The Signal by Ron Carlson Page B

a story?”
    “The cannibal story?”
    “No. He wasn’t a cannibal. He ate baked fish and bear claws and was very lonely. He was looking for something.”
    Vonnie was quiet.
    “Is that your heart or footsteps?”
    “Mack.”
    “Listen.”
    “No story,” she said.
    “He lived in these same woods,” he said. “As sad and wrong as you get to be.”
    “You listen, you shit. He wants you. Those are his footsteps coming for you. ”
    Then her breath was the breath of the sleeping, and he moved back so she was there, and he closed his eyes and started to say a prayer that also became sleep.

Day Four
     
    Dawn wouldn’t come and finally Mack crawled out and saw why: the sky was a solid bank of cover, the gray clouds stuffed tight wall to wall. They’d been loading the sky all night. Because of the overcast the early day was warm and he walked out in his boxers and his unlaced boots to pee. There was no frost and he could smell the pines and the lake. He would check Yarnell’s reading when they were up at Clark. It was his last full day with Vonnie and it was at him, his heart, the way he knew it would be. He’d had a bad ten months and now he was better. He could almost accept it; he could get through a day. He went back and knelt, working his tinder fire.
    “Get dressed,” Vonnie said from her sleeping bag in the tent.
    “I’m starting the fire,” he said. “You want to eat, no?”
    “Put your pants on.”
    He pulled his clothing from the tent and looked at her. “You warm enough?”
    “Perfect,” she said. “Thanks for the shelter.”
    Seeing her in the old tent in the gray day required him to turn and open the cooking kit. He’d been surprised about how all of it operated in his body, sharp moments everywhere, primarily in his stomach, but also his upper back and forehead. He’d cried most of a month and that place was still weak. Mack built the fire up into a smokeless orange torch, two feet, and let it shrink so he could place the wire rack over it on the rocks. He set the coffeepot on the grill and a pan of water and when the black frying pan was warm, and the butter started to wander, he laid in the two golden bear claws and cracked his six eggs around them.
    “You’re cooking,” she said. He took the warm water over to her in the tent and handed her the clean dishtowel. She sat up in her sleeping bag and covered her lap with the bundle of her jacket and jeans and she washed her face in the gray morning. “I’m stiff,” she said. “Aren’t you?”
    “Gimme,” he said, drawing her blue wool shirt from her hands and holding it before the fire, front and back and front again. When the inside was warm he took it to her and she put it on.
    “Thank you, sir,” she said. “That’s nice.”
    “We can stop at Mowram’s tomorrow on the way to town,” he said.
    “They’re closed.”
    “I’ll call him.”
    “I’m not getting in a hot pool with you.”
    “Vonnie, you can trust me. Look, you’re in my tent.”
    “Mack, I came up here. And I’m glad I did. I trust you. I guess. But this trip is it. You know that.” She rubbed her ears hard and handed him the towel and smiled, all clean. “I’ll see you in town.”
    He said, “From time to time. Maybe at the post office. I’ll carry your packages.”
    “No you won’t.”
    “This mess is ready,” he said, showing her the fry pan. “Let’s eat.”
    She dressed and came out into the dark day. “Rain,” she said. He doubled the paper plates and handed her one with a fork. “One stop shopping,” she said, looking at the pastry and eggs. “I’m not set up for rain, but maybe it will hold off.”
    “Maybe it will snow,” he said. “We’ll have to camp in, have you trust me all winter.”
    The sky was a gray pillowed gridlock. They ate the eggs and tore the warm bear claws into sections which they dunked in the strong milky coffee. Mack wiped out his pans and handed Vonnie his plates. “Here, you do the dishes.” She slid