by David Jurk
I’D DAMN WELL had enough of them before they even managed to get the flatbed parked. As it was, they left it sticking half in the road so that every car coming along was forced blind into the opposite lane – not something people around here took with a lot of grace. Meaning that all morning there were horns, fingers thrust out of windows and a few shouts; but at least no gunshots - and we’re an open-carry state.
The truckers didn’t even seem to notice; I suppose with their kind of detached arrogance they were used to it. Except that I was paying them, they’d have ignored me too; Mitch and whatever his name was, come to free my boat at long last from the barn, birth it out into the open air, into the sunshine. Except being February, there was no sunshine, there was nothing but scudding overcast and an icy mist.
The boat was more than they’d banked on, though, and their air of petulant disdain gave way to open irritation when I slid open the doors and they saw the hulls.
“Three?”
“That’s right. Three.”
“Just told me a boat.”
“It is a boat; just one with three hulls.”
“Nobody said nothin’ about three.”
“That’s odd, I specifically put it on the order. And I think I’m being charged for it.”
He turned without a word and went out to the flatbed, pulled a tablet from the cab, looked at it, threw it back in the seat, slammed the door. Walked back over, stiff legged, scowling.
“Yeah, it’s there. Nobody said nothin’ to me though.”
“Maybe they just thought you’d read it.”
He looked at me, evidently trying to decide if I was in his face or just criticizing the dispatcher.
“Will they fit on the truck or not?” I asked.
He turned away, waiting long enough before he answered to show me who was boss.
“Yeah, they’ll fit,” he drawled, and turned and started walking back to the truck. Over his shoulder; “Lot of crap, though.”
As it was, they eventually managed to get them loaded – tearing chunks out of the driveway with their lift and taking all morning to do what I’d been told would take two hours. Once they started, they worked with glacial slowness, stopping for trip after trip to the flatbed cab for warmth and smokes. And bursts of robotic static they called music.
I sat through all this in my battered pickup, parked between the two Maple trees on the front lawn, and kept the engine running for heat. I could’ve gone into the house, but I’d sooner have stood naked outside. I was quit of the house, wanting no more of it. I kept twisting around in the seat, taking in what I could of the land and the barn through the god-awful mist. It seemed foreign; strange how leaving a place changes it.
Something caught the corner of my eye; something tall, gangly and deliberate, coming down the drive. It was Bob. I sat still, watching him fight the slippery blacktop till he reached me, peered in, grinned and tapped the glass. I nodded at him, tried to smile. He opened the door and slid in, huge in the little truck.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey, Bob.”
He looked over at the boat hulls, halfway out of the barn.
“Gettin’ her out finally.”
“More or less,” I said, nodding toward the flatbed, smoke curling out of the cab where the two men sat. Again.
We were pretty much on the same wavelength.
“Kinda assholes, aren’t they?”
I nodded. “Serious assholes.”
“You picked a great day to get outta here at least.”
“Yeah, a great day to be gone, not so great for getting underway.”
He grinned. “I hear ya.”
I suddenly realized it was Wednesday.
“What are you doing home?” I asked him.
“They switched Saturday on me. Got a special run to do.”
We sat for a while. It was comfortable enough.
“We’re gonna miss ya, dude.”
“You too, Bob.” I paused, thought about it. “Tell Claudia…well, tell her I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” He eyed me for a few moments with that look he had.
“No biggie, she gets it,” he said finally. “We both get it. You know how we felt about Rachel.”
I nodded.
“What d’ya think?” I asked, pointing. “Look pretty good out in the open, don’t they?”
He looked at the hulls and smiled his slow, laconic Bob smile.
“Wasn’t sure they’d ever get outside.”
My turn to look at him now. “Oh ye of little faith.”
He chuckled, a sound like keys jangling in a pocket.
I thought something else needed to be said.
“You know how much I appreciate all the help, right? Not just the boat, Bob – everything.” I smiled at him. “And tell Claudia I’d have starved without her meals.”
He nodded but said nothing and we sat peacefully in the warm cab. In a while he asked, “Where to?”
I shrugged. “California, I suppose.”
“Big place.”
“San Diego, then.”
“You puttin’ her in right away? Going out?”
“Yes to putting her in, no to going out. Probably just going to tie her up at a slip. Figure it out from there.”
We were quiet again, watching as the men got out of the flatbed, laughing, throwing their smoldering roaches onto the road, headed back to their work.
“Well,” he said quietly, “saw the truck here and just wanted to come say goodbye. Wish you luck.” He held out a hand and I took it. Rough and calloused, the size of a ham.
“I’m glad you came over, Bob. I’m sorry about the way it’s gone since Rachel. It’s been me, not you.”
He climbed out, looked back in before shutting the door.
“Nah, Owen. It’s nobody’s fault.” He looked in my eyes for a second. “You be safe out there, bro.”
I nodded and watched him make his way up the drive, literally disappearing into the mist.
Later, another rap on the window, this time rousing me from what had started as a moment of closed eyes and turned into a nap. It was Mitch. I lowered the window.
“We’re pretty much loaded up.”
“OK,” I said.
He pulled his shoulders up against the cold and wanted to know if I still planned on following them. He was accusatory, resentful. He probably thought I was following them to make sure they didn’t fuck around, but that wasn’t it. Two days or ten, it didn’t matter to me.
“Yes, I’ll follow you. But it’s no big deal; just drive like I’m not there.”
“Right,” he said, lip curled, and without more, turned away.
It took them fully twenty minutes to maneuver the truck out of the yard. They’d parked it thinking of loading, not leaving, and now they were at a difficult angle to pull the long load out onto the road. They’d roll forward a few feet, then backward a foot, discuss it, and do it again. During all of this, of course, they now blocked the road completely.
But eventually they got it done and set off, grinding up through the gears so slowly that I had time, too much time really, to look again over the farm, to say good-bye. And despite believing myself dead to it, I found tears coming again and was infuriated. I swept my gaze past the house, past the ancient row of tall pines along the road, past the barn and finally past Rachel’s maple trees. Goodbye, goodbye – fare thee well. All the planning, all the work. All the long, drowsy discussions; this year this, next year that. Then there were no more years.
For the last time, I rolled up the drive in the pickup and out onto the road. And then it was all gone, gone for good, and I tried to stash it away in storage, in the same remote place where Rachel lived. I focused on the rear of the flat bed in front of me, wiped my eyes, and let myself be pulled forward. Gone, all gone now.
Three hours later we crossed from Michigan into Indiana and I left this place that I have loved so much behind me as well. I left the rivers where I waded and fly-fished, the forests where we hik
ed and camped and looked for morels. I left Mackinac Island, a Rachel place of magic, and I left Lake Michigan, and the memories of hour upon hour spent in the shallow waters along her shores, icy water numbing us. I left memories of making love at dusk, having waded far enough out from shore that anyone watching would see only the single blur of our heads and shoulders, a strange Hydra of the lake as I held her against me.
The stamp of my existence, the footprint of myself and my few belongings – the entire reach of my life was reduced now to the inside of this truck; that and those hulls ahead of me. Here was my payment, my karma; the farm was gone and now Michigan. I was no more than a homeless nomad, a bum following pieces of a boat built in a barn in which someone else will now store a tractor or old cars or hay; a barn that will hold new dreams.
In another three hours, the truck abruptly swung off the highway, into a rest area, and I blindly followed them, parking alongside in one of the enormous semi lanes, feeling miniscule in the little Tacoma.
We had come to the eastern bank of the Mississippi River valley, almost into Iowa. Opening the door, I climbed out and found warmer air. The sun had come out without my realizing it, and a sudden image materialized, clear and vivid – a different sunny day, an immensely wide, lazy river. Broad grassy meadow, stepping over train tracks, the river surprisingly brown and the sudden awareness of why they call it big muddy.
Mitch dropped from the cab, ignored me, started to head toward the buildings. I called to him and he stopped and turned, openly irritated. Until the words came out of my mouth, I wasn’t sure what I intended to say.
“Taking a little detour here,” I said. “I’ll catch up later.”
“Whatever.”
He turned and began walking away, then was joined by what’s his name. He bent his head to his partner, said something I couldn’t hear. The two of them laughed.
I got back in the truck. Why? Why do this? Punishment, that’s why. I pulled forward, found the exit and got back on the highway.
In two miles, I ignored the two-eighty bypass and stayed north on eighty, crossed over the river into Iowa, and took the first exit on the other side. It didn’t seem familiar; there was a casino that hadn’t been there, but the road sign said Iowa sixty-seven, and I knew that was right.
At first, it was just a road, unfamiliar. I couldn’t even see the river other than for an occasional glimpse between buildings. In a few miles, the traffic disappeared, and the industrial buildings became small businesses; ancient marinas, car repair, a welding shop. The road merged with the shore of the river, and the immensity of it was overwhelming; roiling and grand and at the same time lazy, insolent in its force. Come try me; you’ll pay.
In a few more miles, slowed by the magnetism of the river to little more than the speed of a horse trotting, I saw the sign for LeClaire and the images came back. Ahead of me, a car abruptly pulled from a parking spot and on impulse I took it.
I sat for a while, getting courage up I suppose, or maybe just trying things out in private. It wasn’t the town so much, it was the river, the broad greenway on the bank, the quiet stone benches. It was the memory of the train tracks along the shore, the feeling of picking your way over the gravel, stepping along the ties reeking of creosote. Then the river with its boats and barges, and the melancholy feeling of timelessness that came with it. I saw us finding a bench we liked, far from anyone, felt again her head on my shoulder. Then later, the sorrow and fear welling in me, in both of us, like an etude, small and quiet; practice for later, for the final music, for the grand crescendo.
All right then. I got out of the pickup.
And for want of a plan, I just started walking up the sidewalk. I began seeing familiar storefronts and began a perverse game; try to remember which places we went into. Some were obvious, others I stopped in front of, peered in the door or windows and silently considered. Then I’d pronounce; yes, probably this one, or no, we wouldn’t have gone in here.
But I was just delaying, just warming up. I knew where I was headed, I’d known all along, and finally just went straight there; a small stone bench off by itself, angled for a view up the great brown river. I stood by it for a moment then sat down, gingerly – was I expecting some sort of experience? Sorry, it was just cold cement.
I sat in the sun, and the river took hold of me.
She’s waiting for the call and I don’t realize it until the phone rings and I pull my attention from the river to her face which has gone very pale, even as we sit in the sun. It’s nothing I think, but I’m a little concerned. Her face can’t hide what she’s hearing and at first, I think someone’s died – her mother? Her crazy brother, maybe killed himself in traffic? No. No one has died – she’s learning that someone will be dying. She will.
And she’s crying then, her hair against my neck and I am so confused – what is this all about? Breast cancer? When? How? The river becomes something threatening and primordial and I start feeling sick, like I’m going to throw up. She’s saying things about stages and spreading and oncogenes and though I can hear it, it won’t take hold. I ask her to repeat things, over and over.
And then I’m saying no, no, no – nothing is going to happen to you because we just aren’t going to let anything happen. She is young and very, very strong and a fighter like no one I’ve ever met, and we’ll go to the best place on earth for this sort of thing and find the best doctor and with all that; well, with all that she’ll beat it, we will beat it.
And god – not the god that doesn’t exist, just a plain old god – oh god, did we try. She tried; tried until she was wrung dry by it, tried until she became a shadow, a dry whisper. And she never stopped trying; she tried until she became a soft breeze one lovely, slow evening and drifted away.
But there was no malevolence today, just a huge, brown flowing ocean – it couldn’t care less that I was there. I was nothing, a little creature along its path. I got up, turned away from it, and walked back over the train tracks. Will these fucking ties stink of creosote forever? Nope, nothing is forever.
On the other side of the street, directly ahead of me, I saw a shop with a clever sign, The Common Grounds, and the thought of a cup of coffee before climbing back into the truck was overwhelming and pulled me across the street to it.
The shop, when I entered, was like an old coat, familiar and comfortable and I stopped just inside the door, trying hard to remember whether we’d come in here, decided probably not. The building was a converted warehouse kind of place, all brick and timbers; it had three windows with glass old enough to be wavy. The floors were aged with so many years that each nail head had formed a little mound, resisting erosion. It smelled sharp and tangy; not only was coffee being brewed, but I could hear beans being roasted. There were a few wooden tables and shelves along the walls holding a variety of cups, t-shirts, coasters, and brightly foiled bags of coffee labelled with the name of the place. A couple of small bookshelves held magazines and some paperbacks.
“Hi,” said a voice. A girl materialized before me, straightening up from where she’d been kneeling behind the counter.
“Hi,” I said back. “You surprised me.”
She was young, pretty, maybe late teens. “Stacking cups,” she explained. “Can I get you something?”
I looked around for the coffee menu, spotted a blackboard with chalked lettering done with a real flourish and started working through it, then gave up, peering into the glass case full of pastries.
“Medium size dark roast and a croissant.”
She was apologetic. “Sorry, which dark roast? Puerto Rican, Cuban or Guatemalan?”
“Let’s try the Cuban,” I looked around for an obvious cream dispenser of some sort, didn’t find one. “And if you put the cream in instead of me, would you put double in, please?”
She took a small plate off the shelf behind her, opened the glass case, looked in and hesitated, then straightened up.
“Honestly, the croissants aren’t the best. Been here, like, two
days at least.” She looked at me pensively, sizing me up. “The morning buns are excellent.”
“You sold me,” I told her, and she smiled and bent back to the case, using tongs to put one on a plate.
She loaded the roll and coffee onto a wooden tray and slid it across the top of the pastry case, and I took it over to the closest table. The coffee was excellent and the roll sublime. I felt better than I had all day, which I found strange. Uncharacteristically, I ate slowly. There was a peacefulness there, as if in entering I’d crossed some threshold where pressure and penalty were interdicted. There was no sense of needing to finish, to be on my way and I thought about nothing more than the sweetness of the roll, the bracing acidity of the coffee. Time was flowing somewhere else, not in here.
I looked up once in a while, glancing around the room. I spotted a clock, which had the wrong time. But no, the same time was on my watch; I’d been sitting there an hour. Had I slept? Sighing, I got up.
As I was setting the tray into the bussing bin, the girl looked over the counter and called to me in a bright voice, “Thanks!”
“Sure,” I said, “no problem.”
She kept looking at me, smiling, and I could see her mind working. “You’re not from around here.” Not a question, a statement.
“No, I’m not.”
“To where?”
I hesitated, then opened my mouth and spoke. “The Pacific Ocean,” is what popped out.
Her eyes went wide. I felt like an idiot.
“Really?” She seemed impressed.
I nodded.
“That’s pretty cool.” She thought it over. “You have a boat?”
Again, speech came reluctantly. “Sailboat.”
“Wow. Are you, like, going to sail somewhere?”
Well, she’s gotten to the crux of it, hasn’t she? “I don’t know for sure,” I said. “Haven’t figured that part out yet.”
I turned to leave, and she called after me. “Fair winds, Sailor!”
