They Almost Always Come Home

by Cynthia Ruchti

  the water. My assignment is to get the now-loaded canoe far enough from shore that it won’t drag on the rocky bottom once we push off. Jen’s in the back, steering, supposedly. Frank’s out on the water, halfway to the Atlantic Ocean. I’m working on getting into the canoe more gracefully than I emerged from the woods. Not to worry. I’ll have other chances.

  “Don’t swamp us before we get a good start,” Jen chides.

  Still maneuvering my body into the triangle reserved for

  me, I glance back at the equipment crammed into the bottom of the canoe. Most of it shows mud or water-spot evidence that testifies to my lack of grace. I’m grateful the SAT phone is

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  tucked in the waterproof bag. We can’t afford to let that thing get as soaked as I am.

  “There’s a trick to this,” I say as I settle my bottom onto the canoe seat that’s only a hair more comfortable than aluminum bleachers. “I haven’t figured it out yet.”

  Jen and I experiment with the wilderness equivalent of parallel parking. We’re backing the canoe out of the cove, turn- ing it around to face the direction Frank’s going, and—in his words—starting to fix to commence to begin to follow him. I imagine Jen’s grateful for her summer camp experience with a canoe. I now wish I’d chosen canoeing over basket- weaving for my elective. What are the odds I’ll need to pull out my basket-weaving or pot holder-making talents up here? Lord, please tell me I won’t need to use my CPR training. In his dented tin can canoe, Frank looks like he’s jogging in place or treading water, waiting for us to catch up to him. My heart spasms. “Jen! We have to go back!” “What?”

  Frank’s too far away to catch every word, but I can tell from his posture that he’s not happy with my announcement. “How could we have done that?”

  “Done what?”

  “I was in such a hurry to get on the water, so concerned about pulling my own weight on the trail, that I didn’t look around the parking area for clues. The Blazer might be rest- ing on top of an important piece of evidence! We have to go back.”

  I stop paddling. That alone will fuel Frank’s ire, I’m sure. I’m more convinced than ever that this is a bad idea—this whole trip. Great detectives, aren’t we? Greg could have been lying in the underbrush along the edge of the parking area, and we would have missed him.

  “What’s she yapping about?” Frank asks Jen.

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  “She’s worried that we should have combed the put-in point

  for evidence, Frank.”

  “I did that. Thoroughly,” he says.

  “You did?” I want to believe him.

  “When?” Jen asks.

  “When I went back for the last load, while you girls were

  taking your sweet time resting at the end of the portage trail.”

  I would have argued, but the only point on which I could

  hold any ground was changing sweet to sweat.

  Frank investigated. He took care of it. “Anything turn up?”

  I ask, reining in my galloping hopes.

  His agitation carries well across the water between us.

  “Would I have kept something like that to myself?”

  I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever regain full brain func-

  tion. It must be the lack of sleep. I take a breath to fuel an apol- ogy, but Frank interrupts my self-loathing.

  “We’re not,” he says with finality, “going back. Not until

  we find him. Get those paddles back into the water and try to keep up.”

  “Lib.” Jen’s voice sounds parental.

  “What?”

  “Start paddling. We’re moving forward.”

  So we are.

  After a million, I stop counting paddle strokes and grunt-

  ing like a tennis star with each one. It’s all about rhythm and efficiency of effort. No wasted motion.

  I haven’t even begun to conquer the proper method when

  Frank uses his canoe paddle to point toward a spot along the far shore and mouths the word “portage.”

  I’ve been in labor three times. The second was fourteen

  short months after the first. Not nearly long enough for my body to bounce back as it should have before tackling such a monumental project again. With Alex, I saw six shift changes

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  in the nursing staff while on the maternity floor, if that says anything about duration.

  Piece of cake compared to this.

  When I was in labor, I had the option of calling for an epi- dural. I didn’t, but I could have, and I drew enormous comfort from that knowledge.

  No epidurals exist for the pain I’m in now. It’s not all physi- cal. I don’t need a psychologist to tell me that.

  But in addition to the contractions my heart endures as we cross the water, my arms ache, my hands are cramped, my back screams its protests, and I’ve lost all feeling in the part of me that’s glued to the canoe seat. I guess that’s an epidural of sorts—the numbness.

  The packs in the bottom of our canoe look more and more like pillows. How often does Frank turn around to check on us? Could I sneak in a nap? Stretch out my legs? Stop the end- less rhythm of paddle strokes?

  “You doing all right?” Jen asks from her perch behind me. “Peachy. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ve never seen a canoeist pull off a limp before.” “Limp?”

  “Your strokes are slowing, and they’re not as even as they were before. Should we ask Frank to let us take a break?” “Us?”

  “I’m significantly younger than you are.” “Great time to rub that in.”

  “But this is more physical exertion than I’ve put out since I ran cross country in high school.”

  “You ran cross country? Did you ever tell me that?” “One season.”

  “Just the one?”

  “I quit for my parents’ sake.”

  “Why?”

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  “To save them from the embarrassment. It didn’t bother me

  to come in last every race.”

  Memories of all the ways I unintentionally embarrassed my

  mother—according to her—slide through my mind.

  “It earned me a special trophy during the sports awards

  ceremony,” Jen rambles. “ ‘Heart of a Champion,’ which I think meant ‘Least Likely to Place, Much Less Win.’ ”

  I’ve found another excuse not to paddle. Overwhelming

  empathy. “Oh, Jen.”

  “Like I said, it didn’t bother me. It probably should have, but

  I joined the cross country team for all the wrong reasons. Boys. Track and cross country guys didn’t have the swelled egos of guys on the other sports teams. Made some great friends. And please keep paddling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My arm strokes resume with false vigor.

  “After that first season, I could no longer imagine forcing

  my parents to wait at the finish line long after the other par- ents packed their lawn chairs and coolers and headed home.” “You’re exaggerating.”

  “Not by much. I wonder now how much stronger I’d be if

  I’d stayed in sports throughout high school and college, and if I ever found an exercise program I liked in adulthood.” “I hear you.”

  “You’re watching for blisters, aren’t you, Lib?”

  “Blisters?” I’m watching the shoreline for a snatch of fabric

  from Greg’s shirt. I’m watching the water for a floating clue. I’m watching the horizon—what we can see of it through breaks in the trees—for signs. I’m watching the sun sink too close to the horizon. But no, I’m not watching for blisters.

  “Did you bring gloves?” she asks. “If we’re paddling this

  many hours every day, we’ll either have to toughen up fast or wear gloves.”

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  I don’t feel tough. I’m beaten down by the effort it takes to do anything up here, and by the fact that I didn’t get my wish. Dusk will soon be upon us. When we pull out the SAT phone tonight, we won’t report victory. Greg’s still missing. Over and out.

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  Seven quadrillion nautical miles after launch, we nose the canoes onto the shore at the base of a picturesque hump- backed island. I assume Frank intends for us to take one of our disturbingly frequent bathroom breaks. The island seems little larger than the swim raft at camp.

  “Start hauling gear, ladies,” Frank barks as he uncoils his

  legs and sprints out of his canoe.

  “Where?” Jen asks before I can.

  Frank points with his forehead and chin. “Up there.” He

  hoists the rough canvas Duluth pack, the tackle box, and the waterproof container for the SAT phone, and takes the rock climb two-at-a-time like a teen bounds upstairs to his room after school.

  “Jen?”

  “What?”

  “Do you suppose he means we’ll camp here tonight?”

  “Looks like it.” She keeps her voice low as she unstraps the

  cord securing our packs to the safe interior of the canoe. Sound carries too well here.

  I roll my shoulders, preparing to switch from paddling

  mode to hauling. “Isn’t this the ultimate in inefficiency?”

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  “What?”

  “We unload the Blazer, then load it all into our canoes, paddle untold hours past bays and pine trees I know I’ve seen before, then pull into a portage location, haul it all out of the canoe, pick up the canoe, carry it over the trail, go back for the equipment, haul it over the trail, load it all back into the canoe, paddle another hour or two, pull into another portage location, start all over again.”

  Jen turns her back to me so I can lift her pack onto her shoulders. She adjusts the weight against her hips and adds, “And now we’re hauling all that same stuff up Mount Everest so we can camp on its desolate peak and wake in the morning to load our gear into the canoes and begin the process again.” I slip my arms through the straps of my pack with Jen’s help, and we turn to face our Everest.

  “Reminds me of laundry,” she says.

  Laundry?

  “Or grocery shopping.”

  I entertain the idea of letting that go, but instead say, “Huh?”

  Jen punctuates her words with huffs and puffs as she climbs. “What do the Guinness Book of World Records people say is the longest a clean sink has gone without a dirty dish or glass?” “Ah.”

  “And has a laundry basket or hamper ever been truly empty more than a few milliseconds? What’s the world record?” Focused on planting my feet on flat, dry rock pseudo-steps, all I can think of at the moment is how much Greg appreci- ates it when I take the time to dry the sheets outside in the sunshine rather than in the Maytag. How many men would notice?

  And how seldom did I offer that simple gift?

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  “Put a little hustle in your bustle, ladies.” Frank stands on

  the plateau at the peak and wiggles his behind. He has to wait to make another trip for gear until we reach the top, our camp- site. It’s a single-file climb and descent.

  “Shall we show him what we’re made of?” Jen calls over her

  shoulder.

  “Marshmallow crème and pillow stuffing?”

  Her sigh carries well. “Rawhide and pure muscle!” she

  grunts out as she takes the rest of the climb in double time.

  It’s not that I don’t have the energy for it . . . exactly. It’s that

  I don’t have the heart. If Greg had been here when we reached this island, he’d have taken the pack from my back and car- ried both his and mine. I know he would.

  If Greg had been here, we wouldn’t be.

  ********

  Frank’s attitude would win him an early vote off the island

  if Jen and I were allowed to vote. He’s bossy . . . for good rea- son. He’s the only one who knows what he’s doing. Jen and I need direction for every step of the process of setting up camp. He tells us where to put the tent, where to stash our equip- ment, where we’ll construct a makeshift kitchen. Then he tells us how to put up the tent, why we’re stashing our equipment where we do, and how to make a meal with no table, no coun- ter, no cutting board, and no microwave or fridge.

  He’s a decent teacher . . . except for the bossiness. His

  instructions are worded simply enough so we don’t end up impaling anyone while pitching the tent or strangling our- selves while hanging the food pack in a tree. Success.

  Exhaustion. Is it bedtime yet?

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  Location, location, location. If I were into real estate, I’d have no trouble selling this island property for the view alone. Frank had us position the tents and the “kitchen” area in con- sideration of the wind direction and flat ground. Serendipity positioned our temporary dwellings with stunning views of woods and water.

  The view intoxicates me. I guess this is what intoxication feels like—a heady distancing from reality. As dusk lays its kind, calming hand over the scene before me, the water stills completely. The fire we’ve built in the rock-hemmed circle comes alive against the darkening sky. Worry never leaves my side, but it graciously retreats to a spot a few feet away while I plant myself on a log to watch the fire.

  The air chilled noticeably when day decided it had enough. The part of me facing away from the fire feels the chill, as if I have backed into an open refrigerator.

  Jen is inside our tent, arranging things by flashlight. I half expect her to poke her head through the zippered opening to ask if I prefer minimalist, art deco, shabby chic, or mid- century modern. Seems to me the only real decision is whether our sleeping bags will face north-south or east-west.

  Frank must have decided already. From his tent wafts the music of air pushing through his throat and nasal cavities. The aroma of the fire reminds me of times I’ve pressed my face into Greg’s chest when he returned from one of these trips. His shirt always smelled of fresh air and flame-broiled wood. He always came home. Before this past week, I’d never seriously considered that one day he wouldn’t. Why did I draw such lopsided comfort from his campfire-scented embrace? The last several years, I think burying my face in his smoky shirt might have been equivalent to grabbing for a thread of hope. He’s home. Good. Maybe I’ll feel differently now. But though he always came home, Lacey never did.

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  How did King David do it? How did he learn of his child’s

  death, then rise out of his grief, reenter life, and abandon him- self to the God who refused to answer his prayers?

  I should study up on that when we get back home. Wish I’d

  thought to bring my Bible.

  Pressing my hand to my heart as if that will keep the

  cracks from widening, I feel the thin notebook nestled in my pocket—the journal from Greg’s office. It seems fitting to read his words by firelight, with wood smoke embracing me as he would if he were here.

  I refrain from removing it from my breast pocket until I’ve

  stoked the fire to give more light and heat. As I bend over to position a couple of sausage-thick logs among the flames, I hold the pocket closed with my other hand to keep the words from slipping out. I can’t afford to lose them. “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t hear Jen exit our tent. How did she do that so qui-

  etly? “It is.”

  “Frank’s out for the night, huh?”

  “He plays the tough guy, but this has to take a toll on

  him.”

  “Don’t forget how long all three of us spent bent like pret-

  zels into the Blazer before we e
ven hit the water. And Frank did more than his share of the driving.”

  “And yet we’re still alive,” I add, brushing bark crumbs off

  my hands and onto my pants.

  Jen draws a log of her own next to mine. I tap my shirt

  pocket with a promise to make the connection with Greg’s words when we’re alone.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Better than I thought,” I say.

  She considers my answer for a few beats. “I . . . I have a

  favor to ask.”

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  “What is it?” I poke at the base of the fire with a two-foot- long stick. Sparks wake from their slumber and dance upward into the night sky. Man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upward. Of all the scriptures for my mind to retain! Where is the cra- nial folder of comfort verses?

  “I need to make a pit stop. In the woods.” “Not surprising. Happens to the best of us.” “I’d like not to have to go out there alone.”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. A wall-less bathroom is hard enough to take in broad daylight. But at night?

  “I’ll hold the flashlight for you,” I offer, “if you’ll return the favor for me.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She rises from her log and does a Jenika version of a River Dance number.

  “Now?” I ask.

  “Now.”

  On our way past the tents and into the suffocating black- ness of the woods, Jen asks, “Did I ever lend you my copy of the novel that talks about moments like this?”

  “Moments like this?” We’re looking for restroom in the mid- dle of the wilderness. A small branch crackles underfoot. “The necessary circle.”

  Neither of us can read facial expressions with the flashlight trained on the ground in front of us, but Jen must know by my lack of a response that it doesn’t ring a bell.

  Jen slows her pace as the darkness overwhelms any light the campfire behind us offered. “Pioneer women showed their respect for one another by forming an outward-facing circle so one by one the women could take care of ‘necessaries’ in the center while the others formed a privacy curtain with their bodies.”

  A one-woman circle. Big help I am.

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  Jen’s a mother with two young daughters. She’s used to lim-