“Three rings overboard means disqualification,” Ecklund concluded. “Remember you’re competing as individuals, and no vote can save you. If you aren’t in the top half of scores today, you’ll automatically face the Trial.”
We’d go in two heats, and Barnes (naturally) ended up with me, Shawn, Imogen, Erika, and Melange. “Well, it’s like John Waters remadeGilligan’s Island,” he said dryly, buckling into the captain’s chair before anyone could protest. “I’ll play guinea pig.”
The trick to success became obvious as the boat navigated the same five-minute stretch of curves, alternating between easy cruising and rapid careening based off the river’s irregular depth. It wasn’t abouthowto throw the rings butwhen, so I memorized landmarks to identify each time the boat accelerated: a capsized tree to my left, a collection of boulders on my right.
It was odd watching Barnes compete after so long. His feline agility remained precise, forearms taut even though he only sank two rings. Wehadn’t worked out together in ages. He always hit the gym during lunch, or so he claimed. I found myself wondering anew how often he must have trawled for men at the DC Equinox, recklessly soliciting musclehead policy wonks in the steam room.
Erika capably sank three rings, but Melange landed eleven, her injured ankle not a factor. “Do you know how many rodeos I’ve done? I’ve worn more rhinestone Stetsons than a Dolly Parton drag queen,” she chuckled. Barnes observed her with a curiosity I recognized, clearly debating if she was to be employed or eliminated—and I felt a renewed desire to fling him overboard.
Shawn buckled in, nimbly scoring five before the boat’s first acceleration. I was impressed until he looked over his shoulder—and not at me. Barnes stared back blankly as Shawn defiantly launched two rings, both missing. Refusing to let Shawn DQ over a dick-measuring contest, I shouted for him to stop, but he just doggedly grabbed another ring as the boat swerved. All of us were now imploring caution, but only one voice pierced the veil. “Kid, you already beat me,” Barnes called, his neutral tone somehow more disconcerting than outright sabotage. Shawn thus sat fuming for the rest of his turn, hands clutching the ring so tightly it cracked in half, gold dye trickling down his wet suit.
Troy signaled me along, and I preemptively requested silence to avoid Barnes and Shawn jockeying to advise me. The triangle of poles conjured memories of enforced “team bonding nights” at Dartmouth, the football bros and sorority girls melding into basement corners while I got ample practice launching Ping-Pong balls at plastic pyramids of stale beer. My score was soon tied with Shawn, but I paused on my next ring. Did I need to secure my place, or did I need to reassure Shawn he wasn’t getting left in the dust?
I sent the ring sailing, knowing I’d overshot. “Shit,” I cursed (maybe too dramatically). “Shouldn’t risk another one.” It was maybe the first decision I’d made in the game that had no benefit for me or my kids whatsoever. This decision was only for Shawn.
We returned to the start, Imogen pursing her lips in disapproval as she took the chair. She knew I’d thrown away that shot. She wasn’t alone, based on Barnes’ disgruntled face. Shawn, however, remained oblivious, pointedly kissing my cheek. “Nice, we both got five.”
The wind was kicking up when Imogen’s initial two rings sailed overboard. “It might be safer to score zero than DQ!” I cautioned, but her hand silenced me. I winced as she procured more rings, but she scored one after another with terrifying accuracy, perfectly timed with the boat’s rhythms and the increasing winds. I shouldn’t have doubted her.
Near the route’s end, she sank her eleventh to match Melange, but as she aimed for her twelfth, a new voice joined the cheers. Three positive words from Barnes—“She’s got it,” incidentally—were enough to send a tremor through her arm, the ring flying erratically and my heart sinking with it, as Troy’s horn sounded her disqualification.
36
2015
SEASON 20, EPISODE 8:
“… To Keep Me from You! (Part Two)”
The only thing worse than sending Imogen or Erika home was watching Barnes do it instead. I leaned against the thick pine railing of the observation balcony in our new Arena, which looked like an open-air courtroom dropped amidst the dense forest. We safe contestants were elevated dead center behind Ecklund’s hosting platform, like a panel of judges presiding over supplicants on the cedar chip floor. The stage lights blinded us from above, rendering the woods that encompassed us all the more elusive and murky, a pitch-black void just inches away.
Moreover, I never imagined half the cast would be up for elimination in a single Trial. An irate Tati had DQ’ed alongside Imogen, with Erika, Barnes, and Fortune as the lowest scores. God only knows how Greta placed higher.
The “Patron Saints” Trial was a matching game, with the contestants assigned individual easels covered by chain mail curtains. Behind eachcurtain was a portrait gallery of saints that the players had to replicate from memory after sprinting up a modest climbing wall to the platform directly opposite our observation deck. The last-place finisher would of course go home, but then Ecklund announced the savage news thatanyonewho didn’t complete the Trial in twenty minutes would also be out. “It’s Season 20!” he reminded. “No one’s coasting!”
“How can I coast when you have me going against the boys?” Tati sniped.
“Every Trial in this final stage has been designed for equality,” Zara answered evenly. “Tonight tests your ability to pull your own body weight and retain visual information. That’s about as gender-neutral as it gets.”
I glanced at Imogen and Erika below, dreading how this might all come down to one misplaced sketch of St. Catherine of Siena, and guiltily wiped my slick palms across my jeans. Would my friends be in this position if Barnes hadn’t pursued me here, my virus of a husband infecting the fragile bonds I’d somehow forged?
“And remember: if you’re safe, no cheering or providing hints to the competitors,” Ecklund added for the rest of us, a wagging finger pressed to his lips. “Silencio, amigos!”
The art department hurried to make last adjustments, and a shiver raced up my spine, as much from nerves as the brisk night air. I bounced on the balls of my feet for warmth, trying to distract myself with conversation. “So, you think this is Fortune’s swan song?” I asked Shawn.
“He’s got a photographic memory, but the wall might be an issue,” he said, visibly unfocused. I followed his gaze to Barnes chugging a Gatorade by craft services, and as Shawn reached for my hand, I didn’t know whether he was more concerned about marking territory or what might happen if I wasn’t in his grasp. I watched Erika stretching, eyes pinched tight in what seemed like a failing meditation. Imogen meanwhile paced in circles through the cedar chips, somehow even more distracted. When Barnes exited toward the porta potties, I knew I had to do something.
“Time for another insurance policy,” I whispered to Shawn, his grip tightening as I extracted my hand. “Be right back.”
I descended the deck and noticed Greta cloistered with Troy by the G&E trucks. They were deep in some kind of pep talk, her lips scrunched into an angry crater, no doubt another stunt she’d devised getting nixed. The broad pools of the floodlights dissipated near the shadowlands where the johns stood like upright coffins. Muted cursing erupted from within, and in spite of myself I almost laughed when Barnes kicked the door open, hands airborne, desperately trying to avoid the handle. He froze, surprised to find me. “The universe won’t allow me a shred of dignity…”
“You said you’d do anything for me?” I asked, fighting to keep my voice even.
His eyes widened, betraying an eagerness even he couldn’t mask, and a pang coursed in my chest. “I won’t throw it. It wouldn’t actually benefit you—”
“It’s not that… you can’t say anything to Imogen.”
“Well, how touching,” he sniffed. “The Wonder Twins are reborn.”
