The Rock Garden

The Rock Garden

Near Taos, July 2, 1971

I had fallen asleep in the middle row of Uncle Fritz’s International between my two favorite boys, my little brother Mike and my cousin Brad, with my head resting on Brad’s bare shoulder and my leg resting against his. When I awake, I stay still, pretending to be asleep, so I can just keep laying there. I could snuggle like this forever.

I know Brad is my cousin, but I’m still hopelessly in love with him. We are the same age—he turned fourteen in January and me in February— but he calls me “Kid,” in a loving way, like Humphrey Bogart in that old movie we watched on TV one night. He is the only person on Earth who can get away with calling me that.

I have to stand on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, which I am always doing. I like saying things only to him, and I love brushing his wild, curly black hair away from his ear (even his ears are beautiful). He is smooth and tanned, with green eyes, a nice jaw, a pointed nose, and a dimple on his chin like Kirk Douglas.

I’m studying the cutest dark fuzz that has sprouted above his lip and on his chin, imagining him with a mustache and a goatee, like some spy. He would have to dress up more to be a spy. I almost laugh. Brad is the star of the track team and almost always sports his track jersey, usually with gym shorts, sometimes with cut-off jeans.

I assume we have made it to New Mexico; it doesn’t look like Texas anymore. Brad is staring out the window at the nothingness.

Until, suddenly, he isn’t.

He is looking at me.

“You awake, Kid?”

I sit up, embarrassed I have been staring at him. I stretch my arms and yawn, almost smacking Mike in the face.

“You all beauty-rested now?” Brad asks, smiling.

I feel my face turn red. I hold my palms out from my shoulders and cock my head. “What do ya think?”

If Brad could have turned red, I think he would have. He laughs in a snort, but also winks.

“Are we almost there?” I ask loud enough to be heard over the road noise.

“About another hour, Sweetie.” Uncle Fritz always called me Sweetie—I am the daughter he didn’t have. I enjoy being appreciated, something I have never felt much in my nuclear family, in which only Daddy pays me much mind—Mom dotes on Mike but treats me like a feral cat.

Mom didn’t even argue when I said I wanted to go with Uncle Fritz and my cousins to their cabin in New Mexico for July Fourth. So here I am with all my favorite Makepeaces. The only one I don’t quite relate to is Brad’s older brother Merit. He goes to Amarillo College and is always cursing the Vietnam War and the draft. Everyone keeps praying that Merit’s number won’t come up—I sure can’t imagine him fighting in a war he hates so much.

That said, he looks like a fighter—the all-grownup, rugged version of Brad. He has the same black curly hair, tan, and green eyes. But there is nothing cute about Merit—he doesn’t have that Kirk Douglas dimple. And, sometimes, he scares me.

But not as much as his best friend, Greg. They have been friends for as long as I can remember. Greg is another level of tough from Brad and Merit—and another level of scary. Greg moved to Taos a year or two ago, guides rafters on the Rio Grande for money, and is taking us rafting tomorrow. Merit claims Greg is a pro.

***

Greg’s red GTO is parked in front of the cabin when we pull up. He is leaned back in a chair on the porch, resting a can of beer on his leg, holding a cigarette between his fingers, and looking very much like he owns the place. He’s bigger than I remember, with a gut covering the top of his jeans. He also looks tougher. His tan is dark; his biceps emerging from a dirty t-shirt are intimidating, he sports a handlebar mustache that is redder than his mostly blonde hair, and his feet are giant, sticking out every side of his flip flops.

He stays in his position, propped against the wall, for longer than seems polite after we start unloading the back of the International. Finally, he lets the chair down and rises to his feet.

“Get you a cold one?” he asks, looking at Merit, his voice gravelly.

“Yeah,” Merit says.

“How about you, Fritz?” Greg asks. Even when he was in high school, he called my uncle, Fritz. I wonder if he called his teachers by their first names, too.

“Sure, Greg,” Uncle Fritz says, heading into the cabin with his arms full.

“How about you, little lady?” Now, Greg is staring at me. Well, more precisely, staring down at my chest, then my bare legs, making me feel naked. “You want a beer?”

I stare him down as I walk past. He whistles as I let the screen door slam behind me.

Greg’s treatment of me isn’t lost on Brad. Just as the door slams, I hear him tell Greg, “Leave her alone.”

I look back as Brad comes through the door. I want to thank him, but I don’t have to. Our eyes meet and hide nothing.

***

Burgers, soda, and ice cream. What more could a girl ask for? Everyone is in a good mood after we eat. The cool air on the patio is so perfect it doesn’t seem real. I’m sitting between Mike and Brad, who, occasionally, leans into me, and I feel his warmth.

“So, Greg, do you have training for running the river in a raft?” Uncle Fritz asks.

“Oh, yeah. I learned from my buds. I’ve been rafting since I was ‘bout their age,” he says, pointing at Mike, Brad, and me.

“Are there bad rapids? Is it dangerous?”

“I think what you’re calling bad rapids; I call good ones. It ain’t no float trip.” He strokes his chin. “But dangerous? Nah. I’m still here.”

“Greg knows his stuff,” Merit says. “He’ll teach everyone how to paddle, how to stay in the boat, and what to do if they go overboard.”

“Overboard?” Uncle Fritz sounds alarmed.

“Oh, Dad,” Merit laughs. “I fell in a couple of times but did what Greg said. It was fun.”

“I figure I’m too old for that kind of fun,” Uncle Fritz says. “These kids might be too young.”

“What?” Brad cries.

“I’m not afraid,” Mike says.

Uncle Fritz looks at me. “What about you, Sweetie?”

“I can do anything these boys can do.” I’m not about to miss out.

“I’ll take care of ‘em.” Greg’s a jerk, but a jerk who sounds like he knows what he’s doing.

***

We are all up before the sun and pile in the International. The first stop is picking up the raft from a shack Greg shares with two other guys. Greg hitches his trailer to the International, and we are off.

The further we go, the prettier it gets. After a while, we can see the Rio Grande below, with rafts already out on the water. My face is glued to the window.

We pull off at what looks like a beach by the river. Greg and Merit pull the raft off and move it to the water’s edge. Greg hands each of us a life vest and shows us how to strap it on.

Uncle Fritz watches with interest, seeming satisfied as we get in the boat and Greg begins his spiel about how to use a paddle and stay in the boat.

Uncle Fritz tells Brad, Mike, and me to be careful, and to listen to Greg.

“Merit, you look after your brother and cousins,” Uncle Fritz adds. “And y’all have fun.”

“We will,” I shout.

As soon as Uncle Fritz drives away, Greg starts sounding like a squad leader. “Ok, listen, let’s go through this again. This is how you sit—on the side of the raft with your feet secured,” showing us how to secure our feet in the raft.

“Row with the paddle straight up and down—use your whole body, not just your arms. The most important thing to know is what?” he asks.

“What to do if we fall out of the boat,” Mike says, sounding proud.

“That’s right. Rule number one: stay in the boat. Rule number two: don’t fall out. Rule number three: fall into the boat. But what do you do if you break these rules?”

So much for the rules.

“Uh, don’t stand on the bottom?” Mike answers.

“Right. What else?”

“Grab the line on the side of the boat,” Brad says.

“That’s right. What if you can’t get to the boat?”

“I know,” Mike says. “Float on your back.”

“Which way do you point your feet?”

“Downstream,” Brad says.

“You kids have it. Merit’s going to sit at the front of the boat.” Greg grins. “So, he can take all the water in the face.”

We all laugh.

“Mike, you take the opposite side, closest to me. Brad, you and Sweetie take the middle.”

“My name is Diane to you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Greg says, staring down my halter top. “Ok, let’s do the Taos Box.”

Brad looks born to this with his bronze arms and toned muscles, grinning from ear to ear. I’m sitting next to him. I’m so happy.

For the first hour after we head down the river, putting up with Greg is worth it. We paddlers aren’t the best at taking directions, but Greg and Merit keep us going the right way. Greg is constantly calling out what trouble’s ahead and how we’ll go around it.

The only canyon I have ever seen is Palo Duro—a giant hole in the Earth, running miles in every direction. I have no understanding what a “box canyon” is until we get down the river, and the walls of rock close in and rise around us.

Brad and I lean back, looking up at the canyon walls, which are an odd mixture of red and green. Nature—or God— has pressed the river and us deep into the rock. I’m suddenly aware how small we are, but I don’t care. I have Brad and the sun on my face.

Then, the fun starts.

I scream when we dash into the water roaring up from the rocks. But after a couple of rapids, I relax even though I am always a step behind Greg’s instructions.

The boat seems to know what to do even when I don’t. No worries. Mike, Brad, and I scream with laughter every time we get splashed until we are completely soaked.

The waves build and emerge from the rocks. That we don’t crash into the rocks I find amazing. I come to respect Greg even though he is, otherwise, a disgusting person.

About an hour into the trip, Greg starts talking about The Rock Garden. The further we go, the louder his shouts and the faster the words come about how we will navigate the Garden to avoid upending the boat and dumping us all overboard.

Then, suddenly, he goes silent.

The river has turned from brown to swirling and boiling white.

“There it is, boys and girls.” Greg shouts. “Is everyone ready?”

The fierce white water has my attention. Merit and Brad say they are ready, but I can’t speak.

“Head to the right side of the river,” Greg instructs. “And stop against that large rock this side of the rapids.”

I paddle furiously until we are up against the rock.

“Take a good look.” Greg stands, hand above his brow, looking like Washington about to cross the Delaware. “When I say left, Merit and Diane paddle forward, Brad and Mike backwards. When I say paddle right, do the opposite. Things are going to happen fast. Take a deep breath, make sure your feet are secure, and keep your hand over the t-grip.”

I take a deep breath as my heart races.

“Pushing off now! Forward,” Greg shouts.

Little effort is required to go forward once we leave the safety of the rock—we shoot downstream.

“Right!”

Paddling backwards is not natural, but I do it. And the raft moves right, away from oncoming rocks.

After a couple of more maneuvers, incredibly, the water is rushing at us. I know the rocks are to blame, but I can’t see them at all.

As we tack right, we may have missed something on the left, but as we hit the giant wave, a dark rock emerges on our right—like a monster from under the bed.

Everything turns to slow motion. Instinctively, I drop my paddle and grab ahold of Brad’s arm. Just as I do, the raft hits the rock, and the left side descends below the surface.

All of Brad, except the arm I am holding for dear life, plunges into the river.

“Brad! No! No!” I lean hard against my side of the boat, pulling Brad’s arm with me. But his arm has become this impossible force, diving away from me, pulling me off the side of the boat, almost standing me up.

For just a moment, my eyes close and there is nothing—only water and darkness.

Then, I fall back against the boat, empty handed.

I look in the direction of Brad’s lost arm.

Only black water.

Brad is gone.

I am screaming, but not words, just horrifying sounds.

Regular motion returns as the raft leaves the rocks behind. We all desperately look around—searching for Brad.

I see nothing but violent white water between us and where he went in.

Greg is the only person still functioning. He is frantically rowing on my side of the boat. I soon see why. The raft closes on the shore and comes to rest on trees growing out of the river. Greg throws a rope around one of the trees and ties it.

The raft is now still.

Everyone but Greg has been crying Brad’s name, with weary, frightened voices. But, like the raft, we all come to rest, no longer able to scream, no longer able to look at the water that swallowed Brad. We are all looking at each other, like the guilty survivors of a plane crash.

Bile rises in my throat. I throw my head over the side, puking out hamburger and Cheerios and Coca Cola, until my stomach aches, my throat burns, and my eyes water. When I turn back around, everyone is staring at me.

“I tried to hold on,” I cry. “I tried to hold on. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

They just keep staring, like townspeople at a hanging, dull-eyed and hungry for vengeance.

I can’t stand it. I cover my eyes with my arms and wail, for what seems like forever, thinking my cries must be the only sound left on Earth, until, through a series of jagged coughs, I finally manage to stop.

No one is looking at me. They are all engaged in serious conversation—a conversation I can tell I have missed much of.

“That’s all we can do, Greg, I agree.” Merit sounds sad and defeated.

“Ok, then,” Greg says, somberly.

Then, he looks at me. For the first time since we arrived at the cabin yesterday, he does not look like a jerk. His face is tender.

“Diane?”

I can tell he has a question, but he seems to be checking if I am even here.

“Y-y-y-y, yes?” I finally answer.

“Do you think you can paddle? I’m sorry, but we all need to paddle, first, to go get Brad over there.”

Over there? He is pointing behind him.

“Then to get to the load out. It’s the only thing we can do; the only way we can get help.”

Get help. Get help? I am trying to understand.

“Help for Brad?” I ask.

Greg stares at me. Not a mean stare. A sad one. The saddest look I have ever seen on a person.

“Yes,” he says. I see his mouth say it, but I can’t really hear him.

Help for Brad.

“Yes,” I say, holding up my paddle.

We all paddle forward, to the other side of the river.

Why?

I don’t understand.

Until I see him.

But not him. Just a lifeless form barely resembling my beautiful Brad. No longer smiling. No longer golden. No longer strong. Just pale and lifeless, splayed in between the rocks.

I begin screaming all over again—for all of us—as Greg and Merit grab ahold of Brad’s pointless life jacket and pull him into the boat.

Now, there he is, lying dead in the middle of the boat, his leg resting against my feet. I turn my head around as far as my neck will allow, to no longer see.

All my screams have left me. I am just a limp bag of bones with a paddle in my hand, all life and feeling pulled into the current of death flowing beneath the raft.

We manage to paddle to Greg’s instructions—the only sounds made in the raft the rest of the way down the river, the sounds of a man half dead.

That’s how I feel. Dead. Brad has taken us all with him. We are just zombies floating on the river of death. Like zombies, we have lost the ability to speak. Like a zombie movie, nothing seems real.

The last thing I remember is Uncle Fritz, standing on the shore, wide-eyed with his mouth open but unable to speak until we are almost there.

And then, he screams. Like I had screamed.

“Brad! Brad! No! No!”