My Three Husbands (21 page)

I had a quick morning wake-up smoke out on the balcony, tossed the butt into the hot tub, and moved into action. I was completely focused on what I had to do. There was no time for hesitation or procrastination.

Tremaynne was in danger. I was sure of it.

I had to rescue him.

As I hurried down the corridors, the lodge was coming to life. A hand reached out from one of the rooms and snatched up the
New York Times
lying in front of the door. Room service was busy delivering breakfast. Service carts laden with fresh sheets and towels and rolls of toilet paper appeared in the hallways.

Marielle opened the door. I almost gasped when I saw her. I had no idea how much work went into how she looked.

She'd pulled on a long purple silk kimono. Above it, her scrubbed face looked as shiny as a waxed apple. Her skin was blotchy, her eyes puffy, and she didn't seem to have any eyelashes. She fussed self-consciously with her stiff tufts of hair, trying to smooth them down. “Come in, Venus,” she murmured politely, still half-asleep, unable to stifle a yawn.

“Marielle! Call down for some coffee!” Fokke shouted from the bedroom. He stared at me as I entered, looking me up and down. He was sitting in bed, naked, with the sheet pulled up to his waist, pointing a remote wand at the television. He looked like a chubby little boy with soft hairy tits. “Been up all night, party girl?”

I nodded.

“Marielle,” he called again, turning back to CNN, “did you hear me?”

“Ya, I heard you,” she grumbled. “I have to pee first.”

“Call down for some coffee. And rolls. While you're pissing. See if they have those fig and anise rolls. And some good Gouda cheese.”

Marielle obeyed. It was the first time I heard someone peeing and ordering breakfast at the same time. While she was on the phone, I stood as still as a statue, surveying their hotel living habits. The room was messy. Wineglasses and an empty bottle. Plates with orange peels and banana skins. Newspapers, magazines, and thick hardcover books scattered about. Towels thrown outside next to the hot tub. Fokke's laptop open, with a stack of documents beside it.

But the bed had a warm, mussed, slept-in look that made my heart ache.

“No fig and anise rolls,” Marielle reported from the bathroom. “How about spelt and raisin?”

“Ya, okay.” Fokke's attention was riveted on a news story about a group of anarchists clashing with police at some economic conference in Brussels. He laughed excitedly and shook his head in disbelief. “Idiots! How can anyone be an anarchist in this day and age?” He shot me a glance and shifted on the bed so that the sheet fell down to just above his dick. “Tell me, Venus. What kind of world would it be if anarchists were in charge? Hey? Hey?”

“I hate politics,” I said.

“I'll tell you what kind of world,” he said. “One no one wants to live in! Ya! Because if everyting's anarchy, dere-dere-dere's no system but a non-system. And people need systems to live by. Hey?”

“I guess so.”

“Your generation just wants to have a good party, right? Make love and have orgasms all over the place.”

“Yeah, that's all we want.”

The toilet flushed and the bathroom door opened. Marielle motioned me in. Through another door, which she had to unlock with her room card, there was a large, private dressing room. The first thing I saw was her yellow diamonds, laid out in a long box with a black velvet lining.

Marielle yawned again. “Ya. So. What do you need? You can have anything except my diamonds.”

 

 

Funny how you never really know what you're capable of, or who your friends are, until there's a crisis.

Marielle, it turned out, was a friend.

Wearing her blue jeans, a little tight in the rump and thighs, and her wilderness hiking boots, about a size too large, and a thick knitted wool sweater, shaped to her ample breasts, and an all-weather jacket, I clomped down to the reception desk.

“Good morning!” It was Mike, the same red-haired desk clerk who'd checked us in. His smile looked completely fake. “How can I help you this morning?”

“I'm told you sell maps down here. Really detailed maps that show logging roads and hiking trails and stuff like that.”

He pulled a map out and said, “Eight ninety-five. It's the most detailed map you'll find.”

I smiled and moved closer. “I'm not very good at reading maps. I wonder if you could help me with it.”

“I can try,” he said, trying not to stare at my tits.

“Someone told me there's a wonderful hot springs. Somewhere out in the woods.”

“Devil's Spring?”

“Yeah, I think that's it. Sort of a secret place.”

Mike looked down at the map. “Lumina International says we're not supposed to give directions to Devil's Spring. Forest Service, too. People have gotten lost trying to find it.”

“Okay,” I said calmly. “I understand. But just tell me, is Devil's Spring marked on this map?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said.

I laughed, trying to put him at his ease and turn him on. It was awfully early in the morning to be seducing someone, but I had a job to do.

“Ma'am?” I said, leaning closer to him over the counter. “Come on, Mike. Do I really look like a ma'am?”

“No, ma'am,” he said, his eyes darting around the lobby to see if anyone was looking.

“Don't you know who I am?” I asked.

“You're John Gilroy's daughter,” he whispered. “You work for
Travel
magazine.”

“That's just a front,” I whispered back. “Don't you know who I really am?”

“No,” he gulped, “who?”

“Godiva.”

“Really? Honest to God?” His eyes were round as saucers.

“I have to protect my identity.” I let out a little conspiratorial titter. “Those men I came with? They're just friends. Helping me out. So I can have a little vacation.”

“Oh,” he said.

Finally I was able to lean far enough across to actually touch his hand with my right breast. “Couldn't you just show me on the map about where it is? Devil's Spring. Without actually telling me?”

He straightened up, unfolded the map, turned it, peered at it, pointed.

I studied the map, staying close to him. “Looks like the best way to go is up the river here, and then follow this dotted line.”

“That's an old logging road,” he said.

“Is this a bridge across the river?” I asked.

“Very primitive. A single log with guide ropes. The smoke jumpers use it for training exercises.”

He confirmed my fear that the log was the only way to get across the river for several miles. There was one route you could take with a four-wheel drive vehicle. I couldn't do that because Tremaynne still had Whitman's car keys, and I didn't want to ask Daddy for his set. The other option was to canoe across. Pine Mountain Lodge rented canoes, but beginners weren't allowed to go out alone because of the whitewater rapids.

“Looks like it'll have to be the log,” I said.

“Ma'am,” he whispered nervously, “you have to be really careful if you go up there.”

“Why?”

“Bears. Maybe even grizzly. This is their foraging season.”

“Okay, I'll be careful.”

“If you run into a bear, you know what to do?”

I licked my parched lips. “Scream?”

“No. Talk soft. Move slow. Avoid eye contact because they see that as aggression. And pray that it runs away. It will unless it's got cubs, or it's a male establishing territory.”

“Do you sell guns?” I whispered.

“No, ma'am, and I wish we did. I'd feel a lot better about you going to Devil's Spring if I knew you had a gun with you. You've got to be careful up there. They say there's—” He popped up like a jack-in-the-box as a guest came over to ask when the spa opened. Then he turned back to me, getting as cozy as he dared. I didn't flinch when the side of his arm brushed against my breasts. The information he had was too valuable.

“They say there's what?” I prompted.

“Goings-on. You know. Weird people hanging out there and that type of thing.”

“What weird people?”

“I don't know. It's just rumors. The forest service calls it a cult.”

“What kind of a cult?”

“That's all I know,” he whispered confidentially, smiling and nodding at another passing guest. “If you're going up there, get your friends to go with you. Or wait until next Tuesday when I'm off.”

I
didn't give myself any alternative. It was just something I had to do. I couldn't afford to freak out or be scared. I had to keep moving forward, into the unknown, until I found him.

I'd used maps before, but never one that showed roadless terrain. Instead of streets and highways, this map showed trails and topographical features with names like Dead Horse Canyon, Rattlesnake Creek, Moccasin Lake, and Smartypants Peak.

Under the watchful eye of Mike, the desk clerk, I traced the entire route to Devil's Spring in ink before I left the lodge. Mike told me to be prepared for some climbing. He also insisted that I take his sterling-silver bear whistle. (Sweet of him, since these whistles sold for $29.95 in the gift shop.) Bears had poor eyesight, he said, and didn't always see humans until the humans literally stumbled upon them. If I blew the whistle at regular intervals, it would alert any bears to my presence and give them time to run away.

That was reassuring.

“Keep an eye out for rattlers, too,” Mike told me. “Seems like there's a bumper crop of 'em this year.”

My knees went weak. “Will the whistle scare snakes away, too?”

He laughed. “Nah. Snakes don't have ears. All you can do with snakes is keep an eye glued to the trail. Rattlers like hot, sunny spots. Big flat stones, that type of thing.”

Once for a lit class in junior college, I had to read this book of ancient myths. There was this one myth about a lovely maiden who was bitten by a serpent and sent to the Underworld. Her adoring husband loved her so much that he entered Hell and confronted all its horrors in order to see her again. This dude loved his wife so much that the gods in Hell took pity. They said his wife could follow him back up to the world of the living. But if he looked back at her even once during the journey, he'd lose her forever.

And that's what he did, of course. Tormented by doubt or curiosity, he looked back. And the poor wife, I think she turned into a pillar of salt or something weird.

As I left the lodge, I was thinking a lot about that myth. What I was doing was like a version in reverse. The wife going after her husband. A woman risking Hell for the love of a man.

 

 

A flat, easy trail covered with bark dust threaded east from the lodge along the river. A pair of joggers nodded as they huffed by. The trail led past tennis courts, an archery range, and another stable and horse paddock. I wondered if this was where Marcello housed his valuable stud Chiron. Beyond the meadow used as a private landing strip, the trail plunged into the dark forest.

Here the path was still maintained, and there were signs pointing off to various other trails. I stayed close to the river, which cascaded down an increasingly steep and rocky course. The rushing waters filled the air with a cool, effervescent mist that sparkled in the soft morning light. The air smelled so sweet and clean it tickled my nose and tingled around the roots of my hair.

Wheezing lungs and aching thighs soon told me the trail was getting steeper. Natural steps had been created from the exposed roots of giant riverside trees. The sight of those gnarled, fingerlike roots reminded me of something I'd read as a kid. Was it
Peter Pan?
Whitman had given me a beautifully illustrated copy for my tenth birthday. In the book, someone or something lived beneath a tree, and the entrance was through a vaginal opening at the base.

I continued to climb until the trail leveled out again and I entered, as if by magic, a huge open meadow. In the bright, clear light everything looked freshly created. Soft silvery-green grasses grew in clumps along the banks of the river. The meadow was dappled with wildflowers blossoming in bright shades of red, yellow, purple, white, and blue. Butterflies popped up from the thick carpet of meadowgrass, skated along the top of it, and disappeared again. I'd seen moths before but never real live butterflies. Every few seconds a gust of wind swept over the scene, like a hairbrush, making everything twitch and tremble. The crystalline air was filled with the chirruping songs and sudden piercing cries of unseen birds.

It looked like a safe place for a quick rest. I found a dry log on a pebbly curve of the river and pulled out my smokes. The air was so fresh it made me yawn. My eyes were watering. I closed them and raised my face to the morning sun. It was like being caressed by soft warm hands.

As I sat there, eyes closed, soaking up the warmth, I heard a soft whirring noise. I opened one eye. A hummingbird was hovering just inches from my head, so close I could feel the vibration of its wings. When I moved, it let out a faint
tsking
click and zipped away.

I followed its progress to a nearby bush covered with a froth of reddish-purple flowers. And when I saw what was happening, I just sat there in a kind of delighted shock, staring with wonder, like a kid in front of a department store window at Christmas.

The bush was covered with hummingbirds. Dozens of the tiny iridescent creatures, their rosy feathers gleaming in the sunlight, were zooming in to sip nectar. I'd never seen anything like it. In and out, up and down, backward and forward, darting, clicking, their wings a vibrational blur, they probed the heart of every flower, hovering effortlessly in midair as they stuck their needle-thin beaks in like nozzles to suck up high-octane sugar. They were tiny but plucky and didn't fly away when I slowly approached for a closer look.

But I couldn't be sidetracked. I had my own work to do.

I studied the map, trying to pick out topographical features. I'd come to a place called Sleepy Meadow. The jagged line of trees on a rise at the far end of the meadow must be Lightning Ridge. I couldn't see it, but nearby was Rheumatiz Gulch. So many creeks fed into the river that the map looked like it had a bad case of varicose veins.

I had to keep following the river until I came to the log bridge in Dead Horse Canyon. I couldn't tell how far that was, but I suddenly realized that I hadn't brought anything to eat or drink with me. Also, I had to go to the bathroom really bad.

I looked around for someplace to go. Which was pretty ridiculous, since I was the only person up there. If I wanted to, I could just walk along and poop wherever I pleased, like an animal.

I wondered what Sacagawea used for toilet paper.

 

 

Marielle's hiking boots seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. The hot beginnings of a blister throbbed on my right big toe and left heel.

As I started off again, my mind nervously played out various disaster scenarios. From my brief phone contact with Tremaynne, I didn't know what to expect. He'd sounded like he was trying not to be overheard. He'd said “Hurry.” Did that mean,
Hurry up, say what you have to say, and get off the phone?
Or,
Hurry up and get your ass to the hot springs because I'm in deep-shit trouble and I need your help?
He'd said he couldn't come back because of some big fuck-up. It all added up to ominous.

Maybe he'd been kidnapped by the weird cult that hung around Devil's Spring.

Maybe the cult was involved with the underworld of drugs. Drug people were dangerous, as I knew from my brief introduction to them in middle school. A girl I knew was shot and killed on the playground because she turned her crack-selling brother in to the police.

Or maybe when Mike said “cult,” it was code for “terrorists.” That was what all the rich people at Pine Mountain Lodge were so nervous about. It had crossed my mind that Tremaynne might somehow be tied up with Earth Freedom. But if he was with them, why had he been so tight-lipped on the phone? Because they were on a secret mission? Or because he'd somehow run afoul of them? I felt instinctively that he was in danger, but I didn't know how or from what. One horrible possibility after another presented itself for inspection. Images tumbled through my agitated brain. Completely unsuspecting, Tremaynne goes out for a hike, crosses the river, and gets nabbed by the terrorist group or some weird cult hiding in the forest. They force him to the hot springs . . .

If that was the case, why didn't he want me to tell anyone where he was?

Because he'd escaped and was hiding from them? Or because one of them had a gun pointed at his head as he spoke?

 

 

I kept walking. My mouth was dry as a bone, but I didn't dare to drink the river water. I couldn't believe there was a river anywhere in the world that was clean.

I thought about it as my thirst grew. What could possibly pollute this water, way up here in the wilderness, away from factories and sewage? It looked absolutely pristine. But, of course, it was teeming with micro-organisms.

And fish.

It would be like drinking from an aquarium.

The river cut a wide, deep, curving trench through the meadow. The water didn't look more than waist deep, but it was running fast. Golden flecks of light shimmered on its surface. I walked along the bank, boots crunching on gray gravely rocks.

As I moved farther and farther away from the lodge, the map was all I had to find my way back. I held it tight, like a talisman. If I lost the map, I was a goner.

It was beautiful, what I was seeing, but it was frightening, too. It didn't make a lot of sense to me. Without people, it was just an empty landscape. I was more comfortable with concrete and asphalt and being indoors. Rooms with stale air and tinted windows and machines were more my style.

But thinking about that world, my world, as I trudged through this landscape, was like remembering an agitated dream. Out here, on Sleepy Meadow, my cramped concept of space was stretched beyond recognition. There was nothing around me but open land. I didn't signify in this place. I didn't matter. Who I was, or thought I was, or wanted to be, meant nothing. The only creatures that lived out here were the ones that knew how to adapt and survive. Even the fragile hummingbirds knew how to stay alive. But I didn't.

I figured I could go for at least one whole day without food. Water was more important.

I wondered what it must have been like for the Indians, riding through this vastness on their horses, and for the pioneers on the Oregon Trail, hauling all their worldly belongings across it in creaky covered wagons. Those people had no city consciousness, the way I did. Their way of life was incomprehensibly inconvenient. They'd never once torn open a bag of potato chips, for instance, or popped the tab on a can of cold Dr. Pepper.

At the next bend of the river, I came upon a thicket of berries. A thorny green tangle of vines cascaded down from the meadow above the riverbank. Ripe berries dangled like luscious black jewels among the treacherous thorns.

Blackberries. I was almost positive. But what if I was wrong, and they were poisonous?

A thorn pricked my finger as I reached in. The berry slid free. I carefully withdrew my hand and studied my prize.

It had to be a blackberry. Carolee made a fruit tart with blackberries. Every summer, the dads went out blackberry picking and served them with lemon sorbet or crème fraîche. I'd seen blackberries all my life, but I'd never picked one.

I couldn't be sure unless I tasted it. And even then...

I drew back my lips and took a tiny bite. A familiar sweet tartness exploded into my mouth.

Soon my hands were sticky, scratched and bleeding as I stripped berry after berry from the thick ripe clusters and stuffed them in my mouth. I wished I had some half-melted vanilla ice cream to go with them. I was starving and must have eaten a hundred.

Then, feeling bold, I decided I would drink some of the river water. Just a few sips, to slake the worst of my thirst.

I crouched by the shore and dabbled my stained hands in water so cold that it burned. I washed off the blackberry juice and then dipped up some water and looked at it. It was clearer than the water from my tap at home.

I scooped up another handful. At first I just put my lips in it. The ice-cold water took away the sting from raw blackberries and hot sun. Then, half-expecting to keel over as some
Alien
-like organism slid down my throat, colonized my gut, and exploded out through my chest, I closed my eyes and took a sip. Then another. The river water entered my system.

It tasted sweet, dense, unlike any water I'd ever drunk before. But I couldn't shake the notion that it was like drinking from an aquarium. What I really wanted was a super-size Dr. Pepper with tons of chewable ice chips, or a latte grandissimo with raspberry syrup and plenty of sugar.

Just upstream, some scrubby-looking bushes had taken root in the pebbly shore of the river. It was like seeing “Ladies” on a restroom door. I could crouch between the bushes and do my business in private.

Flies buzzed around big splatters of what looked like dried blackberry puke caked on rocks near the shoreline. The river had thrown up smooth, broken branches. Leaves. Strings of plant debris. I passed the skeleton of a fish, its cloudy gray eye staring up at the blinding blue heavens.

Once inside my powder room I peeled Marielle's tight jeans down to my ankles, squatted over a weatherbeaten log, and let it gush. What a relief. The wind tickled my bare ass, blew through my crotch hair. Those Indian and pioneer women must have known the exact same feeling.

As I crouched there, relieving myself, I idly looked through the leafy branches.

That's when I saw the bear.

It was slowly ambling along the riverbank, stopping often to sniff the air. It was still quite a way off, but definitely heading in my direction. I looked for cubs but couldn't see any. A male, then?

I clamped down in mid-pee, stood straight up, and quickly yanked up my underpants and jeans. My head was light with fear. I looked across the meadow to see if there was any sort of protection.