16.

Day Three, Evening Mile 47 Maybe tonight, Susan thought as she helped unload the boats at the end of the day. Maybe tonight, instead of helping the guides prepare dinner, she and Amy could go sit on a rock, alone, and just talk talk.

Was that really so much to wish for?

Susan knew things could be strained between mothers and daughters, that the last person a seventeen-year-old girl wanted to talk to was her mother. And she knew that everything she herself said came out sounding just as lame as the things her own mother had said thirty years ago. But maybe down here on the river, Amy would open up. Because she felt like she knew so little about her daughter these days! Did Amy have friends-true friends, the kind who would lie for you? Or who would listen without arguing when you needed to say an awful truth out loud? n.o.body ever came over to the house; n.o.body called to ask about a homework a.s.signment. It broke her heart, particularly because back in high school she'd hung out with a big crowd; there were always parties and shenanigans and ditch-days, and she always had a boyfriend, except for two weeks before the start of her junior year. How could her daughter be so different? Where did she come from?

And how did she end up so ... large? large?

Exactly what I've been asking all this time, said the Mother b.i.t.c.h.

During these first three days, Susan had made an extra effort to give Amy the s.p.a.ce she needed to get to know people on her own, so they could all see Amy as her own person and not merely Susan's daughter. But she was also determined to take advantage of being down here in the canyon, to perhaps pierce some of those heartbreaking barriers.

Maybe a little alcohol would help, Susan thought. And so late that afternoon, as soon as the boats were unloaded and Dixie had opened up the drink box, Susan retrieved her bladder of white wine and went off in search of Amy, whom she found at the water pump.

"No thanks," Amy said, filling her bottle. "I'm going to wash my hair."

"Maybe I should wash my hair too," Susan said brightly.

"Whatever," said Amy.

Smarting at the rebuff, Susan wandered back to the patch of sand where she and Amy had dumped their gear. Their site tonight was disturbingly close to the groover, but by the time she'd gotten off the boat and shaken out the leg cramps and collected her things, all the other flat places were taken. Evelyn, she noticed, always managed to get one of the good spots; tonight, for instance, she'd pretty much dashed across the beach to claim a large flat area with a view, a s.p.a.ce that would have been better suited to Jill and Mark and their two boys. Susan glanced over to the spot now; indeed, there was Evelyn, seated cross-legged on her white mat, reading her guidebook, drinking her cranberry juice.

Evelyn noticed Susan and promptly buried her nose in her book again. Susan knew that Evelyn suffered from shyness; she also knew that the nice thing to do would be to go over and offer her some wine. But she simply couldn't bring herself to take the initiative with Evelyn, not right now. Evelyn was so stern, so serious; no doubt she would offer up her critical judgment on something that had happened that day-like how the boys had tried to destroy the lacy spiderwebs on the rock ceiling in the back of the cavern at Redwall. It wasn't a very respectful thing to do; Susan wasn't really defending them-but come on, they were kids.

And besides, Evelyn probably didn't drink, or she would have brought something other than cranberry juice.

Upriver, there was a little cove where people were bathing. Susan saw Amy trudging in that direction, carrying the quilted floral bag that Susan had bought her for the trip. Let her be, she thought, and she headed downstream, away from the busyness of the camp. The wet sand was studded with round pink rocks, and she found it hypnotic to look no farther than a foot or two ahead; she became so focused on this small task that she was startled to look up and see that she had walked right into Jill's private meditation s.p.a.ce.

"Sorry," she whispered. She wanted to give this busy mother a little time to herself, but Jill glanced up with a serene smile. She sighed and stretched her legs out and wiggled her toes.

"Oh, you're not disturbing me," Jill replied. "The only people who could disturb me right now are the boys. Sit. Please."

Susan sat down. The sh.o.r.eline waters lapped softly at her feet; birds chirped and called from one cliff to the next.

"I was going to have some wine," Susan said. "Do you want some?"

"No, thank you," said Jill, which made Susan feel like an alcoholic. She should hang out more with the guides, who drank their fair share.

"You know what's so great about this trip?" Jill said, after a while.

"What?"

"Not having to make any decisions. The kids say, 'Can we jump off the boat?' and I say, 'I don't know; ask the guides.' They say, 'Can we stand up during this rapid?' and I say, 'I don't know; ask the guides.' What a wonderful place to be," Jill said, with the awe and grat.i.tude of one who has been given very little in life.

"You know what I like?" Susan said.

"What?"

"Not cooking!"

"That too," Jill agreed.

"And not going to the grocery store! My goal when I get home is to go once a week, and if we run out, dammit, we run out."

Jill snorted. "The way my life goes, I'll say I'm going to do that, but then the boys will have some project at school that requires jelly beans or marshmallows, and there I am, driving out to Costco."

"Are you sure you don't want some of this wine?"

Jill seemed to think about it for a moment. "All right," she said.

Susan handed her the mug.

"Mark doesn't drink," said Jill, "so I try not to. But every now and then I like a little something."

"With two boys like that, I'd be an alcoholic," Susan declared. Instantly she regretted it.

"Mark's Mormon," Jill continued. "I'm not. I grew up Catholic. My father drank beer and my mother drank whiskey. When Mark and I got married, we had champagne at the reception but no open bar, and Mark and his parents were like, 'Oh, everybody's having just as good a time as they would if there was an open bar,' and I'm like, 'Lady, are you blind? My entire family's out in the parking lot with their brown bags.' What kind of wine is this?"

"Cheap wine."

"Well, it's very good," said Jill. "You know what I think is funny?"

"What?"

"Watching Mitch.e.l.l with the dog."

They caught each other's eye and laughed, like naughty girls.

"Isn't he a piece of work," Jill said.

"Poor Lena."

"Poor JT, you mean! One of these days he's going to haul off and slug the guy" Jill drained the mug and handed it back to Susan, who refilled it.

"So is Amy your only?" Jill asked.

"She is."

There was a silence, during which the Mother b.i.t.c.h rustled her leaves in the bushes. What she really wants to ask is how come Amy's so fat, when you're so thin What she really wants to ask is how come Amy's so fat, when you're so thin.

"How nice, to have a girl," Jill said wistfully. "I always wanted a girl. One of each. I love my boys, of course," she added hastily.

"Would you have any more children?"

Jill hooted. "Not possible. When Sam was born, I had my tubes tied. I'm lying there all cut open, and the doctor's head pops up between my legs and he goes, 'Tubes?' and I go, 'Yes, please!' Easiest decision I ever made. Mark doesn't know," she added.

For some reason, this did not shock Susan.

"He a.s.sumes I'm on the Pill," Jill went on. "I'm saving a fortune on birth control. This is very good wine, you know! I think I'm kind of feeling it."

Susan was feeling it too. She thought that Jill had revealed an awful lot of herself in the last ten minutes and that she, Susan, ought to reveal equivalent intimacies. But she didn't know where to start. It suddenly occurred to her that maybe it wasn't just Amy who was responsible for keeping them so distant from one another.

Right then Evelyn pa.s.sed behind them on her way downriver.

"Evelyn," Susan called over her shoulder, "do you want some wine?"

Evelyn smiled cheerfully. "No thanks! Off for a little walk right now!" She kept heading downstream. When she found a rock that was large enough to hide behind, she squatted.

"She's an odd duck," remarked Jill.

They both watched as Evelyn hitched up her shorts, moved downstream, and squatted again.

"Think she's a virgin?" asked Jill.

Susan turned to stare directly at this upstanding citizen of the suburbs of Salt Lake City. Then she burst out laughing. "Give her credit," she said. "I heard her mention some man back in Boston. But they broke up."

"That explains it. She needs to get laid."

I need to get laid, thought Susan. Amy needs to get laid. We all need to get laid.

"Speaking of which," said Jill, "who do you think's hotter-JT or Abo?"

Susan didn't have to think about it. "Abo. Something about that bleachy-tipped hair."

"I'd say Abo too, except he's got a beer gut. Look at his belly when he's bending over."

"So JT, is that what you're saying?"

Jill didn't answer. She lay back on the sand and closed her eyes. "I wish I were twenty-one," she said. "I'd live on the river and f.u.c.k a lot of river guides."

Susan chuckled.

"Do not not repeat that," said Jill. repeat that," said Jill.

17.

Day Three Mile 47 It took Evelyn three squats, three separate boulders, and three hundred feet of sh.o.r.eline before she could finally pee.

The first rock sheltered her from view of the camp but not from Jill and Susan. Unable to relax, Evelyn pulled up her shorts and hiked farther downstream to the next big rock, where she squatted again-only to glance up and notice that Peter had set up his campsite in a cl.u.s.ter of bushes that put her directly in his line of view. Evelyn traipsed on and finally came upon a slab of rock that offered full protection. And there in its shadow, up to her ankles in the icy water, she dropped her shorts and squatted and finally released the liter of water that she'd been holding since lunchtime.

Exhausted from the discomfort, she remained in squat position, staring numbly ahead. She hadn't expected to have this problem-who would?-but it had descended upon her the first day, when they pulled onto sh.o.r.e for a quick pit stop. "Skirts up, pants down," Dixie had joked, indicating that the women were to go upstream from the boat, while the men were to go downstream. The problem was, there was was no upstream; it was blocked off by a steep wall of rock, leaving only a tiny cove beside the boat for the three women. Dixie and Ruth quickly went, but Evelyn couldn't. Maybe it was the lack of privacy; maybe it was the time pressure. She tried focusing on the sound of the river (that old trick!), but it didn't work. Finally, convinced that she was delaying the group, she climbed back in the boat, telling herself it wouldn't be too long before they made camp, where there would presumably be a little more privacy. no upstream; it was blocked off by a steep wall of rock, leaving only a tiny cove beside the boat for the three women. Dixie and Ruth quickly went, but Evelyn couldn't. Maybe it was the lack of privacy; maybe it was the time pressure. She tried focusing on the sound of the river (that old trick!), but it didn't work. Finally, convinced that she was delaying the group, she climbed back in the boat, telling herself it wouldn't be too long before they made camp, where there would presumably be a little more privacy.

Which there had been, but the problem presented itself on Day Two and Day Three: the same setup, only now with the memory of yesterday's failure adding to her tension. As the day went on, she watched the men casually relieve themselves over the side of the boat, while the women either jumped into the water and floated along with glazed eyes or, as Dixie demonstrated, simply hung their backsides over the edge of the boat. Evelyn couldn't do either. Every single time, she had to wait until they were on sh.o.r.e; not only that, but instead of feeling more more comfortable with the group as the days went on, she felt comfortable with the group as the days went on, she felt less less so, and she was finding it necessary to trek farther and farther away, just for the fiction of privacy. What was wrong with her? Why, having done so many backpacking trips with large groups of people, was she suddenly so shy? so, and she was finding it necessary to trek farther and farther away, just for the fiction of privacy. What was wrong with her? Why, having done so many backpacking trips with large groups of people, was she suddenly so shy?

A hummingbird darted in front of her, hovered, then vanished. Red throat, green iridescence: Selasphorus platycercus Selasphorus platycercus. Evelyn kept a bird log and had seen too many hummingbirds to keep track of, but this was the first she'd seen in the canyon, so it warranted a notation. She stood and hitched up her shorts. The underwater rocks were slippery, and she lurched about and finally had to use her hands to crabwalk out of the water. With the sun still hot on her shoulders, she headed back to camp; although it wasn't her intent, she glanced toward the bushes and happened to see Peter bent at the waist, his pale hips exposed.

Without warning, she thought of Julian, alone in his house, watching a ball game.

It was a complicated breakup. When it happened, Julian cried. But he said that Evelyn couldn't give him what he wanted in life, which was a partner who wanted to be just that, a partner, someone who shared his interests and wanted to actually do things together, not someone who was satisfied to simply come home at night after a day spent pursuing separate activities. Evelyn liked to canoe; Julian liked to go to a ball game. Evelyn liked bird-watching; Julian liked reading the sports page and puttering in the garage. There was very little they liked to do together, and although he loved her, at fifty-seven, he felt there was someone out there who could offer him more companionship. Evelyn, for her part, didn't see anything wrong with two people who loved each other pursuing their own separate interests. In fact, she thought it showed a smothering lack of independence when other couples did everything together.

"Lots of people take separate vacations," she argued. "It doesn't mean they don't love each other."

"But I don't want to take separate vacations," Julian said. "I want someone to go up to Ogunquit with."

"But I'm tired of going to your family cottage."

"Exactly," Julian said.

In the end, she felt too proud to argue with him. If he wanted to find someone else, let him find someone else. She didn't want to stand in his way. But she missed him. They had never moved in together-Julian owned a house in Brookline, Evelyn a flat in Cambridge-but her place seemed empty and quiet without Julian. The batteries in the remote corroded from lack of use. The sports page went straight into recycling. She stopped buying beer to have on hand. She spent way too much time perusing catalogues and eating bagged salad.

When she sent in her deposit for this trip, she contemplated reserving an extra s.p.a.ce, on the off chance that Julian might change his mind and decide to try a river trip. But it was a big chunk of money to forfeit, and Evelyn told herself that Julian had probably already blocked out his two weeks with his family, up in Ogunquit.

Back at the campsite, the kitchen was bustling with dinner preparations.

"Can I help?" she asked Abo, who'd tied a purple bandanna around his head. He looked like a pirate, she thought, which gave her a little thrill.

"Yeah, make a cake," he said, and tossed her a bag of cake mix. "There's a bowl, there's the eggs, there's a whisk, go for it," and Evelyn set to work, glad to have a job. She poured the mix into the bowl and added eggs and water. Why was it, she wondered, that it was always the same people helping in the kitchen every night? This was their third night, and she'd already detected a pattern: Jill would go off to do yoga; Lloyd and Ruth would lie down on their mats (although they were to be excused, given their age and Ruth's injured leg); Mitch.e.l.l and Lena would unfold their padded camp chairs and bring out a large bottle of gin. ("Say," she heard Mitch.e.l.l ask each night, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "got any extra limes?") Evelyn thought poorly of people who didn't pitch in. From an early age, she'd been taught to look around and see what needed to be done.

"What else are we having for dinner?" she asked now.

"Ravioli," said Abo. "Meat and/or cheese, with or without sauce, your choice. Never let it be said that we don't offer you people a lot of options."

"Can you believe I thought we'd be eating hot dogs and hamburgers this whole trip?" Amy said, sc.r.a.ping seeds out of a red pepper.

"Over my dead body," declared Abo. "Get out of there," he said to the dog, who was sniffing the garbage bucket.

"Speaking of dead bodies," Peter said. "How many times have you flipped? Be honest."

Abo tipped his head back and roared with laughter, then suddenly went solemn. "Three."

"Dixie?"

Dixie, tending the battered fire pan, sat back on her heels, which were gray and leathery and riddled with cracks. "There are two types of river guides, Peter," she said. "Those who've flipped, and those who will."

"Which are you?"