In the Heart of the Canyon (23 page)

“What’s high school been like for her?” Jill asked. “I know when I was in high school, kids were pretty cruel. Is it still as bad?”

“It was worse in middle school,” Susan said. “Now they just ignore her. Although I will admit that she’s gone to a few parties this past year,
like last Halloween. But then she didn’t go out much after that. Not sure why.”

“Well, its a start,” said Jill. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

Susan wanted to throw her arms around Jill, simply for asking. None of her friends back in Mequon had ever thought to wonder.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Jill declared. “From what my sister says, sometimes it’s best that we don’t know everything our kids do.”

Just then, the boat bumped against something solid, and they turned around to find themselves nudging up against a steep shoreline alongside JT’s boat. The sun was dipping toward the rim. A long, drawn-out canyon dusk would follow. Peter shipped his oars.

“You
got us here?” Jill said.

“Available for hire,” said Peter. “Anytime.”

Dixie slid off the bow of the boat and stood in the water, grasping the rope and bracing them against the current as they unclipped their day bags.

“Let’s continue this over wine,” Susan said.

But Jill was already climbing over the massive pile of gear. “I swear to god, if Evelyn takes the biggest campsite tonight, I am going to wring her thick little neck.”

U
pset Hotel, as their campsite was called, was a difficult one to access. The water was deep and swift here, and sharp chunks of limestone made pull-ins tricky. In addition, the camping area itself was situated up a steep embankment, a daunting climb even without all their gear.

But JT didn’t want to chance going farther downriver. If the next two camps were already taken, there would be no place large enough for them before Havasu, and since no camping was allowed at Havasu, they’d have to continue on downriver.

JT didn’t want to
think
about the prospect of Mitchell missing Havasu.

So they tied up the boats at Upset and, in keeping with the spirit of the last two days, everyone rallied cheerfully, spacing out the fire line and hauling up the tables and the stove and the Blaster and the groover and the kitchen supply boxes and the can smasher and the first aid box and the twenty-four large blue dry bags and the twelve smaller white ones, with everyone joking all along about how easy it would be to get the gear back down to the boats the next morning. Soon they had the kitchen set up, the steaks defrosting; and those who appreciated geology were able to take a moment and enjoy the view.

Mitchell being among them. He’d dressed for dinner tonight in a bold turquoise Hawaiian shirt with a few lost buttons that revealed a hairy belly when he moved about. “Things just keep getting more and more beautiful,” he murmured, gazing downriver, where gray-green cliffs, furred with sage and cactus, tilted out of the river. With a few quick twists he set up his tripod. “Whoever would have thought I’d get so interested in rocks?”

“How many pictures have you taken, Mitchell?” asked Peter.

“Twelve, maybe thirteen hundred.”

“You could publish a book,” said Amy.

“I intend to,” said Mitchell.

He fastened his camera to his tripod and concentrated on photographing the downstream landscape—although by changing the angle, he was also able to photograph the guides, who had remained down on the boats and seemed to be in no hurry to start dinner. People began to quip that the guides were on strike tonight, and for once they appreciated Mitchell’s efforts, because they would remember the scene fondly: the night the passengers got dinner going while the guides had a little R & R on the boats.

But then Sam called the dog, and the mood changed. Evelyn especially looked anxious. “Maybe the tripods not a good idea,” she said as the dog darted about.

Mitchell glanced up with surprise, as though Evelyn had just solved the worlds oldest mystery. He pointed jauntily at her. “You know what? I think you’re right, Evelyn,” and he unscrewed his camera, dismantled the tripod, and slid it back into its sleeve. “I’ve probably got too many pictures of rocks, anyway. Hey, doggie,” he said as Blender sniffed at his sandals. “What’s the matter; do my feet smell?” He laughed loudly.

The dog wagged his tail, and Mitchell stooped and deposited one tidy pat onto the dog’s head. Evelyn, Susan, and Jill looked on nervously. Last night, when they were sitting around together, they’d taken turns sharing their fears, and Mitchell had confessed to being afraid of dogs. “When I was a kid, I got bit,” he’d told them. “Some yappy little thing. And I have to admit that’s the real reason I didn’t want this dog on the trip. I should have been straightforward with you all. I’m sorry,” he said. “Maybe on this river trip, I can get over my fear.”

So now they were all remembering Mitchell’s confession and worrying he might go overboard in an attempt to undo years of trauma. Blender had been keeping his distance from Mitchell for most of the trip, of course; dogs can sense when someone is not inclined to offer a belly rub on short notice.

Sure enough, just as they feared, Mitchell squatted and held out his hand. “Hey, doggie,” he said. “Come here, puppy dog.”

It quickly became clear that Mitchell, like Evelyn, didn’t really know how to play with a dog. In fact, he treated the dog like a cat, trailing a bit of rope through the sand in front of the dogs nose. Blender sat down.

“Go like this,” said Sam, and he took the rope and tied a thick knot, then dangled it above Blender’s head. Blender instantly latched onto the rope. Sam tugged. Blender growled and planted his feet and tugged back. Sam released his grip with a flourish; Blender fell back, recovered, and danced in front of Sam.

“Good dog. Now you try it,” Sam told Mitchell.

Mitchell wiped his hands on his shorts, took the rope, and dangled it in front of the dog’s nose. When the dog latched on, Mitchell laughed and looked around at his audience before tugging lightly at the rope.

“Grrr,” he said. “What a toughie. Who’s your best friend, huh? Who’s your best friend now?”

He played with the dog for a while, tugging and tossing and holding the rope aloft so Blender could jump for it. You could tell he thought he had invented the game.

“Be careful, Mitchell,” said Lena, watching.

Mitchell ignored her. “I think this dog actually likes me,” he observed with satisfaction. “This is a first. Maybe he’s trying to tell me something. Come here, buster,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Want to come home with me after the trip?”

Sam looked stung. Mitchell got down on his hands and knees. He held the rope in front of his mouth and growled and pretended to bite the rope.

“Honey, not so close,” Lena protested.

From down on the boats came whoops of laughter. “Who wants another beer?” Peter said.

Mitchell stood up. “Hey, that’s an idea. Okay, doggie, that’s it for now,” he said sternly. “Good doggie. All good things must come to an end. Time to go play by yourself. Time for Mitchell’s gin and tonic.”

Blender barked.

“All yours, Sam,” Mitchell said. He held his hands up. “I don’t have it, doggie! Look! Sam’s got the rope!”

But the dog was not convinced. Nor was he about to be dumped so easily. He circled Mitchell, barking, and Mitchell backed up.

“Don’t raise your hands like that,” Sam told Mitchell. “He thinks you’ve got something in them.”

“Well, I don’t! Look! Hands! Empty!” And he fluttered his fingers above his head.

“That excites him,” said Sam. “Put your hands down.”

But Sam’s instructions didn’t register with Mitchell—either that, or it was simply too strong an instinct to hold one’s hands up when a dog was barking. And from the dog’s viewpoint, what was he to make of this large man with the half-grown beard and the dark glasses and the Hawaiian shirt, standing at the top of a steep riverbank, waving his hands above his head in some kind of primitive dance?

Blender sprang forward, knocking Mitchell back, and the two of them went tumbling down the hillside, a ball of fur and gaudy fabric, here and there a well-tanned limb jutting out, pinballing against rocks and prickly shrubs, only to be stopped, finally, by the rubble at the water’s edge.

JT was sitting on his boat enjoying his second beer of the evening when this happened, and he was mellowed out enough that the descent seemed to occur in slow motion, during which time three things occurred to him:

One, the dog was surely going for Mitchell’s jugular;

Two, far be it that Mitchell might be lucky enough to score a soft landing against the rafts;

And three (this realization occurring just as Mitchell collided headfirst with the rocks), they’d run out of gauze two days ago.

Mass confusion ensued as Lena raced down the hill and JT leapt out of the boat and Mitchell struggled to right himself from the crotch of two boulders.

“Grab my hand!” Lena cried, extending one of her sparrow arms.
Mitchell bicycled his legs in the air, and Peter finally had to reach down and lend his arm so that Mitchell could haul himself up.

At which point JT couldn’t help but wince, for Mitchells forehead was covered with blood. He tried to stop Mitchell from touching it, but it was too late. Mitchell stared at his fingers.

“The dog bit me,” he marveled.

By now almost everyone was crowding around to see how badly Mitchell was injured. Even Ruth came hobbling down.

“He was teasing the dog,” Sam reported.

“I wouldn’t call it teasing,” said Lena.

“Well, he was holding his hands up in the air, and the dog jumped,” said Mark.

With all this chatter, JT felt like his head was going to burst, this at a time when he needed to stay calm. Was it him, or were they having more medical crises than usual on this trip? He was grateful when Dixie squatted beside him with the first aid box.

“Is he up-to-date on his tetanus?” Dixie asked Lena.

“I can hear every word you’re saying and yes I’m up-to-date on my tetanus,” said Mitchell. “Now could someone please bring me a mirror?”

“You don’t need a mirror, Mitchell,” said Dixie. “Let me look.”

With great stoicism, Mitchell raised his head. JT and Dixie and Lena all peered closely. There were many small abrasions on his forehead, but most of the blood was coming from a small split near his hairline. It did not look like a dog bite.

“I think you cut it on a rock,” JT said, sitting back.

“Besides, Blender would never bite anyone,” said Sam.

“He would me,” said Mitchell. “I told you, dogs have been biting me my whole life.”

“Lie back, Mitchell,” said Dixie as she opened up the first aid box. “Hey. Where’s all the gauze?”

“We’re out,” JT said. “Use paper towels.” And Abo, as though having already read JT’s mind, handed him a roll from behind.

“How can you be out of gauze?” Mitchell demanded.

“Lloyd used it.”

“And what, he thought we were right around the corner from Wal-Mart?” Mitchell spat into the sand. “I pay three thousand bucks and you can’t provide me with a five-dollar roll of gauze?”

All this time the Mother Bitch had been sitting off to the side, flossing.
Shoot this guy
, she said.
Tie him to a rock. Let him fry
.

At that point, Lena spoke up in what seemed to everyone to be the first time she’d said much of anything the entire trip.

“Mitchell,” she said. “Behave yourself. We’re a group, and someone else got hurt, and we used up the gauze. We didn’t mean to but we did.” Her use of the first-person plural reminded everyone that she did indeed teach kindergarten. “Now give me your handkerchief, and take this,” and she handed him a paper towel.

“Do I need stitches?” he asked her.

“No,” said Lena. “You don’t need stitches. There’s a lot of blood, but trust me, it’s a small cut. Head cuts are like that.”

“Lie down, Mitchell,” said Dixie.

“I’ll bet if I walked into the ER right now, they’d give me stitches,” Mitchell said. “Now I’ll have a scar. But hey, what’s the big deal? Fifty-nine-year-old guy, why should he care about his face?”

“Come on, Mitchell. Lie down,” said JT.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if this dog has rabies,” said Mitchell.

“The dog does not have rabies,” said JT.

“And you’re an expert on rabies how again?”

“Mitchell! Lie down and SHUT UP!” said Dixie.

Lena held up her hand. “I think it would help if everyone took a deep breath. Mitchell, you don’t need stitches. The dog doesn’t have rabies. Dixie and JT have everything they need to bandage you up. Now it’s time to cooperate.”

“Thank you, Lena,” said Dixie.

“Please, Mitchell. Lie back,” said JT wearily. “I want my beer.”

Mitchell lay back with a grunt. JT cradled the man’s head in his lap. His beard was rough, his skin craggy. Mitchell closed his eyes, and JT was thankful for that. Lena told Mitchell to think of a nice place.

“I’m in a nice place,” he grumbled.

“A nicer place,” said Lena.

“On three, Mitchell,” said Dixie.

Mitchell grimaced as Dixie poured peroxide directly onto the wound. JT blotted it, then Dixie swabbed it with antibiotic cream and taped three Band-Aids over it.

“Okay, kiddo,” she said.

Mitchell opened his eyes.

“All in the anticipation,” Dixie said. “Isn’t that right, Sam? Sit up, Mitchell. Take a look.” She found a small mirror in the first aid kit. Mitchell peered at Dixie’s bandaging job. He did not look too terribly unhappy, but he was not going to begrudge anyone anything at this point.

“If this gets infected, you are going to regret this decision like no other,” he told JT.

JT stood up and cuffed sand off the back of his shorts. “Which decision might that be?”

“The decision to keep the dog,” said Mitchell. “What are you guys governed by, a state licensing board? I imagine it doesn’t screw around with decisions like this. One hundred and twenty-five trips, did you say? Maybe that’s a nice round number to call it quits.”

Stake him to an anthill
, said the Mother Bitch.
Want me to do it? No qualms here
.