The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show - Ariel Gore [43]
If only.
I felt hotly jealous of Assisi—who’s jealous of a place?—but that town soothed my grandmother like a lover, brought a lightness to her face no childish accomplishment or sudden bleeding ever could. The cloak of life-is-sorrow she wore like a favorite sweater seemed mystically to lift. She smiled, her dark eyes bright. Even with all the walking, she didn’t complain about her edema or her joints.
Back home, the depression returned. Of course it returned. But for that one precious week, my grandmother floated. She’d touched the tomb of Saint Francis, you know?
Chapter 16
HANDS
The morning is a glare. Every muscle in my body aches.
Dorothy stands, a silhouette in the doorway, her black tote bag slung over her shoulder. “I’m expecting quite a few people tonight,” she says. “You’ll have to take the canoe over to the store and get some wine. Then see what you can do about dinner. I’ll be back by seven.” She turns.
I rub my eyes. “Huh?” I gather my bones to stand, confusion morphing into annoyance. “Dorothy!”
But she’s already gone.
I have $3.60 in my pocket, no idea how to steer a canoe. What kind of hospitality is this?
A hot mug of black coffee waits for me on the table, but no further instructions. I sit dumbly sipping the coffee. Wine? Dinner?
I could leave this place, probably should, but where would I go? Hike back out to the road, hitch a ride somewhere? Maybe up to Tahoe. I could cross the state line, play my $3.60 in the slots, win big. Maybe catch a Greyhound east. Denver. Surely no one reads the L.A. Times in Denver. I could get a job as a waitress in some roadside diner. Instant coffee dreams. What have I gotten myself into?
Outside, the yellow-painted wooden canoe lies upside down, a giant banana on the lakeshore. It takes most of my strength to turn the thing over, slide it into the water.
I find two oars propped against a pine tree, grab one of them, but when I turn around the boat is already floating away. Shit.
I pull my boots off, wade into the freezing lake, manage to catch the thing and climb aboard without tipping it over. I sit on the cloth-covered seat at the helm, start paddling, but the boat just turns like the hand of a clock. I try rowing on the other side. Full counterclockwise rotation.
A bald guy sitting out on his tin boat in the lake laughs at me, sips his morning beer. “You gotta steer that thing from the back!”
“What?”
“Turn your ass around!”
Right.
But even from the back, the long narrow boat is no cinch to maneuver. Left sends me right and right send me left. I have to keep switching sides, battling a south wind intent on blowing me off course. The water that splashes onto my hands and arms is icy, as if this gorgeous clear lake is the very source of all cold. If I capsized, could I swim to safety? I wobble in the general direction of Kay’s Resort, a reddish wood doll-house on the far shore. I should have walked.
A few kids kick around in a beachy lagoon, but otherwise the lake is quiet.
As the water shallows, I jump out of the boat, frightening a few Canadian geese and soaking my jeans. I drag the thing the rest of the way to the shore.
The grocery store/tackle shop’s aisles are stacked with canned wieners and Screaming Yellow Zonkers, marshmallows and packets of beef jerky.
A sunburned man wearing suspenders buys beer and bait. “Where’s the best place to catch trout?” he asks the woman behind the register.
“In the water,” she grumbles.
The orange price sticker on the gallon of Gallo: $8.88.
I wait for the man to leave, hoping the woman behind the register will be more generous without a witness. I show her my money. “Can I pay you the other five-something