East of the Mountains

  Without his glasses, on any given day, his sight was compromised. Now, with the blood running into his eye, he was vertiginously half blind. He could discern, in the foreground, a few stray details: the boy's long hair pasted against his scalp; the girl tall and slim in her rain gear, its hood pulled over her forehead. He guessed them to be in their early twenties. The boy wore a spindly goatee.

  "How's the car?" Ben asked.

  "Mangled," said the boy. "Wrapped around a tree. You want me to take a better look?"

  "Is it drivable?"

  "Your radiator's gone, at the very least. You don't have a cooling system." The boy shrugged and shook his head. "We were right behind you coming through the pass. It's like a miracle you're even alive."

  "It's a total miracle," the girl added. "You slid between these two huge trucks. And they didn't even stop or anything. They just kept right on going."

  "My dog," Ben said. "I turned because the dog jumped across the seat and ... the road was wet. I lost control."

  He leaned forward, took the bandanna from his forehead, and squinted at himself in the rearview mirror, tilting it in his direction. "That's right," the boy said. "Take a look."

  There was a laceration just above his left eyebrow that would require three or four stitches. His glasses had pinched against his face, leaving several minor abrasions. The left eye's lower orbit suggested a tenderness that would darken rapidly into a bruise. He was going to look like a defeated boxer before this episode was over. His eye would swell shut, too.

  "You had a little scuffle with your steering wheel," the boy said, squatting beside the car. "Looks like the wheel got the best of it."

  "It could have been considerably worse. I actually feel very lucky."

  "It's incredible," the girl agreed. "You could have been dead, you know."

  "Yes, I could have," Ben said. "It's a kind of miracle."

  He swiveled toward the door of the Scout and exerted himself to stand up. The boy assisted him, smoothly. Ben spun dizzily toward the rear of the car and slung down the tailgate. Rex bounded out—Ben cursed the dog as he leaped past—but Tristan stood still and sniffed the rain.

  "You still alive, Tris?" Ben asked. And he ran his hands along the dog's flanks and held his muzzle gently. Searching with one eye shut, he found the tire iron. "I'd better pry open my hood," he told the boy, and set the tire iron on the tailgate.

  Leaning gingerly through the driver's door, his neck and shoulders stiffening, Ben plucked his coat from the seat back. He rummaged through the rucksack for his spare pair of glasses and slid on his hunting cap. The glasses were antique, steel-rimmed ovals, very small and delicate, bought in 1954. He hadn't worn them in thirty-three years.

  When Ben came out into the rain again, the boy had the Scout's hood levered open. He and the girl stood looking underneath it, the girl with her hands in the pockets of her raincoat, the boy holding the tire iron in one hand and rubbing his head with the other. "It doesn't look good," he warned.

  The radiator had rammed into the fan shroud; the shroud had split and twisted sideways. The fan had been pushed against the water pump, which was fractured and leaking steadily. The front seal and pulley had bent, and the alternator had been torn from its mounting bracket. The battery had tipped over and lay against the steering box. It was cracked and slowly seeping acid.

  The boy bent to peer beneath the car. "Bet your frame's been torqued," he said. "And I can see where you cracked your left front mount. Block could be cracked, too."

  The girl had caught Rex by the slack in his collar and was caressing his throat and withers. "Lets go," she said. "We'll leave it here. Let's check out the Traveler's Rest."

  "He doesn't deserve that," Ben told her. "Damn you, Rex," he added.

  "There's a phone there," the boy said. "You can call a tow truck and everything. Deal with your forehead."

  "Let me lock it up," said Ben. He shook his head as he looked things over. "I've had this car for twenty-eight years, and this is the first time it's been scratched."

  "I know how you feel," the boy answered, easing the hood down against the rain. "I totalled my Travelall last year. It was the best car I ever had."

  Ben looked at him for the first time with something approaching a proper interest. Through the old glasses he could see the world with only moderate, swimming clarity. The boy looked back at Ben earnestly, smiling with a charming ease. He was smooth-faced, brown-eyed, and handsome—as handsome as a movie star. The girl, too, was beautiful, kneeling beside the dog in her rain gear, graceful as a ballerina. Her hair was blond, her eyes blue, and she smiled directly at Ben, holding his gaze with a poise that stirred him. "I like your glasses," she said.

  The girl's beauty was a torment. Her wet hand moving against the dog's throat and slowly down the length of the dog's chest filled Ben with a hollow yearning. He turned away from it.

  They took him in their van toward the Traveler's Rest, a place he knew in Snoqualmie Pass, a haven for skiers and climbers. The rain beat hard off the windshield and roof, and the dogs were wet against his legs and boots. To the right Ben could see bare ski runs, their distant chair lifts idle; to the left rose slopes of huckleberry brush, subalpine fir, and vine maple. The van, he thought, smelled of lavender, but when he asked about it, the boy explained that the summer previous he and the girl had gone trekking in the Nepalese Himalaya and had come across this distinctive incense of sandalwood, musk, and saffron made by Tibetan monks. While the boy told of finding this fragrance in a village little visited by westerners, very close to the Sikkimese border, Ben sat patting the cut on his forehead and peering through his steel-rimmed glasses. The van had a sleeping berth cleverly up top, a built-in sink, a drop-leaf table, a refrigerator, and a chemical toilet. A length of purple climber's webbing hung in a loop from the rearview mirror, a well-worn carabiner clipped to it, dangling a ring-angle piton. On the dashboard sat an incense holder, an open bag of pumpkin seeds, and a few sprigs of ancient sage.

  The girl eased off her yellow slicker—she wore a pile pullover underneath, her ponytail thick against it—and the boy sat drying his hair with one hand, driving easily down the summit road and talking over one shoulder. On the. floor to Bens left, in a cardboard box, were a white gas stove, two stainless steel cooking pots, a handheld water filter, and a candle lantern. Beside that was a grocery bag with the end of a long baguette poking out of it, and wedged in the corner were two sleeping bags inside nylon stuff sacks.

  "Hows your head?" the girl asked.

  "I think its okay," said Ben.

  "You need anything? A drink of water? There's a water bottle in the cooler."

  "I'm fine for now. Really."

  "There's a first-aid kit," the boy remembered, then leaned across and popped open the glove compartment. "There's some Mercurochrome in there, I think. If you want to use it, go ahead."

  The girl put the first-aid kit in her lap and found the Mercurochrome. She closed the glove compartment and smoothed her hair. Smiling, she turned to look at Ben, and at the same time flipped her ponytail deftly over one shoulder.

  "Were just about to the Travelers Rest," she said, as if he were in need of optimism. "We'll be there in just a few seconds."

  "I know the place," said Ben.

  "We ski up here," the boy explained. "If there's powder up here, we go."

  "Otherwise we go over to Mission Ridge," the girl added with enthusiasm. "There's way more powder there, usually. It's way better snow."

  "We hit the Rest for coffee," said the boy. "We've been there a million times."

  He pulled up in front of it and shut down his engine. There were two other cars in the parking lot, the rain pounding off their roofs and hoods. The Traveler's Rest looked like an old-fashioned ski chalet—Ben remembered it from another time—but in fact it was mostly a convenience store. In the aftermath of hiking and climbing trips he had often stopped here to fill his thermos with tea for the dark westward drive home.

  In the foyer,
he stood beside a pay phone, where the business cards of towing companies were pinned to a bulletin board. On a placard a man named Steve advertised roof shoveling at "reasonable rates"; a '49 Studebaker was for sale. Plenty of mud had been brought into the foyer on the boots of mountain travelers. Ben held his head—his temples were throbbing—and waited with resigned patience while the phone rang seven times. Then a man answered in a curt, sleepy tone, as if in his life he'd fielded hundreds of such calls, and Ben told him what had happened.

  "So what do you want me to do?" asked the man.

  "I want you to tow the car," said Ben. "Get it out of there."

  "You call the state patrol guys yet?"

  "Not yet. But I'll get to it."

  "You got insurance or anything?"

  "Yes. But not for towing."

  "Well, it's a hundred bucks for me to tow you, guy, so I need a credit card number."

  "All right," said Ben. "A hundred." And he gave the man a credit card number, reading it from a sleeve in his wallet.

  "You want us to make repairs?" said the man.

  "I don't know yet. Maybe."

  "Well, when will you know? For my information."

  "I have to call the insurance agent. It's a Saturday morning and it may take awhile. Besides, it's a '69 International Scout. You'll have a hard time locating parts."

  "We can find em," the man said. "We can get International, depending on what you need."

  "I need a lot," Ben said. "The whole front end is totaled."

  "Two days, probably, be my guess. Depends. We have to order from Chicago."

  "I'll think about it some, okay?"

  "It's five dollars a day to leave it in the yard. You're willing to pay five bucks a day, you can think about it a hundred years."

  "That's perfect," Ben said. "You hold the car for me."

  "Now what about you?" the man asked. "We've got twenty-four-hour taxi service I can have there in thirty minutes."

  "That's okay," Ben heard himself say. "I won't be needing a ride."

  "You won't be needing a ride," said the man. "You're up in the pass with a busted-down car. What are you going to do?"

  "I have a ride. That's taken care of."

  "All right," said the man. "I'm on my way. You say it's in the first summit exit?"

  "Yes. Eastbound. Against a small tree."

  "I'll see you there, then. About an hour."

  "Maybe not. I need a couple stitches. So the key will be sitting on the drivers side leaf spring in case you need to get in."

  "That's a good place for it," the man said.

  In the rest room Ben leaned toward the mirror to inspect the wound in his forehead. He was surprised at himself for refusing the taxi service—but what did he have to go home to? And why shouldn't he continue with his journey? The young people would certainly give him a ride, and after that he could rent a car—in Ellensburg perhaps, there had to be a place—and continue to his destination.

  Prying the wound open with his index fingers, he turned it toward the light. The boy entered with the first-aid kit and stood patiently beside Ben at first, then leaned against the wall with loose-jointed ease, one foot propped up behind him. "What do you think?" he asked.

  "It needs to be sutured," Ben answered, though he knew sutures would be a waste of time, given his intentions. He removed his glasses delicately, slipping their stems from each ear with care, bent slowly, stiffly at the waist, cupped his hands beneath the tap, and doused his face, twice. He worked soap into the laceration. When he finished, the boy was at his side, handing him a paper towel.

  "There's a couple of choices here," said the boy, rummaging through the first-aid kit. "There's the Mercurochrome. There's hydrogen peroxide. A tube of ointment. This dermal wound cleanser we got in Colorado, it's made from aloe vera."

  "I could use some sterile gauze," Ben said. "What kind of ointment is it?"

  The boy handed the tube to him. "It's bacitracin," he said.

  Ben worked the bacitracin into his wound. After severing the gauze lengthwise with a small pair of scissors, he sliced it into narrow strips and laid them against the adhesive side of a length of waterproof tape. He pressed the dressing to his head and pressed it again, forcefully, with the tips of his index fingers. He put on his glasses, washed his hands, and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to arrange it neatly.

  "What about stitches?" the boy asked.

  "I know a doctor in Quincy," Ben lied. "It's another two hours east of here. I'd like to get him to do it."

  "We're turning south at Vantage," said the boy, "but for sure we can get you that far."

  "I could rent a car in Ellensburg. That way I'd be out of your hair."

  "Little known fact," the boy said. "There's a rental place in Vantage at the EV campground. I had to use it once."

  "You're sure?"

  "For sure I'm sure."

  "I never noticed it there before."

  "It's a small place, but they'll rent you a car."

  "All right," Ben said. "Let's do it."

  The boy and girl in the Volkswagen van ferried Ben to his car again. He placed the key on the drivers side leaf spring and carefully sorted through his belongings, meditating on every item and casting off whatever seemed useless. He broke down the shotgun and put it in his duffel. He left all the extra clothing in the car—with the exception of two pairs of cotton socks and his thermal underwear—and he jettisoned the dog food and dog bowls. He considered the thermos but left it where it lay on the seat beside his broken glasses. The prescription sunglasses had dropped off the dashboard and fallen onto the floor mat. He slipped them inside his rucksack.

  It would look, he hoped, as if he had decided to press on with a modified hunting trip. No one would read the truth, he felt, from the way he had left things here. He imagined his daughter trying to make sense of it: his car abandoned in Snoqualmie Pass, the credit card record of his car rental in Vantage, his corpse rotting in a sage canyon across the Columbia. She would trace his steps, or most of them, he hoped. She would see how naturally it had all unfolded. Her suspicions would be erased.

  Ben hauled his duffel bag and rucksack to the van. He opened the side door and set his things on the floor. The two young people stared at him. He glanced at each and then stepped in. "I'm ready," he said. "Let's go."

  He rode with them through Snoqualmie Pass to the east side of the mountains. He settled back with the dogs against his legs and let the terrain seep into him. To the northwest, he knew, was Denny Mountain. Twice before he'd walked the ridge to it from Chair Peak and The Tooth. He'd climbed Mount Wright and Preacher Mountain, the winter of 1959, in a pelting downpour of sleet. He remembered climbing Alta Mountain, and the brief, truncated glissades he'd made to work his way back down. He remembered a journey with his grandson to climb Mount Thompson and Kendall Peak, and the high camp they'd established in the lee of a ridge, where the cold caused Chris much misery. Ben had showed him how to warm his fingers by burying them in his armpits.

  The girl in the front seat took a water bottle from between her thighs and extended it in Ben's direction. He thanked her for it and drank a little. He fingered the tape against his forehead and worked the vertebrae in his neck. Holding his side, he stared in silence out the window. The girl offered him some pumpkin seeds, and he let her pour them into his hand and ate them at the same rate she did. She'd roasted them, she said, in olive oil, and sprinkled them with sea salt. They were excellent, he told her, and she smiled at this and poured still more into his cupped palms.

  "You must be bummed about your car," she said.

  "Oh, well," said Ben.

  "That's a pretty good attitude. That's what I try to do."

  "Yeah," said the boy. "It's great."

  "Now where were you going?" the girl asked. "Before you crashed and everything."

  "Up near Rock Island," Ben said. "I was born up there. I'm going home."

  "It's so beautiful," the girl answered. "All those apple orchard
s."

  "Yes, it is," said Ben.

  The boy reached out and touched the girl's cheek with the back of his index finger. She reached across and touched the boy's arm, and then she moved her hand to his shoulder, and from his shoulder to the muscle of his thigh, where she let it linger comfortably.

  They were passing Keechelus Lake now. Its waters sat low at this time of year; the basin lay full of weathered stumps. On the far side, off to the south, the big hills were furrowed and deeply eroded, smooth, contoured, treeless. The land, already, was more arid than it had been. The rain had slowed considerably and had spent itself, as it always did, against the green mountains to the west.

  "You're a doctor, you say," the boy asked.

  "That's right," answered Ben.

  "I kind of thought," the boy said, "that you had to hurry with stitches. Like if you waited too long, it didn't work."

  "Not true," Ben lied again. "That's a misconception."

  "I cut myself bad in the Dolomites," said the boy. "I took a header and laid my shoulder open. The doctor wouldn't even sew me up. He said it had been too long or something. He said it just had to heal."

  "In the Dolomites," Ben repeated.

  "Yeah."

  "They don't know about stitches in the Dolomites," Ben lied. "They're living in the Middle Ages."

  "It was incredible there," the girl said. "We totally loved the Dolomites."

  "I've been there, too," said Ben.

  "Did you go to Cortina?"

  "Yes. Some. Mostly further north."

  "What did you do?"

  "I went hiking and climbing. Years ago. I had my honeymoon there."

  "That's great," the girl said. "You don't meet a lot of climbers or anything that are, like, your age."

  "This was years ago," Ben said. "This was fifty-two years ago."