“Because there’s no way to get a sled back here, which I already explained.”
“Still,” I said. “I feel like we should do something.”
“There isn’t nothing to do.”
“Shouldn’t we at least move off the trail?”
“You’re welcome to leave what’s left of this trail,” he said. “But I think I’ll keep going this way.”
“I don’t like it,” I said. “It makes me nervous.”
“Well,” he said. “You go right on being nervous and not liking it. Let me know if it changes anything.”
“What’s wrong with you?” I said.
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Then why are you being so testy?”
“Am I being testy? I’m sorry, Percy. As your cruise director I deeply regret any momentary discomfort my tone may have caused you.”
“Why do you continue to be an asshole?” I said. “When it’s so clearly unnecessary?”
“Why do you continue to question my authority?” he said. “Why do you continue to question my knowledge of these hills and their inner workings?”
“I think its fine to discuss things,” I said. “You don’t have to take it all so personal.”
“There is nothing personal about it. I know what I am doing and so I am walking on this trail and you are making me stop to explain things, as if to a child. I find it irritating that I have to parse everything so that it may be understood.”
“You used to be nicer, you know?”
“And you used to be quieter,” he said. “You used to be a sweet little girl, with ribbons in her hair. You used to be uncorrupted by feministic aggressions.”
“I don’t even know what that means. You sound like a babbling fool, Portis.”
“And I believe I’ve sustained quite enough of your character assassination in these past hours,” he said. “I’ve grown tired of your subterfuge.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever is right,” he said.
He stomped off down the trail and I gave him some distance. I did not let him leave my sight, but he was far enough away that I was spared his huffing and puffing—his dramatic exhales of whiskey-drenched breath.
We made the rest of our walk in nearly that exact same terse silence. I could feel the burn in my butt and thighs and was under some considerable strain but only shook my head and kept walking when Portis asked if I wanted him to take the baby.
Jenna was as calm as she could be. She mostly lay there and blew spit bubbles, almost as if she knew I was upset and kept quiet out of consideration. She was the type of baby that I thought might be capable of exactly that sort of wisdom and kindness.
The buzzing came in and out but eventually I told myself Portis was right and almost talked myself into ignoring it altogether. I thought about Carletta and the summer and why I was out there in the hills to begin with. I remembered how she told me it never snowed in South Carolina.
“I remember it once or twice,” she had said. “But it never stuck. Everybody ran outside to catch the flakes on their tongues and acted crazy.”
We were at the kitchen table again, eating scrambled eggs and buttered toast. Carletta had a cigarette burning between her fingers while she pushed her coffee mug in little circles.
“There were hurricanes, though,” she said. “Hugo was a bad one, but I was gone by the time it hit. I left not a month before.”
“I saw pictures of those houses they build up on stilts,” I said. “The ones on the beach.”
“That’s to keep out the flooding,” she said.
“It seems crazy. To live in a house like that. Like any wind could just come up and blow you away. Especially with the storms.”
“I expect they’re as safe as anything else,” she said. “You don’t hardly even notice them when you live there. They’ve just always been there, so you don’t even think about it.”
“Is your cousin Veronica’s house up on stilts?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and knocked some ash onto her empty plate. “I never asked her.”
“I hope not,” I said. “I don’t know if I could sleep in a house on stilts.”
“We’ll camp out on the beach if you want,” she said. “We’ll sleep right there in the dunes one night.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It’s as beautiful as anything,” she said. “You should see the stars out above a Carolina beach.”
Like I said, I never really believed we would make it to South Carolina, but six months later I was traipsing through the north hills because I still thought we might make it back to that kitchen.
Up ahead, Portis had finally stopped walking and pointed to a clearing just down the trail.
“Scutter’s Point,” he said.
“Thank God,” I said.