Excerpt from “Daredevil’s Run”

By

Kathleen Creighton
 
Text Box: * * * * * * * * The crowd at The Corral was rowdy; at least some things haven’t changed--much. The place had gone smoke-free, along with the rest of California, but there was enough of the familiar smells of sweat, booze and charred meat to make up for it, make it still the place he remembered. That, and the noise—laughter and conversation and loud foot-stompin’ country music playing on the jukebox. Matt wondered whether they still had live music on weekends. And whether Alex went there to hear it, and who she danced with these days. There was a lot of calling out and waving back and forth as their group moved through the croud to a table near the dance floor. Obviously, the river guides were still regulars here. Several people Matt knew came over to say hello, with varying degrees of awkwardness and constraint. Which he was used to, and had long ago stopped being bothered by. He figured he’d probably be the same way, if the situations had been reversed. They put in their orders for beer and The Corral’s famous black angus hamburgers, then settled back to watch the raggedy line dance in progress. It ended, to hoots and cheers and some sporadic applause, and a Garth Brooks classic—“The River”—came on. Linda and Sam started to sing along, and then Booker T got up and with old-fashioned courtesy, asked his wife to dance. A respectful silence fell over the table as they all watched Booker T guide his wife around the small dance floor, kind of bent over at the hips like the rump-spring cowboy he’d been in his youth. Then Sam jumped up and grabbed Cory’s arm and hauled him onto the dance floor. Among the four remaining at the table—Cheryl and Tahoe, Alex and Matt—an awkward silence fell. Tahoe sat sprawled in his chair, nursing his long-neck beer and watching the dancers with his usual unreadable gaze. Cheryl tapped her fingers on the table and rocked her body in time to the music. Alex picked up her beer and took a sip. Matt said, “How ‘bout you, Alex—you used to like to dance.” He spoke in an easy drawl, but he could feel his heart thumping, out of sync with the music. Above the rim of the beer bottle her eyes widened briefly, flared and then faded the way banked coals do when you blow on them. He could see she didn’t know what to say, that he’d surprised her, probably. Hell, for sure, he had. What had he expected her to say? He hadn’t even asked it out loud. Dance with me, Alex. Won’t be the way it used to be, but I’ll make sure you enjoy it. Maybe not quite, but almost as much. While Alex was hesitating, swallowing her mouthful of beer and evidently trying to think of a reply, Cheryl hopped up and stuck out her hand and said, “Hey, I’ll dance with you.” So, what could he do? He reached out and took the hand she offered, looked up at her and smiled. “Well, let’s go, then.” After that, he just concentrated on the music, Cheryl’s warm hand in his, and her pretty baby-blue eyes. Tried to, anyway. Trouble was, a different pair of eyes kept getting in the way. Hazel-gold eyes filled with fire and fringed with black, and a smart-alecky mouth that never lacked for something bossy to say. He kept remembering how that mouth felt, laughing up against his, how incredibly inventive it could be, exploring his body’s most sensitive places—back when his body had had senses. Kept remembering how her body felt—small, but round where it needed to be, and as she liked to say, “freakishly strong.” One little bitty package made up of muscle and fire—that was Alex. My Alex. He rotated his chair in time to the music, one hand guiding Cheryl as she sashayed in a circle around him. She looked down at him, eyes lit up and smiling, and he looked back at her and winked. And his mind followed its own steps…its own dance: Not your Alex anymore, you fool. What the hell do you think you’re doing here? She’s right—it’s insane, going on this run. What is it you hope to accomplish? What are you trying to prove? It came to him, finally, sometime out there on that dance floor as he was rocking and swaying to Garth Brooks’ anthem comparing life to the flow of a river: In a way, he’d staked everything on this run down the monster rapids known as The Forks of the Kern. This was it—his one chance to make it all right again. As far as his future happiness was concerned—and that meant his future with Alex Penny--to borrow a poker term—and he’d played a lot of poker during his months in rehab—he was All In. Alex watched the dancers from a great unbrigeable distance, while thoughts and feelings rocketed through her mind like an oarless boat on a river full of rapids. My God, he can dance. And who would have thought a man in a wheelchair could look so graceful? So sexy. So…beautiful. So viril? I wonder if he… No. I don’t want to wonder. Damn, but this hurts. I don’t want to watch him, but I can’t help it. How can he dance with someone else? To this song? Not that we were sentimental, either one of us, to have had “our song”—but if we had one this would have been it. We used to dance to it, me with my hands around his neck, and he’d have his hands on my butt, and we’d sing along while we danced. Sing about the river we both loved. How could you, Mattie? How could you have messed everything up so badly? Copyright 2008 Kathleen Creighton-Fuchs

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