In The Heart Of The Canyon Part 6

"Is this all the gauze we have?" JT asked.

Sam tapped Ruth's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too," said Matthew.

"Did you boys untie the dog?" Mark demanded.

"Sam did it," said Matthew.

It was true. Sam had actually unfastened the knot.

JT was still fumbling through the first aid box. "Who packed this kit? We usually have tons of gauze. Go check the com boxes," he told Dixie. "How're you doing, Ruth?"

"Oh, me," scoffed Ruth. "I'm doing fine."

"Drink."

Lloyd held the water bottle for her, and she drank again, still tasting blood. She hated being the center of attention, especially for an injury. Whatever it was, it would stop bleeding. It would heal. They shouldn't be fussing over her. She was wasting everyone's time when they should be enjoying lunch.

She sat up and shaded her eyes from the sun and looked at the blood-soaked square of gauze JT held against her leg. "Let me see."

JT lifted the gauze. It wasn't a clean split but rather a raw, messy wound. She saw grit and pink flesh, then a sudden flush of blood. JT pressed the gauze back. Ruth, who had tended to many cuts and abrasions while raising two children, reminded herself that wounds could look more serious than they really were. There was just a lot of blood here. They would clean it and bandage it up, and she would be fine.

She had to be fine.

Because if she wasn't, who would take care of Lloyd?

12.

Day Two.

Mile 20.

After bandaging Ruth's leg, after wolfing down the rest of his sandwich and making sure the dog was tied up and privately explaining to Sam and Matthew how important it was to follow the Trip Leaders instructions, and if the Trip Leader said tie up the dog, it didn't mean let the dog loose-after all that, JT called Park Service again. But now, even more than before, the ranger succeeded in making him feel like an imposition, rather than a guide looking out for the health and safety of his pa.s.sengers and the canyon itself.

"What'd the ranger say?" Mitch.e.l.l asked after JT hung up.

"He's got other things to deal with, Mitch.e.l.l."

Mitch.e.l.l nodded, reflecting on this for a moment. "Well," he said, "I guess we just roll with the punches."

"That's right, Mitch.e.l.l."

"You sound tired."

"Nah." Though he was.

"Don't worry," said Mitch.e.l.l, and he leaned forward and clapped JT's arm. "We'll figure this one out."

JT glanced up. Mitch.e.l.l's large dark gla.s.ses made it impossible to see the man's eyes, but JT could hear in his voice a concern for others that surprised him.

"Thank you, Mitch.e.l.l," said JT. "Did you get enough lunch?"

"It was terrific. You guys are doing a terrific job."

JT managed a smile. He did a little better with private compliments but still felt bashful.

"Better put some more sunscreen on your nose," he told Mitch.e.l.l. "You're looking a little red."

Their lunch spot was at the mouth of a side canyon, so after cleaning up, Abo and Dixie led a group on a short hike. JT stayed with the boats, mainly to keep an eye on Ruth. He built a kind of hospital bed for her out of sleeping pads, with dry bags as bolsters. Out on the river the kayakers glided by; they waved and he waved back, and then he lay down on his own mat. He positioned his hat over his face, hoping he might drop off for a few moments, but he couldn't stop thinking about the dog. They were five days from Phantom Ranch, where he might be able to convince someone to hike the dog out. But even if he did find someone, was it advisable to send a dog up the trail in this heat? He would require a lot of water, which could add eight, ten pounds to the load. And JT knew the people running the mule trips would balk; mules and dogs didn't really mix on a steep and narrow rocky trail.

All too soon he heard voices and sat up to see the group returning from the hike. He scolded himself for worrying. The dog would be fine. They could keep him tied up all the time, if necessary. No one was going to go into anaphylactic shock.

"We've got the Roaring Twenties up ahead," he told the group as they refilled their water bottles. "So tighten your carabiners, you might get dinged up and batted around, keep the bailing buckets handy, and expect to get very, very wet."

"I won't mind that!" that!" Sam exclaimed. Sam exclaimed.

"That's the spirit," said JT. "Okay. Into the boats. Same places as this morning."

And so it was that, as they prepared to head out on this second afternoon, JT found himself tightening an extra strap around the dog's life jacket. Sam and Matthew smacked water into each other's faces; Jill dabbed more sunscreen on her nose; Mark dunked his s.h.i.+rt. Mitch.e.l.l and Lena quickly reclaimed their seats in Dixie's dog-free boat. Amy and Susan anxiously redistributed the contents of their day bags. Evelyn hiked upriver in search of maximum seclusion in which to relieve herself; Ruth limped toward JT's boat; Lloyd followed, patting his s.h.i.+rt pockets for something.

And Peter Kramer wondered what Dixie looked like naked.

13.

Day Two, Afternoon The Roaring Twenties From the right front seat in the paddle boat, Peter didn't always have the best view of Dixie; her boat always seemed to be behind them, and he couldn't turn around very often because he was the one setting the pace. But midway through the Roaring Twenties, Abo had them stop paddling so he could get out his kazoo, because he suddenly had an irresistible urge to toot them a song, and Dixie rowed on past, and there she was, in all her loveliness, her compact life jacket zipped up tightly over her red plaid s.h.i.+rt, her warped scarecrow hat on her head, braids peeking out from below.

Peter's head spun, just imagining.

Oh, what a cigarette would do for him right now.

When his girlfriend broke off their relations.h.i.+p last fall after six long years together, n.o.body was more surprised than Peter. The news came out of nowhere: not only did she not love him anymore, but she had fallen in love with someone else, an insurance agent who drove a Mercedes-Benz and owned a lakefront time-share. A lovable insurance agent? Wasn't that an oxymoron?

Peter didn't get how something like this could happen, how one person could fall out of love without the other person suspecting anything. The words "clueless chump" ran like a news banner beneath his dreams, all night, every night. How had he missed the signs? There was the vacation with her girlfriends last summer, the many late nights with her book club, the mascara she wore when she went to the gym. (It turned out that was where they met: on the StairMaster! How cliched, how ... common! He imagined her not knowing how to access the TV channel, and there was John D. Rockefeller, ready to help.) Now they were married, living on a cul-de-sac, where from the looks of all the stray plastic toys littering the yards someone was definitely pumping fertility drugs into the water supply.

But was he going to allow himself to spend any time whatsoever thinking about Miss Ohio and John D. Rockefeller on this trip?

Abo pocketed his kazoo. "Okay, paddlers, we've got Georgie Rapid coming up. Lets stay to the right and follow Peters lead. Peter! Look alive!"

Peter gripped his paddle. They floated toward the rapid, watching Dixie up ahead.

"And there she goes," Abo murmured. "Looking good, looking good."

Their own boat was now gliding toward the dark V of the tongue.

"Okay now-FORWARD!" Abo shouted as they began to pick up speed. "Come on, paddle, folks, paddle! Let's move this boat! Here we go!" Peter dug hard with his paddle, leaning into the rapid as they plunged down, taking the first cold wave head-on. "Right turn!" yelled Abo. Instantly Peter began back paddling; it was like slamming on the brakes, and the boat went nowhere, and he back-paddled again, this time whacking blades with Sam behind him.

"Right turn, Sam!" yelled Abo. "Right turn-you're sitting sitting on the right, Sam; that means you gotta back-paddle, watch Peter! Come on, RIGHT turn, people, HARD right!" But the boat was already angling left, with lateral waves dousing both sides, and Peter, with an instinct he didn't know he had, plunged his paddle down behind his hips, plunged it deep and then pivoted back using all his weight, all 186 pounds, rock hard abs, he was a Viking, Poseidon, Neptune, he was moving oceans. Water soaked his hips, but the boat magically pivoted and slid down into the trough below at a different angle; now they were turning right, narrowly missing a huge submerged rock along the left bank. on the right, Sam; that means you gotta back-paddle, watch Peter! Come on, RIGHT turn, people, HARD right!" But the boat was already angling left, with lateral waves dousing both sides, and Peter, with an instinct he didn't know he had, plunged his paddle down behind his hips, plunged it deep and then pivoted back using all his weight, all 186 pounds, rock hard abs, he was a Viking, Poseidon, Neptune, he was moving oceans. Water soaked his hips, but the boat magically pivoted and slid down into the trough below at a different angle; now they were turning right, narrowly missing a huge submerged rock along the left bank.

"Forward!"

Paddling in sync, they rode the tailwaves out of the rapid to join up with the other boats in the calmer water below.

"Stop!"

Peter froze with his paddle in midair as they b.u.mped up against JT's boat.

"Everybody in one piece?" JT asked.

Dixie was laughing as she swung her boat around. "I almost got stuck going left! Did you see me almost hit that rock?"

"I had to close my eyes, babe," said Abo.

I didn't, thought Peter.

"Mitch.e.l.l, you might want to tuck that camera away for the next one," JT said.

"That was cool," said Sam. "I hope we tip over sometime."

Abo squirted him with a water pistol. "Lets review a few things, Sam. You're sitting on the right side of the boat. Now, if I say 'Right turn,' do you paddle forward or backward?"

"Back?" said Sam.

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," said Matthew.

"Just watch Peter and do whatever he does," said Abo. "You did great, by the way, Peter. Way to put some mojo into things!"

But Peter wasn't listening. Ten feet away, Dixie was applying Chap-Stick. She rubbed her lips together, then tucked the ChapStick back into the pocket of her shorts. Peter licked his own lips. They were dry. Would it be out of line to ask to borrow her ChapStick?

You are so lame, he told himself.

Look. ChapStick. Right in your own pocket.

It was the saddest thought he'd had all day.

14.

Day Two Miles 2530 The rapids continued that afternoon in quick succession, with little time in between for even so much as a sip of water. Above them, great gaping cavities dotted the mammoth Redwall; at one point, they spotted a mother bighorn nudging her kid across the rocky debris fan.

Amy, paddling in the back of Abo's boat, regretted that her camera was packed away in her day bag. She would have liked to get a picture of the baby sheep. She also would have liked a granola bar or something. Her blood sugar was low, and she was feeling shaky. Which made sense, as she hadn't eaten lunch. Not because of any sand in the chicken salad, but because of the on-and-off tightening in her stomach. It had begun that morning, shortly after breakfast. Pain? Not really, but it came on quickly, her belly suddenly knotting up, her neck feeling flushed and under pressure, as though she were straining to blow up a balloon. She wasn't sure if she'd ever felt this way before or not. She feared what would happen if things got worse, but then the pain mysteriously stopped just as quickly as it started.

Gas, probably, she'd thought. But then it kept happening, two, maybe three more times over the course of the morning. So that by noon, she'd lost her appet.i.te, and now, in the middle of the afternoon, she was paying the price.

Finally they reached a calmer stretch, and she was able to open her day bag and find a roll of Mentos.

As their boats floated serenely between the soaring canyon walls, Abo brought out a book of Indian lore and began to read. Amy listened for a few minutes, but with the sun so hot, she found her thoughts wandering. Here she was, floating down the Colorado River with a bunch of total strangers, people who knew absolutely nothing about her. She could be anyone, in their eyes: cla.s.s president, debate champion, winner of the science fair. She could have had the lead in the school play this past spring. She could have placed first in the all-state choral compet.i.tion. n.o.body would know.

Except her mother, of course. Amy glanced across the boat, where her mother was listening to Abo with rapt attention. Her mother was really bugging her, even more than she had antic.i.p.ated. There was simply too much togetherness down here-What boat shall we ride in, and Where shall we set up our tent Where shall we set up our tent, and Come sit with me Come sit with me. Was this going to continue the whole trip?

Because truthfully, she was thinking it might be nice, one of these nights, to go off and camp by herself. Not far, just far enough so she could feel as though she were alone beneath the stars, on her own instead of being safely tucked into bed right there beside her mother. She wanted to sit by herself and write in her journal late into the night without her mother lying there wondering what she was writing about.

And what would she be writing about? High school. Her friends. Her nonfriends. The awful parties she'd made an effort to go to last fall, the ones her mother urged upon her but which turned out to be ugly scenes that Amy had tried to forget, with girls taking their s.h.i.+rts off and guys pouring beer on each other and cops coming and kids running off into the darkness and the few who remained and insisted on sobriety nevertheless getting alcohol tickets for blowing .01. Only once did she herself drink, on Halloween.

Best not to go there. Truly.

Amy knew that if her mother had any inkling of what was going on at those parties, she never would have pushed Amy to go; but Amy didn't want to tell her, for fear of getting other kids in trouble. These were popular kids, with popular parents, and Amy knew her mother would be on the phone quicker than h.e.l.lo, and then she would be even further ostracized at school. And so she began lying, telling her mother she was going to the parties, which made her mother happy, but then simply going to a coffee place, returning only after midnight.

"How was it?" her mother would ask eagerly from bed, setting down her book.

"Good."

"Tell me about it!"

"I'm too tired," Amy would say.

She was not too young to appreciate the irony that here she was, lying to her mother about going to the very parties that all the other kids were lying about not not going to. And it hadn't helped her lose any weight, either, drinking all that cocoa. going to. And it hadn't helped her lose any weight, either, drinking all that cocoa.

A sudden burst of laughter erupted from Dixie's boat, bringing her back to the moment. She craned her neck and gazed up at the towering walls. High above, two caves had formed right next to each other, like dark empty eye sockets. That was another thing she wanted to write about, this trip and where she was and what it looked like, the colors of the rock, orange and pink and green and gray, and how she felt bad weighing down the boat so much, and how she liked the guides, especially JT and Abo; and Ruth, who was so calm even when she fell and hurt her leg; and how every time she said something to Peter, she got the feeling he was looking straight through her, as though she weren't even there, which she wasn't, because why would a single guy in his late twenties want anything to do with a girl like her?

All this, Amy wanted to write.

Without her mother looking over her shoulder.

Up ahead, the river veered to the right. Abo packed away his book, and as they rounded the bend, they all heard the roar of another rapid.

"Party's over," said Abo. "Last rapid of the day. Pick up your paddles. Get to work. Quit lollygagging. Sam!"

"What!"