Caribou Island

34

Irene lay alone in her tent. A quieter night than usual, no wind. And she tried to imagine what it would be like in winter. Not so hard to do, really, after living at the edge of this lake so many years. As she walked out onto it, she’d find fault lines in the snow. A thin dusting, faint ridges raised up where the ice had cracked. No other footsteps, no tracks of any kind. Irene the only figure on a broad pan of white.

Early winter, the temperature minus fifteen. The mountains would be white, the lake and glacier. Only the sky a new color, rare winter sun, rare midwinter blue. The sun above the peaks moving sideways, unable to rise any higher.

Irene would carry her bow, her footsteps the only sound. The world prehistoric. Wind shifting the snow like sand, small dunes and hollows. The water close beneath.

Irene imagined herself not properly dressed for the cold for some reason. Wearing what she had worn inside the cabin, finished now: a blue sweater, thin down vest, wool pants and boots, a knit cap, white and gray. No gloves. Her hand holding the bow was cold. She walked toward the glacier, toward the mountains, away from the island. Walked slowly. Then stopped and looked around.

Without her footsteps, no sound. No wind, no moving water, no bird, no other human. This bright world. The sound of her heart, the sound of her own breath, the sound of her own blood in her temples, those were all she would hear. If she could make those stop, she could hear the world.

The water beneath her was moving, and that must make a sound. A dark current beneath ice, no surface to break, no ripples, but even that must make a sound. Deep water, layers and currents, and when one layer moved over another, something must hear that, some tearing of water against water. And over time, the changes in those currents, the shifts, the lake never the same from moment to moment. All of that must be recorded somehow.

Irene could imagine herself continuing on over the thin crust, holding the bow in her left hand, letting the other hand warm in her pocket. Continuing over light dunes of snow, pausing in an area of large flakes. The size of fingernails, individual snowflakes, their branches visible, lying at angles, razor-thin. They looked ornamental, contrived, too large and individual to be real. She squatted down for a closer look, touched a flake, then wiped her hand across the surface revealing the black of the lake, the color of ice over the depths. A vacuum of light. And no way to peer into it, the surface clear but so dark as to be essentially opaque.

The cold would press in. Not dressed for this, not prepared. Her legs and back cold. She’d be shivering soon. The sun so bright and without any warmth.

Gary, she said. And she stopped. This big lake, so flat, only the small drifts of snow. She looked at the far shorelines, turned a slow circle, tried to see it all at once, the immensity of it.

And then she would walk toward the nearest shoreline, wanting the cover of trees. The distances deceiving, elongating. At the edge of the lake, ruptures and monuments of ice, their peaks covered in snow, mountains of another scale. She stepped over a ridge, a giantess, slick ice beneath her boots and then rock, large pebbles, the beach. Into the trees quickly, home of winter birds: spruce grouse and willow ptarmigan, white-tailed ptarmigan. She’d seen small flocks of redpoll feed in temperatures colder than this.

No trail here. She stepped over deadfall, pushed through bare patches of alder, grown thick, food for ptarmigan, into the taller white trunks of birch, the evergreen Sitka spruce, tall and thin with branches bent at odd angles.

Irene looked for signs of life, saw and heard nothing. Her footsteps cracking. The forest nonconcealing, open to the sky, too bare, too stunted to cover. Wallow and swale, the flats and hollows, pushing again through denser growth right into a devil’s club, spiny knob rising out of the forest as high as her shoulder. She cried out, her left hand impaled with spines. Twisted cane with its knobby head, thick with spines. And now she saw there were many more here. A thicket, so she had to backtrack, go around the wallow, find higher ground again.

She would find a stand of white birch, easier going, more space between trunks, make good progress, the snow not too deep. A rise, finally, the flank of the mountain, dragging the bow behind her. The cold air heavy in her lungs. As she came over a small hill, she could see the mountain above, white above the treeline, rumpled and old. She’d climb until she reached the top. Many miles, and she’d never done this in winter, but it didn’t seem difficult now. It seemed almost as if she could be carried upward, as if she could float above the ground. Only the bow was holding her back, weighing her down, so she let it drop from her hand, didn’t watch it fall, didn’t look back, climbed faster, a new urgency, pulling at small branches with her hands.

Irene felt dizzy, lightheaded, the climbing a kind of trance, watching the snow in front of her, always perfect, small hollows around every trunk, everything contoured, the world traced and made softer.

Nothing more after that. Irene lost the vision. Could no longer see herself, could no longer see the winter. She was back in the tent, alone, thinking the world wasn’t possible as it was. Too flat, too empty.

Irene curled on her side in her sleeping bag, waited for sleep, which never came. The night an expanse. Hours of focusing on her breath, counting her exhales, trying to slip away. Then turning onto her stomach, her knees sore from the sideways positions.

Early morning, the wind coming up. Still dark out. She lay on her back, no longer trying for sleep. Just let the pain pulse through her head, drifted around in it, felt tears leaking from her eyes but couldn’t find any emotion attached. A general sense of grief, or despair, something empty, but not what you’d call a feeling. Too tired for that. Waiting for light, for the day to start so at least she could get up and there would be activity. Something to pass the time.

She closed her eyes again, and when she opened her eyes sleepless hours later, the blue nylon of the tent was just visible, and so this was the beginning of the day. Another half hour of waiting and it was light enough to rise and dress.

Cold and overcast as Irene emerged from the tent. She walked over to the cabin, looked out the open space for the front window, shivering in the wind. She needed to get working to warm up.

So she stepped over to Gary’s tent. Get up, she called out. Gary. It’s time to work. I’m cold. I need to start working.

Okay, he answered finally. She envied him his sleep. Waking into a new day separated from the last. For Irene, her entire life was becoming one long day. She wondered how long she could survive. At some point, if you never sleep, do you die? Or does just lying there for hours, resting with your eyes closed, count somehow as partial sleep, something you can do for years on end?

Gary came out of the tent with his boots unlaced, jacket unzipped, head bare. Mostly gray now. Stumbled off a few feet and took a piss, faced away from her. Which reminded her of the outhouse. They still had an outhouse to build. No more squatting behind bushes in the snow.

Gary shook and zipped, stepped away, laced his boots, grabbed his hat from the tent. Cold, he said. Wind coming up.

Yeah, she said. I get to saw the ends of the joists. I need to get moving to warm up.

Okay, he said. What about breakfast?

We can have that later.

Okay.

They walked to the pile of two-by-eights and brought one into the cabin through the back door, stood on stepstools. Gary along the high back wall, holding the joist over his head, marked a pencil line for the cut.

Then Irene worked at the saw, feeling her upper body warm. Under different circumstances, she might enjoy building a cabin. A good distraction, a sense of accomplishment. The angled piece came off and they walked back to test the fit.

Pretty good, Gary said finally. Good enough. We can cut the others at the same angle.

Irene tried to just work and not think about anything else. The ripping of the saw through wood, the way the wood grabbed at it, clenched it, stops and starts, and she was thinking of winter again, wondering at what she had seen. Did it mean anything? Saying his name, standing there on the ice looking all around. Or brushing away the snow, seeing the black of the ice, or running into devil’s club, all the spines. It hadn’t been a dream. It was a waking vision, and yet she’d felt the sting of the spines, seen the twisted club heads all around her. Carrying her bow. And had she been out hunting? How can we not know our own visions, our own daydreams?

Gary saying something. Irene tried to come back, focus. What? she asked.

I said we won’t be able to fit both ends. Or maybe we can. Let me think.

Irene stopped sawing. Waited. Looked down at sawdust in the snow. Her toes cold, her knees cold against the ground. She got up in a squat, but that felt unstable for sawing, so she kneeled again.

I’m not thinking well, he said. I need some breakfast. We should have breakfast before we start.

Irene at fault for his inability to think. Nothing new there. She went to the Coleman stove and put the teakettle on a burner. Hot water for oatmeal and chocolate or tea. Neither of them drank coffee. In many ways, their strange lifestyle had been good. No TV. No Internet. No phone. Just the lake, the woods, their home, their kids, going into town to work and buy supplies. It hadn’t been a bad life, on the surface. Something elemental about it. Something that could have been true if it hadn’t all been just a distraction for Gary, a kind of lie. If he had been true, their lives could have been true.

Gary in his tent, resting or warming up while Irene waited for the water to boil. She wondered whether she could be softer, forgive him for everything, let it pass. Accept what her life had been. Something reassuring about that. But in the end, you feel what you feel. You don’t get a choice. You don’t get to remake yourself from the beginning. You can’t put a life back together a different way.

The water boiled, finally, and Gary emerged for his oatmeal and hot chocolate, sat down in the doorway, a space for one. So Irene ate her oatmeal kneeling at the stove, thinking you really can’t put a life back together a different way. That was the problem. Knowledge came too late, and by then, there was no use for it. The choices had already been made.

I see now how to do it, Gary said. I just needed a little food in my stomach. We’ll angle one end of the extension pieces, then hold them in place and mark a line for where to join. That’ll work.

Sounds good, Irene said. She hadn’t been listening, and she didn’t care. She began sawing again, her shoulder getting sore.

Gary taking a break, making plans while she worked, or maybe only daydreaming. So she stopped. You can finish these, she said, and walked to the tent to lie down, her head spinning. The pain as sharp as it had ever been, like someone sawing through her skull, but she didn’t care much about that. It just was. The pain had become like breathing. Nothing convenient about breathing, but we keep doing it.

She could hear Gary moving faster but also jamming the blade more often. Impatient. Wanting to get the roof on. But Irene could see now that the tent was more comfortable than the cabin ever would be, so she was in no rush.

Okay Irene, Gary called out. I’m ready to measure the extensions.

Irene didn’t move at first. Just seemed too difficult to get up.

Let’s go, Gary said. We can put up all these joists today and maybe even get the roof on.

Okay, Irene said. She crawled out of her bag, put on her boots, and stepped outside. A perfect workday, really. Cold and overcast, but not coming down on them, not too windy. She walked over to the pile of joists and looked at her husband. A stranger’s face. No friendliness.

I’ll go in first, he said. You’ll be on the back wall.

Okay, she said, and followed with her end. Stepped onto a stool, held her end high.

Make sure you’re level with the top, he said.

It’s there, she said. Just mark it.

I’m doing that, he said.

They set the joist down and he nailed the two pieces together. Hard hammer blows, loud.

They raised it again, and Gary nailed his end into the log wall. Damn it, he said. I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.

Irene could see a nail at the base going in crooked, another angled from the side. Maybe you need brackets, she said.

Yeah. I realize that now. But I don’t have brackets, and there doesn’t happen to be a store out here. Damn it.

So she kept holding her end while he drove in four crooked nails.

A long morning and afternoon with the joists, Gary growing steadily more frustrated and angry. His hat off and jacket unzipped from the exertion, his hair in ruffs that stood at odd angles and bent in the breeze. Jammed his thumb, cracked one of the ends, threw his hammer at the ground, got through the day in small fits and rages. Told her to hold her damn end still.

But finally the joists were in place, slanting down from the back wall to the front. Gary stood on a stool in the middle of the platform and pulled himself up on one, testing the strength. That’ll hold, he said. Let’s get the roof on before dark.

Irene hadn’t said a word in hours. They grabbed a piece of aluminum sheeting and leaned it against the front of the cabin. Brought out stepstools and hoisted the sheet into place.

It’s not quite long enough, Gary said. That’s why I got the smaller pieces. So we can let this overhang a bit. That’ll help keep the rain off the walls.

Irene did as she was told, held the sheet while he went inside to nail. I’ll have to get some goop for the nail holes, he said. So Irene knew it would drip on them, probably all winter. No bed, just their sleeping bags with large wet spots from the drips. Or maybe they’d sleep under a plastic tarp, the edges of the plywood wet and muddy, her pillow on the floor. That’s what she had to look forward to, she knew.

Let’s grab the next sheet, he said. Evening, only an hour or so of light, racing against the dark now. No lunch. Only that oatmeal for breakfast. Irene felt dizzy and insubstantial, like she might be able to drift above the ground, float just below the level of the trees. Held another sheet in place while he nailed, and another, cold aluminum. She wore only thin canvas work gloves. The temperature dropping, something below freezing. Shivering now.

As they hoisted the last full sheet, Gary was getting excited, the end in sight. She held while he went inside to nail. His head poking up through the joists, one arm slung around to nail from above.

Only the back row now, he said. We’ll have a roof over our heads tonight.

It’s getting dark, she said.

We’ll do it by flashlight.

So Irene brought out flashlights from her tent. We should have headlamps, Gary said. I wish you would have bought headlamps. And these flashlights are cheap. We’ll be lucky if they last. Irene at fault again. If they didn’t get the roof on tonight, it would be her fault.

Irene brought her stepstool around to the back wall, tried to plant the legs firmly enough so she wouldn’t totter. She stepped up and Gary handed her a sheet. The smaller sheets much lighter, but still difficult to raise over her head. She was tired and hungry and cold and her head was knifing. She pushed upward but wasn’t tall enough to get the sheet to flop over onto the roof. It only pointed into the sky.

Damn it, Gary said. Just drop it.

She let it fall into an alder bush.

I’ll have to do this myself. Bring your stool around front.

Irene went to the front and helped heave the piece onto the roof, then held it in place while he went inside. His head poking up between the joists, he grabbed the sheet and slid it upward. Fucking flashlight, he said. We needed headlamps. I can’t hold the piece and hold a nail and a hammer and a flashlight. I don’t have four fucking hands.

I’ll hold a flashlight from here, Irene said. And if you give me a stick or something, I might be able to keep the piece from slipping.

Fine, Gary said. Just hurry up. I can’t hold this forever.

Irene looked around the woodpile for a stick, trying to hurry, but she didn’t see anything. Starting to feel panicked. Gary waiting.

Just get the boat hook, he shouted. Go to the boat. I can’t fucking hold this much longer.

She walked as fast as she could to the boat, running when possible, the flashlight beam jumping around grass and snow. The boat bumping and scraping in small waves. She climbed over the bow, her flashlight beam bright against all the aluminum, and found the boat hook, hurried back to the cabin.

Here it is, she called out. She used the boat hook to push at the lower edge of the sheet. Other hand holding the flashlight, afraid she might fall, standing on the top step of the stool.

Okay, Gary said. He adjusted the sheet a bit. Now hold it there and keep the light on it.

Gary nailed the sheet along the joists, then asked for the next.

I’ll need help lifting it onto the roof, Irene said.

Fine, Gary said, and he came around, tossed it up by himself. Just hold it now, he said.

He was back inside and nailing, and they did two more sheets, utterly dark, the beam bright off the aluminum, the roof a kind of reflector. They could have been building a spacecraft, Irene thought, something meant to rise up into this night and take them away from the world. A strange thing they were doing out here. A man and his slave, building his machine.

Gary heaved the last piece in place, went around inside, and then wasn’t sure what to do. This one closes the gap, he said. I can’t get my hand outside to hammer. I shouldn’t have put those two-by-fours in yet to block the side gap. Hold it and just wait a minute.

Gary moved his stool outside the back wall, then the side wall. Damn it, he said. Not quite tall enough. The ground’s too low.

The ground’s fault, Irene thought. If they had better ground, it would know to rise up. She held the boat hook and flashlight, tried to stay balanced on the stool. This was her part in the circus.

Gary let out a little grunt-scream thing of frustration. No planning, ever, his entire life. Just throwing himself from one obstacle to the next, blaming the world and Irene.

Fuck, he said. I’m gonna have to climb onto the fucking roof. I can’t do it any other way.

Irene didn’t say anything. Just did her job.

Gary brought his stool beside her and let out another little scream of frustration. Nothing to grab on to, he said. So he took his stool back inside. Give me some room, he said. Move the sheet.

Irene let the sheet slide down toward her.

More, he said, so she let it slide farther, then saw his hands on the joist. He yanked himself upward and got one leg onto the roof. Growling, working that leg out farther, pushing down with his heel, trying to leverage. Finally pulled up sideways and made it.

I need the hammer, he said. It’s inside.

What about the sheet?

I’ll hold it. Just get the hammer.

Irene stepped down, walked around quickly, handed him the hammer, and returned to her station. Gary slid the sheet into place, she held it with the boat hook, and he nailed.

Okay, he said. We have a roof. Then he looked around. Not sure how I’m getting down, he said.

I’ll get out of the way, Irene said, and climbed down off her stool.

Nothing to hold on to, he said. But because of the slant, I should be able to hang off the back. Go around with the flashlight. We have to find a safe place for me to jump down.

Irene ran around quick, shone her light all along the back, moved a pile of garbage bags, their food, and found a mossy patch that seemed soft. This looks good, she said. A bunch of moss.

Okay, keep your light on it. And he lowered himself off the back, hopped down a few feet, easy enough.

Let’s tack up the window, he said, so the wind doesn’t come in. We can leave the back door for now.

Are we spending the night in there?

Yeah, of course.

With all the gaps? Wind and snow are going to come in, right?

It’s not perfect.

Why not use the tents another night?

Why are you like this?

Like what?

Get that light out of my face, he said, slapping it away. And don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.

I’ve been helping you, she said. All day and now at night.

You help, but you’ve also been letting me know what you think of me, every few days, how I’ve destroyed your life, separated you from everyone. So maybe it’s time I let you know what I think of you.

Stop it, Gary. Don’t do this.

No. I’m going to let you have it like you’ve been letting me have it.

Gary, I’m trying here. I’m building your cabin in the dark. I haven’t had any food since the oatmeal this morning.

My cabin, Gary said. See? That’s what I mean. Our whole lives, my fucking fault. No choice of yours. Not your fault you have no friends. You’re a social misfit. That’s why you don’t have any friends.

Stop, Gary. Please.

No, I think I’m enjoying this. I think I’m going to sink my teeth into this.

Irene started crying. She didn’t mean to, but she couldn’t help it.

Cry your fucking eyes out, he said. If it weren’t for you, I would have left this place. I might even have become a professor, finally. But you wanted kids, and then I had to support the kids, and build more rooms on the house. I got trapped in a life that wasn’t really me. Building boats and fishing. I was working on a dissertation. A dissertation. That’s what I was supposed to be doing.

The unfairness was too much for Irene. She couldn’t speak. She kneeled on the ground and cried.

Misery loves company, he said. And all you wanted to do was drag me down with you. You’re a mean old bitch. You don’t say it, but you’re thinking it, always judging. Gary doesn’t know what he’s doing. Gary hasn’t planned a thing, hasn’t thought ahead. Always a little bit of judgment. A mean old bitch.

You’re a monster, she said.

See? I’m a monster. I’m the fucking monster.