“Yeah. Husband was a decent bloke. Died of pancreatic cancer a couple years ago.”
Cameron folds his hands in his lap and studies them. For some reason, learning this about Tova stings a little. That she hadn’t bothered to share this basic information.
“Been a rough life,” Ethan goes on, “what with her son and all.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know about that? Well, I guess you wouldn’t. It’s local knowledge, but you haven’t been here long. And folks don’t bring it up like they used to.”
With a shiver, Cameron recalls Tova’s comment. People in Sowell Bay like to talk. He mutters, “I didn’t know she had a son.”
“Isn’t my story to tell, but I s’pose it’s as good to hear it from me as from anyone else.” Ethan draws in a long breath. “So back in the late eighties, her son was working the ferry dock. Erik, his name was. Bloody smart. Valedictorian of his class. Brilliant at sports, captain of the sailing team. You get the idea.”
“Yeah, sure,” Cameron says. Every high school has an Erik.
“Anyway, he was—oh, bloody hell. Have I missed the turnoff?” Ethan snatches his phone and squints at the screen. “Well, Rhonda? Why didn’t you tip me off?”
Cameron arches a brow. “Rhonda?”
“That’s what I call the lady’s voice who reads out the directions. And she’s buggered it this time.” The phone lands with a clatter in the cup holder. “Your old man’s place is a mile back that way,” he says, jabbing his thumb behind.
“What about the story? About Tova’s son?” Cameron’s knuckles whiten, clinging to the door handle as the truck reels in a tight circle, in what is definitely not a legal U-turn.
“Eh, never mind about that.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s sad.” The truck’s tires hum on the pavement as it gains speed heading south now. Between the dense treetops, slivers of pale blue water peek through. “Her son died. Drowned. When he was eighteen.”
“Oh God.” Cameron lets out a breath. “That’s horrible.”
“Aye,” says Ethan quietly. “Well, here we are.” He guides the truck off the blacktop and onto an unmarked gravel road, kicking up a huge cloud of dust that makes both of them cough.
Cameron rolls up his window, eyeing the road skeptically. It’s pocked and weedy. “Are you sure?”
Ethan holds up the phone, double-checking the address. “Yep. Definitely it.”
SURE AS SHIT, this is not it.
It could be a good location for a billionaire’s vacation home. The empty bluff overlooks dark blue sea on three sides. But there is no Tuscan-style villa, no billionaire deadbeat potential father lounging poolside, sipping from a golden goblet. Just a dusky gravel clearing that reminds Cameron of a certain type of movie set, the kind where kids are making out in a car before they get slashed up by a serial killer.
“Shit,” he mutters, kicking a pinecone across the dirt. It disappears over the edge and tumbles down the cliffside.
“So this isn’t it,” Ethan says pointlessly.
“Definitely not.”
Maybe Cameron’s internet sleuthing skills aren’t as impressive as he’d thought. They head back to the truck and begin the lumbering trek back along the choppy road.
Ethan hits a rough spot, braking when he should’ve pushed through. A typical rookie reaction. But now they’re stuck. The wheels spin uselessly as Ethan stomps on the accelerator.
“Whoa, chill. You hit a nasty groove,” Cameron explains patiently. Sure, the road is a little gnarly, but it’s entry-level four-wheeling. Child’s play compared to the nasty shit he and Katie used to run out in the California desert with his old Jeep, before it got repossessed.
“Bloody rut,” Ethan says under his breath as he jams on the gas even harder. The truck’s transmission groans and whines, like it’s sick of this adventure, too.
Cameron sighs. “Let me try?”
“You?” Ethan frowns, but his eyes widen with curiosity, maybe hope. “Well, I suppose so.” He cuts the engine and tosses Cameron the keys.
“Okay. Come on, let’s get out.”
“Out?”
“Yeah, out.” Cameron tries to tamp down the impatience in his voice as he climbs down from the cab. “We need to check out what’s going on down there. Might need to shore up the traction in the back. You got anything we could use as a wedge?” He scans the road, which drops into dark, thick forest at the edge. Nothing like the wide desert. But there’s a small boulder on the side that might work. He jerks his head toward it and commands, “Grab that rock over there.”
Ethan looks surprised. Impressed, even. Cameron allows himself a tiny smile. “Used to off-road in the desert once in a while.”
“Aye.” Ethan nods and lopes off toward the appointed rock. By the time he returns, Cameron has already packed a pad of thick, dry dirt in front of the rear wheels and is peering under the chassis, using the edges of his hands like tiny protractors to work out the angles.
Cameron explains how it’s going to work. “First, we push the truck forward, even just an inch or two, and wedge the right tire with that rock. Then we come out at a hard left, then once the back wheels catch, cut right.”
“Left?” Ethan looks left, at the wall of trees. There’s maybe two feet between the side of the front bumper and the first row of thick trunks. “No, I don’t think so.”
“It’ll work. It’s just physics.” Cameron remembers so many of these conversations with his four-wheeling friends. They couldn’t see it like he could, the forces that would launch the vehicle this way and that, even when it seemed impossible. They’d sit there and spin their wheels, both metaphorically and physically. Looking earnestly at Ethan’s doubtful face, he adds, “Trust me.”
“Aye, then.”
Left, hard right, a splatter of gravelly mud in the rearview mirror, and with a stomach-yanking jostle that alarms even Cameron, the truck bolts up the road. Once they’re clear of the rut, he lets out a laugh. He’d forgotten how much fun this is, and this pickup is no Jeep, but it isn’t half-bad on the rough stuff. He glances over to see Ethan practically shitting a brick. A wicked grin tugs at the corner of Cameron’s mouth as he intentionally dips the front wheels through a divot, causing both of them to bounce. “Want to have some more fun?”
In the passenger seat, Ethan throws his head back and lets out a strange, almost canine, howl. “Let’s do it!”
Cameron slams on the gas. This is a hell of a lot more fun than fish and chips.
Day 1,341 of My Captivity
SEA CREATURES ARE MASTERS OF DECEIT. I AM SURE you are familiar with the anglerfish, which lurks in dark waters behind a luminescent lure that attracts prey right into its maw. We do not have anglerfish here (and I cannot say I am sorry for that), but there was once a fascinating display poster about them in the lobby.
We all lie to obtain what we need. The seahorse, who impersonates a strand of kelp. The blenny, who poses as a cleaner fish, biding its time to take a bite of its gracious host. Even my own ability to change colors, my camouflage, is a falsehood at its core. A lie that’s on its last legs, I am afraid, as I find it ever more difficult to shift to my surroundings.
Humans are the only species who subvert truth for their own entertainment. They call them jokes. Sometimes puns. Say one thing when you mean another. Laugh, or feign laughter out of politeness.
I cannot laugh.
But I heard a joke today that I found clever as well as timely. I should warn you that the punch line is rather macabre.
The young family had paused in front of my tank and the father (for it is usually the father, which I suppose is why they sometimes call them “dad jokes”) turned to his small child and said: What did the tiger say when he got his tail caught in the lawn mower?
(Do not ask me why a jungle cat is in the presence of a turf-grooming machine. Jokes are often nonsensical.)
The child, already giggling, said: I don’t know! What?
And the father answered: It won’t be long now.