Where Earth Meets Water Page 10
“Can you?”
“No. I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us to start out like this.”
“Either of who?”
“Malina and me.”
“Ah. What about Karom? Is it fair to him?”
“I don’t think he knows.”
“He knows.”
“How can you—”
“I just...know. Look, I don’t know a lot about the guy stuff specifically. But I do know that when one person is head over heels for another, especially if they are friends, it’s obvious. The other person just knows. It’s clear. Regardless of how you try to mask your feelings. He may not know the extent of your feelings, but he’ll know they’re there. I am 99.9 percent sure of this.”
“It’s never affected our friendship.”
“Then he’s a really good friend.”
“He’s my best man.”
“Sounds like it.”
The sun is just beginning to dip down past the bend in the river and Saul lifts himself up and holds his hand out to Lloyd to pull him up. The tide is rising; the underside of the boulder, which seemed hoisted high above the water, is now soaked and the rock will soon be submerged. Flashes of fish zip by them and the leaves rustle at the very tops of the tallest trees.
“Some buddies and I are having a campfire tonight. Nothing special. Dogs and six-packs. You’re welcome. Over by the trailhead for Indian Road.”
“Thanks.”
“See you there?”
“Sure.”
* * *
The evening had been cool and relaxing. Lloyd was numbed by beer and easy conversation. Saul’s friends were low maintenance and welcoming. They all wore flannel shirts over solid-color T-shirts—evening camping wear. Lloyd was glad for the company, for the distraction from the afternoon’s conversation. He talked to them about easy things: movies, beer, fishing. The fire was high, and Lloyd was drawn to it. He charred his hot dog from the outside and ate it peeled, raw and blistering within a floppy bun. His mouth was tangy from ketchup and mustard.
At the end of the night, he helps Saul stamp out the dying embers of the fire and crushes the beer cans under his feet for easier transport to the recycling bin before saying his goodbyes. Saul reaches for the bag.
“You’ll be okay?”
Lloyd smiles. “Of course. See you.”
“I’m off tomorrow. You’re leaving in the afternoon?” Lloyd nods, the moonlight bright on his face. “I’ll make sure to stop by.” They shake hands and Lloyd turns his flashlight on for the half-mile walk back to his campsite.
As he unzips the tent and crawls inside, the beer churns in his stomach. He digs into his duffel bag to retrieve his cell phone. It is turned off, another rule of camping, but he is inside with the mouth to his tent zipped up. The tent won’t tell, and neither will he. Besides, if he falls asleep tonight and doesn’t wake up, he will never know if people had been trying to reach him. The air inside is warm with his breath and body heat. He pushes the power button. There are three text messages.
Baby, I hope you found the lotion I snuck in your bag. It works for poison oak, sumac and ivy. It’s in the hidden inner pocket underneath the stitching. Be as careful as a tightrope walker on a greased wire. Xoxo.
He had found it on his first day there and had used copious amounts of it on his raw skin.
Don’t forget to take pictures. I want to see everything that you see. I love you like a fat kid loves cake. Xoxo.
He has no camera other than the one on his cell phone, and if he uses it, she will know that he’d turned it on. There will be no pictures.
Dear Lloyd, We decided to leave a few days earlier, so we’ll be there on Saturday. No need to pick us up; we’ll make it to the inn. We want to be there to help you and Malina with any last-minute things you need. We love you and can’t wait for your big day. Love, Mom and Dad.
Lloyd chuckles. His parents continue to write text messages like letters even though he’s shown them otherwise. The tent lights up with the glow from the cell phone as he presses the voice-mail button. Karom’s low murmur warms his inner ear, static-filled and tinny.
“Hey, bud, it’s Karom. I’m calling you from this sort of makeshift phone booth here in Jaipur. Our train is hours delayed. Much like everything else in India, nothing works. Not to mention there’s no privacy. There are three dudes staring at me right now, slowly smoking cigarettes, and the guy in charge of the booth is basically breathing down my neck as he watches the clock inch forward. Anyway. I’ll try to talk. We’re on our way to see the Taj Mahal and this is the worst anticipation ever, because you know I’ve been dying to see it practically my whole life. But we’re stuck here, so I had a chance to call you. I feel like I haven’t been there for you lately. You deserve a better best man, one who ignores when you say that you don’t want a bachelor party and plans one anyway. One who’s more involved in your life and supportive of your relationship. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that even though you’re there and I’m here, I’m thinking about you. You should bring Malina here someday. This country is so versatile. It’s the most diverse place I’ve ever been. After Agra we’re headed to Delhi to spend our last few days here with Gita’s grandmother. She says hi—Gita. Anyway, take care of yourself and I’ll see you soon, bud. I can’t wait for your wedding. We’ll have a blast.”
He had received the message last week, listened to it on his way home from work while sidestepping bums in the Tenderloin without giving it much thought. He’d saved it, savoring it in the quiet of his apartment or sometimes while he sat at his desk, staring at numbers and plans. He’d listened to it again and again during moments of weakness, of grasping, of inexactitude. Before he can think about it, he presses the delete button and everything is still.
Lloyd shuts the phone off and lies back in his sleeping bag. Little by little, the night outside washes over him: the crickets and the river and the dark and the moon. He can feel the earth underneath the tent, the small stones he wasn’t able to clear away, tiny sticks that press into the small of his back. He passes his hands over them, the tent’s fabric rustling against his palms. He passes his hands over his face, fluttering his eyelids shut. And he sleeps.
* * *
The morning of his departure, he awakes to rain. He’d slept hard, with dreams that chased in and out as though he were in a forest, peeking from behind trees and boulders. Just as he remembered the traces of one, it slipped away from his consciousness. Saul had been present in his dreams. Saul, Karom and Malina, but never at the same time. They existed alone, in a vacuum, and for Lloyd alone. He doesn’t know the tenor of the dreams, but he awakes feeling hostile and irritable.
The air inside the tent feels moist. It smells of wet dog, sweaty and mildewed, but everything appears bone-dry. When he opens the tent cover and steps outside, it is like swimming through a glass of milk. The rain is viscous, thick, as though it has built up in the skies for a long time before being released. Lloyd secures the corners of the tent down with stones from the riverbed, thick marbled balls slick with rainwater. Pulling the wet hood of his sweatshirt over his head, he squints into the distance toward the main camping area. Some people are waterproofing their tents from the outside, stretching bright blue tarpaulins over pointy apexes. Others are herding their shrieking children into minivans and sedans to wait out the rain in comfort.
He scoops rivulets of water from his eyes and stands, hugging himself and weighing his options. He can hike, he can fish—though this defies his cardinal rule of camping of avoiding open water when it’s raining—he can read by flashlight in his tent until he grows damp and more irritable. He considers calling it a day and heading to the visitors’ center to catch a cab to the airport where he will wait it out until his flight that afternoon. The rain is venomous; any chance of allowing him to think any more than he alread
y has is dangerous to his psyche and offers him the opportunity to dwell rather than act. The T-shirt had been a courageous first step. And then the voice mail. He has been behaving like a sorority sister burning the relationship residue after a breakup. So now what?
But before he allows himself to think other similar thoughts, he stoops and reenters the tent, curling up his sleeping bag and stuffing it into the bottom of his hiking backpack. It takes moments to tear down his tent and cram the rods that have held it up into a bundle. His fishing box with the tackle goes into his backpack and he uses the tent to cover the remainder of his clothes, his pack of cards and his fishing box as he settles them under a tree. He throws a cheap plastic poncho over his head and flees for the general store. The door jingles as he enters and a woman with a large curly fringe looks up.
“Can I help you?”
“Is Saul around?”
“Saul?” The woman squints at him. “There’s no Saul here.”
“There was the other day. Tuesday.”
“I’m the manager here. I’d remember hiring a Saul.”
“Maybe a friend of a friend?”
“There’s only me, Lou and Jennifer. Maybe you mean Sean? He subs for us sometimes. He’s Korean?”
“It’s definitely Saul. Tall guy? Reddish hair?”
The woman looks at him, still squinting.
“Were you staying out near the tar pits?” she asks.
“I was staying on Campground 12. Well, not on it. To the side, closer to the river.”
“The tar pits.” She nods. “There’s a reason they tell you to stay on the campsites. The rangers closed the tar pits off from the public a few years ago. They found them in the riverbank, and they were built over, and grass and trees and moss were replanted over them so they’d camouflage into the environment, but they still release these fumes from time to time, depending on the season. They’re not dangerous, at least not to your health, but people get funny—they see things, they make things up. I wouldn’t call them hallucinations, because no one ever gets out of control or sees anything they wouldn’t normally see in real life. But people have created people or animals. We had a woman in here once who swore up and down that she’d seen a bull moose drinking water by the river with its calf. We’ve never, ever had moose in these parts. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if Saul was—”
“He’s real,” Lloyd growls. “I had conversations with him. I was at a campfire with him and his buddies over on the Indian Head Trail.”
“Last night? That rowdy party that got shut down by rangers? Open fires are illegal here. You should know that, camper.” Two teenagers enter the store and are idling near the cash register. “Anyway, I’ve got to get back to work. Good luck finding your friend.” The woman turns to the girls, and Lloyd pushes the door open with the toe of his boot and stands under the narrow, ungenerous shelter of the parapet that stretches out from the store, the rain dripping onto him from the eaves.
He considers his six days in the woods. He has thrown away a T-shirt. He has deleted a voice mail. That is all. He hasn’t rid himself of the ache in his chest that doesn’t cease when he remembers his first dorm room, in the corner of that old historical building. He has spent a long time remembering, summoning memories, making them dance at his fingertips. He hasn’t succeeded in his exorcism; in fact, he has succeeded in creating another ghost, another presence that will continue to haunt him all the way back to San Francisco. How can Saul not be real? When they had lain on the rock warmed by the sun, Lloyd had felt Saul’s flannel shirt against his own skin, washed so many times it was like silk. He’d felt Saul’s fingers against his as he passed him crushed aluminum cans after the bonfire. He’d seen his smirk as he purchased beer on that third day. He knew the origin of his name, for goodness’ sakes.
He swings his daypack onto his shoulders and jogs off toward the trail he’d returned from the night before. The path is washed over; bits of leaves and twigs have flooded the narrow dirt lane that had led him to the campfire the night before. He walks for a mile before he realizes he has taken a wrong turn. Where is the opening to the circle where Saul and his friends had lolled on the ground, taking generous swigs of cheap beer? The trails in the park are set up about an enormous circle, so that everyone begins within a giant hub and chooses their trail accordingly before a spiraling path takes them to the peak of a mountain, or the mouth of where the river meets a large sparkling lake, or fields of wildflowers with petaled heads that dance in the breeze. It encourages hikers to choose their own adventures; if you don’t have a trail map, you never know where a specific trail might lead you. Lloyd has already taken the one to the peak of the mountain, and on his first day, after stalking the grounds of the campsite and then pitching the tent on the outskirts, he’d found the field of wildflowers and lain down in it, weeds scratching in his ears and the hum of bees within dangerous proximity. Somehow nothing had been dangerous that day—not the bees, not the fact that he could have fallen asleep knowing nothing about the land or the animals that inhabited it. He was safe because he had chosen to take the steps that brought him here.
Lloyd chooses a path that he thinks looks familiar. The bonfire hadn’t been very far into the trail; it couldn’t have been if it was safe and forest-fire friendly. Saul had told him about the dangers the park had suffered the previous years, and in the visitors’ center, where the taxi had dropped him and he’d embarked on his bachelor party, there were graphic photos of forest fires as flames licked up the sides of mountains, crumpling trees to the ground like abandoned sheets of drawing paper and charring everything in their way. But within a few steps into this trail, he knows it is the wrong one. He follows it anyway.
For a half hour he tramps in circles, finding the entrance to the uphill hike he’d done the other day, when he’d peered over the ridge of the mountain, surveying the land as far as he could see. He finds a fallen tree, from under which a slim red fox darts out as he nears it. He watches the fox as it jogs suspiciously away. Its tail has deflated with the rains, and the fox holds it sheepishly between its runty legs, as a dog might after a stern admonishment. Lloyd and the fox watch one another through the streams of rain that pound down so hard that they appear white, like freshly laundered sheets. The animal is russet-red and stands out starkly against the wet verdant landscape. It watches him warily, its light brown eyes staring almost through Lloyd, its nose and whiskers twitching as rain splashes against its snout. It is majestic, though humbled in the rain, and Lloyd feels his breath catching in his throat at its beauty. They stare at one another, Lloyd careful not to move a muscle until suddenly, the fox breaks their gaze and darts up the hill.
He remembers Karom and Malina’s first meeting, a showdown not unlike this one. Malina had been the one to cave. They had met over dinner in San Francisco and Karom had been aloof, tired from his flight and grumpy. He’d entered the Vietnamese restaurant overlooking the bay shifty eyed and ill-prepared for niceties.
Malina had tried, though; she had been unrelenting at that first dinner. She tried popular culture, movies—mostly obscure art-house flicks she knew Karom loved. She tried food and trucks and, when all else failed, her huge admission of her fleeting tryst with Republicanism in her junior year of college, an anecdote that incited either excited conversation or rancor. But Karom simply nodded and pushed his lower lip out, saying, “We all experimented in college, to some degree.” The talk about Republicanism turned to Bush, which inevitably turned to 9/11, which easily turned to Katrina. This was something on which they all agreed: a mess, a disaster, mayhem. Lloyd excused himself to the bathroom.
“Playing devil’s advocate, though, natural disaster isn’t an easy thing, though, to judge. You never expect it, never prepare for it, never can be sure of how much damage it can do, even when it’s there. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“Yeah?” Karom lifted his head. “What happened?”
“I had no idea,” Karom murmured.
“When they’d cleared enough debris off the runways and the planes could finally fly again, I visited. The place looked war torn. I couldn’t believe this was my home. It was this naked land, stripped of its dignity, shivering in the aftermath. It was the first time I’d been home since leaving the country at the age of four. I’d never felt so alone.”
“I...I didn’t know you’d lost your family. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, I didn’t. They live on the east coast, which certainly felt the damage—you could see it, too, in the silt that collected in the gutters and the mold that grew all around us on garages and rooftops. But compared to the destruction done to the middle and the west of the country, it was peanuts. My family was lucky.”
“So you lost no one?”
“Thank God, no.”
Karom snorted and placed his hands flat on the table, placing distance between himself and Malina. “So explain to me how you experienced disaster. You don’t know the meaning. Just because you read some New York Times articles and visited some wreckage and received some secondhand information on friends of friends of friends doesn’t mean you have any idea of what this world is capable of. It’s pathetic.” Lloyd returned from the bathroom just in time to see his fiancée and his best friend sitting at a table in a trendy Vietnamese restaurant watching one another warily.