Quicksilver

11

Thunder followed the lightning, as it does.

Thunder echoed up and down the gorge like rocks kicked over a ridge.

Thunder got right into the tunnel with us, a long-period rumble that I felt in my bones.

I wondered where Henry sheltered — since he didn’t like enclosed spaces.

We sat shivering until the thunder stopped and then in hurried consultation we chose to wait until the storm passed, or night came.

An hour later, night came.

Thunder and lightning were sporadic now but the rain did not falter.

We unrolled our pads and sleeping bags on the hard rock floor. We removed our boots and rubbed our feet and put on clean socks and campsite sandals. Walter switched on our LED lantern and Shelburne unpacked his stove. Shelburne offered to heat water for all three of us, to reconstitute the freeze-dried glop that would pass as dinner. I didn’t envy his fancy stove. I appreciated his offer to do the work.

I was deeply and thoroughly fatigued.

So fatigued that it took me a good minute to process the steel clip hooked on the torn mesh pocket of Shelburne’s backpack. As he took the wide-mouth water bottle out of the torn pocket, the clip caught the low-angle light from Walter’s lantern. Steel gleamed. I stared at it. Wondering why Shelburne carried a bottle clip when he didn’t clip his bottle to his belt. Wondering if the steel edge had caught the mesh at some point, tearing it. Thinking, no, the clip was not in position to do that. To tear the mesh, the clip would need to be cinched around the neck of the bottle, edged toward the mesh. But why carry a bottle with the clip attached in a backpack pocket? The whole point of the clip is to clip the bottle to your belt. Or to a D-ring on your shoulder strap.

I watched Shelburne pour water into the cook pot on top of the stove.

I listened to the hiss of the little gas flame.

Nothing to do but wait for the water to boil. And obsess over the water-bottle clip.

Five minutes later we were eating our glop. Shrimp Creole for Shelburne. Chili Mac With Beef for Walter and me. I suspected it all tasted the same. If this were the Dogtown TV show we’d be eating canned beans and glad for the grub.

The rain hardened and lightning and thunder returned, as if they’d taken a break and were now refreshed.

Deeply and thoroughly fatigued, we all three moved to our sleeping bags.

Walter switched off the lantern.

Like some kind of weird slumber party. Normally I sleep alone in my tent. Normally I sleep in as little as possible but the cold and the company got my attention. I slipped out of my Crocs and stripped down to a T-shirt and pulled on silk long underwear, suitably modest. I grabbed my poncho and ventured just outside the tunnel to pee. No need for a flashlight. Lightning lit my way.

Walter and Shelburne took their turns.

Chilled, I wormed into my sleeping bag and shivered until body heat flared and my thoughts fuzzed.

Next thing I knew I was back at the bedrock hump across the Yuba watching lightning bolts duel. Rain like needles. Me, sodden. Benumbed on the gravel bar. Electricity in the air. The taste of ozone. Me, thinking I’m sticking up like a sore thumb on this flat river. And then a lightning bolt the size of Nevada struck the water, speared down to the bed of the river and it brought up on the point of its spear a silver heart. It quivered in front of me. I put out my finger to touch it. Who can resist? And then my hand went straight through the heart and the quicksilver wrapped my wrist. Flashing in the glow of the lightning storm, it thinned, now looking like a steel bottle clip.

Sometime later I thought I heard bees. I woke.

Snug in my sleeping bag, water sampling on my mind.

Hydrology 101 back in college — you attach the specimen bottle to the sampling pole with a steel clip and then dip it in the water to grab the sample. For that class, I’d been sampling sediment load. The equipment I’d used had been designed for the task. Shelburne’s steel clip and wide-mouth bottle would be an improvisation, but doable.

I sat up straight.

It was morning. Early light, silvered. Foggy.

Not enough light to allow me to re-examine Shelburne’s steel clip. Enough light, though, to make out his hunched form at the mouth of the tunnel, up there watching the day break. Humming to himself.

Sounded like bees.

I wetted my lips. My mouth was cottony, tasting of ozone. I cleared my throat, to ask Shelburne if he himself had done some water sampling on those site scouts he’d mentioned. His father had been out water sampling when he’d had his heart attack. Alone, Shelburne had said. Hadn’t he?

I said, “Hey.”

Shelburne didn’t hear me. Probably could not hear me over the drum roll of Walter snoring.

Good thing, because I didn’t know how to phrase my question without accusing Shelburne of lying. Were you in Sacramento when your father died? Or did I misremember the timing?

I shivered. I pulled the sleeping bag up to my neck. I noticed that Shelburne was cold, as well. He’d put on a wool cap, yanked down over his ears. He wore a puffy parka, one I hadn’t yet seen. A down parka is not recommended in the rain. Rain had stopped, though, thank you very much.

If my backpack was in reach I’d drag it close and dig out my own down parka.

Walter turned over, muffling his snores.

Thoroughly chilled now, fully awake now, I figured I’d just ask about the timing. Clarify things.

I cleared my throat, loud. “Good morning.”

Shelburne turned. Just dipped a shoulder and angled his head. Acknowledgement. A listening man. In profile, backlit, he looked like he’d been sketched. An artist’s quick strokes, just framing the man. But, I now noticed, the artist got the nose wrong. It should be stronger, more hawk-like.

I went very cold.

It wasn’t Robert Shelburne.