His body was given back to Bridget for burial in his family’s coastal cemetery plot. For that, at least, we were thankful.
Chapter 18
Marcus
Maggie made the call to Luna, Bridget’s friend from the dispensary. She came for Bridget less than an hour after I’d broken the news. It was Bobby’s body I had identified. Life is too easily stolen from the best of us. Jesus. I’ve been witness to this more times than any one man should be forced to recount. I don’t expect I will ever in my whole life shake off the recurring visual of raw flesh and severed limbs; way too many army comrades blasted by machine gun on some godforsaken desert goat path. Since I’m no longer at war, except for the shit storm in my head, Bobby’s swollen body was way tougher for me to deal with in a way. I freely admit I struggled to maintain composure seeing him like that, fresh from his watery grave. And yet I held myself together, though I almost lost it several times, standing there in that fucking ice-cold morgue staring at my barely recognizable best buddy.
I figured it was high time to off-load Bridget from the lethal expedition we were on. I was sick to my stomach to pull the plug on her last drop of hope that Bobby had somehow clung on to solid ground. I let her know it came over him real fast, the floodwater, taking him down at shoulder level with such violent force he’d been under in a mere couple seconds.
The coroner had been somewhat delicate in his manner despite having given me the graphic details pretty much straight up. The fella deduced I was able to handle it, I guessed. “It’s the sudden intake of water flooding the sinuses that proves fatal, I’m sorry to say,” he’d explained while my knees turned to jelly.
My one and only true friend, my brother for all intents and purposes, lay there in that cold morgue, waxy, frozen solid — distorted, his arms folded across his bloated stomach, his eyelids fat and closed tight like a marble figurine laid out on top of one of those ancient stone caskets I’ve seen in magazine pictures of cathedrals in far-off lands.
My last impression of Bobby was of his feet — blown up like surgical gloves, black and blue, like balloons. Ten sausage toes all messed up and bloody from being scraped along the rocky bank in the deadly current.
I knew then it was me and me alone who was gonna have to man up, step it up big time — for Bobby. I owed him. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for the guy, for his family, for Bridget, Maggie, Mia. Bobby never asked for much. I knew if he coulda risen up and asked something of me from his bed of stone, my being there for his womenfolk was what it’d be. And I’ll do it gladly, if they’ll have me.
Bridget freaked when I broke the news, as I fully expected she would, throwing up and wailing in turns, her face devoid of its last trace of color. The woman was in need of rest and medical care.
“Find Mia, Marcus, bring her home,” she begged, weeping and sobbing in intervals, grasping my hands in a viselike grip, her face a crumpled mess of tears.
When Luna arrived, she started in right away on calming Bridget with the promise she would deal with the sheriff and all the necessary paperwork back at the ranch. “Don’t worry, I’ll look after her, me and the kids will. You and Maggie do what you need to do to find Mia. I’ll get Bridget in for her treatments and all,” she assured us.
As the two of ‘em were leaving, Bridget turned to me, said how she wanted me to know, of all people, how she would never forget him.
“The touch of his hand, his big, ol’ bear hugs. All the stupid stuff he ever said.”
I heard her. Bobby had kept us both on course with his chilled, steady way of being solidly in the moment in this fucking, messed up world.
River Road was still under several feet of water at the ocean end. The Army Corps of Engineers were waiting for it to drain in order to clear it of silt and detritus and open it back up to traffic. We’d be forced to wait it out another night before we’d be able to safely retrieve my stranded truck.
Maggie started searching on her phone for someplace to hole up, anywhere that wasn’t that goddamn shelter.
There was no way in hell I was going into a second night without sleep, pacing the place, tempted, oh Lord, how I had been tempted to down that handful of pills. Wash it all away.
I figured out who I needed to talk to and told them we were headed someplace nearby for the night, that we could be reachable on Maggie’s cell and if not, we’d call in.
The Russian River Resort Cabins and Cottages was the first affordable place that fit the bill, tucked away in the hills in an old redwood grove along an elevated and accessible dirt road at the dry end of the flood zone.
Maggie found a volunteer to give us a ride, a young dude, a student from the junior college nearby, one of those kids in possession of a sense of service and community. Lucky for us, he’d turned up willing to run unfortunate folk like us around the river region in between his classes.
What I needed most at that moment was to lose myself in the forest, calm my soul in the monolithic presence of the redwoods, those gentle giants that blow my mind with their three-dimensional labyrinth that lives and breaths above the forest floor. It’s almost impossible for the naked eye to scan these distant treetops for their magical hanging gardens of ferns, thickets of huckleberry bushes and all the many other amazing species that grow and thrive in the upper layers of soil that support this wild and crazy host of plant and animal life.
We thanked the kid for the ride when we reached the cabins. I handed him a bunch of small change and a five-dollar note to cover his gas.
“Good evening to you,” said an aging hippie chick who sat in the ramshackle office of the main building of an otherwise deserted resort. Her round, moon-shaped face emerged from a shadowy recess behind the desk topped by a big ol’ mess of faded red curls that sprung from her large head.
“My name is Tanya, and I am your host,” she announced, pointing to a badge pinned onto the psychedelic, tent-like blue and green colored kaftan she was wearing with its bright peacock design. She was a good deal to take in, this Tanya, the sort of woman who is to some degree more than a few years past her prime yet unapologetically set on refusing to give it up. Her voice was gravelly and strong. It spoke to a past I’d bet good money on being as wild as her taste in clothing.
A collection of faded, black and white photos of various Russian River scenes hung askew on the redwood panels behind the desk where she was perched, reminding me of one of the heavily made-up fortune-tellers at the traveling circuses we went to as kids. “Like that one?” she asked, following my gaze. “Last day of the train at Duncan Mills, 1935,” she said. Another captured a steamboat on the river, a bunch of poker-faced passengers in Victorian hats and decked out in their Sunday best waving at the photographer from the upper deck. “This one’s a bird’s-eye view over the river as it was in 1940,” she added. “Not much has changed around here as you can see.”
She leaned across the counter to take a closer, hawkish look at Maggie and me. Her deep-set, milk-gray eyes that looked like the color of film on cold coffee, were magnified by a pair of small, round eyeglasses that she’d perched on the tip of a bulbous nose. Tanya pocketed my cash quick enough, handing over a pen and instructing Maggie and me to write our names in a worn, leather ledger that sat open on the desktop between us.
“You two sweet lovebirds are my sole guests tonight,” she said, punctuating her claim with an unsubtle wink. “You’re fortunate that I decided to stay put given these dangerous weather conditions. I almost closed up for the week when the flood hit.” She launched into a long speech on how she had turned to her cards for direction. “My old Tarot deck. Never fails me,” she said, as she retrieved a well-worn deck from a drawer under the desktop.
“And wouldn’t you know,” she decreed, placing a set of cards face up and, with a smile, exposed an otherwise intact set of weed and tobacco-stained teeth: “Look at this for a three card spread, if you please? Six of Wands, the Star, Lovers, a welcome reprieve after a period of destruction and turmoil — please do consider this
a place of peace and compassion for the night.”
In our quest to find somewhere private to process our pain, it appeared we’d at least succeeded in making her day with our preordained arrival. “Put faith in the universe and you will share your success,” she said. “Though be prepared to take the high road, the more challenging and difficult path.”
I don’t go in for these sorts of showman’s props ordinarily, but hey, if there is such a thing as destiny and it offers some element of promise, who the hell am I to challenge such a thing?
Maggie changed the subject back to the flood, explaining in brief how it had been our very reason for needing the room. “We’ve been through the most horrendous twentyfour hours,” she confessed while Tanya hung on her every word. It didn’t so much as give me the creeps as make me wonder if the woman was trying to see inside our heads. “We’ll be on our way in the morning,” Maggie added.
“No keys,” Tanya informed, raising her hands, palms out. “No need. Lock your door from the inside, kids. Keep your valuables on you. Breakfast is served in here or on the porch if it ain’t too wet outdoors, any time between the hours of seven and nine.”
Maggie politely enquired if there was any small chance of something to eat before nightfall. “We’d be grateful. We’re not fussy,” she said.
“Leave it with me, my dears,” Tanya replied. “It just so happens I have the last of a recent batch of my famous piroshkis waiting for you in my refrigerator — homemade, Russian style, everyone’s crazy about them. I’ve got some good rye bread and a bowl of slaw I can spare. I’d be happy to warm them up for a token fee, given that you are pretty much stuck out here. I’ll wrap ‘em in foil and drop them on your porch a little later on,” she said as she walked to the open door and pointed uphill with a shiny, silver ring-filled finger, her thick wrist jingling with a mess of matching bangles and beads.
“Along the path, through the grove and up above the creek, you’ll find it. Rosemary’s Cabin’s the one for you. Can’t miss it. You’ll find plenty of wood for the stove, fresh towels, bed’s made-up.” One cabin. The idea of a shared bed set off a surge of the same level of electrical charges I’d experienced when I first laid eyes on the woman beside me.
Low light faded fast as we made our way up a narrow path that wound its way between the towering trees. We might have been the last two people on earth that night, the only other sound aside from our footsteps the rustling of a thick layer of pine needles and composting grass beneath the wet and springy ground. My senses were working overtime as the shock of the past twenty-four hours began to wear off. The forest reeked of wild mushrooms, damp wood, millions of decomposing micro-life-forms waiting for spring to come back around, for sunlight, for new life to emerge.
In the defused twilight we came across the small redwood cabin we’d been assigned. It was easy to find, squeezed into place between two giant trees. I was conscious of my heartbeat ramping up a notch or two as we moved toward the lamplight glowing through a pair of lace curtains drawn inside a small, square window frame.
An owl hooted from above. I took a hold of the wrought iron doorknob and rattled the rough-hewn door that had expanded in the heavy winter rainfall and was stuck in its frame. I pushed it open with the weight of my shoulder, facing off with a small deer’s head that was mounted directly opposite and above the bed. I held the door open for Maggie and followed her inside onto the creaky, wide plank floorboards. Centered against the far wall, an old-time iron bedframe and mattress was made up with crisp white sheets and topped with a tartan wool bedspread in a dark red and black design. A potbellied stove sat perpendicular to the foot of the bed, with a full basket of wood, newspapers and kindling set out beside it.
Imitation gas lanterns glowed a pinky-yellow on the dresser by the window, two smaller versions of which were positioned either side of the bed.
“A perfect hideaway,” Maggie declared, surveying the territory. “A refuge for rest to banish our woes — at least for one night.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed where she wasted no time in sliding her feet from her boots and socks. Barefoot, Maggie stepped across the room to investigate a musty smelling closet bathroom. I followed behind. The narrow confines of the bathroom consisted of an old commode and washbasin and a white vinyl curtain pulled across the narrow shower stall. I opened the sash window a little higher to let in some cool, fresh, forest air.
I found it hard to take my eyes off her fine boned, graceful and thrillingly bare feet as she turned and traversed the bedroom, taking in its equally scant details. Maggie’s toenails were painted the same dark red color as her fingernails. I’m unaccustomed to being with the kind of woman who wears nail polish. I followed, a second time and lowered myself onto the bed where I lay on one side, facing toward her with the support of a pile of pillows I repositioned for comfort. I closed my eyes as she lay down beside me, her cold feet just short of touching my own, her warm breath on the back of my neck in the chill of the room. I felt a shiver of exhilaration and opened my eyes.
“Holy shit . . . it’s an icebox in here,” I said, feeling the need to deflect the intensity of the moment. I rolled myself over and up into a sitting position. Maggie tipped her head to one side, dishing me a wide, quizzical half smile.
The two of us rolled out of bed and worked together to fix the stove to crackling and hissing ‘til much-needed heat cast its welcome glow into the room. I knelt down on one knee to secure the iron handle on the stove’s glass door. Maggie squatted down beside me, reaching up behind her head to set her ponytail loose. I gathered a bunch of her hair between my fingers as it brushed my face. It was tangled from the previous night’s unrest and it smelled to me of seawater and rain, of sweet Douglas fir and freshly dug earth of the redwood forest. I felt a slow, tingling sensation run through my body as she brushed the back of her hand against the bristly surface of my beard. Placing my arm around her waist to stand we warmed our bodies held together as one by the heat of the stove and she led me to bed.
There we lay on our side by side, fully clothed, two sets of eyes fixed above us on the beams of the redwood ceiling as we watched the light flicker upwards from the fire, her hand in mine. The mattress sank and sagged and the bed frame rattled its approval as she stirred, rolling onto her side and pressing herself to me, her arm resting across my chest so that I could feel the beat of her heart, the deep, steady rhythm of her. She threaded her hand through my hair and rolled me over onto my side, face to face. She closed her eyes. I kissed her eyelids, softly, one at a time, a heady mix of adrenaline, fear and arousal pumping through my body.
She moved her hands along my spine and up to my head, her mouth at last on mine. Her kisses unleashed a lust I’d never experienced before. Slowly, purposefully, she pulled back to remove her outer clothes and crouch above me on my back in her bra and panties. I rolled the straps of her bra down her arms and raised her elbows lightly, her fire-warmed and heavy breasts spilling out of their lace-topped cups and over my face. She pulled off her underwear with one hand, unbuckling my belt and slipping her free hand down the front of my jeans.
A primitive scent from the forest floor filled the confines of the cabin. It wrapped itself around us, entwined us. Meanwhile, a million night creatures sang their nocturnal chorus. A basket of food had appeared with pretty damn perfect timing around the time that dusk had slipped into darkness, though we’d been too preoccupied to hear our host as she made good on her promised delivery. Maggie wrapped her naked body in the thick, tartan blanket from the bed to step out into the chill of the narrow porch. “We kept the light on,” she said, blushing as she came back in with our humble feast of two large piroshkis —Tanya’s Russian dumplings, oven warmed and wrapped in foil, tucked into the folds of a cotton towel to keep them warm.
I draped my body in the crumpled top sheet we’d worked off the bed and we devoured this second gift of sustenance in as many days. We ate hungrily from cloth napkins we spread on our laps under the moonlit starsc
ape of a blessedly clear night that shone in on us through the small window.
Sitting beside her in this simple act of post-coital nourishment, I felt like something far more significant had taken place between the two of us than basic intercourse, copulation of convenience, stress-relieving carnal relations, whatever. Holy hell, how does a man such as me try to capture in words the kind of mind-blowing biological union that left me thanking God, the universe, my lucky stars for the start of the most unexpectedly beautiful night of my life. It was out of this world — well, for me, at least. We sealed this new deal we’d established between us with mugs of hot and spicy tea poured from a heavy thermos flask that was tucked into the basket alongside the piroshkies, a tub of slaw and two thick slices of rye bread and butter.
“I would kill for a glass of wine,” Maggie confessed as she peeled herself away and wandered into the bathroom to wash her hands. “Though I guess I’ll settle for the natural high I’m feeling right now,” she said, grinning as she stepped in front of me by the bed and pulled my body toward her. I sat myself down to set about the business of removing my prosthetic and she opened her blanket teasingly. My eyes were glued to the spectacle of her as I continued to free myself from my artificial limb and, after blindly succeeding with the task at hand, I raised myself off the bed, balanced myself on the crutch from the shelter, made my way over to the bathroom, turned on the faucet and stepped into the steaming shower stall.
Let me tell you, a hot shower, no matter how basic, is a godsend for the one-legged even at the best of times. Forget about a bathtub, though I would find a way to manage several good soakings and sooner than I’d thought, with Maggie’s help.
Big Green Country Page 22