So they did that and were home in minutes. So close, and they'd been freezing for so long. Pointless, Irene thought.

Gary took a quick hot shower, and then Irene ran a hot bath. Painful to sit down into it, her fingers and toes, especially, gone partially numb. The heat delicious, though, surrounding her. She sank into it and closed her eyes, found herself crying carefully, without sound, her mouth underwater. Stupid, she told herself. You can't have what no longer exists.

Chapter 4.

On his way back to the office after lunch, Jim swung by the Coffee Bus for a sticky bun. Brown sugar, honey, and nuts, and it meant supporting Rhoda's brother, too, who might be in need of that kind of thing. Loiterers out front, as usual, but this time, one of them was so beautiful he didn't realize he was staring until too late, which made him feel like an a.s.s, of course, which then p.i.s.sed him off. Probably little more than half his age, but her gaze made him feel like his willie was standing out in the breeze for everyone to look at.

Jim gave his customary grunt and half-smile in her direction. This was rarely loud enough for anyone to hear, and many in Soldotna who didn't know him well considered him a misanthrope because of it, he knew, but this amazed him. To him, this m.u.f.fled greeting sounded like a full and cheery, if soft-spoken and not overly aggressive, h.e.l.lo.

The woman, leaning against the side of the bus, nodded to him in return, pulled her old down coat tighter, and Jim walked stiff-legged and awkward up the wooden steps to the window, trying not to look at her. She was only a few feet away now, and he was embarra.s.sed. Desperate, also. Desperation reached like a cold hand through his genitals into his lower back.

Hey Jim, said Karen. Sticky bun?

That would be the item.

Mark came to the window and stuck his hand out.

Jim shook it. How are you?

Meet a friend of mine, Mark said. Jim, this is Monique. Monique, this is Jim. Jim's a dentist, fastest drill in the west. Monique's a visitor to our fair state, come to see the wild lands.

Monique put a hand out, and Jim reached down to shake it.

Hi, Jim said. Having a good trip?

I am, she said. Mark and Karen are taking good care of me. Then she waited as he stared. She seemed, to Jim, not just to have time but to be the one behind it. Like the Wizard of Oz, maybe, in his little booth.

Maybe you could tell me, Monique said. You're a dentist. I have a tooth that feels cold sometimes and hurts a little if I've been in the cold. It hurts today, for instance. She rocked her jaw a bit, feeling it. Is that a cavity, or just something else?

Could be, Jim said. I'd have to take a look to know for sure. Jim checked his watch. One thirty-five. Actually, I could take a quick look now before two if you're free.

Huh, Monique said. Then she shrugged. Okay.

So Jim drove her to the office. No one else back from lunch yet. He flipped on the lights and took her to one of the chairs in the back. Oh, maybe I should have given you a tour first.

That's all right, Monique said, sitting back in the chair. Lovely ducks on your ceiling. Jim had glued the undersides of rubber ducks up there, webbed orange feet paddling around midair as if the office were underwater.

For the kids, Jim said.

For the hunters.

Yeah, maybe so, Jim said, trying to chuckle lightly, not sure whether or not she was throwing him in with the hunters here.

Jim turned the light on then, asked her to open her mouth wide, and probed around her teeth and gums for a while.

Just the small beginnings of one, he said. We should take a couple films, and if we need to, we can do a quick job on it, preventative mostly.

Uh, she said, and he pulled his fingers out so she could talk. I'm concerned about cost.

It's on me, Jim said. And he waited until the others arrived, had the X rays done, and put a small filling in right then, though it shot his afternoon schedule all to h.e.l.l.

Don't tell anyone, he said after he had finished and was bringing up the chair. She was taking off her bib. He leaned in close over her and smiled a little as he said this, trying to imply, and feel, all kinds of secrets between them. He had heard a man say once, Now she's a breeder, and as ugly and psycho as this line was, and distasteful to him, it occurred to him now that this was nonetheless true. Here was the woman he wanted to make babies with. He couldn't imagine her changing diapers or even being pregnant, but he could see his strong, tall, beautiful children in a portrait some day, all devoid of any type of insecurity or struggle. She managed to eliminate the possibility of any other woman and seemed to imply wealth, also, though she was dressed like a hippie and probably couldn't have afforded this filling if he had asked her to pay.

I won't, she said.

He looked at her blankly. He had no idea what she was saying.

I won't tell anyone, she said.

Oh, he said. Hey, could I make you dinner sometime? I have a view of the sunset over the Cook Inlet. I could fix salmon or halibut or whatever you like, just to give you a taste of Alaska while you're here. This had come out surprisingly well, with a nice little tag at the end, even. He hadn't stiffened or looked suddenly frightened.

She looked at him, considering. He felt his spine collapsing, his shoulder blades folding down into his stomach.

Okay, she said.

Monique spent the rest of the afternoon and evening reading at the confluence of two rivers, looking up occasionally to watch Carl not catch any red salmon. He was lined up with hundreds of other tourist fishermen, men and women, from all over the world. The river not that large, fifty yards across, but these fishermen stood at five-foot intervals along both its banks for half a mile. The best fishing was reputedly on the far side of this particular bend, where the water ran deeper and faster along a steep gravel bank.

Carl was on the shallow, near side, however, out twenty feet or so from sh.o.r.e in hip waders, using a fly, yanking it along the bottom, where red salmon were swimming peacefully in place against the current. Monique could see them as shadows in the dappled light, imagined their mouths opening and closing, taking in water, contemplating with a wary eye the rows of evenly s.p.a.ced green boots growing in pairs and the large red flies cruising around everywhere.

The fishermen were all so earnest. To Monique, the best part about this place was the scenery: the high, lush mountains close along either side of the river, the short valleys dotted with wildflowers, the swampy areas dense with skunk cabbage, ferns, mosquitoes, and moose. But not one of the fishermen looked up from the water, ever, even for a moment. The mood along the riverbanks was like the mood in a casino.

Monique was reading a book of short stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle. They were funny, and she often laughed out loud. In one, La.s.sie goes after a coyote, forbidden love. This appealed to her especially. She had always hated La.s.sie.

Monique was lucky enough to look up in time to see Carl huck his pole into the river. This stopped a few fishermen. Their lines stalled for a moment along the bottom, so then several were whipping their poles back and forth trying to free snags.

Carl came splashing through the water in his waders, slipping a bit on the smooth stones and fish entrails and whatever else was down there. He came right up to Monique, who closed her book.

Fishing not good? she asked.

Carl grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her hard. G.o.d, I feel better, he said.

Monique smiled and grabbed him for another kiss. This was one of the things she liked about Carl. Given enough time, he could recognize s.h.i.t. And unlike most men, he didn't persist in stupidity just because someone was watching.

Rhoda came home to find Jim with a drink on the coffee table beside him. Facing the windows, drinking and looking out to sea. Very strange, since Jim almost never drank at all, and certainly never alone. Rhoda began noticing the random things she noticed during tragedies: the refrigerator clicked on only briefly then clicked back off; sunlight reflected off the dark wood of the coffee table but wasn't hitting his drink; the house seemed unusually warm, also, almost humid, claustrophobic. She set down the grocery bags and walked over to him.

What's wrong? she asked in a voice that sounded to her like fear. She touched his shoulder lightly as she said this.

Hey, he said, perhaps a bit flushed as he turned to her, but not drunk, his speech fine. How was your day?

What is this? Why are you sitting here drinking?

Just having a little sherry, Jim said, and he picked up his gla.s.s and swirled the ice around. Enjoying the view.

Something's up. I thought someone had died or something. Why the sudden change in behavior?

Can't a man have a drink? Jesus, you'd think I was burning down the house or writing on the walls with crayons or something. But I'm forty-one years old, a dentist, I'm in my own house, and I'm having a gla.s.s of Harveys after work.

Okay, okay.

Lighten up.

Okay, Rhoda said. I'm sorry, all right? I picked up some chicken. I was thinking maybe we'd have lemon chicken.

Sounds good. Which reminds me, by the way. I may have found a new partner for the practice. A dentist out of Juneau, named Jacobsen, and I was thinking I'd have him over for dinner tomorrow to talk about specifics. So I'm wondering whether you'd be willing to make other plans for just a few hours in the evening. Would that be okay?

Sure. That's fine. I'll have dinner with my parents. I'll call Mark tonight to let Mom know.

Great, Jim said. Thanks. Then he looked out to the inlet again and the mountains beyond, the snow on Mount Redoubt, and he thought how clever he was, and how deserving.

About the Author.

DAVID VANN is a professor at the University of San Francisco. He is a contributor to is a professor at the University of San Francisco. He is a contributor to Esquire, The Atlantic, Men's Journal, National Geographic Adventure, The Sunday Times Esquire, The Atlantic, Men's Journal, National Geographic Adventure, The Sunday Times (London), and (London), and Outside Outside, and the author of the bestselling memoir A Mile Down: The True Story of a Disastrous Career at Sea A Mile Down: The True Story of a Disastrous Career at Sea and and Last Day on Earth: A Portrait of the NIU School Shooter, Steve Kazmierczak Last Day on Earth: A Portrait of the NIU School Shooter, Steve Kazmierczak, winner of the AWP Nonfiction Prize. He is a recipient of a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship and Wallace Stegner Fellowship. His website is www.DavidVann.com.

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