The River at Night(14)

He studied her briefly before answering, “It’s about access, really. People can get to the river if they hike to it, like we’re going to do tomorrow, but it’s impossible to get a raft up there without a vehicle. My dad owns a couple thousand acres. He built a private road to the river for our rafting business.” Rory poured himself the last of the wine. “Just think, this is the most remote and probably the best white-water rafting anywhere in Maine, and you’re going to be able to go home and say you were the first group to hit that water. How’s that for the watercooler Monday morning?”

“Fantastic,” Pia said. “I love being in the middle of nowhere.”

“You are in the middle of the middle of nowhere.”

“Even better!” Pia turned to him, tucking her knees up under her baggy sweater like a college girl. “I rafted on the Dead once and it was great, but I felt like I was being spoon-fed the entire time, know what I mean? Really coddled. Plus the guide was awful. He made us feel like we were just one more raftload of tourists to shuttle down the river.” She rattled on about how she hated being with strangers and how glad she was to be with us this time.

A young woman, red haired and full figured, slid in next to Rory and slipped her arm around him. She plopped a greasy paper bag down on the table. “I saved these for you in case you got in too late. So you owe me.”

Rory opened the bag and looked inside. “Awesome, brownies. Thanks, Annabeth.”

The woman pushed out her lower lip in a faux-pouty way. Popped back to her feet. She winked at us, then eyed him as she flirtily untied her apron and retied it more snugly around her waist. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

A look of melancholy passed swiftly over Pia’s face; I’m not even sure she was aware of it.

“Kinda busy right now, kiddo.”

“Ookay.” Annabeth twirled away from us. “Be that way. You know where to find me.”

He watched her walk away, then turned back to us. “Look, for now, the river is ours.”

Pia watched Rory hoover up his dessert. It was gone in three bites. “Well, I think it sounds amazing.”

“I don’t know about that,” I heard myself say.

“You’re in great hands with me, Wini,” Rory said. “I bagged it last weekend with my dad, third weekend in a row. Piece of cake.”

My face grew hot as I stared down at the wide planks of the floor.

Rory shrugged. “It’s white-water rafting. It’s got risks. You can’t have a piece of the wild and not go out in the wild. You can watch it on TV from your cozy chair, you can hear about it from your friends, but there’s nothing like actually being on a river and showing it who’s boss. Are you with me?”

I folded my arms. Felt my friends’ eyes burning into me. My God, I thought—how old do you have to be to listen to your gut? Could I really be the only one not buying into this showing--nature-who’s-boss crap? The brave, smart thing would have been to back out, gather my shit, and grab a bus home. Instead I sat all deer-in-the-headlights as my friends waited for me to say something, afraid to stay and afraid to go. I simply couldn’t open my mouth to speak.





7


Come on, guys, let’s hit the bathroom.” Pia struck out into the night without a moment’s hesitation. We followed along behind her, as if she would keep us safe.

The lights in the latrine were kept on all night, and I made a note to myself to be grateful for these small comforts. I was about to step over the lip of cement into the horrid little building when I noticed a beetle of stunning proportions crawling along the concrete floor. It must have been a couple of inches long and an inch or more wide. Rachel bumped into my back as I halted in my tracks.

“What’s up—whoa,” she said.

Pia was already washing her hands. She turned around and saw what had stopped me. “Come on, Win, don’t be a weenie. You’d better get used to stuff like that. It’s just a beetle. They don’t bite.”

Rachel laughed and stepped around me, giving the insect a wide berth. Sandra emerged from one of the bathroom stalls and started to brush her teeth, turning to discover me still outside. She rinsed out her mouth. Armed with a glass she found on the counter, she tiptoed behind the beetle and placed it over the insect. It lifted its enormous black wings and beat at the glass with a thwapping sound, its body hitting the sides with such force that it actually moved the glass a couple of inches across the floor.

I washed my face quickly and ran out of there to join the others as they traipsed down a grassy slope to the bunkerlike building at the bottom of the hill. Inside, a group of women in their twenties had taken over one side of the place, filling it up with their gear. Many had already snuggled themselves inside sleeping bags on the top, middle, and bottom bunks, reading books by flashlight or headlamp.

The corrugated-metal ceiling vaulted into darkness over our heads. A canvas tarp suspended from a metal bar separated the men’s from the women’s quarters. We claimed our bunks: lengths of hard rubber stretched between four poles, barely wide enough to lie down on without fear of falling out. Sheet-metal walls did nothing to keep cold air out; it blew in freely through the three-inch gap between them and the damp cement floor.

With a clatter of boots and gear, Pia banged her way into the building and heaved her pack onto the bunk above mine. She turned in a circle, taking it in. “This is the freaking Bellagio compared to the rest of our weekend,” she said with a laugh. At that moment, the lights were cut with a thump. I only realized how loudly they had been humming when the silence rushed in.