The Serpent's Bite (10 page)

“I should hope not,” Courtney said.

“You have to make the best of what time is left,” their father said, lifting his gaze and looking into the darkening distance. It was clear that he was holding something back.

“No one special?” Courtney asked, relentless now.

Their father shrugged, avoiding eye contact. He sipped his wine, then lowered his eyes again, and looked into the fire.

“I do see someone,” he admitted.

Courtney shot an I-told-you-so glance at Scott. They waited for their father to continue. Neither he nor Courtney intruded on his reverie. Did he take them all the way to Yellowstone to make that statement, Scott wondered? More here than meets
the obvious, he thought. Was this admission the purpose of this wilderness exercise?

In the silence they could hear Tomas washing the metal plates, which apparently interrupted their father's silence and drew his attention to the sound.

“I'm not happy with Harry's treatment of Tomas,” he said, deflecting any further explanation of his private life.

“He's right about one thing,” Scott observed, becoming a sudden ally to his father's privacy. “He works his ass off.”

“Probably scared to death that Harry will turn him in to immigration,” their father said. “I'm sure he pays him peanuts.”

“Let's not get involved in his labor practices,” Courtney said. “Not our business.” She waited for a moment and posed the other subject of the conversation. “So tell us about this person you're seeing, Dad?”

“Believe me, children. It wasn't part of the deal with Harry. We did talk about two people. That's what I paid for.”

“Don't think about it,” Courtney said impatiently, bent on further interrogation.

Their father shook his head in disgust.

“I'd suggest you don't raise that issue again, Dad,” Scott interjected. “We're in Harry's hands. No sense getting him pissed off.”

“I suppose,” their father sighed, again repeating the obvious. “Harry sure has changed since last time.”

“Twenty-odd years make a difference,” Scott muttered. He shot a glance at Courtney, who nodded her understanding. He's not ready for revelation yet, his gaze warned.

“Stinks like a brewery,” Courtney said, looking toward Harry's tent. “He's not very sociable either. Not like last time. If I recall, he was gregarious, funny, and full of information.”

“Maybe he's bored doing this over and over again. Who knows? He sure is not the same guy.”

“He does know his wilderness. We can't dispute that,” their father said.

“Maybe he just wants to give us privacy,” Scott said, looking for justification of Harry's conduct.

“Or he prefers only the company of John Barleycorn,” Courtney snapped.

“Life does bash people around,” their father said. “Who knows what this kind of life does to people. He never told us much about himself. And that girlfriend on the first trek…they seemed quite happy together.

“People change, Dad,” Scott said, not knowing what else to say.

“Maybe,” their father replied. “I incline toward the opposite. I think people deep inside stay the same.” He yawned suddenly and covered his mouth.

“Like your new lady?” Courtney asked cautiously, returning to the subject of her chief interest. “Just who is this someone?”

Their father was slow in responding, obviously reluctant to answer. Scott felt a sudden surge of resentment and admonished himself for the feeling. His long association with shrinks suggested an explanation. Poor guy thinks he is betraying his children by choosing a replacement for their mother.

Fucking shrinks, he thought. They overanalyzed with textbook bullshit. He had opted for the talking cure before surrendering to Big Pharma. Still, nothing could erase the old
scars. Nothing. The truth is, if they were loving children, they should be happy for the old man.

He stole a glance at his sister. She was clearly pissed off.

“Why be so damned secretive, Dad? You might as well tell us.”

They waited through a long pause. Finally, but with obvious reluctance, he spoke.

“A woman with our accounting firm. A widow.”

“Great, Dad,” Scott said, casting a pained glance at his sister.

“Older, younger?” Courtney snapped, like a lawyer interrogating a witness.

“Late forties.”

“Robbing the cradle,” Scott said, hoping to put a lighter spin on the conversation.

“Children?” Courtney pressed.

“Two. All grown.”

His reluctance to say more was palpable. But Courtney was relentless.

“Is she attractive?”

“I think so.”

“Does she have her own place?”

“Lives in Brooklyn.”

“Does she stay over?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Twice, three times. We spend weekends together.”

“Nosey little bugger,” Scott said, opening another carton of red wine. He refilled their cups.

“Keep this up, we'll run out before the trip is over,” their father said.

“So this is serious?” Courtney asked.

“I don't see anyone else,” their father said. He was obviously being remarkably patient, letting it happen, doling it out. He seemed uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed by the revelation, but he did not balk at her questions.

“Are you contemplating a more permanent arrangement?” Courtney asked.

“We've talked about it.”

“Is she, you know, independent? Comfortable?”

“She's a working woman. I told you an accountant with the firm I use.”

“So she knows your situation?”

“Of course, she does. She handles my books.”

“And you've talked about marriage?”

“I just told you. We've talked about it.” He grew pensive for a moment. “Does it disturb you?”

Courtney turned to Scott. She seemed suddenly confused about how to reply.

“No…not really…I was just curious,” Courtney said, faltering.

“We're happy for you, Dad,” Scott said, determining that he had better intervene. “Your happiness is very important to both of us. Isn't that so, Courtney?”

“Of course.”

Their father nodded, turned away, and forced a smile.

“It's your life, Dad. Anything that lightens the load. Not fun being lonely.”

Scott's thoughts drifted away. It was one subject he could never confront honestly.

“I loved your mother with all my heart. She is not replaceable by anyone. Muriel understands that.”

“Muriel. Is that her name?”

“Yes. And she's a lovely woman. And very smart, very intelligent.”

“I'm sure,” Courtney said. There was no mistaking the sarcasm.

“Nice to have someone that cares about you,” Scott said, hoping his father hadn't caught his sister's intent.

“That's what I meant, Dad,” Courtney said, shooting a rebuking glance at her brother.

At that moment, their father stood up.

“Got to see a man about a dog,” he said, moving beyond the light of the fire into the darkness. They could hear the sound of his stream.

“We got trouble, brother mine,” Courtney whispered, showing her anxiety. “Younger wife. Working woman. Grown children.”

They heard Tomas returning from his dishwashing chores.

“That was a good meal, Tomas,” their father said, returning, zipping up his fly.

“Gracias,”
Tomas mumbled without emotion.

Temple stretched and yawned.

“Off to dreamland,” he said, starting to go then stopping.

“I have a question, Tomas.”

“Si.”

“Harry's drinking,” he asked. “Could it, you know, be a problem?”

“He be fine, Señor,” Tomas muttered, puttering with his equipment.

Their father nodded, then blew kisses, and said goodnight. They blew kisses back, and when he crawled into his tent, they moved into the darkness out of earshot of Tomas, who had begun hauling leftover food up the meat pole.

“We got problems, kiddo,” Courtney whispered showing her anger.

“Be happy for him, Courtney. He's entitled to a life.”

“At our expense?”

“Above all, he's not stupid. I'm sure he's worked out a prenup.”

“Don't be naive. An accountant, yet! You watch. He's vulnerable as shit. And she's got her own kids!”

“You're jumping to conclusions.”

“Am I? Think of the pillow talk. Imagine the conversation. ‘My kids are a couple of losers, always pushing for money. Pushing, pushing. That's all they think about.' And her reply:…‘They don't give a shit about you. Zip up the moneybag and cut them down.' Meaning save some for me and my kids.”

“You sound like you're reading a script from a lousy movie. You don't know the woman, and you don't know the facts.”

“True. But that doesn't mean my speculation is wrongheaded.”

“You are one mercenary bitch, Courtney,” Scott said.

“And you, little bro,…what are you?”

“I know what I am,” Scott said, with a sense of sad resignation. His eyes met his sister's. “And I know why.”

“Shit. Not that again.”

She turned away in disgust.

They remained silent for a long time, listening to the night sounds, the rustle of the nearby quaking aspens, the distant whine of the coyotes, the grunts of the grazing horses and mules.

Above was an incredible canopy of stars, an otherworldly display in the moonless night. He could see the reflection of the stars, like pinpoints of light in his sister's eyes.

“We've got to do something,” Courtney said.

He felt a sudden chill run through him as he caught the subtext of her remark. Despite the chill, he began to sweat. Rivulets streamed down his back.

“Whatever is going through your mind,” he said, his lips quivering, “I don't want to hear it.”

“It's your fucking future, Scott.”

She moved away into the darkness. He could hear the patter of her stream. It reminded him of his own need. He did it where he stood.

Then they moved back in the direction of their tents. Suddenly in the near distance, he heard movement, horse sounds. By the light of the moon, they turned toward the path to the meadow where the horses were hobbled. They saw Tomas mounted, moving into the wilderness, a mule in tow.

“I guess he's off to pick up the load left behind in the tree,” Scott said.

“Dumb bastard,” Courtney said. “Working his ass off for that drunken son of a bitch.”

Before she slipped into her tent, she stopped and moved closer to Scott.

“Think about it, Scott.”

“Think about what?” It was a knee-jerk reaction.

“Dilution, Scottie baby. Dilution.”

G
eorge Temple lay in fetal comfort in the warmth of his sleeping bag, his nostrils tickled by the cool night air. He felt satisfied and proud by the way he had weathered the day. The altitude had not made him dizzy, and he was certain that it indicated his blood pressure remained under control, and he had his trusty pills secure in his toilet kit.

He had been concerned that his aging body might not hold up. He was eleven years beyond the outfitter's age requirements, but he had rigorously prepared himself for the journey with treadmill workouts, and weight lifting and stretching exercises under the tutelage of a trainer. Sure, he needed help to get into the saddle, but others a lot younger probably needed similar assistance. Scott, too, although he had eschewed help, was certainly unsteady mounting. He complained of his knees aching when he rode, and when he dismounted he limped for a while.

Nevertheless, Temple was exhausted from the long trip but oddly content. His mind filled with reminiscences of his early life with Bea and the kids. What they did not realize was that he saw them more in retrospect, as children growing up in their home, than in the present reality.

He could remember each of their tiny faces behind the nursery glass: Courtney bound in her pink blanket, then a couple of years later Scott in his blue one. Beside him was Bea in this mental image, his arm embracing her as they viewed
what they had created: miraculous combinations of themselves, representing their mutual hopes and aspirations, their future.

Few events in their lives were more compelling and poignant. Their hearts swelled with love, joy, and wonder. Was it possible to convey to these grown children now what they had felt? Inducing the tiniest smile in their little faces was the greatest reward one could imagine for young parents. No sense of joy was ever comparable.

Wasn't parenthood a gift, the ultimate fulfillment of the married state? Nothing on earth, despite anger, disappointment, and broken dreams could break that natural bond. He had learned that lesson the hard way. His children had not turned out the way he would have liked, the way he and Bea had envisioned their futures.