by Mark Slouka
They were about a mile from the river when he realized that coming back he’d have to hold the stick in his left hand: The current would be coming from the other side now. It didn’t matter; his right shoulder was a little stiffer, so sitting the boy on his arm would be a little less comfortable, but that was all. It shouldn’t matter much.
He had thought the river sounded louder before they came out of the woods, and it did. There was no mistake—it had grown stronger overnight. He understood right away. It wasn’t the rain—there hadn’t been enough to make a difference. It was the afternoon melt: In the mountains, forty miles away, the snowfields were melting in the sun. They’d slow in the evening cold, and not pick up again until the following afternoon. He knew this. He’d forgotten.
Still, it didn’t amount to all that much. Looking at the river, you could hardly tell the difference. The boy had run on ahead; he could see him throwing sticks into the current. He’d just have to take it slow, that’s all. Anyway, it wasn’t as though they could wait till the next morning; he’d promised he’d have him back. There was no way of letting her know. But it didn’t matter. Slow down, fella, he said to himself, but the sound of his own voice made him uncomfortable, so he didn’t say anything more.
He walked in over the wet stones and splashed some water on his face, then pointed out where the current ran clear and flat over fist-sized rocks, thigh-deep. He was thinking too much. He took off his shoes and socks and pants, re-tied his shoes, and slipped on the two packs, the belt dangling free.
“OK, kiddo,” he said, “same thing as yesterday. You just stay put right here, and I’ll wave from the other side.”
The current was stronger—he could tell right away from the pull on his calves, the sound it made—not much stronger, but stronger. He worked slowly, picking his path, lifting the stick completely clear of the water and jabbing it down, leaning into the current, avoiding any rocks larger than a plate. It was a good track. With a river of any size, there was only one way—straight across, slightly quartering upstream. You had to pick your path and go. You had to plan ahead, never take a step you couldn’t move from.
Halfway across he stopped and rested his arm. It felt strange to be standing there, the current wrapping itself hard around his thigh. He looked at his watch. It was taking a little longer. So what? He’d crossed this thing a dozen times. More. Eight years was nothing. Same man, same river.
When he made it to the beach he dumped the packs and waved quickly and started back across. It had gone well. Well enough. His left arm was a little tired but he could rest it on the way back—the current was from the other direction now—and not having the packs made a difference. He tried not to look at the boy sitting where he’d left him on the opposite shore because there was something about him in his blue shorts against the bank of stones he didn’t like and because he wanted to keep his eyes on the water, and yet when he slipped, the toe of his right boot catching on the edge of something then sliding over rock as slick as any ice, he was looking straight down into the water. He floundered awkwardly, stumbled, thrust the stick with both hands into the current as if lunging at something under the water, and felt it catch. He hadn’t seen it—whatever it was. He breathed, feeling his heart thrashing in his ribs. You never see it, he thought.
There was no point in waiting, so less than a minute after he’d slopped out onto the rocks and flexed his arms like Mr. Universe (“You ready, kiddo?”) he squatted down and the boy crawled onto his back. “You see how I almost fell back there?” he said. “You have to be careful. I got a little sloppy.”
“I saw an eagle,” the boy said. “It was enormous, and it flew right over the river.”
“Really?” he said.
THE BOY FELT a little heavier than he had before, and thirty feet in he hoisted him up and shifted the weight. “OK?” he said. He continued on, feeling for edges, probing ahead like a snail testing the air, then stopped and readjusted him again. When he stopped the third time, he knew it was going to be a push. He should have brought the boy across first. He wished he could switch him to his left, hold the stick with his right. He had to stretch his arm for a second, he said. He dropped his arm and the boy dangled from his neck, and then he caught him up and the pressure eased from his windpipe and they continued on. He tried not to look downstream. No point. “How you doin’ back there?” he said. He was strong. He could do this.
They didn’t go down when it happened, but they should have. How he managed to arrest them in that current, already sliding four, five feet downstream, slipping on one algae-slick rock, then another, he didn’t know. How he managed not to turn upstream or down, which would have finished things, he didn’t know either. All he knew was that they were still up and the boy was still on his back and he was straightening up, still facing the shore, no more than a broomstick’s length from where they’d been a moment earlier. The current was mid-thigh and strong.
He could hear himself, breathing hard. “I’m OK, kiddo. I’m OK. That wasn’t good, but we’re fine.”
They weren’t fine. Ignoring the quivering in his shoulder he tried to take stock. The rocks were bigger here. He couldn’t get back to where they’d been. He couldn’t quarter upstream and intercept the path because there was a flat pale rock the size of a small table in the way, and the water below it was too deep. “Do me a favor, kid,” he said. “See if you can feel where my eyes are. That’s it, don’t worry—I’ve got you. Now when I count to three, I’ll close my left eye and you wipe the sweat out with your thumb, OK?” He could feel the boy’s thumb slide gently over his lid.
“Good, now do it again.”
There had to be a way—something he couldn’t see. There was nothing. A step behind him, the rocks were smaller. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t step back. Crossing a river meant moving forward, holding the weight on the back leg while the front foot felt for purchase. Turning around was impossible. At some point he’d have to take the full weight of the current with his legs perpendicular to the shore like a tennis player anticipating a serve; unbraced, he’d come off the bottom like nothing at all. A thin stream of panic started in his head, dulling the sound of water; he looked around stupidly, blinking back the sweat. The shore looked like it was behind a screen. He moved his right foot forward, felt it begin to slide, pulled back. Fuck you, he whispered. Fuck you.
They’d get out of this. They had to get out of this. My God, all his other fuck-ups were just preparations for this. This wasn’t possible. He could feel the current—strong, insistent, pumping against his thigh like a drunken lover. Was this how it went? One stupid move? One stupid fucking move, and your son on your back? No. He could do this. He tried to remember the strength he’d felt, that rude, beautiful strength, felt it pushing back the curtain of fear. There was nowhere to go.
He could barely bring himself to speak. He couldn’t move. The way ahead was impossible. Far below, he could hear the water sucking on the shallow cavity made by his hip. The river. It wanted to be whole, unbroken. It wanted him gone. He could see it, forming and re-forming, thick-walled jade, smoothing out its sides with its thumbs like a hypnotized potter. The water blurred. He wanted to scream for help. There was no one—just the rushing plain of the river, the trees. He couldn’t move. A muscle in his shoulder was jerking like a poisoned animal. What combination of things? Everything had come together. He couldn’t move. He was barely holding on. There was no way. The river ahead was smooth, deep, gliding over brown boulders trailing beards of moss in the deep wind. He wanted to laugh. For a second, he felt the hot, shameful fire of remorse and then unending pity—for himself, for the boy on his back, for the heartbreak and absurdity of the world as it is, and at that moment he remembered hearing about a fourteenth-century priest who, personally taking the torch from the executioner, went down the line of victims tied to their stakes and kissed each one tenderly on the cheek before lighting the tinder.
“Dad, you OK?” he heard his son saying as if from some other pla
ce. There was nowhere to go. It didn’t matter. They had to go.
And then he heard his own voice, answering. “I’m OK, buddy,” it said. “You just hang on.”
Acknowledgments
I OWE A DEBT OF GRATITUDE TO MY FORMER EDITOR at Harper’s, Ben Metcalf, for his superb eye, his conversation, and his uncompromising skill with the knife; to Bill Clegg, my agent at the time many of these stories were written, for his careful, nuanced reading; to Stuart Dybek, Sven Birkerts, Geraldine Brooks, Laura Furman, Ann Patchett, and Nick Flynn for giving a number of these tales a shot at the light; and to Jill Bialosky and the folks at Norton for providing them with a good home.
In an equally important way, my heartfelt thanks go out to all those who over the years took the time to say they’d been troubled or touched by something I’d written, among them (the few will have to stand in for the many) Cyd Oppenheimer, Kerry Demers, Raegan Kowalski, Peter Frinton, Vivian Nunez, Monica Richter, Jeff Trenner, Amy Lemmer, Milena Horakova, and Matthew Geyer. Their reminders that an imagined bit of life can resonate in someone else’s heart have been a small, sustaining miracle to me, and I’m grateful to them all.
Also by Mark Slouka
Nobody’s Son
Brewster
Essays from the Nick of Time
The Visible World
God’s Fool
Lost Lake: Stories
War of the Worlds: Cyberspace and the Assault on Reality
All That Is Left Is All That Matters is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Mark Slouka
All rights reserved
First Edition
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The Library of Congress has cataloged the printed edition as follows:
Names: Slouka, Mark, author.
Title: All that is left is all that matters : stories / Mark Slouka.
Description: First edition. | New York : W. W. Norton & Company, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017060266 | ISBN 9780393292282 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Life change events—Fiction. | Control (Psychology)—Fiction. | Psychological fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3569.L697 A6 2018 | DDC 813/.54—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017060266
ISBN 978-0-393-29229-9 (e-book)
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