Our two-rut detour wrapped itself along the canyon wall, above a little stream.
The Lost Planet
. After twenty minutes up the rocky road, the canyon broke and opened on a small lake. When Will stopped the car in a thin aspen grove at the lake’s edge, Louisa asked, “What is
this?
”
“This is a nice place. We’ve gone far enough for today.” And Will got out of the ticking car.
When Louisa slammed her car door and stood in the new landscape, four deer splashed out of the far side of the lake and stepped up the grassy slope into the pines.
“What the hell is this place? Those are wild animals!”
“This is where the bear lives, Louisa,” I said. “These are the woods. Want to make some inquiries?” She was staying pretty close to the car.
Will was testing the water. He came back shaking the water from his hands and saying, “Oh, this is a nice place. I’m glad we came. We’ll see a hundred deer later on.”
Louisa said, “Camping, right? This is just camping. I can do this.” She jumped back onto the Chevy’s front fender. “I can camp.”
The afternoon was divided between a brief woodgathering session and the diving lesson, which I hesitate going into. Briefly, it was decided that I, despite the condition of my nose, needed to learn how to dive into a cold body of water, and, as an amateur in what is normally called experience, I agreed.
First, there was this thin ruse. Will, stripping his skinny self, swam out in his shorts to mid-lake, waved, and swam in, arriving somewhat rosier than before. He announced, “Wonderful! Just right! The last day of swimming up here.” He rubbed his face with a towel. “Well,” he said to me, “quick, get in!” Like any cheap trick, it worked. I mean, his face looked so good, bright and sharp, alive, how could we possibly know that his euphoria was the result of surviving the ice.
I ditched my pants behind a tree and ran into the 32-1/2-degree water. I can only describe the shock as being massive; that I could still swim in such cold stuff was a miracle. I committed six strokes out, and coming to my senses, turned and swam right back to shore.
Then for a while, there was the shivering question of whether or not it was colder in or out, but before that debate was settled to my body’s satisfaction, Will began the diving lesson, and I was sunk.
He had me on an outcropping of rock, or near it, and was saying, “Your body follows your hands in a good dive.” For some reason, known only to older men speaking to younger men who are freezing, he was laughing. “Your body follows your hands.”
“It hasn’t so far,” I said.
“Do it!” he said.
“Just lean forward until you are off balance.”
I did three false takes, hands up like a skinny Buddha, and then stepped back. I was much better at leaping before I looked, I realized; and I sat on the rock waiting for my gumption to come back from Antarctica.
Meanwhile, Louisa had undressed in the car, and I watched her run into the water. I was not able to match Will’s casualness about Louisa undressing. I was not casual in the least part. I tried and I could not be casual. They can say that a girl’s underwear is just the same as a bathing suit, but to whom? I really want to know. Not to me. They are not the same thing at all. My imagination is limited in this regard. When Louisa came out of the car, I gasped. There is a girl in her underwear. Women on earth, I thought, granting myself a generous look at Louisa. Women in bodies, swimming on earth.
Then, speaking of gumption or something related to it, Louisa came over and walked out onto the rock ahead of me, her wet cotton underpants adhering everywhere, and she slipped into the water in the world’s first splashless dive and emerged smiling, flesh in a lake.
So I stepped up quickly before she or anybody else could see that I was getting hard despite the crippling cold. I leaned into the air, until I was “committed,” and, though I forgot to push with my feet, I fell and broke the water magnificently (I thought). On my closed eyes under the ice, I could see hot circles, a silver girl on a wire in a circle of light riding the sky. Somehow, later, I came up.
“Good!” Will said. The water felt thick, viscous in its cold.
Louisa was out sitting in a blanket.
“Now, again.”
“No, not again.”
“Want to learn or not,” Will went on. “If you quit now, you’ll be a beginner every time you step on a board.”
The short story of it has me doing eleven more dives, numb to the cold, as the advice slowly—so slowly—became acclaim. My final dive was a tribute to the stiletto, and though I was underwater when it occurred, I’m sure the splash was but a tender ripple.
Will had a fire going in a ring of stones, so the icebergs among us could thaw, and I will admit now that toward twilight, which came early in those mountains, all the empirical evidence improved sharply. My skin felt sized by the water, tight, quick to the fabric of my dry clothing. Will pointed out the
wild animals
(deer) as they loitered in the near dark on the far hill. Finally, with no grudge, I thanked Will for the lesson.
“It’s only too bad we didn’t have poles and line; I could teach you how to fish.”
“We’d need whiskey and frogs for that,” Louisa said.
Full dark brought the white posts of the aspens closer to the fire. They rose and fell in the light. I was enjoying being sunned by the fire, though I did check my face every so often, counting my eyebrows by hand.
“I can do this. This is our camp, right?” Louisa said.
And, in fact, I was just settling down to camping with a relish only the oversheltered can bring to it, then Will said, “Listen.”
We listened, but all I could hear was something like a distant trickling.
“What is it?” I asked after five seconds.
I still couldn’t hear anything, but Will said, “Somebody’s coming … That’s odd.” And soon, even I could hear a rumbling and see headlights darting off the canyon below. It was an old International pickup.
It pulled behind our car and stopped cockeyed on the road. Three people got out of the cab. In the weak light I thought we were hosting three Elvis imitators, but when they came closer I could see they were much too ragtag for such ambitions.
“Howdy,” Will said, getting up.
They looked us over three times.
“What can I do for you?” Will asked again.
“This is my land,” one said.
“And what’s your name?” Will said half friendly, half in challenge.
“Oster.”
“This is not your land.”
“We seen your out of state plates, Arizona,” Oster said.
“And?”
“And we come round.” His logic was dizzying.
“Yes?” Will wasn’t giving a bit.
Another of the trio said, “We seen you swimming.” This statement seemed to carry some significance, since they all shifted weight. “We seen you swimming in our lake,” he went on.
“Look,” Will said. “You live around here?”
“Right here,” Oster came back. “This here’s our lake.”
“If you live around here I’d look out.” Will was getting taller. “Now this lake, none of it is yours. And I think you boys ought to go home before you say something you’d be ashamed to have your mothers hear about.”
The three boy-men laughed. Uneasily.
A guy in the back, who hadn’t spoken, said, “We seen you swimming.” He was looking at Louisa.
“Go home, fellas,” Will said.
“Naw, we ain’t goin’ home.”
Will sighed and set his hands on his belt. Without turning he said to us, “Get in the car.” Louisa was already inside, rolling up the windows. I backed into the front seat. And locked the door.
“Now,” Will said, still fronting the three, “drive down that road and then into the town five miles south and tell them that there’s a guy Oster and his two regular pals up here at Reeve’s Lake harassing the campers. Describe them well, and give the license number of their truck.”
“OWP 914” I said loudly out the window.
“Go on, Collin,” Will went on. “You know how to drive.”
I started the car.
The three men slid back to their pickup. I could hear them shutting the heavy doors. Then the lights went on, and the truck swept a broad U-turn half through our camp.
“Say, we’ll see you again, gramps!” a voice said.
We watched the custom tiny purple taillights joggle down the dirt road. A guy would have to be deranged to choose to install purple taillights.
“Will they come back?” Louisa asked.
“I don’t see why they should,” Will said. “You and I and Collin will be gone.” And he started to load our little gear into the trunk. Louisa stopped him with a hug. She held her arms around his waist and burrowed her head into the hollows of his shoulder; I shook the blankets and folded them into the open trunk.
Will and Louisa still stand as a black and white photograph in my mind. I can see it if I close my eyes.
We motored down the canyon road, dropping from rock to rock, tossing the wild beams of the pearl Chevrolet’s headlights across the stone cliffs. And happy as I was to be in transit again, I still stared hard for the slightest glint of purple.
“Those assholes didn’t scare me,” Louisa said.
“Do you think we handled it correctly?” Will asked her, smiling as he drove down the rutted road.
“Well. You know, sure. I mean, for the situation, probably. I personally think we should have taught them a lesson—bashed their teeth in.”
Bashed their teeth in. I love phrases like that. Will’s eyes bobbed comically to mine in the rear-view mirror.
Louisa continued, “Like you did on that train. I mean, just fight those suckers.”
“Well,” Will said, “I’d just as soon drive tonight, wouldn’t you?” He wheeled us across the cattleguard and up onto the highway. “We should be in Salt Lake by morning, and we can rest at my brother’s house.”
“Fine by me,” Louisa said.
“How did you know it wasn’t their land?” I asked him.
“How could three punks own that?” That made sense. “Besides,” Will added, “we own this from the highway back. I taught Robbie to swim up there. It’s all his now.”
**************
I remember that night as being many nights, many times. We were to spend lifetimes in that car in our three-cornered discussion group. We had stories, discussions, interviews, and question and answer periods. We talked at night the way people can, disembodied, thinking aloud. I remember that night well, and not at all; I do remember tingling—or seeming to—from swimming, and feeling happy and whole. And I remember the light in the car, the reflected hush of the dash lights, and I remember saying, “I’m happy,” aloud, and Louisa catching my eyes in the mirror and saying, “You’re not that good a diver, asshole.”
I don’t remember the names of places we slowed to pass through; the towns, clusters of lights, maybe a tavern with a red neon oval advertising beer, maybe the highway patrol car sitting in the only gas station with his parking lights on while the officer sat inside, writing his memoirs. Upstairs above every dark café, a waitress danced in her slip before the dresser mirror. One of these nights. I can only offer the excerpts from
our night
, the pieces of Will and Louisa I remember best.
“I didn’t really expect anything at Robbie’s,” Will said at one point. “Who am I? Some old stranger comes to the door.” He laughed. “It was stupid. I don’t blame them. What would I do, if I were young … like them … in their shoes.”
“Forget it,” Louisa said. “Don’t take it personally. They’re just assholes like everybody else.”
Later Will added, “But I am glad to be away from Blue Mesa. This is better: driving around Utah. I know I’m taking you kids a day out of your way, but it will work out. I think George will help you get to your father.” I remember Will turning here and looking in my face as if to say
I see you; I know you
, and saying: “Okay?”
My reaction was the worried cringe I’d been practicing for ten days every time I started thinking. My father watched from behind the camera as his stuntman drove the Mercedes off the pier; my father discussed the fundamental axioms of acting with the director. They stood with their arms folded and looked serious.
Later sometime, Louisa became giddy and started playing with everything, punching me, “Come on, big boy. It’s a punching game. Come on.” She was punching my legs with her small hard-boned fists. I tried to cover her giddy face with my hand and push her away, but she would bite my fingers almost too hard, and squirm out of it laughing and punching all the time.
I remember the touch of her face on my palm. It brought back the wet spot on my neck where she had placed her mouth that night when we walked out from Blue Mesa.
Later that night I noted this scene: Louisa sat cocked defiantly against the passenger door, one arm on the seat back, the other along the closed window ledge. She held her head at a slight angle, her chin poised. She was always one of those girls who can do more with her chin than the Greek playwrights could do with a chorus. The other face in the dashlight was Will’s. The small light made the comb tracks in his white hair even more distinct. The other face emerging from the back seat was a screwy countenance, almost handsome and certainly confused. This face could have been that of a misplaced dog. This face could have been that of a softened criminal. The face could have been mine, and is most of the time, if you want to know.
Will said, “How’d you really get to be such a tough customer?”
“I told you,” she said.
“No you didn’t.”
She reached for the radio knob, and switched it on.
“Want to listen to the radio?” he followed.
“Leave me alone. Okay?”
The radio warmed and a ballad emerged bearing only the lyrics “Closer, baby, closer … ”
“I mean, what’s your view of the world.” Will said this, not mocking her.
“Assholes. A swarm of assholes. What’s yours?”
The radio went on “
Closer, baby
,” etcetera, and I wondered why Will didn’t turn it off.
“Oh, I know,” Louisa pointed at him. “We’re born, marry somebody, raise children, grandchildren, grow wise, and take the bow. Right?”
“Grow wise,” Will said, trying out the words for what they were. “No. No growing wise. Children. Yes. Raising them. Driving around with your friends rather than growing wise, rather than taking the bow.”