The Other Mr. Bax (30 page)

I
ndependence was nothing new to Roland.
Since his arrival at his brother’s house, he had been out on several occasions by himself. Though short, by comparison to the trip ahead of him, he’d come to savor the feeling of autonomy that came with being behind the wheel of a car. The route he had planned was a route he’d driven more than a few times, more than twenty-five years before, though only as far as Cleveland. The years had nearly erased the landscape from his mind. But then everything east of Cleveland
was
new to him.

The road before him was clear of traffic. A glance in the mirror confirmed there was nothing behind him either. He fiddled with the radio tuner until he found music that matched his mood—the rare feeling of empowerment that he had awakened to the morning before. It had stuck with him. Off to the right side of the road, a small, green sign came into view: Mesick Road.

What was her name
?
Janet, I think
.
Seventeen
…
and oh, my god
,
what a sexy little thing
.
Mesick Road
…
less than a mile down
…
the farmer’s daughter
.
  And what… why it didn’t happen
?
Was I too scary for her
?
But, man, I had the hots for her
.

Roland recalled that after his one and only date with Janet, he had taken her home in his old Ford panel truck, and then backed into a tree, alongside her driveway, on his way out. He’d called a few times after that,
but she always had an excuse for not being able to talk.

Janet
…
what was her name
?

Several miles farther, he passed through a small village, not far from the farmhouse he grew up in. As he drove through the main intersection, he pictured the strands of colored Christmas lights and garland that once hung high across the street. He remembered admiring the big, red, plastic bells that hung glowing, one per strand, down the middle of the snow banked streets, and then another time, when his mother had taken him and his siblings into town, dressed up in homemade costumes—that same little village.

First time trick-or-treating
.

He recalled kicking through a thick layer of crisp leaves covering the sidewalks leading up to people’s homes. Old folk insisting he and his older brother, Keith, and little sister, Kate, come inside to claim their treats.

“Howard, would you just look at them? Aren’t they adorable?” an old woman gushed as she paraded him and his siblings into the living room so her chair-ridden husband could ogle them. He had a sense, even then, that this was something special to the old couple—they all but begged for more of their time—and remembered feeling awkward about accepting a popcorn ball, then just up and leaving, doing nothing to deserve it.

A car raced past. Roland glanced at the speedometer, then applied more pressure to the gas pedal.

He came to yet another village, which again aroused a nest of sleepy memories: Selma.

As the old elementary school came into view, he slowed, steered to the side of the road, brought the car to a turtle’s pace, then stopped. There it was—a single-level, flat-roofed, brick building with large windows all around. He pictured children’s artwork taped in rows across the windows, orange and black—two-dimensional jack-o-lanterns. Tucked inside the elbow of two perpendicular wings of classrooms was the tall, windowless gym. The playground between him and the building was empty. He gazed at the swing sets, pictured himself sitting there, the ruckus of kids running about, and Joyce.

“Hi… I’m Roland Bax. You new here?”

As clear as the day before, Joyce leaning back in the swing with her legs stretched out in front of her, her elfish smile, and that smug affirmation of hers. The swings—thirty-six years, some weeds and a fence between that day and himself. He turned his head, placed his hands on the steering wheel and stared down the road.

A
s part of her attempt to distract herself,
Dana began spending more and more time with her sister, Mary, who was quick to point out Roland’s many character flaws, which she had until recently kept mostly to herself. And then, just the other night, her mother tossed in her two cents: “Leave the bum.”

“Bum,” in one form or another, seemed to be the growing consensus. She’d talked to Roland, over the phone, more than once, each time hoping his story would change; to what, she didn’t care, as long as it was something, even remotely, plausible. Still, he held tight to his foolish drama—exceedingly at odds with the person she’d always believed he was. She took notes after each conversation, noting minor deviations, which at times bordered on contradictions… maybe. When pointed out to him, he would, unlike the Roland she knew, become quiet and not argue his case. She could not imagine what had provoked such a transformation. Prior to this, he’d shown no sign of instability, no clue that this was coming. She struggled with suspicions of infidelity, which her sister had subtly alluded to. But then she considered another possibility, that of Roland’s innocence. Perhaps he suffered a mental breakdown and therefore deserved her compassion and more. They had not talked for over a week now, but she was ready for a call, a plea for forgiveness, and was prepared to grant it.

She sat alone at the kitchen table, gazing toward a small vase of wilted flowers. Lifting a mug of tea to her lips, she fantasized about his return, creating various scenarios in which he’d come groveling back, full of remorse. Her thoughts drifted back to a car trip they’d taken a few years earlier. There was one night in particular—a warm, dry night, the full moon directly above, brighter than any she could recall seeing before or since. She and Roland had laid a pair of sleeping bags out on the open ground, and then lay there watching the night sky, snuggling. All around, the hills were covered with foot-high, wheat-colored grass, dotted with dark, shadowy bushes, and quiet but for the whispers of a light breeze. But then the eerie cry of a coyote came from the hills to the west—a single howl, followed by a chorus of dissonant yapping—six or so wild dogs paying a rowdy tribute to the moon. Off to the east, like a mutant echo, another pack responded. It was the second night of what would become a two-week trip to the Big Horn Mountains. They had spontaneously decided to spend a couple days in the Bad Lands of South Dakota before proceeding to their destination—their last stop before Wyoming.

Perhaps that same propensity toward spontaneity was partly to blame for her current hardship. She rose from her chair at the table, carried the mug to the sink and dumped the last few sips of cold tea.

Come Saturday, her day off, she rose a little earlier than usual. After showering, she put on a pot of coffee, fried a couple eggs, and made some toast, then sat within the angular patch of sunlight, coming from the window at her left—her breakfast before her. She gazed out into the backyard—one of those rare, late October, Indian-summer days. It tugged at her, just an idea at first, but then slowly built to something more.

She pictured herself walking along the water’s edge at
Alabama Swamps, then skipped to the wooded hills of Darien Lake State Forest, and from there to a deep canyon trimmed in brilliant fall-colors: Letchworth State Park.
She searched her mind for a possible companion—her sister, Mary, came to mind—then considered the logistics of dealing with her on so short a notice. It would mean bringing her dog, that smelly beast, and possibly hours of dicking around.
No
… It occurred to her that she’d never done this before; she’d never gone hiking alone.

Roland would occasionally go off by himself, sometimes staying out a couple nights at a time in one of the local state forests. He enjoyed that, and had once suggested that she give it a try. But she’d never felt comfortable with the idea of being alone in the woods at night.

Letchworth though, is different
. 
Just couples
…
and people with children
.
And it’s daytime
.

She browsed the cabinets, gathering food she thought would be safe in a daypack—grabbed a can of sardines, a box of crackers, a protein bar, and then an apple from a bowl on the counter. Twenty minutes later, she was in her car, on her way.

The park was a fifty-minute drive from Akron—all back roads. The landscape along the way was a blaze of color, even more so south of Batavia, where an expansive view of the Genesee Valley brought her to a stop. She pulled over, got out of the car, then stood there at the edge of the road, where some of the most beautiful land in Western New York stretched out before her—gentle, beguiling hills to either side of the valley, pastures, orchards, and quant little farms surrounded by irregularly-shaped fields—beautiful, but not what she’d call dramatic; the dramatic was yet down the road a little way further.

She drove to the southern end of the park. to where the trail-loop she’d planned on hiking started. Dressed in shorts and a plain, blue T-shirt, the lightly packed daypack on her back, she climbed a steep embankment leading up to a railroad trestle, which spanned the gorge and doubled as part of the trail. Because trains still used the trestle, a wide, steel-grate walkway was added to either side, providing a place for pedestrians to safely walk and view the gorge.

Dana exchanged hellos with a couple passing from the opposite direction, then stopped, leaned on the guardrail to the north side of the tracks and looked down toward her feet. The steel-grate on which she stood did little to ease her insecurity. Four-hundred feet below, a shallow section of the Genesee River flowed over massive plates of rock, broken at regular intervals by perfectly straight cracks. About two-hundred feet north of the trestle, the riverbed abruptly dropped—a clean break, parallel to the curious cracks down river from it.

Glancing to her left, and then right, Dana realized that the trestle was all hers. She turned back to the falls below. There were a few of people on the path along the west side of the river, and a few at a stone-walled overlook, far below the rim of the canyon. Again she checked the tracks to either side of her. She could not recall the exact number of times she had stood at that same spot, looking down at the same scene—a dozen or more, and always with someone—family, friends, Roland—and typically with a handful of strangers meandering about.

She closed her eyes, imagined gazing up from the falls below, from where those tiny, distant people were peering up at her—a lone woman standing high above the falls, nothing but sky behind her. A feeling of expansiveness filled her chest, radiating beyond it, as though extending the boundaries of her being. She basked in the feeling, aware of nothing else, until it inevitably began to fade.

She continued to the east end of the trestle, then descended a steep embankment to a path in the woods, which led to the main trail, a couple hundred feet farther ahead. It was a wide, well-maintained trail and for the most part level as it followed the rim of the canyon. Nearly half the trees were bare, leaving the trail sunnier than usual as she kicked through a layer of crisp leaves.

About an hour into her hike, she came to a ledge overlooking a bend in the river. She slipped off her backpack, then sat with her legs dangling over the edge of the outcrop—a shear drop to a flat, dry rock-shelf, over two hundred feet below. She dug out her lunch from her pack, peeled back the lid of the sardine tin, then placed one of the oily little fish on a section of cracker, and popped it into her mouth. She gazed across the gap in the Earth—small, bright clouds drifting overhead, birds twittering about in the woods behind her, the white-noise from the river below—enjoying her picnic. Once the fish were gone, she started on her apple.

A little below the rim of the gorge, a hawk, no more than fifty feet away, glided into view. Dana sat perfectly still and quiet, giving her full attention to the unfolding seconds, the bird drifting past, as silent as a dream. This too was hers, this moment, as though it was she, rather than the bird, gliding by—until a voice from behind her jarred her back to a more explicit reality.

“Red-tail hawk.”

She let out a gasp as she quickly scooted away from the edge.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A man, standing a short distance behind her, stared down at her. He took a step back and brought his hands up under his chin, as if praying, or begging. “I was afraid I’d spook the hawk.”

The heat of her blood filled her head. “How long have you been there?” She scooted back a few more inches. “I didn’t hear you.”

“I really am sorry. That was stupid of me.”

She peered into his eyes—searching for secrets. If there were any, they were well-hidden behind his repentance. He was about six feet tall, mid-to-late-thirties, wearing shorts, a T-shirt with printing on it, and a bright-orange fanny-pack, low around his waist.

“I saw you watching the hawk and… well, I thought I should be quiet. Beyond that, I guess I wasn’t thinking. I sometimes miss the bigger picture.” He synchronized a shrug of his shoulders with a shrug of his eyebrows, twisting his features into an exaggerated, sheepish smile.

“Yeah, well…” Dana let out a sigh. “I’ll get over it.”

“I do that.” He pointed out over the rim of the canyon. “Watch the hawks. They’re always out there cruising about. I usually bring binoculars, but forgot them.” He rolled his eyes. “Still sitting on the kitchen table where I couldn’t possibly overlook them.” The man’s light-brown, wispy hair, about two inches long, showed little regard for grooming; appearing as though he’d showered before bed and then forgot about it, come morning. She wondered if he knew—if he’d even seen a mirror. She caught herself stealing glances of his eyes—blue, intelligent, and friendly. She followed them down to the empty sardine can beside her.

“I was just finishing lunch.” She picked the can up and pushed the curled, metal lid down. “I like sardines,” she stated, as though apologizing, then slipped the can into a small, plastic, zip-lock bag, and dropped
that
into her pack.

“I’ve always wondered who was buying them off the shelves in the grocery stores. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who actually liked them.”

“That was me.” She picked up her apple and took another bite.

He unzipped his fanny-pack and pulled out a polished red apple. “Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.” She tipped her head to the right—“Plenty of room here”—then scooted forward, allowing her legs to dangle over the edge as before.

“I’m Jack Bluhm.” He lowered himself, a respectful distance from her.

“Dana Serrano.”

“Great spot, isn’t it?”

“My husband and I would often stop here.”

Chewing on a chunk of apple, he glanced back over his shoulder, then toward her.

“I heart chrome?” she said.

“What? Oh…” He lowered his chin and laughed. “My shirt.” A red, heart symbol was placed between the words “I” and “chrome,” printed in black letters across the chest of his shirt. “I found this in a store in East Aurora. Thought it was funny. I heart chrome. I still think it’s funny. Stupid-funny kinda thing, you know? Well…” He again shrugged.

“Okay.” She smiled. “So, you’ve been here before?”

“Oh yeah… been coming here for years. It’s just an hour’s drive for me.”

“Buffalo?”

“Williamsville. I take it you’re also from around here.”

“Akron.”

“Oh… we’re neighbors.”

Nibbling on her apple, she gave him a sidelong glance.

“Relatively speaking,” he added. “You lived there long?”

“Not really, but I’ve lived in the area most my life.”

“Me too. Born and raised in Jamestown. My parents still live there.” He paused. “Kind of a sad little town now though. No jobs.”

“What do you do?”

“Carpentry… finish carpenter. But really, I do all kinds of stuff.”

“My husband used to be a carpenter… was when we first met, anyway.”

“What’s he do now?”

“He’s an accountant… and an artist. Works for a gallery in Buffalo. But I guess he’s more of an accountant, really. I mean, that’s what pays the bills.”

“And how about you? What do you do?”

“I teach meditation… for pain management.”