Caribou Island Read Online Free Page B

was throwing him in with the hunters here.
    Jim turned the light on then, asked her to open her mouth wide, and probed around her teeth and gums for a while.
    Just the small beginnings of one, he said. We should take a couple films, and if we need to, we can do a quick job on it, preventative mostly.
    Uh, she said, and he pulled his fingers out so she could talk.
    I’m concerned about cost.
    It’s on me, Jim said. And he waited until the others arrived, had the X rays done, and put a small filling in right then, though it shot his afternoon schedule all to hell.
    Don’t tell anyone, he said after he had finished and was bringing up the chair. She was taking off her bib. He leaned in close over her and smiled a little as he said this, trying to imply, and feel, all kinds of secrets between them. He had heard a man say once, Now she’s a breeder, and as ugly and psycho as this line was, and distasteful to him, it occurred to him now that this was nonetheless true. Here was the woman he wanted to make babies with. He couldn’t imagine her changing diapers or even being pregnant, but he could see his strong, tall, beautiful children in a portrait some day, all devoid of any type of insecurity or struggle. She managed to eliminate the possibility of any other woman and seemed to imply wealth, also, though she was dressed like a hippie and probably couldn’t have afforded this filling if he had asked her to pay.
    I won’t, she said.
    He looked at her blankly. He had no idea what she was saying.
    I won’t tell anyone, she said.
    Oh, he said. Hey, could I make you dinner sometime? I have a view of the sunset over the Cook Inlet. I could fix salmon or halibut or whatever you like, just to give you a taste of Alaska while you’re here. This had come out surprisingly well, with a nice little tag at the end, even. He hadn’t stiffened or looked suddenly frightened.
    She looked at him, considering. He felt his spine collapsing, his shoulder blades folding down into his stomach.
    Okay, she said.
    Monique spent the rest of the afternoon and evening reading at the confluence of two rivers, looking up occasionally to watch Carl not catch any red salmon. He was lined up with hundreds of other tourist fishermen, men and women, from all over the world. The river not that large, fifty yards across, but these fishermen stood at five-foot intervals along both its banks for half a mile. The best fishing was reputedly on the far side of this particular bend, where the water ran deeper and faster along a steep gravel bank.
    Carl was on the shallow, near side, however, out twenty feet or so from shore in hip waders, using a fly, yanking it along the bottom, where red salmon were swimming peacefully in place against the current. Monique could see them as shadows in the dappled light, imagined their mouths opening and closing, taking in water, contemplating with a wary eye the rows of evenly spaced green boots growing in pairs and the large red flies cruising around everywhere.
    The fishermen were all so earnest. To Monique, the best part about this place was the scenery: the high, lush mountains close along either side of the river, the short valleys dotted with wildflowers, the swampy areas dense with skunk cabbage, ferns, mosquitoes, and moose. But not one of the fishermen looked up from the water, ever, even for a moment. The mood along the riverbanks was like the mood in a casino.
    Monique was reading a book of short stories by T. Coraghessan Boyle. They were funny, and she often laughed out loud. In one, Lassie goes after a coyote, forbidden love. This appealed to her especially. She had always hated Lassie.
    Monique was lucky enough to look up in time to see Carl huck his pole into the river. This stopped a few fishermen. Their lines stalled for a moment along the bottom, so then several were whipping their poles back and forth trying to free snags.
    Carl came splashing through the water in his waders, slipping a bit on the smooth stones