Caribou Island

33

Everything was working against Gary now. Irene, the weather, time. Old troll brought her bow, said she wanted to hunt. Arrow tips wide fins of razor blade, a compound bow with pulleys, a frightening amount of power, and she seemed in dark enough a mind to consider using it on him.

The wind colder again, building. Another low-pressure system, hardly a break since the last. Gary had expected some warmer weather after the early storm. A kind of Indian summer. But this was starting to look like fall would be short. Another day below freezing.

Not another soul anywhere on this huge lake. The boat heavy with canned goods, loaded to the gunwales. A barge making its way slowly into white, the sky coming down.

All that held them was a hollow in the water, the theoretical weight of that, a depression in the surface. If they dipped an edge, the water would rush to fill the vacuum and they’d sink right to the bottom. Gary could feel the weight of the boat loaded down, could feel its desire to sink. The inanimate world full of intent, and Gary acutely aware how frail his life was. Waiting, hoping to pass safely, and he could do nothing more.

I could have loaded us down a bit less, he called out to Irene. We’re heavy.

Irene turned to look at him a moment, as hostile a presence as ever, then looked forward again.

A slow passage, so slow it felt almost like Gary’s will was all that was powering them, but finally he was able to turn toward shore. He came in slow, aimed carefully, but they were too heavy. They hit rocks fifteen feet out, stopped dead.

It’s not deep, Irene said. I’ll just get out here.

She was over the side and sank to her thighs. Not wearing waders. She grabbed a flat of chili, heavy he knew, and took a step toward shore then slipped and went down. Dropped the canned goods, went in to her shoulders, thrashing with her arms. Stood back up, dripping, and didn’t say a thing. Just grabbed another flat of cans out of the boat, stepped forward again and made it this time to shore. Entirely soaked and must have been freezing.

Gary didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t think of anything safe. He put the engine in gear and tried to ram a bit closer but was caught. So he turned off the engine and climbed over the bags and flats to the bow, handed another flat to Irene, who had returned.

We’ll go back after unloading, he said. So you can take a hot bath and get some warm clothes.

She looked old, very old, the lower part of her hair wet, her face wet. She took the plastic-wrapped flat of soups and turned away again.

Gary swung his legs over and lowered into the water, a shock of cold. Grabbed a flat and stepped carefully on the slick rocks below, made it to shore, cracking through thin panes of ice.

If you want, you can relay everything up to the tents and I’ll do the trips to the boat, he said.

Irene paused a moment. All right, she said.

He was going to have probably fifty trips over the slick stones. Not having a dock or a better beach was something he hadn’t considered enough when he bought this place. One more example of his poor planning. But they wouldn’t have to do this often. Another boatload would last them to the hard freeze, then he’d buy a used snowmobile and bring supplies on that. Some kind of cargo sled. This entire place would be transformed. An open flat plain of white, no boats, and it was coming soon.

Gary could imagine walking out across the ice, the island no longer an island. The air still, no sound. Peaceful.

Irene gone a long time from shore. Changing her clothes, he was sure, and that was a good idea. Might save them a trip back home, too. Gary carried more flats of canned goods. His legs numb, his feet not feeling the rocks well.

Irene reappeared in dry clothing.

Feel better? Gary asked, but there was no answer. Irene picked up a flat of baked beans and walked carefully into grass and alders. The snow coming down heavier now, the world vanishing. No mountain, and the lake shortened. Closing in, leaving only the two of them and their work.

Back and forth, slogging through the water, Gary’s legs no more than stumps. He removed all the canned goods, the tubs of putty, everything heavy. Then pulled himself aboard and was able to motor in to shore.

Eagle has landed, he said to Irene, trying to cheer things up, but she was impervious. Grabbed another flat and walked away.

Gary finished unloading, then helped carry up to the cabin. Irene just setting things randomly in any spot.

How about a little planning? he said. We need to organize this stuff. But she didn’t respond.

Fine, he said, and he looked around. No room in the tents, and they needed the cabin clear for construction. So Gary stacked against the back wall. Soups and baked beans on one end, chili and canned veggies on the other. Bags piled between. If a bear came along, they’d be in trouble, but a bear seemed unlikely out here. Plenty on the far shore, but he’d never heard of one on this island.

By the time he was finished, Irene was sitting on a log.

That’s it? he asked.

Yeah.

We should try to place a couple joists, Gary said, looking around, but he could see the light was fading, the world going dark blue. Looking like winter. He could see his breath in the air. Or maybe it’s a little late for that.

I’ll heat up some soup, Irene said.

Thanks, he said. He walked down to the beach to fish out that flat of chili she dropped. Stepped into the water, newly cold, the waves about a foot high now, the water blue-gray and opaque. Couldn’t see even his own feet, but he’d brought the shovel, so he poked around with that, could feel the tip on rock. A new kind of fisherman, a prospector, almost, prodding at the deep to find what could be unburied. What if he could go deeper? He’d follow this rocky slope all the way to a hundred fathoms, the low valley, where he’d dig deep into silt, make great piles like sand. Who knows what could be uncovered then. The Lake Man, they’d call him, and he’d find everything that had ever been forgotten. A childhood alongside an old shoe, a rusted-out engine full of someone’s thoughts from a summer afternoon. He’d find everything that ever was here. There’s something about water, he said aloud. What is it about water?

Gary pulled the shovel along the bottom like a rake, a farmer tending soil, feeling for that flat, for a rectangular shape softer than rock. He stepped deeper and went for another row of rock, shuffling sideways, combing the area, and finally found it. Eureka, he said. The Lake Man recovers all.

He tugged with the shovel, pulled into shallows until he was able to reach down and grab. Carried it up to Irene to show her.

I got that case of chili, he said.

Irene didn’t even look up. Kneeling before the stove, gazing into a pot of soup. Getting darker now, her face lit by the stove.

What the fuck, he said. Are you ever going to talk to me again?

You wouldn’t want to hear what I have to say.

Fine, he said. You’re probably right. I’ve heard about enough of your crap.

Gary went into the tool and supply tent to clear a space. Kneeled at the opening and stacked everything high on one side. Then went to the sleeping tent to grab his bag and pillow. I’m sleeping in the other tent, he said.

Irene like a monk over the soup. As if this meal were made of signs.

Gary stripped off his wet boots and pants and socks, put on dry clothing. Could feel his feet tingling back to life. I’ll take my soup now, he said. I’m sure it’s hot enough.

So Irene poured half the pot into a large plastic bowl and Gary grabbed a spoon and hiked down to the water’s edge. Found a good rock and sat looking into the darkness falling over the water. No longer snowing. In the far distance, on the opposite shores, no longer a clear divide between water and sky. The boat bumping in the waves, scraping occasionally on rock.

He wanted to live out here. He wanted to spend a winter, wanted to experience that. But he could see now it would be only one winter. In the spring, he would leave this place, leave Irene. He didn’t know where he would go or what he would do, but he knew it was time to leave. This life had finished.