Scratch. Steve Himmer
faces the spray with his forehead against the wall as hot water rolls down the back of his neck and his shoulders, uncoiling muscles one at a time, until his body feels like his body again. He nods off in the steam for a second, then wakes with a jerk as a few trickles creep under the top edge of his plastic wrap and make their way toward the gauze, so he presses the film tighter against his skin.
If it weren’t for the bandages and bruises all over his body, he might think the bear had been an uncomfortable dream. That he spent last night the same as any other, sleeping in his own bed, while his imagination wandered the woods. Even though it has only been a couple of hours since he left the forest, and less than a day since he set out on his walk, it seems a lifetime ago. He’s stung by the shame of getting lost, but it’s more the vicarious embarrassment of watching someone else make mistakes than something that happened to him.
As he winces his way through getting dressed in the main room of the trailer, Martin notices strands of brown fur scattered over his bed. The long shape of a body stretches out on his blankets, and one of his pillows looks kneaded. He lays his hand in the egg-shaped dent on his mattress, annoyed now that he left the door open. The sheets seem warm; either they’re reflecting the heat of his hand or else whatever slept there last night hasn’t been gone very long.
He leans close to the sheets and breathes in the smell of his guest. He’s shocked at how much it smells like the bear, the bear’s breath, but also by the full picture the scent plants in his mind—a flickering image of not one but two creatures curled on his bed. He recoils from the unexpected acuity of his own senses. When the shock has subsided, Martin remembers he hasn’t eaten in nearly a day, with nothing but Gil’s whiskey to drink, and takes comfort in dismissing that sensory overreaction as a result of his deprivations—his imagination running away with the smell, turning it into more than it is. He looks around the trailer, red-faced, as if there might be someone watching.
He doesn’t know how nearly he missed us, slipping out before he slipped in. Or that we haven’t gone far, watching through the window from under the bushes as the day becomes brighter and the final droplets of last night’s dew burn away.
It isn’t Martin we’re hiding from, though. It’s one thing to be spotted by him, as at sea in the woods as he would be at sea, but another to be seen by the men who will build his houses for him, men who have lived near these woods their whole lives. Men who hang guns in their trucks and pull them down as casually as one cigarette follows another into their mouths. Like Gil, they are less patient with the novelty of animals coming up close. None of them would have been lured so easily as Martin was by the tail of a fox. They could be led, too, each in his own way, but Martin is the man for my story.
He lifts his steel watch from a shelf by the bed, and as he buckles it onto his wrist his fingers find the sharp burr to blame for that hole in the sleeve of a jacket ruined now altogether. He’s shocked that despite his already full morning, despite being tired enough for the day to be over, it is only a few minutes past seven o’clock. He opens both kitchenette cabinets and the tiny white fridge tucked into the wall, looking for something to eat. But his stomach has been empty for so many hours it threatens to reject any offer of food, so he plugs in the electric kettle and decides to make do with instant coffee from crystals, and a spoonful of powdered creamer.
When his phone, retrieved from the car, rings with the electronic chirp of a bird underwater, Martin splashes hot coffee all over his hand. He barely avoids dropping the mug and, cursing, sets it down on the counter. The phone rings again, and he walks to the end of the trailer where it rattles and dances across the surface of his drafting table. As he shakes the burnt hand to lessen the pain, he answers the phone with the other.
The connection is crackling and weak, far from the nearest cell tower with tall hills between, and though it’s good for what he usually gets in the trailer he may as well be speaking into a tin can on the end of a string. The number on the screen tells him it’s his partner calling from their office back in the city. They speak every couple of days to touch base, but a signal is so hard to come by they communicate mostly by voicemail, always a few hours out of step with each other. He’s hardly on the phone at all these days, a change from his usual routine of calling suppliers, subcontractors, and building inspectors, sucking up daily to bureaucrats and their factotums.
At first the difficulty of keeping in touch made him feel isolated, as if these woods were an unmapped desert island and everything worth being a part of was happening on the other side of the ocean. But lately he’s felt the opposite, after settling a bit into his trailer home. Some mornings he has awoken concerned with what might be happening in this small town instead of the city he left behind. His first days here he spent constantly driving closer to town where his phone’s signal is stronger, but now he waits to be called and it takes him hours sometimes, the best part of a day, to move to a place from which he can call back.
He doesn’t even bother saying hello before setting the phone down again; his partner on the other end of the line won’t be able to hear Martin’s voice any better than Martin hears his. He’ll check the message and leave one of his own when he comes within range of a signal.
As he sips his coffee, a car rattles off the road onto the rough ground of the site. He spreads the slats of the plastic blinds in his window so he can see through, and watches Alison Evans’ battered red SUV pull toward his trailer. He’s never worked with a forewoman before—he’s never even met a woman who wanted to be one—but so far Alison is working out well, keeping the project on track, as far she’s able. The biggest delays have come from the weather, though after watching her work Martin wouldn’t be surprised to see her whip the elements into line, too.
She climbs from her car with a scarred yellow hardhat, and walks toward the trailer with the graceful lope of a cowgirl. Her hair is spiky and short, blonde laced with gray, and she reminds Martin of female characters he’s seen in science fiction movies, blasting through alien hordes with oversized guns in their arms. He sets down his coffee cup and steps out of the trailer to meet her.
“Good morning,” he says.
She nods. “Mr. Blaskett.”
“Alison. Please. Just call me Martin.”
“I forgot.” She smiles, brightening her face so Martin pictures ice struck by sunlight and the thin web of wrinkles beside each of her eyes expanding cracks in its surface.
“Good weekend?” He crosses his arms across his chest but the stance feels both unfriendly and painful so he slides his hands into back pockets. That position is uncomfortable, too, it feels like a pose, so he lets his hands hang at his sides with nothing to do.
“Not bad,” she says. “Brought Jake, Jr. up to the lake. Painted the bathroom. Nothing special.” She doesn’t ask about his own weekend, but looks at him as if she’s waiting to hear.
“I went for a hike yesterday, out that way.” He points toward where he entered the woods, and hopes he looks like he knows where he’s pointing. Martin doesn’t mention how easily he became lost in the forest. He tries to sound casual as he adds, “I ran into a bear.”
“Yeah?” Alison leans closer.
“It attacked me, actually.” He traces a finger through the air in front of his chest. “I’ve got cuts here, and bruises all over my ribs.” Martin grabs the front of his shirt, as if he’s going to lift it and show her the bruises, then suddenly stops, embarrassed. He’s afraid his attempt at nonchalance has come across as lunacy, or macho bragging.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?”
“Gil thinks so.”
“Lucky it didn’t kill you,” she says. “Bear attack, that’s something.”
The sound of approaching engines grows louder, and they turn toward the road at the edge of the site.
“Not a lot of folks get attacked by a bear. And live, I mean. Lots of folks get attacked.”
“Really?”
“Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
“I