by David Vann
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?
Rhoda sighed and went to sit in the water, even though the tub wasn’t full yet. Added bubble bath. Like one of the dogs at work, waiting to be scrubbed. She put her arms around her knees and laid her head against them. Tried to focus on her breath and stop thinking, the hot water rising up.
When it was full, she turned off the faucet and laid back, closed her eyes. Smelled pear and vanilla, the bubble bath, too strong. Her body long and slim and weightless. She thought about a water wedding, just for fun. Everyone wearing scuba gear and weight belts, held to the ocean floor. Light brown sand rippling in wave patterns, a white wedding arch anchored down. A wall of coral for backdrop as she held Jim’s hands, looking at his face pinched in a mask, a regulator in his mouth, lips pale pink. The guests arrayed in the sand watching, the women’s dresses creating great colored plumes in the current, far-off coral tufts and fish gliding by. A parrotfish, lime and turquoise, swimming past Rhoda’s feet.
Rhoda smiled. If only a dream could be made instantly. No arrangements. She could decide this was the wedding she wanted, and poof, it would happen. She didn’t like waiting.
Rhoda dozed off, woke with a start, not sure at first where she was. The shower running, Jim finished with his workout. The bath water no longer hot. She rose and dried off, dressed, walked into the kitchen. Felt sluggish as she fixed the salad, no interest in the food. Over a week since they’d had sex, a very long time for them. She wondered what was wrong.
Jim came out just as she had the salad and plates on the table.
Fabu, he said. Another of the perky new phrases.
Panacotta, she said.
What?
Just sounded like it went with fabu.
Hm, Jim said. Then he served himself some salad. Raised the tongs too high. Made an arc in the air with each serving. As if this were a performance.
I’m worried about my mom, she said.
Yeah.
I need to get that phone to her right away. I need to be able to talk with her.
Jim munched on a big mouthful of lettuce. Looking outside, at the deck lit by floodlights, not at Rhoda. He finished chewing, then gulped half a glass of water. Thirsty, he said. After working out.
I’m really worried about her.
Jim stabbed another bunch of lettuce on his fork but then paused and gave her a quick look. Next time they’re in, he said. You can run it out to the house.
No. I need to talk with her now.
Jim stuffed the lettuce in his mouth. Stared at his plate while he chewed. Then gulped the rest of his water. Can I have some more water? he asked.
Rhoda grabbed his glass and filled it at the fridge. Walked back to the table and was careful not to set it down hard.
Look, he said. I know you’re worried, and you care about them. But I’m sure they’re fine. And maybe it’s good to have a bit more separation from your mother. Maybe you’ll rely on her less.
This isn’t a normal time, Rhoda said. There’s something wrong with her. I’m scared.
Nothing’s going to happen to them out there. Jim pushed some of the lettuce around on his plate, flipped a leaf over and flipped it again. Man, he said. This is just not that satisfying. I miss the pancakes and peaches. But pancakes aren’t good for the muffin top.
I think she might kill him.
What?
Rhoda stood up and walked into the bedroom. She lay facedown on the bed, closed her eyes, could feel her pulse beating fast. She was afraid her mother might kill her father or hurt him in some way. Or she might kill herself. Rhoda didn’t want to think this. She wanted to stop her thoughts.
A long delay, far too long, before Jim came to the bedroom. He sat beside her and put a hand on her lower back. They’ll be fine, he said.
No they won’t, she said, and she knew this was true. She didn’t know how she knew, and she couldn’t explain it to Jim. He wouldn’t believe her. She sat up and wiped her eyes. Jim wasn’t holding her. He was worthless to her. No help at all. Why was she with him? For the first time, she thought of not marrying him. Maybe she would be fine without him. It was only an engagement. I need to call Mark, she said. I need to get out there tomorrow.
Rhoda, Jim said.
Can you please just be quiet? She was holding her hands to her face, her eyes closed. She waited and he finally left. She scooted closer to the phone and dialed Mark.
Karen answered, but Rhoda didn’t feel like chatting. She waited for Mark.
A call from the higher-ups, Mark said. How goes the fiefdom?
Rhoda knew she had to be careful. Mark, she said. I know this will sound unreasonable, and I know I’m asking a lot, but I really am begging. This is very important.
Wow, Mark said. I can’t wait to hear. You’ve decided to live in a tent, like the rents, and you want me to take Jim’s house?
I bought a satellite phone for Mom, and I need to take it out to her tomorrow.
That’s cool. Can you get one for me? I’ve needed one for like, I don’t know, five years now, for the boat. How the fuck did you afford a satellite phone? Just a rhetorical question. I know the answer, of course. Jim the minor saint.
Please.
I don’t know, Mark said. I know Mom’s a freak and you’re worried, but they really are coming in soon for supplies, and it’s cold out here now. The shore is icing up. It would suck to launch a boat.
It’s thin ice, though, right? You can break through it?
Yeah, but they’ll be in, probably just a few days.
Please, Rhoda said.
There was a long pause. Rhoda afraid to say anything more.
All right, Mark finally said. Don’t say I never did anything for you. But I can’t do it tomorrow. It’ll have to be Sunday.
Thank you, she said. Thank you. But can we do it tomorrow? I’m really worried. I need to talk with her.
Sorry. Karen’s family. We have a get-together tomorrow.
Okay, she said. Okay. Thank you. Rhoda knew this was as far as she could push. She would just have to wait. But she didn’t know how she would get through two days. Her mom holding her at the kitchen sink, telling her she was alone. Telling Rhoda that she would be alone, too. But what was really frightening was how calm her mother had been. You can’t say things like that and feel calm and not have something wrong.
The door frame didn’t fit. Gary held it against the gap in the back wall. White-painted pine over rough bark, an unlikely marriage of material
s. He had cut the gap narrow so he could adjust later, a decision made when he had imagined more time, believed in more time. Now he needed to cut away almost two inches of cabin wall.
He looked around, a quick glance behind, as if Irene might appear. He hadn’t seen her yet today. She’d left early, before he woke.
Gary centered the frame so that it overlapped both sides. A door set on the outside of the wall, projecting four inches. And why not? He wasn’t building this cabin for anyone else.
So Gary grabbed his hammer and nails, aligned the frame, and propped it with two-by-four cutoffs. If Irene were here, she could hold it in place, much faster, but she wasn’t going to help now.
And the truth was, he did feel bad. He felt guilty. Wanted to apologize, even, and if she’d been here when he awoke, he would have tried. He shouldn’t have called her a mean old bitch. He didn’t like to think of it. Didn’t like to think he had said that. But he knew he had. He had said it twice.
Gary sighed. His breath fogging. A good day again for working, cold and overcast, but he didn’t feel any motivation at all. He hated not getting along with Irene. He wanted everything to be clear between them.
He braced his shoulder against the frame and set a nail at an angle, tapped it carefully. Then a harder hit, but it bent and he felt the frame move, no longer aligned.
Gary closed his eyes then, slumped against the frame, and tried to calm. He wasn’t good at anything. He knew that now. The cabin a failure, the most recent in a series of failures. So fine. He still needed to get this frame attached. He’d spent the night in the cabin, and it had been cold, desperately cold. Not a way they could live through the winter.
Gary set the frame in place again, leaned against it, and tried another nail. Got it in most the way and then cracked the frame. So he stepped back about ten feet and threw his hammer into the wall. A slight echo from the trees and hill behind, then a muffled thud from the ground.
Gary stepped forward and picked up the hammer, tried again to align and fix a nail. It sank but felt light, and when he examined the back, he saw he had caught only a small bit of the cabin wall. No firm purchase because of the angle. Maybe a quarter inch of meat. Nothing that would hold. And the point was sticking out now.
Gary walked over to Irene’s tent for a granola bar. On his knees, reaching in, his face close enough to her pillow he could smell her. So he lay down a moment, head on her pillow, and rested. Curled his knees so they were inside the tent. He would tell her he was sorry. The early cold weather a setback, but they were close to having the cabin ready, and maybe spending the winter together would help them return to who they had been.
But he didn’t want her to find him like this. He would seem weak. So he got up, ate the granola bar while he looked at the door and frame.
To hell with it, he finally said. He hammered a dozen nails around the edges, all shallow, many of them bent or opening up cracks, but together they might hold. Sharp points projecting out the back. Then he grabbed the door, simple white pine, and placed it in the frame. Not sure how to line up the hinges, especially without anyone helping.
The part he didn’t understand was how he had felt excited. She’d helped him all day—no food, in the cold, the pain in her head—and he’d been impatient, too, and she’d put up with that, and they had accomplished a lot, more than any other day. They put the roof on, the entire roof. But then she wouldn’t do the last little bit, just tacking the window on. It might have taken fifteen minutes. And suddenly he was saying everything he’d wanted to say for weeks, for years. And enjoying it. A thrill. A physical thrill, a pleasure, even though she was crying. And how could that be? How could he enjoy that?
Gary propped the door on shims and nailed the hinges. He could feel the frame shift with the blows, rickety. He’d have to buy brackets in town, but hopefully it would hold for now. You have to think you’re a good person. That was the thing. And how was he a good person if he enjoyed making her cry? Something wrong with him, something that needed looking at. Their marriage somehow had brought out the worst in him.
The window was next. He didn’t feel like waiting for Irene. The frame thin, and aluminum, so it wouldn’t crack and he wouldn’t have to nail at an angle. They really could have done this last night in ten or fifteen minutes.
Alone building the cabin. That was the truth. Marriage only another form of being alone. He set the stool in place, held the window up, leaned against it, pinning it to the wall, and hammered a nail. Held the other nails in his teeth. Pounded one on each side and then could let go. Pounded in the rest, all the way around. That’s not going anywhere, he said.
Gary stepped back and looked at his cabin. The outward shape of a man’s mind, he had thought before. A reflection. But he could see now that was not true. You could find an outward shape only if you entered the right field, the right profession, if you followed your calling. If you took the wrong path, all you could shape was monstrosity. This was without doubt the ugliest cabin he had ever seen, a thing misunderstood and badly constructed from beginning to end. The outward shape of how he had lived his life, but not the outward shape of who he could have been. That truer form had been lost, had never happened, but he didn’t feel sad any longer, or angry, really. He understood now that it just was.
Gary walked around back. He had meant for the door to open outward, but it opened inward. So he pushed in and propped it with a rock, the first time entering his finished cabin, a cabin with a roof, window, and door, and he set a stool in front of the window. This was not what he had imagined. In his visions and daydreams, the inside of the cabin had been warm, and he’d sat in a comfortable chair, smoking a pipe. There’d been a wood stove, the hides of bear and mountain goat, Dall sheep and moose, wolf. He hadn’t seen what the floor looked like, but it had not been unfinished ply. And the walls had not let in air. The cabin of his visions had been small but had extended outward infinitely in that dreamtime of belonging. Its walls traveled outward into wilderness. This lake and the mountains became him. No voids, no distance. And there was no Irene. In all the times he had dreamed of the cabin, he had never seen Irene. He hadn’t realized that until now. She was not sitting in a chair beside him, not standing at the wood stove. No place for her in Gary’s dream. He was smoking his pipe, sitting here by the window, looking out at the water, and he was alone in the wilderness. That was what he wanted. That was what he had always wanted.
This island was not right for Irene. The trees too close, too crowded. Trunks no more than a foot wide, spaced three or four feet apart, every space closed by the lower dead branches, thin curved half-hoops aiming at the ground, brittle and fracturing as she pushed through. Never an open space, never a place to run or look out over ridges and valleys. If she found a moose, she would be close enough to touch its hide with her hand. Her bow would be unnecessary. Tangled constantly in the branches. She kept having to yank it free. She was moving fast, a walk that was just short of running. And this was who she was meant to be, walking fast or running through snow and forest. A more open landscape, perhaps, but the same cold and snow. The uncountable generations before her.
She held the bow close, tried to keep it from snagging. Felt exhilarated. Looking for movement, listening to the forest, listening beyond her own footsteps and scrapings. Her blood running thick and beating outward to echo in the forest, a kind of sonar. Nothing could hide from her.
She stopped dead, planted her feet, brought the bow up and notched an arrow. Pulled back hard against the pulleys, felt them turn and break free into the easier part of the pull, held the arrow tight against her cheek and sighted down the razored tip to a cottonwood trunk fifty feet away. Let the arrow fly, the whip of the release, and the arrow buried deep into the trunk. The flight so fast it was instant memory, not something that could be experienced, only known afterward. Irene ran to the cottonwood, examined the arrow buried into the flesh of the tree, four slits lighter against the bark, almost invisible, radiating out from the post, and if
she peered into these slits she could just see the back edges of the blades. No way to retrieve this arrow, so she held the bow close again and ran on.
Exhaustion. That was what she wanted. She wanted to run until she could run no more. But she was fueled by some other source now, something beyond muscle and blood. She never tired. She crossed all the way to the shore on the other side of the island, broke free into tufts of grass and rocky beach and saw Frying Pan Island, its graceful curve, notched an arrow, aimed high, and sent it soaring into another forest. Stepped along the water’s edge and hunted larger stones and shadows of reflection and ice, notched another arrow and ripped into the surface. Vanished then, hidden by ripples, and she thought she’d heard blades hit rock but didn’t know whether she’d only imagined it.
Two arrows left, and she would save those. She needed trees again, hurried back into cover, hunted patches of moss, from one to the next, up hills and down into swales, over ridges. Everything closed in, the trees too tight. She was freed against gravity, lofted over hills, scraped and crashing through. She’d been awake for more hours than could be counted, and somehow this brought a new power, her footsteps light in the snow, the air something that could pull her forward. And it felt as if the entire island were rolling, slowly turning over, capsizing. She had to keep her feet moving fast to stay upright. The island born long ago at lake bottom, rising to the surface on some kind of stalk, and now that stalk had been severed and the island was top-heavy, the hills of rock, the trees, and it would roll over until its slick flat underside was facing upward, wet and dark and known for thousands of years only to the lake, new to the sky. What would happen then? But Irene would no longer be here.
Origins. That was the problem. If we didn’t know where we had started, we couldn’t know where we should end, or how. Lost all along the way. Pulled into Gary’s life, the wrong life.
What Irene knew for certain was that this was not the beginning. She would not be made new again. And she would take Gary with her. That had been her mother’s mistake, taking only herself. It was not right that Irene’s father had lived on in some other life, a life without his wife or daughter, a life severed from its origins, a life that could not connect in any way to Irene. That life should not have happened, should not have been allowed.