by Kirk Adams
Sean scooted into his own tent and sat near the front door, only glancing at Ursula—who remained covered by her bedroll.
“That took a while,” the pregnant woman said.
“I decided to let Deidra cut my hair to spare you the trouble.”
“She didn’t mind?”
“I don’t think so.”
Ursula sat up, her sleeping bag drawn to her shoulders. “I’ve been difficult, Sean,” she said. “I don’t know what comes over me sometimes. I feel like a different person with this baby.”
Sean looked away. “We all have weak moments,” he whispered.
“And you really have been patient.”
“I could do better.”
“Did you hear a woman shout across the camp?”
“Was that a shout?” Sean stuttered. “I thought I heard something.”
“It put ideas in my head. It reminded me of your work.”
Sean didn’t reply.
“Come over here,” Ursula said, dropping the bedroll to reveal her naked body, slender and toned. Even her belly remained flat and smooth.
Sean gasped as Ursula climbed out of the sleeping bag and crawled forward.
“If you won’t come to me,” Ursula said, “I’ll come to you.”
Sean didn’t move.
Only when Ursula had moved within reach of her prey did she stop. At first she smiled as her eyes moved from one side of Sean’s head to the other; then she reached forward, turned his face to the left and to the right.
“Why did she only cut one side of your hair? How could ...” Ursula’s face filled with blood and anger. “Those were her shouts.”
“N-no,” Sean started to say until Ursula cut him short.
“Get out!” Ursula screamed. “Get out!”
“But I ...”
Ursula hurled herself at Sean, her elbows tucked against her sides and her arms upright—fists pounding at Sean’s shoulders. The stance was ineffective and Sean parried the blows, grabbing the young woman by the wrists and holding fast. Even when Ursula twisted to drive a knee into his groin, he turned his hip and blocked the blow with a thigh before pushing her across the tent, snatching a dirty sweatshirt, and jumping through the half-zipped entrance of the tent.
Ursula followed him into the rain. “Adulterer! Cheater! Bastard!” she screamed, following as Sean hurried toward the mess tent. Only after she took a dozen steps did Ursula realize she was naked and return weeping to her tent.
It was dusk when John returned from base camp. He had met with staff professionals during the day and used both online and book libraries for his research. As soon as he came home, he went to the fire to find both dinner and his wife. Deidra was carving her tiki and talking with Sean under the tarp while Jose and Lisa maintained an uncomfortable silence just a few feet away and Heather roasted breadfruit over an open flame. All four children played cards with their parents under the light of an oil lantern and cover of a canvas tarp.
When John broke a piece of bread and sat between Deidra and Sean, everyone fell quiet—with several villagers retiring through the light rain to their tents.
“You find anything?” Deidra spoke with a matter-of-fact tone to her voice.
“Medicine still can’t make any promises.”
“There’s your science for you,” Deidra said as she raised a glass of whiskey in a mock toast. “It means less than faith.”
John watched as his wife downed a swig of whiskey and handed the bottle to Sean (who screwed the cap on the flat-sided bottle and left), then eyed Deidra’s whittled block of wood. Already it took the square-shouldered appearance of a god.
“Faith in a totem pole?” John asked.
“No,” Deidra snarled, “as a point of fact, totem poles are not native to this region and I need to honor the gods of this island. The tiki. This will be the goddess of fertility for my house.”
“It’s not,” John spoke through clenched teeth, "staying in my house.”
“I never said it would.”
“I’ll throw the damned thing in the fire.”
“You’re an ethnocentric bigot.”
John glanced at the other neighbors. “These people,” he whispered, “don’t need to know all about our problems.”
“I’m sure they’re not naïve. Or deaf.”
Deidra burst into laughter, laughing so hard tears streamed down her cheeks and she held her stomach from pain. Most villagers turned away.
John appeared perplexed as he asked for an explanation from his wife—though she broke into laughter every time she tried to talk. When he finally threw his hands in despair and started home, Heather rose to follow him, braving the rain without an umbrella. She quickly caught John from behind and tapped his shoulder. Even in the dark and the rain, the tears in her eyes were evident.
“John, you have a minute?” Heather asked.
“What’s wrong, Heather?”
“Not here. Follow me.”
Heather led John not to her tent, but Kit’s—where they found Kit dressed in sweats and reading a book by lamp light. She explained Ryan was playing poker with the singles.
John asked what was wrong.
“We’ve terrible news,” Heather said, “but I didn’t think I should tell you. Since I’m not married.”
“Is this about Deidra?”
Kit said that it was.
“Is she cheating?”
Kit nodded.
“Who?”
“Sean.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know,” Kit said, “they were together today. Ask Heather. She heard. The whole neighborhood heard.”
John’s shoulders dropped. “I’m not surprised,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” Kit said.
“I should’ve stayed,” John said as his lip quivered. “I’ve tried to be there for her and I even went to camp to see if any new approaches were available.”
“The sad part,” Kit said with a quiet voice as she tapped John’s shoulder with a single finger, “is that you’re a good man. Not like Sean.”
“It’s been hard from the start,” John said. “Did you know she dual-majored in Native American Culture and Forestry? That’s how she ended up as a park ranger at the Grand Canyon. But she always wanted a son. She used to say she’d name him Geronimo to spite my dead ancestors. It was a joke at first. Not later.”
“Can’t doctors do anything?” Heather asked.
“No, and we shouldn’t go into details. It’s not a public matter.”
“I’m sorry,” Heather said.
“It’s not your fault.”
Both Kit and Heather nodded without speaking.
“I thought,” John continued, “taking her away from her family would remove the pressure to bear a son. I failed and now she’s whittling a totem. Her answer to medical failure is superstition. And adultery, I guess.”
Heather dropped her eyes and Kit looked away.
“You said everyone heard?” John asked.
Both women blushed.
“Please,” John said. “She’s my wife.”
“She moaned and hollered,” Heather said.
“Loud enough for the whole camp to hear,” Kit whispered.
John said nothing for a long while and the two women also remained silent.
“I can’t go home,” John finally said, “so I guess I need to find a place until I can make other arrangements.”
“Use my tent tonight,” Heather said.
“That wouldn’t look right,” John replied. “I guess I’ll stay in the storage tent.”
“Take my tent,” Heather insisted. “I’ll stay with my parents.”
John consented with a nod, then returned to the campfire to speak a few quiet words to Deidra—who dropped her head and didn’t reply. Afterwards, he returned to his tent and packed his bags before proceeding to Heather’s tent for a sleepless night even as Sean moved his clothes into John’s empty place. Both men packed light and it didn’t take
them long to move.
Even as the men changed tents, Heather packed her sleeping roll and a few toiletries before she walked through drizzling rain until she found herself at a dark and noiseless tent. When she called out, no one answered, so she unzipped the fly and looked in, grimacing as the sound of light snoring filled her ears. She squeezed through a partially opened door with her sleeping bag and looked into the darkness at the dark form of her father—who was cloaked in shadows at the far end of the tent, his head upon her mother’s breast and covered with a single sheet. The tent reeked of sweat and gin.
Heather cleared a space near the door as far from her parents as possible—and unrolled her bedroll as the fall of rain on the nylon muted her bedtime preparations. She crawled into her sleeping bag fully clothed, her bra loosened and her shoes paired at the doorway. Her back turned to her parents, she scooted as close to the side of the tent as she could.
“Lord,” Heather whispered as her eyelids grew heavy and her thoughts wavered between day and night, “please let them be too drunk for anything but sleep.”
A moment later she was fast asleep.
19
The Sewage Backs Up
The rain was still falling when Heather woke: a steady patter of noise showering the tent. The rustle of sheets caused her eyes to open—her parents were making love.
“For heaven’s sake,” Heather shouted as she squeezed her eyes shut, “haven’t you two any shame at all?”
Surprised that Heather was in the tent, Joan shouted her daughter’s name—which caused the latter to bolt upright as she instinctively opened her eyes and turned to her mother’s voice. But this wasn’t what Joan intended and she screamed a second time on seeing her daughter’s wide-eyed face as the virgin stared at her mother’s bed: the older woman’s breasts flattened against the chest of a thick-haired middle-aged man whose legs stirred beneath the sheets.
Now Heather’s face turned white and her voice rose to a frantic pitch. “That’s not dad,” she shouted.
“Get out!” Joan screamed.
Heather jumped to her feet and tugged at the tent’s door—though the zipper moved only a couple inches before snagging. Though she tried to pull the zipper back, it wouldn’t budge.
“Heather, get out!” Joan screamed yet again. “Get out of here!”
“Stop it, Mother! Stop it!”
“Not in front of my daughter,” Joan shouted out loud as she pushed the man away while reaching for a sheet.
“I can’t stop,” the man cried out.
“Get off,” Joan yelled as she pushed harder at the man.
“Almost.”
“Now. Dammit. Now.”
“There,” the man cried out as he rolled away from Joan—who immediately pulled up the sheet to hide her nakedness.
“Lord,” Heather screamed even as she kept her eyes locked on the stuck zipper, “save me from these people.”
Heather yanked at the zipper twice more, but still it remained stuck. When the girl heard the sound of rustling from her mother’s bed and the voice of the strange man offering to help, she clenched her teeth.
“Let me help,” the man said as he stirred from bed.
“Don’t bother,” Heather cried out, turning to speak just as the man stood to his feet without cover of clothes or blanket, plainly exposing to the daughter the nakedness her mother had just known.
Closing her eyes, Heather spun toward the flap, grabbed the zipper with both hands, and yanked as hard as she could. This time, cloth ripped, tent tore, and Heather fell forward—splashing face-first in the mud with yet another scream, more from surprise than pain.
Heather didn’t remain in the mud long. Pushing herself to her knees, she wiped her muddy face with a muddier hand. When Joan emerged from the tent covered with a sheet and calling to her daughter, the girl scampered to her feet—splashing mud as she ran to her own tent, and looking neither left nor right as she left her mother behind. She quickly reached her own tent.
“John, are you up yet?” Heather shouted a few feet from the front flap.
“Yeah.” It was a man’s voice that answered.
“Can I come in?”
“I’m up.”
“Are you dressed?”
“I am,” the voice said.
“Head to toe?”
“I guess I don’t have socks on. Otherwise I’m all covered up.”
“Promise?”
“Come in, Heather,” John said. “What’s wrong?”
Heather entered the tent and looked at John—her face muddied and hair uncombed. Her shoulders were slumped and chin dropped.
“That’s how I feel,” John said as he handed the girl a towel. “Take this.”
Heather caught the towel and wiped the mud as best she could, then explained—without divulging too much detail—how she’d caught her mother in bed with a stranger. Afterwards, she buried her face against John’s shoulder and wept as he consoled her with soft hugs and kind words. Tears washed away the covering of dirt on the young woman’s face as she sobbed until her voice shook and her breath gasped; then she wept another spell. Only after she calmed down did John retrieve breakfast for the girl before packing his bags and leaving Heather to the privacy of her tent.
The rain fell harder as the morning passed. As villagers drank coffee and made small talk beneath the shelter of a tarp and near the warmth of a fire, Alan and Kit worked through the morning’s chores. As he mixed bread, Alan talked to Steve while Kit stood beneath the shelter of a canvas tarp. After a time, Alan pointed at the fire—which had burned down to its last log.
“Kit,” Alan said, “we need firewood. Can you get it? I’m still kneading this bread. It’s been slow to rise.”
Kit didn’t reply.
“You might as well move the whole stack,” Alan said. “We’re burning the stuff like it grows on trees.”
Kit looked at the covered stack of cord twenty yards away. It’d be a wet walk to move so much wood. She looked back at Alan standing beneath a dry tarp. Slowly shaking her head, she stepped into the rain. The ground was soaked and mud filled her canvas shoes while the rain chilled her like a cold shower. By the time she reached the woodpile, Kit’s hair hung limp over her shoulders and goose bumps pimpled her arms. She picked out an armful of wood and returned, stacking the logs neatly beneath the overhead tarp that protected the campfire. Then she went for a second load.
Four times Kit made the trip, each effort more labored than the previous try. Twice she took breaks to catch her breath, warm her hands, and nurse scratches across her wrists. Twenty minutes later only a single piece of wood remained: a misshapen stump dug from the earth that appeared to weigh twenty or thirty pounds. Kit rubbed her sore arms and took a long look at the mess tent before she called to Alan—who still was kneading dough.
“There’s one piece left,” Kit asked, irritation evident in her voice. “Can you get it?”
“You’re almost done.”
“It’s too heavy.”
“We’ll get it later,” Alan said. “This bread’s giving me trouble. Working dough in this humidity is tough.”
“So is hauling wood,” Kit said as she glared at Alan. “It’s a man’s job.”
“I’ll get it later.”
“We need to get it under cover.”
“I’ll get it as soon as I can.”
Kit scowled as she looked again at the goose pimples on her arms and the mud on her legs. Her hair was drenched and she’d torn her shirt at the collar.
“Now,” Kit snapped, her tone far more insistent than before. “Don’t be so selfish.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You get wet and I’ll bake bread for a while.”
“Sorry you’re wet,” Alan said, “but I’m busy right now. We’ll get the wood when we can. You’ve already brought plenty. What’s the hurry?”
“The hurry,” Kit said, her voice sharp and lips curled, “is to keep the wood dry and prove you’re a gentlema
n.”
Steve joined the conversation while Kit waited in the rain and Alan turned back to his dough.
“C’mon Kit,” Steve said, “you’re not the type to slur. We don’t discriminate on the basis of gender roles here and Alan has as much right to bake bread as you. Go warm yourself at the fire and I’ll get the log in a minute.”
Kit kicked her foot into the mud and stomped the few steps back to the stump before Steve could wipe dough from his hands. She bent down to grab the log, turning deep red and groaning from the strain. Struggling to pull the stump to one hip, she stumbled two or three steps forward before slipping in the mud. As the log landed on her ankle, she let out a sharp scream: her shout of pain unmistakable.
Several neighbors immediately sprang to assist—with Steve arriving first, Ryan at his heels, and Brent a few seconds later. The men helped her to her own tent: where Ryan removed her shoe and Brent rotated the swollen ankle as he prodded at a dark bruise.
Kit fought back her tears.
“How does it feel when I wiggle it?” Brent asked.
Kit answered with a groan.
“At least you’re not screaming,” Brent said, “so I doubt it’s broke.”
“Should we send for the doctor?” Ryan asked.
Kit shook her head.
“Well, it’s off to your tent for a day of rest,” Brent said. “Maybe two or three.”
Kit wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand as she explained that the next meal was hers to prepare.
“You’ve put in your day’s work,” Brent said before retrieving aspirin for the injured woman. “Alan can cook by himself.”
After Kit was left in her tent to recover, Brent moved the stump before joining Ryan and Jose for a round of euchre in Maria’s tent. Alan and Steve were left alone in the mess tent, waiting for bread to rise.