The Creek

Shout. Shout. Let it all out! These are the things I could do without. Come on
Rachel has to sit all the way forward to reach the pedals of her car. Her feet are small
and narrow, and she depends on the tips of her shoes to do most of the navigating. Her
hands are small and white on the wheel, like clinging spiders, as she speeds through Wolf
Creek Pass on her way into Durango. Shes got the music all the way up.
Im talkin to you. Come on
The road is steep but empty at this hour. Black mobs of trees on either side whip by
in the dark unseen; moist leaves glint amid them like flecks of metal as she passes. Its been
a long time since shes been back in Durango, but shes made this drive enough times to do
it with her eyes closed. Her instincts are programmed with the passs turns and harshening
grades, and she can feel the play of Wolf Creek below her even if she cannot always see it.
Mountains tower around her, but are tamed by their familiarity. She rolls the window
down to take in the fresh air, listening. She is a child of the eighties, and her father had
always hated the kind of music shes now blasting in her car. She loves these synthetic
melodies and drum machines, excessive high-hat for drama. Her father, born and raised in
Durango, was a bluegrass man. A barefoot, dirt-heeled dancer. Pot over coke; acid over
scrips. As much as Rachel and her father were alike, they digressed in their tastes in
recreation.
Id really love to break your heart!
Rachel clenches her jaw and turns the radio up. Her father had liked those grocery
novels with raised lettering on their covers, big-name authors and limply recycled plots;
Rachel prefers Irvine Welsh. He was a tiny man the way that she is a tiny woman, with the
same angle of nose and low-dipped cupids bow. He was a thinker the way she is a drinker:
fierce, intense, and purposeful. He was unfailingly brave; she is a coward. Rachel keeps
catching herself, keeps snagging on the weirdness of putting her father in the past tense.
But hell be there forever now, she thinks. Theres no more present left for him.
You shouldnt have to jump for joy!
Something about she and her father had always been symmetrical, complementary,
and now some crucial part of her felt amputated. After getting the call this afternoon,
Rachel had called Dylan right away to get a drink. They went to the local dive and didnt talk
about her father, though theyd known each other as children, and ordered rounds of white
rum with orange rinds and cinnamon because that was the only thing left to do. They didnt
talk about the time that her father had made shrimp tempura for them at two AM when
they were both too drunk to be grateful. They didnt talk about that time in middle school
when he took them to this huge New Wave fest in Denver and made fun of all the girls there
with their shiny makeup and tiny tight pants. They didnt talk about the way the crowd had
surged unexpectedly when a big band came on and nearly trampled them, but her father
lifted them solidly and safely to the back and they had more room to dance there anyway.
Rachel had only lost an earring; she saw others whod lost shoes, earlobes. They didnt talk
about how her father had died, and they wouldnt. Rachel certainly didnt mention that she
regretted not having been there, that she could have been if shed been braver, though
Dylan had probably understood it. He probably understood that these past tense moments,

little capsules of memories, constitute her fathers presence now, and, for Rachel, that is
reason enough to drink to forget.
These are the things I could do without. Come on
As Rachel blinks, the windshields black expanse is bleached sepia. A dark and shining
oval glares from somewhere on the left and is mashed into the glass. The hood of her car
groans, the grille crunches. Rachel clenches her eyes shut and its over in seconds. One tiny
foot remains clamped on the brake even after shes stopped.
Shout. Shout.
Her chest heaves, arms shake as she clicks off her seatbelt and shoulders open the
door. The music continues to blast inside the car, seeping out into the dark and spreading
over the road like a kinetic fog. At the front of the car, a deer lies tangled in a heap. Its fur is
wet, as if it had made its way up from playtime at the creek to meet her car at this exact
moment. The deers neck is arched horribly back, chest upraised and boxy. The darkish fur is
matted with blood around its head. A bone peeks out of its leg, glinting dull white in the
dark; a mess of splintered teeth extend from the blackened lip.
You shouldnt have to sell your soul!
I shouldve made this drive earlier, shouldnt have had that last round with Dylan,
shouldve come up here a week ago and not in the middle of the night at the very last
minute, Rachel thinks. I shouldve been where I was supposed to be, so I could do what I had
to do. For him. Maybe then this wouldnt feel like limbo, things would feel finished; not like
this strange present-tense suspension that leaves us both in midair. I have to close it up, his
rites. Finish it. Rachel can hear the water below her, feel that its cold out here though the
adrenaline keeps her warm. Her ears pulse with blood, temple throbs. She stares down into
the deers eye, the popped black oval, and makes a decision.
Im talkin to you. Come on
Rachel pulls the car over to the shoulder of the road, flips on her hazards, and pops
the trunk. Shes a good Colorado girl, so shes got an emergency kit that includes a spade in
case of a rockslide or sudden entrapping snowstorm. She grabs the deer by its cracked
hooves and drags it to the side of the road. By the glare of her headlights, she can see that
theres blood and hair knotted into the grille of her car. On her hands. The hooves clack on
the road as she drops them. She gets to her knees, and starts to dig into the dewy ground.
The smell of turned earth rises. Below her, the creek plays on as if still splashed through with
prancing, with dancing.