The Serpent's Bite (9 page)

At one point, Harry stopped the pack train, removed a pair of binoculars from his saddlebag, and held them to his eyes.

“There,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “There's your first grizzly sighting. Do I deliver or do I deliver?”

He passed the binoculars to Scott. A grizzly was drinking from a stream. It looked benign, serene. Scott passed the binoculars to Courtney who put them up to her eyes.

“Looks like a teddy bear from here,” she said.

“Don't let the big bastard fool you,” Harry said. “Just stay the hell out of his way.”

“I don't intend to pet him,” Courtney said, passing the binoculars to her father.

“You do deliver, Harry,” their father said, observing the bear, calmer now.

“That's a male,” Harry explained, “the largest carnivore in North America. Always hungry. Cuts a wide swath. Needs lots of range. More and more of them each year. Endangered species, my ass. He's the boss in these parts. Hang the food high otherwise he'll pay us a visit, maybe take a piece of you as a hors d'oeuvre.” He chuckled. “Just remember the rules.”

“Who can forget?” Courtney muttered.

A
fter six more hours of what seemed like an endless journey, they arrived at their designated campsite, a flat area surrounded by aspens and evergreens. It overlooked a fast-flowing stream edged by cottonwoods and a trail leading down. The fire pit showed signs of other camping parties. Tomas dismounted, and he and Harry began to unload the mules.

Scott was barely able to take a step after dismounting. The pain in his knees was killing him. Above all, he didn't want to let on that he was suffering, determined to see through this adventure to the end, come what may.

Soon the mobility in his legs returned, and he was able to help both his father and his sister raise their pup tents under Harry's less-than-perfect tutelage. Not only did tents have to be pitched, horses and the two remaining mules had to be turned out and hobbled, gear had to be stowed, a latrine had to be dug—a decidedly primitive affair with a rope stretched tree to tree so that a person could hold on to something and not fall into the pit—and a “meat pole” had to be built so that food could be hung ten feet high so as not to give access to bears. Throughout the process, their father would pause occasionally to shoot pictures.

Scott noted that Harry barked orders to Tomas like a drill sergeant, using language that at times seemed harsh and abusive. Through the setting-up process, Tomas obeyed stoically, his dark face expressionless, unfazed by his bosses impatient orders and cruel taunts.

“Is that really necessary?” his father whispered to Scott.

“Part of their working arrangement, Dad.”

“Master and slave.”

Tomas, returning from digging the latrine, was quickly instructed by their father in the finer points of using his camera, and the family posed, arms around each other, while Tomas focused and clicked. It was apparent that Tomas had patiently accepted the instruction but had more than a passing knowledge of how the camera worked, probably gleaned from former clients.

After taking the pictures, he set up a grate over the fire now burning brightly in the pit and began to gather his ingredients for dinner, while Scott, Courtney, and their father sat together on a log drinking from metal cups filled from Scott's cache of red wine. Harry, perhaps respecting the privacy of the family, puttered around his own tent, which he had placed at a distance from theirs, crawling inside, possibly for a nap before dinner or some deeper sips on his liquor supply.

“To the Temple clan,” their father said, reaching out with his cup. Scott and Courtney clanked their cups to his. They drank in silence, looking about them at the ruggedly beautiful landscape and occasionally observing Tomas at his cooking chores. The wine seemed to work its charms on their father, who grew increasingly mellow.

“I wish your mom was here,” he sighed. “I think she would have loved being here again. Remember how good a sport she was, determined to make a go of it? That was your mom. She would never let any of us down.”

“I'll buy that,” Courtney said, a comment laden with irony.

“She was always there for both of you,” Temple said. “Always.” He turned toward Scott. “When you were three, you had asthma, Scott. Probably don't remember. She would sit up with you night after night to be sure you were breathing.” He turned to Courtney. “When you began to date, Mom would never go to sleep until you got home. If you were late, it drove her wild with anxiety and worry.” He shook his head and sighed. “Not easy to be a parent.”

The man is reviewing his relationship with his children, Scott thought, reflecting, evaluating. It was a good sign. He looked toward Courtney who, despite her avowed purpose, was behaving herself, pleasantly nodding her understanding.

Scott had only the vaguest memories of his early bout with asthma, but the recall brought it to the surface and set him on a course of deep introspection. He felt the swift, mellowing effect of the alcohol, remembering that it worked faster at high altitudes. That, plus the changing glow of the fading light, seemed to cast his thoughts in an aura of warm sentiment, helping him to revisit pleasant childhood moments before puberty had intervened and created a stark new reality.

All in all that period of his life had been happy. The atmosphere in their spacious apartment was placid. He and his sister had separate rooms, and their parents were, in every respect, traditional and certainly loving. He could not recall anger, animosity, harshness, or conflict. Nor could he ever detect signs of dysfunction or any hint of what would transpire later in the lives of their children. They could be characterized as an ordinary, privileged, upper middle class family. He could recall no financial worries, although his parents did maintain a certain discipline about expenditures.

In retrospect, family life was, up to a point, tranquil, comfortable, hardly unique. He could not remember an argument between his parents nor could his mother be characterized as repressed. By all measures, they lived in a happy home. Scott knew he and his sister were loved children, and he supposed that neither had any doubts that they loved their parents nor seemed uncertain that they returned such emotion. The loving family bond was simply accepted, never questioned, debated, or analyzed. Like the air itself, it was simply there.

Scott studied the man resting on the log drinking wine from a metal cup and tried to imagine him as the father of that early life. Physically, the comparison was barely familiar. The once-jet-black hair had been chemically turned to rust brown. The face had become more rounded, with flesh that drooped around the chin line; the brown eyes seemed highlighted, now that the slack skin around them had been excised, although the shape of his eyes had changed. His skin was partially speckled and ravaged by exposure and chronology, and the back of his hands, the fingers of which could delicately hold the smallest gem, were mottled with liver spots.

Despite the encroachments of age, there was still a jauntiness to his carriage. He could be taken for at least ten years younger than he was. Despite his disappointment with his father's present financial stance, Scott could not deny the old feeling of attachment, the old bond. He was doubtful that this feeling was replicated in his sister, and it pained him.

“Remember what we voted her?” his father asked suddenly, breaking Scott's concentration. He quickly found the memory.

“Miss Congeniality,” Scott mumbled, feeling the tug of loss, remembering. His mother had doted on him, and for a long time he had resisted her possessiveness. Upon her death he had grieved briefly, although, at times thereafter, he had been surprised to suddenly feel a sharp pang of loss, far more powerful than he had felt at her funeral.

Sometimes, images of her would surface in his dreams, inducing yearning and often tears. Scott wondered if the same feeling would surface when he remembered his father. Probably more so, one shrink told him, explaining that he had betrayed his father's aspirations far more than his mother's.

They held out their cups for refills, and Scott obliged, warning: “Be careful. It has more punch up here in the high altitudes.”

“Hope so,” Courtney giggled, already showing the effects.

She turned and watched Tomas cooking their meal. He was making some sort of elaborate concoction using onions, butter, red and green peppers, garlic and oregano, and sliced meat, which he simmered together in a pot.

“What is that?” Scott asked.

“Texicano elk,” the Mexican said in accented English, deep in concentration as he stirred, tasted, added salt and pepper, and turned his attention to cutting up lettuce and cucumbers into a large salad bowl. Then he opened up a plastic bag of what looked like cooked beans, put them in a skillet, and covered them with shortening.

“I told you.” Harry's whisky scent filled the air, announcing his presence. “Really knows hish cooking shit.”

“Smells terrific,” Courtney said, her nostrils dilating.

“Texicano elk, he calls it,” Scott said.

“Only it ain't elk. It's mountain lion. Tastes better'n elk or beef. Fuckin' mountain lions all over the place. Screwing faster than the wolves. Tough immune systems.”

“Good God,” Courtney said. “Mountain lion.”

“Will it make us roar?” Scott joked.

“Try it.” Harry turned to Tomas. “Cut ‘em a piece, Tomas.” He winked and lowered his voice. “Some say it's better'n Viagra.”

The Mexican cut a piece of cooked meat from the uncut portion and handed a sliver to each of them.

“When in Rome …” Courtney said, chewing. “Not bad.”

“Shoot ‘em, eat ‘em. Right, Tomas?”

Tomas nodded, busy with his chores, his face offering little expression of acknowledgement. He doled out the meal, and they ate with relish and washed it down with wine. Tomas spooned out some refried beans and tortillas and carried them yards away to eat, sitting on a log by himself. They ate in silence.

“Am I right about the Mex's chow?” Harry asked.

“Helluva cook,” Temple acknowledged.

“We'll sure make music tonight,” Scott said.

“At least the performance will be in your own sleeping bag.”

“It sure was good going down,” their father said.

“What's the program for tomorrow, Harry?” Scott asked.

“Fly-fishing. Got rods and flies. We'll hit the Thorofare River. Cutthroats. Maybe some wandering brook trout if we're lucky.” Harry burped, and Scott noted that he hadn't eaten much. Gets his calories elsewhere.

“How far?” Scott asked, thinking of his knees.

“Six and a half miles maybe. Two, three hours.”

Harry stood up, slightly unsteady. “She you in the morning,” he mumbled, and then moved toward his tent.

“Hope he can handle it,” Scott said when he was gone, ignoring Tomas's presence nearby.

“Disintegrated since last time,” Courtney observed.

“He was a responsible guide then,” their father said.

“People change,” Courtney said, looking pointedly at her father.

Tomas served them fruit salad and chocolate chip cookies for dessert and began puttering with the metal plates, which he packed in a net bag and brought to the edge of the stream for washing. They finished their dessert and watched the fire in silence.

“So what's life been like since …?” Courtney asked suddenly, her voice trailing off. She cut a knowing glance toward Scott, who understood. It was, he knew, a light probe.

“Not easy,” their father sighed and then smiled. “The loss of your mother never really goes away, no matter what.”

“It must be rough, life changing abruptly. It seems like you're coping, Dad,” Scott said, struggling for exactly the right note of inquiry. “Any companions of the female variety emerge?”

Their father lowered his eyes for a moment, looked up with uncertainty, and grew silent, his eyes gazing into the still-crackling wood fire as if searching for his answer there. He seemed on the verge of an answer, but after a long pause it never came.

“You're still a good-looking man, Dad,” Courtney pressed without subtlety. “Plenty of ladies would like to park their shoes under your bed.”

“No one could take your mother's place,” he whispered, as if it were a statement meant only for himself.

“Of course not,” Courtney said quickly. “We were only thinking of your well-being.”

Their father did not react but continued to gaze mesmerized into the still-crackling fire.

Scott looked at his sister with skepticism. Her pose of sincerity seemed too obviously manipulative. He knew she didn't mean it. Four years of shunning, he thought, and suddenly she's interested in his welfare. He doubted if his father was buying it.

“No special friend, Dad?” Courtney pressed, exchanging glances with Scott.

“I haven't exactly been a recluse,” their father said, hesitantly.