It had turned into such a pretty day: brisk but not cold, damp but not raining, with bright, dazzling sunlight coming through the breaks in the branches of the trees as the trio moved along a footpath toward the rounded static-sound of the running river. Ethan was leading the way and moving at a skipping half-jog, with Connie behind Ethan, and Bob behind Connie. From time to time Ethan would look back, his face reflecting a high and uncomplicated happiness. Bob wondered what it was that had made him so sickly before, and also how he could simply turn that sickliness off. Connie rolled her eyes at Ethan, but she was amused, back to liking him again.
The river was high and roiling and they had to raise their voices to hear one another. Connie consulted the map in her hiking guidebook and pointed north, upriver. There was a footbridge, she said, that would connect them to a trail on the far side of the water. But, when they arrived at the place where the bridge was said to be they saw it had been damaged and almost entirely washed away, timber gone, and the rope handrailing hanging down in a tangle, frayed ends bouncing and dragging across the surface of the swollen, glassy river. It was impassable, and they continued walking north in search of some other way across.
Farther on and they came to a fir that had fallen fully across the river. It was wide enough to carry their weight but rested at a sharp incline and was covered with a coating of slick moss. They spoke among themselves and decided that in the spirit of resourcefulness this would pass for their bridge — but who would be first to cross? Ethan volunteered that Bob should do the honors; Bob countered that the honors clearly belonged to Ethan; Connie said she would go, at which point Ethan and Bob both pushed forward, each in a hurry to be the foremost conqueror. Bob arrived ahead of Ethan and clambered up to stand atop the broad base of the uprooted tree, looking down at his wife and friend as they looked up at him, Ethan encouraging Bob onward, Connie half-covering her face, scared of what might come.
Bob endeavored to ground himself. He considered the way across, the best and safest route he could follow; he breathed and made himself calm and now moved forward, step by step, arms out like a tightrope walker. It was not so bad when there was solid earth on either side of the tree but once he cleared land, and with only water underneath him, then did he become less sure of himself, his vision distracted by the fast-moving river. He was bending to achieve a crouch when he lost his footing on a slimy patch of moss and his feet went out from underneath him; he landed hard on his backside, sliding down the length of the fir and at such a sickening speed he hadn’t the time even to curse or exclaim in his mind. Happily, half-miraculously, he didn’t fall into the river, but was shot out onto the farther shore, rolling over fully twice before coming to rest in a tangle of branches. When he stood and turned, Connie and Ethan were jumping up and down and shouting and clapping, but he couldn’t hear them at all. He waved and noticed his hand was bleeding; also his backside ached. But nothing was broken, and he wasn’t seriously injured. In the wake of cheating disaster, he was experiencing something like euphoria.
Obviously, however, and in light of Bob’s crossing, it was established to be too dangerous for either Connie or Ethan to follow after; and neither could Bob return the way he’d come. And so, what came next? Across the river, Connie and Ethan were talking about the same thing. Ethan explained to Bob by hand gestures that they should all continue on in a northerly direction to seek out some other, safer passage over the water. Bob didn’t like this plan, but could think of no alternative, for there was none, and so the bisected group struck out upriver.
At the same time Bob’s euphoria was receding, his pain was growing more pronounced. His backside stung, and his hand was throbbing, though no longer freely bleeding. He trudged along, watching Ethan and Connie, who were enjoying a lively conversation. Connie was in the lead; whenever she called to Ethan he would rush up closer to hear, then shout out his response, and she would nod and he would nod and they went happily back and forth like this, without care or concern, certainly without concern for Bob, that he could see. He noticed that their path was leading them away from the water and into the woods. They still were blithely chatting as they disappeared behind a line of trees, unbothered to be out of sight. Bob was walking more quickly now, hurrying to reconnect with them; but long minutes were passing where he couldn’t see Connie and Ethan and though it wasn’t anyone’s fault, he felt he was being treated cruelly — that fate was behaving cruelly toward him.
A mile, and there was a sharp eastward bend in the river; once Bob walked clear of this he saw a little footbridge in the distance, and that Connie and Ethan were waiting on the far side, still immersed in their conversation. He crossed the bridge and came upon them; they looked up at Bob, untroubled, as though nothing was wrong. They welcomed him as an explorer back from the edge of the world, teasingly, not unpleasantly; but Bob was stung by a sense of exclusion, so that he wasn’t sure how he should behave just then. Connie inspected his hand but he took his hand back and said that it was fine; she asked if he was limping and he said that he wasn’t. Here was the very beginning of his realization that there was something dangerous moving in his direction, and that he wouldn’t be allowed to escape it, no matter what clever maneuver he might invent or employ.
Connie and Ethan told Bob they’d had enough of hiking and wanted to head back to the car. Bob said that was fine, and it was, but as they made to leave, Connie took Bob by his shoulders and set him at the front of the group. Why had she done this? He walked on, carrying his worries, and he told himself he wouldn’t look back, not even once, but then he did, and he saw Connie was herself looking back at Ethan. They weren’t speaking; she just was looking at him, and Ethan at her, and he was smiling behind his eyes so Bob knew that Connie must also have been smiling. Bob turned around to face the path. “You are limping, Bob,” Connie told him. They came away from the river and the sound of it became quieter, while the highway sound grew louder. They arrived at the car and settled into their seats; there was a silence among the three of them that for Bob had the texture of a nightmare. He had a bad moment where he thought he might shriek or come away at the seams of himself, but then he turned the key in the ignition and the news came on the radio and saved him: a bland male voice imparting sensible human world knowledges at a patient rate of speed.
IN THE DAYS AFTER THE HIKE BOB WOULD ENTER A ROOM TO FIND Connie standing at a window, lost to some dream or reverie. When he would ask her what she was doing, she would kiss his cheek and breeze away to stand at another window. This phase lasted a week. Then there came another phase, also a week, of peevishness. Bob felt she was not angry at him, but at the world. Actually, she doted on Bob during these days; she cooked all of his favorite meals and instigated bullying intercourse during which she demanded to know what pleased him — was it this or was it that or what was it? Bob wasn’t sure what was happening but wondered if he hadn’t stumbled onto a chapter of the marital experience undiscussed by the masses.
Ethan stayed away from Bob and Connie’s house, but his visits to the library carried on as was usual, and he and Bob had their weekday lunches at the Finer Diner. His apartness had returned, deepened; he still claimed not to know what was bothering him. He never ate; he only drank cup after cup of black coffee.