No Call Too Small

by Oscar Martens

  —I want to go with you on your boat.

  —I don’t think Eric would like that.

  —We’re not … He’s not … He doesn’t own me.

  —He’s not the alpha dog?

  Eric would love to be called the alpha dog. He has emerged as a sort of leader where none is required, issuing orders when everyone knows what to do. How did it happen? How did our co-op slide into dictatorship? I watch water drip off Tony’s beard. Eric is just a man. Tony is a father. He smiles at me for the second time just as Eric cracks him in the head with a tree branch, diving on top of his back to keep Tony’s head under water. I pick up the branch and start beating Eric but it’s like breaking wood over a boulder. Soon I’m exhausted and the Italian loafers with tassels are no longer thrashing against the bank.

  —He was going to take me to Hawaii.

  —I don’t want you to go to Hawaii.

  Eric pulls off Tony’s jacket, belt, shoes, and sends the rest, the useless parts, downstream. When he hangs up the jacket to dry back at the camp, the debate about Tony ends. Eric mentions the shoes are Euro size forty-four if anyone is interested.

  That night, I stand over Eric just inside the entrance of his tent. The murderer has no problem sleeping. Would a baby be safe around a ruthless pragmatist? Would a baby be safe around anyone other than a ruthless pragmatist? I would ask Tony, but he’s floating down to the ocean while the seagulls pluck out his eyeballs and pick at his wound. When he sinks, the crabs will take over. I wave the barrel of the shotgun in Eric’s direction, but he doesn’t lunge at me like a coiled snake. He doesn’t overpower me. He’s sleeping. Like a baby.

  LAKE PINOT

  HANNAH’S ARM EXTENDS TOWARD US like she’s a curler who has just released a rock, long after she has pushed the stern of our canoe over grinding rocks and onto a massive liquid mirror. On the shoreline, Christians wave, whistle and shout standard encouragement to the little voyageurs in my care. Water drips off the tip of my paddle, each drop sending out rings of tiny waves on the glass-calm water.

  I’ve canoed before. I had hoped this modest claim would imply a minimal level of experience, but all Hannah heard was that I was an expert, and she told this to anyone who would listen. Now I’m leading an expedition with three twelve-year-olds I don’t know, whose parents I don’t know, into territory I don’t know, so I can teach them nautical skills, survival skills, camping skills, all within the context of good Christian fellowship. Our mission is to paddle from Camp Kahanisota across Kowpers Lake, the deepest in British Columbia, to a vaguely defined distant shore. When I glance back and see her waving and laughing with her friends, it seems slightly less absurd that I would do this. There’s no point in getting mad about it. That’s just what my luscious Christian does. She takes a few short words and runs with them.

  The last time I was in a canoe, we capsized and got mild hypothermia. That’s a lesson I won’t be sharing with the boys. Instead they will learn about the centre of gravity and what it can do for you, or to you. Wind blow, stay low. Switching sides all the time can be avoided if the stern paddler sometimes drags his paddle like a rudder. The J-stroke lets you paddle and steer. Luke, my forward paddler, is taking it all in, making adjustments to his form as I speak. Levi isn’t interested. His buddy Mark copies this aloofness, along with Levi’s speech, gestures, vocabulary and sarcasm. Sixty-six percent of my paddling class is not paying attention, drawn instead to a massive eagle’s nest, which generates some excitement, but not much and not for long.

  Levi brings us to that moment in every canoe trip when some kid discovers that if you swing your paddle forward and let the tip bite into the lake, you can launch an arc of water at least twenty feet. Luke and I paddle out of range, closer to huge sections of forest in Christmas colours, red needles of trees killed by pine beetles set against remaining green ones. No one saw that coming. Staying with the catastrophe theme, I start itemizing a list of things that could go wrong out here and it scares the hell out of me. Camp Kahanisota is impossible to separate from the rest of the shoreline now. Our cheering fans will have forgotten us.

  You know when you’re walking past a gym in Kitsilano and in the few seconds it takes to pass the floor-to-ceiling window you see a woman doing bench presses, and she glances at you but not in a way that suggests she thinks of you as an insect or a predator or dog dirt but in an open way, free of any big-city sensibility, a way that suggests she is in Kitsilano but not of it, and you go into the gym and ask if there is a trial membership or a day pass and you buy outrageously overpriced gym wear so you can be around her and eventually talk to her? Before I knew her name I wanted to be with the woman who tried to hide her body in baggy grey sweats when she worked out. If some people give off light and others absorb it, she is the sun.

  Levi takes off his life vest and I tell him to put it back on. If he doesn’t obey me in the next thirty seconds, I’m sunk for the rest of the trip. I tell him again, and more power slips away. First he pretends not to hear and then, without looking at me directly, he claims it’s too hot to wear a vest. Mark looks at Levi, then at me, and takes his off too, now that Levi has proven I’m harmless. The two of them start pulling hard to be the first ones on land. Luke and I are still a hundred feet from shore when the others run off into the woods. I yell for them to stop, and once again, weakly. If they were here I could ask them, Have you ever thought about how it would feel to have your neck ripped out by a cougar? Yes you, the tender morsel, a light load easily dragged. And bears can smell blood from forty miles away. Luke looks at me differently too, now that I’ve been broken, perhaps waiting for me to grasp real power like other adults do.

  —What are we going to do now?

  —Are you one of those kids who asks that every fifteen minutes?

  —No.

  —So you can entertain yourself?

  —I excel at self-entertainment.

  —Okay, you can do whatever you want as long as you stay close to the campsite. I’m just going to sit here for a while.

  I slump against a tree and study whatever I can take in without moving my head. There is reasonable protection from the wind here, trees fairly close to the bank, plenty of flat spots without tree roots for the tents. The bugs aren’t bad, but we’ll have to wait until dusk for the real test. No predator droppings in the vicinity. Enough wood within reach to make a decent fire. If we had to walk out along a land route we’d be hooped: no pathways or roads that I can see. We’ve barely started and I know I’m not going to make it. Isolating myself with a bunch of kids? Was that my idea or the devil’s? My heart is racing and I’ve lost ten pounds just from sweating, which will get worse now that we’re on land again. If those brat kids come back alive, I’m going to beat them to death. Luke, God bless him, does a great job of staying out of my face, studying the bore patterns of the pine beetle and flipping over rocks by the shore to collect samples. I’m not kidding. He has sample jars.

  While the other boys are gone, we begin to unload the canoes and I think of ways to explain the death of my two young rebels. Your son ran off in the woods and I didn’t chase after him because I didn’t like him. I hear they found his remains in some bear scat. His watch was intact. Would you like me to get it for you? The tent is a three-dimensional exam in physics and geometry. I let Luke in on it, pretending to provide him an opportunity to sharpen his problem-solving skills, although it seems obvious in seconds that nothing on Luke needs sharpening.

  —The poles go through those fabric sleeves.

  Of course they do. Any fool could see that. Both canoes are emptied and turned over, our supplies are stacked and ready for inspection, the tents are up, the foams are out, and the sleeping bags are open. No food. I rifle through everything one more time. No food.

  On the other side of the lake there’s a woman. Everyone likes her and wants to be near her. Within minutes of my first sighting, I was on the bench next to hers, trying to guess what a decent weight might be on the bench press for a man. She t
urned, smiled, and asked me to spot her. Somewhere between the sixth and seventh rep, obsession set in.

  —Don’t help so much. You’re doing them for me.

  It seemed fair to ask her to spot me as I put on twice the weight she was benching. It was too much and my arms started shaking, forcing her to move forward to get under the weight, her crotch only inches from my face. The bar crashed back into the cradle and I couldn’t look at her until she punched my shoulder, teasing me for being such a wimp. She wasn’t mad, or creeped out by the sleazy thing that just happened. It didn’t even occur to her. She said, Gym shorts look great with dress shoes, and then she winked. Coffee? I asked. Yes, she said.

  I stare at the package of marshmallows Hannah snuck into my bag. I imagine feeding them to a solemn line of starving boys, hands out for their ration. Hannah put spongy treats in my pack, but she also took something out. From Luke’s expression I can tell I’m not hiding it well.

  —Are you okay, Alan?

  —I’m fine.

  There has never been a bigger lie. Salvation is miles away at the far end of the lake, sitting in her bag, or the truck, or maybe the garbage. She doesn’t know what the canteen means to me, or worse, she does. Rebels for Christ return, stomping loudly through the bush.

  —We saw a bear.

  —Good, that’s one thing we don’t have to worry about. They won’t be attracted to our food, because we don’t have any.

  You’d think I had told them their families were dead. Mark starts to cry and Levi whines until I snap.

  —Do you want me to call your mom and get her to bring you a peanut butter sandwich?

  —That would be better than this.

  —Okay guys, listen up. I’ve got a secret to share. You’re not going to die if you miss a couple of meals. Now shut up about it already. You can live for three weeks without food.

  —No water either?

  —There’s about a billion litres right in front of you, Levi. Help yourself.

  —This is bullshit. We’re going back.

  —No, you’re not. It’ll be dark soon.

  —Yes, I am. Come on, Mark.

  I look at Luke and smile. The Rebel Christians turn their canoe over and drag it down to the water. Mark gets in and Levi pushes off, dragging himself in over the stern.

  —Hey, where are the paddles?!

  There’s no response from us as they drift, a light breeze eventually bringing them back to shore downwind from our camp. Our prank is forgotten when Luke finds fishhooks and line in our gear, automatic competition setting in as we hunt for sticks and improvise lures with tinfoil, hoping for fried fish with a side of marshmallows. The Rebel Christians get bored first, the tempo of fishing unable to match the Xbox. My toes get wrinkly as I stand in two feet of water, willing Luke to quit. I can’t teach him a lesson in perseverance until he does. Ideally, Luke gives up and then a minute later I catch a fish—that’s supposed to be the lesson. Failing that, I can teach a different lesson, one about cutting your losses, recognizing when you’ve made a mistake, how to know when perseverance has crossed the line over to stupidity, and other valid reasons to give up. Luke hangs on for two hours after I wade to shore, without frustration, without fatigue, a scientist isolating variables: a little foil, no foil, a lot of foil, movement, no movement, deep, shallow, worm, no worm, prayer, no prayer. Twenty minutes after sunset he wades to shore and mentions quietly that the probabilities were never very good.

  —Levi, I don’t suppose you’ve got something to drink tucked away in that bag of yours.

  —There’s about a billion litres right in front of you, Al.

  —You know what I mean. A drink drink. Because if you did, you wouldn’t get in trouble if you told me about it. I wouldn’t tell anybody.

  —Sorry, Alan, I don’t know what you mean.

  —I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you have anything in your bag. That’s what I mean.

  And it hasn’t even started.

  Everything I asked from Hannah I received. She agreed to go for coffee after our workout. She allowed me to walk her home. She didn’t resist when I leaned forward to kiss her, and she didn’t attempt to slam the door on my foot when I followed her into the apartment. There was a lot of sun coming in at the time, and the fun we were having on the futon raised dust that I watched afterwards as it rose and fell in lazy currents of air. She chose that moment to tell me she was a Christian. She wanted to know if I was, and I’ve been running a database of lies ever since. As a Christian she did not agree with premarital sex, although minutes before she seemed to find it very agreeable. I asked her what she thought about what we had done. That wasn’t sex to her, because I had used a condom. In Hannah’s world there were many wonderful things we could do that were not sex. She gave me everything I asked for, but she knew better than to ask anything of me. Three days dry. She wouldn’t have to know, in case I didn’t make it, but it was something I could do for her. Three days dry in the middle of the wilderness, no bars, no liquor stores, no boozy buddies to trip me up. How hard could it be for a social drinker like me?

  Luke holds the flashlight steady while I strike another match from our only matchbook, which may or may not have been damp at some point. I can’t even get a spark. The newspaper core, smaller twigs and then bigger ones—it’s all ready if I could just light one match. It’s getting darker, and Luke points out a fire on the south side of the lake. We hear the faint sounds of singing and watch their fire grow rapidly, not that it’s a competition. I’m down to the last match and in the ultimate act of cowardice, I give it to Luke, so he can take responsibility for us being cold, for us being bled dry by a black cloud of mini-vampire insects. I slump back, too wrecked to do anything but swat the occasional mosquito. The probability of lighting the last match when all the others had failed was quite low. After ensuring that we are completely crushed and depressed, Levi goes to his tent, gets his lighter, and lights the fire.

  —Ta da!

  —Thank you, Levi, for your gift of fire.

  As soon as the fire is strong enough to support bigger pieces, I start throwing everything on it. We need a bonfire, the biggest one these boys have ever seen. I want the south-side campers to see it. I want Camp Kahanisota to see it. I want everyone within a hundred miles to see it. Dead pine branches flare up and crackle as I drag over fallen tree branches, then entire trees. It’s time to run around the fire and howl at the moon, dizzy, woozy, elated, insane. Fire, the great uniter, brings together boys of all ages. I strip moss off the forest floor and we make awful green wigs, wigs that live, still crawling with life. The mosquitoes can’t get you if you stand in the smoke. The mosquitoes can’t get you if you stand in the fire. They can’t take the heat. When we are exhausted and our voices have dropped an octave from the howling and screaming, it’s time for sleep. We leave the bonfire burning and head for our tents. Fuck you, Smokey the Bear!

  Luke and I lie still, the bonfire strong enough to light up the inside of the tent. He wants to talk. Oh, shit. Evasive manoeuvres: duck, deny, delineate! Ask me anything you want about the NFL, but please, Jesus, nothing else, nothing weird, nothing personal.

  —Are you shaking?

  —Yeah, a little. It’s just being away from the fire.

  And it hasn’t even started.

  —My mom says the earth is six thousand years old.

  —Go on.

  —Dad says it isn’t, but that’s supposed to be our little secret. What do you think?

  —Your dad and mom are the ones who teach … um, sometimes there can be differences but those differences don’t have to be the end, they don’t have to divide, they can just be for more … they can be the basis for more discussion. There are different ways to look at things like this, and there is the literal way, and that makes things a lot easier if you can look at the Bible and see it as an instruction manual for life, rather than some mystical, loosey-goosey, vague pile of suggestions that you have to pump through the filter of historical context,
not unlike … not unlike what you might have to do with any historical text. Does that help?

  —I don’t really understand what you said.

  —Luke, you’re a smart kid. If you want to figure out who’s right, just look at the probabilities.

  All night I shake and listen to my heart pound while loons go crazy on the lake. I finally fall asleep as the sun comes up. Luke wakes me midmorning to tell me the Rebels are gone. The south-side campers have also taken off. I pace, waiting for the boys to return, wondering if there’s some way I can leave them here that could be explained. My cells are exploding, and the Rebels are off on a fucking field trip. The knot Luke tied that runs from the tent fly to the tree looks neat, proper, and impossible to untie. I consider “untying” it with a knife, tugging at the loose end like a chimp, when Levi comes up right behind me, scaring me.

  —Did you know you tied your fly to a rotten tree? It could have fallen over in the night and squashed you like a bug.

  —It’s not rotten. It’s just old.

  Levi leans on it and it falls over, destroying the camp stove.

  —Okay. I’ll give you that one. That was a rotten tree.

  Time to go. I convince the boys that we can leave our tents and sleeping bags on-site and they’ll send a boat to pick up our stuff. I don’t even know if the camp has a boat. I pull the paddles from under our tent and hand them to the boys as I stumble toward the canoes. Luke would rather point out weird clouds than get in the canoe.

  —Those clouds seem atypical for this area.

  —Yeah, yeah, yeah, Luke. Let’s just get home.

  Three hours later, I glance back to see how far we’ve come and spot a dark patch spreading on the water behind us.

  —Hey Luke, does that look like atypical wind for this area?

  He silently watches as the dark patch reaches toward us. The wind is an animal, touching down briefly in one spot before springing off to the next. The Rebels still have time to put on their life vests, to listen to me as I scream at them and point behind us. No, too cool or too dumb, they wait while Luke counts down the time until we’re in it. One minute, thirty seconds, ten, nine, eight. They’re broadside to the wind when it hits, rolling them slightly. Levi finally reaches for his vest but the wind blows it out of his hand. He gets up and uses his paddle to reach the jacket, close but not quite there. On his second attempt he capsizes the canoe.