The River (7 page)

9

At least now I had a place, but no identity. Curiouser and curiouser. No one ever went on the sun porch. People couldn’t have avoided it more if it were haunted, which was definitely not part of the remodel.

The idea, when we remodeled, was to screen in the existing veranda and make it a place where guests could go to appreciate nature without drowning in it. That was the theory, anyway. There was wicker furniture all around, low shelves stocked with ancient Nancy Drews, and an antique Monopoly set, complete with real silver shoe and cannon.

Alas, we’d neglected to insulate, so it wasn’t long before rot and mold worked their way into everything. The ceiling was sprouting black spots that looked like melanomas, the banana slugs oozed in from who knew what crevices, and the smell was atrocious, like rotting fish guts. And no surprise, since guests went there only long enough to strip off their waders or gut their bullhead catfish.

Who could be waiting for me on the sun porch?

I crept up on the threshold and peered inside. I only caught a backpack slung casually over a shoulder, the top of a chestnut-colored head of hair, and I knew.

Oh no
,
not him
. Dread closed in on me quickly, like mold. Good Brad had been warning me about my hair for a reason.

The boy in the sunroom was Keith Spady, my chem partner, who had a very distinctive top of the head. He was the only guy in town with a faux hawk, and he wore it well.

I hung back, peering around the threshold, and took him in. He was examining a sepia picture casually, as though perusing something at a gallery opening. His scratchy army-green Eisenhower jacket was wet, and his Doc Martens were caked with mud.

I had thought, after this morning, that I’d lost my ability to be excited by anything, but seeing Keith Spady on the sun porch sent shivers all over my body, and I liked the feeling. He was braving the smell to see me. As far as I was concerned, that made him a hero.

Once, a while ago, I tried to decide if I was in love with him because he was the only hip guy in town, or if I still would’ve been in love with him in Portland, a city lousy with boys like that, who listened to the Clash and the Ramones and worshipped Kurt Cobain. I decided I would’ve liked him anyway because a) he wasn’t ashamed of being smart—brilliant at science and math; and b) he had this incredibly enticing tuft of chest hair. It always curled over his T-shirts or plaid button-downs which, on him, looked more grunge than yokel. I couldn’t see that tuft without wanting to curl my fingers through it and yank him closer.

He looked up and saw me skulking. “Oh, hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I said, embarrassed to be caught staring. I tried to recover. “Monster cookie?” I offered, still holding the tray.

He shook his head. “I can’t stay. I just heard what happened this morning. I brought you these.”

He handed me a bunch of purple flowers. Lupine. Just like the ones from Karen’s mud pies.

“Oh man,” he said, pointing to my apron, where blooms just like it were poking out.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I can always take more.” I put the tray down and took the bouquet from him. “Thanks. I didn’t think these were in bloom yet.”

Keith shrugged. “You have to know where to look.”

Another explorer. Like Karen.

No. Not like Karen. But still, I wondered if maybe in some weird way, he was here because I deserved him after what I’d been through today. Maybe Keith was my reward for enduring.

I brought the blooms up to my nose.

“They don’t smell like anything,” he said.

But they did. They smelled fresh, like rain and growth and something more subtle—the promise of spring, maybe? I buried my nose deeper. Not promise; hope. They smelled like hope.

And I could tell, even without bringing the other blooms up to my nose, that they smelled different. Those smelled like courage.

I took in his saturated Eisenhower jacket and muddy Doc Martens.

“You didn’t walk all the way here to give me these, did you?” I said. Keith and his mom and stepdad had a hacienda-type house on a hilltop behind the ranger station. They had horses and one picture-perfect golden retriever. So even though Keith’s stepdad owned Phil’s Tiki Hut, the skankiest bar in the Cascade Range, the LaMarrs lived like country squires. Keith’s mom wore bolo ties and expensive belted cardigans made from Navajo blankets, though she definitely wasn’t Navajo.

“Nah, I was up here anyway looking for pinecones,” he said.

“Pinecones,” I repeated.

He peeled off his heavy-looking backpack and unzipped the top. It was full of pinecones, all right. Giant, Ponderosa-sized with lethal-looking points. “Ahhhh…,” I said, understanding. I’d forgotten that Keith’s mom made “found art” that she sold at the Victorian Cottage on Highway 22. She slapped googly eyes on the cones and put them in various outfits and poses: pinecone with a fishing rod, pinecone on a toilet, pinecone at the dentist. I didn’t think that was art, but the asking price was fifty bucks apiece.

“That’s great you help your mother like that,” I said. And I meant it. I loved that he dressed tough but was considerate of the women in his life. And smelling the flowers he’d brought made me want to be one of those women.

He finally seemed to notice my red eyes and runny nose. Otherwise, why would he have bolted like that? He quickly zipped up his pack. “Gotta run. See you in school!” He took off through the back door, sprinting around the side of the inn like a mule deer, leaving me wondering at what he might’ve said if I had had straight hair or bigger breasts or more makeup or not been wearing this formless khaki uniform and aerobic-looking shoes.

Instead I was left with another retreating back; another closed door.

I was still standing there when Sheriff McGarry came out to join me, collapsing on the wicker rocker, which listed heavily under her weight. Another thing rotting from the inside. She looked at the lupine in my hand. “Those from your boyfriend?”

I’d forgotten I was holding them. I stuck them in another apron pocket, one far away from Karen’s blooms.

I looked up and caught her gazing out the window. She looked tired, the way Mom had that day Dad broke down, and every day since when she thought no one was looking.

“Monster cookie?” I offered.

She shook her head slowly. “Have a seat, Ronnie.”

I did, and the sofa groaned under me.

She leaned forward and steepled her fingers together. She did not have a notepad, or a deputy who was scribbling for her.

“How often do you run alone?”

“Every Saturday,” I said.

“Do you have a running buddy? Someone to go with you?”

“Not unless you count the dog pack,” I said slowly.

She picked something off her lip. “Oh yeah. I forgot about them. Still, maybe you should take someone big with you. How about Tomás? Would he tag along?”

“He’s training for the playoffs,” I said. “Coach told him not to work the slow twitch muscles. Listen, what’s going on?” I asked. “Why are you asking me?”

She didn’t say anything.

And then I knew. In that one, unguarded moment, I could see in her face what had made her so tired.

She didn’t think Karen’s drowning was just an accident. And now I could see it, too. Someone had made a trapdoor of Karen’s hair, and then forced her head under the current and watched her drown.

“Oh my God,” I said, puky again. Who could have done such a thing? To
Karen
? And I understood in that moment why people needed to create monsters, vampires and werewolves and sasquatches. It was easier to believe in them than someone with a human face bashing in the head of a little girl.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Ronnie. We won’t know until the coroner’s report comes back. But I wanted to put you on your guard. If you have to go out and you can’t find a running buddy, it’s probably a good idea to carry something.”

“You mean like my cell?” I said.

She shook her head. “Do you know how to use pepper spray?” She ferreted around her belt and dug something out. A leather pouch that looked like a rustic lipstick holder.

She popped the cap. “Here,” she said, tossing it to me. “When you’re running, leave it unbuttoned like that. And keep it somewhere handy.”

I caught it and examined it. “It looks like Bahama Blast,” I said, because that was the first thing my mind fixed on. Pathetic. My only point of reference for a weapon was something you could buy at the Clinique counter.

“Don’t point it at your mouth,” she said. Then she wagged her finger at me. “And don’t be a wuss now, Ronnie. If something happens, use it. Aim straight for the eyes. Don’t be a girl and hold back ’cause you’re afraid to hurt someone. You use it, and then you
run
. Do you understand? I
know
you can run.”

I just nodded dumbly, but she wasn’t done with her lecture. “I mean it. Be careful out there. You think this is just a nice little town where people help each other. There’s an undercurrent here, Ronnie. You don’t know what goes on.”

I shivered where I sat. I thought I heard the river wail
monster monster monster
….

“What’s happening?” I said, more to myself than Sheriff McGarry.

She sighed, adjusted her polyester pants, and stood up. “I wish I knew,” she said. “Now I have to face that poor family. Jesus.” I watched as she adjusted her face. All the weariness slid out, and she was once again perfectly poised and composed. She had a job to do.

She walked away and paused at the door. Then, without looking back at me, she said, “For what it’s worth, keep an eye on your friend Gretchen. She’s on the brink of something, but maybe she can still be pulled back.”

I thought of Gretchen passed out on my bed upstairs, scratching in her sleep. What was Sheriff McGarry worried about? Allergies? Overwork?

I wanted to ask her. I wanted to do anything to keep her here with me, because she seemed the only adult who could help me thread my way through this new and nightmarish wilderness.

Instead I let her walk away. She had more important things to do, and the only way I could help was, as usual, letting go and not making a fuss.

I leaned on the door and watched her leave. She stood straight and refused a) crostini, b) crab cakes, and c) gigantic squares of warm corn bread oozing sweet, tart huckleberry preserves. I thought: so much for the cop/donut stereotype. No comfort food for her.

And watching the back of her, stately, responsible, was what finally pulled me out of myself.

Maybe, I thought, the job wasn’t damaging her. Maybe it was what was keeping her upright. While the rest of us stood back and offered each other baked goods and flowers and hair advice because we didn’t know how to help in any other way,
she
actually had the ability to do something.

I got up off my butt and threw open the door of the sun porch.

I didn’t know if Karen’s accident had happened up here or somewhere else. I didn’t know if it had been “straightforward,” or something I still didn’t want to face. But for Karen I would face it.
Look
,
Ronnie
.
Just look
.

The rain hadn’t stopped. Baguette-size patches of snow remained along the yard on the way to the water. Once there, I stood at the top of the embankment, our embankment, which was tamer than the spot I’d found Karen. There were seven smooth river stones forming a stair down to the current. At the foot of them, more stones had been re-arranged to create a gentle pool apart from the rapids. An ancient cedar leaned out, its branches practically begging for a rope swing.

Too gentle
, said the voice in my head. Even though I hated everything about the inn, including this yard, it still felt safe.

At Patchworks, a monster was just a big cookie.

I looked across the river, up the river. There were miles and miles of trees that held miles and miles of secrets. The idea of what they might hide scared the bejesus out of me.

Slowly, for Karen’s sake, still wearing my white apron and button-down shirt, I turned upstream and began to walk.