20. River

RIVER

It was almost twilight when we left Dwight's cabin.

Once old Dynamite woke from his weed-infused nap—once I'd cried my eyes out and spent the afternoon recovering from the purging of my pain, resting my head in Clarry's lap as he tenderly stroked my forehead for hours on end—we thanked Dwight for his words of wisdom, his compassion, his care, then headed along the trail back to our campsite. Our backpacks were wet from the storm, but we didn't care. We emptied the rainwater out of the canoe and loaded everything into the back of my old man's pickup, including Bessie.

I drove back to town with one hand on the wheel and one hand moving back and forth between the gearstick and Clarry's thigh.

By the time we stopped at his house the stars were out.

I unloaded Bessie from the back of the pickup and walked him to the door of the parlor.

"I'd ask you to come in, but I'm guessing you need nothing but sleep," he said.

"I do need sleep," I agreed. "But there's one thing I need to do first. "

Planting my lips tenderly, longingly, lovingly on his lips, I kissed Clarry goodnight.

Minutes later I walked into my old man's kitchen to find him pottering at the stove, frying eggs and bacon for dinner.

When he heard me, he turned with a smile, a smile that faded when he noticed I was empty-handed. "Where are my fish?"

I paused by the kitchen table, not quite knowing what to say except, "Dad, can we talk?"

His eyes brightened as he plodded toward me. "What's happened? I sense something different in you. Did you open your heart to the voices?"

I took his hand and sat him down beside me at the table. "Dad, I opened my heart to… everything. There's stuff I need to tell you."

He patted his hand on mine. "Then tell me, my son. I'm listening."