Текст книги "The Call of the Mountain"

Автор книги: Sam Neumann

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9

A week passed and I drank too much. I walked Pearl Street and drove the hills, drunk at night and hung over in the mornings. Anthony and Julia noticed a change. In the evenings, when the sun dipped behind the mountains, I would duck into a bar and sit alone. Sometimes I watched the other patrons, young and vibrant and laughing, and sometimes I watched my drink.

One evening I found myself at a bar far south of Pearl, cloaked neatly in the embankment of the highway. It was an inconspicuous joint. I stopped there after wandering farther than usual, determined to get away from the main drag and explore a quieter area. After walking a few miles, I needed a beer.

Inside was dimly lit with low ceilings. The décor was an interior designer’s nightmare, various unconnected pieces scattered over the walls in a seemingly random fashion. Wagon wheels, old signs, pictures of people who were dead now. You could crawl through it for a lifetime and not see everything. The place smelled of stale beer, cheap beer, but the feel was homey. I did not feel out of place walking into that bar alone, like I did at so many others.

“What can I get you, bud?” the bartender asked, and I told him. He wore a green t-shirt adorned with the bar’s logo.

It was a Tuesday, and the establishment was quiet. Small groups talked over pitchers at scattered tables, but the bar area was nearly deserted.

“You from Boulder?” he asked, sliding a beer to me.

“No,” I said and took a sip. It was light and flat. “Most recently, New York.”

“Right on,” he said. “Vacation?”

“Not really. I just moved out here actually.”

“Sweet,” he said with enthusiasm. “I think that calls for a shot. I’m Kyle.” He was young, with long blonde hair parted in the center.

“Julian,” I said, and shook his hand. He poured a syrupy liquid into two shot glasses, and we drank.

“How you finding our town?” he asked.

I shrugged. “It’s nice. Beautiful. Not sure how long I’ll be sticking around. Kind of came out here on a whim.”

He nodded.

“Didn’t really think it through. Kind of impulsive. Stupid, really.”

“What made you come out?” He was pouring a vodka/soda.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Early mid-life crisis or something.”

He laughed. “That’s funny. Early mid-life. I figured you couldn’t be that old.”

I nodded and took a drink.

I sat at that bar for a long time, long after Kyle had moved on and was conversing with other patrons. I stared at the bar, stared at my drink, stared at the liquor bottles hastily arranged against the wall. Occasionally I glanced at the TV, displaying the late innings of some baseball game. I thought about the brewery from last week, and more than once considered going back there. I could walk; finish my drink and pay my tab, point myself in the general direction, then ramble along until I reached the front door. I could get a cab and be there in a few minutes. And when I arrived, I’d enter and order another beer, and maybe she would be there again, and maybe she would turn to me and tell me she could get me whatever I wanted again. Maybe she would be there, and maybe she would look at me the same way she looked at me then. Maybe. But probably not. Probably, she was back in the mountains, wherever that was. Probably they all were.

“Kyle,” I said, raising a finger.

He walked over.

“You know of a brewery around here? One with a good sized tap room?”

He laughed. “Way more than one brewery around here, bud. This’s the Napa of beer.”

“Yeah. Just trying to remember what it was called. I was there last week. It was out east a little.”

“There’s a few out east,” he said, and went back to the other patrons.

10

On Friday morning I called her. I pulled the napkin from where I’d left it, loosely crumpled in the bottom of my duffel bag, and stared at the number for five minutes.

Suzanne

I dialed it into my phone, then waited another two minutes before hitting the call button. When I did, my stomach rose.

It rang twice, then once again. There was a pause and I heard a click.

“Hello?” came the voice, annunciated and clear.

“Hi,” I said, “Suzanne?”

She paused. “Yes?”

“Hi. Um.”

“Who is calling?” she asked.

“It’s Julian,” I said. “From last week. How are you?”

Another pause, then a giggle. “Julian,” she said, like revealing the answer to some riddle. “Hello Julian. I thought you might not call.”

I stuttered. “Well…I did.”

“How have you been?”

“Not bad. A little bored. And you?”

“You don’t mean to tell me you find your new home boring, do you?”

“A little.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah. Well hey, I just wanted to say hello. Maybe see if you were still in town, if you wanted to get a drink sometime or something.”

“Well I’m afraid I’m not in your neck of the woods anymore. We weren’t in Boulder but one night, my darling.”

Her darling.

“Of course,” I said. “Figured it was worth a shot.”

“It would be lovely to see you again, Julian. You know I feel this way. You knew before you called.”

I paused again. My relationship with this person was fleeting and trivial, yet I could not recall someone who had put me at a loss of words so often in such a short time.

“No I didn’t,” I finally said, firmly without grace.

She giggled.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“Nothing, Julian. Nothing is funny. What are your plans for this evening?”

“I have none,” I said. Her diction was contagious. Without realizing, I began mimicking her style of speaking, if slightly.

“Marvelous. Then you will join us in the mountains.”

“The mountains?”

“Why yes, the mountains. We’re having a bit of a soiree up here, and it would be fantastic if you would join us.”

“A soiree?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sure I’m invited,” I said.

“I’m inviting you now. And I will not entertain any more ambiguity. You are coming to the mountains this evening, and you are joining our soiree, and that’s final.”

And it was. She gave me the address, told me to show up around nine, then hung up the phone.

At 7:15 I showered and dressed for a soiree. My best jeans, square-toed shoes, a black button-up, and a small dash of cologne. I grabbed my keys and considered bringing my duffel bag before deciding against it. I’d be back.

On my way out, Anthony asked where I was going.

“A soiree,” I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I said. “Just a party.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together. He knew.

“I see,” he said.

“See you later,” I said, and walked through the front door.

I hopped in that Mercedes-Benz, dustier now than usual but still looking good, and turned south on Broadway. The sun had dipped behind the Flatirons, casting a shadow across most of Boulder. The GPS estimated the drive at just over two hours.

I followed the road south, through Boulder and out of town, where the land opened up and I could see farther. To my right were rolling hills, still covered in summer green, an occasional inlet road leading west. To my left were plains. It was as if it was a different world—the wide-stretching flats of Denver and beyond to the east, and the sudden jut of the Rockies to the west—divided by this two-lane highway. I passed Eldorado Springs and saw cattle grazing, spread widely in the valley before the hills and seemingly unfenced.

In Golden, the topography changed. At once the green turned to red, and the rolling hilltops flattened into mesas. The first time through, it had reminded me of New Mexico—desert with crude rock and short shrubs. I drove past town—bigger and more sprawling than I’d expected—and turned on I-70.

I was pointed west, finally, and west is what would do it. West would get me there. The road rose immediately, slanting up to meet those hills, and to deliver me to them. It was a freeway now, a real interstate, three lanes on each side, and other cars scattered the road—some fast, some slow, all with their headlights on. We drove west, up, through the last bits of Golden and past its flat mesas, until the hills were green again.

Up, through the foothills. Up, past grassy meadows. The road curved from time to time, quickly putting the plains and Denver and the real world out of sight. We went up, and the car’s engine worked to maintain speed. Up, up, up.

Then down. The road turned down, quickly, and I crested the hill. And on my way down, through the glow of twilight, I was greeted with an unencumbered view of the Rocky Mountain Range. Jagged peaks just in front of me, many miles ahead but right there just the same. They did not roll or sway, they just stood, rocky and proud and unforgiving, specks of snow still visible near the tops in the dead of summer. The magazine had not lied.

The road went down sharply and leveled out. I passed a small mining town, and once again began climbing. I climbed another hour, the road carving through mountain valleys and over passes, the land blanketed in rocks and evergreens, and I was finally in the mountains. I was not at the beginning, or around the edge, or nearly there. I was there. The mountains had taken me in, enveloping me in a welcoming embrace, as night had now fallen, and still I drove west.

Through one final pass, and one long tunnel, the road then turned down, and I passed through the town of Silverthorne. Just a few miles past it, I exited I-70, and made a sharp left on a side-road. Twenty more minutes and I reached Otter Ridge.

It was a charming little mountain town, with a quaint yet alive downtown strip flanked by budget hotels and free-standing homes. In another situation, I would’ve stopped, parked my car and strolled main street for an hour or two, maybe sit down for a coffee somewhere. Take in the vibe on a clear summer evening. But I had somewhere to be.

That tiny town was the end of civilization, at least in my evening. I turned east, onto a poorly maintained side road, which led me up again. The hills were smaller this time, the Canyon tighter, but still I went up. The road turned to gravel and curved sharply, and I followed it up. Up, up, up, winding through a blur of evergreen, until I was sure I was lost. Up, and suddenly I was there.

I pulled into a wide gravel driveway. The night was pitch black, but my headlights showed a dozen other cars parked. Jeeps, 4x4’s, beat up pickup trucks, an all-wheel drive station wagon. I parked my Mercedes and walked up.

She was the first one I saw, thankfully, for the room was filled with vagrants I didn’t know. We met eyes and she approached me immediately. Just broke off whatever conversation she was in, and approached.

She smirked as she walked, crossing the large room with elegance, and I couldn’t help but smirk back. She moved through a thin haze of smoke, and a thick blanket of exotic smells, wearing a long, flowing red dress adorned with an oriental design. The sleeves were long and loose, like a wizard’s, and the fabric shimmered in the soft light. At once I felt both over– and underdressed.

She reached me and gently grabbed my hands, and held them between us. My stomach rose.

“Hi,” I said.

She leaned in and moved her lips next to my ear. Her cheek brushed my skin and the hair on my neck rose.

“Are you staying?” she whispered.

“I…don’t know,” I whispered back.

She pulled back and smiled. Then, releasing one of my hands and holding on to the other, she led me across the room.

11

I met them all that night in the mountains. I met Damon and Pilov and Gretchen, all seated on a loveseat in the corner and playing guitar. I met Stephanie and Willa, and their Finnish friend Elias. I met Ryan and Danielle, who informed me I’d met them before.

“At the Brewery,” she said.

“In Boulder,” he added. “We talked about New York.”

I met this ragtag group of friends, acquaintances, whatever they were, and they accepted me. And I met Vince, but not until later.

Suzanne and I sat down on a firm couch, across from three of them. They passed a joint to Suzanne.

“So,” Willa said, “you’re from Boulder?”

“As of a few weeks ago, yes,” I said.

The man sitting next to her produced a beer and handed it to me. I thanked him.

“And before that?” Stephanie asked.

“Julian drove all the way out from New York,” Suzanne said.

The three looked impressed and murmured congratulations.

“What’s that, like a twenty-hour drive?” Willa asked.

“Twenty-five,” I said.

They murmured again. Suzanne offered me the joint, I declined.

She touched my hand. Didn’t try to hold it, or caress it. Just reached over and touched it. Her red hair was straight tonight, and it fell over her shoulders softly, easily. She touched my hand in a simple way and looked me in the eye. I looked back, then away, across the room at nothing. I felt excitement and guilt. I hadn’t done anything, wasn’t planning on doing anything, but still there was guilt. I still felt connected to my life. Still felt an obligation to Megan, regardless of her seemingly swift ability to move on. Despite Brent. I accepted then this was something I would feel for a long time.

I felt excitement and guilt, in equal amounts. These fed each other.

There were more beers handed to me, and later there was music. The trio playing guitar began a bluegrass song, and others joined in singing. Suzanne was the loudest, because she was the best. I had not expected such a sweet voice to come out of that mouth, but she sang confidently, and without missing a note.

The songs continued for a half hour, six or seven voices chiming in through the haze of cigarettes and pot smoke. The joint made its way back to me, and this time I accepted. It had been since college. I inhaled briefly, careful not to overdo it, and sat back and listened.

It was after the last song of the evening, a mellow, somber tune, when I met Vince. He materialized to my right, hands in pockets and a smile on his face, and quietly watched until they were done singing. He was not just one of this gang. He was something else.

The song finished and everyone applauded. A few laughed, and someone turned a stereo on.

“Julian?” he said to me, extending a hand.

I shook it. “Yes.”

“I’m Vince. Pleased to meet you. This is my place.”

I stood up, realizing for the first time that this house belonged to someone. “Thank you for having me.”

“Of course,” he said. “Suzanne…speaks highly of you.”

He flashed a smile her way, and she smiled back. He was a big man, over six feet tall with a thick build. His hair was short and blonde, and a full beard covered his face. There were wrinkles around his eyes.

His voice was calm, and strong. “If there’s anything you need, do let me know. Good to have you.” And with that, he returned to the ether.

“This is his party?” I asked Suzanne.

“His party? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Like, he threw the party. This is his house.”

“Julian,” she said. “No. The party belongs to no one. And party—that’s not the word for it. A gathering among like-minded friends. A soiree.”

“Uh huh,” I said.

“There is no host. Vince, he’s just Vince. He’s a good man, a great friend, and yes, he does own this house and is very generous with his time and space. That’s all there is to it.”

“Where did he go?”

“I’m never sure. That’s just Vince. It seems he always has some business to attend to.”

I took a drink of beer, feeling good and buzzed now. I let my mind wander. A bunch of strangers, fairly odd ones, in a house in the mountains, hours from the nearest familiar face. There was a time I would’ve declined the invitation. There was a time I would have felt threatened, by the unknown. But I knew now that was stilted and unnecessary. It was just a party. Or, soiree. A collection of friends enjoying a Friday night, playing music and talking and getting fucked up. And I had been invited, because one of them was interested in me romantically. And I had gone, because I was bored, and intrigued, and seeking some sort of fellowship and interaction and excitement.

The house was big. From the entrance it seemed modest, but the living room opened up into a large open space, and now I noticed halls. There were two long hallways off the main room in which we sat, plus a staircase leading to the basement. It was rustic, but not shoddy, like a mountain chateau. And now I realized why she’d asked if I was staying. Everyone was staying.

One by one, or sometimes two, the people of the mountain soiree disappeared, dispersing down one of the hallways or the stairs, without so much as a “goodnight.” I drank beer and watched it happen, made small talk with those who were left, until there were none. The spacious living room was deserted, except for Suzanne and I, sitting on the couch in silence.

I turned to her. “Guess it’s time to hit the road.”

“You’re not driving,” she said with conviction. “You’re drunk.”

She was right. Simply, quietly, she again took my hand, and led me down one of the halls. We walked to the end and entered the last room on the left, and when the door closed, she kissed me for the first time.

12

After my last promotion at Wilson Keen, I worked like a damn dog. With the extra money and new title came a heap of new responsibility, all of it in addition to my previous duties. The work was never finished; there was always something else to do, some report to finish or some godforsaken document to look over. I was in by six every morning, and came home late in the evenings, well after the sun set.

One day in the dead of winter, I was spared. My supervisor walked into my office at 4:15 p.m.

“Go home, Meyer,” he said without greeting.

Hunched over a heap of documents, I looked up at him and motioned to the mess on my desk. “Can’t,” I said.

“It’ll be there tomorrow,” he said without compassion. “You look like shit. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” Then he walked out.

I considered staying anyway, because that was what I was conditioned to do, but it was a clear order, and I desperately needed it.

Feeling relieved, exhausted, and a little guilty, I rode in the back of a cab. It was a bitterly cold day, I remember that, and the sun was already going down.

Megan would appreciate this. We saw each other so little during the week, it would be nice to have one evening together, even if it only meant ordering takeout and watching TV until I fell asleep on the couch at nine. She got annoyed with how much I worked, but she and I both knew it was necessary. It would be nice to surprise her. It would be nice to give something to my marriage, after years of taking from it.

I opened the front door and entered the apartment, and it felt wrong. The TV was on—I could hear the ambiguous hiss—but the sound was down. Nothing out of the ordinary, just wrong. I walked through the kitchen and into the living room, and saw her sitting on the couch, and him sitting next to her.

It was unexpected to me, because I hadn’t heard about any male friends, and certainly none that would be sitting on my couch while I was at work. She, too, was surprised.

“Julian,” she practically yelled, straightening up on the couch, “you’re home.”

“I am,” I said. I examined the half drank cocktails on the coffee table, and then the mystery man himself. His hair was blonde, fashionably pushed to one side. His pants were form fitting. I motioned in his direction. “Who’s this?”

He struggled to his feet.

“Well,” Megan said, “this is Brent.”

“I’m Brent,” he said, now standing before me and extending a hand.

“Brent,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Welcome to my home, Brent.”

“Brent’s a friend of mine,” Megan said, still on the couch. “I got done with work early, so I invited him over.”

It was troubling, whatever was happening. That much was sure. But what infuriated me most was her referring to whatever she did during the day as work.

“Boss let you off early?” I asked.

“Jesus, Julian,” she said. “You don’t always have to be a prick.”

“Prick?” I asked. “You’re here drinking, in the afternoon, on a weekday, while you’re assuming I’m at work, with some guy—Brent—I’ve never met. I’m the prick.”

“I should probably go,” Brent said, and reached for his coat.

“No,” Megan said, “you don’t need to. Stay.”

“No, you should probably go,” I said.

He acted like he hadn’t even heard her suggestion; just tucked his jacket under his arm, put his head down, and went straight for the door. No goodbye, no eye contact, just straight for the door. And that’s how I knew there was something going on that wasn’t right.

There was a good deal of yelling after the door closed. She started; something about me overreacting and never appreciating the things she does. I brought up—loudly—that it’s hard to have respect for someone drinking in the afternoon on a weekday, and oh by the way who the hell was that guy I’ve never met in my home alone with my wife while I’m at work? She quieted down after that, and that’s how I knew.

He’s just a friend, she told me, and nothing inappropriate had happened. I believed her on the latter point. I was stupid for it, but I believed her.

I slept on the couch that night—my choice—and we didn’t speak for three days.

That was Brent. I never saw him after that, never heard of him, though I knew it wasn’t the end of it. Whatever it was, that wasn’t the end. I found it harder to trust her. It didn’t matter if it was him, or someone else, or just the thought of someone else. Only she knew the lengths it went, and that was the thought that ate me from the inside.