The River at Night(37)

We stared and stared, but the river answered us with nothing. No Disney-bright raft with cheerful yellow ropes and not-found-in-nature-blue D rings, just its own earth colors of water, tree, rock, and darkening sky. Everything was wild and involved with itself, I could see that now. It hit me full force, bodily. A breeze with the lush taste of night lifted up from the river as a deep trepidation like some thick, furred beast turned in my bowel. Nothing cared that we were here. The spruce that hulked and swayed over the river had no thought of the latest movie or book, of the lights of Boston at night, of the cheerful cafés filled with laughing students. The water in all its forms forever falling dismissed Pia’s bucket list; Rachel’s fierceness and sobriety; Sandra’s momentous marital exit plan; my dead brother and loneliness, my wish for the bravery to change my own life. It just didn’t give a rat’s ass.

Sandra turned and looked down at us where we cowered on the bank. “I can’t believe this. It was there ten minutes ago. Up against those rocks.”

“I saw it too,” I said, a silvery chill snaking down my spine.

“It probably washed down and got caught on something else.” Rachel climbed up onto the ledge and stood next to Sandra. “Let’s go find it.”

“What about Pia?”

“We’ll take ten minutes and look for it. Bring it back or tie it up somewhere. She’ll be fine.”





22


The forest that lined the river was impenetrable, so we had to make our way along the bank. Snarled root systems and tangled brush forced us down into the river itself. Clinging to or hanging from the odd root or branch, up to our waists in surging water, our pace turned pitifully slow. All we had was what we wore: nylon shorts, polyester wicking T-shirts, life vests, our helmets, and water shoes, which felt like thin rubber slippers. Every nugget of root, stick, or sharp stone hobbled me, and always the cold, cold water. Branches slapped back at us at every turn. It felt like someone was slowly, continuously beating us up.

Fifteen, twenty minutes passed, and we’d barely rounded the next bend. I was freezing and starving and ashamed to be hungry when someone had just died. More than anything else, I couldn’t let myself think about what would happen if we couldn’t find the raft.

“Sandra!” Rachel called from behind me. “Stop a second!”

I turned, nursing the dear thought that Rachel had seen something like the raft.

She clung to a sapling rooted in the mossy bank, squinting through her one good lens.

“We have to go back. We’re losing our daylight.”

? ? ?

Pia’s lanky silhouette blocked a piece of the lowering sun where she stood on the ledge. We had maybe an hour of light, tops. The three of us fought our way to the narrow strip of beach near the accident.

Pia jumped down from the rock and joined us there.

“What do you mean you didn’t find it?” She crossed her arms hard over her vest.

“It’s a total bitch going downriver.” Rachel took off her shoes with a squelch and drained the water from them. “It’s probably around the next bend, but we had to get back before dark.”

Mosquitoes swarmed our bodies as if they’d eat us to the bone.

“Well, thanks for coming back to get me,” Pia said possibly sarcastically.

“My God,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

Sandra squatted on the sand and held her head in her hands, crying softly into them.

“We’re not going to panic,” Rachel said, a barely detectable quiver in her voice. “That’s not going to get us anywhere.”

Pia gazed at the water. “The raft has everything we need.”

“Food,” Sandra mumbled from under her helmet. “Water, tents, cell phones, GPS, maps—”

“Rory’s gun—” I said.

“Jesus Christ, I know, okay?” Rachel undid the strap on her helmet and threw it on the wet sand. “Let’s just think.”

“What are we going to do about Rory?” Pia said.

Rachel glared at her and whispered hotly, “Rory is in a better place than we are right now.”

Tears ran fast down Pia’s face but she didn’t seem conscious of them. “We fucked, okay? When are you going to get over it?”

Sandra started to rock in place.

Rachel visibly rearranged her face into a semblance of calm. “Maybe I didn’t say it very nicely, Pia, but think about it for a sec, okay? Finding the raft is our first priority.”

Pia looked down, then met Rachel’s eye. “We’re going to take him with us.”

“You mean what, carry him somewhere? Where?” Rachel turned a half circle in the tumbling green. “We don’t even know where we are!”

“I think the raft is close by,” I said stupidly. “Chances are we’ll find it in the morning, no problem.”

“And when we do, we’ll take him with us,” Pia said. Behind her, a gaunt cormorant on a dead branch fluffed out its sooty wings to dry.

“You’re not thinking straight, Pia,” Rachel said. I had a flash of Rachel singing and stumbling down Cambridge streets in her days of margaritas and Harvey Wallbangers, protesting loudly as Pia wrestled the car keys from her while simultaneously deflecting Rachel’s often vicious in vino veritas verbal attacks. Rachel’s sobriety intervened, but I couldn’t help wondering if Pia’s hurt ever really went away. “We can’t strap two hundred pounds of dead guy to an overloaded raft we don’t even know how to steer ourselves down thirty more miles of rapids or whatever the hell is in front of us.”