“His birthday is next week. On the front, see the writing? It’s Spanish. It says, ’To my beloved papa.’ I wish it said ’To my beloved Henry.’ I wish I had something to give you. A present.”
“You already gave me a present, the best I ever had.”
He handed the watch back and she put it away.
That afternoon she swam again while Henry plucked the feathers from a grouse he’d killed. He could barely take his eyes off her. She swam naked now. She told him women had more fat on their bodies than men and could stand the cold, but Henry could see no fat on her.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of reflected sunlight among the trees on a point a quarter mile to the west. It was a prolonged and brilliant glinting, the kind that came from glass or polished metal or some other thing that didn’t occur naturally in the forest. Henry laid the half-plucked grouse on the ground. He grabbed his rifle, slipped into the woods, and worked his way soundlessly toward the point. Fifty yards away, he slowed and moved like a big cat hunting-creep and pause, creep and pause-while his eyes dissected every nuance of light and shadow.
He arrived at the place along the shoreline where he’d spotted the reflection. There was nothing to be seen. Henry studied the ground carefully. It was rocky terrain. The stones that poked through the soil were covered with lichen. On several stones, patches of the lichen had been scraped away by the careless placement of a foot. Henry widened his search. Twenty yards away he found a trail of broken ground cover leading west. In soft earth a hundred yards farther on, he found the imprint of a moccasin.
Henry stood up, certain now that he hadn’t been the only one enjoying the sight of Maria swimming.
His inclination was to begin tracking immediately, but he had no idea how far that would take him or how long he would be gone, and there was still the evening meal to prepare. He held to the patience Woodrow had taught him. When he returned to camp, Maria had finished swimming and was dressed.
“Where did you go?” she asked and kissed him.
“I saw something.”
She looked at his rifle. “What?”
He told her. She didn’t seem frightened.
“What should we do?” she asked.
“We will find him,” Henry said.
“Him?”
He didn’t think a woman would be alone in this deep wilderness, but Maria was right. He had no idea.
“When will we find him?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“What about tonight? What if he-or she-comes back tonight while we’re sleeping?”
“I won’t sleep.”
She smiled. “I’ll help you stay awake.”
Wellington and Lima came back arguing. Henry could hear their angry voices across the water. When their canoe touched shore, they stepped out and continued throwing words at each other.
“The geology’s right,” Wellington insisted. “And don’t forget, Carlos, you heard the same story I did.”
“I am not an impatient man, but I am also not a man without limits, Leonard. That goes for my money, too. And remember what happened in Ecuador.”
“Ecuador was a lesson for both of us.”
“An expensive lesson,” Lima said.
“Education doesn’t come cheap, eh?”
Lima moved close to the other white man. “You think that was funny? A joke?”
“The hell with you, Carlos. I need a drink.” Wellington brushed past him and stomped to his tent.
That night after the meal, Lima went to bed. Wellington continued the drinking he’d begun on his return. Like Maria, he spent time every evening by the fire, filling the blank pages of a leather-bound notebook with writing. In the shifting light of the fire, Henry watched the man’s eyes, which that night stayed dark and brooding as they lifted from his writing and held for long moments on Maria.
“The good daughter,” Wellington finally said.
Maria looked up from her notebook. “I try to be.”
“That’s why you’re here? To be the good daughter? You’re only making him nervous, you know that?”
“Nervous?”
“He wants to get you back to civilization as soon as he can.” He drank from the tin cup into which he’d poured his liquor. “A girl doesn’t belong on something like this.”
“I’m not a girl,” she replied coolly and went back to her writing. Wellington made a sound that might have been a laugh but came out more like a grunt. “I’ve noticed.” His glare shifted to Henry. “What about you, Henry? Bet you’ve noticed, eh.”
Henry burned. Wellington’s tone spoke disrespect. Henry had lived with that tone much of his life and had learned to ignore it, but when Maria was included, that was too much. He’d been sitting near the fire, stirring the embers with a long, thick spruce stick to keep the flames alive for Maria’s writing. Now he stood with the stick in his hand, the tip glowing, an angry red eye at the end of his arm.
Wellington didn’t see. He stared at the fire and drank his liquor. Maria saw, however. She shook her head at Henry, her eyes afraid of what he might be about to do.
Wellington took a final long swallow. “Fuck it,” he said and stumbled to his tent.
Soon afterward, they heard his snores join those of Lima. Henry let the fire die. Maria went to her tent. Henry gathered dried leaves and sticks from the woods and spread them around Maria’s tent. Then he picked up his rifle and joined her.
That night clouds blocked the moon, but Henry knew Maria’s beauty without light. The down of her cheeks, the wet oval of her lips, the curve of her breasts, all of it soft as dreaming. He fit himself to her until he couldn’t feel a separation, couldn’t feel the place where his own body ended and hers began. They were one skin, one breath, one heart.
Her lips brushed his neck. “I wish…”
“What?”
“I wish you’d been my first.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Later he said, “What were they like?”
“Rich. Sophisticated. Spoiled. Weak in ways you’re not.” She laughed quietly. “I guess I’m like that, too. Everything I have I’ve been given. I’ve never had to make my own way. All my friends are like that.” She nestled deep into his arms. “You’re different from anyone I’ve ever known, Henry. I felt safe with you from the beginning. Here we are a thousand miles from everything and I’ve never felt so safe.”
He felt the same. She was like nothing he’d ever known. That they shared their bodies so quickly, so easily, so completely didn’t surprise him. He had the deep sense that being together this way had always been meant for them.
Maria fell asleep with her head against his chest. He was tired, too, but he lay awake, listening. With the dry leaves and the sticks surrounding the tent, even a careful man could not approach without Henry hearing.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Henry rose with the sound of the first birds. The clouds that obscured the moon had passed, leaving the sky clear and full of stars. A faint glow along the eastern horizon suggested dawn.
He built a fire, filled the pot with lake water, and began coffee brewing. He made oatmeal and flapjacks. A few minutes after the sun came up, Wellington emerged from his tent. He went immediately toward the woods to do his morning business. When he returned, he poured himself coffee and stood staring at the lake. Henry had seen men hungover, and Wellington looked hungover.
“What do you do all day?” Wellington said.
“Cut wood for the fire,” Henry replied. “Fish. Hunt. Gather things to eat from the woods.”
Wellington was silent and sipped his coffee. He blinked against the morning sun. “What about Maria?”
Henry stirred the oatmeal. “She reads her books.”
“All day?”
“I can’t leave her. She comes with me when I go after food.”
“She doesn’t scare away the game?”
“She takes well to the forest.”
“She swims,” Wellington said. “I’ve seen her hair wet. But I haven’t seen wet clothes.”