Stash (35 page)

He went back inside and pulled the generator cord, waited in the gloomy silence.

At some point during the night the clouds broke up and moon came out and cast enough light for Gwen to make out her footing. She could distinguish the shapes of trees, choose her next step without stumbling. She followed her strategy of staying on the move, but couldn’t travel the dense and rocky terrain fast enough to stay warm. Any heat she generated she lost. Her energy had drained away, even the adrenaline that boosted her early on. She stopped often for her breathing to catch up. Her cut knee throbbed. Her feet were sore and icy. The worst part was she couldn’t stop trembling—her jaw and back ached from the spasms.

It didn’t seem stupid at the time, what she’d done; it didn’t seem lethal. Her behavior still fit within her moral compass: be responsible for your actions, be fair to everyone, keep your word. A compass—what she wouldn’t do for one now, not that she’d be able to see the dial, or even know how to read one—but it would be better than not having one at all. It would give her hope.

Officially, Gwen had not been responsible for the accident that took James Anderson’s life, yet she had agonized over the details these past few weeks: the curve in the road, the bright sun, and, yes, the fact she had taken a few hits off a joint. But she’d felt fine. She was driving under control. There had been no time to react
beyond her wrenching of the wheel. What else could she have done? She didn’t know. With Jude, she had more time to deliberate about her actions. Yes, she’d been extorted into giving Jude’s name to the police, but because she believed she was betraying a friend or almost friend or at least an icon from her past by breaking her promise not to tell anyone—and ultimately because she had to stop him from kissing her—when she saw Jude at the market she admitted what had happened.

It never should have gotten to that point. After Jude’s first kiss at Gull that day, she told herself she could not, would not, see Jude again—for any reason. She knew the nature of his kiss, its intent and invitation. But she didn’t adhere to her own rule. Because she owed him this warning about the police? Or because she craved the morsel of thrill delivered with the kiss? Could her life be that devoid of excitement? She never thought about the level of excitement in her life, that’s not what motivated her. Gwen believed the thrill in her life was being married to Brian, devoted to her children, a relatively predictable future in front of her as long as nothing dramatic or disastrous happened. Only now it had. Or might have. And only while driving away from the market with Nate in the backseat and Jude following right behind in that van with the big chrome grill like the mouth of a shark did she begin to worry that the drama and disaster were the result of her own mistakes, her disregard for risk.

And still she allowed herself to be drawn further in. She knew he would call later and she answered his call and she dug her hole deeper in hopes of coming out the other side, rather than climbing out while she still could.

She didn’t call Jude back because she fantasized about him. She was a mother with two children to care for and a husband she loved. Most nights she was too tired to fantasize. She had not
been thinking about Jude, scheming the possibilities. She did not want an affair, not with Jude or any man. Although she did dress for Jude that day she’d met him at Gull to pick up the bag. Hadn’t she. She’d chosen her clothes that morning aware he would see her in them. The sleeveless or the T-shirt? The skirt or the slacks? She deliberated even about her underwear, totally unnecessary—the deliberation, not the underwear—while her husband sang in the shower and called out asking what she was doing today. Nora’s last day of swim camp, she reminded him; Nate at Nature’s Workshop; errands to run before they left for the lake. And one special errand she didn’t bother to mention, not to hide from Brian but not to advertise either. Before going into the restaurant to meet Jude, she had checked her face in the car mirror, played with her hair, reapplied her lips. Hadn’t she. Why wouldn’t she want to look good to him? Why shouldn’t she show her best side?

It’s called putting your best foot forward. When she was at the gym, she worked out hard. When she took the kids to the museum, she turned the outing into a learning experience. When she managed PTA programs, she integrated new ideas. When she had sex with Brian, she tried to please him. She cooked healthy meals, read acclaimed novels, bought quality furniture. Everyone she knew in Morrissey did the same. You have your life and you’re happy with it, as long as you do your best, look your best, perform your best. And for the most part the model worked. She loved her life and wouldn’t trade it for any other, but who doesn’t sometimes wonder about other paths, other lives you might have led. It doesn’t mean you ditch your life; instead you smoke a bowl or have a couple of drinks once in a while and laugh more. You don’t run off with Jude; you flirt with him a little.

Gwen had not taken his kiss seriously enough. But she should
have, because that kiss nudged open a door a tiny bit, and she glanced inside to discover she had a pulse. Possibility still existed. Not with Jude, or not just Jude. With the future. She wasn’t completely invisible. Life could still surprise her, whether she wanted it to or not.

Here you go, Gwen. Here’s your surprise: you’re lost in the wilderness on a cold, wet night; your life could be in danger. Flirt with that.

You want to put your best foot forward? Okay, get yourself out of this.

She made slow progress but kept moving. When she came across a rocky area that sloped steeply uphill she tucked into a notch between two boulders sandwiching a towering pine tree and found a drier spot on the ground. She pressed against the granite, which still felt faintly warm, radiating solar energy soaked up during the day, but its mass and hardness and silence reminded her of its indifference. The rock did not care one way or the other if she lived or died in this spot. The trees would not stir if she could not go on. Gwen was alone. She pulled off her useless shoes and rubbed her feet between her hands. The motion helped her hands more than her feet, but her skin remained pale and doughy, drained of color. She rocked back and forth, hoping that by moving in a deliberate rhythm she could control her shivering. After a few minutes her body began to settle.

She got her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. The screen lit up and joy surged in her, then the phone went blank again. Just a twitch from a battery already gone.

She worried about Brian and the kids. What did they think
happened to her? Nothing good. What story would Brian make up for the kids? There was nothing easy. There was only the story of Mommy isn’t here and we don’t know where she is. Only the story of Gwen’s mistakes.

Brian had called the police, no doubt. He had wanted to call them earlier and she’d talked him out of it. He would tell them about her encounter with Jude—he would think she was with him now.

Please don’t think that
.

Please think how much I want to be home with you and our children.

If only she could be safe again with her family. If only. And so she started bargaining, with whom she wasn’t sure but maybe with God or the mountains or Brian—she’d strike a deal with anyone or anything at this point. And here was the deal: if Gwen could get home, she would atone for her mistakes. She would never see or speak to Jude again. She would cooperate with the police investigation in every way possible. She would never get high and get behind the wheel of her car. She would not take unnecessary risks. She would be a better wife, a better mother, a better person—whatever the word
better
entailed. She’d appreciate and be thankful for her life, which Gwen believed she already was, but somehow she’d be more. Was that a deal?

She rocked and waited, rocked and waited. Her goal now was to last until daylight. If she could see where the sky lightened first, which direction was east, then she would know which way to go. Their house on the lake faced east and therefore if she traveled in that direction she would eventually find the road again. Right? Did it work that way? She had started out yesterday by crossing the road behind their house which meant she had walked west; no matter where she was at this point, by walking east she would be heading back.

Yes, that was her plan now: wait for daybreak and identify the direction of the sunrise.

Except some time later when she noticed the first brightening of the sky, the light appeared directly overhead, the darkness in slow motion dissolving to gray. The tree cover took away the horizons and the ability to detect the direction of light.

A setback—but she’d have to overcome it. She would not despair and cry. She just needed to start out and find a better vantage point, maybe by hiking this rocky slope that now sheltered her at its base.

So Gwen began walking, her feet aching and swollen in her sopping, soft shoes, but determined to find her way out. She hiked uphill, one foot and then the other, wincing with each step, while the sky brightened and soon she noticed off to the right a few clouds tinged with a pink glow. That way was east. She turned and picked her way in that direction through thick tree cover and undergrowth.

She hadn’t gone a hundred yards when she heard barking. Distant, barely audible, but she’d heard it.

There, she heard it again.

That had to be a dog. Coming from the direction she was heading. Energized, she picked up her pace, walking as fast as the light and her ruined shoes and damaged feet would allow.

She walked and the barking grew louder. Definitely a dog. Four barks, a pause, four more, another pause.

She came to a steep downhill and slipped at the top and slid on her butt in the mud until her feet bumped against a clump of a mountain laurel. She stood and wiped her hands on her pants and this time kept her footing, deliberated over each step, not wanting to risk another fall or injury. She developed a safe pattern: step, secure her footing, step again. When the slope eased and she looked ahead she saw a clearing below with a shed and a house
and a dog tied up to a run and the dog was looking up at her and barking, once, twice, three times, four, then pausing and starting up again. A door swung open at the back of the house, a woman’s voice shouted at the dog to quiet down. The dog was facing uphill toward Gwen, and the woman turned that way and saw her coming.

Lightning struck his face with each heartbeat. Not his face—the place where his face should have been, the chunk of bone and flesh that had been vaporized and now floated somewhere in the air of the world. That’s what hurt. Phantom pain. Ghost pain. The part of his face he couldn’t touch. The part of his face they were going to rebuild at Reed but that never happened because he’d been discharged first, which put him on another list, a longer list, and his turn hadn’t come yet and never would because he’d left no forwarding address where he could be reached, he’d cut off all contact with that world.

The pain now. And now. And now. And now. In perfect rhythm with his pulse. He couldn’t stand it anymore and reached in the center console for his vial of vikes, squeezed the steering wheel with his knees while his hands battled the childproof top. He pried with his thumbs and the top popped off with enough force to send the pills flying on his lap and the floor. He swore and threw the vial out his window. Fuck it. He didn’t need them. That’s what got him messed up in the first place. He reached behind his seat where a couple beers from a twelve-pack remained. He popped a can top and swallowed half a beer in his first gulp, but he was spluttering, crying now, and he began to cough and choke. The can went out the window too. Stab, stab, stab. The pain, the pain, the pain—and then he sensed it easing up. The
beats fading, retreating to their hideout. What a grateful moment, the pain subsiding, draining—a rapture he likened to the love of a merciful God if such a thing existed, only it didn’t.

The pain left, and the scent filled its void. The aroma flamed his stomach, watered his mouth. Grandma’s pot roast. Gravy-soaked beef falling apart on his fork with carrots and potatoes soft as boiled macaroni. He pictured it on his plate, tasted it in his mouth, although he hadn’t eaten his grandma’s pot roast since he was twelve years old—the year she died—and then for years afterward never gave it a thought, until half his face had been blasted off. Within seconds of the explosion in the desert he smelled the pot roast, despite the fact he lay in the roadside dust and blood leaked like lava through his nasal passages.

Pot roast. Grandma. Now he was starving. But there would be nothing to eat for Aaron between Canton and Rainbow Lake. He’d spent an hour driving back and forth on the road between Potsdam and Canton searching for that girl, and now when he passed through Potsdam a final time, having given her up, the bars were closed. No one walked the streets. No open signs lit up diners, or fast-food chains, or convenience stores. Might as well be traversing the desert again.

Her purse lay next to him on the seat. He glanced at it once and looked away. When he looked back it was still there. He was afraid of it for a few minutes and then summoned the courage to touch the strap, then put his hand inside. He felt a pack of gum. He unwrapped and put a piece in his mouth, which chased away the smell of pot roast, but a few minutes of chewing made his face hurt again and he spit the gum out.

He shouldn’t have done what he did to that girl.

She was nice. She liked him. He didn’t even remember her name.

He looked at the purse again. He could go in there and find
her wallet or ID and learn her name, but it was too late for that. What would he do with the name now? It would be the name of the girl he’d done wrong, and if he learned her name now he’d never forget it. Her name would run through his head for the rest of his life, haunting him like a ghost, a constant reminder of his awful mistake.

But then he did it. He took out her wallet and looked at her license and saw her name: Dana Gates. He took his foot off the gas and slowed almost to a stop in the middle of the road. He’d never wondered who she was or why she was in the kitchen of Gull that night or why she’d made that comment about him being a produce supplier. That’s what Jude must have told her: he was a produce supplier.