We sawed the venison off as it cooked, but what won me over was the broth, which consisted of nothing but sides of perch fillets, a pinch of salt, and whole stalks of winter dill. We spoke only of today — which dogs were unruly, and how the mushing order would be shifted tomorrow. There was talk of whose muscles were more sore, and much debate over the sleeping arrangements. For dessert, Gerry’s kids treated us to a show. There were several knock-knock jokes, a push-up competition, and then they sang a winded version of “Old MacDonald Had a Farm,” with key words switched to carry the motif of flatulence. We skipped the ghost stories.
Finally, before Farley and Eggers brought out the wacky weed, I rose, calling Trudy and Eggers to the fire. In the crackling light, I stood them side by side.
Farley, Dad, and Gerry rose from their buckets as I produced my regalia. The robes were not at all shabby for having taken a spill in the snow. I put them on, the heavy velvet draping blue and dark brown at the cuffs and collar. Even Gerry’s kids stood in a row, their ribby, hipless bodies long-limbed in the firelight.
When everything was in order, I greeted Trudy and Eggers. “Welcome,” I said.
I shook each of their hands, then lifted my arms for silence.
“I’ve devoted my life to anthropology,” I told them, “and all of my work has come to no tangible end. My book no longer exists. I have little hope of researching another. My theory that the Clovis vanished as a result of resource depletion has been dealt a serious blow by the contagion we have witnessed. Am I a failure? That’s for the future to decide. It is of no matter to me. That’s not the reason I became an anthropologist.”
The fire was warm on my back. My students’ eyes were attentive and expectant.
“A few basic questions have been behind all of my work,” I continued. “Throughout my life, I’ve wondered, Can people just vanish? What makes them leave? Where do they go? To test whether the answers to these questions were true for the people closest to me, I asked them of the most inaccessible people on earth. The reason I spent my spare time fashioning Clovis spears and tools was so I could come closer to knowing the Clovis’ hearts. Did theirs contain the same stuff as mine, I needed to know, or were there people who were different, who, as with the wave of a hand, could do what is unthinkable to another? I wanted to know what reason on earth the Clovis had for leaving the lands of their birth, traveling into a dangerous and unknown land, with little hope of return. Standing here today, on the brink of a similar journey, I’m beginning to understand such motivations. Have I solved the riddles of the Clovis?” I shook my head no. “Do I feel closer to them? Yes.”
I removed my robe and draped it around Trudy.
Over Eggers’ head, I placed first my hood and then my octagonal mortarboard.
“Gertrude Labelle and Brent Eggers, never have I had the honor of guiding such bright and original students. As of late, our roles have begun to reverse, and I feel more under your tutelage, which is the natural order of things. I hereby proclaim you doctors of anthropology. I charge you first to discover the questions that underlie your passion for discovery. Seek these answers, not esteem and acclaim. Second, remember the words of the Pima anthropologist Tohono: ‘Unearth the heart, then the bones will speak.’ Finally, I charge you to go forth and propagate the science.”
With that, I again shook their hands, and many congratulations ensued. Another round of drinks was produced, and the celebration was a grand one. It really was a fine night. Trudy asked if she and Eggers could make a speech. “You have many speeches ahead, Dr. Labelle,” I told her. “But tonight, we make only toasts, and they’re all aimed at the two of you.”
Eggers and Trudy wanted to swap a few stories from the past, and I indulged them. In these stories, the humor was derived from some goof-up or boner that they always attributed to me. Dad and Farley joined in, and it seems everyone on earth had a story in which I looked like an idiot. Still, we were having a fine time of it. Gerry gave little sips of bourbon to the kids, and joined in the laughter. When he opened his mouth, I braced myself for a ridiculous tale from Mactaw High.
But instead he told his kids, “This is just what it’s like at a dude ranch. Your mom’s probably camping by a fire just like this one. Wait till we tell her about the swell time we’re having.”
Things became quiet.
Dad looked at his drink.
Farley said, “Maybe I’ll turn in.”
Gerry’s kids simply stared blank-faced at the flames.
For those kids, the fire contained a light of possibility that shone on none of our faces. That’s what I thought about when I finally drifted off to sleep, the way those kids turned away from talk of dude ranches, the way they managed not to see all of us sloshing the last of our drinks in the snow. Instead, they let the fire hypnotize them. Lowering their lids somewhat, they released themselves to its endless sleight-of-hand. Within the glow, you could see yellow fingers roll flashy quarters down burning knuckles, or, deep inside the coals, make out the shuffle of white-hot shells. And if you were patient enough, if you waited and watched, you would receive a message from the fire, in that sign language peculiar only to dying flame.
* * *
In the morning, I could smell nothing but Farley’s feet.
I rose before the others and washed my face — the skin was raw from my accident. I flossed, employed the use of four Q-tips, then went to the sled, where I found my box of Greenlandia Ice Sheet data. It was the only paper we had. The first dozen pages were meaningless introductory notes, so I tore out a few sheets and put them in my pocket. I was a man of routine. I required privacy and concentration. So I headed for the woods to get some personal time before the others were up.
But when I crept past Gerry, curled up with all his kids, I saw his eyes were open. His face was dark from fire smoke, and his eyes were troubled.
I knelt beside him. Peaceful kids dozed around him, but I couldn’t tell if they were really asleep or pretending to be asleep, as I often had in the presence of adults.
“You have to tell them,” I whispered.
His eyes fell away.
“Gerry,” I whispered, “they already know. If they don’t, they suspect. You’re the one who’s pretending. Face it — the charade is for you, not them.”
His voice was barely audible. “Maybe she was one of the lucky ones. What if she—”
“You didn’t go see her in the hospital, did you?”
Gerry shook his head.
“Listen,” I whispered, “they need you. You’re a father now. They’re not going to sob, if you’re worried about that. There’ll be no bawling. Trust me, they’ll just be stunned.”
Gerry looked at me. “You’re a professor,” he quietly said. “They’ll listen to you.”
I shook my head. “No one can do this but you.”
“You could be there,” he said. “What if you just stand there while I do it?”
I shook my head.
Gerry closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, too. He scrunched his face up in pain, then relaxed. “Okay,” he said, “okay.” I left him that way.
* * *
We broke camp and began our trek along the river. Lacking a sled of my own, I switched off among the three teams, riding in turn with Trudy and Eggers, Dad and Farley, and Gerry and company. The morning was clear, but by lunch a fierce wind descended from the north, flapping our clothes and gear. A burst of hail drummed us, hard as Christmas candy, followed by an afternoon of murk. The skids made a pocky sound moving over the hail. Whenever we came to a wire fence, Farley dismounted with his cutters to let us through. More than once, there were cows at these fences, their legs buried to the pasterns in the snow, their feed bins long since empty. Cows I stared at anew. Their whiskers moved like oars as they chewed tall stalks of river weed, and they seem somehow solitary, even in herds — a very human trait, it seemed to me. Their eyes I’d always seen as vacant, but now there was something ancient and seaworthy about them. We often went to great lengths to fell game on our trip, but never did it occur to us to butcher one of these lost, humble beasts.