The night before he departed he was inside his own head, seated in that high-back swivel desk chair in his office, hands unfolded and staring into space, feeling betrayed by his inner voice that would not let the past go. Rumination drowns out equanimity and Russ knew it. And yet he also knew the inner voice, and, for that matter, his outer voice, came unbidden. Rumination is not talking to yourself so much as it is an illness. If equanimity was the experiential goal of a human life then the brain would have to be trained to want it. Then, unexpectedly, another thought budded in Russ’ brain, a memory, maybe, of something someone had said: Nothing is probable without it first being possible. Possibly that person was Russ’ dad, so probably it was. Russ himself would not ever become a dad although as the son of one he wanted to do what he could to keep dad’s spirits high and reduce, though probably not avoid entirely, the bad feelings that sometimes came between them that could, if left unresolved, accumulate like small cosmetic insults to a cherished car which if put off too long can add up, sneak up on you, until one day you feel overwhelmed by the scale of disrepair leading to an irretrievable depreciation of affection for that something you once valued.
It was early September and years since Russ had returned home to visit with dad, and for sure mom as well, though it was dad who’d suggested he come north to get out of the heat and maybe enjoy a day of kayaking together. He’d had both Eddyline’s repainted, new seals installed on the hatches, the cockpit seats replaced, and he’d personally re-cabled both boats bow to stern and purchased two new carbon fiber paddles. The boats were now sturdy enough for a Lake Superior paddle that Dad’d been scouting for some time. What do you say, Russ, Dad had asked, all you have to do is show up.
Russ merged onto Interstate 35 in north Texas where he and Jill, his wife, lived and worked and he stayed on it pretty much the whole way to Wisconsin where mom and dad lived – the landscape along the route was devoid of topography having been scraped flat by ice, though that’s not the way dad saw it, through Kansas City, Des Moines, then veering northeast slightly up through Minneapolis, on to Duluth and then east on Hwy 2 to Ironwood where dad and mom had retired wanting to remain in Wisconsin, yes, though moving as far away as practical from the black blight of the city of Milwaukee that had done well by both of them for all their working years but anymore as far as dad was concerned – and possibly mom as well, although it was harder to tell from just talking on the phone once a week with her as he and Jill had striven to do ever since moving away from Wisconsin – had become a filthy crime-ridden mess; take for example the blacks who called in phony three-alarm fires in order to empty the firehouse so they could loot it. Dad, blacks? Really? It’s gotten worse down there since you left, Russ, a lot worse. Dad had a way with words the way pastor did delivering homilies from the lectern at the Lake of the Woods Lutheran church that he and mom religiously attended, and his metaphors were unsurprisingly drawn from the natural world which he was fond of so long as he felt he had a measure of dominion over it. ‘You can’t let nature run wild!’ he’d once parroted. Russ might have inherited his own love of nature from dad though his was more of an unconditional love. When Russ was a young boy, a budding nine year old, standing inside the house peering out the front screen door studying dad as he edged the lawn to keep it in bounds, or shaping the adjacent Boxwoods into globes with the Sunbeam hedge trimmer, the orange extension cord snaked between his work boots and his mouth clamped around a saliva-soaked cigar, Russ felt he didn’t want to grow up and ever try to tame the natural world like that. True, the lawn and the Boxwoods were no more natural than Rusty the family terrier was wild, but these were living things worthy of their own flourish. Surely they were. To Russ they were.
Russ turned into the driveway at mom and dad’s modest lake home at about 6:30 PM, came to a stop and cut the engine. Early evening light slanted through the canopy of birch and evergreen trees surrounding the property. Against the advice of the builder dad had insisted on a blacktop driveway which, this time of year, had a thin veneer of yellow-orange pine duff on it so neatly demarcated by the edged green lawn on either side it appeared to have been dusted by hand. The few select trees that’d survived clear-cut when the property was developed had been appropriately bottom-limbed, a proud cord of pine wood split into sixteen inch quarters had been neatly cross-stacked near the garage, the concrete path to the front door had been recently swept and power-washed. A pretty path made of non-native stones wound along the side of the house ending just above the steps that dad had fashioned of treated 4x4s and knocked into the slope, which descended gently to the pier on the lake. Russ recalled the day, must’ve been ten years ago now, on the phone with dad – he was peeved that he’d needed to get a variance from the DNR just to knock in three stupid steps on his own property. Maybe they want to protect the natural habitat of the waterfront, dad? Protect it from what? I don’t know, from destruction? But I constructed those steps, I improved the shore, dad shot back, a voice imprinted with indignation not readily disguised on a phone call – I didn’t destruct anything. Russ said, I’m not defending their decision, Dad, just trying to understand their motivation. He stepped out of his car now, he was stiff and sore from the long drive. He was looking to the lake shore where he spotted dad’s 16′ Alumacraft covered with a spotless canvas stretched tight over the length of the boat with a custom-stitched extension that covered the Evinrude outboard as well; then he got caught up in a stare, the distant boat bobbing hypnotically on the rippled lake, now and then gently bumping against the pier. A sand fly lighted on his neck. He instinctively swatted it and watched it fall into a puddle of pine duff, where it writhed for a second, then died. Nobody appeared to be home.
Russ steadied himself against the man door into the garage and peered through the window. There were the kayaks, each one upside down on two sawhorses. A light had been left on in the far corner so he could make out the Workmate with a Milwaukee power drill on it with the chamois attachment that dad had used to buff out those gleaming white hulls. The garage floor was shiny, gray, probably dad had it repainted recently. Unsurprisingly, everything in dad’s garage was in its place, always, the Shop Vac on casters at the ready, zero entropy.
Perfunctory hugs all around when mom and dad arrived back home. In the only guest bedroom Russ heaved his travel bag onto the foot of the bed. It left a crater in the bedspread, the surface wave propagated to the headboard disturbing three ornamental pillows mom had arranged in a chevron pattern and set lightly atop the sleeping pillows. Diagonal vacuum tracks were impressed in the plush carpet, not a spec of visible dust on the nightstand, the dresser, or the deep windowsill. A pleated shade was half drawn on the only sliding window, which was closed tight and locked. Russ sat on the bed, elbows on his knees he cupped his head in his hands and stared at the floor. He wanted the long drive to be worth it. He pulled his phone from a coat pocket and texted Jill that he’d arrived safely, then added: so far so good wit dad
The three of them enjoyed a late supper around the table, mom made spaghetti and meatballs and garlic bread. Or might there now be four around the table after come lord Jesus be our guest was intoned with hands in laps. Russ mused, then he let it go because, equanimity Russ, remember? After supper, dishes were hand-washed and put away, the cord wrapped three times around the toaster, secured, and a custom-knitted thingy mom had had for over thirty years was placed over the toaster and then it was stowed in its proper place in a lower cabinet until next time. They played a few rounds of Skip-Bo and then turned in for the night. Dad said to Russ we’ll need to be up early and leaving the driveway to get to Chequamegon Bay before 10:00 am. He estimated the paddle might take them six hours to complete, including a stop for a sack lunch at a spectacular viewpoint on Madeline Island, if all went as he’d planned, that is.
So much for escaping the heat of the south. It was eighty-nine degrees at 9:30 in the morning where they stood on the shore of Chequamegon Bay, September 4th. The wind had picked up, though it was out of the northeast so they would enjoy following seas on the paddle back from the Island. Dad and Russ slithered into their cockpits, secured their spray skirts, tapped their paddles together for good fortune and pushed off. Russ struggled, but not awfully, to keep up with dad who had the benefit of many paddles behind him this season. About an hour and a half later they approached the shore of Madeline Island, not the spot dad had in mind for lunch but with an unexpectedly tempestuous sky taking on a suspicious orange-gray color, and rising waves all around dad thought it wise to make for an overhung, hollowed-out notch in the granite rocks instead, a shelter from the weather, to wait out what appeared to be a freak storm he was sure would pass soon. The notch was small, but both kayaks would fit if their approach was right and it was overhung in such a way as to permit both of them to get out of the worst of the rain that had by now drenched them. Dad entered first and then a powerful wave surge threw him hard against the rear granite wall. Russ entered next, battling one wave pulse after another cresting the beam of his boat – it took all he had to stay upright and then he too was swooshed inside the notch and pinned hard against dad’s boat. Sounds of wind and waves bellowed inside the notch and then it seemed the wind changed again and like bath toys in a washing machine they were battered relentlessly. Russ saw dad’s spray skirt had torn, his cockpit was flooding. Dad used his paddle to push against the granite wall, to free them, but it proved futile, his paddle snapped in two. Water gushed into Dad’s mouth as he shouted to Russ we need to get out of here, now! This bad idea! We’ll drowned! Then dad’s kayak heaved again and listed hard, his head slammed up against the rocks. Russ! dad shouted at him with all he had left, I’m not going to make it out of here, son, save yourself, go now! And with that dad’s kayak capsized entirely, its gleaming white hull face up in the water. Russ had witnessed his dad take his last breath. With all he had left in him, in the brief seconds between wave pulses Russ pushed against the hull of dad’s boat upside down and still wedged hard against the rocks, first with his hands to gain some separation, then with his paddle he somehow manged to free himself entirely and point his kayak toward the opening in the notch and then an adrenaline-addled Russ was back in the fury of open water, free of dad’s grave. Wind-battered and bobbing chaotically in high waves Russ swiveled his head to look back but there no was sign of dad or his kayak. In fact he couldn’t make out the notch at all, shrouded now by a gauze of rain and fog. As if it didn’t exist. Dad was right, to save himself Russ had get out of there less it become his grave too, and nothing but grief ever came from arguing with dad.
