Read Online So Brave, Young, and Handsome by Leif Enger - Free Book Online
Authors: Leif Enger
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of the oar; its knobby spine against the current made a creamy nimbus of foam.
“Glendon,” I said, “what made that waiter Franco recognize you, after so much time had passed?”
He didn’t answer. When I looked round, his head was laid back against the transom and his mouth had fallen open. He was still the boy adept at slipping off.
3
I woke to the ruthless sun—it pierced my eyelids, it smoked against my face. My back and shoulders were a rigored snarl, but my hands were the worst of it. Those oars! Their paint was worn off a thousand years ago; the grips were cracked and splintered. Though I never thought my hands were soft a horde of blisters had arisen and these boys were fat and toadlike.
I got to my knees. Glendon stood on the riverbank skipping stones across the water. He called, “Good morning, Becket, how do you fare?”
I held up my hands with a croak. Immediately his face darkened. He trotted to the boat, which we’d pulled up into tall weeds, and emerged with a wood bucket and a flat brown bottle. Overturning the bucket on a level patch, he told me to sit down.
“Let me see your hands.”
I held them out. They were half-open and immobile. Placing his own hands underneath mine, Glendon with sudden force squeezed them shut. Blisters split, water ran down my wrists. “Hold them out again,” he ordered—I’d jerked them to my solar plexus.
“What’s in the bottle?”
“Whiskey.”
“No thanks,” I replied, even as he uncorked the bottle with his teeth. Grasping my flayed left he doused it with the whiskey, then did the same to the right while I hissed a few rough syllables questioning his method.
He said, “I got feet like this once in Oaxaca. They went septicand bloated like death, everything purple right up to my knees. Would you like that?”
While the sting evaporated from my hands, Glendon dug out his half jar of clean water and his corn biscuits. The biscuits were old and collapsing but smelled so good I soon forgave him the whiskey. We ate them quickly without talking, listening to a persistent cow bellow upwind goodness knew how far away. Tossing the last crumbs in his mouth Glendon looked at the sky, then put his palm to my forehead.
“You’re fevered and it’s getting hot. You need some shade.”
He returned to the johnboat, emptied it and dragged it to a sandy place. While I watched he leaned the boat up and over so its bottom faced the sun, propping it with a driftwood crutch.
“Crawl under,” he said. “There’s a farmstead somewhere close. I’m going for provisions,” and with that he climbed the shallow riverbank and was gone.
The shade failed to soothe, however. As the sun climbed all breeze vanished. The johnboat accrued heat instead of deflecting it. Also there were tiny holes in the packed sand—I dreaded insects, though none came out to pester me. Eventually I rolled out from under and gimped up the shore. It was all hot sand, mudwhorl and boulders; redwing blackbirds fought in clumps of dwarf willow. I was so thirsty the murky Kaw River looked clear. Abruptly faint, I sat in the lee of a tall rock and shut my eyes.
I dreamed Susannah was there and laughing. In the dream I’d made some appalling error and kept confessing and confessing, yet she refused to recriminate and would only laugh and suggest we go enjoy a nice picnic.
When I opened my eyes a massive snapping turtle lay relaxing not twenty feet away. Redstart would’ve been impressed—this brute was six times the size of our Cannon River painted turtles, with a ridged head and moss sprouting on his shell. He was also fearless to the point of disinterest. Recalling Glendon’s advocacy of turtles I found a decaying perch in the shallows and offered it to the snapper on a willow rod. He didn’t move. I flung the perch away and prodded theturtle’s snout with the rod. Nothing, though his round eye was upon me, his patient and calculating gaze. I backed away—I had no experience catching
“Glendon,” I said, “what made that waiter Franco recognize you, after so much time had passed?”
He didn’t answer. When I looked round, his head was laid back against the transom and his mouth had fallen open. He was still the boy adept at slipping off.
3
I woke to the ruthless sun—it pierced my eyelids, it smoked against my face. My back and shoulders were a rigored snarl, but my hands were the worst of it. Those oars! Their paint was worn off a thousand years ago; the grips were cracked and splintered. Though I never thought my hands were soft a horde of blisters had arisen and these boys were fat and toadlike.
I got to my knees. Glendon stood on the riverbank skipping stones across the water. He called, “Good morning, Becket, how do you fare?”
I held up my hands with a croak. Immediately his face darkened. He trotted to the boat, which we’d pulled up into tall weeds, and emerged with a wood bucket and a flat brown bottle. Overturning the bucket on a level patch, he told me to sit down.
“Let me see your hands.”
I held them out. They were half-open and immobile. Placing his own hands underneath mine, Glendon with sudden force squeezed them shut. Blisters split, water ran down my wrists. “Hold them out again,” he ordered—I’d jerked them to my solar plexus.
“What’s in the bottle?”
“Whiskey.”
“No thanks,” I replied, even as he uncorked the bottle with his teeth. Grasping my flayed left he doused it with the whiskey, then did the same to the right while I hissed a few rough syllables questioning his method.
He said, “I got feet like this once in Oaxaca. They went septicand bloated like death, everything purple right up to my knees. Would you like that?”
While the sting evaporated from my hands, Glendon dug out his half jar of clean water and his corn biscuits. The biscuits were old and collapsing but smelled so good I soon forgave him the whiskey. We ate them quickly without talking, listening to a persistent cow bellow upwind goodness knew how far away. Tossing the last crumbs in his mouth Glendon looked at the sky, then put his palm to my forehead.
“You’re fevered and it’s getting hot. You need some shade.”
He returned to the johnboat, emptied it and dragged it to a sandy place. While I watched he leaned the boat up and over so its bottom faced the sun, propping it with a driftwood crutch.
“Crawl under,” he said. “There’s a farmstead somewhere close. I’m going for provisions,” and with that he climbed the shallow riverbank and was gone.
The shade failed to soothe, however. As the sun climbed all breeze vanished. The johnboat accrued heat instead of deflecting it. Also there were tiny holes in the packed sand—I dreaded insects, though none came out to pester me. Eventually I rolled out from under and gimped up the shore. It was all hot sand, mudwhorl and boulders; redwing blackbirds fought in clumps of dwarf willow. I was so thirsty the murky Kaw River looked clear. Abruptly faint, I sat in the lee of a tall rock and shut my eyes.
I dreamed Susannah was there and laughing. In the dream I’d made some appalling error and kept confessing and confessing, yet she refused to recriminate and would only laugh and suggest we go enjoy a nice picnic.
When I opened my eyes a massive snapping turtle lay relaxing not twenty feet away. Redstart would’ve been impressed—this brute was six times the size of our Cannon River painted turtles, with a ridged head and moss sprouting on his shell. He was also fearless to the point of disinterest. Recalling Glendon’s advocacy of turtles I found a decaying perch in the shallows and offered it to the snapper on a willow rod. He didn’t move. I flung the perch away and prodded theturtle’s snout with the rod. Nothing, though his round eye was upon me, his patient and calculating gaze. I backed away—I had no experience catching
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