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After
THE DAY AFTER the fire, the lake lies still, as if waiting for a plane I know isn’t going to come. I stand too long by the canoe, watching the water and the sky. By the time I turn away, I’m already feeling the impact of my mistakes, a trembling weakness in my limbs I know will spread.
I start back for the trees with the duffel and tackle box. Bo comes trotting down from the tree line to join me, seemingly as eager as I am to get away from here. Little ripples of pain go down my back, but I grit my teeth against them. The backpack straps dig into my shoulders.
When I bend to pick up the duffel, a big rip of pain goes down my side and I have to brace myself against a tree trunk, panting. Between the tackle box and the ax, it’s too much to carry.
“I can’t carry this by myself,” I say with a moan dangerously close to despair.
I want my dad with me. The whole time I was with him, I resented him, and I resent him now, I hate him because all of this is his fault; none of it would have happened if he hadn’t dragged me out here and I wish I had never seen him again and I wish he was here now.
I wish he could tell me it would be all right.
I wish he could laugh at me and smudge dirt on my nose and call me stupid nicknames.
Tears fill my eyes. Bo whuffs against my leg as if to say, You’re not alone. Or maybe I just want to believe that’s what he’s saying. Bo’s the most loyal dog I’ve ever met. He’s warm and he’s fierce, but he’s also strong. If only he could carry things for me.
Maybe he can.
I’d put my belt back on at the rock, but now I take it off. “Bo, sit,” I say. He obeys warily. “Okay, now hold on. I don’t know if you’ve ever worn a collar...”
I start to put the belt around Bo’s neck. He jerks away and dances a few steps farther from me, eyeing the belt warily.
“It’s okay, Bo,” I say. “Come on, honey.” I wiggle my fingers. Slowly he creeps forward. This time I hold the belt out for him to sniff. He gives it a cursory whiff and then looks at me like I’m a crazy person. I laugh.
The look is so incredulous, his eyebrows twitching up and everything. “It’s not going to hurt you,” I promise. I lift the belt slowly up to his neck, talking to him the whole time, letting him know who’s a good boy. Gently, I slide the end through the buckle and cinch it to the last hole. “Okay, hold on,” I say.
I let go. Bo gives a great shake, casting off droplets of water in every direction. I shriek and throw up my hands to stop the doggy-smelling water from splattering all over my face.
Bo freezes. He inches to the right. Inches to the left. Whirls around, trying to see his new decoration. He whines.
“It’s okay,” I assure him. “You look handsome.”
He lifts his paw and ducks his head like he wants to scrape it off, but then he looks at me. I give him as stern a look as I can muster, and he lowers his paw.
“It’s not for long,” I promise him.
Then for the real test. I take the strap off the rifle again. I’d have to carry the rifle in my hand. I tie one end of the strap to the belt. It’s long enough, but I can already see that dragging the duffel will be awkward, pulling Bo to one side.
I remember the rope. It’s way too long, but I get out the ax head and prop it up between my knees. The soot rubs off on my jeans, but I’m already so filthy it hardly makes a difference. And who’s around to see, anyway?
I run the rope over the ax to cut it until I have two good lengths. I take the strap off the belt. The two pieces of rope go in its place. I put one to either side of Bo, who still acts like I’ve gone completely crazy and he’s just indulging me. I tie them off to the duffel straps.
Now the big test. I walk in front of Bo a few feet and call to him. “Here, boy!”
He hesitates a long moment before stepping forward. The ropes pull taut. He stops immediately and looks back with a faint growl.
“Come here, Bo,” I say firmly, trying to sound like my dad.
He obeys slowly, each step exaggerated. The duffel drags along behind him. When he reaches me, I lavish him with praise, ruffling his ears. He pants, pleased and puzzled.
We do it again. Five feet, then ten, and then when I snap my fingers, he follows alongside me. It isn’t a great system. The duffel keeps getting caught on things, and a stick rips a hole in the side and I have to turn the whole thing over so the contents don’t spill out over the ground, but we make it to the rock and I don’t have to carry nearly as much.
I’m still exhausted, though. My eyelids are drooping and my limbs have gone past that trembly feeling. Now they just feel numb and limp. I can barely drag myself to the overhang. I call Bo over and fumble with the belt, but my fingers are stiff and cold, and I can’t get the buckle to release.
Finally I slide the whole thing over his head, flattening his ears briefly against his skull. He shakes again when it’s off, then races around the clearing like a madman, tail between his legs and tongue hanging out. He makes three wild laps and then skids to a halt, at complete attention.
I laugh at him. He gives me an affronted look. I pull the duffel over and unzip it. The rest of my clothes are in there, and they’re dry. Thank God. The tackle box I set aside; I’ll inventory it in a moment. I set my can and jars in order.
