I shake that image from my mind and concentrate on the beauty of the canyon. I think about being at the bottom, surrounded by it. I am tempted to climb down but then I remember Bitsy’s story about the fourteen-year-old boy who was killed by a falling rock while he was climbing in a canyon. And about the woman who tripped and fell, breaking her leg. By the time she was found she was in shock and didn’t make it.
Bitsy and Walter are full of stories about what might happen. They don’t believe in taking chances. They will probably live to be one hundred.
I decide to climb down anyway. I don’t know whether to go backwards, hanging onto the rocks or to try walking down, frontwards. I combine the two methods and get going.
Down, down I climb, rock after rock, losing my footing every now and then, grabbing hold of a branch to steady myself.
Down, down, traveling over the steepest inclines on my backside.
Down, down.
I don’t know how long it takes me. Half an hour? An hour? I’ve left my watch at home, knowing that today there is no schedule to follow. That today is mine.
Down, down, into the bottom of the canyon.
I look up now, surprised at how far I have come and for a second I remember that I will have to climb back up, that I shouldn’t go too far. Then, I am distracted by a lizard. How perfectly he blends into his surroundings. I stand there and watch as he scampers from rock to rock. I stretch out on a rock myself, lifting my face to the sun, and a feeling comes over me. A feeling of wanting to share all of this with my father. I want to talk with him so badly I ache. I want to tell him how I climbed down into the canyon by myself. That I wasn’t afraid. I want to tell him everything. Everything that has happened since that night. Everything I am thinking and feeling.
I wish I could feel his kiss on my forehead again, light and loving. I wish I could feel his hand smoothing my hair away from my face. His hands were so big. Big enough to palm a basketball. Big enough to hold Jason in the air.
I remember how warm it felt to be near him. How safe.
Suppose it’s all been a mistake, I think. Suppose he’s not dead at all. That when we get back to Atlantic City he’ll be there, working in the store. And he’ll say, Well … well … if it isn’t Davey Wexler …
And I’ll say, In the flesh.
And then we’ll laugh. And I will never be too busy to go walking on the beach with him, or to help him in the store, or just to sit quietly at his side, again.
Oh Daddy, please don’t be dead. Please!
And then it hits me. The realization that I’ll never be with him again. Never. That he isn’t coming back.
You have to face reality, Davey. You have to accept the facts.
I sit up and cup my hands around my mouth. “Daddy …” I call.
I hear my echo around the canyon. Daddy … Daddy … Daddy …
I stand up and call louder. “Can you hear me, Daddy? Can you?”
Then I hear a voice, answering mine and it isn’t my echo.
“Hey … hey down there,” it calls.
I spin around, trying to find it.
“Hey … are you all right?”
I catch a glimpse of him. He is standing halfway up the canyon and is partly hidden by a tree.
“Who … me?” I ask, as if it might be someone else.
“Yeah … you,” he calls, as he begins to climb down. I shade my eyes from the sun and see that he is very sure footed. He is not slipping or sliding or falling, the way I did.
He reaches the bottom quickly and comes toward me. He is about nineteen or twenty, wearing faded cut-offs, hiking boots with wool socks sticking out over the tops and no shirt. He has a knapsack on his back. He is maybe 5′ 9″, with suntanned skin and dark hair.
“I thought you were in trouble,” he says. “The way you were calling …”
His eyes are dark brown.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“What are you doing down here?” He sounds less friendly now.
“Thinking,” I tell him. “Is there a law against that?” The truth is, I am scared out of my mind. My heart is pounding. Suppose he’s a crazy, I think. Suppose he’s a rapist or worse. If he is, I’m in for it. I have to prepare myself. There’s no way I’m going to let him take me by surprise. I know what to do. I’ll smash his head in with a rock. A rock. I have to find the right rock. I scan the ground and see a good one, not ten feet away. I move toward it, slowly, wishing I had my breadknife with me.
“No law against thinking,” he says, “except that you’re alone.”
He’s probably a junkie. He probably comes to the canyon to shoot up, I think, or to trip or just to get stoned.
“So … I’m alone,” I say, sounding bitchier by the minute. “Is there a law against that?” I am standing right in front of the rock now. All I have to do is bend over, pick it up, and wham …
“No, but there should be,” he says.
“Oh, yeah … why?” I am having trouble following our conversation but I know it is best to keep him talking. The longer he talks the less likely that he’ll attack. I read that somewhere.
“Who’s going to get help if you need it?” he asks me.
I think that’s an interesting question, coming from him. I keep my eye on the rock. Every muscle in my body is tensed and ready to spring into action, if necessary.
“Suppose you trip and fall …” he begins.
“Suppose you do? You’re alone too, aren’t you?” Yes, that’s good. Put some fear into him. Let him think that maybe I’m the crazy, waiting, waiting to pounce on him in the silence of the canyon.
“I’ve had plenty of experience,” he says.
“And how do you know I haven’t?”
Then he laughs. His teeth are very white against his suntanned skin. “You don’t know your ass from your armpit,” he says.
Elbow, I think. He means elbow. “Listen, Machoman,” I say, looking him in the eye. “Buzz off!” I sound really tough.
But all he does is laugh again. “Are you always so bitchy?”
“No,” I say. “Just when I feel like it.”
“You’re new around here.” He says this as a statement, not a question.
“So what if I am?”
“Hey, relax … I’m not going to bite you. All I’m trying to say is next time, bring a friend. It’s safer that way.”
“I don’t have any friends.”
“Find some,” he tells me. He bends over and I panic, thinking that he is going for my rock. That he is going to use it on me. But all he does is pick up a handful of stones. He jiggles them around in his hand. Then, without looking at me he says, “Who are you so pissed off at, anyway?”
“The world!” I tell him, without even thinking about it. I am surprised by my answer to his question and by the anger in my voice. It is the first time I realize I am not only sad about my father, but angry, too. Angry that he had to die. And angry at whoever killed him.
He sits down on a rock, opens his knapsack and pulls out a bottle of water. I watch, as he takes a swig. I am so thirsty I can hardly stand it. The inside of my mouth is dried out. My tongue feels thick and furry. I would do anything for a drink of water.
He must sense this because he looks at me and says, “You’re thirsty.”
“A little,” I tell him, licking my parched lips.
“You came into the canyon without a water bottle.”
“I forgot it,” I lie. “It’s home.”
“Here …” He passes his to me. I am so relieved I feel like crying. I mean to take a quick swig, but once it’s to my lips I can’t stop. I drink and drink until he takes it from me.
“Easy,” he says, “or you’ll get sick.”
I begin to relax. He’s not out to get me after all.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“You can call me Wolf.”
“Is that a first name or a last name?”
“Either,” he says.
“Oh.” I ca
n’t think of anything else to say.
He stands, puts the water bottle back into his knapsack, stretches and says, “Okay … let’s go.”
“Go?” I shouldn’t have let down my guard. “Where?”
“Back up,” he says. “It’s one o’clock. I’ve got an appointment at two.”
“So, go,” I tell him.
“You’re going with me.”
“Really!” I say.
“Yeah … really.”
“Guess again,” I say.
“I’m not about to leave you down here by yourself. I’m not in the mood to be called by Search and Rescue later. I have other things to do.”
“Search and Rescue?”
“Right.”
I think about the fourteen-year-old boy who was killed by a falling rock and about the woman who broke her leg and went into shock and I wonder if Wolf was called in then. But I don’t ask him. Instead I say, “I’m tougher than I look.”
“Sure you are. Let’s go. I’m in a hurry.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You see anybody you can trust more?”
I look around. He begins to walk away. I decide to follow him.
He climbs quickly. I try to step exactly where he does.
After a while I ask him if he goes to school around here.
He doesn’t answer.
I say it again, louder. “You go to school around here, Wolf?”
“The more you talk the harder time you’re going to have climbing,” he says, without turning around.
Okay, I think. So I’m having trouble keeping up. So I’m breathing hard. So I’m a little out of shape. So what? I don’t say any of this. Instead I watch the muscles in his legs. I notice how brown and smooth the skin is on his back, how his hair hangs just past the nape of his neck, how narrow his hips are, how strong his arms and shoulders look.
As if he knows what I am thinking, he turns. “How’re you doing?”
“Okay. Just fine. I told you, I’m tough.” I wipe the sweat off my face with the back of my hand.
Wolf turns and begins to climb again.
I follow him, then trip on a rock and skin my knee. I feel like crying out but I don’t. I have to hurry to catch up with him. He doesn’t seem to notice.
Finally, we reach the top and Wolf walks me to my bicycle and then, out to the road. I wonder if I will have the strength to ride home, then I remember that it will be almost all downhill.
Wolf leans against a tree, chewing on a piece of grass.
“Well, thanks,” I say. “Thanks for the water and the guided tour.”
He nods. We are both quiet for a minute. Then he says, “Get yourself a decent pair of boots. Adidas are okay for tennis, not rock climbing. And next time, bring a water bottle.”
I get on my bicycle.
“What’s your name?” he asks me, as I am about to pedal away.
I think for a minute before answering. When I do I face him and say, “You can call me Tiger.”
“Is that a first name or a last name?” he asks.
“Neither!” I say and this time I do pedal away. I know that he’s watching me, but I don’t turn around. I can hear him laughing.
And I laugh too.
TEN
At home I gobble up the chicken sandwich Bitsy has left for me, then I take a hot shower. I am stiff and sore all over but I feel good. I begin to sing. I sing song after song, glad that no one is home to hear me, or see how much hot water I am using. I shampoo my hair, I scrub between each toe, and all the time I am singing. I think about quitting school and trying for a singing career. I can see it now—my name in lights on a revolving sign outside the Resorts International Hotel and Casino. Inside, the MC announces my debut: Ladies and gentlemen … presenting Atlantic City’s own Davey Wexler! The drums roll. I step out on stage wearing this long, slinky black dress, slit up one side, my hair flowing down my back, a rose tucked behind my ear. I pick up the microphone and the room gets so quiet you can hear the snap of my fingers as I begin to sing in this husky, sexy voice that is nothing like the soprano I am in chorus. My mother sits out front at the best table with Jason, Lenaya and Hugh, sipping champagne.
Across the room, at a table by himself, is Wolf. I can’t take my eyes off him. It seems I am singing every song just for him. When I finish, the audience goes wild, yelling encore, encore. I sing two more songs. After, Wolf rushes up to the stage and presents me with a bouquet of roses. Dozens of them. Pure white.
My mother and Jason, Lenaya and Hugh are all wondering who this stranger is. This stranger who is obviously so crazy about Davey.
ELEVEN
While I am drying off I begin to think about the shower I’d taken on the night my father was killed … I was sandy from the beach. And it was so hot and sticky that even the cool shower didn’t help much.
The window air conditioner in the living room was on full blast and in both back bedrooms, fans were whirring. We had just one small lamp on, though, trying to conserve some energy, because the whole east coast had been warned of a possible brown-out.
Jason was racing around in his bathing suit and Dracula cape, fighting an imaginary war with his model airplanes. “Wham … got you. Pow pow pow … got you back …”
“Hurry up, Jase,” my mother called. “Get into some clothes or we’ll miss the sale.” She was taking Jason to the Jean Machine. They were running a pre-season special on back-to-school clothes.
“Davey, would you zip me up?” Mom asked, knocking on my bedroom door.
I flipped over my Bruce Springsteen tape and danced across the room to the door. Mom, tall, slim and barefooted, backed into my room. I zipped her white sundress and fastened the little hook on top. She was carrying her sandals and her wet hair hung loose around her shoulders. She smelled of Ivory soap and baby powder. My hair was dripping down my back and I still had only a bath towel wrapped around me while I tried to decide what to put on to go walking with Hugh.
“Your nose is peeling again,” Mom said.
I touched it. “I know.”
“Keep it covered with zinc for a couple of days. Give it a chance to clear up.”
“Zinc’s disgusting. I’d rather peel.”
“We should be back by ten,” Mom said, forgetting about my nose, “unless we stop for ice cream … but by eleven at the latest.”
“Okay.”
She checked her watch. It was pink gold with a tiny ruby on each side of the face, a raised crystal and a narrow gold linked band. It belonged to my grandmother, who died fifteen years ago, right before I was born. Mom has had plenty of experience in dealing with death. Her father died when she was still in high school and her brother died when he was nineteen. So she named me Davis because there was no one else to carry on her family name.
“Jason, will you please put something on,” Mom said again. She turned back to me. “Don’t stay out too late. I’d rather have you bring Hugh back here … it’s a lot safer than the beach.”
As soon as Mom and Jason left I closed the door to my bedroom and as I got dressed I chatted with Minka.
“What we have here, Minka,” I said, pulling on my favorite jeans, “is pure physical attraction. Physical Attrac-ti-on. You know what that means? It means it feels good to be near Hugh. Really good. When he holds my hand my insides flip over. Did you ever feel that way, Minka? Did some boy cat ever rub up against you and make you feel wonderful?”
Minka, who had been bathing, looked up. I scratched her under her chin, then put on my new halter.
“Well, don’t you worry,” I said. “It’s never too late.”
Minka gave me a big yawn.
I sprayed myself with Charlie, checked myself in the mirror, and ran downstairs, to the store, to wait for Hugh.
My father was at his easel, working on a portrait. There were no customers. He had the radio turned in to WFLN, the classical music station.
“Hi …” I said, helping myself to a peppermint candy from the gl
ass bowl on the check-out counter. The sign on the bowl read, Help the Retarded. Two for a Quarter.
My father opened the cash register, took out a quarter and dropped it into the bank behind the box.
Then he looked at me. “Well, well, well … if it isn’t Davey Wexler …”
“In the flesh,” I said.
“So I see,” Dad said, eyeing my skimpy halter.
I felt my cheeks turn red.
I walked behind the counter to where Dad was sitting at his easel and looked over his shoulder. “Very nice …” I said. “Especially the eyes. I wish I could draw like you.”
“You can do other things.”
“Oh yeah … like what?”
My father pretended to think that over. “You’re very good at stacking the bread,” he said.
“Thanks a lot!”
We both laughed. I hung my arms over his shoulders, from behind, and rested my face against his hair, which was soft and curly and smelled of salt water.
“So, where are you off to?” Dad asked.
“Oh … Hugh and I are going out.”
“What time will you be back?”
“I’m not sure.”
“An educated guess.”
“Ten … eleven … something like that.”
“Stay off the beach. It’s not safe at night.”
“I’ve already had the lecture.”
“I just don’t want you to get carried away and forget.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Well, I can’t ask for more than that.”
Hugh came into the store then, wearing his Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans. “Hi everybody,” he said. “Have you heard the one about the man who gave his cat a bath …”
“Stop,” Dad said. “I’ve heard it two dozen times, from you.”
Hugh walked up to the counter and took two mints, dropping a quarter into the bank.