Caribou Island

Irene could see a nail at the base going in crooked, another angled from the side. Maybe you need brackets, she said.

Yeah. I realize that now. But I don’t have brackets, and there doesn’t happen to be a store out here. Damn it.

So she kept holding her end while he drove in four crooked nails.

A long morning and afternoon with the joists, Gary growing steadily more frustrated and angry. His hat off and jacket unzipped from the exertion, his hair in ruffs that stood at odd angles and bent in the breeze. Jammed his thumb, cracked one of the ends, threw his hammer at the ground, got through the day in small fits and rages. Told her to hold her damn end still.

But finally the joists were in place, slanting down from the back wall to the front. Gary stood on a stool in the middle of the platform and pulled himself up on one, testing the strength. That’ll hold, he said. Let’s get the roof on before dark.

Irene hadn’t said a word in hours. They grabbed a piece of aluminum sheeting and leaned it against the front of the cabin. Brought out stepstools and hoisted the sheet into place.

It’s not quite long enough, Gary said. That’s why I got the smaller pieces. So we can let this overhang a bit. That’ll help keep the rain off the walls.

Irene did as she was told, held the sheet while he went inside to nail. I’ll have to get some goop for the nail holes, he said. So Irene knew it would drip on them, probably all winter. No bed, just their sleeping bags with large wet spots from the drips. Or maybe they’d sleep under a plastic tarp, the edges of the plywood wet and muddy, her pillow on the floor. That’s what she had to look forward to, she knew.

Let’s grab the next sheet, he said. Evening, only an hour or so of light, racing against the dark now. No lunch. Only that oatmeal for breakfast. Irene felt dizzy and insubstantial, like she might be able to drift above the ground, float just below the level of the trees. Held another sheet in place while he nailed, and another, cold aluminum. She wore only thin canvas work gloves. The temperature dropping, something below freezing. Shivering now.

As they hoisted the last full sheet, Gary was getting excited, the end in sight. She held while he went inside to nail. His head poking up through the joists, one arm slung around to nail from above.

Only the back row now, he said. We’ll have a roof over our heads tonight.

It’s getting dark, she said.

We’ll do it by flashlight.

So Irene brought out flashlights from her tent. We should have headlamps, Gary said. I wish you would have bought headlamps. And these flashlights are cheap. We’ll be lucky if they last. Irene at fault again. If they didn’t get the roof on tonight, it would be her fault.

Irene brought her stepstool around to the back wall, tried to plant the legs firmly enough so she wouldn’t totter. She stepped up and Gary handed her a sheet. The smaller sheets much lighter, but still difficult to raise over her head. She was tired and hungry and cold and her head was knifing. She pushed upward but wasn’t tall enough to get the sheet to flop over onto the roof. It only pointed into the sky.

Damn it, Gary said. Just drop it.

She let it fall into an alder bush.

I’ll have to do this myself. Bring your stool around front.

Irene went to the front and helped heave the piece onto the roof, then held it in place while he went inside. His head poking up between the joists, he grabbed the sheet and slid it upward. Fucking flashlight, he said. We needed headlamps. I can’t hold the piece and hold a nail and a hammer and a flashlight. I don’t have four fucking hands.

I’ll hold a flashlight from here, Irene said. And if you give me a stick or something, I might be able to keep the piece from slipping.

Fine, Gary said. Just hurry up. I can’t hold this forever.

Irene looked around the woodpile for a stick, trying to hurry, but she didn’t see anything. Starting to feel panicked. Gary waiting.

Just get the boat hook, he shouted. Go to the boat. I can’t fucking hold this much longer.

She walked as fast as she could to the boat, running when possible, the flashlight beam jumping around grass and snow. The boat bumping and scraping in small waves. She climbed over the bow, her flashlight beam bright against all the aluminum, and found the boat hook, hurried back to the cabin.

Here it is, she called out. She used the boat hook to push at the lower edge of the sheet. Other hand holding the flashlight, afraid she might fall, standing on the top step of the stool.

Okay, Gary said. He adjusted the sheet a bit. Now hold it there and keep the light on it.

Gary nailed the sheet along the joists, then asked for the next.

I’ll need help lifting it onto the roof, Irene said.

Fine, Gary said, and he came around, tossed it up by himself. Just hold it now, he said.

He was back inside and nailing, and they did two more sheets, utterly dark, the beam bright off the aluminum, the roof a kind of reflector. They could have been building a spacecraft, Irene thought, something meant to rise up into this night and take them away from the world. A strange thing they were doing out here. A man and his slave, building his machine.