In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

  They planned late into the night, looking at videos about the hike and the experience. The trip looked more and more daunting the more videos they watched, but Jon refused to give in to Darrell’s wet-blanketing, although Darrell made a valiant effort every day.

  “This is stupid,” Darrell said on the morning that they drove to the post office to get Jon’s passport renewed. “Did you see that hike? We’ll never be able to do this!”

  “And you owe me a beer,” Jon said from behind the wheel. “That’s the third time you’ve said that today. Yesterday you bet me you could go a whole day without saying it more than twice. Pay up.”

  “I said no such thing,” Darrell retorted. “I only said it was stupid once this morning, when we were looking at that video you found.”

  “Twice,” Jon corrected. “You said it twice—once when they were at the Sun Gate and once when they were starting out.”

  Darrell considered. “It was still only for one video. It should only count as once.”

  “Pay up,” Jon said placidly as they continued toward the post office.

  After a moment, Darrell blew out an amused, annoyed laugh. “Fine. When we get home I’ll treat you to a beer.”

  “Oh, no,” Jon said. “I can get a beer out of the fridge myself. Besides, I bought those beers. You owe me one that you paid for.”

  Their good-natured banter continued into the post office, through the abysmal passport renewal process, and back to the house. “Fine! I’ll pay up tonight when we hit the Chateau

  for dinner,” Darrell finally said. “But tomorrow I get to say it as many times as I like.”

  “Nope,” Jon refused. “You’re limited to three times a day from now on, and for every time you say it beyond that, I get a free beer from you.”

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, Jon, do you know that?” Darrell sighed.

  “Of course I do.” Jon smirked as they pulled into Darrell’s driveway. “Isn’t that why you keep me around?”

  “You’re impossible!” Darrell said, hauling himself out of the seat and stalking up to the front door.

  As long as it keeps you needled enough not to slump back into that depression, Dare, I’ll be as impossible as it’s possible to be, Jon thought, following his friend inside.

  After lunch, Darrell called Jon over to look at another video he’d found on the web. “Look. There is no way we’ll make that hike. We might as well hike from your house to mine to train for this.”

  In the video, a group of about ten people from all over the world were hiking Machu Picchu. Although they differed in age, none of them were as old as Jon and Darrell. The tour company apparently would go ahead of the hiking group, set up the tents, and make food for the hikers while the hikers set their own pace.

  “It’s a five-hour climb!” Darrell pointed out. “Look, that guy is twenty-nine and he’s struggling up those steps. They’re steps! It’s not even a trail. It’s five hours of steps, and you think we need to do this before we die? Because this is going to kill us, and I’m not ready to die. You want me to hike through a place called Dead Woman’s Pass? It’ll be renamed Dead Darrell’s Pass when we’re through with it—or maybe Dead Jon’s Pass. That has a nice ring.” He ran his hands through his hair again, making it stick up in all directions. At Jon’s insistence, he’d trimmed his beard down, but his hair more than made up for it.

  “Then we’ll start training now,” Jon said. “We’ll walk the steps in Santa Monica, in Palisades Park.” He went into the kitchen, set up a blender, and put together a disgusting concoction of protein powder, eggs, and a few other things he’d picked up at the local health food store. “Here. Drink this and pretend it’s a milkshake,” he said, handing one of the tall glasses to Darrell.

  Darrell sipped it and made a face. “This is gross!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jon said, drinking a large slug of his own, “but it’ll put us in shape faster than anything, according to the bodybuilding guy at the health store. And we’ll get in shape, starting today. The steps at Palisades will give us both a workout.”

  “Tomorrow,” Darrell said as he gagged down the drink. “I can only take one new torture a day, and this drink is torture enough.”

  “Today,” Jon said firmly. “There’s no time to waste—we only have eleven weeks left. Best to make the most of it. Besides, what else were you going to do today? Anything important?”

  “Well, I was going to...” Darrell’s voice trailed off as he realized he had no palpable excuse.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Jon said. “So, Palisades Park it is. Get into something that will work for working out. Those slacks just aren’t cutting it.”

  The steps weren’t as bad as Darrell had claimed, but they weren’t as nice as Jon had claimed, either. Both of them were out of breath by the time they finished one hike up and back down. They had another “energy drink” —Jon had brought a Thermos-full—as they sat on a bench recuperating.

  “Where do you get all these ideas, anyway?” Darrell asked. “About the steps and the drinks and stuff?”

  “Well, Edwin always wanted to go. So I did the research, and I said just what you did then—it’s too hard, we’re too old, let’s go to Barcelona instead. Which we did. But I think Edwin was always disappointed in me,” Jon said. “So now I have to do it for him, and I can’t think of a better person to go with than you.”

  “Seems like a lot of work for one hiking trip. Barcelona sounds easier.” Darrell sniffed.

  “It’s not as much work as you think it is. I found a website that suggests specific exercises. We won’t have to go join a gym or anything,” Jon said.

  “Well, that’s good, because I know you and your libido, Jon,” Darrell said, finishing his drink and grimacing.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon said in mock affront.

  “You’d be looking at the eye candy on the bench press and making dates in the showers. I’d never see you again. Hey, that’s an idea. Why don’t we join a gym, Jon?”

  Jon shoved his friend and glared, then dissolved into a laugh. “Hey, I wasn’t the guy who ended up with a phone number in my underwear, you know.”

  “No, but I do remember the stack of napkins you had with names and numbers scrawled all over them,” Darrell retorted.

  “All right. Touché. But that’s another good reason to stay away from the gym. They only have cloth towels, and you can’t write on them very well.”

  Chuckling, they headed back to Darrell’s house and the now-always-heated hot tub, where they soaked, groaning in sheer animal pleasure as the heat worked through tired muscles.

  “So I found a site where a woman explained what it was like hiking the trail at sixty. I guess she was crazy too, because she said she didn’t have to do it, but she did it anyway,” Darrell said finally.

  “You see, Dare? It—”

  “Don’t call me that,” Darrell retorted. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “Yeah, we do,” Jon said. “Mitchell is expecting that book. I sent him some of your old articles and he really likes your stuff, so we have to do it now, Darrell.”

  Darrell’s exasperated grunt was answer enough, and talk turned to other things. When they finally hauled themselves out of the hot tub, the sun was going down. “Still want that beer?” Darrell asked around a yawn.

  Jon responded with a yawn of his own. “Yeah, but it can wait until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, no. Either payment happens on the day, or it’s forfeit,” Darrell said as they dried off.

  “Where was that written?” Jon asked, but they both grinned. “Just as well. We’ll have to cut back on the beer, anyway. Getting in shape isn’t compatible with drinking a six-pack every night.”

  “You’re just out to spoil all my fun, aren’t you?” Darrell complained as they went into the house.

  “Yeah, that’s exactly it, my friend,” Jon said as he headed to the bathroom and then the guest room. “See you in the morning.”
<
br />   “Good night,” Darrell called after him.

  “Good night,” Jon said and closed the bathroom door. Jon was all right until he reached the guest room, where

  a twin bed awaited him with cool blue sheets and a thin comforter over a thinner blanket. But then his cheerful façade gave way, and he held onto one of the pillows, wishing it was Edwin. The ache that never left came out in tears. It had always been Ed’s dream to go to Machu Picchu, and Edwin had kept pretty fit for his age, but Jon had never been ready. Lying in bed now, Jon reviewed all the things that Edwin had wanted to do, but that Jon had always seen as too strenuous for a man Edwin’s age.

  Now he was regretting it. “I’m sorry, Ed,” he whispered into the pillow. “I’m so sorry. If you were here, I’d be taking you with me. But Dare and I will make it, and we’ll bring you with us. I’ll sprinkle your ashes there, I promise.”

  And on the words of the promise he’d said every night for a week, almost like his bedtime prayer, he was finally able to sleep.

  The next few weeks were all about preparation: morning walks from one end of Palisades Park to the stairs, then down to Pacific Coast Highway and back up again. They developed a route and followed it until it either got hot, they got hungry, or Darrell began complaining. Jon brought his camera and took hundreds of pictures for the eventual book, which was now a reality—Mitchell had sent on contracts, and offered to pay their expenses, which took away at least one thing Darrell could complain about. They would catch lunch on the Third Street Promenade, and then go to Darrell’s to soak their aching bodies in the hot tub or else to Jon’s to take a dip in the warm water of Belmont Shore.

  In late May, a couple of identical packages arrived at Jon’s house. He looked at the label on them, grinned, and pushed one towards Darrell. “Here. I got you a present for the trip.”

  Darrell took the long box and shook his head. “When did you have time? You’ve been running us ragged every day.”

  “I had a few minutes the other night, and I figured we’d need them. Go on. Open it up,” Jon said, sitting down on the couch and stretching tired legs.

  They’d both become fitter than before. The skin on their bodies no longer sagged, and they were both gaining muscle. We’ll never be Schwarzenegger, but for a couple of near–senior citizens, we’re not doing too badly, Jon mused as Darrell struggled with the packing tape on one end of the box, finally using his house key to rip the tape open.

  In the box were two long metal walking sticks. “Canes? We’re not old enough for canes!” Darrell said. “Besides, I thought all this getting-in-shape stuff was so we wouldn’t need a cane later.”

  “It’s for the hike, you idiot,” Jon said. “They’re walking sticks. They’re supposed to help us get up that fourteen- thousand-foot trek. Trust me, no matter how in shape we are, all the videos have said the second day is going to feel like the end of the world to your legs. I got a set for me, too.”

  Darrell looked at him suspiciously for a minute or so, and then sighed. “Okay. I have to admit I’m relieved to have something that will help with those stupid stairs.”

  Jon nodded, flipping through photos he’d taken that day on his computer. “Hey, look. This shot of the stairs could go in the first few pages of the book. You could talk about how we trained for the trip. Have you given any thought to the writing for the book yet?”

  “With the way you’ve been running me into the ground? When have I had the energy?” Darrell said, but then smiled a little. “Okay, okay, it hasn’t been that bad. But yeah, I’ve been keeping a journal about this process. No, you can’t read it, so don’t ask me. I said some stuff about you that isn’t very flattering.”

  “Like you’ve never done that before,” Jon said. “Eh. As long as I know you’re on it, that’s all that matters.”

  As June moved in, Jon began to demand more from both of them. His own house in Belmont Shore remained locked and closed, and he practically moved in with Darrell apart from checking the mailbox every few days to see if his passport had arrived. Their walks shifted from the now-easy Palisade Park steps to the hill between Darrell’s house and the Chateau, where they’d made their original plans. Once they reached the bottom, out came the walking sticks and the hard hike back up to Darrell’s home, accompanied by Darrell’s ongoing complaints.

  At first, Darrell insisted on doing the hike back to his house without using the walking sticks, but a couple of days later, he took a bad step, slipped, and fell.

  “Dammit!” he shouted. “Stupid gravel—I’d never have slipped if this street had been clear...” He struggled to a sitting position, looking down the hill, and drew his right foot up towards him, wincing.

  Jon stood over him and tut-tutted, waving the base of one of his own walking sticks like a teacher with a classroom pointer. “See? If you were using yours, this wouldn’t have happened.”

  Darrell swatted the stick away. “Really, Jon? That’s all you can say? How about asking me if I need help getting back up? Or here’s a suggestion—how about asking me if I’m all right?”

  Jon considered, and then set down his walking sticks on the lawn next to them. “Sorry, Darrell. You’re right. Are you all right?”

  “I don’t think so,” Darrell said. “My right ankle twisted when I went down.”

  “Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “Just my pride,” Darrell said. “Here, give me a hand up and we’ll see how bad it is.”

  He grunted as Jon helped him to his feet, but yelped as he tried to put weight on the ankle. “Damn, it hurts.”

  “You probably just twisted it,” Jon said, but he hid a worried look with effort. What if it wasn’t just a twisted ankle? Their plane took off in six weeks—would Darrell still be able to train? Or had this just ruined their trip?

  “All I know is it hurts. I can’t walk on this, Jon. Now what do we do? You’re the one with all the big ideas.”

  Jon considered. “Fine. I’ll go to the house and come back with the car, and we’ll take you to the ER to get it X-rayed. That way we’ll know if it’s worth it to even keep trying.”

  Darrell looked at him, eyes narrowed. “Who says I wasn’t going to keep trying?”

  “Well, you have an ankle injury—” Jon started, but Darrell cut him off.

  “So what? I’m in better shape than I’ve ever been—better shape than you! —and you think I’m going to give up the chance to hike Machu Picchu because of a sprain? It’s not

  broken or anything. I just need to get it into the hot tub and take some painkillers. I’ll wrap it and we’ll be back training tomorrow.” Darrell sat down on the curb, his lips pressed together. “Go on. Go get the car. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’ll be back as fast as I can,” Jon promised, and went up the hill with his walking sticks at a pace that was nearly a run.

  “Don’t kill yourself getting there, either!” Darrell shouted after him.

  Jon didn’t slow his pace as he disappeared behind a van parked on the side of the road. Darrell leaned back on his arms and sighed. How did I get into this, anyway?

  Deep inside, Darrell knew that the trip was going to happen. He still didn’t really want to go, but he had run out of ways to stall. He dragged his feet almost every morning but they still ended up doing the workouts and hikes that Jon had planned. He complained about everything, but still Jon kept pushing. On the one hand, he was annoyed that Jon was taking up all his time and almost forcing the trip on him. On the other hand, he hadn’t been as preoccupied with Cece’s death as before, and he’d begun eating and exercising again instead of just slumping, so Cece probably would have approved.

  Even so, he was irritated with Jon. The “journal” he was keeping was mainly a list of “Ways Jon annoyed me today.” And the list was getting really long. It was the way he and Cece had dealt with their relationship conflicts so that they wouldn’t take it out on each other, and mostly, it had worked.

  “Are you all right?” came a vo
ice from behind him. It was one of the local celebrities, looking out from her front door as he sat on her lawn. He turned around carefully, minding his ankle and the curb as he eased it up off the street.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Just took a spill here on the gravel. My friend went to get his car, but it’s a hike. It’s at my place, up thataway,” Darrell said and gestured up the hill.

  “Oh, all right. Do you need a glass of water or anything?”

  “Oh, no thanks,” Darrell said, smiling. “I’ll be out of your hair as soon as he gets here.”

  “Okay,” came the reply, and the sound of the door closing freed Darrell to untwist and look back up the street for Jon’s car. His ankle was already beginning to feel better, and he felt a little foolish. He flexed it experimentally, wincing. It really wasn’t hurt much at all.

  Just a stupid accident, that’s all.

  Yeah, because I didn’t want to look stupider with those walking sticks.

  Well, what’s more important? Winning the bet you made with him, or not looking stupid?

  “Both,” he said out loud. He hated to lose, but he also hated to look stupid.

  Well, pick one.

  The voice—the exasperated voice—was Cece’s.

  He sat waiting for Jon to return, thinking about how much like Cece Jon really was. And how much he’d complained at both of them for making him do things he really wanted to do anyway, but couldn’t admit he wanted.

  Heck, living with him for the last month hasn’t been that different from living with her for the last thirty-odd years. Except the essential differences, of course.

  He stood up and flexed the ankle, which was hardly twinging at all now. If Edwin had died longer ago, I might even bring it up. But I don’t want him on the rebound from a dead man.