Beyond this barrier is a clearing in the trees, the grass field with an A-frame house in the center. It's the one I saw before, but more rustic than I remember. In fact, many details seem different from my recollection. The timbers are raw and unfinished, angles slightly off, as opposed to my memory of a place more modern and refined.
Last time, I saw a woman there, outside the house. What if she's here again? There's nothing wrong with admitting to myself that I've been imagining her, trying to recreate a mental picture of how she appeared as I walked by. I'm fighting against the idea I should force myself to behave in some way different from my true nature, or that I should want anything other than what I want. My impulses are worth something. This heaviness that's been burdening me everywhere I go, an ennui, it's no longer just sadness over losing Michelle. That transient loss has evolved into a sense of permanent futility, one it's up to me to break.
Don't fret so much over whether or not that woman is here, or worry in advance about what I might say. That will ruin it. If my focus becomes too intense, or preconceptions too specific, nothing will ever come to pass. If it doesn't happen, I'll just have to go home, clean myself up, and get some sleep. Start on a better tomorrow.
Still I feel tension around my eyes, in my forehead. My jaw clenches. What the hell's wrong with me? Try to relax. I shake my head, hoping to loosen my neck. I crouch behind the blackberry canes, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to clear my mind.
A door creaks open.
I straighten and look.
The woman stands motionless outside the door. I can't tell if she sees me, hiding at the edge of her field. Something in the shape of her, the length of her neck and angle of her jawline, reminds me of Michelle. I'm not sure what she's wearing, some kind of cloth wrap, an unusual kind of dress. Her hair is casual, almost messy, but appealing. She seems out of place in these wild surroundings, as if she arrived moments before from some downtown restaurant or art gallery and hasn't yet realized her surroundings have changed. That incongruity should bother me, would normally frustrate my desire to categorize, but at this moment I'm intrigued.
I start walking up the trail through the field, as if I have nothing in mind but to walk back to my car. The tension in my hunched shoulders is too great, and I have to stop. I make an effort to lower the tackle and pole I'm carrying, to relax. Just start again. Walk naturally.
She's not watching me. Not even looking at me.
The woman seems younger than me, but not too young. It's hard to tell. Her hair is almost black, that much is clear. At first I think she's hanging laundry on a line tied between the house and a pole, but I look closer and see there's no laundry, and no pole. She's doing something with rope up against the side of the house, looping and tying. She reaches, stands on tiptoe, lifts one bare foot, sole green from the grass. I wonder, does this place have running water, or is it just for camping? How does she wash clothes, or bathe?
She wipes her forehead, pushes strands of dark hair back from her eyes. Then she turns, catches me watching her, and sets down what she's working on. Her face lightens, almost a smile. "Any luck?"
It seems like no time at all has passed since I first walked by and saw her here, but of course this isn't true. It's just that I haven't stopped thinking about her since then, without really admitting it to myself until now. She's been on my mind the whole time I fished, so in a sense, we've been having a conversation all along. Caught up in these thoughts, I hesitate several seconds before I register what she's said.
I raise the gear slightly. "Fishing you mean? I'm just learning." I've veered slightly off the trail, toward her. Nearer.
She takes a few steps nearer me as well, until we're less than twenty feet apart. She raises arms to her sides, stretching. "So you didn't catch anything?"
"I did."
She looks neither approving nor disapproving.
"You live out here?" I ask. "Or are you camping?"
She lowers her arms, wraps them around herself. "I come to work."
Slowly I take two steps closer, stop again. "Then maybe I'll see you next time."
"Be careful there." She gestures toward the trees, into which the trail vanishes. "It's getting dark."
This suggestion surprises me, until I look up to the sky. She's right. The sun is hidden below the horizon, and dark gray clouds have come in. What time is it?
I have to go. We nod and wave, and I start walking again.
The last mile blurs.
Who am I, out here pretending to fish, walking through another man's forest?
Who is this woman, living like this, alone in a field?
I'm alone now, but feel like I've just spent a rewarding day with someone newly important to me. Part of this must be the afterglow of my time out on the river, and landing my own fish. This invigorating sense of grasping hold of new possibilities. It's also more than that. I feel a sense of belonging, almost of partnership, like when I was married. This makes no sense, I realize. It can't possibly have anything to do with this woman. We barely spoke. But it feels compelling, too urgent and real to dismiss completely.
When I reach my car, I realize I don't remember most of the walk. I've been distracted. Compared to all the details I noticed on my way in, nothing registered on my return trip. The diagonal trail past the vacant house. The last half of the gravel drive. Looming evergreens swaying. I imagine these things as I saw them before, can populate a believable vision out of memory, full of the smells of river and sounds of birds. But these details are from before, not now.
"I'm actually here," I whisper, climbing through the barrier gate. "Remember this."
I unlock my car. The interior lights up, I stow my gear in back and climb in behind the wheel. The dashboard clock says nine-thirty. Everything around me is black, the sky, the forest. Allowing for a thirty minute walk each way, that means I fished more than ten hours. That's impossible. It seemed less than two, even counting the digression toward the house, the strange oak, and the stretch of the river where I didn't stay long. When I was done fishing and left the canyon, the sun was still high. Then I saw the woman, and I'm sure she cast a shadow against the front of her house. I only lingered a minute.
But when she warned me it was getting dark, it seemed perfectly right, a logical observation following on from whatever we were discussing. I didn't question her, at first.
Though the hours don't add up, I feel tired enough for nine-thirty. I'm hesitant to turn the key, afraid the car won't start, that I've emerged into some imposter world, everything replaced. Michelle is gone, my job doesn't exist, there is no houseboat with Karl. All around me feels strange, disaster imminent.
My key turns, the ignition fires. The engine revs exactly like usual. Nothing's wrong.
Part 2
A
TRANSFORMATION
Chapter 8
Sleep evades what never rests
After so many broken nights, I fear sleep is a habit lost forever. The worst thing, the most torturous mockery of my cumulative fatigue, is after I've endured a work day barely functional, focused on nothing but my desire to stagger home and finally rest, then five o'clock finally comes. I make it home, draw curtains and climb straight into bed, burying myself beneath mounds of bedding to protect my eyes against invasive light. I only want to collapse. Such a relief to relax, to give in.
Then nothing comes.
I struggle to remain still, eyelids pressed shut, ignore the sound of the river flowing, deny thoughts of what must be happening out in the still day-lit world. Don't worry about my job, avoid comparing it to occupations of college friends and other people Michelle and I used to know. Try not to consider the notion that some brighter profession, or more money, might have helped sustain Michelle's interest. Instead lie frozen in this void, stuck between my obsolete past and some future I can't yet identify. Neither fully awake nor dreaming. What is this state of mind? Not reverie. Nothing so pleasant as daydream.
I've fallen into the habit of blaming M
ichelle for inflicting all my damage, but lying here, anxious heart pounding, I can't deny that my weaknesses must predate her. I can't remember where or when things started to break. Too long ago.
No emotions any more. Just obsessions, mental loops and meanderings.
Water is constantly flowing, whether or not I remain mindful. Not only the Columbia below me, stretching beyond my window. Also a narrower stream in another place, a channel beneath soil, hidden from prying eyes. What cleared this one spot amid miles of forest? Imagine hundreds of years ago, maybe thousands, settlers or natives cutting trees, clearing space for a sort of village. Room to graze animals, plant vegetables. Nearby, a river thick with coho and Chinook salmon and steelhead. Fresh, clean water without end. That's how it was, how it must have been.
A great forest cut by a single river. Ancient trees shield all but the circle. Even Cayson's home remains hidden.
Under that sky I might recline, see stars blinking against light of lost eons.
Blood. Whose blood on my hands? Not my own. My blood is stuck inside veins. It wants out. It churns, makes noise the way a river flows. Maybe that's the roaring in my ears.
My life is a tumble of wrecked metal. I used to be smarter, could decide which path deserved following. If anything bad came along, I'd cut it loose. What do I have left that's any good? A single shelf of books; seventeen, a prime number. I don't want to purchase the same books again, duplicate my old collection. What if I moved on, re-purchased everything I used to own, then Michelle admitted she was wrong? I'd move back and have two copies of everything. Do I want that future, a double collection to remind me forever that Michelle made me leave, and that I crawled back?
I'll only buy books that are new to me. Someday Michelle will see the things I've discovered. Or else she won't.
I have wishes, but my problem is, none of them are likely to come true.
What do I wish for? No more nights like this. I'm tired of burning with envy for every other person in this world.
Chapter 9
Frame without a picture
On my way out the front door to work, feeling dazed from fatigue, I stumble over an envelope held up against the exterior by a leaning cinderblock. I pick it up. A letter from Michelle, apparently hand-delivered. This elicits not hope or excitement, but a feeling of overwhelming exhaustion. Also, slightly delayed, a trace of self-congratulation for not being pleased to hear from her for a change. At least this gives me hope I'm in the process of setting aside my past.
I don't read the letter, don't even open it, but fold the envelope in half and carry it in my pocket. Maybe later.
At work, I'm not surprised to find Karl isn't there again. Lately he's missed quite a few days, in fact hasn't even been home in such a long time, I've lost track. On one hand this seems kind of alarming, but I know I shouldn't worry. He seems focused on his girlfriend. Probably they're at her place every night.
During the lunch break, even though I plan to eat at my desk, I venture into the break room to buy a Cherry Coke. Really I'm curious to see if Constant says anything, so I linger by the corner where he's holding court.
Constant sees me. "Too bad about our boy." His mouth splits into a gap-filled uneven grin. All the hardhats call him "Hollywood," because of this uneven ragged smile, and his clownish red hair which stands out in every direction. I used to think the crazy hair was an affectation, at least an attempt to be funny, then I realized he simply doesn't care. The nasty mouth is strange, though. Constant may come from a working-class background, but he's pretty well off now, and we have good health and dental insurance.
Anyway, Constant thinks they call him Hollywood because of all his expensive cars.
"Karl, you mean?" I act surprised.
"You seen him this morning?" he asks. "Ain't he at home?"
I have to guess how to play this. "He said he felt lousy and might have to call in."
Constant looks suspicious. "Brown bottle flu, maybe, Monday after all those weekend plans?"
I want to ask what he knows of Karl's weekend, but can't reveal that I have no idea myself. Instead I do what Karl would. I shrug. Constant loses interest, so I leave the break room and return to my desk.
Quickly I compose an email to Karl's personal account, in case Constant has someone checking Karl's work inbox.
Subject: Are you okay?
Message: Constant's not happy. Get back in here if you can.
I'm about to click send.
"What the fuck's this shit?" Constant squawks behind me.
I spin, resisting the urge to cover my screen.
He's not looking at my computer display, but a pair of photos on my cubicle wall. I'd forgotten them, framed photographic prints of abstract water textures, hung at least five years ago. He pokes one with a greasy fingertip, and I'm glad they're under glass. Constant's hands always stink like transmission fluid. I think he likes the smell, applies it like cologne.
"Water photographs," I say. "They're textural."
"God fucking damn, Guy, you want to see water, we'll get you a job outside, there." He points toward his office or more likely the boat yard beyond it. "Don't you already got enough fucking river, boy?"
Constant has always been kind of a bully. He enjoys selecting people to give a hard time who can't talk back. Today, at least, I figured he might leave me alone, since Karl must be on his list with so many recent absences. I should know better. Now that I live with Karl, his attendance problems reflect on me, too.
Even after Constant returns to his office, irritation remains. I feel like an outcast here, worse than ever since Karl's gone. Just one of the office girls. Of course I'm feeling sorry for myself, but not a lot is going right for me at the moment. I used to have a wife who seemed to get me, though obviously she didn't. I have a roommate who's almost a friend, but he's gone too. Otherwise I'm surrounded by men slick with grease and stinking of chemicals, so rough they make Karl seem like an English butler. They shout what they mean, snatch what they want, and if sometimes their hand gets slapped away, they only laugh.
I need to clear my head, get focused. There's more than enough work to keep me busy, at least for a while. I won't wonder about Karl, or imagine seeing his girlfriend in the dark, or picture the strange woman in the field. Just to make sure I avoid distractions, I shut down email, turn my back on my main computer, and instead focus on the dedicated CAD workstation on my side desk. The work I do at Constant Marine isn't something just anyone could manage, but the truth is, since I've become familiar with the AutoCAD program tools and shortcuts, and understood the basic concepts, it doesn't exactly require all my mental focus. Actually, I wish it demanded more. The days would go by faster.
In no time, the first design is done. I consider starting work on the next, but decide I need a break.
Outside, the welders sizzle and pop. Usually when Karl's gone, nothing happens. Constant must have gone out and raised hell, gotten them started putting something together. I scroll up the production schedule, try to guess what they're building.
Sometimes I hate this cubicle. Gray fabric walls, a soft prison. A padded cell.
Still no word from Karl. It's stupid of me, worrying like this. I wasn't going to think about him.
I need to change things up, start some new routine, shift my sense of self. I feel a little stronger, more self-assured. How can I really cement this new beginning? Maybe change the way I dress at work, or how my desk is decorated. These things may seem superficial, but they're the frame that surrounds much of my daily life. I still have photos of Michelle on my desk. That's fucking depressing. I sit here pretending I don't look at those pictures five hundred times a day. My ex-wife, still front and center.
Time for something new.
I turn one of the frames face-down on the desk, slide out the back and remove the photo. I don't have any new pictures I want to put inside, that's the problem. All these frames, Michelle on all sides, and I've got nothing new worth replacing them. I slide the empty fra
me back together, stand it up in the same spot. It's ugly, looks cheap, but at least this way I know I'll remember to find something new to replace it. I repeat the process with the other Michelle photos, replace empty frames, throw prints in the trash. Then I place a blank sheet from a legal pad on top of the photos so I don't have to see her looking up at me.
A few minutes later I take the pictures back out of the trash and put them inside my drawer, face down. By three o'clock, all I've accomplished, other than an hour of CAD work on fixtures and joints for that 5086 H321 aluminum project, is moving around photos of my ex-wife. Now the only thing in my trash is that single plain sheet of paper I used to cover the photos.
Never mind. I'll give some more thought to redecorating my cubicle, and consider another idea. Maybe start eating different lunches. No. I'm thinking too small.
That blank paper in the trash keeps bugging me. I roll my chair over, lean in, grab it.
My cell phone rings. It's Karl. I answer without speaking his name.
"What's the problem?" he asks. "That loony email you sent."
"Just letting you know what's up." I let the yellow sheet flutter back into the trash. "You've been gone a lot."
"Yeah. And I won't be home for a bit."
"Must be nice." I spin into jealousy. It's stupid, but I can't help it. Just imagining what it must be like, avoiding work, and getting to know someone new.
"Something wrong, Tiger?"
"What? Why?"
"You sound pissed, is all."
"Ah... Just Constant, giving me trouble again." Though the boss hasn't said anything today to upset me, I dredge up something from a few days ago, because I don't want Karl knowing he's the one who's actually got me irritated. I keep my raspy imitation of Constant down to a whisper. "Ever since Michelle kicked your ass out, your attitude's for shit. Always coming in bug-eyed hung-over, and smart-assing me."
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