In the Heart of the Canyon - By Elisabeth Hyde Page 0,40

inspecting her toes, and what might have thrilled him in Dixie, repulsed him in Amy.

“I should have brought Tom Robbins,” he began, but Amy seemed to have gone into another world, taking shallow hiccupy breaths. He thought she might be crying. Then he saw a little line of drool fall from her mouth to the sand. He suddenly regretted missing his chance to go bathe with the boys.

He cleared his throat. Some people, he’d heard, were allergic to alcohol. “Hey. Amy.”

She didn’t reply. Peter looked around to see if anybody was watching them. He wanted someone to come over, and he didn’t want someone to come over.

Then Amy lifted her head and took a deep breath. She sensed the drool and hastily wiped her mouth.

Peter nudged her. “What was that all about?”

“Nothing.”

“Fuck it’s nothing.”

“It’s a stomachache. It’s nothing.”

Nervously Peter looked around for Susan. “What’s your mother say?”

“Do not,” said Amy, “do not tell my mother. It’s the altitude,” she said.

Peter was going to note that they weren’t exactly in the Himalayas, but then Amy pointed to the water. “Look,” she said. “There are three rivers out there.”

Peter looked at the water. She was right. Next to shore were choppy, dancing waves; then farther out, the midstream core, churning downstream; and finally the eddy beyond, floating upstream in a blanket of bubbles.

“You want some Pepto-Bismol or something?”

“No.”

“Because the guides have all kinds of shit in that first aid box.”

“Jesus!”

“Don’t get mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You seem mad.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m just wishing I hadn’t said anything to you if you’re not going to leave me alone about it.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

“Thank you.”

Then, just as the mention of lice will cause anyone’s scalp to itch, so the mention of a stomachache made Peter feel a little queasy himself. He belched.

“Excuse me,” he said, then belched again. He noticed Amy’s wash bag. “Is that Vera Bradley?”

“How do you know Vera Bradley?”

“My ex-girlfriend liked those.”

Amy picked up the bag and let it dangle from her finger. “My mother bought it for me. I think they’re a total rip-off But it gives her a thrill to see me using it.”

“Hundred bucks for a little purse,” said Peter. “It used to kill me. But it made her happy.”

“How long were you guys going out?”

“Six years.”

“Who ended it?”

“She did.”

“That sucks.”

“Yup.”

“Aren’t you glad we’re not with a bunch of Boy Scouts?” she remarked, after a moment.

Peter finished his beer. “You believed that story?”

“I shouldn’t?”

“How do you know when a river guide is lying?”

“How?”

Peter shook his head. “Whenever he opens his mouth! God,” he added, “you are one of the most gullible people I ever met.”

20

Day Four, Evening

Mile 60

While everyone else was eating dinner, and when she was sure the dog wouldn’t come over and start sniffing her leg, Ruth settled herself on a log and rolled up her pant leg. She unwound the Ace bandage, then gently peeled off the gauze underneath. What she saw was not encouraging. The wound was still raw and weeping, and the surrounding skin was red and hot to the touch.

Was it time for the Cipro?

In their medical kit, Ruth had packed a five-day course of antibiotics. It was a practice they’d adopted after one particularly painful trip when she got an ear infection on the fifth night, the kind that could have been easily cured with a course of amoxicillin but which, in the absence of antibiotics, had Ruth clutching the side of her head in agony for the next six days and Lloyd worrying about long-term damage to the middle ear. After that, they always brought along a broad-spectrum antibiotic. It was not something they advertised; although he would have made it available if someone really needed it, Lloyd did not want the responsibility of prescribing drugs to strangers while on vacation.

Now, looking at her leg, Ruth knew she had a decision to make. The redness and swelling indicated treatment; on the other hand, there were no red lines shooting up her leg. If they’d brought along two courses of treatment (and why hadn’t they? What foolish oversight!), she wouldn’t have thought twice. But with just the one round of pills, she was reluctant. This was simply a surface wound, after all, something that should heal, as long as she kept it clean and used plenty of Neosporin.

JT came striding over. “You should have waited for me,” he scolded. “Look, the wind’s picking up; your cut’s going to get full of sand.” He knelt and inspected the wound and frowned.