"Sorry it's been a while," she says.
"The river takes; the river brings back. That's how it is." He stumbles and rights himself.
He's thinking of Nan. Sometimes the river only takes.
The shack looms ahead: an unfriendly building with a drunken lean to it, painted dark green without any bogging up or sanding back— every five years or so Pop just adds another layer to glue the place back together. He has a single propane lantern burning in the front window and three solar lights staked near the steps. Electricity's too expensive, he says, so now he runs gas and a generator only when he needs it, and he's going to need it now because Sabine has been dreaming of the bath for months.
"You'll want to soak yourself," he says, as if he can read her mind. "I'll crank the gas. Leave that dog out." He heads off to the shed. Sabine settles Blue on the porch, slips off her wet boots, and lets herself inside.
Nothing has changed. The ancient floorboards throughout the cramped kitchen and living area have been mended in patchwork over the years, and she trips on a new section inside the door. The old couch is shaped like a hammock— Pop keeps it covered with layers of tartan blankets, not unlike the way he uses paint to keep the shack from falling apart. A film of coarse hair and dust coats everything. Pop only opens one window, and the air is stifling, flavored with the lingering odor of dog.
Blue's dam, Polly, died a few years back— she crawled under the rainwater tank after being bitten by a tiger snake. Pushing seven years old and scarred from the previous litter, she shouldn't have had her last: four fat pups, stillborn, and Blue the runt, barely breathing.
Sabine blew in his lungs and claimed him as hers, lest he go the way of Pop's bucket. Polly had been bitten twice before and survived. The last litter drained the fight out of her, which accounted for Pop's hatred of tigers and his intolerance for Blue.
Sabine enters the bathroom. It's tidy but not clean, and the enamel is cracking. She wonders if the bath will hold water. Pop wouldn't know since he only ever uses the outdoor shower. She plugs the drain, runs the hot tap, hopes.
Steam rises. She adds more cold— it's still eighty- six degrees outside— but not too much. It's not really a bath unless you nearly poach yourself. When she looks for the shampoo to make bubbles, she finds a neatly folded towel and a lavender-scented bath bomb resting on the sink.
So Pop knew she was coming. Fucking river telegraph. Her eyes water, and it has nothing to do with the steam.
She closes the door and strips. The mirror is spackled with grime; she wipes a spot clean with a corner of the towel and peers at her blurred reflection. Lately her close vision isn't great. She can't read a book or a map without holding them at arm's length. Too many years scanning the horizon. She probably needs glasses. She bares her teeth: straight and white against her tanned skin, but with a chipped incisor that makes her look as if she has been in a bar fight. Her cropped brown hair is showing blond at the roots again. Is the suspicious mole on her collarbone turning black?
She shrugs. Couldn't be any more malignant than the past she keeps put away. Optometrist, dentist, hairdresser— add those to the list of ordinary tasks she avoids. She can manage a razor, scissors, and a pharmacy dye kit, but not doctor visits, beauty treatments, or any kind of appointment that might enter a system. Her skin is tanned and dry, and her muscles have become ropy from heaving and hauling, from riding the sway of the boat. She has too many scars to remember how they all got there, old cuts left unstitched.
She settles in the tub, shoulders submerged, knees protruding. The bath bomb fizzes on her belly. Pop will leave her as long as she needs, but she wants enough time with him to talk business, and he gets jumpy if she stays too long. Plus Blue needs feeding. And she forgot to bring the batteries up for a decent recharge.
She pinches her nose and ducks her head under. When she comes up, Pop is rapping on the door.
"Just a minute!"
"Now, Beenie," he says.
It's been so long since she's heard him call her that. She experiences the conflicting sensation of heat in her extremities and, deep inside, a cold spike of fear.
"What is it?"
She lurches from the water and levers her body over the side of the bath to sit on the mat, struggling to pull her underwear and shorts over her wet skin.
Blue's barking his head off. For some reason he's in the house.
Pop's slamming cupboard doors. Looking for something.
She snaps her bra, yanks a T- shirt over her head, and scrambles to her feet. Where are her boots? Outside.
She opens the door a crack. "Pop?"
"Out the back. Take the dog and go."
