They Almost Always Come Home

by Cynthia Ruchti

  We paddle toward it with a speed I didn’t know we had

  in us.

  If we’d had more time to prepare for this trip, we might

  have been able to secure special permission for motors. Would the authorities allow that, in an area where motors of any kind

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  are banned? Probably not. Even under the circumstances. Too bad. That would have sped our trip. But if we’d been traveling faster, would a small flash of red have caught our eye?

  I lean forward to gain more leverage in my strokes. I dig deep, forcing the water out of my way, propelling our canoe closer. We pull even with Frank. Are we stronger than we were a few minutes ago, or is there something to the link between adrenaline and superhuman strength?

  The shoreline is rocky. No level place to pull in. The object of our attention is wedged between rocks about five feet from the water’s edge. It’s cloth. Beet red, not scarlet. What clothing item of Greg’s is beet red?

  Frank directs the rescue operation. “Libby, if Jen and I sta- bilize the two canoes, can you climb out and see what it is?” Stabilize is a strong word for what they attempt to do. Frank uses his paddle like a mock anchor, planting it in the lake bed and hanging on. He asks Jen to loop one leg over the side of his canoe to form a bizarre catamaran. I’ve felt more secure stand- ing on a rocking chair to change a light bulb, but I manage to crawl out and onto the shore.

  By the time I can touch the fabric, I already know it isn’t a clue.

  It’s a ball cap—red with gold lettering. Washington Redskins. Not Greg’s team. We still have no sign that my hus- band ever passed this way. But I’ll have a dandy bruise on my knee from falling back into the “stabilized” canoe.

  Why is it any harder to push off from this shore than the others we’ve touched? Why does the water feel even more resistant than normal? Is it any wonder none of us can think of anything suitable to say?

  We’re back on track, paddling mindlessly toward an unknown emptiness for all we know.

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  Lord, is it too much for me to ask for a clue? Doesn’t have to be a

  big one. Some evidence that Greg was here. Is here. No answer.

  I don’t blame Him. If I were God, I wouldn’t want to talk to

  me, either.

  Jen and I are well into our practiced stroke rhythm when

  Frank noses his canoe toward the right-hand shore: starboard. Left equals port. Right equals starboard. I can’t remember what movie taught me that bit of information.

  I scan the area ahead. Did he see a sign? I just put in my

  request!

  Within minutes, it’s obvious we’re approaching land because

  we’ve reached our one and only portage—please, Lord?—for the day. Let’s get this over with.

  “Frank,” Jen asks, as she and I begin the routine of unload-

  ing the canoe onto the shore, “did you tell us how long this one is?”

  “Nope.”

  The look on Jen’s face reminds me of a little girl who’s heard

  the nurse say, “It won’t hurt for long. A little pin prick. That’s all.”

  If Jen isn’t going to press him, I will. “How far is it,

  Frank?”

  “It’s a hike of some magnitude.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Magnitudinous. Lacey would call it giant-NOR-mous.”

  “That’s GI-nor-mous, Frank.” Lacey. I can hear her voice

  in my ears. Or heart. Everything in her life was ginormous. If childhood is a ray of light for most, hers was a laser. She danced through her days and drew others to the rhythm. Me. She drew me into its rhythm.

  Once she learned the truth about God, Lacey embraced it

  in a ginormous way. If she’d lived to adulthood, she would

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  have had the influence and energy of Beth Moore and the com- passion of Mother Teresa.

  “Libby?” Jen’s voice breaks through the fog of fantasyland. “Yeah?”

  “We’d better get moving. Portaging.” When her voice is soft like that, I know she’s aware of where my thoughts have wandered.

  “You go ahead, if you’re ready.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t trust me to pull my weight?”

  Jenika holds my pack, waiting for me to slide my arms into its constraints. “I think it’s wise for us to stick together. No matter how rough it is, it’s easier if we’re facing it together, isn’t it?”

  Is that a veiled reference to my failure to lean on Greg and let him lean on me? She might as well have said so out loud. I’m already thinking it. I breathe deeply and silently decide to consider the idea later. After we’ve found him.

  “Time to prove we’re stronger than we were yesterday, huh?”

  Jen lifts the weight of my pack off my shoulders so I can untwist one of the straps.

  “That’s the spirit,” she says.

  We start down the path at a pace I know we can’t sustain. But we’ll try.

  ********

  One foot in front of the other—again and again and again and again—with the weight of a small desk strapped to my back and a heavy sadness still camped in my heart.

  Am I grateful that there are no mile markers on the trail? Would I appreciate a sign that tells me Next rest stop:

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  unbelievably far away? Jen takes the lead. I watch her body lan- guage for a signal that she’s sighted water up ahead. We’re forty minutes into our trek with no end in sight. I am not comforted by the fact that Frank hasn’t jogged past us on his way back for another load. How ridiculously long is this portage if Frank hasn’t made the U-turn yet?

  Jen stops and leans her extended arm and hand against a

  tree. Her body registers what mine feels. She’s carrying this empathy thing beyond the call of duty. “You okay?” I ask.

  “This one’s a beast.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Where’s Frank?”

  “I wonder the same thing. We have to be more than half-

  way, don’t we? Please don’t tell me different.”

  Jen shrugs out of her pack straps. “I need a break. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. I needed one twenty minutes ago but was

  afraid you’d razz me about my age.”

  “I’m too tired to razz anybody.” She pulls her shirt away

  from her body in front.

  “You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

  “You mean, in addition to sore shoulders, sore feet, sore

  arms, sore legs, sore back—?”

  “Don’t forget the hunger, thirst, and bug bites.” We should

  write travel brochures for the Quetico Bureau of Tourism.

  “Maybe I’m just dehydrated,” she says. “It’s hard to remem-

  ber to drink enough when drinking means straining bugs through our teeth.”

  I slip out of my own pack and aim it toward a flat rock. I

  don’t know why I need to brush off the rock’s surface first. It’s not as if there’s an inch of anything we brought that isn’t dirty already. But I bend to sweep away a handful of seeds.

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  Sunflower seeds. Shells, rather. Empties. Something gen- uinely biodegradable and with the power of a fully charged defibrillator.

  Greg may have stopped at that convenience store and decided to tuck a packet of sunflower seeds into his food pack. I know he’s not the only Quetico traveler partial to sunflower seeds. But I also know that sunflowers don’t grow here naturally. “Jen?”

  “What?”

  “Do you have an extra plastic bag on you?” “What for?”

  “Collecting evidence.” Saliva has DNA, right? When we get home, if we haven’t found Greg, we can haul
a couple of empty sunflower seed shells to the crime lab and request a stat DNA test. What a cruel consolation prize! I might discover he was once here.

  “Evidence?” Jen stands over my shoulder, looking at the contents of my outstretched palm. “Sunflower seeds? Do you think they could be Greg’s?”

  I consider the ridiculous conclusion I’ve just drawn. “You’re right. It’s just silly. I thought . . . I thought we might have our first clue.”

  I toss the seed shells toward the deep woods, away from the trail.

  “What are you doing?” Jen screams.

  I thought I was the crazy one. She’s chasing snack garbage, tiptoeing through moss as if she doesn’t want to leave foot- prints on a freshly vacuumed carpet.

  “Here,” she says, breathing hard and depositing four shells in my hand. “We’re keeping these.”

  What’s she not saying? That these little things might be the only clues we’ll ever find?

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  I think my gall bladder just dumped a pail of acid into my

  stomach.

  “Well?” Jen says, wriggling her arms into the straps of her

  pack.

  Yeah. I don’t feel like resting anymore either. Time to hit the

  path. With her help, I don my own northwoods bustle.

  “I’m ready. Let’s go.” As we point our noses toward the elu-

  sive shore we hope is not far down the way, I follow a spotty Hansel-and-Gretel trail of empty sunflower seed shells.

  Lord, if these aren’t Greg’s, if they aren’t clues, don’t You think

  this might be overdoing it in the cruelty department?

  Two here. Four there. Each sighting messes with the electri-

  cal system in my heart.

  ********

  We clear the woods and find Frank sitting by the water,

  stroking something lying across his lap like an old man might stroke a lethargic cat.

  “Frank? What’s up?”

  He doesn’t turn toward Jen’s voice or answer us. As we step

  closer to him, he stiffens. The look on his face tells us he’s back on this planet, in the current century, with us. “I found something,” he says simply.

  Jen asks what it is. I don’t have to. I can see. It’s part of

  a broken canoe paddle. It’s handleless and splintered length- wise. Where is the rest of it? And where’s the person who last used it? Needed it?

  “This isn’t—?” I begin.

  “Greg’s,” he says. His eyes are wild. Or misting. Sometimes

  it’s hard to tell.

  “It can’t be.” Don’t ask me why I think it can’t.

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  Frank lays the broken paddle on the ground at his feet and squeezes lake water from his pant legs. He waded somewhere to find it.

  “That’s the one Greg made in woodworking class.”

  Jen joins the discussion. “How can you possibly know that for sure?”

  “He got a B minus,” Frank mumbles.

  We’re all tired. Does that explain his answer or my inability to understand him?

  “What, Frank?” I ask.

  “See this ridge of epoxy?”

  “No.”

  “Run your hand over it. You’ll feel it.”

  I don’t want to touch it. But I do. Yes. There’s a definite ridge of hard glue or something.

  “It cost him in his final grade,” Frank said. “He was in a hurry to finish, to get started with the layers of spar varnish. Didn’t take time to sand down that ridge like I suggested. Teacher gave him a B minus.”

  I have a sudden urge to find that teacher and slice him off a piece of my mind.

  Frank smiles. He smiles?

  “Greg loved that thing, though. He always said it cut a wicked stroke through the water because of that ridge.” The hush engulfs us again. A Canadian jay breaks the still- ness with its raw call.

  Jen huddles near me and reaches to touch the wood. “It’s splintered. What can that mean?”

  “Means one thing for certain.”

  I finish his point. “Greg was here.”

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  Sounds float around me. Jen and Frank, setting up camp. I should help them, but I can’t move.

  I’m huddled on a rocky point, high above the water. Greg

  made it this far, or nearly this far. A trip into the wilderness was at least part of his plan, if not its whole. And that means?

  Maybe nothing. But it narrows down the field of

  possibilities.

  We now know that Greg did not cross the border on pre-

  tense and take an immediate left, right, or U-turn. He intended to, and came to these waters.

  We know he was—or is—here.

  We don’t know if he left or how long ago or with whom.

  And we know that something splintered his paddle.

  Storm? Capsize on the rocks? Angry fit? A or B. Definitely not C—angry fit.

  If we’d found the paddle whole, we’d still wonder how it

  was separated from its owner. But the fact that it is damaged adds more questions to our endless litany.

  I’m afraid to watch the water, to trace its surface with my

  eyes. I’m afraid but can’t help myself. A few hours ago, a splin-

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  ter changed everything. Was it carried from a distance on the current that flows in this unique interconnection of lakes and rivers? Pushed by a wave-making wind? I don’t want to see a body floating in its wake.

  “Libby? Some help here?” Jen struggles to unfold the plastic ground cloth that is now not only huge and bulky but damp and plastered with pine needles and other debris.

  I leave my perch and rejoin the world. After shaking off all the debris we can, we decide which of the two sides is filthiest and lay that one on the ground so we can pitch our tent on top of it.

  Frank issues no instructions. Maybe we’re learning a few things. Maybe we’re not as incompetent as he thought. Maybe he has a lot on his mind.

  The broken paddle rests against our food-pack tree. We’ll haul it with us, useless as it is for its intended purpose. It might serve as evidence for the authorities. Or a memorial.

  ********

  By the depth of darkness and silence, I’d guess it’s two or three in the morning. Worry’s witching hour. For days I’ve begged the Lord for clues. Now that we have one, sleep is even harder to find. New scenarios swirl through my head. Most of them involve a canoe folded in half by a wicked stretch of rapids and one of several versions of drowning. I pray for relief from the video playing in my mind.

  Thank You, Lord. But I suppose I was thinking of a longer period of relief than half a second. Is that so wrong?

  Something pokes me in the back. A tree root. Or rock. Shifting to my side invites pain to a new area of my body. What am I saying? There isn’t a cell within me that doesn’t scream in protest. Some of it is physical.

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  My nose itches. I wiggle my left arm and hand free from

  the sleeping-bag cocoon. That’s a regrettable move. Cold front’s living up to its name. The night air feels like the interior of a meat cooler at Greene’s. The nose sensation wasn’t an itch. It was frostbite! Or a close facsimile.

  How can I be this miserable—inside and out—and yet in

  awe? The difference between hearing Greg’s recitations about this place and experiencing it is like radio versus HDTV.

  The moss fascinates me. It’s thick and lush and everywhere.

  It reads like a plush carpet tucked among the tree roots. But when I bend close to it or lift a piece to my eyes, I can see that it’s composed of delicate filaments of green. Incredible.

  The landscape’s artistry seems intentionally composed for

  maximum eye appeal. I picture God’s hand reac
hing down to move a rock a little to the left or drag His finger through the dirt to create a rivulet that links two light-reflecting lakes.

  My tailbone connects with something unforgiving under

  the tent floor. I shift to lie on my side. Air mattresses would have been a good addition to the weight in our packs. Air mat- tresses? What am I saying? God bless the guy who invented memory foam.

  The downy feather I found earlier today while sweeping

  debris from the square of ground now underneath me wouldn’t go far in creating something soft to sleep on. Little except for moss is soft in this environment.

  A soft place to land. That’s what the relationship experts

  claim we humans need. Greg tried to cushion my landing after Lacey died. A caretaker of the paralyzed, he stroked my hair and put his arm around me whether I could feel it or not. I couldn’t.

  The search for a position conducive to sleep reaches critical

  mass. Should I blame the pebbles and roots underneath or the internal thorns?

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  Before climbing into the tent for the night, I watched the sparks of our campfire climb heavenward against the black backdrop. An orange glow of life inhabited each one. Higher. Higher. Knocking on heaven’s door. And gone. Then my eyes traced the path of others fighting to stay alive. Some died sooner. Some later. All glowed while they could.

  Lacey glowed while she could, with a light so bright I can still see its image behind my closed eyelids.

  If Greg is in serious trouble, or if his spark is knocking on heaven’s door, he’ll see Lacey again before I do. That’s wrong on so many levels.

  The cry of a distant wolf ripples my skin like the surface of the water responds to a sudden wind gust. The animal doesn’t want me. He’s crying for his mate.

  So am I.

  ********

  Something stands between the moon and our tent, casting its shadow on my already dark existence. It snorts. Do bears snort?

  I can hear it scratching on something. Sounds like fabric. Fabric? Our tent? Frank’s? Bears have no business being close enough to fondle fabric.

  I whisper into the darkness, “Jen! Jen!” She’s completely comatose. Great.

  “You trying to wake the dead?” I hear through the tent wall.

  “Frank?”

  “Who else did you expect? It’s late. Go to sleep. Big day tomorrow.”