THE DAY AT THE RIVER
He feels her shake in his arms—just a light twitch, and again and after a few minutes hears the muffled thunder of her snore and he holds her naked body to his and he sighs with the white light of the moon bleeding through the blinds. The room is filled with ease and a silent sense of content. His eyes close, and then open again and then close again but he sits up and rubs a hand over his stomach not wanting to go to sleep. Her dark, well kempt hair has slid across her face and stripes of her soft skin shine through like the moon through the blinds. With a careful hand he tucks the stray strands behind her ear and stifles a laugh. The dark stain of drool on the pillow case, pooling at the corner of her gaping mouth, is visible even in the dim light, and he can even make out her yellow mustache—a byproduct of her momentous experiment with a facial tanning solution. He kisses her right under her earlobe and whispers, “I love you” and her warmth touches his lips and hears her snoring pause for a moment then continue. He pulls his arm out from under her and feels the blood rushing back to his hands and with it the tingling numbness subsides. He rests his hands behind his head as the roar of the heat comes on and he listens as her snores disappear within the deeper rumble and he remembers.
He remembers the first time they met. He remembers going into his first day of work at a summer camp and sitting in a room with bare walls and a T.V. He remembers looking over to his right to try and find the source of an intolerable squawking dominating the room and realizing that it was not Benito Mussolini with a loudspeaker, but, in fact, the small brunette in grey sweatpants and a red sweatshirt sitting next to him. He remembers scooting his chair over a few inches as to not go deaf. On she went, ranting and raving about the injustices of the camp bureaucracy for she was supposed to be a soccer camp counselor, but now she was a nature camp counselor, but she was a collegiate soccer player and an athlete and, a captain and all-state, and therefore she was supposed to be a soccer camp counselor and no one is more qualified than her, and nature camp is for losers. She went on some more and he smiled to himself. He was the soccer camp counselor. Then silence all of a sudden. He redirected his glance to see her scribbling her name in big bold letters and her head was cocked at an angle and her tongue crept out the side of her mouth in concentration and a strand of hair fell across her face and he realized how beautiful she was. Yet this radical change of temperament reminded him of a Chihuahua, or a Jack Russell Terrier—some frenzied little animal whose hyperactivity is sedated only by a chew toy, or in this case, the maniacal scribbling of brightly colored lines.
He remembers how abruptly she turned around and shot him a question and how he was forced to admit that he was the soccer camp counselor who took her job. And he remembers the moment of intensity as she eyed him down but then laughing together for the first time. He remembers her letting her guard down but the ease coming to an end with her bright smile—so unassuming, yet temporary—as he saw before his own eyes the competitive spirit ignite within her like a burning flame, as she drilled him with questions concerning his qualifications for the esteemed soccer camp counselor position. He remembers their conversation coming to an end, but wishing it hadn’t and he remembers watching her walk out early and thinking I wish I was a nature camp counselor. He remembers how fiery and passionate she is, and he remembers why he fell in love with her.
She grunts and rolls over resting her head on his chest. She is awake but her eyes stay closed.
“Are you awake?” He could feel her lips moving over his heart.
“Yeah.”
“You want me to move to the floor?”
“No. Just lie next to me.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Kay.” She gives him a kiss and falls back to sleep.
One day they went canoeing. She helped him drag the canoe down to the river and he jumped in first and held it steady while she eased herself onto a seat. They picked up the paddles and sunk them into the cold water, pushing off with the current behind them. The sun was setting and they caught the penetrating eye of an osprey perched on a jetty and they stared back. In a swirl of black and white feathers it took off and left them to the sound of the water lapping against the side of the canoe. He pointed to a sandy point coming up in the distance.
“That’s where we are going. We can sit on the shore.”
“Kay. Am I doing ok?” She looked back and smiled. She was having fun.
“Yeah. Just keep the tip pointed towards that beach.”
She nodded and her tongue crept out of the side of her mouth resolutely and
she concentrated on each stroke—dipping the paddle in and pulling gradually but firmly through the water and easing it out…Dip, pull, ease…
On the shore, pine trees arched their backs in the Chesapeake breeze and needles and leaves flew through the air to finally rest on the surface of the water. The canoe cut through the river without effort and finally came to a groaning rest on the beach. He pulled the canoe up as to not be swept away and led her to a seat under a pine tree and the two sat close and looked out onto the river together.
She asked him a question, “In another life, would you be a bird or a tree?”
“Bird. Fly. See the world. Go anywhere.”
“I would be a tree.”
“Oh? But then you’re stuck.”
“Yeah. But you could watch everyone grow up around you and have a family and you would never be lonely.”
“Trees get lonely.”
“No they don’t. Did you ever read The Giving Tree?”
“Yeah.”
“I love that book.”
“It’s a good book.”
She thought for a moment. “If you could choose one object to define life what would it be?”
“Water. I guess.”
“Mine would be a tree.”
“That was your last answer.”
“Yeah but it’s a good one.”
He reached over and pulled her closer to him and they sat together till it was dark and they had to leave.
They held hands as they walked back along the beach. The sun had set already and a looming chill had swept over them. They reached the boat and, wanting to help, she refused to sit in the canoe while he they embarked. He got his shoes wet holding it while she got in but she was happy that she got to do something and he shrugged it off.
The current had gotten stronger and they had to paddle upstream to get back home and from the second the paddles hit the water the canoe just couldn’t keep straight. She didn’t notice him struggling in the back trying to keep the canoe from turning around. Her tongue crept out the side of her mouth—dip, pull ease…dip, pull, ease…
The canoe turned around and he piped up.
“Hey I need you to paddle a little harder now, ok?”
“Kay.”
Before he could even begin to turn the canoe around she slapped the water with her paddle, and he felt the stinging cold of the water on his face. She laughed.
“Hey actually why don’t you just stop paddling now, ok?”
“Kay.”
He turned the canoe around and heaved them towards home. Each stroke burned his arms and he could feel the sweat condensing on his forehead. They crept closer but after five minutes he was completely exhausted. The paddle slipped in his sweaty hands. She watched him and laughed.
“Hey I could help you now if you wanted.”
“Ok go left.”
She started paddling right.
“LEFT!”
SLAP. A half gallon of freezing cold river water hit him in the face. She laughed.
She was having fun.
He wiped away the water from his eyes and opened them to see the beach in front of them and a shiver ran down his spine from the cold and she was still paddling on the right. Her determination was venerable but the truth was she was paddling them in the wrong direction and he was wet and freezing and close to catching hypothermia but she laughed some more.
“Ok stop. Stop paddling!”
“Am I doing ok? What do I do?”
“Just. Stop.”
“Kay.”
His arms were on fire but he turned the canoe around again and paddled till he couldn’t breath and she sat and watched him.
“I’m getting coooold.”
“Oh my god. Shut up. Just. Shut. Up.”
She laughed.
“You need my help?”
“Yeah go right.”
She went left.
“RIGHT!”
SLAP. He was cold and wet again.
She laughed some more.
He has to keep himself from throwing her overboard and paddling himself back alone.
Eventually he paddled her back home and collapsed on the lawn. The dry grass poked through his shirt and scratched his back but he closed his eyes and listened to the soft silence of the breeze and thought of a roaring fire in the fireplace, a leather couch, football on TV, a down comforter, and a glass of wine, among other things. He smiled till he opened his eyes to see her standing over him.
“Don’t we have to pull the canoe out of the water?”
“I hate you.”
She helps him up and together, they lift the canoe out of the water and when everything is squared away they lay in the hammock together wrapped in blankets and pillows to keep warm in the fall night. And together they recount their little adventure and vent and laugh and sigh and smile and remember.
He falls asleep.
