Caribou Island

by David Vann

  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 flash
light 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.

  The satellite phone arrived by UPS in the afternoon. A yellow Pelican case, watertight, the phone tucked inside, padded in foam. Power cords for AC and DC, a packet of adaptors for anywhere in the world. The kind of thing only Jim could afford. A slow day at work, so Rhoda sat at her desk and read the instructions, plugged in the phone to get it charging. She had already bought two golf cart batteries, so her mom would be able to recharge using the DC plug.

  At five p.m., she packed up and drove home. A full wedding planning kit from the resort on Kauai had also arrived today, so she was looking forward to opening that. She and Jim would sit on the couch and look through everything.

  But when she arrived, Jim was already working out, running on the orbital.

  Hiya, he said between huffs. He talked differently now, perky speech. Hiya and you betcha. She didn’t know what was going on. He had a new receptionist, and she spoke like that, so maybe it was rubbing off.

  Rhoda put the Pelican case on the bar, and the wedding planning packet. She might as well start fixing dinner. His workouts were getting longer and longer. He’d be at it for at least an hour and a half, every day now, and then he’d have to take a shower. Then dinner and early to bed. They were right here in the same room together, but he didn’t like to talk when he worked out, and he had his iPod going anyway.

  Rhoda opened the fridge, and she wondered how much of Jim she was marrying. What percentage. Ten percent of his attention, some larger percentage of his affection, ninety percent of his daily needs and errands, some percentage of his body, a small percentage of his history. She wondered what she was signing up for. Half of his money. She didn’t like to think of it that way. They were supposed to be joining their lives together. They were suppose
d to be sitting together on the couch right now, looking at the sunset and the brochures.

  Salmon, halibut, caribou, chicken. None of it appealed. She didn’t feel like cooking. So she closed the fridge and walked over to Jim. She waited until he pulled out his earphones. He looked like hell, sweaty and splotchy. I’m gonna grab a pizza, she said. I don’t feel like cooking.

  He was huffing hard. I don’t know about pizza, he said. All that cheese. Not good for the muffin top.

  He had started calling his gut a muffin top, and he was on a diet. No alcohol or desserts or dairy.

  I feel like pizza, she said.

  How about a big salad. Can you fix us a big salad, honey?

  Quit calling me honey. What the fuck has happened to you? Who are you?

  Rhoda. What’s wrong? Maybe you need to work out more, too. Make it every day. You’ll feel better.

  Rhoda looked down at her stomach. She was still slim. She ran three times a week, and that was fine. How did her running not count as a workout? I’m fine, she said. I don’t need to work out more.

  I’m not saying anything about your weight. I’m just saying you might feel better.

  This is a dumb conversation, Rhoda said. I’m not having this. I want to talk about other things. The satellite phone arrived, so I have to get that out to my mom. And the wedding planning kit arrived, so we need to look at that this evening.

  I don’t know about this evening, honey. Maybe this weekend, when we have more time.

  Rhoda felt so angry suddenly she didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to say anything bad. This was supposed to be their happy time, planning their wedding and honeymoon. So she just nodded and walked away, back to the fridge. They had some lettuce and tomato, an unripe avocado, smoked salmon, of course, that she could throw in. Pine nuts. Enough for a salad. Some cucumber left over. So fine, they’d have a salad. No need to fix it now. He wouldn’t be ready for another hour and a half at least.

  Rhoda walked into the bedroom, ran the bath, and stripped. Lay down on the bed naked, waited for the tub to fill. Felt a little cold but didn’t care. Looked up at the ceiling. None of this was working out the way she had planned, and she couldn’t even really think about it, anyway, because she was thinking about her mother all the time. Her mother saying she wanted to do something worse than throw a bowl through the window. She meant it. Rhoda could tell. She wanted to destroy. And how had that happened?