My Three Husbands (13 page)

“Whit, shut up!” Daddy bawled. “Venus, close the door. You two get out of the way. Way out of the way.”

“Daddy, be careful!” I had a sudden horrible vision of the car toppling over and rolling down the canyon wall into the river. I couldn't look, but I had to. I could see the dads in the front seat, their faces anxious.

“Maybe you'd better get out,” Daddy said.

Whitman shook his head.

It was completely still, so quiet I could hear my heart thudding. I'd never seen so much clear blue open sky in my life. The light poured down in such a way that you could see everything clearly for miles around. There weren't any trees in this canyon. There was no hiding.

Another hot blast of wind came whistling down the gorge as Tremaynne and I trudged up the steep, slippery road.

“They'll be okay.” I tried to sound confident. I turned back to look at the car idling two inches from the edge of eternity. “My dad's a really good driver.”

“Give me that cell phone,” Tremaynne said.

“Why? It's—”

“I just need to make one quick call,” he said.

I didn't want to piss him off, so I handed over Whitman's phone.

“You wait here,” Tremaynne said. “I'm going to climb up that rock and see if anyone's coming. Just in case.”

I wanted him there, at my side, but I didn't want to seem needy. And who the hell did he need to call out here in the middle of nowhere on his honeymoon?

I stood there, hair blowing in the hot dry wind, looking out across Hell's Canyon. The world seemed to be slipping slowly out of control. I was losing all sense of what was familiar. I hate that feeling. It scares me. I wanted a cigarette bad but was afraid to light up. With my luck, the wind would blow a spark to the grass and set all of Hell's Canyon ablaze.

For the next few minutes my attention was evenly divided between watching the dads and watching Tremaynne. My husband, the rock climber, clambered to the top of a huge boulder and stood there like a statue, silhouetted against the sky, the cell phone held to his ear. He was talking but I couldn't hear a thing except the wind hissing past my ears.

Down below me, the SUV lurched backward and stopped. Daddy turned the wheels completely to the left. He evidently thought better of it and turned them straight again. Then he gently began to back up. The SUV made it about a foot before the rear wheels started to spin.

I wanted to pray but didn't know how. When people are raised with religion, they know who to pray to. They're plugged into some God up there, and they can beg him for his help. I didn't grow up with any of that. Carolee was more interested in tarot cards, psychics and astrology. And you can't pray to a sign of the zodiac.

I shielded my eyes and glanced up at Tremaynne. He was gone. The panic tapped me on the shoulder. Then I heard a roar and looked down to see the SUV shooting backward, spitting out gravel and dust. Daddy got it far enough back so that he could make a tight right turn around the hairpin.

A second later the SUV stopped and both dads got out. Whitman waved his arms and shouted something, but the huge windy silence of the canyon sucked his words away. He ran around the SUV and hugged Daddy.

There was a crunch of gravel. Tremaynne stood at my side. He didn't say a word. He offered nothing. We silently headed back toward the dads.

Whatever you do,
I said to myself,
don't ask him who he was talking to in the middle of nowhere on his honeymoon.

T
remaynne refused to eat foie gras.

“You know how they make it?” he asked me. I shook my head. I only had foie gras when I was with the dads. I loved it, and I wanted some real bad.

Tremaynne gripped my throat and forced my head back, demonstrating the process “They take this funnel,” he said, “and jam it down the goose's throat and force-feed it all this corn. Am I right?” he asked Whitman, who'd suggested we stop for a picnic.

“You could just eat the gherkins and the French bread,” Whitman suggested. He glanced at Daddy—that secret glance couples use to say things without saying anything.

“They force-feed it,” Tremaynne went on, going through the motions of viciously grinding corn down my throat, “and don't let it move. When its liver turns all swollen and ready to burst, they kill the goose and use the diseased liver for that shit
you
want to eat.” He released my neck. “Go ahead. But not me.”

I coughed. His neck grip wasn't exactly gentle. I felt the sharp tang of passion. For a moment my husband turned into a handsome but brutal stranger. The stranger had me in his power. He was going to force me to strip, slowly, and perform lewd sex acts. What would I do?

“Maybe there's a restaurant somewhere,” Daddy said. He was getting a little punchy, the way he does when he needs protein. “Maybe they serve salads.”

“This does not look like salad country,” Whitman observed.

We'd come very slowly, in four-wheel drive, down to the bottom of Hell's Canyon, another charming-sounding honeymoon destination. There were a few box-like houses scattered along the river but no sign of a restaurant.

“Let's ask that man.” Whitman pointed to a skinny old guy standing next to a dusty pickup truck. He had a wide red nose, close-set eyes, and was wearing an orange vest and feed cap. Daddy pulled over and Whitman rolled down his window. “Excuse me, sir,” he called. “Do you know if there's a restaurant around here? Someplace that serves salads?”

The man looked at him as if he were crazy. “Restaurant?” he said finally.

“You know,” Whitman said, “plates, silverware, food?”

“Nothin' like that around here,” the man said, tilting his hat back and frowning. “Gotta go to Snakebite.”

Of course we do,
I thought.

“And where's that?” Whitman asked.

“Keep goin' and you'll come to it,” the man said. He turned away, reached into the back of his truck, and pulled out a rifle.

We all stared at the gun.

The man grinned, showing a mouthful of stumpy brown teeth. “Bear season,” he said.

“Oh,” Whitman said. “I didn't know there were any bears left around here.”

“Yup. And I'm gonna shoot me one of them motherfuckers right between the eyes,” the man said. He raised the gun and looked through its viewfinder. “And if I don't get me a bear, maybe I'll get me one of them tree-huggers.” He put his gun down and bent forward to squint into the back seat.

“Tree-huggers?” Whitman laughed a little too loudly. “Are those like hip-huggers?”

“Like Earth Freedom,” the man said. He stepped closer, blatantly peering into the back seat.

Tremaynne averted his face. His sudden passivity seemed odd because he was usually challenging people. But I was afraid to look into the old man's eyes, too. They were really hostile. I crossed my arms over my chest, depriving him of ogling rights.

“I'll bet you've heard of Earth Freedom,” the man said. His voice was vaguely threatening. “They're huggin' trees all over the place up here. Huggin' 'em so fuckin' hard that nobody can even cut down a tree no more.”

“Well,” Whitman said politely, “if we see any, we'll
certainly
let them know how you feel. Bye now!” He rolled up his window and whispered to Daddy, “Get the hell out of here.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “get the hell out of Hell's Canyon.”

Daddy started up the road on the other side of the canyon.

Whitman whistled and blew out a big loud breath. “Did you see that gun? That was a real gun.” He turned to Tremaynne. “He seemed to recognize you.”

I laughed. “Whitman, he was looking at my tits.”

Whitman continued to stare at Tremaynne. “What was the name of that group you were with?”

It was a simple question, but whenever Whitman asked a simple question, it meant he was digging for something more. I knew how his sudden interrogations worked. His nonchalant tone put me on high alert.

Tremaynne kept looking out the window. “What group?”

“Those environmental activists,” Whitman said. “The ones down in the Siskiyous.”

Tremaynne licked his lips. “Arbor Vitae.”

“Oh yeah.” Whitman turned back around. “They're nonviolent, right?”

“Right,” Tremaynne said.

“Look.” Daddy pointed at a sign. “We're in Idaho.”

 

When he was working on Pine Mountain Lodge, Daddy always flew to Boise, rented a car, and drove from there. He'd never been in Snakebite, and Whitman couldn't find any mention of it in his cache of reference guides. He said the town must have gotten its name from its proximity to the Snake River.

“More likely because it's full of snakes.” I hate snakes. I was on my guard.

“Don't step on any rattlers,” Daddy warned. He told us how one of the carpenters working on Pine Mountain Lodge had come out to hike in Hell's Canyon and was bitten by a rattlesnake. “If it hadn't been for his cell phone,” Daddy said, “he'd be dead. They had to airlift him out in a helicopter. He couldn't walk because his leg swelled up as big as an elephant's.”

“Don't scare her,” Whitman said. He reached back and patted my knee. “Don't worry, honey, I brought our snake kit. If you get bitten, I know where to cut and how to suction out the venom.”

My faux pa always teased me like that. He knew perfectly well that snakes made me faint, spiders made me scream, roaches made me weep, and mice took my breath away.

“Maybe there's a McDonald's,” I said hopefully, “with a drive-through so we don't have to get out of the car.”

“I'm not eating in a McDonald's,” Tremaynne huffed.

“McDonald's is inappropriate for a honeymoon meal,” Whitman agreed. “But I have to say, a quarter-pounder with cheese would taste pretty good right now.”

“Double quarter-pounder,” I sighed. “No onions.”

“I'd get the pâté de foie gras burger,” Daddy said. “With fries.”

We were just joking around, but Tremaynne became all indignant. “Do you know how much nondisposable waste those places generate?” He glared at me. “Do you know what they do to make those seven trillion hamburgers a year?”

I saw Whitman take a deep breath, like he was trying to control himself.

“They're burning up the rain forest because of fast-food restaurants. So they can raise these huge herds of cows that don't eat any natural food and get shot full of growth hormones.”

We pulled into Snakebite.

“I don't think we have to worry about a McDonald's,” Daddy said.

 

 

“Take a picture.” Whitman handed me his small digital camera and led Daddy over to a sign that said
Snakebite. Pop. 34.

“Get the sign in. Use the zoom. Just our faces and the sign.” He pulled Daddy into an embrace and was kissing him on the cheek when the old guy's black pickup slowly jolted up the rutted gravel road. The truck stopped just as I snapped the photo.

The old man stared at us through narrowed eyes. Whitman gave him a friendly wave, but the man didn't acknowledge it.

“Canyon of the damned,” Whitman stage-whispered. “Okay,” he said with a show of bravado, “now I'll take one of you two.”

I took Tremaynne by the arm, but he pulled away. “I don't want to,” he said. Which was weird, because he was the sort of photogenic person who always gravitated toward cameras.

“Okay, then I'll take one of Venus and her alpha dad.” Whitman motioned for Daddy and me to stand together.

But we were all immobilized by the man. He just sat there in his truck staring at us like we were bears in his viewfinder. Finally Whitman aimed his camera at the old man. “Say Brie, darling!” He snapped the photo.

Springs creaking, the truck slowly lurched off down the road.

 

 

Snakebite was one of those places where it's impossible to imagine anyone really living. It was set in a gully with a creek rushing through as if it wanted to get away as fast as possible. One gravel-covered street with about five ramshackley wooden houses and a couple of trailers made up the entire town. The rusty skeletons of dead cars, weeds poking through their vanished windows, were scattered along the side of the road. Tires and discarded appliances had been pitched down into the creek. Everything looked dusty and forlorn.

“Don't judge a book by its cover,” Whitman said cheerfully. “You never know where you'll stumble across a three-star Michelin restaurant.”

We trudged over to a brown wooden building with Snakebite Café painted above the door.
Spoted Owl Served Here
was written on a piece of cardboard taped in the front window.

“Obviously a logging town,” Whitman said.

“Former logging town,” Daddy said.

“Whatever you do,” Whitman whispered, “don't order
spoted
owl.”

I'd never felt such a hostile atmosphere in my life. It really gave me the creeps. I wanted to leave, but it was like we were being sucked into this bad dream and couldn't get out of it.

First of all, there was a low funny smell. I don't know what it was. Something stale and icky-chemical-sweet at the same time. Like old grease and roach powder.

Deer and elk heads stared blindly from the walls. A giant black bear, stuffed to look like it was about to attack, reared up on its hind legs next to the cash register, fangs gleaming, claws ready to rip and shred. There were other stuffed animals, too. Small hairy things, arranged to look as though they were scampering along the shelves.

A woman with dark bags under her eyes, several chins, and thin yellow hair stood behind the counter drinking coffee and puffing on a cigarette.

“Can we sit anywhere?” Whitman asked.

Her ice-blue eyes moved slowly from me to Tremaynne to Daddy to Whitman. “Where you from?” she asked.

“Portland,” Daddy said.

“Where you headin'?”

“Pine Mountain Lodge.”

She sniffed. “Won't find that kind of food here.”

“Well,” Whitman said, scanning a menu, “we've been driving since seven this morning, and we're all pretty hungry so we thought we might get a salad or something.”

“No salads,” she said.

“Okay.” Whitman slid into a chair and the rest of us followed his lead. “How about—”

“Ain't got it,” the woman said, smoke streaming out her nostrils.

Whitman cleared his throat. “How do you know, when we haven't ordered anything yet?”

“I just know,” was her cryptic reply.

Daddy groaned in disgust and made a motion to leave, but Whitman put a restraining hand on his wrist. One thing about Whitman, he never backs down from a potential fight.

“Is there anything on the menu that you recommend?” he asked pleasantly.

“No.” The woman crossed her arms. It was a showdown. “We don't serve nothin' you want.”

I hadn't had a smoke all day and the first drag made me lightheaded. I was so nervous I kept my eyes on my cigarette and away from Mrs. Multichin.

“I'll have the spoted owl,” Tremaynne said.

I kicked him under the table.

The woman glared. “The what?”

“That sign in your window.” He pointed to it. “It says you served spoted owl.”

“Spotted,” she spat.

“Oh,” Tremaynne said. “It's spelled s-p-o-t-e-d. Well, that's what I'll have.”

The woman half-closed her eyes, took a deep drag of her cigarette, and let out a wet hacking cough. “Smart ass,” she muttered.

Whitman whirled around. “Do you refuse to serve everyone who comes in here?”

“No,” she said, “just rich smartasses that like to cause trouble.”

Now it was Daddy who restrained Whitman. It was just a touch on his arm. “Whit, let's go.”

Daddy Two let out a loud Buddha breath. “Have we done something to offend you?” he asked the woman.

“Rooms at that Pine Mountain Lodge cost four hundred bucks a night,” she hissed.

Whitman stood and slowly walked toward her. He held his hands up, as if she had a gun pointed at him. He smiled. “So is that the problem? You don't like Pine Mountain Lodge?”

The woman moved closer to the stuffed bear. “It's your kind spoils it for the rest of us.” She angrily stubbed out her cigarette and shook out another. Whitman grabbed her Zippo from the counter and offered to light her cigarette, but the woman backed away.

He put the lighter down again. “Sorry. Old habit. I was raised to be polite.”

She took the lighter and silently stared at him.

“Okay,” Whitman said. “It's obvious you don't want our business, so we'll leave.”

Daddy, Tremaynne, and I leaped up and got out of there as fast as we could. Whitman stayed a moment longer, examining the bear, then he too started out.