Rapid Descent by Gwen Hunter

Author:Gwen Hunter
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MIRA Books
Published: 2009-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

18

Orson invited himself to supper in the guides’ ramshackle, two-story, communal house, an eighty-year-old dwelling with termite-damaged stairs and foundation, one bath with old-fashioned iron-stained fixtures under the stairs, a battered sofa, chair and floor lamp in the living room, and clothes, trash and bare mattresses littering the warped hardwood floors. The solid brass floor lamp was probably originally a Tiffany, but now was dented, the stained-glass shade busted out to reveal two bare bulbs.

Wiring from the thirties and the overhead light fixtures, also made of solid brass, illuminated dirty windows and tattered movie posters on the dark, stained, beaded-board walls. A dripping air conditioner sat in the kitchen window, wheezing tepid air. The place was a dump, just marginally better than a crack house. At least there were no syringes or used condoms in the corners.

He brought two cases of Coors to lubricate his acceptance, and though there were some sliding glances and carefully tucked baggies, no one complained, thanks to the beer, a better quality than the no-name beer they usually could afford. Turtle Tom ripped open both cases and toppled the Coors cans into a cooler of ice on the back porch. Someone else put on head-slamming, neo-punk music and turned up the volume. It had been years since Orson had spent any time in a guide house, but the routine came back fast and he kicked back in a yard chair, putting up his feet as dinner cooked. Though he wasn’t eager to eat anything cooked in the spare, painted-after-the-last-world-war kitchen, at least the mousetraps had all been emptied and reset, the hot water worked for washing dishes, and last he remembered, cooking killed most germs.

The guides ate organic, primarily from their garden, with a good early harvest of summer squash, cukes, leaf lettuce, early tomatoes, small red potatoes and beans. It all sounded great on the surface, and the food looked and smelled wonderful as it cooked, but Orson was more than half-afraid that “organic” meant that the guides didn’t wait for the bathroom if it was in use when they needed to go. Small camper shovels lined up on the back porch said they used the backyard. Where the garden was.

Sunset meant food, and as the sky streaked pink and pearly gray and a soft shrimp tinted the clouds, a woman rang a dinner gong. They all grabbed paper plates and bent metal forks, dished up hearty helpings in the kitchen and headed back outside to the lawn chairs and more beer. The meal was vegetarian, with homemade butter and fresh-baked bread from the oven, hand-kneaded by Juliet, a river guide in her twenties with aspirations to live off the earth leaving no carbon footprint. She was six feet, two inches tall, with thick brown hair and a Minnesota accent. Orson liked her instantly, and decided that the smell wafting from her wasn’t weed. No way.

Word had passed that Orson was either a cop on leave or a former cop, and the guides kept marijuana out of sight and underage drinking to a minimum.

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