The Other Mr. Bax (31 page)

“Really? That’s cool. Can’t get much more low stress than that, can you?”

“I manage to find things to stress about.”

The hawk reappeared, this time from the opposite direction. Dana and Jack watched in silence as it glided past. The breeze in the trees and the river far below seemed to hush, as well. Dana turned. “Well…” She pushed herself up. “It’s been nice.”

He scrambled to his feet. “Oh, yeah. Enjoy your hike.”

She lifted her pack, worked her arms through the straps, then started down the path. After walking a short distance, she twisted back around. Jack had his back to her; his gaze on the river below. In her mind, she had him turn his head and catch her looking. She quickly turned back to the trail ahead of her, then wondered how she might have responded had he suggested hiking with her as she’d expected he would.

She took note of her surroundings—the trees around her, a layer of leaves on the ground.
I’m always with someone
… She kicked leaves from the trail as she walked, creating a bright shuffle. The song of a hermit thrush came from nearby. She stopped and listened—a long pause, then a string of warbling, flute-like notes. Her song. Her ears. The only ones within hearing. She remained still, the air bending the hairs on her arms. There came a point in which the moment felt complete, nothing more to unfold, except perhaps the next moment, and then it did. It had been so long since she’d been here—all things being as they should.

It was just over a two mile walk to the lower falls. Fifty yards up river from there, and about two hundred feet below the canyon rim was a footbridge constructed of large stones and concrete. Other than the railroad trestle, this was the only place within the seventeen-mile-long park where the river could be crossed. A long series of steps, cut into the canyon wall, led down to the bridge. The air, filled with the noise of the falls, became increasingly cooler and misty as Dana descended the steps. Halfway across the bridge, she stopped to enjoy the view to the south—the high rock-cliffs, divided by blue sky, tapering down to the flat riverbed, which then abruptly dropped forty-feet. Tons after tons of water crashed into the river below—steady and seemingly endless.

She started up the other set of steps, stepping up, one after another, until she arrived at the western rim of the canyon. Immediately north of that was a picnic area, shaded by a thick grove of pines. There were a few families and couples busy around the tables and grills—the smoky smell of meat was in the air. The only food left in her pack was a protein bar and some crackers. Neither seemed the least bit appealing at the moment.

About a half-mile south of the picnic area was another outcrop, providing a clear, panoramic view of the gorge. A low, stone wall had been erected near its edge, with “STAY OFF WALL” stenciled on top in large yellow letters. She took a seat on the wall, dug out the few remaining crackers from her pack, and nibbled them while admiring the view. The sound of footsteps brought her attention to her right.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Jack said.

She gave the guy a quick smile. “Have a nice hike, Mr. Bluhm?”

He grinned—“Indeed”—then took a seat on the wall, a few feet from her. “And you?”

“I still have a mile to go yet.”

“You parked by the trestle?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Just a bit more than a mile, I think.”

She smiled. “I’m good for it.”

“Well, that’s because you had your sardines. All I’d brought was a couple apples and a granola bar. I’m starting to fade.” He glanced up the trail to his right. “How far is it to the picnic area?”

“The lower falls?”

He nodded. “I’m parked up there.”

“Not far. A mile maybe.”

“You hungry?” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I’m thinking of getting something at the Inn. Would you care to join me?”

The pines—the smells of meat being grilled, again, teased her mind. She pictured a white tablecloth draped over a small, square table—a plate with a sandwich on it, and a steamy bowl of potato soup. She let out a huff. “Well…”

“I just thought you might be hungry.”

“I want a hamburger.”

“You ever eat at the Glen Iris?”

“A few times. I like it.”

“Okay, good.”

“Can you wait? It’ll take me a while to get there.”

“How about this? Rather than hiking all that way to your car, walk me to mine… it’s closer. We’ll go eat, then I can give you a lift back.”

She wanted to say yes, and was about to, but then Roland came to mind. They’d eaten there at the inn a few times. “No, I appreciate the offer, but I really want to finish my hike. I might stop in afterwards though. If you’re still there, I’ll join you.”

“You sure?”

“It’s this obsessive compulsive thing.”

He smiled. “Well… okay then. I’ll be on my way.” He tipped his head back and sniffed. “Is that fried chicken I smell?”

“Would you like a protein bar?” Dana reached down into her pack and fished around for the bar. “I have one here… somewhere.”

He chuckled. “Thank you, but I’m not that desperate. I’ll make it.”

She lifted a gold cellophane-wrapped bar from her pack and held it out toward him. “22 grams of protein.”

“You may need that yourself; you’ve got a way farther to hike than me.” He stood, then gave her a smile and a nod. “Hope I see you later.”

Watching as he marched off into the woods, Dana imagined walking along beside him, distracted by the novelty. But then a pang of regret snuck in, souring the picture. And another feeling, minute and elusive, like an electron; she had it, then it was gone. She couldn’t know it, but what had just swept past was a tenuous link to a new reality, as big and as continuous as the one behind her. She slipped her pack on, peeled back the wrapper of the protein bar, took a bite, then began the last stretch of her hike.

Returning to the lot where she’d left her car, she dropped her daypack in the backseat, climbed in behind the steering wheel, twisted the key in the ignition, and started home. The inn that Jack had suggested was just a mile ahead, on her right. She slowed as she neared, glancing repeatedly toward it. The parking lot contained no more than a dozen cars. That thing again, like a guilty impulse, tugged at her, and was close to having her, but she was in motion, momentum dragging her forward—the inn slipping farther and farther behind, until the temptation was a memory.

The sun was sitting on the horizon as Dana arrived home—the day was not yet over. She was fine with that. She picked up the phone and called her sister.

“Doing anything right now?”

“Watching TV,” Mary said. “Ed’s at the karate school. He won’t be home till after eight. What’s up?”

“You want to come over, rent a movie, have a beer and some nachos?”

“Hmm… When?”

“I’m starving. I just got back from a long hike.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Want me to bring anything?”

“Can you bring some beer?”

“Make it twenty minutes. I’ll swing by the IGA and pick up a six-pack.”

No sooner had she set the phone down than it began to ring. Expecting it’d be Mary, calling back to say she’d just remembered a prior obligation, or something to that effect, she picked up, and said, “Mary’s Diner and Funeral Home.”

T
he roar of the vacuum cleaner
competed with the rock and roll blasting from the stereo as Dana scurried about the house, dragging her Kirby, sucking dust, lent, and cobwebs from the baseboards and corners. She pulled the piano bench out and vacuumed the floor behind it. By nature, she was much more laidback when it came to housecleaning—though, at one time, it had been her business to be meticulous about it. Since then, however, it was only when certain guests were expected that she’d slip into the role. Dust bunnies had started forming since the last time she’d had company from out of town. The crud would inevitably come to life the moment someone was invited over. Ironically, her guest, this time around, was her husband, and his studio, what was once a dining room, was historically the messiest space in the house. She rarely touched it.

She glanced up into the corner; a small, wispy spider web clung to the ceiling.
He’d never notice
, she thought, as it and its architect disappeared into the end of the plastic, cylindrical attachment.

With the vacuuming done, she moved into the bathroom, opened the shower curtain, and assessed the mildew framing the tiles above the tub. Memories of the business she’d started, years before, back in Illinois, seemed invariably entwined with such signs of neglect. She squirted the tiles with an aggressive mix of chemicals, slipped on a pair of rubber gloves, and began scrubbing.

During the early eighties the economy was exceptionally weak. Jobs were scarce. The air was filled with uncertainty. Dana, desperate to create a secure environment for her three young children, who were soon to arrive from New York, accepted whatever odd jobs she could find. As an unemployed, single mother of three, prosperity seemed a blue-million miles away. Roland was in the construction business, at the time, and was working through his divorce with Nancy. Money was tight for him as well. He did what he could, offering to share his house in Kempton with her, as Nancy had recently moved out. Though wrestling with a cloud of vague reservations, Dana could see no other alternative, and so accepted his invitation.

As she wiped down the tiles, she recalled the mid-November night when she and Roland sat at his dining room table brainstorming solutions to her financial woes. The room was cozy; a fire blazed in the wood-stove nearby. They both had ballpoint pens, yellow note-pads, and a cup of hot tea before them. After Roland had offered two or three improbable schemes, Dana came up with the idea of a housecleaning service. It was simple, practical, and would require minimal up-front capital. Together, they worked up a plan, figuring that once the business grew to a sufficient size, she’d hire other women to work under her direction. It was easy to imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when she’d have enough employees to allow her to draw an income from managing the business, keeping her head out of other people’s toilets. Despair had at last given way to hopefulness.

R
oland pulled up to a set of gas pumps
outside a convenient store a few miles south of Akron. The eight and a half-hour drive from Sulphur Springs was now behind him. The first half of the trip had been marred with second thoughts. To get past them, he thought of the photographs he’d seen of himself and Dana together. He figured he was about to meet
that
person, the person in the photos, rather than the one he knew from phone conversations. If given a chance, he believed he could convince her of his integrity and innocence, though he knew not why he felt the need for this, why it mattered what she thought. The answer had at one time poked its head up like a Wac-A-Mole, but then quickly disappeared within that multidimensional network inside his head.

After refueling, Roland twisted the fuel cap back on, then went inside to pay. He stepped in line at the checkout behind two other customers. A man, several inches shorter than himself, with a plump, round, slightly sunburnt face, approached from a side aisle carrying a large bottle of soda. The guy had a thick, football-player neck, a large belly, and walked with a serious, body-builder’s waddle. He stared at Roland as though confused or annoyed. Roland turned briefly toward the woman in line in front of him.

“Roland?” The man was now only two steps away. “What the hell? You decide to come home?” His tone hinted at vindictiveness, but, being that Roland had never met him before, he couldn’t be certain.

He searched the man’s face, hoping it would trigger a memory, nearly certain it should. “I’m sorry, but…” He shook his head and blinked. “I’m drawing a blank.”

The man’s pale-pink brow bunched up. He cocked his head to the side. “You forgot? That’s not going to fly with me. You really pissed off a lot of people with that fucking”—he hesitated, surveying the other faces around him— “running off to Phoenix crap.”

The lady in line ahead of him had just paid for gas and was walking intently away. Roland stepped before the cashier, a young woman, not yet thirty, who appeared nervous. “Pump four.” He glanced back at the man who had just accosted him—“Excuse me while I pay for my gas”—then turned to the cashier.

“Eighteen even,” she said.

He handed her a twenty. Avoiding his eyes, she slid two ones toward him. Roland turned back to the man with the soda. “You’re a friend of Dana’s?”

The man just stared at him. “Don’t go away. There’s a few things I’ve been dying to ask you.” He set his bottle of soda on the counter.

Roland had an idea of what the guy had in mind—it was there in his eyes. He threw a quick peek toward the door—his car was only thirty feet away. He was confident he could outrun the man, should it come to that. He took a breath. “I’ll wait out here for you.” He tipped his head toward the door.

He stood just outside the door—his car, a short dash away, gassed up and ready to go. He twisted around toward the window behind him; the cashier was handing the man his change. He couldn’t hear a word being said, but could see the man’s lips moving while pointing his way, and she responding with a forced smile and a nod.

If he’s Dana’s brother, he realized, then making a run for it would be a huge mistake. He had met one of her brothers about eighteen years earlier in Illinois, where he and Nancy lived, but now couldn’t remember his name, or his face. The man in the store, however, looked not in the least familiar as he pushed past the glass door and stopped before him.

“I didn’t come here to cause trouble,” Roland said.

The man glared at him. “What the hell is up with you? What’s with this retarded… this, ‘I don’t know nobody no more?’” he said, in a whining, mocking tone.

Roland shook his head and sighed. “I don’t have an answer for you.”

The man’s eyes drilled into his as though attempting to intimidate him into a confession.

“I don’t,” Roland repeated.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I hope for Dana’s sake you leave her out of it. That was a pretty shitty stunt you pulled.”

“Yeah”—Roland nodded—“it was, and I’m sorry it happened.” Turning and taking a few steps toward his car, he added, “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get going.”

“She’d have to be stupid to have anything more to do with you.”

Roland took measured steps, doing his best to appear calm as he approached his car.

“What
are
you doing here, anyway? Things not working out with your woman in Phoenix?”

He kept walking.

“Mess with her and I’ll make you wish you’d stayed in Phoenix… fuckin’ asswipe.”

He climbed into the front seat, started the engine, and without so much as a glance back, drove away from the pump, then turned onto the road into Akron.

Could he have been a relative of Dana’s
?
Possibly a friend
, he thought,
though I would hope not
. He’d not anticipated meeting her friends and family on this visit, and now wondered if he was in for more. As he drove away he looked into the rear-view mirror half-expecting he’d see a car pull out and follow him. Once the store was beyond sight he let out a heavy sigh and let his shoulders fall.

A lot of pissed off people
…
Like a stranger in enemy territory, he couldn’t be sure of who or how many the enemy were.

He turned down Main Street. The business district was just three, short, city blocks in length—a tiny, little village. The ten-foot high lamps lining the street were quaint in appearance, antiquely, but too bright—enough light to illuminate a ballpark. The shops were closed with the exception of a tavern and, across the street from that, a restaurant. As he drove through town he noted a few people on the sidewalks, and wondered if any of them may be among the pissed off.