THE RIVER |
Elliot Larson was a strong man, dying. About this he held no illusions, and the knowledge of impending death did not bother him. It was the remnants of life that caused irritation, the clinging memories, regrets spawned by the sun breaking through the window. Grimacing he turned on the smooth clean sheets and settled on his side, facing the window. Outside, in the late afternoon light the mud banks of Youngs Bay glowed amber. Elliot's mind retreating from the pain, ebbed into memories of youth. The years had left his body with scars of the past, so it was to the past he retreated. "Stomach cancer," Doc Madson had said to him a year
before in his office, "Nothing can be done about it but radiation,
maybe some surgery. We can't stop it. Too advanced." Cancer, an insidious disease corrupting the flesh, relentlessly
disfiguring his insides, carrying him into realms of pain from
which there was but one escape, an escape he longed for but feared.
His body was unable to contain the death that lingered in his
cells, unable to contain the pain, no matter how much he wanted
to live. Still, even in his agony, he judged that seventy-one years
had been a fair enough share of life. What more had he to do which
he had not already done? Seventy-one years had left him pain and
memories. Pain and memories were what he'd become an expert on;
too much of an expert. He wished he could shut it all out, even
the memories were not worth the pain. Inside, his guts screamed
pain, agony, brutal reminder of the impending, and he groped for
the brown bottle upon his bedstead. The bottle was full, a thirty day supply, he noticed, touching
reality for an instant as he shakily poured two of the white tablets
into his yellow, blue veined hands. He stared at the pills then
shook the bottle. A half dozen poured out. Upending the bottle
he emptied it and let the empty vessel roll on the table. Cupping
his hand he put the pills in his mouth then took a hit of water.
Swishing the pills in his mouth he wondered for a second, the
sour taste was delicious with the foreknowledge that pain would
soon be gone, then swallowed. We live, and then we die, he thought, just as the sun, which
was hovering a red ball above the ocean mists, lived and died
in a universe which he was just a microscopic part of. He was
certain one couldn't ask anything more from life than the living
of it, it was a matter of honor and faith. To expect more was
a foolish greed. Of this he was sure, sure as the sun would rise
in the morning and he would be gone... sure as death. He mused, if he had life to live over again, what would he
have changed. Martha? No, never Martha. He could hear her washing
dishes downstairs in the kitchen. Funny, how his hearing and eyesight
had never failed him as they had so many of his friends. In some
ways he felt himself fortunate, youth was wasted on the young.
When he'd been young, life had been easy, pain was rare and fleeting
not this ever-constant killing pain. What would he have changed? His work, his life. No, fishing
had been good to him. He'd loved being on the Columbia River bar
in August, with the moon low above the water and the water turning
into dappled shimmering scales of light, almost like the river
was a living serpent. Elliott realize that the drug was starting
to take effect, that the pain was starting to ebb, as the river
would ebb into an ocean spreading the vision of life into nature. The creases on his face relaxed as he drifted backwards into
the late 1930's; the times had been fine. In the years before the
war they'd driven those big polished automobiles up the winding
poplar lined road to Swenson. Friday nights they'd kick up their
heels and enjoy the wild ecstatic energy of youth, drink a little
beer, smoke cigarettes and try to get alone with a girl... maybe
get alone with a girl... yeah that was it. Funny how he thought of those times now, he hadn't danced
nor... no, none of that either, in years. The dances, the music,
the musicians dressed up fancy, speckled, shimmering suits, drifted
through his half-conscious dream. The girls in their knee skirts
wearing bobby socks daringly twirled flashes of delight, he smelled
the spilled beer on sawdust floors, the raw odor of whiskey in
the back-seat, hot steamy August nights, a touch in the dark.
Yes, life had been fine, the living was good. He could hear the
laughter. The salmon were thick in the river, then. A man could make
a living, a good one just taking his share. He recalled the silence
on the Columbia River late at night, when everything went silent
and a wave of fog socked them in. Awesome the silence, incredible
the beauty of the nights on the river. Then the fog had cleared
and street-lights of the hill simmered through the mist. The town
never totally slept, but lay there, a primeval organism resting
but wary. In the north the big dipper hanging over the Washington
shoreline ladled celestial magic. And there was magic, for the fish were there, and they kept
coming year after year. Noble-headed thirty pound Chinook salmon
kept coming, following the instinct to spawn in the fresh water
from whence they'd spawned, just like they'd spawned for Elliot's
father and grandfather before him, just like they'd done for the
Indians before, and before that the grizzly and before that some
saber-jawed cat indulging in prehistoric gorge, and before that...
thrall. Yes, he remembered with white joy the bright Chinook Salmon
gilled in the linen nets of the Scandinavian, Greek, Italian fishermen,
and Natives fishing the river as their ancestors. People close
to the sea, wind-weathered and hardy, always willing to lend a
hand, to buy a drink, to listen to one's dreams, and troubles,
life was like that, slowly nodding heads over bottles of whiskey,
celebrations at season's end. No one ever got rich from fishing, they didn't need to be
rich, it wasn't California, they didn't need trendy styles. They
had other dreams. They dreamed of tons of salmon glistening like
silver dollars in the nets, and happy times, saunas, fish bakes,
bottles of whiskey, on the sand bars of the river. And then there
was the war, WW II, the big one, and everything changed. They
found themselves different when they returned, there were parts
of themselves they didn't talk about, even when drunk, that emerged
in their sleep. Their young wives had instinctually understanding
all, gave these suddenly fragile men children. In the kitchen below, Martha attacked her big cast iron skillet
with a scouring pad. Suddenly, she heard the knock on the back
door. Turning to the sound of the door opening, she heard the
tread of her son as he walked through the foyer in to the living
room. In front of her, her god, her son, Harold, stood nervously,
legs slightly spread in a gray-striped suit amid the turn of the
century furniture. Her spirit lifted, then sagged as her daughter-in-law
stepped beside him. Martha kept smiling, but she knew that Janet knew that she'd
wished Harold had been a little less impulsive, that he had
taken the time to marry a local girl like the Olson girl. But
that was all water under the bridge. He'd made his bed and was
sleeping in it, barren though it might be. Still, they lived the
modern life and it seemed so different from the life that Elliot
and her had known. Things were simpler then, everything was trees
and fish, now it was computer screens and talk. Moving across the room she could feel the veil of tension
around Janet. The two of them were too different, not only in
personality but in time. Janet was one of the modern women, had
her own job, had her own way and was insistent about things...
especially things. Well, she had things, but no children... that
was the modern woman for you. If Martha was in Janet's shoes she
would feel ashamed. But shame was not one of Janet Larson's problems. Her problems
ran deeper than that. She'd met Harold in college, when he was
a spoiled only son who shone as a pulling guard on a cow-college
football team. She's met him at a sorority party and tamed him
easily and quickly, for the one mistake his mother had made in
raising Harold was instilling a deep dependence upon women in
him. And Janet was a strong woman who enjoyed the tall, good looking
athlete who she'd molded. "Mom, how've you been?" Harold asked as he walked
across the spotless linoleum floor and kissed her soft white cheek. "Fine, I'm fine...You missed dinner, but I saved some
sandwiches for you. Roast venison...from last year's trip to Eastern
Oregon. I cooked it just like you like it. Sit down...sit down...you
must be tired after that long drive. You want coffee, milk, or
beer?" "Beer's fine. Janet?" "Coffee. Those little Japanese cars are so cramped, I
just seem tied up in knots after a long drive." She smiled
showing her good teeth as she sat in one of the wooden chairs. "You should get yourself an Oldsmobile," Martha
remarked as she served sandwiches." You know as you get older,
you appreciate the luxury. And, of course, in an accident they're
much safer." "An Oldsmobile like yours?" Janet replied, acidic. "Well...you don't need a station wagon. I guess seeing
you live in the city and don't have any children." "No... I guess we don't need a station wagon, or an Oldsmobile,
for that matter. Japanese cars are so much more economical. And
the world has only so many natural resources you knowlike
the salmon." "Oh, I know all about the salmon. You don't have to
tell me. The salmon will be back. Times change. The young men
they all go to Alaska now, that's where the fish are. Still, the
salmon will return to the river. We manage to live comfortable." "Comfortably, yes..." "Ma, how's Dad?" Harold cut in. Martha looked at her son, her eyes talking and said, "That's
why I called you to come up. I thought you'd want to see him." "What's the doctor say?" "The doctor makes a lot of talk. None of it good." "What did he say? Exactly." "He says Elliot could live longer if we put him in the
hospital." "And?" "And you know your Pa. He won't go. He says he won't die
with a bunch of tubes sticking out of his nose." "Well. I wouldn't put up with that nonsense," Janet
cut in. "I wouldn't think you would," Martha replied, the
muscles of her face straining under the placid exterior. "But
you see we were brought up in different times. We think differently
about things." "I can see that." "I know." "Mom, I want to see dad," Harold looked at her,
his sandwich untouched. Over the plastic table cloth's gaily printed flowers Martha
examined her son. He was big and handsome, just like that day
she'd sent him off to college nineteen years before. That was
funny. They'd thought that college was the place to sent their
children. Get an education, then you won't have to break you back
to make a living, that was the answer. Go to college and you could
be somebody. Be somebody. Did it matter? Well, they thought it mattered, but every son who worked with
his hands for a living seemed to have stayed around home, married,
and had children. Again, Martha blamed herself. It had just seemed
so right at the time. And now she was looking at her son who didn't
have to break his back and his tall beautiful wife who make fifty
thousand dollars a year, herself, and wondered if life made any
sense at all. Maybe it would have been better for Harold to have been
a fisherman and gone to Alaska, but the fish would be gone from
there someday. Civilization always destroyed the fish, that was
the way of things. She never said it, but it was how she felt. "Yes, I suppose so. You know he usually naps after dinner,
but we can wake him. He's upstairs in your old bedroom. Sick like
he is, he wants to sleep alone." Elliot heard the conversation below. His door was open and
the sound was clear. The pills were shrouding his mind with veils
of mist, but the voice of his son had reached him. He wanted to
see Harold. He remembered teaching the boy to fish, remembered
watching him grow strong enough to do a man's work by the time
he was seventeen. One thing about that boy, he never minded work.
But they never talked much. Of course Elliot didn't believe much
in talk, words just seemed so meaningless. He drifted into the cool dry meadows of autumn. That whitetail
buck he'd dropped last fall was standing up to his haunches in
long yellow grass. The buck had been an old grandfather, just
waiting for him. Squinting through the scope he'd hesitated as
he lined the shot up, he could smell the crisp highland air of
the meadow as he heard the procession making their way up the
carpeted steps. A blur of colors, a spin of memories, he tried
to turn from the past to the present. He wanted to see his son
again. The past faded, the smell of the long crisp grass lingered,
mixed with the sour odor of cordite but his son was not there. Harold stood in silence at the foot of the bed for a moment,
staring at the dignity of his father. The silence broke suddenly
as Martha screamed and fell to her knees, her hands grasping the
quilt at the bed's edge. As his mother sobbed Harold closed his father's
eyelids with one hand. Turning away he stared out the window onto
the bay where the moon cast a brilliant sparkle on the water. "If you'd taken him to the hospital he'd still be alive."
Janet said, her voice sharp. Slowly Harold turned to her. Her face blurred in and out of
focus. Finally, he said, "Shut up." "You don't tell me to shut up." Harold gave Janet a look she'd never seen before. The change
in him sent her spinning out of the room and down the stairs into
the living room. Adrenaline and anger filled her as she walked
to the door and opened it. The street beckoned, children played
basketball at a basket nailed onto a power pole. Janet, regrouped,
this was all emotional, it would end, things would return to normal.
Those children out on the street, disgusting. What if they got
hurt? Who'd be liable? Harold walked over to the window, and pulled the window open.
A fresh western breeze rolled in off the ocean. In an hour the
sun would touch the ocean, a big orange ball simmering above the
sea. the important things were still there, the earth, the sun,
the ocean, the salmon, trees, and the river. The river was still
there. He put his hands on the sill and leaned out the window,
and cried silently. And less than a mile away in the brown swirling waters of the Columbia River the salmon ran, maddened by the taste of fresh water, absorbed in the primal instinct to spawn. And Harold, through his tears, for the first time realized he understood his father. Absorbed by the swirl of the ebb along the gray sand banks he felt his spirit tugged onward by a force he could neither resist nor understand. Copyright 2004 by Mike Strom
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