One day
found Richard in fact torn with doubts, trapped for days and nights, in a sick state of fear and depression. He was seriously considering the humiliating acceptance of defeat, of returning to society.
Jake was stricken with fever from snake bites. David's foot sores—he would not wear shoes, arguing he'd have deerskins by winter—kept him hobbling by day and moaning in his bed. Anne's exhaustion had reached the stage of retort and resentment. Each day they spent more time rebuilding than building. Wood-cutting had to be repeated, the first batches either too green or wet to burn or too soft to last.
Much of their farming consisted of weeding and chasing off marauding animals. Half the hens were killed by raccoons. One of the pigs died of disease. For no reason the goat went dry.
Their well-intentioned schedule of equal portions of work, study and recreation went the way of all trash—into the fire. Every second of daylight was utilized working outside. And the wet days for cleaning, mending tools and clothing, and for working outside. Winter was almost upon them and not only was their list of must-dos undone, the list was now doubled.
Meals grew simpler, soupier. Nightly discussions they once cherished became a series of shared sighs and snores. The stacks of books had a coating of grease-laden dust.
In his other life Richard had never built a book-end, stopped a leaky faucet, cultivated a single string bean. Equally unhandy were his sons; David with his passion for the viola and Jake’s for biology. Now their hands, arms, and legs were covered with bruises and blisters, red with fresh abrasions, their tendons strained, their joints sore. Even Anne who had been a skier, swimmer and avid jogger felt she had aged a generation with the endless back-breaking chores.
Alternatives were discussed: Mexico or The Islands. Fewer clothes, simpler shelter, huh, Dad? No fire-building, year-round sun-yeah!
“And year-round mosquitoes, scorpions, sunburn, drought. And having to learn new, equally arduous occupations; fishing, net-making, boat-repairing? Building a house out of coconuts and palm leaves. You up for that?”
For the first time in weeks laughter was heard in their leaky, drafty, one-room cabin.
Now the boys were asleep in the loft, Anne huddled over the sink, Richard lying by the dying fire, too weak to lift himself and go out for a fresh log.
What were they proving? And to whom? The world outside sailed blissfully, confidently onward without them while they groped and stumbled backward toward the Stone Age. He turned his sore neck towards Anne who was mumbling to herself, her ragged dress hanging limply on her thinned frame. Like a zombie she moved about quietly cleaning the table, the floor, the sink, up the ladder to change David's hot rags, stuffing the crevices where ants, beetles and the occasional rat or snake invaded their larder, bending over to pick up bits of food, or clothing thrown in furious defeat.
What had he done to her? Not simply a renowned personality of the box
She had led causes, chaired conferences, was familiar to presidents, the Congress, The United Nations. And she was their char-woman, scullery-maid, his concubine!
True, she had come of her own will. But he had loved her, desired her, captured and kept her. Couldn't leave if she wanted to.
So idyllic had been their love affair; fresh, strong, sure. Four days after she had arrived they were in each other's arms. Tender glorious weeks in July, into August, each day was precious. Tears, joy, constant embraces, laughter echoing about them. And slowly their failures and frustrations pressed into their happiness, gnawed at their spirits, drained them finally of the least emotion. A month now since they had made love, days since they had touched, even caught the other's eye.
Only a matter of time when she would look at him sadly, inevitably, bent from her knapsack, and slowly drift into the mist from whence she had appeared.
And how long should he and his sons remain in this blight of helplessness?
Wouldn't it be better to decide now to lead them out as he had led them in? Surely before one of them became really ill, or hurt. What had he done to her, to them? He had promised them a good life. Good life—? Brutal, frustrating, unforgiving, clumsy, amateurish blundering hard work!
A hand was on his shoulder, gently soothing his neck. He grasped the hand almost violently and found it wet with his tears. Anne knelt close and embraced him as the anguish filled his eyes, sobs rumbling in his throat, her arms telling him it was all right. Whatever he decided she would be with him.
It was too much for him and he cried aloud, venting the weeks of pain, the anger at his subjugation, the fear of his returning bankrupt, wearing the shame, the guilt, the impudent naivety of their grandiose and failed adventure.
The woman held him tightly, kissed away his tears, rocked him in her arms. And when his weeping subsided began carefully to undo his shirt-buttons. He couldn't, he protested. There was no life in him, no joy. But her deft fingers touching his chest awakened him. And in the flickering fire-glow they rolled onto the mattress that was their bed and couch over and over. But even in their soft intertwining of limb and skin and hair he could not help cursing their fate, his responsibility. It seemed even worse with her confidence in him restored by her act of love. How could he go on punishing them all? She held him tightly to her as if she could hear his thoughts and soothe them.
Where, he demanded of the mud-covered walls, the smoky fireplace, the leaking roof, was the strength, the resolve, the knowledge—know-how of his ancestors who had lived—who yet lived in forests, on bleak mountainsides, in cliff caves, in the tundra, the jungles, on remote atolls and islands?
Each morning he prayed to waken with that innate sensitivity at hand skills which he possessed with mental ones. To be adept with an axe as with an axiom. And each evening brought the acrid taste of knowing he was clumsy, would always be clumsy as would his sons. “Fishes out of water, squirrels in the desert!
We weren't made for this,” he cried hoarsely.
Anne moved to comfort him but he untangled himself, got to his feet and charged blindly out the door into the cold night. He headed for the woodpile but more to clear his head under the sparkling blanket of stars. Neither did he hear the night noises nor feel the air's wet chill. Something had beckoned to him, was out there in the fringes of his thoughts, its features blurred, unfamiliar. He shook his head to concentrate, then slowly gathered an armful of small logs, clucking mournfully at the pile which they had calculated would last well into January and was this mid-September more than half devoured. Turning towards the cabin, he mumbled aloud, “What's the use, we're just not built for—ow, ow!”
He had somehow with a finger opened the door, got himself and his load of sticks inside and dropped every one on his bare shins. He cried aloud, howled—in happy pain!