Dead River

by Cyn Balog

  Northeast Outfitters is right across Route 201, so once we pack up all our stuff, we head across the road and into a log cabin. There are already groups of people hanging around outside on the deck, wearing wet suits and slurping down coffees in Styrofoam cups. Most of them are older people, in their thirties and forties, maybe. They look really adventurous. Well, more adventurous than I do, I’m sure. Hell, I’m nervous about how stupid I’m going to look in my rented wet suit.

  Here we’re close enough to the river that I can look across to the other bank. Scattered among the black pines are bits of gray stone and concrete, what looks like the broken remains of some old building. For a moment I think I see someone moving there, but when I focus I realize it must only be the pine trees sweeping back and forth in the wind. At least, I hope.

  When we go inside, Justin saunters up to the desk, self-assured. “Hey, Spiffy!” he calls, and I know he’s talking to Pat Skiffington, one of the guys who work here and one of Justin’s oldest friends. Justin’s family has been coming to the Outfitters for so long that the two families exchange Christmas cards—the last one I saw from the Skiffingtons had Frosty careening down a river in a yellow raft. Even when planning for this trip was in the earliest stages, it was always “Spiffy will hook us up” and “Spiffy knows this river better than anyone.” I peer around the shoulders of the other people in the room to see a guy with the most shocking red hair and freckles clap Justin on the back and say, “Yo, man!” He’s wearing a Red Sox cap turned backward and a rumpled T-shirt, and he looks about as unspiffy as a person can get.

  I hang back with Angela, who is trying to find one of her booties in her bag. She and Justin brought their own wet suits, since they’re up here all the time, and Hugo borrowed his brother’s. But for me, it’s rental city. Ugh. I don’t really like the idea of a suit that hugged someone else’s most private body parts hugging mine, but I’m determined not to complain. I’m determined to be okay with roughing it, which was why I pretended it was just fine that we didn’t brush our teeth, despite the thick film on mine that I keep trying to wipe away with my tongue. I bite my lip and focus on the pictures in a glass case along with a huge map of the state. Photographs of dozens of smiling people in ballpark-mustard-color rafts, surrounded by white water. They all look so happy. I don’t know if it’s possible for me to smile like that. Well, not surrounded by a raging river, at least.

  Then I turn to another picture that looks out of place among all the color photos. It’s faded and yellowing, part of an old newspaper article, and the frame itself is cracked and covered with what looks like years of dust. The headline on it says: RIDE THE DEAD RIVER WITH THE SKIFFINGTON BROTHERS. There are two men, one clean-shaven in a suit and tie, and the other in a beard and a flannel shirt, standing under a GRAND OPENING sign on the porch of what must be the same cabin I’m standing in. The date on it is July 18, 1992.

  “Got it!” Angela says, triumphant, hopping around to squeeze the bootie onto her foot. She’s already wearing her wet suit. It’s cute, mostly black with a little pink stitching. She looks even better in the wet suit than she does in regular clothes: strong, statuesque, and athletic. I think I will probably look like a full garbage bag in mine: lumpy, shapeless, and sadly waiting to go to where its life will end.

  Justin motions to us. I move through the crowd and lean against the desk as he hands me a pen. “You guys just need to sign this release,” he says.

  I read it as both Hugo and Angela hurriedly scribble their names on the line. I have to focus on my breathing when I go down the list of possible risks: “disease, strains, fractures, partial and/or total paralysis, death, or other ailments that cause serious disability.”

  I repeat Angela’s words to calm myself. Smooth sailing.

  Then I stop when I see: “Signature of parent or guardian if under 18.” I look at Justin. He mouths, It’s okay. Just do it.

  I hesitate for only a second. This is Justin. Justin, who always checks my seat belt to make sure it’s fastened before he takes Monster out. Justin, who religiously stays to my left when we’re walking down the sidewalk, to protect me from whatever peril might lie in the street. He wouldn’t have me sign anything unless there really was no danger involved. It’ll just be a leisurely jaunt down the river. Smooth sailing. I grab the pen and sign Kiandra Levesque.

  “Let’s get you a suit. It’s twenty to rent,” Spiffy says, inspecting me as I fork over the crumpled bill that’s been glued with sweat to my palm. I think he’s probably just trying to figure out what size I am, but when he turns around and walks into the back of the office, Justin winks at me.

  “He does not want me,” I mutter.

  “Totally does.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I’m right.”

  I stick my tongue out at him just as Spiffy appears in the doorway with an amorphous gray thing with pee-yellow arms that looks like it has seen better days. “You can try it on here,” he tells me, motioning to the back. “Want some help?”

  I look at Justin helplessly. Is that some backwoods pickup line?

  He grins at me. “Let him help you get dressed,” he whispers. “It will be the highlight of his young life.”

  I scowl at him as Spiffy just pulls aside the curtain and lets me pass, as if he’s dressed teenage girls in neoprene a million times before. “You wearing long underwear?”

  The curtain swings back, effectively shielding me from Justin’s I told you so expression. I nod, stripping off my North Face jacket. I’m actually wearing two layers of water-resistant skin and two pairs of extra-thick wool socks that go up to my knees because I know I’ll be freezing. Justin is wearing long underwear, and if he, the Snowman himself, the man who is known to traipse around in the dead of winter in nothing but gym shorts, is wearing long underwear on this trip, I know we’re talking about some serious cold. I stare at the suit as Spiffy holds it out to me. “How do I get it on?” I laugh nervously. “I’ve never—”

  “Here,” he says, leaning over and helping me step into it. I nearly fall over a few times before zipping it up over my long underwear. As I’m leaning over to fasten the booties, feeling as flexible as a sausage in its casing, I realize the suit smells like feet. Feet with a thin Febreze mask.

  I swallow as I look at myself in a floor-to-ceiling mirror. I’m pretty thin, but that doesn’t matter: I look like a sausage, or rather like a plastic bag of potatoes, lumpy and round. “Um, so,” I say, trying to take the focus off my foxy wet-suit-clad body, “your dad started the Outfitters?”

  He nods. “My dad and his twin brother.”

  “Twin? I was looking at the picture in the lobby. They don’t look very alike.”

  “They aren’t. They lead completely different lives. My uncle is really into rafting and convinced my dad to invest in the Outfitters. My dad isn’t into that stuff at all, but he has a lot of capital.” He smiles. “My dad kind of hates this place now. He goes where the money is, and this is pretty much a money suck. I think that picture out front is the only one I have of the two of them together.” He holds out a plate of assorted breakfast goodies. “Pastry?”

  I pluck a blueberry muffin off the plate. “Don’t they like each other?”

  He shrugs. “Not even close. They may be twins, but Uncle Robert is so different. A free spirit. He was never around much, even after the Outfitters was started. Then he left two years ago to hike the Appalachian Trail and we haven’t heard from him since. But the guy always does things like that. Crazy things. My dad doesn’t know the first thing about rafting, so I pretty much run this place. I’ve been down the Dead a thousand times. Your boyfriend is one of my best customers. And your cousin. They talk about you all the time.”

  “They do?” I blurt, almost spitting out a bit of my muffin. I can’t imagine what they would say, other than She’s not exactly an outdoorsy girl.

  He checks a clock on the wall and says, “We’d better get you out there. Bus leaves in five.”

  “Ok
ay. Are you going to be on our raft?” I ask. Maybe having The Guy Who Knows Everything About the Dead on my raft would stop my stomach from clenching like it is.

  He shakes his head. “There’s a group of novices going out, and they’ll need my help more than you. With Justin and Angela, you’re in good hands. Your guide is Michael. He’s a good guy. Been with us a couple years.”

  “Oh,” I say, unable to hide my disappointment. “Is it really wild out there?”

  I’m hoping he’ll tell me that no, it’s calm, for some reason they just can’t understand. You can see your reflection in the water. Babies can bathe in it. Instead, he says, “Oh yeah. Wildest of the year is right now. Over seven thousand see-eff-esses.”

  “See what?”

  “Cubic feet per second. Great time to come up. Great time.”

  I gulp. Oh yeah. Great time.

  I feel all stiff in this getup; bending my limbs is nearly impossible. When I walk, I’m sure I look like I just peed my pants. We step out to the front and I see through the picture window that a bunch of the rafters are already boarding the white school bus that’s going to take us to put-in.

  We’re all alone in the building, so when I hear someone behind me breathe What the devil is that? I turn back to Spiffy and try to figure out what he’s talking about. But he’s just looking at me blankly.

  “What the devil is what?” I ask, confused.

  He stares at me.

  “You just said—”

  “I didn’t say anything.” He’s staring at me as if I have a horn protruding from my forehead. Come to think of it, it didn’t sound much like his voice. It had a rougher edge to it, but not only that, there was an accent. Australian, I think. I turn back to where the voice came from, but the room is empty. All I see is that picture of the two Skiffington brothers, smiling together.

  “Um, okay,” I say, and then try to cover up by saying, “So, what’s over on the other side of the river?”

  He waves his hand over there. “Oh, death. Destruction. All that good stuff.” I guess I must be staring at him, because he says, “I’m kidding. Well, only partly. It’s an old cemetery.”

  Ah. Perfect.

  He continues, “Haven’t you ever heard of what the west bank means?”

  I shake my head.

  “Many civilizations used to believe the east bank of a river symbolized birth and renewal. The west bank symbolized death. And so people lived on the east bank. They buried their dead on the west bank.”

  I shudder. We really should not be talking about death at a time like this. I’m about to say something like “How interesting,” although really I wish he’d talk about bunnies and rainbows, when it comes again:

  What the devil is that?

  This time I’m sure of it. It came from the direction of the picture. I stall in the doorway and turn to Spiffy right away, but he’s just jingling his keys and trying to usher me out the door so he can lock up the office. I want to ask him, “You didn’t hear that?” but I already know the answer. He didn’t hear a thing.

  Maybe it was just the wind whistling through the trees outside.

  But when I climb down the stairs to the gravel driveway, the first thing I notice is that the pines surrounding the Outfitters cabin are completely still. Overhead, a blackbird caws. We may be on the living side of the river, but I can’t stop myself from shivering as I board the bus and we rumble down the dirt road toward the put-in site.

  Chapter Six

  Justin holds my hand on the bus ride down to the river. He likes to trace letters in my palm, secret messages, but this time I’m only getting fragments. First a U, then some other letter, then a K. He looks at me expectantly, but I’m just puzzled.

  He does it again. This time I concentrate on it. U O K. You okay?

  I smile at him and nod, even though my hands are shaking. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from looking at the Death side of the river. It probably doesn’t look much different from this side, but I can’t get it out of my head. And if I was going to start making up voices in my head, why would my head choose a phrase like What the devil is that? And in the accent of a gruff Australian guy? I never knew my subconscious was that creative.

  The bus bumps along, and the blueberry muffin I’d taken nibbles of in the back of the office bumps along with it in my stomach, threatening to make an escape. Hugo is mumbling something about how the zipper on his wet suit is chafing his neck, and meanwhile Angela, looking prettier than I’ve ever seen her, is just staring out the window at the river like it’s a cookie she wants to take a big bite of. Justin is tracing messages on my hand again, but this time all I catch is a V and a U. It doesn’t matter. I know what he’s saying. I turn his palm over and trace LUV U 2 on his.

  The bus jostles us along for a few miles and then turns toward the river, down a narrow path that’s more potholes than road. A beefy guy with a crew cut, probably in his mid-twenties, comes down the aisle, finally stopping at the seat in front of us. “Hey, I’m Michael. Your guide,” he says to us, shaking Justin’s hand. “Not that you’ll need a guide.”

  “Have you been out there on this release yet?” Justin asks.

  Michael exhales. “Oh yeah. Yesterday. It’s going to be a blast. Great time.”

  Justin and Angela nod, excited. I look out the window to see rows of equipment lined up in metal cages near a long pier. I guess we’re here, at put-in. Everyone starts funneling off of the bus and for a moment I can’t seem to find my legs, but then I stand and follow Justin and the rest of my group. Someone hands me a paddle and straps a helmet and life jacket on me and we walk out toward the pier. We wait for the other groups of people to load onto their rafts and push off, and then it’s our turn. I can’t believe I’m finally doing this. I step into the raft and it bucks and I look for a seat. A seat belt. Something so I won’t fall out.

  “Where do we sit?” I ask Justin.

  He pats the edge of the raft.

  “But there’s—that’s—impossible,” I stammer. It all looks so precarious, like dangling one’s feet out the window of a high-rise building. And he knows I have no sense of balance. I sometimes fall over walking on level ground. This is just an accident waiting to happen.

  Justin knocks on my helmet lightly. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I swallow and attempt to sit down on the raft, then straighten again. This can’t be right. I’ll fall out the second the raft moves. “Wait. Where do I put my feet? Do I, um, straddle it?”

  Angela laughs and sits like she’s slipping into a comfy recliner. “No. Keep your legs in. Like this.”

  I follow her, but I might as well be sitting on a marshmallow. The raft pitches a little, then a lot when Justin sits down. I lurch forward, then dig the heels of my water shoes in and steady myself before I can kiss Michael’s backside. He’s sitting in front of me, so I’m flanked by two burly, manly men. Nothing to worry about, right?

  Wrong.

  Michael strokes his scruffy goatee and smiles at me. “Virgin?”

  “Um, excuse me?”

  “First time on the river?”

  “Oh, er. Yes,” I say, thinking, Does he even need to ask that?

  “Don’t worry. Piece of cake,” he says, but I can’t help feeling that everyone is saying that only because they’re a lot braver than I am. If it’s a piece of cake, why am I wearing a helmet that makes my head look twice its normal size? “Now, my first time as guide. Two years ago. That was a story.”

  “Oh really?” I mutter, not wanting to hear, since with my luck it probably has to do with someone’s death or dismemberment. I look over the edge of the raft at the dark water frothing beneath me, and I try to take deep, cleansing breaths. If only my dad could see me now. He’d be so … out of control.

  I picture my dad’s face, turning tomato-red under his beard, his eyes bulging as he condemns me to spending the summer at home, grounded. And for what? This totally fun experience? We haven’t even pushed off yet, a
nd I already feel seasick. Maybe Dad was right.

  Michael obviously doesn’t sense my lack of enthusiasm in reliving his exciting first days on the river, because he continues on: “Yeah. One of the factories upriver, on the Androscoggin, made clothing forms. You know, mannequins and stuff. It closed down in the 1950s. But two years ago they were demolishing all the factories to make way for some condos. And somehow a bunch of the forms ended up in the river, and during the dam release, with the water churning the way it was, they looked like dead bodies.”

  Of course, dead bodies had to be in there somewhere. But it is kind of interesting. I find myself saying “Really?” and wanting to hear more.

  “Yeah. Funny thing was, all the guides were jumping in to save them. So we were soaked before we even started. And it’s not fun to spend three hours soaked on this river in early May.” He laughs. “The good thing was, I’ve never had it any worse than that first time.”

  Well, that’s a good sign, at least. Surprisingly, I feel a bit of calm trickle over me.

  “Okay, Chief,” Justin says from the back. For some reason he calls guys in a position of authority Chief; I guess it’s in preparation for his police job. Either that or he likes to pretend he’s part of an Indian tribe. “We’re all set.”

  The calm doesn’t last; my heart buckles in my chest as we push off. For a second I look longingly at the pier, but only for a second, because soon we’re in the middle of the river. No turning back. I grip the paddle in my hand so hard that I’m surprised my fingers don’t make dents in the handle. I’m so stiff, afraid to even breathe because that might throw my balance off.

  After a few minutes, I loosen up a little and exhale. I manage to take my eyes off the river ahead for a moment or two to take in the shimmery, light green buds appearing on the trees and enjoy the fresh, clean smell of new spring growth. Actually, it’s not bad. Just coasting, I tell myself. Great scenery. We dip and toss, but only gently. Michael leans his oar over the side and begins paddling, so I do, too, imitating him perfectly. I almost forget that there are rapids up ahead, until Michael calls out, “Spencer Rips is first.”