Caribou Island

21

Gary tried to clear his head by walking. He felt accused. For years now, and what had he actually done? No crime that he was aware of. The crime only of association, of being there. His marriage a thing of pressure and weight.

He didn’t like walking in a city, even a city like Anchorage that was mostly one-story and spread out and not really a city. Dirty and empty, endless strip malls. Car and truck dealerships, industrial supply, nightclubs with no windows, fast food and gun shops. A sunny afternoon in a dead place.

Irene was working at him, had been for a while now. He didn’t know why. But she wouldn’t let up. The constant complaints. He was weak, running away, never there for her, always a failure, always a disappointment. She thought the cabin was idiotic, thought his life was idiotic. And what was her goal? Just to make the two of them miserable?

Gary took off his jacket, warming up from walking fast. Hopefully the doctor could make the headaches go away. That would be an improvement. The crazy factor would decrease considerably.

He tried not to think about her, tried to just walk. Mud-spattered pickups and campers rolling past, clogged at streetlights. He liked his trails at home, the path to Mark’s house, path over the first ridge, longer trails up the mountain. More to explore on the island, too, a lot more to explore. But first he had a cabin to finish. He was running out of time.

Gary stopped and closed his eyes and tried to see it, tried to stand inside his cabin, the log walls, an old iron stove in the corner, nickel legs. A rough table, bench seats covered in hides, a bed at the end of the room, his biggest bear hide over that. Timber wolves hanging either side of the doorway, the one window leaded. A rocking chair for looking out this window, maybe a pipe. Maybe he’d take up smoking a pipe.

Gary sighed and opened his eyes, walked on. A lot of work still before he’d be thinking about that rocking chair. And very little help from anyone. Every part of the project would be a struggle. That was the truth.

Gary found himself back at the motel room before long, opened and closed the door quietly.

I’m not asleep.

Sorry, Irene. I wish you could sleep.

Me too.

He lay down beside her, put his arm over.

Thank you, she said, happy to have him back. Easier to get through the time, listening to him fall asleep.

Irene watched the clock while Gary and Rhoda napped, and finally it was four p.m. They piled into the truck for the four-thirty appointment.

Romano put CAT scans on an illuminated white screen. Irene could see her own brain, all the soft tissues in addition to bones. Very different from an X ray, everything revealed.

These dark patches right here, Romano pointed, are your sphenoid sinuses.

Irene could see they were tucked under her brain, far back from her nose. A place hidden from X rays by surrounding bone.

Dark means they’re empty, Romano said.

What?

That’s good news, really. And your frontals are clear. That was the other possibility for the pain behind your right eye. Maxillaries in your cheeks also clear, though I doubted you had anything there. You would have had more facial pain.

I don’t understand, Irene said. There’s nothing there, just like in the X ray?

That’s right.

There has to be something.

I’m sorry.

But what are these terrible headaches then? Irene could feel herself breaking down, and Romano put a hand on her shoulder.

I’m sorry, Irene. From what you describe, I think you did have a sinus infection, probably your frontal sinuses. But they seem to have cleared, and I don’t know why you still have the headache.

There’s no other explanation?

Not in my field, Romano said. I’m not a neurosurgeon. It could be the infection and headache, if that’s what it started as, triggered something else, or it could have been the stress from the headache and not sleeping. Is there anything else you’ve been worried about lately, any other cause of stress?

Huh, Irene said. Just thirty years of marriage going down the toilet, my whole life with it.

I’m sorry, Romano said, and it was clear Irene had gone too far. She never told anyone anything about her life, as a general rule — some sort of Icelandic code.

I shouldn’t have said that, she told him. I normally wouldn’t say that. I just wanted surgery. So everything could go away. The pain is real. The headaches won’t stop, and I’m scared of them. I don’t know what to do. I need to make them stop.

You need to stop taking the codeine, Romano said. You’ve already been on it long enough to become addicted, and that can cause new problems.

But I can’t sleep. Even the codeine isn’t enough sometimes.

You have to stop today. No more painkillers beyond aspirin or Advil. And I’d recommend seeing a psychiatrist. You might ask about medication for anxiety. That could help you sleep, and more sleep might take care of the headache.

Okay, Irene said, nodding, thinking there was no way in hell she was going to see a shrink. And thank you. I’m sorry.

No need to apologize, he said. You’re in pain, and I’m sorry I can’t help.

Irene walked to the exit counter and waited to pay, but the receptionist told her there was no charge. This made Irene start to cry, the kindness. The pain had her always on edge, ready to spill over for any reason. But she dabbed at her eyes and walked into the waiting area, trying to figure out what to tell Gary and Rhoda.

They could see her eyes were wet. They both stood right away and came over to hug her.

It’s not my sinuses, she told them. We still don’t know what’s wrong.

Jim received a call from Rhoda. They were coming home tonight, not staying over in Anchorage. She sounded tired on the phone.

I’ll have dinner ready, he said. What would you like?

Anything. I don’t care. I have to go. Sorry.

So Jim drove to the store. He needed to make something nice for Rhoda. Maybe even Baked Alaska. Tried to think of what she liked most and drew a blank. He had no idea what she really liked to eat. All the dishes she fixed, they were all for him, all the things he liked.

He’d been selfish and taken her for granted. He could see that now. And he’d just paid a lot of money to have her not find out. Not a cheap fuck, he said out loud.

The problem was, he still missed Monique. Despite how things ended. She was the most beautiful woman he would ever be with. That was a certainty. There would never be anything better, and he had half his life still to live. That was depressing. Rhoda was safe, though, and available. He’d get a ring, and maybe they’d even have kids, all of which made him want to yank the wheel and flip into a ditch.

Jim tried to hold it together. Rhoda would be able to tell if he was still upset when she got home. He’d have to pretend it was just concern for her and her mom. He could come out of this looking better than ever.

Thanks for fucking me over, Monique, he said.

He parked and went inside, to the seafood section. Enormous king crab legs, even whole crabs, six feet across. Like aliens, crawling along the bottom in darkness, cold as space, under mountains of pressure. A world that shouldn’t exist, far away and untouchable. You could bring a crab up, but you couldn’t go down to them, couldn’t join. And this was the truth about Monique. He could have her for a short time, and his money could make it seem almost that he could fit into her world, but she was untouchable. Even if he had been her age, he would have ended up like Carl.

Fuckers, Jim said.

What’s that? asked the man behind the counter.

Oh. Sorry, Jim said. I’ll take some crab legs.

Then there was the problem of what to go with the legs. Nothing sounded good to Jim. He didn’t care if he never ate again. But he decided on a big salad. Rhoda liked salads. And he got all the goodies. Marinated artichoke hearts, pine nuts, cranberries, avocado, tomatoes, shaved Gruyère, the works. Then the fixings for Baked Alaska. Also some Ben and Jerry’s for backup, though not New York Superfudge Chunk. Cherry Garcia would work.

Jim slumped over his cart in the freezer section and just held on. His face down close to the lettuce. He wasn’t going to cry over her, ever. He had to focus on his breath, let it calm, slowly calm. He’d be all right. He was a dentist, after all. He made more than any of the other fucks around here.

At the moment, though, Alaska felt like the end of the world, a place of exile. Those who couldn’t fit anywhere else came here, and if they couldn’t cling to anything here, they just fell off the edge. These tiny towns in a great expanse, enclaves of despair.

He needed to pull himself together. There was no line at checkout, and he was home quickly, carrying his groceries to the kitchen. And it was only as he was putting the bags down that he realized there had been a change. He had been unfaithful, and even if he married Rhoda now, he had opened the possibility of other women, and he knew he would act on this. He would continue cheating. There was no way to stop it once it was possible. He would find other women, most likely his patients. Or his staff. He could advertise for another hygienist, another secretary to help with the front office. He could tell Rhoda he was doing this instead of bringing in another partner. A way to expand. But he’d be hiring an affair. That’s all he’d be looking for, one at a time, just hire and fire. He didn’t know how he hadn’t thought of that before. Rhoda would catch on eventually, but then he’d just move on to the next wife, if he had to, and the next set of affairs. None of it was a crime. And if he had her sign a prenup, there’d be no damage done.

The question, really, was what his life was about. He didn’t believe in God, and he wasn’t in the right field to become famous or powerful. Those were the three biggies: faith, fame, and power. They could justify a life, perhaps, or at least make you think your life meant something. All the crap about being a good guy, treating people well, and spending time with family was only crap because it had nothing to anchor it. There was no cosmic scorecard. Having kids seemed to work for some people, but not really. They were lying, because they’d lost their lives and it was too late. And money, by itself, didn’t mean anything. So all that was left was sex, and money could help with that.

Jim stood at the sink, washing lettuce, and realized this was it. He would devote his life to sex. Get in better shape and have as many women as possible. He wished he had discovered this earlier, before forty-one, because it would have been a lot easier earlier, but it still wasn’t too late. He had a good ten years at least before his life dissolved into something he didn’t care to think about.

He tore up the lettuce, cut tomatoes, sliced the avocado, threw in the other bits, got a pot of water ready for the crab legs, then had to stop because he didn’t know when she’d be home. And he decided to skip the Baked Alaska. Too much effort.