How to Be Lost (13 page)

A
FTER THE BITTER
wind outside, the warmth of Charley B’s was comforting. The jukebox played, Sailing takes me away…. I walked to the bar, where Kendra was working.

I had finally learned her name, after a few nights spent drinking. I ordered a beer, and took a sip.

And then, across the room, I saw Ellie.

I had to fight for breath. The door to Charley B’s swung shut behind me. Ellie wore a tan turtleneck sweater and jeans; her brown hair fell to her shoulders. The line of her nose, her lips, her eyelids were the same. She looked like a child, actually: you could see the young bones underneath her skin. She sat at a table toward the back of the bar with a much older man. The man was tanned. He wore a dirty wool hat.

Ellie—or the girl who looked like Ellie—didn’t talk. She looked down into her beer. I wanted to run to her, to touch a part of her, crush her in my arms, but I didn’t even take off my coat. I put quarters in the cigarette machine and pulled the lever, a crisp pack of Camels falling into the chute. Play it cool, I told myself, Play it cool. I walked to the bar.

“Whatcha drinking there?” asked a man sitting on a barstool.

“Uh,” I said, “beer.” The man was about my age, with a plump face spilling out underneath a baseball cap.

“What kind of beer?” he said, smiling. Was this a come-on, I wondered. It would never work in New Orleans.

“Newcastle,” I said, turning back toward the table where Ellie was sitting. While I watched, she took one finger and followed the line of her hair, tucking a strand behind her small ear. She picked up her beer and took a sip.

“Faaancy!” said the man next to me.

“Uh,” I said.

“How ’bout I buy you a Leinenkugel?” he said, smiling widely.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Have you ever had a Leinenkugel?”

“Sam,” said Kendra, coming forward. “Leave this lady alone, OK?”

“I was just asking,” said the man.

“Maybe it’s time for you to go on home, Sam,” she said.

“OK, OK,” said Sam, moving a few stools away from me. “I’ll be good, OK.”

“Thanks,” I said to Kendra.

“It’s my job,” she said.

“I’m a bartender in New Orleans,” I said, wanting the conversation to continue, feeling cold and alone. “Well, cocktail waitress,” I clarified.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” said Kendra, moving away from me. I thought about how many people I had walked away from at The Highball, people trying bravely for some connection. I took a long sip of my beer, and then I faced Sam.

“Maybe I would like that Leinenkugel,” I said.

“All right!” said Sam.

I looked around, then, and Ellie was standing, pulling on her coat, her beer half-finished. I stubbed out my cigarette. The man took Ellie by the upper arm, gripping tight, and led her to the back exit.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ve got to go.” I grabbed my parka and hat.

“Hold on,” said Sam. “You just got here.”

“Sorry,” I said, and rushed toward the exit. I pushed past groups of people and reached the heavy door, opening it and running outside. But I was too late. The snowy street was empty.

The next morning, I bought the Missoulian newspaper and a bagel with strawberry cream cheese and sat on my motel bed. Now it was just a matter of waiting, I knew. Ellie was in Missoula, and Missoula was a small town. Eventually I would run into her again. I just needed to bide my time.

I flipped through the Real Estate section, the Want Ads. And there it was:

Pianist needed. Apply in person. Cee Cee’s Cocktails, 30 North Front Street.

I was a pianist, wasn’t I? I held out my fingers in front of me. I needed a manicure. But otherwise, they were in working order. I opened the bedside drawer and found a phone book, flipped to the “Salon” listings. I called and made a manicure appointment at Nail Me, Baby.

Cee Cee was a heavyset woman with short hair. Her previous pianist was a blind man named Karl. “He moved to Texas,” she said, shaking her head at his folly. Cee Cee’s was a tough-looking establishment: faded gold wallpaper, dim lights. It was once a brothel, Cee Cee told me wistfully.

She showed me to a ratty baby grand. “Make me cry,” she said. She lit a cigarette, put one hand on her hip. I rested on the stool. Two early drinkers watched me.

I hadn’t played seriously in years. I closed my eyes and tried to think about Cee Cee. She did not look like an unhappy woman, but everyone had some unhappiness in them. How would I touch on that spot, then ease it with soaring notes? I began to play “Through with Love,” first tentatively, then with gusto. It felt good to perform, and my fingers seemed to move on their own. I finished, and Cee Cee said, “You sing?”

“Um,” I said.

“Great,” she said. “You can start Monday. But get some clothes, sweetie. A long dress. A gown.” She squinted. “You got a gown?”

“Um,” I said.

“Great,” she said, “Monday at six.”

I tried to think of what to say, but Cee Cee began to cough—a hacking, smoker’s cough—and so I nodded instead and left.

*

That weekend, still looking for things to occupy my time, I read about the Lolo Dog Sled Races in the Missoulian. I decided to head over. Early on Saturday morning, I boarded the shuttle outside the Thunderbird. There were a few other people on the bus: a girl with greasy hair writing furiously in a reporter’s notebook, a loudmouth man telling whoever would listen about the upcoming ice climbing festival. (He was a sponsor, it seemed.) The bus wound its way out of Missoula, heading into the Idaho mountains. Lolo was a cross-country ski and ski-mobile area, but this weekend it was all about dogs.

When the shuttle bus stopped, I stepped off. It was snowing and windy: flakes whipped sideways against my face. I shaded my eyes and saw ten or so trucks parked alongside each other. Each truck was surrounded by all sorts of dogs: fluffy ones, curly-tailed ones, ones that looked like wolves, even some hounds. The first truck I reached was red, with Wyoming license plates. The bed held a kennel for the dogs; they ate from bowls of food and water. As I approached, the dogs ran to me, pulling against their chains. One leapt up and his paws hit my chest. I laughed out loud.

“They like attention,” said a voice. I looked up: it was the man who had been sitting with Ellie at Charley B’s. The one with the dirty wool hat. His eyes were very pale blue: the color of ice. Graying hair curled from underneath his hat. He was sexy, but also hard. He scared me.

“Are these your dogs?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I just train and run them. The owner’s in Jackson Hole.”

“They’re beautiful,” I said.

The man held out his hand. His fingernails were dirty. “I’m Daven,” he said.

“Caroline,” I said. His grip was strong.

“That one’s Jetta. He’s an Alaskan Husky,” said Daven, pointing to the dog with its paws on my chest.

“Jetta?”

“The owner names them after cars,” said Daven. I petted the dog. “I’m racing the six-dog in an hour,” he said. Another dog jumped up on me, El Camino. “You want to help?” said Daven.

“What?”

“I need one more person to hold them back. You just grab onto Forester, she’s the lead dog. You hold her collar until it’s time for us to go.”

“I’d love to,” I said. I was flustered, and couldn’t tell if he was flirting with me.

“Great,” said Daven, “I appreciate it.”

I bought a cup of coffee under a tent and drank it in the warming hut, a tepee with hay on the floor and a propane heater. Two old ladies came in and discussed a woman named Shirley. After my coffee, I went back to Daven’s red truck. The racing area was filling up with people. I could see the starting line, where speakers had been set up. The Rolling Stones blared through the snow: “Brown Sugar.” I realized that I was grinning from ear to ear.

Jetta jumped on me again as soon as I approached the truck. “Hi, Jetta,” I said. “Hi, Jetta.” She breathed, hot, into my face.

“Hey, there,” said Daven, opening the driver’s-side door and stepping from his truck, “this is Charlene.”

She climbed out of the truck slowly, a brown boot and a slim expanse of denim. A pink pom-pom hat and then the swinging hair. She lifted her head and I gasped. It was Ellie.

She smiled in greeting. Her teeth were perfectly aligned, but discolored. She was so young—what was she doing with this man? She looked unhealthy, too skinny. My heart broke.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi!” she said, holding out her hand. I took it, touching her skin.

“I’m Caroline,” I said, looking straight at her, willing her to know me.

She did not meet my gaze. Her eyes were lit with a creepy fervor, and they darted around unnervingly. Her pupils were dilated. She was on some drug, I could tell. “Caroline’s going to help you hold them back,” said Daven. I nodded.

“Great,” said Ellie, still looking away from me. “That’s so great. Babe, can I have a smoke?” The way she spoke was rapid and breathy.

“Just one,” said Daven, fishing a pack from his pocket. Ellie’s hand shook as she reached for the cigarette. “You want one, Caroline?” he asked.

“Sure.” We stood and smoked. This was the moment I had driven across the country for, but now that it had arrived, I felt paralyzed. It hadn’t occurred to me that Ellie wouldn’t recognize me, or that Ellie would be called Charlene.

The snow fell hard, and the dogs strained at their chains. My feet were beginning to get cold, but I didn’t want to leave Ellie for another second. I kept thinking of things to say to jar her memory: I’m visiting from New Orleans, or My sister Madeline loves dogs, too…. But nobody was talking.

“Are you from Montana?” asked Daven.

“No,” I said. “Actually, I’m just visiting. From New Orleans.”

“The Big Easy,” said Daven.

“Wow,” said Ellie, “New Orleans. Wow. New Orleans.” Her fast speech was making me nervous.

“Have you ever been there?” I asked.

“No, no I don’t think so,” said Ellie. She ran her tongue over her lips. They were very dry. As I looked at her closely, I saw that she had a thin sheen of sweat on her face.

“Are you…,” I began. “Are you from around here?” I said.

Daven looked at Ellie, a sharp look. I saw it. “No,” said Ellie, too loud.

“Nobody’s from here. We’re all from somewhere else, right?” said Daven.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“You looking for some work?” said Daven.

“What?” I said. “No.”

“Do you have a job already?” said Ellie.

“Actually—” I said, but Daven cut me off, motioning to his watch.

“Time for the race,” he said.

He and Ellie untangled six harnesses and strapped the dogs to the wooden sled. Daven stood on the back of the sled and steered the dogs by putting pressure on the skis. There was a big brake, just in case. We held fast to the dogs’ collars and made our way to the starting line.

There were dozens of people now, and dogs yelped and sang, pulling at their harnesses. The music blared (Aerosmith: “Love in an Elevator”), and the emcee announced the start of the race. It was a six-mile course through the woods: a large map of the trail was posted. Daven’s team was third, and we watched the other teams start.

“We are ready!” yowled the emcee, announcing the first team. “Lining up right here. It’s Craig Land, of Whitefish, Montana. His lead dog is Pee-Wee. Are you ready, handlers? In ten, nine, eight, seven….” The dogs made noises I had never heard before, snarling and pulling at their harnesses, leaping into the air with excitement. The sight of the groomed racetrack drove the dogs wild. When the countdown ended, Craig Land—a tall man in a fur hat—jumped into his sled and the handlers let go. The dogs shot forward, pulling the sled, and Craig Land, behind them.

The next team was led by a woman. Daven told me that the woman, Vivian Mason, used the dogs to get to and from her house in the winter. She lived off the grid, outside Bonner. Her dogs were Alaskan huskies. At the end of the countdown, her handlers let go, and Vivian was off like a shot. It was Daven’s turn.

Ellie and I held the two lead dogs. I had Forester, a big husky with one brown eye and one blue. He was impatient, and almost pulled me onto the ground. But I held fast, and the countdown began. Daven pulled his dirty hat on tight, and finally it was time. I let go, and Forester ran. Daven leaned back, bent his knees, and was gone.

I put my fingers on Ellie’s arm. “Want some hot chocolate?” I asked. She looked noncommittal. We went back to the blue tent, and then the warming hut. Now that we were finally together, I couldn’t find a word to say. She seemed very tense.

“So,” I said, “how’d you meet Daven?”

“On the Internet.”

Good Lord, I thought.

“Do you like Montana?” I asked.

“I guess so,” she said. “It’s fine.”

“You don’t look like a Charlene,” I said.

Ellie’s eyes snapped open. She looked alarmed, but tried to cover up. “Well, I don’t know who does,” she said. “Look like their name, I mean.”

“Is that your real name?” I asked.

“Of course!” said Ellie, unconvincingly. “Let’s go outside.”

“OK,” I said. We made our way to the finish line. We stood in the snow, and Ellie whispered something to me.

“What?” I said.

“You look like a Caroline,” said my sister, and we watched the dog teams in the distance, racing toward the finish.

As time went on, she seemed to calm down. When the race was over, we waited by the truck while Daven fed the dogs. “So I’m playing piano at Cee Cee’s Cocktails. You should come hear me sometime,” I said.

Ellie pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “You never know,” she said.

“How long until Daven will be done?”

“He’ll be here all day.”

She kept talking, telling me about Daven and his dogs, about how much they both loved animals. “I put a picture of a lynx cub on our wall at the Wilma,” she said.

“The Wilma?”

“It’s the tall building on the river. That’s where we live.”

I knew the place she was talking about: it was the only skyscraper in Missoula, a tall stone building with a marquee in front. “I thought that was a movie theater.”

“It is, downstairs,” she said.