by David Wayne
“Afraid so.”
“That’s because you didn’t scout out the proper tree first, which I did while you wasted time on your bad choice. Follow,” she said, walking away.
I followed.
“Try this one,” she said, falling into one of her frustrated poses.
I climbed up and found a great view of the overpasses. I shot her a thumbs-up, and she shot me a bird. I hate when she does stuff like that.
I dialed in my field glasses. The first crossover was an abandoned railroad track. About a hundred yards farther was the main overpass bridge, built twenty years ago. Fifty yards past that was the old Highway 78 bridge. That was closed to traffic and was used as a fishing pier.
On the main bridge, both sides contained permanent encampments of some pretty motley-looking, and well-armed, characters. Each camp had armed guards actively patrolling their end of the span. Watching the two groups, I could see they were obviously adversaries, yelling angrily back and forth yet not firing weapons at each other. They’d probably learned the hard way that a truce worked better than war. Either split the bridge up or kill one another. Besides, there were enough innocent people to steal, cheat, and rob for all to share.
I moved on to the old 78 bridge and found the same conditions—except the gangs were smaller and less organized. The “A” gang was on the big bridge, the “B” gang on the smaller one. Made sense.
That left the railroad crossing. I was unable to find any patrols and began considering it as an option. It was high above the river, very narrow, and could be easily seen from the main bridge. The high visibility meant likely detection. Even if we waited until the dead of night, it would be risky. Worse, walking across it would be slow and cumbersome. It was not a solid crossing like a road; it was twin steel beams with timber railroad ties. The spaces in between them were open, not filled in solid. This didn't sound like a lot of fun in the pitch-darkness. One wrong move, and you would be tumbling fifty feet down into cold, icy water—plunging through pure black night into a dark river. I crossed that option off my list and shimmied down the tree.
As we headed back to get our gear, I shared what I’d seen.
“Did they look weird, dressed in funny clothes, and wearing orange Mohawks? Like in that movie Mad Max?” she asked, a slight glimmer in her eye.
I just shook my head, not sure of what to make of a nun who shot birds, watched violent movies, and read Fifty Shades of Grey. “Sister, I know you’re sowing your oats and spreading your wings, but I’ll not permit—”
“I’ll do as I wish, and it was on my bucket list. I’ve never shot one before, but after you arrogantly blew off my suggestion and burned our time, it seemed the appropriate time to indulge. I can think of no other person on this earth more deserving of my first bird than Mr. Max Ryker,” she said, stating this as a fact.
“No comment, Sister. Go say some prayers or something, would you?” I shook my head and looked at the river. “We may have to swim across this puppy.”
“Max,” she said, falling into her I need something from you voice.
“Sister,” I said with my I don’t want to hear it voice.
She touched my arm. “I have an itsy, bitsy, teeny problem.”
Damn. She’d gotten her period. I could only imagine how difficult the sister would be while PMSing. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse. “There are some things a man doesn’t need to know. This sounds like one of them.”
She looked at me funny. “What are you talking about? I can’t swim.”
I thought everyone could swim. “You can’t swim?”
“No, I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Would you stop repeating everything I say? When you get confused or discombobulated with me, you echo my words. It’s irritating.”
I looked at the river and then back at her.
She mirrored my actions. “The truth is, water scares the dickens out of me. I’m deathly frightened of it.”
This was the first time I’d ever seen her self-conscious. I decided to work it some. “You're gonna have to learn, but don’t worry, I was a lifeguard in college, back in Jersey.” Actually, I was a stoner in my college days.
“Oh, Max, please, no!” she said, grasping my sleeve. Her eyes were pleading, her hands trembling. I loved it.
Might as well stick it further in. “I dunno, we’re in a jam here, Sister. We can’t walk around the river. That’d take us several months…” I said, letting my voice trail off.
When I noticed her bottom lip beginning to quiver, I figured she’d had enough, so I relented. “Well…I guess…maybe we’ll just have to find a boat!” I laughed, goosing her in the side. She jumped in the air, emitting a startled scream. I cracked up.
She attacked, causing me to trip over a large stone. We fell onto our rear ends before tumbling down the river embankment, stopping just short of the water’s edge. For a moment, she lay on top of me in the high weeds, both of us needing a second to catch our bearings. She rose slowly, her eyes never leaving mine, pausing briefly to sit on my belly. She leaned her body forward, hovering just above me. She sat still, gazing down into my eyes. Then I realized, Oh, my God, she’s going to kiss me. For some strange reason, I froze and closed my eyes.
Smack!
She gave me a good one in the face. “Now we’re even,” she said, jumping up with a laugh.
Chapter 30
An hour later, we were back where we’d started. We hiked north, hugging the river, and eventually came upon houses dotting the riverside. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t thought of looking for a boat in the first place. I was hoping to at least cross the river yet today so we could head out fresh in the morning on the other side. The thought of staying in a real house, in a soft bed, sounded peachy.
We proceeded cautiously; there could be people living in these houses. Why should they split? They could live in a riverfront abode and fish right off their back porch. This was also Alabama, so these folks would have guns. Best to tread lightly.
The first few we checked were empty and had been ransacked. We decided to get out on the dirt road and walk a couple miles farther up before checking any more. The houses tended to snake around various water fingers, and we were burning a lot of time checking them out. Better to get some distance from the hoodlums anyway.
We settled on a small, rustic-looking house that appeared to be a summer cottage. It was already pushing four o’clock as we strolled up the gravel drive, which was narrow and zigzagged around large trees and hedges. In the distance was a small, brackish pond; the fountain in its center was not spewing any water. After satisfying ourselves the house was empty, we went in. The door was locked, but gaining access was simple; there was a key under a large potted plant next to the back door, a testament to the owners’ originality.
The cottage was small—just a kitchen, living room, a master, and one tiny spare bedroom. The main room was open, no separating walls. An old-time cast-iron stove sat in the corner, apparently more for show than use, because the kitchen sported a new range.
Clearly, the main attraction was the expansive back deck, which cantilevered over the river. A rope swing hung from a massive oak limb overhanging the river, and several ladders allowed plenty of access in and out of the waterway. Under different circumstances, it looked like a lot of fun. The deck had a hot tub—probably where Daddy took Mommy after the kiddies fell to sleep after a full day of rope swinging. Then Daddy got to have his fun.
I walked down to a small boathouse at the river’s edge. When I broke the cheap lock to get in, the plywood door fell off its hinges. Looked like Daddy Bear was a bit behind on his honey-do list. Finally, some things were going our way. Inside the water shack was a red kayak, a small dinghy boat, and some fishing rods. I yelled out the door that I had hit pay dirt, noticing smoke emitting from the roof chimney. I spent the next hour pulling everything out, checking the life jackets, and tied t
he small dinghy to the dock. I went to get the sister. I had no idea why she was bothering with a fire—we didn’t have time to cook; we had to get across the river.
“The place has running water from a gravity-fed well. Isn’t that super?” she said, eyes sparkling.
“I guess, but we gotta get going. It’s after five. Why are you boiling all this water on the wood stove?” I watched her carry a pot into the master bedroom and followed her. She poured it in the tub—steam rising as she did so. She turned around and ran right into me.
“Whoa! What are you doing in my room?” she asked. “I’m about to take a hot bath. Get out.” She pointed toward the living room. I noticed the large, cushy bed, which she had already laid her stuff out on. Her backpack was leaning inside the closet, its bifold doors left open. I followed her out. I watched her pour the next pot into the tub and decided it was time to break the bad news. There wasn’t going to be any bubble baths; we didn’t have time—we were trying to make Atlanta before Hogwogs took over the outside world.
She turned and saw me. “Are you still in here?” she asked, giving me one of her exaggerated, confused crinkled faces.
“Yes, I most certainly am, and I’m afraid I have some very bad news to share.” She started walking toward the living room, carrying the empty pot, so I turned and walked out ahead of her. After several steps, I realized she wasn’t following me, so I turned back around to find her standing in the bathroom doorway.
“Pack up. We’re going,” I said sternly. She knew we needed to go, but was playing dumb.
“We’re not going anywhere. I’m taking a bath,” she said.
“Sorry to pop your bubble, honeybee, but we’re rowing across the river before it gets too dark. You’ve got five minutes to get packed and ready.” She glared at me for a minute and then smiled. Sometimes you’ve just got to put your foot down with women.
“Okay,” she whispered softly, handing me the empty pot. “Take this for me, would you please, and I’ll get packed.”
“Of course,” I replied nicely. No reason to rub my authority in.
Wham!
She slammed the door right in my face, hard and loud. I heard the door hardware jiggle as she locked it. “I’m taking a hot bath. Be a dear and fill both of those pots. Let me know when they're boiling, would you please? Thanks.”
I stood in stunned silence. Then banged on the door. “Sister, you get out here this instant. I mean it. You are not taking a bath. We’re leaving.” The room was deathly quiet; I heard a subtle splash as she entered the tub. “What are you doing?” I yelled, jiggling the locked handle.
“I’m doing girly things in here. There're some things a man just doesn’t need to know, remember?” she said with a laugh.
I put full pans of water on the stove and started snooping around the kitchen. I got lucky by finding a six-pack of warm Red Stripe beer, along with some green, rotted baloney in the fridge. I’d use the smelly meat as bait. I heard the sister yelling for her hot water. I didn’t answer. I was going fishing.
By the time she emerged from her hour-long beauty treatment, I was four warm beers into a buzz. I’d caught three flathead catfish and a yellow bass—plenty for the two of us to eat. I heard her banging around inside, so I killed my beer. The other two were tied to a rope, floating in the water. I fished them out and popped one open, dropping the other back into the water. Semi-cold beer is better than hot beer. I’d checked out the spare bedroom, and it consisted of two very tiny beds. That would be her sleeping spot tonight, because she was smaller than I.
“Can I have one of those?" she asked. "I’ve never tasted beer before."
“Sorry, last one,” I said.
She sat down beside me. I could smell the sweet scent of jasmine. The aroma was pleasant, and I inhaled a big breath of it. She had changed into shorts, a matching blouse, and flip-flops—which she must have found in the master room. No way was that diocese-approved nun attire. I could see the sheen of moisturizer, which liberally covered her body. She would be a stunning woman, I thought… if she wasn’t a black widow spider. I laughed out loud.
“Making jokes about me in your head again, Mr. Ryker?”
“Nah, it may be hard to believe, Sister, but I actually think about things other than you.” I killed my suds and pulled the beer rope up.
When she realized what I was doing, she said, “Hey, I thought they were all gone.” She was clearly disappointed.
I opened the bottle and took a big pull. “Ahh, they are now,” I said with a burp. “Pardon me.”
She grabbed the fish and stalked into the house, slamming the sliding glass door hard.
I slept a miserable night in an undersized kiddie bed.
Chapter 31
“How do we know it won’t tip over?” she asked. If every bone in my body wasn’t sore from sleeping in a bed two sizes too small for me, I would feel sorry for her. She was terrified, but I was pissed at her.
“Because it’s a boat, and boats are made to float. Don’t worry, I’m an avid swabbie, basically an expert navigator. Getting a little dinghy across a river is small potatoes for Captain Max.” I reached out my hand to help her in. She recoiled hers.
“Captain Max, huh? Why does it seem you’re always claiming to be an expert, but when push comes to shove, you turn out to be… challenged?”
Deep breath, heavy sigh. “Would you rather swim?”
“No fooling around, Max, I mean it. I can’t swim. No more games.” She hesitated before getting in. “You promise?”
“Have I ever lied to you?” I asked seriously.
“Just every day,” she answered, just as seriously.
I waited impatiently. She said a prayer and reluctantly got on board. All the way across, she sat there, sheet white and head bowed, praying. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were feigning fear so you wouldn’t have to help row,” I said.
She didn’t respond; she just kept mumbling her prayers. About halfway across, I suddenly started wobbling back and forth, causing the boat to sway and rock. I smacked the water hard with my hand, making a loud splashing noise. “Oh, no, we’re sinking. Mayday, mayday,” I yelled.
She jerked her head up, petrified, and for a second I thought she might actually faint. Then she got angry, her face turning pink—but she bit her tongue. Apparently, she didn’t want to get in an argument while floating in the middle of a river. When we got to the other side, I thought she was going to kiss the earth. I laughed.
“I’m glad I amuse you. Go ahead, laugh a good hearty one at my expense. I’m getting used to it.”
“Just trying to lighten things up a bit, Sis.”
We walked steadily for several hours. It felt good to be moving forward and making progress. I was used to getting results. Surprisingly, we came upon another river—not really a river, more like a big stream. It wasn’t on the map, apparently too small to rate inclusion. It was a solid forty feet wide. The problem was, there were no houses this far out, so there would be no boats. We walked north for over an hour, never finding a narrower width or a shallow crossing point. I suggested that I swim the gear across first, and then piggyback her over, but she adamantly refused.
“That, I assure you, Mr. Ryker, will never happen,” she said, in no uncertain terms.
As we walked, the embankment inclined gently upward, until we were eventually forty-five feet above the waterline. I was getting discouraged; the river could go on like this for miles upon miles, and it was leading us off course. A little farther upstream, we finally caught a break—a zip line strung across the canal. When I explained what a zip line was, she began mumbling, “No, no, no,” her face turning what could only be described as petrified white. The place appeared to be a kid’s summer camp, one long ago abandoned. We briefly checked out the cabins, mainly to allow the sister a chance to calm down—they were all spider web city. Nobody had been here for a great many years.
We walked to the launching pad. “Now, a zip line is a simple thing. It
’s no biggie,” I said, talking as calmly as possible. “You grab on to these metal handles and just glide gently across. It’s a kid’s game, nothing to fear.” I gave her a reassuring look, but it didn’t seem to have the desired effect.
She peered over the edge. “Yeah, nothing but a forty-foot drop down into the water. I won’t do it,” she said.
“No one’s going into the water. We’re going to slowly and safely glide across. It’s simple. It’ll take less than a minute to slide across. If you want, I’ll go first.”
We went back and forth this way for thirty minutes. She finally relented but insisted on going first, afraid my weight would weaken the wire somehow.
“Sister, this is a three-inch-thick steel cable; it won’t break, trust me. It’s stable. Now, are you ready?”
“I just want to thank you for everything.” She touched my cheek.
“That’s being a little melodramatic, wouldn’t you say? We’re crossing a small river. We couldn’t die if we tried.”
I pushed the trolley down several times, pulling it back with the attached rope. It didn’t have the weight to go all the way across but still made it a third of the way. I made sure the sister’s backpack and other paraphernalia were secure and stepped her through the process several more times. The main thing was to jump hard, build momentum, and then let gravity zip you across. She mounted and got ready.
I said, “Okay, see ya on the other side. Now tell me, one more time, what are you going to do?”
“I’m going to jump as hard and far as I can because I need the momentum. Then I’ll glide across and land on the other side.” She looked at me, and I nodded in agreement.
“Off you go,” I said. “It’s easy-peasy.”
It started off badly. Instead of jumping hard, she barely stepped off the ledge. She slid about a third of the way and stopped. “Max, Max, why is it stopping?” she yelled, trying to look back over her shoulder.
“Don’t try to turn around. Bounce a little bit. You didn’t jump hard enough.”
