with a forty-dollar compass and LL Bean hiking boots and a copy of Thoreau's "Walden" in his backpack, was so lost that Saturday morning looked like Tuesday night.
Susan should have said something. Maybe Saturday afternoon, when Barry eased his hook into the Shawneehaw. Barry had read a book on fly fishing, and Ted Williams, the greatest hitter in baseball history, was also a fly fisherman. Barry talked about Ted Williams so much that Susan wished Williams had been a Yankee instead of a Red Sock.
Because Barry was Yankee. Maine Yankee, the worst kind. She was Jersey Shore college by way of Piedmont Carolina, and much of her blood was rock-deep Southern Appalachian, Scots-Irish and paranoid, a little free-spirited and flaky, but that was no excuse to fall for him. He had passed himself off as a real man and reality was subject to change.
Not that all men should automatically be able to kill bears with a hatchet.
But they could at least take a little time and get things right. Like where they were. And who they were with. To Barry, Susan might as well have been AnnaBeth-Mary, the previous temporary girlfriend to follow him on these Appalachian journeys. At least she had her own tent, so she could turn in early every night.
Doubtless, others had preceded AnnaBeth-Mary and Susan. All of them falling in lock-step with Barry, because when the sun hit his hair just right, he glowed like a lion. Tall and tan and crisp, with muscles and a toothy smile.
But after a while, Barry's little flaws started to show. His confusion. His forgetfulness. His obsession with fly fishing. His play-by-play of the year Ted Williams hit .406.
By Sunday evening, Barry had completely thrown Susan over for the creek. Barry put on waist-high rubber trousers and headed for deep water. She watched from the boulders like a dismal cheerleader as currents skirled around his knees.
And Monday was just as dull. Susan read the hardbacked biography of Benjamin Franklin, a book thick enough to impress any man. But Barry stood by the fire with his fishing pole and a dumb grin and he turned in early so he could chase fish for breakfast.
And now it was Tuesday evening, and they were lost.
"It's Monday, isn't it?" Barry said.
"It's Tuesday."
Barry nodded, fumbled through his backpack, and brought out his fancy bottled water. The campfire glinted off the plastic. Barry peered at the bottle. It was as vacant as his eyes.
"Are we in West Virginia or plain Virginia?" Susan hated herself for not knowing. They’d passed through Harper’s Ferry and over the Shenandoah River, then up Loudon Heights where the trail maps showed a meandering thread back and forth across the border. They headed south out of survival instinct, toward warmer weather. Susan hadn't kept track of miles, all she knew was her feet were sore.
She could outwalk Barry any day, and she could pitch her tent faster than he did. Barry had no brain cells that weren't clouded by Ted Williams and trout and AnnaBeth-what’s-her-name.
And now Susan was stuck with him.
In the mountains.
In the fog with dark coming on.
And it was Tuesday evening.
Late October.
In the Southern Appalachian Mountains.
Susan’s grandma, who everybody called "Mamaw," said the mountains were way wilder than what the movies said. The mountains weren’t hillbilly dolls and moonshine stills. The mountains were old as time, and secrets slept under a mile of worn dirt. Mamaw said those who belonged to them always came back, because the trees and rocks and people and animals were all of the same blood, tapped into the same spirit. Mamaw told of the Wampus Cat, the creature that could change from a witch to a cat in order to seek its prey better, and how it had been caught in the middle of its transformation. Now, when the moon was full, it could be seen in human size, howling, dripping saliva from its fangs, its yellow eyes glowing in the fierce furry face.
Susan shook herself awake.
For the second time.
Cold.
Because
Susan should have said something. Maybe Saturday afternoon, when Barry eased his hook into the Shawneehaw. Barry had read a book on fly fishing, and Ted Williams, the greatest hitter in baseball history, was also a fly fisherman. Barry talked about Ted Williams so much that Susan wished Williams had been a Yankee instead of a Red Sock.
Because Barry was Yankee. Maine Yankee, the worst kind. She was Jersey Shore college by way of Piedmont Carolina, and much of her blood was rock-deep Southern Appalachian, Scots-Irish and paranoid, a little free-spirited and flaky, but that was no excuse to fall for him. He had passed himself off as a real man and reality was subject to change.
Not that all men should automatically be able to kill bears with a hatchet.
But they could at least take a little time and get things right. Like where they were. And who they were with. To Barry, Susan might as well have been AnnaBeth-Mary, the previous temporary girlfriend to follow him on these Appalachian journeys. At least she had her own tent, so she could turn in early every night.
Doubtless, others had preceded AnnaBeth-Mary and Susan. All of them falling in lock-step with Barry, because when the sun hit his hair just right, he glowed like a lion. Tall and tan and crisp, with muscles and a toothy smile.
But after a while, Barry's little flaws started to show. His confusion. His forgetfulness. His obsession with fly fishing. His play-by-play of the year Ted Williams hit .406.
By Sunday evening, Barry had completely thrown Susan over for the creek. Barry put on waist-high rubber trousers and headed for deep water. She watched from the boulders like a dismal cheerleader as currents skirled around his knees.
And Monday was just as dull. Susan read the hardbacked biography of Benjamin Franklin, a book thick enough to impress any man. But Barry stood by the fire with his fishing pole and a dumb grin and he turned in early so he could chase fish for breakfast.
And now it was Tuesday evening, and they were lost.
"It's Monday, isn't it?" Barry said.
"It's Tuesday."
Barry nodded, fumbled through his backpack, and brought out his fancy bottled water. The campfire glinted off the plastic. Barry peered at the bottle. It was as vacant as his eyes.
"Are we in West Virginia or plain Virginia?" Susan hated herself for not knowing. They’d passed through Harper’s Ferry and over the Shenandoah River, then up Loudon Heights where the trail maps showed a meandering thread back and forth across the border. They headed south out of survival instinct, toward warmer weather. Susan hadn't kept track of miles, all she knew was her feet were sore.
She could outwalk Barry any day, and she could pitch her tent faster than he did. Barry had no brain cells that weren't clouded by Ted Williams and trout and AnnaBeth-what’s-her-name.
And now Susan was stuck with him.
In the mountains.
In the fog with dark coming on.
And it was Tuesday evening.
Late October.
In the Southern Appalachian Mountains.
Susan’s grandma, who everybody called "Mamaw," said the mountains were way wilder than what the movies said. The mountains weren’t hillbilly dolls and moonshine stills. The mountains were old as time, and secrets slept under a mile of worn dirt. Mamaw said those who belonged to them always came back, because the trees and rocks and people and animals were all of the same blood, tapped into the same spirit. Mamaw told of the Wampus Cat, the creature that could change from a witch to a cat in order to seek its prey better, and how it had been caught in the middle of its transformation. Now, when the moon was full, it could be seen in human size, howling, dripping saliva from its fangs, its yellow eyes glowing in the fierce furry face.
Susan shook herself awake.
For the second time.
Cold.
Because
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