Caribou Island

22

Carl spent all day at the Coffee Bus. Karen gave him free coffee, and when she found out he had no money, gave him free sandwiches, also. He sat against the side of the bus, a backpack on either side. Nodded hello to the customers and wrote postcards. He wrote one of them to himself.

Dear Carl, Hoping to see you again soon. You seem a little lost. It’s been a while since we talked. I think we have to admit at this point that things are not going well. We both have dreams, but are they leading us in the same direction? Ha ha, Carl.

Carl filled in his address and decided to send it along with the other cards. All of this assumed he’d have enough money at some point to buy stamps. He was waiting for Mark to show up so he could ask for a job.

But Mark did not show up, and at 8:00 p.m., Karen locked the bus.

Fishing ended at seven, Karen said. But they have to get to the dock and unload. Be a while before he shows up, so I’ll just bring you home and you can talk with him there.

Thank you, Carl said, and climbed into her VW with the backpacks.

Where’s Monique?

Carl had been sitting here all day with the two packs, so it was odd that Karen was asking now.

Dumped me, he said.

Karen nodded and pulled onto the road. Sorry about that.

It was inevitable, Carl said. She never liked me. But she could at least come pick up her stuff. Seems a little rude to have me schlep it around.

Yeah, Karen agreed. Then she mumbled to herself. Whisperings and head jerks, low grumbles, aha expressions, the whole bit, like a full conversation with another person. Carl sitting in the seat beside her, only a few feet away, completely ignored. He wondered whether she was on something, or damaged in some way. He hadn’t noticed this about her before. But he didn’t want to interrupt.

Karen drove a slalom course on the gravel road to the lake. Drift to the right side of the road, then a small jerk and drift to the left, then back to the right again. Carl was grateful to arrive.

Karen went in and started cooking, off in her own world. Carl carried the packs one at a time and settled in the living room. Unfinished plywood floor, an old and dirty couch, but comfortable enough. The air surprisingly cold. No heat or insulation, the wind coming in from somewhere. Carl had taken off his jacket but he put it back on, flipped the hood up. Same as being outside.

Carl was hungry. The sandwiches and coffee not enough. A kind of torture to sit here on the couch, knowing food was nearby. He couldn’t just get up and grab a snack. There had to be some smoked salmon. Food within reach but untouchable, though in her mutterings would she even notice?

Mark finally drove up and walked in.

My brother from another planet, he said to Carl. Hail.

Avast, Carl said, trying to rise to the occasion.

Did you bring Monique?

She dumped me.

Ah, Mark said. Have you heard my calculus joke?

No.

E to the X is walking down the street with C, and they run into an integration sign.

What?

You didn’t take calculus?

No.

Well never mind, then. It’s a long joke. I told it to a girl at the cannery today, though, and she got it. She speaks five languages.

Sorry, Carl said.

Mark went over to hug Karen, and they had some odd little ritual involving ear massage. Apparently Mark’s ears got cold on the boat and Karen’s hands were exceptionally warm. Too embarrassing to watch, so Carl sat down on the couch again, facing the other way. He could hear slurpings and murmurings but tried to just look at the trees and bits of lake between the trees.

Carl felt how poor he was. He had to sit here because he had nowhere else to go. If you were poor, you had to ask favors and hang out and wait and spend time with people you didn’t want to spend time with. All the while, you were essentially invisible. Carl was not going to do this anymore. He was going to change his major, even if it meant an extra year of college. And he was going to tell Mark about Jim and Monique. That was the one weak spot of the rich. They had secrets.

Mark finally made it over to the couch, finished with the ear massaging and whatever else. Hombre, he said. There’s a guy at the cannery who can say “Who farted?” in eight languages.

Huh, Carl said. He never knew what to say around Mark. And he couldn’t figure out how to segue from that to, Can you get me a job?

He can say it in Thai.

How was fishing? Carl asked.

Rough, Mark said. Ten-footers. Cut way down on the catch. No one could do volume. We did only a thousand pounds.

That sounds like a lot.

It’s not.

Could you have done more if you had help?

Mark gave him a squinty look.

Okay, Carl said. That was pretty obvious, I guess. I’m broke and I need a job. Any chance of joining you on the boat?

Mark patted Carl on the shoulder, which made him feel real big. Sorry, he said. It’s impossible to get on a boat. You have to live here and know everyone and be around every summer. You have to have experience. There’s a line of guys trying to get on. And it’s the end of the season anyway.

Okay, Carl said. That makes sense. But he felt disappointed. No way in. He stared at the skinny trees, dwarfing out near the lake. They got shorter and shorter the closer they were to the water. A forest for the little people, like Carl himself. I’m a wee man, he said to Mark, using his fake Irish accent.

Hey, Mark said. Go easy, man. You can find something, just not on a boat.

I have to find something now, unfortunately. I have less than five dollars at this point. I maybe should have set something up earlier.

Yeah, Mark laughed. Maybe. But hey, I can probably get you a job at the cannery.

Really?

Yeah. Eight bucks an hour, not a lot, but you don’t need any experience. You can start at the wash table, just pulling out membranes and getting the last bits of blood. Takes five minutes to learn.

Thanks, Mark. That’d be perfect.

Let’s celebrate with a bowl.

Carl was going to say no, as he always did, but then he thought what the hell. Marijuana wasn’t going to kill him. Okay, he said.

My man, Mark said, and he packed a bowl and got it lit, small puffs. Then he took a long drag, held it in, and passed the pipe to Carl.

Carl didn’t like the smell, or the smoke, and he hated to break his record. He’d never tried anything, not even a cigarette or an alcoholic drink. A point of pride, and it would be over now. But what the hell. He sucked in the hot smoke, acrid and constricting, and coughed, his breath gone short.

Mark was laughing, and Karen came over to laugh, too.

Popped his cherry, Mark told her. Right here, in our humble abode.

Karen took a hit then floated away back to the kitchen.

Carl waited for a feeling, a different perception, anything. He was hoping for visions, maybe the walls dissolving. But nothing happened. Mark passed him the bowl and he sucked in again, held it like Mark told him, then exhaled and coughed again.

Is it good? Mark asked.

I don’t feel anything, Carl said.

Nothing? Mark asked.

Nothing.

Try another hit.

So Carl tried again, but really there was no effect other than a low-grade headache at the back of his neck and a foul taste in his mouth, a tightness in his lungs.

Try again, Mark said, so Carl tried a fourth hit, but then he gave up.

Sometimes nothing happens your first time, Mark said.

Carl wasn’t sure there’d be a second time. It was all disappointing. Monique is fucking Jim, he told Mark. And he looked over to the kitchen, to Karen, who was looking at him now. I saw them do it in the living room when we stayed over there, and she’s been disappearing a lot.

Mark was packing another bowl.

Rhoda’s Jim? Karen asked.

Yeah, the dentist.

Mark lit up and took a long hit, then passed the bowl to Carl.

No thanks, Carl said. That’s enough for now.

Mark shrugged and held the bowl up in the air for Karen to come over. She took a drag and handed it back.

So that was it, the big revelation, the much-anticipated moment. Carl’s secret information hitting the world like a meteor.

Dinner’s ready, Karen said.