Blue Field(37)
Soon though she tired of waiting—heart hot and heavy, lickety-splickety she dug in the bucket placed next to the path. Despite the pain in her forearm. Because of it. And in no time she had rocks in her coat pockets and hands. Rocks dun-coloured and heather grey flecked with quartzite. Rocks smooth and flat and round and rocks shaped like stars, plums, dates. The pretty pit of Bowman’s Adam’s apple—how it jumped when she’d rammed her tongue between his teeth to quiet him at the corner table in the oyster shack. Narcotized and stupid-novice bent, or merely assailed by some stomach bug, Bowman’s slutty drawl edging into her and then, hours later, back at Bowman’s, she couldn’t unload her gear from the truck. Rand’s silence a bludgeon. Bowman a shadow evanescing altogether. What was he, scared? *. What was she? Monster, going and going. That night he’d stayed gone and the next morning too and then she and Rand left. Six days no calls and now? Rand must have gabbed on her.
She stood with her rocks. She knew! Losing. It’s what she did best. It occurred to her she could lose whatever it took.
To clear things out, tunnel to the root, whatever. Get at this new-new thing she’d never seen before. Her. Herself.
Up the hill she now went. Above the trees an undammed sky so blue her veins hurt. Her eyes hurt—her fovea pricked by tiny dots. She cuddled into her coat. The lumps in her pockets bruised her legs. Rocks in her head, she traversed the swale and arrived at ma and pa in no time and laid her offerings to rest. How parched she was. Dying.
36
Forget the soured sun on Bowman’s flimsy trailer and oyster shacks not exactly booming with business. This far north—way past the most weakly guarded perimeter—and this late in the season most of the peninsular town’s shop and hotel windows were boarded up in anticipation of a harsher-than-last winter’s harsh. Many of the cottages that cusped the lake side and semi-circled the bay side and serried through the wooded hills most likely already had their pipes shut. Rand drove fast, scudding the gravel while, visible through chinks in pine forest and sumac, white-capped waves reared. Soon Rand parked his black behemoth behind Leo’s white one, next to the timbered A-frame set back from the road in a stand of cedar and spruce. When Marilyn thumped on the front door, faded leaves drifted against her ankles and pine needles matted under her feet. No answer. Her stomach cramped and her head swam. Suddenly she could hardly believe she was here, about to go through with things. And, leaning against the door frame to steady herself, she could hardly believe she wouldn’t. Which fear was worse?
You told him four, right? Rand groused from the truck—one more thing for her to manage. He blurred then snapped into focus, frowning and hoisting a backpack.
She knocked again then turned the handle and let herself in. Mildew and acrid cleanser. She mounted the three stairs from the vestibule into the living room. A hushed movement mounded under a plaid throw on the couch and she slowly backed out. On the drive again, wind spattered grit and her lungs burned. But Rand had dumped their overnight bags on the ground and was rummaging behind the truck’s cab and she felt she should hurry and help, except she felt like balloons let go.
Call it, she told herself reasonably enough, but once started on that track she found she couldn’t stop. Call it, she thought, and forget living to tell the tale. Forget living. Without the diving, even if it meant near-dying, how would she know she was alive? And not back in the past with her dead. Dead herself.
Marilyn? Rand said loudly, sounding agitated. You want all this food shit inside too?
Don’t say it, she told herself. Do not say, How weird is this? Guess we better head on home. Don’t say, Sorry Rand. Putting you through all this trouble. What was I thinking? You’re right, guess I wasn’t.
She closed her eyes for a second and imagined his sneer. His, I’ll bet you’re sorry.
She strode forth and yanked the grocery bags from him. A slight twinge from her wrist but otherwise it seemed fine. Yes, Rand, she said firmly. I want it all.
He refused to budge as she edged past him and plunked the bags on the front passenger seat of the truck. She rummaged behind the truck’s cab for the beer stash. Hey, Rand said. You helping or not?
Leo, she said. That *. He’s upstairs getting off. Can you believe? Let’s crack a couple right here and wait a few. Pretend everything’s normal. We know how to do that, right?
No problems here—within the hour Rand and Leo were on the patio with the rusty outdoor grill fired up and she was in the kitchen opening a bag of fancy salad and scouring the cupboards and drawers for evidence of utensils and plates. In the fridge she located gelatinous bottled dressing. She sipped another brew and finally counted out three paper-and-plastic place settings—Leo’s probable paramour having apparently evaporated through the rear door. But mostly she considered tomorrow’s forecast. Possible thunderstorms. Ripping winds. She could hear the wind now, netting the occasional flash of the guy’s laughs. If Leo could get them out on his boat to the dive site tomorrow she’d have to really have her shit tight. No screw-ups on the roistering deck, in the mashing confusion mistakenly placing one piece of gear where another should go. No puking over the gunwales. No getting dehydrated-weak—asking for another hit, her already-damaged tissues unable to conduct nitrogen as effectively as healthy ones. How many more chances could she take? She’d been deep on air before, lots of times, had the self-mastery thing down, but never in such harsh conditions. Never managed herself so much, so deep. Now was her chance. She could check it off her list. She had her plan. Let no one—not Rand who she had over a barrel, not Bowman, not even herself—get in her way. She held her bottle up to the kitchen light. Half empty. She gurgled the rest down the sink and, straightening her back, winched herself tall.