“I’ll let you provide the vegetables,” Doug told him.
“Will do.” Bob moved to his pack and checked his food supply. “Carrot and celery sticks okay?” he asked.
“That’ll be fine,” Doug said.
Bob placed his backpack behind himself to lean against as he sat down again.
“That sure does smell good,” he said. “Nothing like it.”
“Except for fresh shrimp cooked on a beach,” Doug said.
“Never had that,” Bob replied.
“Never been to Mexico?” Doug asked.
“No, never,” Bob answered. “Marian and I have always been leery of catching Montezuma’s revenge.”
“That’s dumb,” Doug told him. “I’ve been to Mexico a dozen times and never caught it once.”
“Really.” Bob nodded.
“Guess you and Marian go on fancier trips,” Doug said.
Oh, boy, here we go again, Bob thought. Goading time. “Not always,” he said, trying to keep his tone even; he didn’t want to start another hassle. “We like to stay in lodges in northern California and Oregon a lot.”
“Uh-huh.” It was clear that Doug didn’t believe him. “Fancy lodges, I suppose,” he said.
“Not always.” It was becoming more difficult to sound easygoing.
“Where have you gone?” Doug asked.
Do I tell him? Bob wondered. Is he really interested? Or does he just want more ammunition for his convictions about the disparity between our lifestyles?
“Oh… a few places in Europe,” he said, hoping to get over this conversation as quickly as possible.
“We went to Paris once,” Doug said. “I was doing a feature.”
“Oh, that’s a fascinating city,” Bob said, conscious of attempting to sound enthusiastic. “You must have had a wonderful time there.”
“Not really,” Doug said. “I was shooting most of the time and Nicole was bitching most of the time because we weren’t ‘doing the town,’” he finished scornfully.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Bob said. Change the goddamn conversation quick, he told himself.
“Smells like it’s almost ready,” he said.
“Not quite.” Doug’s voice sounded glum.
“Can I interest you in some vodka?” Bob asked.
“No, I’ll stick to my brandy,” Doug said. He took a sip from his flask. Oh, Christ, don’t drink too much, Bob thought worriedly. He had the definite feeling that Doug would not be an amiable drunk.
Bob opened one of his mini-bottles of vodka and sipped on it, watching the trout sizzle in the frying pan. He wondered if the slight dizziness he felt was a leftover from the lightning—what had Doug called it?—“splash.” He hoped not. It’s sure been a super hike so far, he thought. I get lost, fall down, get a nice big blister on my toe, get hit by lightning, and almost drown. And it’s only the second day. What was still in the offing? A mountain lion or bear attack? An avalanche? A blizzard?
He had to smile to himself. I’m some great backpacker, I am, he thought.
“What’s funny?” Doug asked.
He started in surprise. He hadn’t realized that his smile was that apparent.
“Oh, I was just thinking about all the things that have happened to me since we started out yesterday.”
“It’s the way things go, Bobby,” Doug said. “You wanted to backpack.”
I didn’t plan on being struck by lightning, Bob thought. He didn’t say any more. There was no point to it. It was obvious that Doug always wanted the last word.
He rubbed his wrist, flexing his fingers, the effort making him wince.
“Wrist hurt?” Doug asked.
“A little bit,” Bob answered. “You… kinda twisted it before.”
“Would you rather I’d let you go downstream?” Doug asked, his smile disdainful.
“No, no, of course not. It just—” He broke off. No point in mentioning it any longer, he realized. Doug’s reaction wasn’t going to change.
“I think that trout is going to be delicious,” he said.
The trout was delicious. Along with the vegetable sticks, washed down with cold fresh water it made what Bob’s mother had always called a “scrumptious feast.”
He was leaning back against his pack now, feeling relaxed. He’d eaten a small chocolate bar and was now chewing on some dried apricots and sipping on a cup of coffee. “Hope my innards do their duty soon,” he said.
“They may not,” Doug said. “Sometimes it takes days for the bowels to cooperate.”
Thanks for the encouragement, Bob thought.
It was getting colder now and since their jackets were still drying, they had unzipped their sleeping bags and wrapped them around themselves. The tent was up and Doug had hung their food supplies from a high branch. Bob was a little drowsy but didn’t feel like trying to sleep yet. Sitting with the sleeping bag around him, looking into the glowing coals of the fire, he was content to just lean back against his pack and enjoy his relaxation.
“This part I really like,” he said.
Doug grunted. “Artie didn’t like anything at all about backpacking,” he said. “God knows I tried to make him like it often enough.”
I bet you did, Bob thought. Best not to reply aloud, he thought. Maybe Doug would let it go with his first remark.
He didn’t. “Took him backpacking, camping, fishing, hunting, you name it. He hated all of them.”
“Well, some kids like different things,” Bob said automatically, instantly regretting that he’d made the comment because Doug replied, bitterly, “No. It was Nicole. She babied him. Turned him into a weakling. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a fag.”
Oh, God, please don’t, Bob thought. This is such a nice moment. Don’t ruin it.
His shoulders slumped as Doug said, “You really believe in life after death, huh?” There was an obvious edge to his voice.
What do I say? Bob thought. How can I end this and not get into another corrosive discussion?
“Well?” Doug asked demandingly. “Do you?”
“Yes. Yes.” Bob nodded. “I do.”
“Well, I don’t believe in it,” Doug said. “I think it’s a load of shit.”
“That’s your privilege, Doug,” Bob told him. “Everyone’s entitled to their own opinion.”
“Damn right,” Doug said. “And my opinion is that it’s a load of shit.”
“Well… okay,” Bob responded. “I’m better off than you then,” he added.
“How do you figure that?” Doug asked suspiciously.
“Well… look at it this way—if there is no life after death—”
“There isn’t,” Doug interrupted.
“Okay. Say there isn’t. When I die, I’ll never know I was wrong because it’ll all be oblivion.”
“And—?” Doug demanded.
“If there is life after death, you’ll have to adjust to it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Doug made a scornful sound. “Life after death. Reincarnation. It’s all a load of shit.”
“Well—” Don’t lose your temper now, for Christ’s sake, Bob told himself. “If you don’t believe in life after death, you naturally wouldn’t believe in reincarnation because they go together.”
“How’s that?” Doug asked, his face a mask of disdain.
“There isn’t much point in life after death if it’s only a one-shot deal,” Bob said. “The world would truly be a nightmare if that was the case.”
“The world is a nightmare,” Doug responded.
“That’s undoubtedly true,” Bob said, “but it would be worse without reincarnation.”
“Come on, Bob, what the hell are you talking about?” Doug sounded angry now.