Cold Hands

Stories

We drove down Main Street. Chelsea called it boring, but I thought it had a certain charm. All the buildings were old and the streetlights were actual old-school lampposts. There was one of those ice cream soda shops, a small two-story movie theater, a vaguely sinister incense and occult store, and a barber's that actually had one of those candy-cane stripe poles in front. We kept on driving, out to the edge of town, where there were less and less houses and more and more trees, until at a seemingly random spot we pulled off to the right.

"We've got to walk from here," Chelsea said.

"Walk where?"

She pointed out my window. A thin trail disappeared down into the foliage.

"Bad idea," I said. "It just rained, my wheels will get stuck in the mud."

"Then I'll push you out. It isn't far, and it's all downhill."

I hadn't done anything remotely adventurous since before I could remember. I grinned, and nodded.

The rain had completely stopped by now, and the sky was that cold clear gray-white it gets after a short rainstorm. The leafy canopy was thick enough that the ground wasn't completely slushy, and there were lots of rocks. Chelsea maneuvered me most of the way, so my effort was minimal.

At the bottom of the slope, the trees ended at a wide brown river. The marshy smell of Colesville that I was starting to get used to was especially strong here. Fat dragonflies buzzed over the tall yellow grass flanking the trail, opening up onto a bank of black and green slimy mud.

"Whoa!" I said.

"Never seen the bayou before?"

"We don't have them in California."

"That's a long way off," Chelsea noted.

I glared moodily over into the trees on the other side of the water. "Yeah. It is."

"You're odd." Chelsea tramped into the tall dead grass, spreading puffs of gnats up in little clouds where she stepped. "I hope it's still in here somewhere."

"What is?"

"Aha!" With a lot of heaving and grunting, she hoisted something soggy and heavy up out of the grass and dragged it out onto the bank. I recognized its shape from watching Tom Sawyer.

"That is the most ghetto raft I have ever seen."
She stuck her tongue out, but it truly was though. It was a rickety contraption haphazardly thrown together out of wood pallets and empty milk jugs. She pushed it out onto the water, her jeans getting caked in green slop to the knees.

"I built it with my dad when I was a little girl. He used to take me out here all the time. I can't believe it's still in one piece."

I was skeptical. "It doesn't look like it's still safe, though."

"Last time I used it was just last summer. We'll be fine. It can take up to 700 pounds."

My brain flashed with the nightmarish image of getting out onto the river, the weight of my wheelchair throwing the raft off balance, and rolling backward into the water to drown and get eaten by crocodiles. "Bad idea, hon," I said. "Can you picture this chair on that thing?"

"Do your legs work at all?"

I shook my head.

"Well, you don't look very heavy. Here." She crouched in front of me like she was primed to give me a piggyback ride.  I shook my head vigorously.

"Uh uh. Nope."

"Why not?"

"What if the boat tips? I can't swim."