Autumn Imago

by Bryan Wiggins

  Aaron yelled something to Tommy, and I saw Robert shift a leg and turn toward them, planting his feet a bit wider as he did. His stance set me on edge, but I had to commend him for staying put. I’m not sure I could have done the same if I saw my kid fishing with a heroin addict—even if he was family.

  I took Mara over to where Kim sat and unfolded the beach chair I’d brought along, helping my mother into it before walking to the edge of the river to trace its course.

  The Nesowadnehunk emerges from the woods at a break in the trees upriver to spill over the series of wide granite steps that give Ledge Falls its name. The water churns through a small, turbulent whirlpool at the head of the slides, the perfect spot for an icy full-body dunk that prepares riders for the slippery trip downriver. Tamer visitors get their thrills by taking in the view. It’s a vista that tells a story of power and peace, the churning water leaping over ledges upstream, then slowing to a stretch of gentler riffles before taking a quiet meander that disappears under the distant base of Doubletop. I kept my eyes on that distant peak while letting the white rush of the river dissolve my thoughts.

  After a while, I turned back to the people scattered along the bank. Although the scene was serene, the ledges were meant for more than meditation. Somebody needed to show them what.

  I walked up the bank and took my T-shirt off, tossing it toward Aida’s towel on my way upstream. I jumped into the whirlpool, letting out a whoop when the icy water embraced my chest. Keeping an eye on the bank, I crabbed from the whirlpool to the top of the first slide. I saw Aida’s head rise from the blanket as I launched myself into the spray. I went down with my arms spread wide and my toes to the sky, enjoying the floaty feeling in my stomach as the water carried me weightless into the frothy pool below. I scrambled up and over to the next slide, repositioned myself, and launched again.

  It didn’t take more than one ride before I had company. I stepped carefully over the wet lip of rock at the water’s edge, but when I was back on dry, flat stone, I marched quickly back upstream. Aida was sitting up on her beach towel by then. When I passed, I tossed her a single word. “Coming?”

  She popped up right away. Her shriek in the whirlpool was even louder than mine, and she followed me quickly to ride tandem down the slides. We took another turn, and then Robert surprised me by tossing his shirt and joining us. By then Aida was addicted, and the water worked its magic. The three of us splashed and laughed our way downriver, our joy spreading to the bank, reflected in the smiles I caught on the faces of my mother and sister. I’m sure if Kim’s ankle were stronger she would also have been baptized in Ledge Falls that day. Physical play in that frothy flume had done more to bring my family together than anything else we’d done over the past six days. I don’t know why I couldn’t let that be enough, but I had to push it. The invitation I offered next turned out to be the first in a series of mistakes that would escalate over the next three days.

  There was a third ledge in the falls that I hadn’t shown Aida or Robert yet, so I had them follow me as I scrambled farther downstream to ride a final, short slide. We crashed together at the end, and when we untangled ourselves, I looked up to see Tommy and Aaron just downstream. They were sitting cross-legged together on the bank, Tommy talking as Aaron worked to tie a fly onto his line. “You guys should join us!” I shouted. Tommy looked up and smiled. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and waved, but didn’t rise.

  “Aaron! Come join us!” Robert shouted beside me. Aaron’s head popped up, but he stayed put. Robert walked out of the water and began to head downstream. I followed, but Aida stayed behind.

  Tommy and Aaron were on their feet by the time Robert joined them.

  “C’mon, buddy,” Robert said, “come get a bit of exercise.”

  Aaron turned to Tommy, “Are you coming?”

  Tommy gave him a weak smile and shook his head. “Sorry,” he said, “I’m feeling pretty bushed today.”

  Aaron turned back to his father. “I think I’m just going to fish, Dad, okay?”

  “No,” Robert said, then turned to Tommy and pointed to the cigarette in his hand. “And put that thing out when you’re around my kid.”

  Robert turned his back and walked up the rocks. I followed behind him. The water still had some charm left, and we joined Aida for another slippery ride downstream. But when we got to the end of the last slide, Robert saw that Aaron was still on the bank with a pole in his hand, and the fun ended.

  “Aaron!” This time, the boy’s whole body shook when his father called his name. He dropped the pole and started quickly upstream. Too quickly.

  Aaron went down hard. He’d taken his boots off to wade in for his fishing, and his bare feet flew out from under him on the slick granite by the river’s edge. I saw a hand go out—a good thing—and Aaron sit up quickly after he hit, which was even better. But he was crying and holding one hand curled against his chest.

  Robert, Tommy, and I were at his side a moment later.

  “It’s okay, Aaron,” Robert said, crouching next to his son. “Let me help you up.”

  “Can I get a look at that hand?” I asked. It took him a moment, but Robert stood to let me take his place by his son’s side. Aaron’s good hand covered the injured one, which he continued to shield against his chest. He extended the hurt hand to me slowly, rotating it slightly as he did. When he looked down, he began to cry louder. His ring finger was cocked almost forty-five degrees off center from the second knuckle down.

  I stood up quickly and turned to Robert. “You need to take him to the ER in Millinocket. It’s dislocated, but it could be broken too.” Robert’s lips compressed into a tight line before he turned to Tommy.

  “You heard me ask him to join us five minutes ago,” he said.

  Robert turned back to me, cocking a head toward his sobbing son. “Give me a hand helping him up.”

  We each took an arm, raising Aaron as gently as we could.

  Tommy stood watching, frozen, before he finally responded to Robert.

  “You’re not blaming me for this?” he asked.

  “Oh, of course not, Tommy,” Robert replied. “You’re not responsible. You’ve never been responsible for a single thing in your entire goddamned life.”

  35

  Hands Off

  Robert took his whole crew with him, spitting gravel as he drove off to Millinocket and left Tommy and me behind. When we got into the truck, Tommy slammed the door behind him.

  “Easy, Tommy,” I said quietly.

  He shook a cigarette from his pack. I was about to ask him to wait until we got back to camp to light it but decided to let it go. The moment it took him to get it going seemed to settle him a bit.

  He rolled down the window to blow a stream of smoke outside. “He’s such an asshole,” he said softly.

  “He was just worried about his kid.”

  “He’s got a strange way of showing it, always pushing him.” His voice dropped lower then, but I still heard him. “Just like Dad.”

  I heard my hands squeak on the wheel and forced myself to relax my grip.

  “You know,” I said, “I’m getting pretty tired of all this bullshit about how hard Dad drove us. You seem to forget that I knew him too. And my memory of the guy might be just a bit more reliable.”

  Tommy spun in his seat to face me. “Oh, and why’s that, Paul?” he said, spilling a stream of smoke from his mouth when he did.

  I waved the smoke from my face with my hand. He transferred his cigarette to the hand by the window but kept his eyes trained on me.

  “Because my mind hasn’t been soaking in heroin for the past seventeen years,” I continued. “You couldn’t have asked for a better father than ours. And what I remember is being inspired by him, not pushed.”

  “I believe you,” Tommy replied. I turned to look at him.

  “Then why all the crap about Robert being like him?”

  “I know Dad didn’t drive you. He didn’t have to. You’re just like him. You
drive yourself. But I’m different, always was. Believe me, I’ve beaten myself up plenty for that difference. But you learn a thing or two about yourself in recovery. And what I finally discovered is that that difference doesn’t make me bad, it just makes me different.”

  He took another drag, slumped back in the seat, and turned his head to look out the passenger window. We rumbled on awhile before I replied.

  “I just don’t understand how you’ll get anywhere without some ambition, Tommy. Some kind of a plan.”

  “You don’t get it,” he said, his head still turned away. “I’m not a planner. I don’t have to set a goal for myself every morning to get out of bed. There are other ways to get what you want out of life.”

  “How?” He turned back to face me.

  “By staying open to what comes, instead of hunting it down.”

  “Sounds like an excuse to goof off.”

  “I’m sure it does, to you. But walking around following a map in your head is a great way to miss what’s happening around you. That’s what Dad did; he always had to have a plan, his plan, and he only got worse after Jordan died. Do you remember how many trips we took after she drowned? Skiing in the Poconos, Christmas at Disney World, all those long rides to the Jersey shore, the visits to Philly almost every weekend? It was exhausting.”

  “He was trying to keep us together, Tommy.”

  “He was manic, Paul. Jordan died and suddenly all his planning didn’t work for him anymore—for any of us.”

  “You and I are never going to agree on this,” I replied.

  “Granted. But listen: what does all that planning get you in the end? A yellow Porsche and a heated pool? For all his bluster, Robert Fell’s gotta be one of the most unhappy people I’ve ever met.”

  “Dad wasn’t Robert. Neither am I. But I still believe in figuring out what you want and working to get it.”

  “And what is it that you want, Paul? I mean, if Dad’s the model. Why don’t you have what he had?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Where’s the wife? Where’s the family?”

  I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer.

  “Dad’s whole life was spent trying to give us answers he never really had,” Tommy continued, “trying to show us how to live our lives instead of letting us figure it out for ourselves. You asked me earlier today how I taught Aaron to fish?”

  In the next instant, a dark sedan swerved into view, coming fast at us in the middle of the narrow road. I hit the brakes, turned the wheel, and heard the scratch of shrubbery against the side of the truck. I lay on my horn while the driver sped by. The guy never even turned his head. I unclenched my jaw and pulled back onto the road before replying.

  “What the hell does teaching Aaron to fish have to do with any of this?” I asked.

  “He told me about the fishing lesson you gave him during the hatch, how you took the pole from him time after time to show him how to cast. He couldn’t believe how patient you were.”

  “Didn’t do him much good.”

  “It showed that you thought he was worth teaching, and that was a lot.”

  “Okay,” I said after a moment. “I’ll bite. How did you show him?”

  “I didn’t. I kept my hands off the rod the whole time. I just watched him for a while, and every time he tried to surrender the rod to me, I refused it and just told him one or two little things to try. It took a while, but eventually he got the hang of it. He got the feel for how to cast because I never took the rod out of his hands. Look at me, Paul . . .” I turned to face him.

  Tommy’s eyes were wide, his hands spread open. “I know my life’s a mess. I know how many people I’ve hurt, the damage I’ve done. I know just how low a blind man can fall. But when I hit bottom, believe me, brother, my eyes finally opened. And the best lesson I got from that place—the only lesson I could get—is that there’s no greater teacher than our own mistakes.”

  36

  Winter Waters

  I had a few hours to kill. When Tommy got out of the truck, he headed straight to his cabin for a nap. With everything he’d put his body through, he needed a rest. I guessed the earliest Robert and his crew would be back from their visit to the ER was dinnertime. That gave me a few hours to myself, and after the stress of the morning, I needed a paddle.

  When I slid my canoe off the logs at the landing, I saw that all the rest of them were still there. I was surprised there wasn’t a fisherman or two out trying his luck before the season ended on October 1st. Maybe it was the weather. The sky was getting ready for tomorrow’s rain. The sun we’d enjoyed at the falls had disappeared behind a quilt of clouds. I’d thrown on a heavy fleece but still caught a chill as I slipped my canoe into the water. The ripples from my bow flowed heavy as mercury, and the stiller water ahead had a dark, blue-gray cast that made it look as if a sheet of iron had been laid between the mountains and trees.

  My arms felt leaden too, after the morning’s play at the falls. I paddled mechanically, pushing myself to put some distance between the craft and the land. Tommy was right about my drive. I had the same dogged ambition as my father and—I had to admit—Robert as well. As I made my way across the water, I wondered about the fuel each of us tapped for that engine. For the first time, I questioned what my life would be like if the tank ran dry.

  I looked for the red maple I’d seen last time but couldn’t find it. I was surprised by how much color surrounded the pond now. Autumn had arrived in a hurry and was moving on fast. The reds and golden browns around me would be on the ground by tomorrow if the coming rain brought the wind with it.

  I passed Colt’s Point and thought of my swim with Aida. I hadn’t seen the loons in a day or two, and I wondered if they’d headed off to winter over in the cold Atlantic. They were no snowbirds, and neither was I.

  I holed up in a small rented ranch house in Millinocket each off-season, cobbling together freelance programming jobs from my past life. I got out for some winter hiking and cross-country skiing once in a while, but I didn’t spend much time in town. I knew a few of the locals—hardworking people with the kind of quiet grace that comes from lives lived in rhythm with the natural world. But there were others in the bars too—men left bitter by the failed paper mills, who’d traded hard work for hard drinking as they waited for jobs that would never return. Winter was a long, dark trial this far north. Like every Mainer, I endured it by thinking of the brighter days ahead, knowing that when they arrived, I would savor them in a way no snowbird ever could.

  ***

  I reached the far shore, looked up, and froze, my paddle poised in the air. Standing on the bank not thirty feet from me stood the Broken Bull. I’d never been so close to him. His body was in profile, but his head was pointed straight at me. His rack was easily six feet wide, and the missing portion of its left side stood in sharp contrast to the full curve of its twin.

  I lowered my paddle to rest it gently across the canoe, and the moose turned his head but kept his gaze fixed on me. I let my eyes travel over the mountain of his form. His dark brown muzzle was touched with cinnamon at the nostrils, and that lighter shade also arched over his steady, staring eye. The bell under his jaw was wider than it was long, and the massive chest behind it conveyed the full strength of the beast. I would never intentionally get this close to such a powerful animal in the wild, especially during the rut. Still, I risked a few more seconds, watching him watch me, pulled by the gravity of a wild and dangerous thing. When I finally lowered my paddle to the water, I kept my eyes on him and gently back-paddled into the pond.

  I widened the sweep of my blade to swing the craft around and took a score of strokes before I looked back to catch a last glimpse of the bull. At first I thought I was looking in the wrong place. But after scanning the shore for a few moments, I knew he was gone.

  I paddled on and let my eyes drift to the water ahead: Kidney’s southeastern lobe, the distant pool removed from the splashes and calls of cabins lining the northwestern shore
. I aimed straight for that quieter place—the place where my sister drowned.

  ***

  I’d spent my life running from thoughts of that morning, evading the “what-ifs” that threatened to drive me mad. As I drifted there in my canoe, I kept away from those questions still. But for the first time, I let my mind wander to an even more dangerous place. I looked out across the emptiness and let myself imagine Jordan’s death.

  I remembered the start of that day, opening the cabin door to the surprise of clouds that had caught fire from the rising sun over the pond, the water reflecting everything above on its shimmering surface. That was the world that bobbed in and out of Jordan’s view, a world that broke open in blue and yellow each time she surfaced, then dimmed when she slipped to see only the sun’s warm rays reaching down through those first few watery feet, like golden spokes she might cling to or climb.

  How long did she dance between that hope and what came next? My mind fought to anesthetize itself to the horror by reducing it to the count of seconds. Only a minute, maybe two. But the thought of any time on that threshold invited a terror so deep it made time meaningless. In the infinite space of that void, there was no looking forward, no looking back, just the unimaginable pain that every breathing thing spends its life trying to deny. And while the moose browsed and the loons called and I slept warm in my bunk, Jordan had floated there.