Sunday, noon on the river
LAURA AND E.B.
Feeling the canoe veering to the right, Laura pulled back on her paddle. The canoe kept heading to the bank. She took another pull. Nothing going. The stupid boat felt like she did after dancing all night, slow and stiff and unresponsive. What the hell? They did a full 360 until she stabbed at the water a few times. The canoe shuddered and slid down the river sideways.
She listened for the sound of E.B.’s paddle, but there was no dip, slide, or swish from behind her. If she turned around too quick to check on him, she could dump them both. Concentrate, girl. This is no different from what you do on the pole. What’s next in this routine?
She ran through his instructions step by step, put all her weight into it, and dug in. For a second it was perfect; the front of the canoe rotated to the left. She took another stroke, but then it went to the right. Fat lot of good that did. She couldn’t steer for shit.
They sped up as the current caught them around a turn. A moment later, the boat drifted toward a rocky shore.
Turning her head ever so slowly, she saw E.B. resting, his paddle in his lap, head down. Eyes closed.
“E.B., come on. Help me out here,” she asked. “Pick up your paddle and do something.”
“What’s going on?” he moaned.
“I can’t steer this piece of shit by myself.”
“Yes, you can, just try . . . I can’t, right now,” he mumbled.
The canoe crept closer, fifteen feet from the rocks, now ten.
“I need help NOW!” She pulled back on the paddle hard. The canoe drifted close enough to touch land.
“Just put your paddle in and pull. Hard.”
“Nothing’s happening. We’re going aground. Please.”
“Leave me alone.”
The canoe touched the rocks.
Laura yelled, “Ezra Benson!”
He didn’t respond.
She pushed off with her paddle. The boat drifted onward, hugging the shore. She took a stroke with her right hand, then another with her left. Zigzagging, the canoe slid along ten feet from shore.
“Jesus Christ. What’s the matter with you?”
“I knew you could do it,” he said. “You’re doing fine.”
“Do what? Keep us going in one direction? Are you kidding?” Above her, swallows called, as if to mock her. Their chatter filled the air. She felt a little bad. “Are you all right back there?”
No answer. Had he fainted? Had a heart attack? How the hell was she supposed to do CPR? She struggled to remember what she’d seen on TV. Compression, compaction? She had no idea. The canoe skidded across the water like a pair of new shoes on a slick floor. “Come on, you big useless dick.”
A gust of wind caught E.B.’s hat. She watched it spin in a circle, then float away.
“Don’t you want your hat?”
The canoe drifted toward an island.
“What hat?”
Laura eyed a beach ahead. If only she could pull over there. The canoe shuddered, stalled, and spun. She took another deep, full stroke. The canoe slid sideways.
“Stupid goddamn boat!”
The shore was twenty feet away, then ten. The canoe slammed into something and knocked her out of her seat. She landed on the bottom of the boat.
“Fuck!” She wrenched her shoulder climbing back up to her seat. Then she checked on E.B. He was leaning over his knees.
“E.B. You alive back there?”
“I don’t know what to do about these cows, Milt. They seem off today.”
“Cows? What cows! E.B., wake up! You dreaming?”
“Check the bilges, Captain Kirk, I think we’ve gone aground.”
Was he making fun of her again? Or completely crazy? Whatever it was, she couldn’t help him here. The canoe held still as water rushed around them. The shore, a pole distance away, could just as well have been on Mars. She slid her hands into the water, trying to free whatever stopped them while keeping an eye on the fast-moving river. Branches and twigs broke off, but the canoe held fast. She leaned over farther, water pouring over her arms. The canoe shifted under her.
She wasn’t going to die out here. Fuck no. Praying the canoe wouldn’t take off without her, she kicked off her flipflops, grabbed the painter, and, holding onto the sides of the canoe, carefully and slowly eased herself over the side.
Dropping in, she let her legs drift down until she felt something squishy and disgusting with her toes and stood up. She sunk in mud up to her ankles. The water was up to her chin. Holding the painter in her teeth, she moved around the canoe, trying to find out what held it in place. The current pulled at her clothes.
The boat was hung up on a branch.
“Hey, E.B.! Can you give me a hand here?”
Oh God. He was leaning over so far, she thought he’d fall over, into the river. Then what would she do? She eased her hand up over the front of the dumbass canoe. Holding the rope in one hand and bracing herself in the muck below, she dipped her head under and with one hand slipped the canoe free.
Fuck!
“Help!”
The boat was pulling away.
Digging into the mud with her toes, she grabbed the line with both hands, river bottom sucking at her feet and threatening to pull her in with every step. Nine feet away, eight. “Come on you stupid pile of crap.” The boat was heavy.
Seven feet, six. She was up to her waist now. Five, four. She pulled harder. Suddenly, the boat rushed at her and pushed her backward into the muck. The water was up to her shoulders.
E.B. laughed.
“So. You’re alive?”
“Not really.”
His face was the color of milk. He was all still and quiet, like the dead man they’d found in the front row one night after a show.
“You all right?”
He stirred, straightened, and stood up. Wobbling from side to side, he stepped around her, sitting on her butt in the water, and marched to shore.
“E.B.?”
“Stay there.”
A moment later, he threw up.
“Whoa,” she said. “Feeling better now?” She tied the boat to a branch, got to her feet, wiped mud off her hands onto her once-white shorts, and gripped his shoulder. The puke stunk but he was near. And they were safe.
“Goddamn Fish ’N’ Fry. Or it was the heat or something. Good God.”
She watched him wipe his mouth on his sleeve.
“Thought my stomach would cave in.”
“And I thought you had a heart attack.”
“Me? No, ticker’s ready for a parade. Can you get me some water?” He paused. “You did good, Laura, steering by yourself.”
Beaming, she walked toward the canoe, trying to avoid looking at the mess he’d left.
She leaned in, unzipped the yellow duffle, put her hand around a water bottle, pulled it out, and noticed something strange.
“Hey, E.B.,” she said. “Is there supposed to be this much water in the boat?”