The Cage Keeper (17 page)

Everything is quiet. You make it up the hill to see a late-model Dodge Dart sitting on your bike, but the headlights are off and they’re facing you when they should be facing north. You don’t move. The car’s windshield is shattered. You can’t see how many people are inside.

All you hear is the trickle of oil or gas coming out of the car, or your bike, or both.

RORY JERKED AND WOKE UP. Above him, the high leaves of paper birches flittered in a breeze he didn’t feel. The sky was cloudless and had the deep blue you see when you’re up there in a plane. He heard the flowing water behind him, then the shrill cry of a bird he couldn’t name, and as soon as he heard that he knew he’d been drunk, probably still was, and that bird was shrieking it out to everyone. When he sat up, his sleeping bag fell away from him. His leather jacket was folded up on the ground where his head had been. He imagined little April taking it off and making a pillow for him. How did he get here? Vinnie? Both of them?

There was no fire left at all, just fine ash. He stood. The air was cool, almost cold. He looked east behind the tent through the trees, but couldn’t see the sun yet. It was probably six, six-thirty. The tent flap was down. He wondered about April’s fever, her flu. He started to run his fingers through his beard, but stopped when he felt the dried stickiness of it. He looked down at his boots. There wasn’t anything on them or on his pants, but his black Hideaway Lounge T-shirt was damp and stiff with puke. That meant he’d done it lying down. He could’ve suffocated out here in the mountains and left those two beauties to fend for themselves. He’d been clean all these months, on the straight and narrow, and not just because they took a piss sample down at the station, not that. And it wasn’t the Wednesday night meetings either, it was me, Rory thought.
I
liked it. I was working better, and feeling better. Even looking good again. Lost some gut. Got all the whites of my eyes back. And I swore I’d never blow blood again. Never.

He turned, yanked off his T-shirt, and walked to the stream. He pissed on a scrub pine at the water’s edge, then he lay down on his belly and drank until his gut felt tight. He untied his boots, kicked them off, and got out of his jeans and underpants. He stepped into the water and Sweet Jesus, oh Lord it was colder than last night. He put both feet in and heard the cry of the bird behind and above him. But this time its sound seemed okay. It was saying, “Go on, Rore. Cleanse thyself. We’re all behind ya, kid.”

Rory waded in to his knees. His balls shrunk and curled up into their sac. He took a deep breath and looked up at Crawford Notch. On the northern slope were two short cliffs of granite. The sun was catching them and they were almost too bright to look straight at, but they were glorious. No guts, no glory, Rory. He didn’t know if he’d just said that or thought it. It didn’t matter. He sat down cross-legged in the stream. The water was so cold it seemed to push through his flesh to his bones where it was working on breaking them. He let out three quick breaths, held it, then leaned over sideways against the current until his head and face and whole body were in it. He scrubbed his beard and kept his eyes shut. Then he opened them, and through the hazy water, he saw a twig wedged between two white rocks. But it wasn’t a twig at all; it was a black wooden cross looking right at him. Rory sat up fast and shook the water out of his hair. Every bit of him wanted to high-step it out of the stream back to his clothes, but instead, he rose slowly and walked. He squatted, rinsed his T-shirt off in the stream, then wrung it out on a flat rock in the sun. He pulled on his underwear and jeans, rolled the cuffs up to mid-shin, then glanced at the tent before he went back over the rocks in the stream to the field on the other side. He gathered broken twigs and thin branches from around the trunk of the fallen hickory. When he had an armful, he carried it back to the camp and set it quietly on the ashes. At the food pile, he picked up the three wrapped steaks. They were soft now, but they still felt cold. He laid them neatly on the pack that was still draped over the garbage barrel.

Back in the field, he hoped the kids wouldn’t wake up until he had breakfast ready. Steak, oatmeal, toast and coffee. Did they drink coffee? The branches were too thick now for him to break at their base without his boots, but with his hands, Rory was able to twist off the tips of some. It was taking a long time and he was beginning to sweat. Then came the thirst again. The Jack Daniel’s Desert. And he had to go to the stream three times before he was finished. When he finally stepped over the rocks, carrying the wood in front of him with both arms, he could see the sun above the trees of the basin. He felt good, almost giddy. He laid the wood down then went back to the stream and pulled on his boots, leaving them unlaced. His T-shirt was still damp so he put on his motorcycle jacket. Truth is, though, he wanted to stay naked. That’d felt good. So new. But what if April crawled out of her sleep and saw him bare-assed? That wasn’t right.

He ate a candy bar. There were only two left and the marshmallows were gone. That was bad, he thought. Got to cook those steaks. Rory spread candy bar wrappers over the fire’s ashes, then laid the kindling on top. He patted his jeans pocket for his lighter. He remembered giving it to Vinnie last night. He didn’t want to wake the kid up, but he didn’t want them coming out of the tent until he had breakfast ready either. He wanted them to open their eyes and noses, their very lives, to the smells of steaming oatmeal and cooking meat, hot coffee. Maybe he could go through Vinnie’s pockets without waking him up. Rory was just about to go inside the tent when he heard low voices, then saw Vinnie stick his head out the flap. His hair was messed up and he was squinting first at the stream, then at Rory. “Hi.”

“Mornin’, partner. How ’bout tossing my lighter so I can feed us.”

Vinnie looked up at Rory like he’d just been told he was pregnant with a salamander. “Don’t you remember? You whipped it into the woods.”

“When did I whip it into the woods?”

“When else?” Vinnie walked past the garbage barrel and peed. He had his wool sweater and jeans on, but was barefoot.

“Dad?” April came out of the tent. She was wearing her sneakers, jeans, and a yellow sweater with pink and blue roses on the shoulders. Her hair was hanging loose, no more braids. She looked older. “I still don’t feel good.”

“You will after we eat, hon’. Look at this
day.
”

April walked around behind the tent. Vinnie was sitting on the rock eating an Almond Joy bar, looking at Rory while he chewed.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

Rory turned to build the fire again. He remembered what Vinnie’d said about the lighter. He looked at the boy looking at him. The kid had to be right, no doubt about that. Everything in his face said so, said: You’re a fuck-up, Rory, and how you ever got me and my sister out on this camping trip, I’ll never know. You’re bad news nobody wants to hear, mister. So can we go home now or what?

“What about these steaks?”

Vinnie shrugged.

“They cost money, you know.”

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t do nothin’.”

Vinnie’s voice sounded high. Rory could hear the hurt in it. April walked back around from behind the tent.

“Wish we had some toilet paper. We should have brought some.”

“
Hey,
I’m sorry, all
right?
Do I have to do everything on this goddamned—” Rory stopped himself. It was the instant surprise in April’s face. She’d been looking at Vinnie when she said it. She wasn’t blaming anybody for anything. In fact, she looked like she was scolding herself. Now she looked like she might cry.

“I’m sorry, sweets. I don’t mean to yell. God, I don’t mean to do anything bad. I just wanted to make us a hot breakfast and now I can’t ’cause a my own foolishness.”

“Yeah,” Vinnie said, “but you were sad ’cause Mom gave you that and now you’re going to jail ’cause she cheated on you.”

Rory wanted to answer right away but felt he might gush some if he did. April sat on the ground, opened the peanut butter, and stuck her finger inside.

“Thanks, Vin. I appreciate what you’re saying. It means a lot to me. It does. But I’m not going to prison because of your mom. I’m going because of me.”

April opened the bread, took out six slices, and started to make sandwiches. Vinnie leaned back against the tree, his eyes on Rory’s.

“See, a judge makes me go to these meetings every Wednesday night.”

“We know. AA.”

“Alcoholics Amonymous.”

“Right, amonymous. Anyway, these people have a sayin’ for what I did last night. They call it a slip. But I want you two to know somethin’. I didn’t slip, I planned to drink last night. I won’t see you kids for a long time, or if I do, it’ll be in a shitty little visiting room. And I haven’t had a drop since last summer. Almost a whole year. So I gave myself a treat.”

“Like when you and Mom used to take us to Friendly’s for chocolate banana boats?” April held a peanut butter sandwich out to him.

“Yeah, like that.” Rory took it. He started to take a bite, but its oily nut smell made him feel queasy. Vinnie was halfway through his when he said with a full mouth: “Doug doesn’t drink at all.”

“What’s that, Vin? I didn’t hear.”

Vinnie swallowed and took another bite. “I said, Doug never drinks.”

“
Jesus,
one more word about that asshole from you and I swear to Christ I’m gonna smack ya right here.”

What was happening now seemed to Rory dreamlike, not real, not going on at all. Vinnie threw his sandwich down and ran into the tent. Rory heard first one sleeping bag being zipped, then the other. He cocked his head to the side so that he could hear better. April was quiet and Rory did not look down at her.

Vinnie came out of the tent on his knees. He had a rolled sleeping bag beneath each arm. His pack was strapped onto him and he had put on his shoes.

“What’s up?” Rory felt nothing as he said it. The words seemed to come out of him only like something he almost forgot to say. He was breathing real easy, and for a second he saw himself taking a naked nap in the sun.

Vinnie bent over and grabbed April’s arm. “Come on, we’re thumbin’ home.”

April jerked away and stood up fast. She looked from her brother to Rory.

Rory stared back. Her face was pale and completely unmoving. Her lips were parted somewhere between confusion and disbelief. What did she want him to do? Tie Vinnie to a tree? She kept her eyes on Rory and he said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing to do. Nothing. You do what you can, then you die. Period.

“Come on, April. I’m goin’.”

Vinnie’s words were the rock in the still lake of her face. She was crying. Loud and all at once. Red face. Wet cheeks. Snot in her nose, her eyes still on Rory. He watched her for a second, maybe two, then, whatever had been just not-happening was happening now, was real, and was real goddamned serious. He stepped toward her to hug her, but she backed away shaking her head and crying even louder, looking from Rory to Vinnie and back again. “I hate it. You’re so stupid. You’re both so
stupid.
”

She turned and ran up the trail, her blond hair bouncing, the green soles of her pink sneakers showing themselves, then hitting the ground, then showing themselves. Vinnie was walking after her with a sleeping bag beneath each arm, looking straight ahead, his pack secure, his head up.

Well that’s that, Rory thought. That’s fucking that. Beautiful. Wonderful. A great weekend was had by all. G’bye, Daddy. We love you. We’ll miss you. Hope you don’t get too lonesome in jail. Hope nobody tries to hurt you in there. We’ll write you letters every day and send you pictures we draw and homework we get A’s on and cookies, if you want. There’s nobody like you, Daddy, nobody in the whole world. Really.

Rory started for the stream, stopped, started for the tent, stopped. He sat on the rock near the garbage barrel and leaned back against the tree. He glanced down at the open Wonder Bread loaf and the peanut butter jar, the oatmeal box, the instant coffee, the full mustard jar and brick of cheese, April’s untouched sandwich. Vinnie’s strapless canteen. A seven-mile hike under the sun without water. Wonderful. Good work, Rory. Cohen gives him a new canteen and you carve it up. Alene gives you something that should’ve lasted forever, and you whip it into the woods. Little April makes you a sandwich and you don’t eat it. There was something else with her too. Then he remembered her flashlight, throwing it out over the birches wishing for it to land on Vinnie’s head. Nice. Real nice. And there was that too; the boy must have a bump on the back of his head the size of a plumb bob. Rory looked across the clearing at the tree Vinnie’d fallen against. He remembered how young and pudgy, how so scared the boy had looked as he flailed his arms on the way down and got hurt anyway.

Rory squeezed his eyes shut. He held his breath too. His heart had picked up the tempo in its fast but uneven hungover dance, like it wanted to get the day over with because it was both ashamed and weakened by the quality of blood it was given to pump out to the rest of the body. Rory opened his eyes and saw the other Coors on the ground next to the aluminum pot. He picked up the beer, opened it, and took a long drink. It wasn’t cold, it was cool, and Rory thought it’d be better if it was hot. A hot beer. That would be better punishment. ’Cause that is what I’m doing, he thought. I am punishing myself. Cleanse thyself with poison, somebody said. Who was it? Rory couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. None of these bullshit slogans mattered: One Day at a Time, Live and Let Live, Easy Does It, Let Go and Let God. Well, maybe there was something to that one, he thought. Maybe the Big Guy knows when to put you in the slammer before it’s too late. Rory smiled at this picture in his head of God, looking like Jesus but fatter, with long robes and a beard, his hands cupped to his mouth shouting down to earth, “Hey Enfield! Last call for alcohol! You don’t have to go home but you
can’t stay here.
”

And he’s right too, Rory thought as he finished the Coors and tossed it in the direction of the garbage barrel, watched it bounce off the wrapped steaks and hit the ground. I can’t stay here and I’m not gonna let Vinnie and April walk seven miles without cold water either. Forget that one. It won’t happen. Rory Enfield, Jr., may be a lush, but he’s not a ratbastard. And he doesn’t litter either. He picked up the can and dropped it into the barrel. He set the steaks on the ground, carried his empty pack to the food pile, squatted, and put the jar of instant coffee inside, then he stopped and took it out. What am I doing? he thought. This shit’ll weigh a ton; it’s going in the garbage. Then came another voice: Garbage? This ain’t garbage. Mick and Marie drink instant. They like cheese too. And mustard. They won’t touch the oatmeal, but give it to Alene and the kids. And Doug. Yes, him too. Try leaving a trail of goodness, Rory. See what that’s like. And be grateful, man. Yes, he thought. I’ve got to make up a gratitude list right now. He sat back against his calves and closed his eyes. I thank my Higher Power for the following: