings. An empty box of Froot Loops circling a backwater. Nothing exceptional. At least not here. But what was on the other side? Ah… that would be different.

  And yet I didn’t even try to cross the river. I blamed it on my shoes with their flat soles. I’d either have to wear them or take them off. Either way there wasn’t much safety fording those slippery rocks. I’d seen Karen’s scalp. Much as I wanted to help, I didn’t want to be another corpse.

  I doubt I even made it a quarter of a mile, my frontier skills were so wimpy. Every so often I tilted my head to the rain clouds and said, “I’m trying,” as though I were apologizing to a Karen in some heaven in the sky, instead of just around the bend, just out of sight. I told myself that I wasn’t looking for Karen herself—I was looking for Karen sign. I shuddered and looked at the unknown east bank. Even then I knew that if I wanted to catch up with her, I would have to cross over.

  I was saved from a total retreat by a rustling in the bushes. This is it, I thought. Whatever I’m waiting for, it’s about to spring on me. I saw a big flash of brown. It was big—maybe a deer, maybe a grizzly, maybe a poacher, maybe a sicko with big hairy arms waiting to force my head underwater.

  Step shuffle step shuffle step shuffle. Tomás emerged from a thicket, wearing a brown rain poncho and waving around a flashlight in broad daylight.

  “Jesus. You scared the hell out of me,” I said.

  “You’re one to talk. Why did you just wander off like that?”

  I didn’t know what to say, and muttered something like, “To save the herd,” but it didn’t make any sense, not even to me. So what? I liked him but that didn’t mean I owed him a coherent explanation.

  “You really had us worried, you know,” he said, and his voice had a cut to it that I’d never heard before, and I was afraid. “You should have told someone where you were going.”

  And then, even though I’d never even seen his abusive father, I got an inkling of what he must’ve been like, because I could see it in the shadows of his son’s eyes. This was what kept him quiet around me. This was what he was guarding
against. You can’t be six foot six and mean and still hope to have friends. I never asked Tomás how his father was abusive, but I sometimes pictured it when I looked at the giant ropy scar on his wrist. I mean, if you have a father like that, can you ever be mad? Or would you always be afraid of losing control?

  But that wasn’t the root of the problem. I wondered if he was mad because I was inconsiderate, or if he was mad because he was afraid. I had gone missing the day a body had turned up. “You’re right,” I said, because he was. And that deflated him. Any hint of rage seemed drain out of him, right through his boots.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We were just really worried, you know. I had to tell your mom and dad that you were off on a lark. And I really really don’t like lying to your dad.”

  Tomás practically worshipped my father. He sometimes even let him win at hoops, which did a ton for Dad’s nonexistent confidence. It was a sweet thing to watch, if I weren’t relegated to watching all the time, wondering how I fit in with them, wondering if I even wanted to. I wasn’t a son; I wasn’t a sister. What was I?

  Water, that’s what. Flowing around everything; part of nothing. It was easier that way.

  “I’ll call them now,” I said. I reached instinctively for the pocket with my cell phone in it. But there was no pocket. These weren’t my running pants—they were my chinos. Work pants. And I never needed my cell when I was in the kitchen.

  “Looking for this?” Tomás asked, and took my phone out of a pocket in his poncho. “Or maybe this?” He took my new lip gloss/pepper spray from another pocket.

  I could only look at them dumbly.

  “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

  I shook my head. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  But then he surprised me. “You guys used to come out here all the time. What are you hoping to find?”

  “I don’t know. A piece of her, I guess. Just something to show that she’d been here.” I meant both on the riverbank and in my life. And Tomás seemed to understand.