“This is the worst idea in the history of ideas.”
“Oh shut up and paddle,” Beth says to me.
Jack was the one who suggested the canoe trip the day after Tammy Eliot’s funeral, and of course nobody was in a position to tell him, “No way in hell!” or “Are you fucking insane?” A seven-mile combined Fitzpatrick and Powell family float down the Sycamore River. Two husbands who can barely stand to be in the same zip code. Two wives who’ve hated one another for going on two decades. What could possibly go wrong?
The twins and Laura’s two youngest daughters were deemed too young for the trip, so we left them with Mom and Gillman. Our flotilla comprises four canoes. Beth and I lead the way, followed by Laura and Ian, Jeanine and Sasha, and then Jack and his half-sister Cassie. Cassie is the same age as Sasha. With their sandy-blond hair and gymnast builds, they could pass for cousins if not sisters. Jeanine and Jack have paddled a good half hour ahead of us by now; probably already out of their canoes and raiding the picnic baskets.
“Hey, Hank, when you taking your skirt off?”
We’ve covered about five of the seven miles. Ian has been harassing me since about mile two. He started the trip with a twelve-pack of Yuengling and just cracked open his eleventh lager.
“You got me, Ian. I’m obviously a woman.”
“Seriously,” Ian says. “Who goes canoeing without drinking beer? That’s like cookies without milk, or a Philly steak and cheese without cheese.”
“Or Pennsylvania without assholes,” I say under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘I think I see some tadpoles.’”
“Hey now,” Beth says, splashing me with her paddle. Some of the water runs down the small of her back. Although it’s spring and there’s still a chill in the air, she’s wearing denim shorts and a bikini top. The goose bumps on her skin are incredibly distracting. “You need to behave.”
“If you only knew,” I say, grinning more than smiling.
We round the bend just northeast of the canoe livery. Thirty feet up, the rusted iron-truss bridge casts a stern, judgmental shadow over the rippling echoes of my past sins. I feel like it’s even mocking me a little.
Then again, that might just be Ian’s drunk ass.
“This bridge is sweet!” he says. “Anybody ever jump off it?”
“It’s illegal,” I say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Plenty of stupid kids have jumped off the thing.”
“You ever see it?”
“I’ve done it.”
“No way. Your scrawny little ass has jumped off those train tracks?”
“Not the train tracks.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“I jumped off the very top of the bridge.”
“Stop it, Hank,” Laura says. She’s also wearing denim shorts but with a one-piece bathing suit minus the distracting goose bumps, thank God.
“Stop what?” I say.
“Encouraging him.”
“Who’s encouraging him? I do believe I explicitly said that jumping off this bridge is stupid.”
A giant splash interrupts our argument as Ian swims for shore.
“Ian, no!” Laura shouts.
“Do something,” Beth says to me.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Go after him.”
“I’m not jumping in there. It’s April. South Bend was still having snow flurries last week. If Ian wants to get hypothermia, that’s his business.”
Beth points up at the bridge. “Hypothermia is the least of his problems.”
Ian stands on the bridge, already at the level of the train tracks.
“Just jump from there, buddy,” I shout.
“You’d like to see me do that, wouldn’t you? That way you can always say that you were the one who made the real jump while I pussied out.”
“You think this is a contest? Really?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“Step into my world, Ian. My life has sucked—a lot. It’s getting better now, and I’m not wasting my time getting in a pissing contest with you or anyone else. I’m fine with the cookie-cutter house in the suburbs and the minivan. I’ll fucking hit from the green tees all day long and not give a shit. Hell, come down here, let’s drop our pants and just whip it out. You probably have a bigger dick than me. You don’t need to prove anything.”
“You don’t get it,” Ian says.
“Then tell me—what am I missing?”
Ian stands on the edge of the tracks, looking down at the water thirty feet below. “I don’t need to prove anything, huh? Step into my world, Hank. For sixteen years my wife has had a son by another man. Up until a month ago, I thought she had given the baby up for adoption, not shipped him off to her high school sweetheart’s mother for safekeeping.”
I turn to the other canoe. “What is he talking about, Laura?”
She ignores me. “Please, honey, just come down from there!”
“You didn’t tell him who Jack’s father was until last month?”
“Surprise!” Ian shouts. He moves quickly up the ironworks. The rivets and joints give secure footing all the way up. He reaches the top. “But that’s not all. Hey, Roddy, tell our contestant what he’s won. Well, Bob, in addition to Ian’s wife never telling him about her little bastard, she’s also still carrying a torch for the birth father.”
Holy shit.
Laura looks mortified. Beth looks like she wants to rip Laura’s mortified face off. And here I am, my hands cupped around my mouth, still trying to talk down this sauced idiot.
“Ian!” I shout. “How about you just shut the fuck up?”
“What did you say to me?”
I sneak a glance at my audience. Laura has her face in her hands, hiding from the world. Beth is still staring daggers into the back of Laura’s head. Looks like I’m on my own.
“I said, shut the fuck up. First off, if you ever call Jack a bastard again, I’ll drive my fist so far down your throat you’ll be shitting my fingernails. Secondly, you have a wife who loves you, and three beautiful daughters. Is it worth throwing all that away doing some drunken stunt just because you got your feelings hurt?”
“Didn’t you hear what I said, Hank? She still loves—”
“I heard what you said. So fucking what? Newsflash—she’s got no shot with me. But there are three girls out there who love their mommy and daddy, who love their family. Answer me this, Ian—do you love your wife?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then get down here and tell Laura to get over herself.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“It’s not that hard either.”
Ian stands in silence atop the bridge.
“How long has he been up there?” Laura says. I look at my watch. “Ten minutes.”
“I can’t just sit here. I need to do something.”
“I think you’ve done plenty,” Beth says.
“Stay out of this,” Laura says.
“Make me, you stupid—”
“Ladies, please,” I interrupt. “Not that I haven’t dreamed about you two getting in another half-naked catfight, but now is not the time.” I cast my eyes upward, nodding. “Besides, look.”
Ian has backed away from the edge.
“Hey, Hank,” he says.
“Yeah, Ian?”
“I’m sorry. Jack is a great kid.”
“Apology accepted, and I know he is.”
“I’m also sorry this got so out of hand.”
“It happens.”
“I think I’m coming down now,” Ian says.
“Good to hear.” I take off my hat and run my hands through my hair. Closing my eyes, I let out an exhausted sigh.
“Hey you,” Beth says.
I open my eyes. She stands above me, having somehow traversed the length of our canoe undetected. I bury my face in her cleavage, wrapping my arms around her waist and clasping my hands behind her. She kisses the top of my head.
“Hey there, fellas,” I say into my wife’s breasts.
“I think your dick is probably bigger,” she whispers.