They Almost Always Come Home (19 page)

“Hon, what’s wrong?” she asks. “Are you seriously hurt?”

I can imagine she’s wondering how she’ll cope with two

patients on her hands for the rest of the trip. All I’m focused on

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at the moment is the slash of purple rising out of the primor- dial ooze. I reach to brush the debris from around it.

Not just purple, but “Grapes at Sunrise” purple. I teased Greg mercilessly about his decision to paint his Swiss Army knife housing the color of Tuscan grapes. I told him people would think he was a Vikings fan. We know how well that would go over in our part of Wisconsin.

“This is Greg’s,” I tell Jen, brushing away more debris. She crouches next to me. “Are you sure?”

“He insisted it was a fitting color for a guy who’d just scored a major coup in the world of grape jam for Greene’s Grocery.” “I’ve never heard of anyone painting his pocket knife.” Her voice is taking on the air of a burned-out childcare worker. “And here I am, in awe of a two-inch piece of purple metal that I know without question belongs to my husband.”

Jen lays her hand on my shoulder. She squeezes. I think that means, “Glory to God.”

“Fell out of his pocket?” she says.

“Looks like it. A downward trajectory for it to land nose-in like this.”

“Downward trajectory? Well, aren’t you just the consum- mate CSI!”

With crime scene investigator diligence, she and I comb the area for more evidence. We look at the position of the knife, trying to determine in our untrained way if it represents a drop made heading deeper into the wilderness or on the way out. Hard to tell without microscopes and laser beams, graphs, and computer programs.

When we’ve determined the area is hopelessly stingy with its evidence, I pocket the knife. Greg made it this far at least. As we paddled past countless shorelines and bays and inlets and islands each day, I wondered if we paddled right past him—beyond where he stood or lay. My eye sockets are

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bone dry from constantly scanning the shore for clues—a col- umn of smoke from a campfire, a piece of familiar clothing left drying and forgotten on a rock or a low-hanging branch.

We’ve seen three other canoes since entering the Quetico.

One was heading in the same direction. I would have told the canoeist to call his wife if I’d had the courage to speak when he came up behind us on a portage as if speed limits meant nothing to him. We gave him one of the cards Jen printed up with Greg’s description and Brent’s phone number. The canoe- ist only had time for the
Reader’s Digest
condensed version of the story.

Our second encounter with people other than ourselves

was an older couple—older than Frank—whose leathery faces told us this wasn’t their first outdoor excursion. They passed us on the water heading out of the park a few hours ago. But no, they hadn’t seen anyone matching Greg’s description.

The third canoe belonged to a teenager and his dad, a guy

with Greg’s build but a potty mouth. So not my Greg. They’d fished up, down, and around the tangle of lakes and rivers for the last eight days. They’d seen a family of wolves, a cow moose with calf, and ancient pictographs—the early Native American version of hieroglyphics—but no sign of Greg.

He was here, though. This far at least. I have the proof in

my pocket.

The regret of what we may have missed to this point washes

away in an instant, as if we flipped the Etch-a-Sketch of worry and shook it to start a new picture. He made it this far.

“Do you suppose that’s illegal? Taking the evidence with

us?” Jen asks me after we’ve resumed our trek toward the light and water at the end of our woodland tunnel. “Illegal?”

“Or unwise? I know it sounds dumb, but what if the authori-

ties would need to fingerprint it or measure distances from the

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trail or something? Have we just tampered with the evidence? Is that a prosecutable offense?”

Frank would get a laugh out of our concern over a purple pocket knife and jail time.

I have to work at not letting Jen’s reference to the possibility of foul play torment me. “Tell you what. I’ll make Greg put it back when we’re on our way home.”

Is there any real hope of that?

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R
etracing our steps down the portage trail to make another trip and another with canoe and packs and equipment seems equivalent to watching a baby’s crowning head retreat between contractions. The agony! Let’s get on with this! We need to move forward, not backward.

But there is no other way. We’ll need every bit of this equip-

ment, and we can’t afford to overtax Frank right now. He’s holding his own, but I don’t need a degree in medicine to know he’s exhausted. The heat isn’t helping. Where’s that cold front now when we need one?

I wonder if Estée Lauder makes a fragrance capable of mask-

ing what I smell like. Jen’s running a close second. Frank, well, Frank has his own brand of “air freshener.”

Everything we experience ignites my imagination. How is

Greg coping with these same issues? If he’s deathly ill, how is he fighting off the flies during the day and no-see-ums at night? My mind can’t shake the picture of starving, emaciated patients lying in open-air African hospitals, while flies crawl over their matted eyes and oozing sores.

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Jen would quote Philippians 4 and warn me to think about “whatever is pure, whatever is true, whatever is lovely, what- ever is of good report.”

Of good report? Let’s see. We have a broken canoe pad- dle, empty sunflower shells, and a tiny knife with the world’s smallest scissors and the best little tweezers for plucking eye- brows. I’m grateful for the clues, but can any of them qualify as encouraging news? Greg lost a paddle and dropped his knife. Both beg the question
why?
Both items held significance to him. Why did he abandon them? Or me? There may be some simple explanations. But good reports? I’ll reserve judgment a while longer.

“That’s odd,” Jen says, as we slide from the rocky shore onto the satiny water.

I slip into my canoe seat without rocking the vessel or splashing our equipment. Sweet. “What is?” “Getting back to paddling seems like a relief.” I agree. That is indeed odd.

After an hour of relief paddling, Frank suggests we tem- porarily lash our canoes together out on the water and eat a late lunch here, away from the worst of the insect convention. Good advice.

Strange as it sounds, we may have to take some time later today to fish. Noodles and rice and hash browns stretch a meal but we could use more protein. Frank, especially.

How long did Greg’s supplies last? Is he nursing the last crumbs of moldy cheese or rationing raisins to survive? Is he harvesting wild blueberries? Is he conscious?

Worry is so much more natural than faith. I think I’d like to try living in the supernatural for a while. Would I have con- sidered such a thing back home where everything around me bore the imprint of imperfect humanity?

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Turning backward in the canoe seat to flash a breakthrough

kind of smile in Jen’s direction, I notice the sunburn on her bare arms. Mine sting when I scratch one of several dozen mosquito bites. Sunscreen would have been a good idea. It’s buried somewhere in the side pocket of a pack that’s tucked into the bottom of the canoe. Moot point now. Like so many things, once you feel it, it’s too late to do anything about it.

“Do you think Greg packed sunscreen?” Jen asks from her

position in the stern. The stern. I know this now. “I’m sure he did.”

“Good,” she says. “Good.”

We finish eating and pick up our paddles again. Stroke after

stroke in silence for an eternity.

********

Another night in the wilderness. Another dawn. Another

reason to let loose of our tenuous grip on hope.

We tear down camp with a marked absence of conversation.

Frank hasn’t said it, but we all know we should be heading out today, not deeper in. Even if Frank regains full strength, we can’t keep searching and still manage to pull into the driveway at home when we said we would. We’ve missed our opportu- nity to keep our word.

But when the canoes slide into the water, they’re drawn by

the magnetism of what might lie deeper in. Frank’s going to have to call Pauline.

Our few conversations on the SAT phone each night haven’t

been long. It doesn’t take much time to say, “Anything, Brent?” and hear, “Sorry. Nothing,” in response. Over and out.

The Canadian authorities apprehended the Jeep thief. That

much we know. They’re charging him with possession of a sto- len vehicle, but have found no evidence he did more than lift

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it from the put-in point. Still no answers. They promised more passes with the search plane and will continue to chase down the stories of the thief’s aiding-and-abetting buddies while we keep chasing hopelessness.

Last night, Brent related that Zack and Alex called from the central research facility in Santiago. They’re fine. Survivors. When Brent told them the news, Alex broke down and begged to come home. Without thinking too long, I told Brent to charge their airfare home to Wisconsin. I’ll find a way to pay him back. I need my boys near me.

Who knows? Maybe I have some small measure of strength to offer them.

If the cloud cover is thick, satellite phone reception is spotty.
Can you hear me now?
If the sky stays as cloudless as it is right now, we should have no problem getting through to Brent—and Pauline—tonight.

I’m not expecting Brent to say, “Oh, hey! Glad you called. Yeah. Greg’s right here. We’re watching the baseball game on ESPN. Let me put him on the line for you.” Not expecting that at all.

The wind is picking up. Appreciably. We haven’t had to fight waves to this point. Within a few minutes we feel as if we’re in a scene from
The Perfect Storm
. I didn’t know how blessed we were before the wind blew.

“Keep your nose into the waves!” Frank calls across the water.

Is that Jen’s responsibility from the back or mine from the front of our canoe?

“Don’t let them catch you broadside,” he cautions. “Like that,” he says after we’re drenched by a rogue wave I didn’t anticipate. Apparently, the responsibility of scouting is mine. My body’s blocking Jen’s line of vision, so it’s up to me to hol- ler “right” or “left” or “big one coming” to give her guidance.

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It takes twice as much effort to achieve half as much prog-

ress with the wind fighting us. We’ve lost so much time with Frank’s injury and our need to slow down that it’s trouble- some to consider losing more. I dig my paddle deeper. Sit up straighter. Lean forward for better leverage.

My face stings and my eyes water from the pounding of

the wind. We’re tiring fast. Our only respite is the relatively quiet water behind well-placed islands that serve as temporary windbreaks.

If we were on a larger body of water with more room for

the wind to pick up before slugging us, we’d be traveling backward.

I can hear Greg’s voice telling me, “Sometimes we voya-

geurs are forced to take a wind day, Libby.” Now I get it.

So much for fishing for a meal. What self-respecting fish

would want to come out on a day like this and have to body surf for a nibble of a plastic minnow?

Behind me, Jen says, “I’m worried, Libby.”

Please don’t say that, Jen. I’m doing enough worrying for the

both of us.
“About what? You’re doing great back there.” I have to raise my voice and turn my head so the sound carries above the mini-gale.

“Frank looks exhausted. We’re running neck and neck with

him, and it looks like he’s giving it his all.”

“Can we pull over closer to him and suggest we sit this

out?”

“I don’t think we have a choice.”

Before we can act on the idea, Frank heads his canoe

around a point. We follow, overjoyed to find a sheltered cove with calm waters and a low, flat, postcard-scenic campsite. The cove’s opening is so narrow we feel as if we’ve slipped into another world—a perfect, secret hiding place.

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Not so perfect. Greg isn’t here.

But we’re protected. We all need the break. Frank doesn’t fully unload his canoe. He uses the first pack he hauls out as a pillow and lies down on a flat rock.

I’m sad we can’t travel any farther today, but I must admit I’m grateful for such a beautiful, easy-access spot on which to camp. Smooth, wide, flat areas for the tents. A great stone fire pit complete with a grill that none of the other camping spots have had. And a rough log creation that resembles a picnic table.

Jen and I know what to do now. We’re content to let Frank rest while we set up camp. It’s not as easy or efficient without him, but we do it.

The water’s boiling for a rice concoction by the time Frank wakes from his siesta. He’s into and out of the woods before he comments on our setup.

“Nice work, ladies.”

It’s enough.

“I wish we could have gone farther today,” Jen says. “Not much point in that,” he answers.

Has he reached the end of his reservoir of “there’s still a chance”? We’ve seen nothing to feed it since I stumbled onto a flash of purple. But how could we focus on much more than nosing into the waves for the last several hours?

“This is it,” he says, not opening his eyes to speak to us. “What’s it?” Jen asks the question but we both want to know.

He lifts his chin and takes in the scene: the refreshingly still water protected from the wind that rages beyond the cove’s tree barricade—water that reflects the picturesque cupped hand of Creation in which we’re standing.