Mr. Peanut (22 page)

Hurrying, he shifted into a state of pure, mindless movement, stride after stride. He made the summit and once more looked down at Hanakapi’ai. That was when he saw her.

Through some blessed instance of good fortune he saw her across the valley Hanakapi’ai formed, as far along the trail toward Hanakoa, and as high, as he was toward Ke’e now. She was standing there on this mirror ledge, looking in his direction, then down the trail ahead of her. It was as if they were standing in facing skyscrapers. She had her thumbs tucked under the straps of her pack and was considering something, then turned again and was looking right at him—he was sure of it! He waved but she didn’t wave back. He jumped around and waved both arms. He said her name silently and screamed it but saw no acknowledgment. He suddenly lost confidence. Perhaps she couldn’t see him. From this distance she was as big as his thumbnail. Something had given her pause. He waved and waved and did a worthless calculation—his watch said 1:23—and guessed that with the descent and subsequent ascent to her position plus her already substantial head start she was at least an hour beyond his reach—and that if he made haste.

He screamed her name again, waving both arms, and whether she heard him or not she turned and continued along the trail, soon disappearing.

He moved recklessly, zigzagging like a skier, sometimes slipping and
then tripoding down, once falling badly enough that he had to stop and repeatedly flex his smashed knee. His blood sugar had plummeted. With everything that had gone on today, in all of his distraction and anger and relief, he’d neglected to eat. He took off his pack and took out the peanut butter and banana sandwich he’d made and ate on the move, making sure to drink water as well. Now he was too scared to be angry. This terrible silence that had come between them had brought them into what felt like dangerous territory, as if they were stuck in the middle of a tightrope over a gaping chasm and now had to find the skill to somehow maintain their balance together and cross over safely. Within half an hour, he made the river of rock and passed the sign that said
HANAKOA VALLEY 2 MILES.
Perhaps because of eating he caught a second wind, but his fear soon intensified. This stage of the trail was of a completely different order of difficulty than anything he’d yet encountered. The accessibility of Hanakapi’ai from Ke’e and the sheer number of tourists who hiked it made that leg comparatively smoother and well-worn, the tens of thousands of feet demarcating and softening the trail. This, however, was all loose stone and shale, the slope so steep that David felt as if he were on all fours the whole climb. Nor was there the comfort of the occasional inbound hiking party. They would’ve seen Alice, of course, and could tell him if she were close or far. No, this leg was for the serious, the prepared, but he climbed relentlessly. Another half an hour in and he still hadn’t seen a soul.

When he reached the top of the trail where she’d been standing, his heart sank. He wondered for a moment if she too had seen what lay before them and had stopped because of it.

Ahead—and he could see a solid mile—the trail became a treacherous strip only slightly wider than a balance beam, the rock wall to the left so sheer he thought he’d have to press his hand against it and run his fingers along the stone like a child strumming a picket fence as he passed by. To the right, the drop-off was acute, the edge rounded by erosion. Absurd. He pictured Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint scaling down Rushmore in
North by Northwest
. If your right foot came out from under you, you’d slip into the void. If you tumbled forward, your pack would knock you sideways and then you were dead. Just proceeding would require an inner negotiation with panic, arbitration between the need to keep your eyes on the path and the vertigo it brought on, the foamed edge of the ocean bursting in silence far below. Come up on the short end of that haggling and you might find yourself paralyzed with terror. You might dig your fingers in and choose not to move until someone came along. And then you might grab your rescuer and take him or her down with you. Perhaps, he thought desperately,
if I wait for a few minutes Alice will appear. Ahead, the cliffs bulged in humped succession, with the trail visible at each horizontal apex. Alice might be
right there
at any moment. But after what seemed like an eternity, David gave up. He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d gone over since he couldn’t fathom how she’d gotten so far. And going over was like a magic trick, an act of total disappearance: no one to see you fall, your death forever destined to be only imagined by loved ones. Going over was like getting plucked from the world by God.

He believed the safest, most efficient way to proceed was to leave his pack here, before the path narrowed further. His goal would be strictly one of pursuit. He stripped it off and took his water bottle and as many energy bars as he could stuff into his pockets, then ran through a checklist. Was there anything else he needed? He had a waterproof top, but there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Sunscreen? A first-aid kit? If he didn’t take these, would he regret it? The need to bring along his rain gear felt significant. He thought of Harold:
The thoughts just before the event are like the fortune in the cookie. The fortune’s as random as the thought
. He wanted to laugh. It was like the wave he’d dived under earlier. Only by facing such a crossing would you consider making it. Otherwise, you could spend your whole life avoiding any such event.

He began to walk, though to call it walking was an exaggeration. He found himself leaning so hard to the left, against the cliff, that it retarded his progress and made him overcorrect each time he took what might be called a step forward—a measuring out of distance, heel to toe, as if he was sneaking out of a room—and sometimes trapped his rear foot behind the other and, stuck, took in hesitant fear a complete step backward. And several times he leaned left so hard that his feet shifted under him, a half-inch slide he could feel in his spine, his palm pointlessly smacking the rock as if for a handhold, this slight slip causing him to suddenly throw out his right arm before regaining his balance and pivoting, his hands, stomach, and cheek to the cliff now, his back to the sea, these moments so utterly terrifying he had to stop and close his eyes while he caught his breath. Then once again he started forward. After several minutes of this, the pace began wearing on him. Slowness, he realized, would be his death. Walking faster, he’d be better off. Certain actions could be destroyed by close attention, short-circuited by overawareness, like swallowing. Committed to this new method, he took three determined breaths and proceeded forward, trying with all his might to move at a normal pace, to blot out the drop-off while thinking when else he’d have such a view. But it didn’t work. It was like
walking along a skyscraper’s ledge. For several minutes he concentrated so hard on the walking that he forgot he was here to find his wife.

But he soon began to make better time. Whether from practice or confidence, the slight widening of the path in places or perhaps his instinct for self-preservation, he somehow achieved a suspension of disbelief about the very journey he was making. Death was right there, and so, with his left-hand fingers barely skimming the rock and his right arm stuck out over the abyss, he walked at normal speed until both arms hung safely at his sides; he let his vision shift slightly inward, kept his eyes fixed on a point several feet ahead, slowing only when he outpaced his own balance like a toddler running so fast the force threw him toward a fall. If he allowed himself to think—such respites quite rare—or became self-conscious, he came to a complete stop. But he got back up to speed quickly, recapturing his inner rhythm until it was thoughtless, and until that thoughtlessness in turn aped fearlessness. This whole process—the thinking about movement you took for granted, then taking it for granted—was the beauty of the trail, he managed to reflect, was a kind of accomplishment, and when he looked up after a long time (the reward for his trial) Alice was just ahead, and he stopped.

She herself had stopped, though clearly she didn’t realize he was right behind, and seeing her all at once jeopardized his own confidence. She was at the apex of the curve, struggling to press on, and now he could appreciate by dint of perspective just how narrow and dangerous the trail was. She was clearly exhausted, and when at that moment she went wobbly moving forward, the pack seemed even more precarious. It was like watching some fool carrying a stack of boxes, the gaps between them widening just before they tumbled free. She threw her right arm out to balance herself, and that was when he saw that she was carrying the urn in her hand.

“Alice!” he called.

She stopped again and gingerly turned to her left until she was nearly facing him. He could see her face peeking around the pack’s frame. She was in a state long past tears and terror, even resignation. It was an expression he’d never seen, a kind of vacancy. It was a look he felt on his own face.

“Stay where you are,” she said. “Don’t come near me.”

“What are you doing?”

“I said stay away. Do you understand? You’re cursed.”

He was still coming forward. He couldn’t help it. “What are you talking about?”

“Everything you touch withers,” she said. She was speaking as if they
were walking alongside each other, her tone without affect. “Every choice you make is a trap.”

“Alice, come on. Let’s turn around. Let’s go back.”

“You take another step and I’ll jump!”

He stopped.

“There
is
no back,” she said, “don’t you get it? Back is all up there.” She pointed at the sky.

“Please, I’m begging you. I’ll leave. Just promise me you’ll turn around.”

“It was you,” she said.

He froze, leaning against the side.

“You wanted me to say it, so now I am.”

He was crying.

“Admit it,” she said.

She was only yards away—a stone’s throw—but he couldn’t move.

“You wanted this,” she said. “You wanted him gone and now me too.”

“Alice, please stop.”

“So I’m going to finish this. Do you understand? This is
my
choice. I’m going to take care of him myself or die trying.”

She was just within his grasp, but before reaching out he turned around to see where he was, and when he looked back she’d started to walk again.

“Wait,” he said.

She fell.

It was a more sickening sight than he ever would’ve imagined, so much more terrible than he ever would’ve dreamed. As she turned back toward the trail to continue, she went too far, her pack clipping the cliff, acting as a brake and yanking her upper body back, her soles sliding out from underneath her, her feet sticking straight out. Miraculously, she fell straight down—back to cliff and face to sea—and landed on her ass, then stopped, the heel of her right hand (she managed somehow to hold on to the urn) pressed into the edge of the trail, both her legs and most of her buttocks hanging over the side. Only the bottom of the pack’s frame, dug in like a grappling hook, kept her from going over.

She sat bolt upright, teetering.

David rushed over and when next to her was aware of the exertion required to maintain her position. Her triceps were quivering. Her chin pointed up and straight out, she was using all the strength in her neck, and her stomach muscles were trembling beneath her shirt.

“Oh God,” she said.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m going over.”

“Don’t move.”

She was completely balanced but couldn’t hold it much longer. Though he wanted to grab her he knew not to. If she slid and he grabbed her arm or her pack, he wouldn’t be able to support her. Over the side there were no footholds, nothing to press up against. He looked at her whole body. It was like getting close to a priceless statue you weren’t allowed to touch.

“Why did you bring me here?” she said.

He was listening to her and not. He’d turned his right side toward her and was almost kneeling, his right hand near hers; then he got an idea of what they had to do.

“Why did you make me come?” she said quietly, her tone between resignation and fury.

“You have to listen to me. I know what has to happen.”

“I told you we weren’t going to make it, but you made me.”

It was so quiet up here in all of this open space. He quickly thought it all through once more.

“Admit that you made me!”

Searching the cliff for anything like a handhold, he found one and tested it.

“You should’ve protected us,” she said.

He had to ignore her now.

“You should’ve protected us!”

“I need you to listen to what I’m saying. If you don’t, we’re going to die.”

He was losing her. She was sobbing and using every iota of energy she had. She shook her head back and forth against the pack.

“Do you want us to die?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Furious, she just looked at him. “Take him,” she said.

She opened her fingers slightly, and he took the urn and placed it safely behind him on the trail. “You’re going to have to let go,” he said.

“Goddamn you!”

“You’re going to have to let go for a second and take my hand”—he held up his right—“with your right. Okay?”

“You son of a bitch.”

He spoke barely above a whisper. “Okay?”

She was listening.

“Nothing sudden,” he said. “I’m going to take your wrist, and the second you let go, you take mine. Wrist to wrist.” He held his hand to the side of her face so she could see it. She closed her eyes. He screamed her name till
she opened them, then spoke quietly again. “You might slip at first, but I can lift you. Enough that you can get a foot underneath. Do you understand? You’ve got to get a leg underneath you and
stand up.”

Her eyes were closed again, as if she were making her own plan. Her whole body was shaking with effort.

“Tell me you understand.” He was losing her. “Tell me or I’m going with you.”

She nodded.

“I need you to
see
it. I need you to think it through.”