A Note to the Reader It’s the last week in March, 2001. Ed and Brenna are getting together with some old friends. The object? Call it seduction. There’s safety in numbers, they say, and our heroes are looking for folks interested in coming along on their trip North. Before the evening’s over, though, at least one guest will have reason to wish she’d been around last time, when Jack showed Brenna how to tie a knot that wouldn’t let go. The story continues.

 
Our story continues…

 
Chapter Seven

 
Sure you won’t have dinner with us, Jack?” Brenna asked as she locked the door of the shop at the end of the day. “There’s plenty of lasagna to go round. It’s meatless, though. Linda’s a vegetarian.”

“No, thanks,” said Jack, smiling, as he and Brenna walked back to the work room. “Got nothin’ against veg-e-tar-i-an”—he pronounced the word with the same care he once gave to navigating shoal water in a rising wind—”but I’m eatin’ over to the diner. Meetin’ a friend there.”

Ed was in the back room, clearing piles of books and papers from the large work table. Jack paused beside an empty crate, putting first one foot on it and then the other, tightening the laces on his new leather boots. Then he stood quietly, looking down at his feet and admiring their fashionable adornment. A half-grin played over his face. Rousing himself with effort, he plucked his greatcoat off the rack and pulled it on.

Brenna watched his preparations with interest. “He’s preoccupied,” she thought. “Happy—but a little bit nervous, too.” Outside, rain splashed into the shallow trench under the eaves. Through the window, Brenna saw a green Ford Explorer pull in the driveway.

“OK. Gotta be goin’,” Jack said, rubbing his fresh-shaved chin. “Enjoy your meal,” he called out over his shoulder as strode toward the back door. He opened it just as a woman with a mop of unruly black hair raised her fist to knock. She was carrying a picnic basket, and she smiled wanly at Jack as they passed one another.

“Ma’am,” Jack greeted her, nodding. Right behind her stood a big, tall man with his hands crammed deep into the pockets of a leather bomber jacket. Jack nodded wordlessly to him, too, and set off down the drive.

“Hi, guys!” the woman shouted, walking up to Brenna, embracing her and kissing the air next to her cheeks.

“Howdy, Karin,” said Brenna, disengaging herself and peering down into the picnic basket. “So that’s tiramisu, is it? Some kind of cake, right? Looks delicious!”

Meanwhile, Ed and Pete Neary punched each other’s shoulders in silent greeting. Ed was still hanging up jackets when a cherry-red Toyota pickup pulled up the drive and parked next the Neary’s Explorer.

A second couple splashed through the deepening puddles toward the house. Moments later, Linda Carney and her new boyfriend, Brian “Brick” Johnson, were at the door. A shortish, stocky man, Brick’s biceps stretched the fabric of his chamois shirt. He and Linda had met when he joined her dojo. It hadn’t taken Linda long to discover that Brick was a hot-shot kayaker, with a growing interest in canoeing. Linda made the introductions.

“‘Brick’? That’s an interesting name!” Karin remarked, clearly hoping to hear the story behind it.

“Well…” Brick replied, hesitating, “I am a bricklayer. But I picked up the handle sometime back, when I was still in the Corps”—seeing a bewildered look on Karin’s face—”the Marine Corps. You could say it had something to do with my build.” He paused. It was obvious that Karin didn’t get it. He tried again. “I work out a lot, right? My buddies used to say I looked like a brick…ah…out-house.” Now he could see that Karin got it. He changed the subject, raising his voice in order to be heard above the swelling murmur of conversation. “Hey, guys! Thought we might like to watch a tape after supper, so I brought something appropriate.” He reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a rental video. “Deliverance!” he shouted. Everyone laughed.

“What a hoot!” Karin exclaimed. But her expression suggested that she thought Deliverance might not go with tiramisu. Then she looked at her watch. “Hey! Where’s Ken?” she asked the company at large.

“He’s always late,” her husband complained, and everyone agreed.

At least no one could ever say that of Pete, Karin thought. He was punctual to a fault—always ready minutes ahead of time, standing around and jangling his pocket change at the door while Karin searched for her lost keys. Always late or always early? She wasn’t sure which was worse.

Brenna and Ed broke away from the conversation. Brenna went upstairs to get the appetizers while Ed wrestled with a box containing a five-liter bladder of chianti. After a couple of false starts, he finally succeeded in fitting the nozzle into the cut-out and locking it in place. Then he filled the glasses and passed them round. Brenna passed the platter of antipasto.

Fortified by food and drink, Linda, Brick, and Ed turned their attention to a stack of outfitters’ catalogs. Karin leaned over toward Brenna and asked conspiratorially, “That old guy you said you’ve got living in the downstairs apartment now. Can you trust him? I mean, you hardly know him, do you? He could be a drunk or something.”

Pete picked up the theme. “Seems risky to me, too,” he agreed. “I’ve seen him on the street. Just look at him. He doesn’t look, you know, respectable.”

“You mean he doesn’t look like a tenured professor or an insurance agent?” Brenna asked. “Or do you mean he looks too much like one?”

Pete reddened and hastened to pour oil on troubled waters. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s, well, you know…he didn’t have any references or anything, did he? That’s all I meant. You don’t know anything about him.”

“Can’t agree with you there,” Brenna said, working to keep the edge out of her voice. “We know all we need to know. Jack’s a great guy.” Just then a loud, sustained howl cut through the conversation. “What the hell!” Ed exclaimed, almost dropping his glass. He looked around, half expecting to see a wolf materialize from the shadows in the corner of the room.

Linda ran to the door, threw it open and sprinted to Brick’s pickup, yanking open the car door on the driver’s side. “Fenris!” she scolded. “You bad, bad girl! You stop that right now!” The howling ceased. Then Linda emerged from the truck’s cab, followed by a large animal on a lead. Brick walked quietly over to the box of chianti and refilled his glass, downing it in a single gulp. The rest of the party watched through the still-open door, fascinated.

“My God!” Ed muttered, involuntarily. “It is a wolf!” Whatever it was, he thought, it was certainly big—seventy pounds or more, he guessed. The animal had yellow-green eyes, upright ears, and an elongated muzzle. It was gray, with a darker ridge along its back and a bushy tail. All Linda’s attention was on her pet. Giving no sign that she knew her every movement was being watched by four pairs of eyes, she walked back to the house and tied the animal to the porch rail with the lead. Then she bent over, kissing and hugging it.

At that moment, Ken Grimes’ Caravan pulled in. The animal broke free from Linda’s embrace, ran to the end of the lead and resumed howling. Linda tugged ineffectually on the nylon tether and ordered Fenris to be quiet, but with no success. The animal continued to howl. Ken eyed it warily, one hand moving unconsciously to cover his crotch. With the other, he flourished a loaf of Italian bread, waving it about like sword. “Nice doggy,” he said, without conviction. Then he sprinted up the stairs onto the porch and edged through the crowd around the door.

“Sorry I’m late,” he panted. “Teacher’s meeting.” He handed Brenna the loaf of bread. It was bent, but not broken. Brenna took it with her when she went upstairs to check on the lasagna.

Linda gave Fenris a final embrace and came back in, closing the door behind her. “My dog,” she explained unnecessarily. “Wolf-hybrid. She’s still a little skittish.” Seeing the skeptical look on Ken’s face, she added, “But she wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Then she introduced Brick and Ken. Conversation resumed, interrupted now and again by spasms of howling from the porch.

“So, Ed, what’s this river you’re thinking of paddling?” Pete asked, pausing to pop a marinated mushroom into his mouth.

“Tell you in a minute,” Ed replied.

“Tell him what, Ed?” Brenna asked briskly, just back from the kitchen. “Supper’s almost ready. Only ten minutes more.”

Ed set down his wine glass and walked over to the work table. Swing-arm lamps were clamped at either end, and a map of Canada was tacked up on the wall behind. Ed stood between the lamps, twisting them round to shine up at the map. Ontario and Quebec were bathed in a yellow circle of light.

All voices but one stopped. Only Linda, engrossed in telling Karin about Fenris’ latest adventures, continued to talk. Not until Karin turned away to look at the map did Linda, too, lapse into silence.

In the quiet interval that followed, Ed reached up and traced a wavering line across the wall map with an orange Hi-Liner. The line ended on the western shore of James Bay. Pausing for a second, Ed swept the marker down to the bottom of the Bay. Then he spoke. “It’s not a great map, but it’ll do. We leave our cars at Cochrane and take the train to Sioux Lookout. We put in on Lac Seul, cross the height of land to Lake St. Joseph and then head down the Albany to James Bay. Figure 600-700 miles in all. Then another 100 miles down the Bay to Moosonee. A day or two to rest up and get our gear sorted out, and then we take the train back to Cochrane. Piece of cake, right?” Ed paused for dramatic effect and then answered his own question. “No! Big lakes at the start. Rapids and carries all along the headwaters of the Albany. Sand bars and shallows further down. And then there’s the tides of James Bay. Mile after mile of mud flats. Go when the tide says go. Stop when it says stop. One eye always on the water, the other eye on the weather.”

No one spoke. Everyone studied the wavering orange line across the map on the wall. Read more…

 

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A REMINDER This is a work of fiction. All the characters are figments of the imaginations. It’s NOT a paddling guide. If you’re planning a trip on the Albany River—or any other body of water, come to that—consult the most recent edition of a good guidebook and be sure you’re thoroughly familiar with all applicable regulations. While maps of Ontario show some of the waterways mentioned here, the places depicted in our story exist only in our minds—and in yours.