Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [52]
Dusk fell around us. I returned to the outdoor kitchen and pried the locks off the wooden storage bins beneath the table. Scout groups and churches used them to keep paper goods dry and away from the mice, but oftentimes they’d leave canned goods because they didn’t feel like hauling them out. The first box held nothing but paper plates, some plastic Solo cups and three rolls of toilet paper. The second one contained a tarp, a box of unopened but stale saltine crackers, two cans of sardines marinated in Louisiana hot sauce, three Swiss cake rolls and some matches. In the third, I hit the jackpot—graham crackers, marshmallows and a few Hershey bars.
The fireplace was more of a pit, open on four sides, and the metal chimney hung from the roof, drawing the smoke and heat upward. It was a safe way to let kids cook s’mores.
A dozen or so straightened coat hangers had been laid across the rafters. I pulled one down and placed it into the fire, burning off the rust. Once hot and sterile, I stabbed it through two marshmallows and pulled a bench up close to the fire. I wasn’t too crazy about lighting a signal fire, but I had a feeling that whoever was following us already knew where we were. Besides, the warmth felt good. A minute or so later, Abbie appeared next to me. I placed two chocolate squares on top of one of the crackers, then slid a gooey marshmallow on top and capped it with the other graham cracker. Abbie smiled. “Honey, you shouldn’t have.” Melted chocolate and marshmallow goo squeezed out the sides of her mouth as she bit into it.
I pointed the poker downriver. “Tomorrow, a few more miles and we’ll start coming upon the weekend getaways. Most have outdoor kitchens and refrigerators. Until then…”
She smiled, marshmallow dabbed in the corner of her mouth. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’d done this before.”
“What? S’mores?”
She shook her head. “No, dummy, the stealing.”
“Admittedly…” I glanced out over the river. “I’ve had some practice.”
The fire died down and coals turned white while we ate every crumb, including the saltines, but Abbie turned up her nose when it came to the sardines. I set aside the Swiss cake rolls for breakfast. The quick energy would help get me going. I was tired and I had a feeling I wouldn’t get much sleep tonight either.
The night passed with little excitement. A light rain drizzled around midnight, cooling the air, so I stoked the fire, and then unfolded the tarp and towel and laid both over Abbie. About two hours before daylight, I lifted her off the table and laid her cocoonlike in the bottom of the canoe. She was sleeping fitfully, so I gave her a lollipop; she flew to la-la land and stayed there until daylight.
At Highway 121, the Okefenokee Trail turns due east for six miles until Stokes Bridge where she makes a hard left and bends due north in a relatively straight shot to Folkston and Boulogne. In topographic terms, it is here that the river has begun rolling off Florida’s shoulders.
The river widens here to eight car lengths—give or take. ATV tracks cut the banks along with bog holes, and several trash piles, tucked up in the palmetto bushes, are used as regular dumps by the locals. A waterlogged mattress, the corpse of a bullet-riddled refrigerator, half a motorcycle, several dozen National Geographics, and a myriad of Budweiser cans and bottles had melted into the mud and sand. Below the bridge, a three-wheeled, rusted shopping cart sat upside down, its once-chrome basket clogged with sticks and plastic bags. A newer model—shiny red plastic—lay in a mangled pile atop the concrete chunks having not survived the drop from the bridge.
17
For the record, I did ask his permission. The key there is ask. His schedule was always tight. It was tough getting an audience with him—even for five minutes. He was seldom alone. It was Thanksgiving weekend. He’d come home to cut the turkey. Abbie had been working all over. She’d been gone weeks at a time. I’d graduated and was working two jobs: For rent money, I was guiding fishermen