Caribou Island

By the time he was finished, Irene was sitting on a log.

That’s it? he asked.

Yeah.

We should try to place a couple joists, Gary said, looking around, but he could see the light was fading, the world going dark blue. Looking like winter. He could see his breath in the air. Or maybe it’s a little late for that.

I’ll heat up some soup, Irene said.

Thanks, he said. He walked down to the beach to fish out that flat of chili she dropped. Stepped into the water, newly cold, the waves about a foot high now, the water blue-gray and opaque. Couldn’t see even his own feet, but he’d brought the shovel, so he poked around with that, could feel the tip on rock. A new kind of fisherman, a prospector, almost, prodding at the deep to find what could be unburied. What if he could go deeper? He’d follow this rocky slope all the way to a hundred fathoms, the low valley, where he’d dig deep into silt, make great piles like sand. Who knows what could be uncovered then. The Lake Man, they’d call him, and he’d find everything that had ever been forgotten. A childhood alongside an old shoe, a rusted-out engine full of someone’s thoughts from a summer afternoon. He’d find everything that ever was here. There’s something about water, he said aloud. What is it about water?

Gary pulled the shovel along the bottom like a rake, a farmer tending soil, feeling for that flat, for a rectangular shape softer than rock. He stepped deeper and went for another row of rock, shuffling sideways, combing the area, and finally found it. Eureka, he said. The Lake Man recovers all.

He tugged with the shovel, pulled into shallows until he was able to reach down and grab. Carried it up to Irene to show her.

I got that case of chili, he said.

Irene didn’t even look up. Kneeling before the stove, gazing into a pot of soup. Getting darker now, her face lit by the stove.

What the fuck, he said. Are you ever going to talk to me again?

You wouldn’t want to hear what I have to say.

Fine, he said. You’re probably right. I’ve heard about enough of your crap.

Gary went into the tool and supply tent to clear a space. Kneeled at the opening and stacked everything high on one side. Then went to the sleeping tent to grab his bag and pillow. I’m sleeping in the other tent, he said.

Irene like a monk over the soup. As if this meal were made of signs.

Gary stripped off his wet boots and pants and socks, put on dry clothing. Could feel his feet tingling back to life. I’ll take my soup now, he said. I’m sure it’s hot enough.

So Irene poured half the pot into a large plastic bowl and Gary grabbed a spoon and hiked down to the water’s edge. Found a good rock and sat looking into the darkness falling over the water. No longer snowing. In the far distance, on the opposite shores, no longer a clear divide between water and sky. The boat bumping in the waves, scraping occasionally on rock.

He wanted to live out here. He wanted to spend a winter, wanted to experience that. But he could see now it would be only one winter. In the spring, he would leave this place, leave Irene. He didn’t know where he would go or what he would do, but he knew it was time to leave. This life had finished.