After five rings, Lucy answered.
“May I speak with your mom?” he asked, after Lucy had told him a long story about the substitute teacher she had that day, a man who said he really wanted to be friends with the kids in her class and asked them to call him “Mr.
Kenny.”
“She’s not here,” Lucy said.
“Well,” Joe asked, after a beat, “where is she?”
“She had to take Sheridan to the hospital.”
He suddenly sat up. “What?”
“Somebody poked her in the eye during volleyball practice.”
So that’s where she was when he called earlier—at Sheridan’s practice. Jeez. “How badly is she hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lucy,” Joe said, trying to speak softly, “tell me what happened.”
Joe could hear the television in the background. Lucy watched a string of cartoons every night before dinner, and he recognized the voice of SpongeBob SquarePants.
“I’m not sure,” Lucy said, distracted. “Sherry called Mom a while ago and said she needed to come pick her up from practice.”
“So it was Sheridan who called, not a coach or a doctor?” Joe felt mild relief, assuming Sheridan couldn’t have been too badly injured if she had used the telephone.
“I think it was Sheridan.”
“Lucy.”
“Mom just told me they’d be back for dinner. That’s all I know.”
Joe shook his head. There was no reason to be angry with Lucy, or to admonish her. It had probably been a frantic call, and Marybeth had likely rushed out of the house. He would try her cell phone.
“Okay, sweetie,” Joe said. “Tell your mother I’ll call back soon.”
“Dad,” Lucy said, “I miss you.”
Lucy liked to twist the knife, Joe thought.
“I miss you too. I love you.”
“Love you . . .”
Joe speeddialed Marybeth’s cell phone, but was switched to her voice mail. In her haste, he assumed, Marybeth hadn’t turned it on, or was out of range. There were several dead spots between their house and Saddlestring along Bighorn Road. He left a message, sat back, replaced his phone, and stared with frustration at the river. When he looked back at the phone he noticed that the LED display on his cell read:
you have 1 message. Joe checked it; it was from Sheriff Tassell.
“The meeting’s running late,” he said wearily, “and then I’ve got a dinner. Meet me at the statehouse at ten tonight.
I’ll bring the keys.”
Joe sighed.
The tourist boat passed in and out of view, obscured by trees and brush. The occupants of the boat were on vacation, Joe thought. They got to see an eagle’s nest, and they’d go to a nice dinner after their trip and retire to their hotel rooms. Real life was suspended for them.
He looked at the Tetons, at the raft, at the urn, and thought, They aren’t the only ones.
As Joe drove toward town he rounded a blind corner and hit the brakes. The Boxster that had passed him the night before was stopped, blocking the righthand lane, twin spoors of black rubber on the road where the car had braked and swerved. Instinctively, he reached out with his right hand to keep a dog or a child—neither of whom was there—from flying forward into the dash and windshield. His front bumper stopped inches from the back of the Boxster.
He swung out of the cab and walked around the Porsche with his flashlight, but he didn’t need it. The headlights of the car illuminated the scene. It was ugly. A large doe mule deer lay in the road, blood pooling around her head. The Boxster’s hood was buckled, the windshield a spider’s web of cracks from the impact. A woman sat in the ditch, cradling a fawn in her arms. The fawn was small, spindly, its back covered with spots. Not more than six weeks old, Joe thought. It made him angry.
“Are you okay?” Joe asked, not really caring. He tried to keep his voice level.
The woman looked up. Her eyes reflected in the headlights. She had broad cheekbones and a drawn, skeletal quality to her face.
“I’m fine, but that poor deer and her fawn ran right out in front of me,” the woman said. “I tried to stop but I couldn’t.”
Joe shone his flashlight on the crumpled hood of the car.
“That’s a lot of damage,” Joe said. “How fast were you going?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The speed limit, I think.”
