Kincaid looked at his watch: eight-seventeen. The truck started on the second try, and he backed out, shifted gears, and moved slowly down the alley under hazy sun. Through the streets of Bellingham he went, heading south on Washington 11, running along the coast of Puget Sound for a few miles, then following the highway as it swung east a little before meeting U.S Route 20.
Turning into the sun, he began the long, winding drive through the Cascades. He liked this country and felt impressed，stopping now and then to make notes about interesting possibilities for future expeditions or to shoot what he called “memory snapshots.” The purpose of these causal photographs was to remind him of places he might want to visit again and approach more seriously. In later afternoon he turned north at Spokane, picking up U.S Route 2, which would take him halfway across the northern United States to Duluth, Minnesota.
He wished for the thousandth time in his life that he had a dog, a golden retriever, maybe, for travels like this and to keep him company at home. But he was frequently away; overseas much of the time and it would not be fair to the animal. Still, he thought about it anyway. In a few years he would be getting too old for the hard fieldwork. “I must get a dog then.” He said to himself.
Drives like this always put him into a sentimental mood. The dog was part of it. Robert Kincaid was alone as it’s possible to be – an only child, parents both dead, distant relatives who had lost track of him and he of them, no close friends.
He thought about Marian. She had left him nine years ago after five years of marriage. He was fifty–two now, that would make her just under forty. Marian had dreams of becoming a musician, a folksinger. She knew all of the Weavers’ songs and sang them pretty well in the coffeehouse of Seattle. When he was home in the old days, he drove her to the shows and sat in the audience while she sang.
His long absences – two or three months sometimes – were hard on the marriage. He knew that. She was aware of what he did when they decided to get married, and both of them had a vague (not clear) sense that it could all be handled somehow. It couldn’t when he came from photographing a story in Iceland and, she was gone. The note read, “Robert, it didn’t work out, I left you the Harmony guitar. Stay in touch.”
He didn’t stay in touch. Neither did she. He signed the divorce papers when they arrived a year later and caught a plane for Australia the next day. She had asked for nothing except her freedom.