Caribou Island

9

Irene waited alone all day, lying in bed, looking at the boards of the ceiling. Her husband out on that island, her children working, the Vicodin making her nauseated and weak, clammy. The room too bright in the sun, but she didn’t have the energy to get up and close the curtains. No one cared what happened to her here. She might as well die.

Self-pity, she said aloud. Not a pretty thing. And this felt too close to the years after her mother was gone, after her father was gone. Moving from one distant family member to the next, shuffled around in Canada and then California, unwanted, too often alone.

She popped another Vicodin, the pain mounting to a breaking point again, and she didn’t feel anything at first, but after fifteen or twenty minutes, she could feel the cold, prickly slide into nausea and oblivion, a welcome relief. Her head went away, or her awareness of it, and she was left pooling in the rest of her body. She’d gone heavy, sinking deep into the mattress.

Almost like diving when she closed her eyes, the surface far away above. An ocean with a heartbeat, slow waves of pressure, water compacting but no edge to it. No contact with the surface. The world of air a world of myth only, storms and lightning and sun. The only reality the density of the water, the coolness of it, the pressure and weight of it.

Irene awoke hours later. The pain returned, sharp and jagged, slicing through her head.

Gary, she called out, and this time she heard a response. A rustling in the kitchen, and he opened the bedroom door.

How are you feeling? he asked.

I need another Vicodin. I’m really scared. The pain is something else.

I think you should wait a while if you can. You’re not supposed to have more than four of those per day, according to Rhoda. And the doctor didn’t think you needed them.

The pain is too much, Gary.

Maybe some hot food. Maybe some food and water and that will help a bit. What would you like?

Irene couldn’t breathe. She turned on her side, and that only made the pain and breathing worse. I can try, she said. I just want this to end.

I’ve been thawing out some venison. I’ll cook that up with mashed potatoes. You need to eat more.

Okay, she said, closing her eyes again, and heard him close the door. She tried to breathe away the pain, let it go away on each exhale. Tried not to panic for air. But her ears were ringing, a high buzz, the frequency of the pain, and it would not be ignored. She could think of nothing else. She took another Vicodin. It didn’t matter what Gary or anyone else thought.

The wait for relief was longer than before, fifteen minutes an extraordinary length of time, and then she faded away for some easier length and Gary opened the door again.

Ready, he said. How you doing?

I had to take another pill.

Irene.

You don’t know. You have no idea what this is like. If someone had told me, I wouldn’t have believed them.

Well I have dinner ready.

Irene sat up slowly at the edge of the bed, feeling dizzy. My slippers and robe. Can you help me with those?

Do you really need help?

Yes I do.

Okay. He helped her and they were sitting soon enough at the table, a fire going. Breaded venison steaks, from a kill last fall in Kodiak. High up on the flank of a mountain, and her arrow had punctured both lungs. Irene hunched over her food, cut a small piece of meat, and it tasted delicious. She was starving. But she also felt on the verge of throwing up. The meal would be an odd walk of that line.

Thanks, Gary, she said.

I’m sorry, he said. I’m really sorry for taking us out in that storm. And I’ll do whatever I can to help you get better. But I’m worried about the painkillers. You could get hooked on those. You may already be hooked.

That’s not what I’m worried about. What I’m worried about is that the painkillers may not be enough. Even now, they’re not cutting all the way through the pain. And what if that gets worse? What do I do then?

I think you’re panicking.

Damn right.

* * *

Jim and Monique checked into a suite in the nicest hotel in Seward. Fake carved ivory on side tables, bad watercolors of fishing boats. A giant and inviting bed, though, which was where Jim’s gaze went. Jacuzzi tub, also, big enough for two.

Let’s have lunch, Monique said. And then a boat tour.

Okay, Jim said, trying to keep the sadness and longing out of his voice. They were out the door and walking along the wharf.

Other tourists here today also, the sidewalks full. An Alaskan ferry had pulled up. So Jim waited in line at one of the tour companies while Monique went into the shops. A nice day, and Monique, gorgeous and long and thin, was turning every head, and Jim thought he should have felt happy. But he felt used, pissed off, and guilty. Get over it, he mumbled to himself. You’re in this far already. He certainly didn’t want to miss the payoff.

He had never taken Rhoda on a vacation like this, even for a day or two. They hadn’t gone anywhere.

Jim made it to the front of the line, finally, two tickets for a three-hour tour of Resurrection Bay and Kenai Fjords National Park. A three-hour tour, he sang quietly, from the Gilligan’s Island theme, but the woman had heard this about a million times, so no response.

Jim found Monique marveling at black velvet posters of bears and bald eagles. These are amazing, she said. This has to be as low as art goes. I have to have one.

Okay, Jim said, and bought a four-foot velvet poster of a brown bear catching a salmon.

This is a cultural archive you’re preserving, Monique said. Nothing less. She took his arm, laughing at Alaska and tourists, and they walked toward lunch.

Just the touch of her on his arm got Jim hard. He realized he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anyone else. Even high school and junior high crushes hadn’t felt this urgent, and he was forty-one. He hadn’t thought he was capable of feeling this anymore. Sex with Rhoda every few days was as much as he could usually muster. He wondered again at Monique’s age. He was guessing early twenties, but he didn’t know. She seemed a lot younger than Rhoda, who was thirty.

They found a table on the wharf, ordered oysters and halibut and champagne. Jim didn’t eat oysters usually, because of the stomach sacks. He tried not to eat anything with a stomach sack. But Monique made him try one, and really it wasn’t so bad. He tasted the butter, mostly, and the Tabasco burned his lips. He didn’t chew much. More of a swallow.

Delight me with tales of Alaska, Monique said. Maybe start with your closest call with a bear.

What about you? Jim asked. I know almost nothing about you.

I’m boring, Monique said. D.C., impressive parents, good schools, no vision or sense of purpose.

How old are you? he asked.

Old enough, she said, and if you want to fuck me, you have to quit asking that question.

Sorry, he said.

Now tell me about the bear.

It was on a river. The same river where I caught my first king salmon, when I was about ten or maybe even younger. I just remember that the fish was taller than me. I was forty-eight inches, and the fish was forty-nine and a half. I played that thing for almost an hour, getting pulled down the river, trying to stay in the shallower water along the bank. I was wearing hip waders, afraid of going under, but my dad was holding on to me.

Ah, Monique said. I bet you were a cute little boy.

Blond hair, blue eyes, full of charm, Jim said.

Monique smiled.

So it was on this same river years later, Jim said. I was in my early twenties, going back for nostalgia, fishing the same spot, but I was by myself, which is a no-no, and it was late in the season, when the bears are a bit more desperate, and when I caught a salmon, I gutted it and then hung it off my backpack as I kept fishing.

No, Monique said.

Yeah, I had it hanging there on my back, about three feet of shiny, smelly, gutted salmon, swinging around on my back while I fished. I was like a lure for bears.

Monique was shaking her head.

So I heard something behind me, heavy splashing, and I turn to see this huge brown bear. A grizzly. The kind that eat people. Crashing through the water at me, and then it stopped. And I realized the salmon was on my back hidden from the bear now, like I was trying to keep food away from it.

What did you do?

I’ll tell you the rest later, Jim said.

Monique punched his arm. She had good reach from across the table. Fucker, she said quietly, so no one would hear.

In Alaska, you have to earn your stories, he said and grinned.

We’ll see about that.

We have an hour before the cruise, he said, checking his watch.

Let’s go shopping. I’d like a pair of heels, and maybe a tie. She had a wicked smile when she said this, and Jim thought he might faint.

He paid and they left, walked along the waterfront looking for a shop, and Monique found a pair of black pumps she was happy with. You like? she asked.

Sure, he said. Kind of sexy with jeans. Unexpected.

I won’t be wearing them with jeans.

Then it was time to look for a tie. They had only twenty minutes until the cruise, but they found a place that had ties with salmon and halibut and king crab and fishing boats and also a few more conservative ties. Monique went for a simple dark blue silk.

We’ll have to run for the cruise, Jim said.

Do they have a cruise later today? Monique asked.

So they rebooked for four o’clock, which gave them two hours. Walking back to the room, Monique took Jim’s hand. They didn’t say anything. Jim afraid to speak, afraid he’d somehow ruin this.

Take a quick shower first, Monique said, so Jim did as he was told. When he emerged in a towel, she looked him over. You have a muffin top, she said.

A muffin top?

Just the beginnings of one. She smiled. Don’t feel hurt.

But what’s a muffin top?

That little pouch on your belly, for hanging over your belt. It comes down at that weird angle.

Hm, he said.

It’s all right, she said. I’ve never been with a muffin top, but I’ll adjust.

Then Monique went into the shower, and Jim lay back on the bed feeling old and disgusting. A muffin top. If you had any self-respect at all, he told himself out loud, you’d walk out of here right now. He opened his towel, and his limp little penis lying there just seemed like another target for mockery. She was going to tease him and laugh at him. That was all.

Jim groaned and decided to get under the covers. He’d hide himself. He threw the towel over a chair and settled in, used both of the pillows.

Monique turned the water off, and there was a long wait. Jim thinking of Rhoda, feeling guilty, because here he was, about to cheat. It was inevitable now. Everything until this moment could be passed off, perhaps, but not after this moment.

And then Monique appeared, walking toward him slowly in her tie and heels, nothing else.

She was very tall, especially in the heels, and she had that slim definition only youth can have, the soft lines of her ribs and collar bone, belly and thighs. Her hair still wet, her face angular.

I shaved for you, she said.

She was entirely smooth. She came to the side of the bed, turned around slowly, bent over in her heels, her tie hanging down, her young breasts, and looked at him from between her legs.

No more teasing, she said. Now you can have whatever you want.