Caribou Island (17 page)

In there, Mark yelled and slowed.

Where? Rhoda asked. What is it?

I see the cabin, he said, and then Rhoda saw it too. Like ruins, some cabin from a hundred years ago, burned out, its roof missing. A big hole for the front window. Rough logs covered in snow. Thin logs, like sticks. It didn’t look at all like she had imagined. So small. But that had to be it. A blue tent and another tent, brown, hidden mostly by the low brush.

They must have gone in today, Mark said.

Yeah, we should have gone to the upper campground.

It’s not the end of the world. We’ll go there next. But we should take a look around. I’m curious.

Their boat could have been taken away in the storm, Rhoda said. They may be here. I hate this. I hate not knowing what the fuck is happening to them. They could be dead for all we know.

No need to shit yourself. I’m sure they’re fine. Mark raised the engine partway out of the water, turned it off. They drifted in slowly, and then he was using a paddle.

We have to be quick, Mark said. This sucks for parking. And I’d better stay with the boat, actually.

Rhoda looking down at the water, trying to guess how deep. She didn’t have waders. But she had to check whether her mom was here. So she stepped in, sank past her knees, the water a shock how cold it was. The stones were slippery, but she worked her way ashore carefully, over rocky beach and up through grass and snow.

Mom, she yelled. Dad. Past undergrowth and alders, she came to a woodpile with fresh sawdust, so they’d been working after it stopped snowing. Their boot prints visible. Mom, she yelled again. Are you here?

The cabin lopsided and rough, small, unbelievable they could want to live in that. It looked abandoned from a much older time, open now to the sky, but had fresh plywood for its floor. An open space in the back. They’d be putting a door there. The growth beaten down all around here. A Coleman stove with a pot on it. The two tents, and now Rhoda really was afraid. She didn’t want to unzip a tent, for what she’d find inside.

Mom, she said again, quieter this time. Stood in front of the larger tent and could feel her heart racing. Unzipped it quick and saw their sleeping bags, clothing, food. No one inside. No body. Nothing wrong. So she stepped to the other tent quick and unzipped it, and no one there, either. Thank god, she said. And she closed her eyes a moment, let her breathing calm down, let her heart slow.

They up there? Mark yelled from the boat, his voice faint. This cabin was tucked back a ways.

No, she yelled. No one here. They must have left this morning.

Supplies in the second tent. Tools. She couldn’t believe they had lived out here in the storm. And it looked like they were doing it, really building this cabin, intending to stay through the winter. Rhoda kneeled on the path, closed her eyes and just took a moment. She was so afraid. When the lake began to freeze over, there’d be a time when no boat could make it out here and the ice wouldn’t be solid enough to walk across. They’d be isolated, no way to reach them if something was wrong.

Irene at home, looking around at everything, didn’t know what to take. The lights were off, neither of them in the habit now of turning on light switches. Portraits of her family on the walls. Old portraits, including family she had never met. Stern faces, living more difficult lives. Photo albums on the lower shelf of the bookcase. Her children’s art from all the years, handprints to color by numbers to Mark’s drums made of elk hide and cottonwood. He’d sawn rings from hollowed-out stumps. Held summer solstice rituals here with his friends in high school, drumming all night around a fire on the beach, dancing with a bear skull on a stick. The last that she had known him, before he went off into his own life.

Rhoda had not gone as far away, but every wall held a sign of when she had still lived here, when their lives had been spent together. Even the secretive times, in junior high, when she’d first started having sex, were recorded here, in photos of dances and posters for school plays. All those years together added up to something, right? But what could be taken to an unbuilt cabin, to a tent? This place in its entirety, the walls and windows, the yard and forest, all of it would have to be moved.

I can’t do this, she said to Gary. She could hear him bumping around in the bedroom as he packed more clothing into a duffel.

What?

She raised her voice. There’s nothing I can take that will make that cabin a home.

I think you’re making this more complicated, Irene. We’re just grabbing our stuff, then we’re going to town for the sheeting and more two-by-fours and a few other supplies, then trying to load up and get back out there before dark.

Today?

What?

You’re planning to go back out today?

Yeah, that was the plan.

That wasn’t the plan. You didn’t bother to tell the help.

Irene.

I’m spending tonight here, in my bed. If you go, you’re going without me.

Gary emerged from the bedroom, stood in front of her. The weather could get bad again, he said. This is our window. This is the time.

I’m not going today.

Gary slammed his hand on the counter. Fine, he said. Then he turned around and went back into the bedroom.

Irene sat down on their couch. Ringing in her ears, her blood pumping hard. She tried to calm, and her heartbeat slowed a bit, but then it clenched tight four or five beats, moments when she could feel its exact shape, hanging from its arteries, jerking in her chest. Panic. Panic as if she were about to be killed, and yet she was only sitting on a couch in her own living room. The light soft from outside, no wind, no storm, just another gray, overcast day, her husband in the other room, and they weren’t going back to the tent tonight. She needed to calm down.

If we can’t make it a home, why are we doing it? she called out to Gary.

No answer. Because his life was the given, beyond question. Hers was the accompaniment; it didn’t really matter.

Irene lay out fully on the couch, propped her head with a small pillow, closed her eyes and spun in blood. Beating endlessly, pressurizing, her body a hard case she wanted out of. She wanted peace. Not to be trapped anymore. Trapped in this body and with Gary in this life and its regrets. Her life an accumulation of all that was closing in, fronts gathering all along the edges, coming closer. Even getting through the next five minutes.

Gary, she called out. She wanted to warn him.

Yes? His voice so ungenerous. How could she say what she needed to say? That they were going too far. That something would be lost. That they wouldn’t recover from this.

Never mind, she said. Closed her eyes again and rested, the air around her sifting downward until she heard the popping of gravel outside, someone driving up. She hoped it would be Rhoda, but didn’t go to the door. She didn’t feel like moving.

Mom, Rhoda called.

Here on the couch.

Rhoda at her side then, leaning down to give her a hug. Warm and alive, real love, not the grudging love of Gary. Flesh of her flesh, the only permanent bond. A marriage could turn into nothing, but not this.

I’m getting you a satellite phone, Rhoda said. I couldn’t stand not knowing if you were okay.

Hey rents, Mark said from the doorway. How goes the frontier life? He switched on the lights. The miracle of electricity, he said.

Hey Mark, Gary called from the bedroom.

Are you sick, Mom? Mark came over to the couch.

Just resting.

Holding court, Gary said, passing by to the kitchen.

A crime, I suppose.

You two have to stop fighting, Rhoda said. You’re getting a little cabin fever, I think.

Ha, Irene said.

Don’t start, Irene.

Well it’s nice to have all four of us here, Irene said, and got up off the couch, felt dizzy. When’s the last time that happened? she asked. And when will it ever happen again? This may be the last time we’re all here as a family.

That’s not true, Mom, Rhoda said. You won’t be in the cabin forever.

Ask your father. But we should have something to eat. Some lunch. We should all sit down at the table.

I need to get the sheeting, Gary said. And the joists.

After lunch, Irene said.

I need to go now. I need to get this done.

Irene walked over to the cupboards, found a couple cans of chili. Gary standing beside her at the counter, writing a list. I’ll just heat these up, she said.

Look. I don’t have time.

C’mon Dad, Rhoda said. It’s just lunch.

All the obstacles to a man’s work, Mark said.

Gary walked into the bedroom and came out with his jacket. Angry and impatient as always. I’ll be back in a couple hours, he said. We can have dinner together. And then he walked out, long strides to his truck.

Huh, Mark said. I would have offered to help. And I can’t come back for dinner. I need to return this boat.

Irene gave Mark a hug, but he was uncomfortable, pulling away quickly. I’ll be fine, he said.

Sorry, Irene said.

It’s all good, Mark said, but he was edging for the door. What made the men run? They could have had lunch together. Was that too much to ask? To be a family for an hour?

How’s Karen? Irene asked.

Mark’s lopsided grin, holding back. You never ask about her, Mom. You don’t like her.

That’s not true.

Yeah it is.

He’s right, Mom, Rhoda said. You always avoid her.

This isn’t true. None of it. I only want you to be happy, and if you’re happy with her, then that’s great.

But you don’t actually like her, Mark said. That’s my point. You think she’s dumb.

This isn’t true. Why would you think that?

Whatever, Mark said. It’s fine. I need to go.

Stay for lunch, Rhoda said.

I promised I’d return the boat. I need to get back.

Running away, just like your father, Irene said. Why can’t you stay? It’s just lunch. Why do the men in the family always run?

I don’t know, Mark said. Maybe because we’re creeped out? If I stay even one minute longer, I’ll scream. I don’t know why that is, but that’s just the way it is. Sorry. It’s nothing personal. And he had the door open now, escaping.

Nothing personal? Irene asked.

Later, Mark said, and he shut the door behind him. Irene went to the window, watched him walk away fast to his truck and boat.

She felt Rhoda then behind her, arms around her. It’s okay, Mom.

Irene watched Mark drive away. She didn’t understand what had just happened. I’m a terrible mother, she finally said.

No, Mom.

I don’t think I knew that until now, Irene said.

Mom, it’s just Mark.

But you said yourself that it’s me. I avoid Karen. That’s true. I don’t like her. I do think she’s dumb. And Mark knows that.

Rhoda let go then and sighed. She sat down at the table. Maybe we should have something to eat.

Okay, Irene said, and she went for the can opener, her hand a bit shaky, just a bit. Not something Rhoda would see. She opened up two cans of chili, emptied them into a pot and lit the burner. Then she stood there and stared into the chili, stirred occasionally with a spoon. The sound of the burner. She didn’t want to think of herself as a terrible mother. Not on top of everything else. What if everything going wrong with Gary was her fault, too?

I’m getting married, Rhoda said.

What? Irene turned and Rhoda rose from her seat.

Jim proposed, Rhoda said, and she showed Irene her ring.

Rhoda, Irene said, and pulled her close for a hug. This is wonderful. She held Rhoda close and didn’t want to let go. The beginning of the end for Rhoda, her life given and wasted on a man who didn’t love her. That’s what would happen, a cruel repetition of Irene’s life, and what could Irene say now? But Irene didn’t know anything for certain. That was the thing. Maybe Jim did love Rhoda, and maybe their marriage would be good, and maybe Rhoda would be happy.

Okay Mom, Rhoda finally said. I need to breathe.

Sorry, Irene said, and she let Rhoda go.

I’ll check the chili, Rhoda said, and she turned away from Irene to give a stir, poured it into two bowls.

Irene was surprised by how she felt. She wanted to be happy for Rhoda, but she didn’t feel happy at all. And she couldn’t let Rhoda see that. This is wonderful, she said again as Rhoda placed the two bowls on the table.

Thanks, Mom, Rhoda said. But she sat and looked down at her chili as she ate. She wouldn’t look at Irene. So Irene wasn’t hiding anything here. Rhoda could tell.

I’m sorry, Irene said. I just don’t want anything that’s happened to me to happen to you.

What are you talking about, Mom?

Can you look at me when we’re talking?

Rhoda looked up. Geez, Mom.

I’m sorry. I can’t seem to get along with anyone.

Well you might think about that.

How can I think about anything else? You’re my daughter. Rhoda was looking down again, and Irene hated that. I want you to be happy. That’s all.

Well that’s good, Rhoda said. Thank you.

Your father never loved me.

Rhoda put down her spoon and looked up again, annoyed. Mom, she said. We’ve talked about this before. You know that’s not true. Dad has always loved you.

That’s the thing, Irene said. He never has. He thinks he deserved someone better than me. He’s admitted that now, out in the tent. And he wanted to be left alone. That’s what’s true about him. I was just easy, something that happened, and it would have been a hassle to cut me loose. He’d prefer to be without me, but he’s never bothered to put together the effort to do that.

I’m not listening to this, Rhoda said. It’s just the pain in your head, and maybe this stupid cabin thing, too, having to live out there.

The pain has made everything clearer, Irene said. I can’t sleep, and it feels like I can’t even think, but for some reason, I’m seeing everything more clearly than I ever have before. Irene was leaning forward, both forearms on the table. She felt excited.

That’s really scary, Mom. You should listen to yourself.

Rhoda, you have to pay attention. What I’m telling you is important.

Mom. Rhoda was looking right at her now. You have to stop. Listen to yourself. You sound like a bag lady talking about aliens, like you have the secret and you’ve figured it all out.

A bag lady?

I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just that you sound like you’re going a little crazy. None of what you’re saying about Dad is true. He loves you. He’s always loved you.

Irene stood up. She was trembling. She grabbed her chili bowl and threw it at the window above the sink. A louder sound than she had expected as the glass shattered, but still not enough. Not satisfying at all. She wanted to bring the whole house down. He doesn’t love me, she said. I should know. I’m the one living it.

The window glass jagged, an open view now of trees and snow. The light strange, no clear sense of where the sun was, no direction for light or shadow, the snow reflecting. No sense of time. A day that could stretch on forever.

I don’t feel safe, Rhoda said. I think I need to leave.

Run away like the men, Irene said.

That’s not fair, Mom.

Fair. That’s funny.

That’s the problem, Mom. You’re sunk in some kind of pity fest. And you don’t fight fair. Throwing your bowl through the window. How am I supposed to respond to that?

You make it sound like it’s an act.

Well isn’t it?

You should stop now, Rhoda.

Here’s the truth, Mom. There’s nothing wrong with you. Your husband loves you. Your family loves you. And there’s nothing wrong with your head, either. You’re just freaking yourself out. Why are you doing this?

You don’t believe me?

No, I don’t. I don’t believe any of it.

Irene felt a strange calm then. Rhoda standing before her, worried, condescending, understanding nothing. And yet Rhoda was the person she was closest to in this world. She stepped forward and gave Rhoda a hug, held her tight. I’ll only tell you this once, she said quietly. I’m alone now.

Mom.

Shh. Just listen. If you don’t wake up, you’ll be alone like this too. Your life spent, and nothing left. And no one will understand you. And you’ll feel so angry, you’ll want to do far more than throw a bowl through a window.

Rhoda pushed away. What the fuck, Mom.

That’s all I have to offer you. Just the truth.

You’re scaring me, Mom.

Well maybe you’re starting to understand.