The Cage Keeper (14 page)

“Knows what?”

“What heaven looks like.”

“He means God, Dad.”

“Yeah,
God.
” Vinnie got up and walked past them to the trail.

Rory took a breath and let it out. He knew what Vinnie was talking about. April did too. But he wouldn’t talk about it now. Not like this. “Before you go off, you take your sister’s sweater out of that pack and give it to her.”

“I’m not cold, Dad.”

“You will be, hon. Trust me.”

THE REST OF THE HIKE was downhill into the valley and the kids were taking it fast, but Rory went slow. He had tied his motorcycle jacket across the top of Vinnie’s pack and for a while he kept his eyes on that; watching his leather jerk and sway as Vinnie scurried down the trail seemed to help. It set the beat in his head. He didn’t think so much about how shaky hot and gorged with blood his thigh muscles felt, how they seemed to be working on their own now and that if the trail leveled or climbed again, his legs would keep walking even if he didn’t want them to. Then he couldn’t see Vinnie anymore. He was moving too fast. Now it was April he watched, her blond pigtails bobbing along. Her sleeping bag was still tied snug against her and she carried the bag of marshmallows in her left hand.

This was a good hike. It felt to Rory like roofing does when you really get into the groove, when you’ve tacked all your plywood sheets into place on the rafters and it’s nailing time. The sun’s out but not too hot. There’s a bandana around your head for the sweat. You’re working alone, but in your right hand is your long-handled framing hammer, and hanging at your waist is an apron full of nails. You grab six or seven galvanized then start from the ridge and work down. At first you drive them in four swings, then three. When you’re cooking, it’s
bap-bap,
the nail’s buried in two. It’s not finish work, but still, you’re not leaving any hammer moons on the wood. And the fingers of your left hand are magic. They’re setting up the next nail while you’re still pounding the one before it, so you never stop, you never even pause. You finish nailing the eleventh sheet of plywood, straighten, drop your hammer into its belt hook, then take one breath, maybe two before you climb over the ridge and start the other side.

Alene used to like all that, Rory was sure. When he’d built that bedroom addition for her uncle, she said she got juiced just watching Rory sweat and swing his hammer like it was a part of his body, his thoughts even. The last day of the job, when he had to finish painting the clapboard siding, she’d helped him. It was cool and cloudy and Rory had worried about rain. But she showed up at ten that morning with two coffees and three honey-dipped doughnuts. She had her blond hair tied up in a scarf. She wore paint-splattered work boots, jeans ripped at both knees, and a blue sleeveless workshirt that she’d tied off at the waist. Through the shirt holes beneath her armpits, Rory could see the pale outward curve of her breasts. He hooked his finger inside, pulled the shirt back, and kissed her nipple until she pushed him away laughing.

They were done by three. She went in to wash up and leave her uncle a note, then they got on Rory’s Harley and cruised the wind to The Hideaway Lounge. There were only a couple customers at the bar, two sheetrockers Rory didn’t know. He ordered two cold Buds from skinny Pete then carried them back to the table between the jukebox and the dartboard. Alene’d punched in some songs already, slow ones they could hold each other to: Patsy Cline, Stevie Nicks, some old Springsteen. They were pressing close together and Bruce was singing “Jersey Girl” when Rory said it; he leaned back, lifted her chin with two fingers, and looked into her face. “Let’s just do it, Alene.”

“Here, Rore? They’ll all watch us.”

He shook his head once. “Your kids need a daddy. And Lord knows I sure’s shit need you.”

She stopped smiling, and in the midafternoon dark of the barroom her eyes seemed to get more round. Her eyes began to well up. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her tongue darting around inside his mouth like she was looking for what part of him to thank for all this.

They didn’t finish their beers. They rode home just as it started to rain. When they got to Rory’s trailer, the rain was really whipping down but he didn’t cover his Harley. He unlocked the door for Alene and when he stepped in after her, she already had her workshirt off. She moved to him and pulled his T-shirt over his head and arms. They kissed, then pulled away from each other to untie and pull off their boots. When she unsnapped his jeans and he unzipped hers, they were both laughing. She stood naked in front of him, her hair dripping. She stopped smiling and her eyes got that round look again. She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. He put his hands beneath her butt and lifted her to him. The rain was coming down so hard on the tin roof of the trailer, it was all they could hear.

The trail was rockier than ever, but Rory was walking fast enough to stay ten or fifteen feet behind April, twenty or thirty behind her brother. They were on flat ground now and were moving toward the foot of Crawford Notch. The air was cool, in the high fifties, Rory figured. He thought he should be wearing his jacket to keep from getting a chill. He thought about Vinnie not wearing his sweater, just an Iron Maiden T-shirt that he didn’t have tucked in. He wished again April had worn boots and heavy socks.

Then they were in it, the thickest birch grove Rory’d ever seen. On both sides of the trail, as deep as he could see, were white trees. Some were still beginning to sprout buds but most were leafed out already. The trail was smooth here, and along its sides were wide green ferns. Up ahead, April stopped and waited for him. Rory dug his thumbs in between his shoulders and the pack’s straps and walked faster. When he was close to her, she was smiling, pointing into the birches.

“I saw a movie in school? About a cave that elephants go to to die, or that their elephant friends drag them to? It looked just like that, Dad. Like a forest of bones.”

“But it’s pretty, isn’t it?”

April nodded. Back at the flat rock her cheeks had been flushed, but now they looked strangely pale. He put his palm to her forehead.

“You’re too dry. You all right?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“Course you are. We’ve been walking hard.” Rory looked past her down the trail and called out to Vinnie. The boy’s voice came back through the trees.

“I’m
here!
There’s a
stream too!
”

The Wild Birch Camp was a small dirt clearing in the trees. There was an empty iron garbage barrel chained to the trunk of a skinny hackberry. In front of the clearing was a dry bed of small rocks, then a stream that flowed back in the direction from which they’d come. The water was flowing fast, foaming and spilling over granite boulders. It was loud and Rory was surprised he hadn’t heard it back on the trail. He watched Vinnie get down on his hands and knees and drink. On the other side was the steep rise of Crawford Notch. The sun was already behind it. A huge shadow fell over the camp.

“It’s like a giant wall, isn’t it Daddy?”

“Absolutely.” Rory squatted and slipped off the pack. When he stood, his upper body went light, but his neck and shoulders felt like they were being pinched by a steel clamp. He untied April’s sleeping bag from her back. He picked up the canteen and held it for her while she drank. There was no sweat on her forehead or upper lip. None. That worried him. He wasn’t sure what it was called when that happened, but he knew it wasn’t good. He put his belt on and strapped the Puma knife and sheath to his side. When April lowered the canteen, he fastened the top button of her sweater.

“I’m hot.”

“Here. Sit on your sleeping bag and rest. Me and your brother are gonna set up camp.”

The hike seemed to have helped Vinnie. He was walking around with more energy than Rory’d seen in him all day. It was like April’s and a part of Rory’s had gone into the boy. And he was taking orders well. When Rory asked him to pick up the loose twigs and rocks where they were going to make camp, he had the space cleared before Rory’d even untied the tent. He unrolled the yellow canvas so the doorway would face the water and the Notch. They started from the bottom and worked to the top. Vinnie threaded each of the five base poles through the canvas loops in the tent’s roof. While he was doing that, Rory worked the upper pole sections through to meet the lower ones. He had Vinnie hold them together while he screwed them in tight. There was a special clip that held all five poles together at the top center of the tent, but Rory didn’t see it anywhere. He checked the small outer pockets of the pack, then he laid it on its side and gently shook out the food. One of the family-sized cans of beans and franks rolled onto the Wonder Bread loaf and stayed there. April nudged it off with her foot. Rory smelled steak sauce, lots of it. Then he saw its brown smear all over the box of oatmeal. There was some on the peanut butter jar, a dab on one of the Coors beers, but most of it was inside the pack. “Damn.”

“What’s the matter, Dad?”

“Nothin’, sweetie. The steak sauce spilled, that’s all.”

“Oh.”

The empty A-1 bottle rolled out last. At least it wasn’t broken. Rory turned the pack upside down and shook it. No clip.

“My arm’s getting tired over here.” Vinnie was leaning over the tent, holding all five poles together with two hands.

“Want some water, Dad?”

Rory shook his head, then glanced back at the canteen’s long adjustable strap. It hung over April’s wrist and touched her knee. He took the canteen from her, flicked open his knife, and cut off the strap.

“
Hey,
that’s brand-new.”

“Sorry, Vin. I didn’t think.” Rory stepped to the edge of the tent and worked the strap through the eye of all five poles, then he cinched it in tight and tied it off with a bolin knot. “You gotta be flexible when you build things, buddy. I’ll buy you a new canteen.”

“What, in a year? No thanks.”

“It looks like a yellow igloo, you guys.”

“Hey Vin, don’t eat yellow snow.”

Vinnie didn’t smile. He grabbed his pack and sleeping bag and crawled into the tent.

Rory picked his motorcycle jacket up off the rocks and put it on. He pulled a bandana from one of the pockets, then he squatted and began to wipe the A-1 sauce from the Skippy jar. “I guess we’ll have to put peanut butter on our steaks tonight.”

April didn’t laugh. He glanced up at her. She wasn’t even smiling. She had her palms clasped between her legs and was looking out at the stream. Rory touched her forehead and cheek. He grabbed her sleeping bag and took her hand.

“I want you to lie down awhile, okay?”

Inside the tent, Vinnie had his sleeping bag rolled out against the north wall. He was lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, looking up at the canvas ceiling.

“Your sister’s not feeling so good, Vin. Help her get into her sleeping bag. I’m going to gather up some firewood while I can still see it. Come help me after.”

Outside, Rory untied his sleeping bag from the frame. He finished wiping the steak sauce off everything, then he carried the empty pack down to the stream and dipped it in against the current. The water felt so cold against his wrists he was surprised there wasn’t any ice formed around the rocks or at the edge of the stream. After he rinsed out the pack and shook off the excess water, he laid it over the garbage barrel near the hackberry tree. It was already too dark in the birches to see much, and he figured any wood he’d find under the ferns would be too wet. He glanced at the tent, picked up the flask, and headed for the stream.

He stepped over rocks and made it to the other side without getting water on his boots. He couldn’t believe how dark it’d gotten. It’s the Notch, he thought. There’s probably more sunlight on the other side. In the meadow before it, ten yards downstream, was a fallen shagbark hickory. Rory set his flask down and wondered how, with all the higher trees around, lightning had picked this one. He kicked a long dry limb off the trunk, braced one end over his shoulder, the other on the ground, then stomped on its middle and broke it in half.

He started making a pile for him and Vinnie to carry back to the camp. April had felt too hot, he knew that. He’d build a fire close to the tent to cook over and he’d make April drink three canteens of water, stay in her sleeping bag. When he first touched her face, he thought she’d just walked too hard and needed to rest. But then her cheeks had felt feverish and her eyes got that dark but distant look people get when their world starts to look unworldly. He wished he’d brought some aspirin. Band-Aids too. He picked up the flask and felt the liquid promise of it in his hand. He uncapped it, passed the opening under his nose, then took a short hit: oh Jesus Mary and Saint Joseph’s what a treat. The Big Man’s own elixir. A ten-month drought ended. A fat check cashed. Rory just knew the center of the earth was filled with the stuff. He gathered an armful of wood and started back over the rocks he could see. Just before he reached the other side, his left foot slipped into the water and a light beam shone into his face. “Who the fuck is that?”

“Me.” Vinnie lowered the flashlight. He had put on a heavy wool sweater and was eating a candy bar.

“Oh. I forgot you had a light.”

“Doug gave it to me.”

“That’s right too. It’s good you brought it, Vin. All I got is a lighter.”

Rory dropped the wood on the ground near the tent. “Man, the sun turned in early, didn’t it? I can hardly see your face.”

“April’s sick.”

“I know it.”

“Mom had the flu last week.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I mean it’s good April’s got the flu instead of heatstroke, or sunstroke, or whatever you call it. I was worried about her not sweating.”

“She never sweats.”

“Give me your flashlight. I want to check on her.”

“She’s got her own.”

Rory couldn’t see if Vinnie was smiling or not. He could only see the vague outline of the boy’s head and shoulders, the white of the birches behind him.

“Can I do the fire?”

Rory reached into his jeans pocket for his Bic lighter. It was still in the silver sheath Alene’d given him on their seventh anniversary, just a few months before nursing school and Doug Cohen. Beneath the sculpted figure of a bearded man on a horse were the words
Even long riders need somebody. I love you. A.