Black Maps (15 page)

After a while, I went back into the kitchen. There was no more champagne in the fridge but I had some Early Times in the cupboard. When I took it down, I noticed the blender on the shelf above it. It was avocado-colored, the same as the fridge and stove Barbara and I used to have. I'd bought it for her on one of our wedding anniversaries, but she forgot to take it when she cleaned me out after the divorce. I'd never used it, even once, so I took it down and turned it on, trying all the buttons. Chop. Purée. Blend. It worked like new.

Later, I called Barbara back. Her new husband answered the phone, his voice hoarse, like he'd been crying or had just woken up. I'd never met him. All I knew about him was the little Barbara had told me: that he was a geologist at the oil camp outside of Rose Creek, and that he was a good father to Chuck. When Chuck graduated from Officers' Training School, Barbara sent me a picture of him in his dress blues, standing between two men in civilian clothes. One of them was lanky and stoop-shouldered; the other, squat and red-faced. On the back of the picture, Barbara had written “Ensign Charles F. Denton, with Gale and Uncle Zack.” I knew Gale was her new husband's name, but I didn't know which one was him. I tried to imagine each of them making love to Barbara, but I couldn't. I couldn't imagine them tousling Chuck's hair or taking him trout fishing either. So I didn't know who I was talking to. “Hello,” I said to him, whichever one he was. “This is Alec.”

Then he said, “Yeah? Alec
who
?” and I knew Barbara had told him what I'd said. I didn't blame him for hating me. I would've felt the same way if I was him.

“Listen,” I said, “I'm sorry. I was drunk when Barbara called. I was out of my mind. She threw me for a loop. But I'm not drunk now and I want to say I feel awful and I want to be there with you and Barbara now. Maybe I don't deserve to be there, but I need to.” I stopped, but he didn't say anything. I was afraid he was going to hang up on me. “Mr. Denton?” I said. “Are you still there?” He didn't answer. I closed my eyes and listened to the three hundred miles of silence between us. “I just need to see him,” I said.

When he finally answered, I decided he was the lanky stoop-shouldered man who was standing on Chuck's left. “All right,” he said. “Of course you can come. After all, you were his father too.”

There's not much you can do in a car except think. During the long drive from Bozeman to Rose Creek, I kept a twelve-pack beside me, and every now and then I drank a can. I listened to the radio too, when I could stand the sort of music they play on it these days, and watched the wipers clean the snow from the windshield until I was half-hypnotized. I even kept track of the gas I bought and the distance I drove, so I could figure out how many miles per gallon the old Nova was getting. But no matter what I did, I kept thinking about Chuck. I remembered the strangest things. Like those Hawaiian swim trunks he had—“jams” he called them—with yellow and maroon flowers. The time he fell off his skateboard and broke his collarbone. The way he once did a drumroll with his fork and knife when Barbara set supper on the table.

But mostly I kept remembering the lie I told Chuck about Mount Rainier. I hadn't thought about it for years. Chuck had just turned twelve, but I hadn't been home for his birthday. I'd been gone for four days, drinking, and when I came home he wouldn't even talk to me. I said, “Your dad's home” and he looked away; I said, “Are you mad at me?” and he ran back to his room. I'd been gone on binges before, but never that long, and never over his birthday. I felt so miserable I went back to his room and told him I'd take him out to Mount Blackmore the next day. He'd been begging me for weeks to take him there so he could earn his mountain climbing merit badge, but when I told him I'd take him, he didn't look happy or anything. And the next day, when we hiked up the mountain, I couldn't get him to talk. I'd say something about the trees or rocks—ask him what kind he thought they were and things like that—and he'd just answer with a word or two. So by the time we were halfway up the trail, I was getting scared that he wasn't going to forgive me.

So I told him the lie. We were taking a breather, sitting on a big slate ledge in the sun, looking down at the creek at the base of the bluff and the pine woods beyond, and I told him I had once climbed Mount Rainier. Chuck looked at me then, but he didn't say anything.

“This was a long time ago,” I said. “Long before you were born. Even before I met your mother.” Then I told him a friend and I had gone up the mountain in the winter of ‘51. “Everything went fine,” I said, “until we got halfway up the mountain. Then the wind kicked up and snow began to fall and pretty soon we were caught in a first-class blizzard. We couldn't see anything, the snow was so thick, and the air was so cold it burned our lungs just to breathe. Before long the wind was blowing to beat Billy Hell and we could barely hang on to the side of the mountain, even with our spiked boots dug in.” I went on to tell him we knew we'd freeze to death if we didn't get up to the next ledge and dig a snow cave, so we kept climbing, feeling our way up the mountain inch by inch like blind men.

The story was a true one, but it hadn't happened to me—I'd read about it in
Reader's Digest
. But I told it like it was my story, not somebody else's, and Chuck sat there looking out toward the horizon, his forehead creased like he was thinking hard. And as I told the story, I got excited and started to make up things that weren't even in
Reader's Digest
. I told him my friend fell and broke his leg so I had to strap him onto my back and lug him up the ridge with me, and I told him we were trapped there for three days before the weather cleared enough for me to carry him back down the mountain. I even told him my name had been in all the papers and the governor of Washington himself came to the hospital where I was recuperating to shake my hand and congratulate me for saving my friend's life.

I'd hoped my story would make Chuck proud of me, make him forgive me for being a drunk and a bad father. But he didn't say anything. He just sat there, looking down at his boots. I figured he knew I was lying, and was even madder than before. But then I saw that his lower lip was trembling.

“What's wrong?” I said.

“You could have died,” he answered.

When he said that, I thought maybe I had won him back after all. “That's right,” I said. “I could've died. But I didn't.” And I tousled his curly blond hair.

But he kept looking at his boots. “But what if you
had
died?”

I tried to laugh it off. “Then I would've died,” I said, and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

He reached down then and picked up a small stone and flicked it off the cliff. We watched it hit a ledge below and bounce off out of sight.

“Then I wouldn't have been born,” he said.

I was wrong about Barbara's new husband. He wasn't the tall stoop-shouldered guy after all. He was the squat meaty-faced fellow with thick glasses. He didn't look at all like the type Barbara would marry, but then again neither did the tall lanky guy. And, I suppose, neither did I.

“You must be Alec,” he said, when he opened the door. “I'm Gale. Come on in. It must be freezing out there.”

I'd never met a man named Gale before. “Gale” seemed like a woman's name to me, even though it was spelled different, and I'd never liked the fact that Barbara had married someone with a name like that. I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Denton,” I said, and stepped in the house.

It was a nice house, a lot nicer than any house Barbara and I ever lived in. To the right of the entryway was a living room with a red brick fireplace and a blue and gold Oriental rug, and straight down the hall there was a dining room with a chandelier tiered like an upside-down wedding cake. To my left, there was a short flight of stairs that led up to a hallway of rooms. Everywhere you looked there were plants and fancy paintings. I felt like I was stepping into a copy of
Better Homes and Gardens
and I said so. Gale laughed. It was a host's laugh, high and cut short like a cough.

“Let me have your coat,” he said. “Barbara's in the den. She'll be right up.”

I shrugged off my parka and watched Gale hang it at the far end of the closet, away from his and Barbara's coats. Then Barbara came up some stairs near the dining room and walked stiff-legged down the hall toward me, her face tight like she was afraid something bad was going to happen. “Hello,” I said. Then, before she could say anything, I leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. I glanced at Gale to see if he'd minded. If he had, he didn't show it. I didn't look at Barbara to see what she thought.

“Well, how was your trip?” Barbara said. She spoke like she had to force the words out, like they hurt her throat.

“It was good,” I said. “Good as could be. Under the circumstances.” Somehow the word
circumstances
made me look away from her. “I like your house,” I added quickly. “I didn't think they had houses like this out in the middle of Wyoming.”

Gale smiled. “The company takes good care of their people. They may make us live out here with the jackrabbits, but they provide us with good housing.”

“That's good,” I said. Then we all just stood there a moment. Finally Barbara said, “Gale, don't you think we ought to let Alec freshen up before dinner?” Then she turned to me, only she didn't look right at me. “Come on. I'll show you to your room.”

“And I'll get us something to drink. What would you like?” Gale said, putting his fingers together the way servants do in movies.

“Nothing for me,” I answered. “Thanks anyway. You go ahead.”

Barbara looked at me, squinting just a little, like she was sizing me up. “Your room's just up the hall,” she said, and led the way. I followed her, noticing how she'd spread out over the past six years. She'd always been a bit hippy, but now she was big. Still, I must admit I didn't mind watching her walk.

At the end of the hallway, she opened a door and switched on the light. “This is your room,” she said.

I looked in and saw pale blue wallpaper and a bed with a wheat-colored comforter and dust ruffle. There was a reading light on the headboard, and it made me remember how Chuck used to lay in bed at night reading Hardy Boys books. “Was this—” I started.

“This is the guest room,” Barbara said quickly. She nodded toward a door just up the hall. “That was his room.” Then she looked at me, her face hard. “I don't want you in there,” she said. “I don't want anyone in there. Do you understand?”

I didn't say anything. Then she continued, “I've put some towels on the dresser for you. The bathroom's right next door. If there's anything else you—”

“It's good to see you again, Barbara,” I interrupted. “I only wish to God there was another reason for it.”

She looked at me. “Don't think you're fooling anybody with your ‘Nothing for me, thanks,'” she said. “I smelled that Binaca on your breath. I know you've been drinking. Now, I don't mind you coming in here and invading our home, but I don't want you getting drunk and embarrassing us at the funeral. If you can't stay sober out of consideration for me and Gale, I hope you can do it for Chuck. Is that clear?”

I set my bag inside the door. “I'm still crazy about you too,” I said. For a second, Barbara looked like she was going to slap me, but then she just turned and strode off down the hall.

“I loved him as much as you did,” I called after her.

During dinner, Barbara barely looked at me, and she didn't say anything to either of us, except when she asked Gale to pass the roast or the potatoes. As soon as we finished eating, she excused herself, saying she had a headache, and went to bed. Gale apologized for her. “This has been awfully hard on her,” he said. I didn't know whether “this” meant Chuck, or me.

Later that night, Gale and I were watching TV in the den. Gale was on his fourth Scotch, but I still hadn't had anything but club soda. I was worried I'd get the shakes, like I did at Intercept, but I didn't want to drink in front of Gale. I wanted him to think that Barbara had exaggerated about me, maybe even made some of it up.

Gale was talking about the TV. The oil company had paid for cable TV hook-ups; that's why he could get so many channels. Twenty-three in all. “Imagine that,” he said, “twenty-three channels right here in the middle of nowhere.” He gestured toward the walls with his drink, like nowhere was everywhere around us.

“That's something,” I said. On the TV a young blonde was stepping out of one of those antique claw-footed bathtubs and wrapping a white towel around herself. There were tiny soap bubbles on her shoulders and thighs. From the music, I could tell she was going to get murdered soon.

“There's still nothing to watch, though,” Gale said, and he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“You tired?” I said. “Don't let me keep you up if you are.” I was hoping he'd call it a night so I could sneak myself some bourbon. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep unless I had at least a couple of drinks—the last two nights I'd had to drink the better part of a fifth before I could even close my eyes.

“No, I'm not tired,” he said. “How about you?”

“I'm fine,” I said.

Gale nodded like he was glad I was fine, then walked over to the bar and poured himself another drink. I was thinking about Barbara's luck with men. For someone who hated drinking so much, she'd picked a couple of winners.

“He was on his way to see his girlfriend,” Gale said then. “Tammy Winthrop. When they found him, they called me at the camp. Told me there'd been an accident. That's all they said.” He came back over to the easy chair and sat down heavily. A little of the Scotch spilled on his cardigan sweater but he didn't seem to notice. He set his drink down on the end table and sighed. “Hardest thing I ever had to do was identify him.” He leaned forward and looked at me. “I mean, I thought they'd have him cleaned up and everything. But they didn't. They hadn't done a thing to him. All the blood and everything—” He stopped and sat back, shaking his head.