In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

  When Jon arrived back with the MG, Darrell was standing, albeit gingerly, on both feet. “You’re on your feet?” Jon asked as Darrell got into the car without help.

  “Yeah. It was just a twist, like you said. Let’s go back up to the house.”

  The postal jeep was just leaving as they pulled into the driveway. “Maybe your stickers arrived. I got my passport the other day, did I tell you?” Jon said as he put on the brake. “Do you need help up the driveway?”

  “No, I should be okay,” Darrell said. “Let’s get into the hot tub. That way, this stupid twisted ankle can be a thing of the past.” He limped up the driveway. “Whose damn idea was it that we’d live in the hills, anyway?”

  “I think it was yours,” Jon said. “If I remember right, Cece wanted to live in Beverly Hills, but all you heard was ‘hills,’ so you suggested this little cottage on its incredibly steep street.” Jon walked behind Darrell as they approached the door. “But hey, I know you love this house, right? And this way we can train close by, and the hot tub will always be there.”

  “There is that,” Darrell allowed, as he let them in the door.

  After that, there was less trouble from Darrell. He used the walking sticks, built up his endurance, and the complaints dropped to an occasional grumble rather than a constant chatter. They bought clothes, shoes, equipment and backpacks, and started hiking fully loaded down. Both of them were glad of the hot tub after those evenings.

  Once the hike up Laurel Canyon began to get easy, they randomized it: Griffith Park, Big Bear, the Santa Monica hills, and even over the 405 freeway to the Skirball Center. The walking sticks began to look like equipment that had been used, instead of something that a couple of inexperienced, aging men might have bought from a sporting goods store.

  “We’re going to Echo Park today. It’s the steepest stairway in the area. It’s only 230 steps, but it’s really long and tall.” Jon looked over the phone at Darrell’s grimacing face. “It’s nothing like Dead Woman’s pass, but it’ll be a good test of our abilities, since the plane leaves in three days.”

  Darrell suppressed a groan. “Okay. You drive, though. Otherwise I’ll end up taking us somewhere flat.”

  Jon snorted as they walked out to his car. “Aren’t you even a little excited about this trip, Darrell?”

  “Maybe a little, but only because I want it to be over so I can go back to my nice, quiet life up here in the hills, where I can drive to my home and not have to use walking sticks to get up the street.” Darrell leaned his head back as Jon maneuvered down the hillside. And I want to give Cece a resting place, somewhere perfect, where she’ll always be young and she’ll always be beautiful.

  And, he admitted to himself, because it meant more time spent with Jon. He wasn’t ready to admit it to Jon, though. Not yet.

  The flights had been crazy, as they always were out of LAX, but their flight was on time and—miracle of miracles— all their luggage made it to the luggage claim in Peru. The hotel had been sedate, but of course a hotel catering to international travelers almost had to be. The heat in Los Angeles had been almost unbearable, but the Peruvian July that greeted them was like the mildest Southern California March spring they’d ever experienced. Jon had his camera out and was snapping photos almost before they’d disembarked, and the hotel in Cusco, while beautiful, just ramped up their anticipation. They had to spend several days there, to adjust to the altitude. As Jon said, “We don’t want to punk out because we were too high up,” and Darrell agreed. It would be embarrassing.

  But now, after all the training and all Darrell’s complaining, they had finally arrived.

  The van had picked them up at their hotel very early in the morning, and they’d ridden with four others, who were apparently their entire group. Everyone was sleepy and most of them dozed through the ride, except Jon, who was already revved up on Peruvian coffee and snapping photos of everything. When they reached the start of the trail after a drive of about three hours, however, even he had settled down.

  The start of the trail was a madhouse scene.

  Porters, tour groups, and some locals milled around as color-coded tour leaders attempted to herd their vanloads into separate spaces to give instructions for the initial leg of the trip. Fast-running burros, the water chattering in the river nearby, and the long lines of people lent the very rural place an impression of Disneyland during a summer crowd scene, perhaps in Adventureland waiting for the Jungle Cruise. The tour groups had people of every age and color, from all walks of life, and Darrell wondered what the locals thought of all these crazy tourists getting ready to make a hike that would be brutal, physically draining, and exhausting.

  Then he smiled. After all, he was one of those crazy tourists, wasn’t he?

  Even now, he wondered why he had come along. The book was one reason, but that was Jon’s idea, not his. The whole trip had been Jon’s idea. And yet, the idea of taking Cece’s necklace to the ruins and leaving it there, the way Jon intended to leave Edwin’s ashes there, was somehow appealing.

  He couldn’t figure out why. Cece would not have gone to Machu Picchu. Their visit to Europe had not been about ancient ruins or exercise that tested their endurance; it had been about having a good time and going where they wanted when they wanted to. The Blarney Stone visit had been completely spur of the moment.

  Now that he thought about it, his decision to bring her necklace to the ruins of Machu Picchu was the exact opposite.

  It had always been that way for him and Cece. Darrell was a planner, pessimistic, cautious. Cece was spontaneous, optimistic, someone who ran headlong to meet the new and play with it. Opposites attract, the old saw said, and it had never been truer than with him and with Cece.

  And yet they had made it work. Somehow, they had made it work.

  He took the necklace out of his pocket and looked at it for a moment. What would his life be like after this trip was over? He had been so tired every night after he and Jon were done training that he hadn’t been able to hold on to his pillow and feel the wide expanse of the empty bed where she used to be. But what would it be like when he got back home and he had to deal with her absence all over again?

  Would leaving the necklace help him leave her behind? Would leaving the necklace open up his life for someone new? Or not so new?

  He didn’t know. And it bothered him, not knowing. He put the necklace back in his pocket with a frown and looked around again.

  There were more porters than there were tour members, each dressed in a color that matched their tour group. A crowd of porters in blue approached the blue-clad tour guide with whom Jon and Darrell had ridden the van. The chatter of so many voices in so many languages was deafening.

  Jon flitted about with his camera, taking pictures of everyone and everything. “Jon! Get back in line, would you?”

  Jon came back reluctantly, snapping a few photos of locals at the riverbank as he sauntered over. “Why do I have to be here? You’re holding our place in line and I’m getting pictures for the book.”

  “Because those two are coming over here,” Darrell said, pointing at the porters with their tour guide. Two of them had broken from the clump and were approaching them at a fast trot.

  Jon patted him on the shoulder. “They don’t bite, you know.”

  “I know. I just—it’s really strange, okay?” Darrell said. It was as close as he could come to admitting that it was difficult for him to deal with.

  The two porters walked up to Jon and Darrell even as he finished speaking. The older of the two addressed the air between them. “Sus cosas, señores, por favor.”

  Darrell was at a loss. Why didn’t they say anything about these people not speaking English? But Jon answered in fluid Spanish that took him by surprise: “Por supuesto, señores; los que están aquí.” He pointed to their tightly rolled sleeping bags, sleep mats, and a bag of toiletries, which were leaning on a rickety fence about ten feet away. The rest of their things were already stuffed ti
ghtly into the large, heavy hiking packs on his and Darrell’s backs.

  “Gracias,” one of the porters said, and walked to the piles. They made quick work of getting the items organized and onto their own backs, with a fluidity and professionalism that startled Darrell.

  “What did they say? What did you say to them?” Darrell demanded, mystified.

  “Oh, they just wanted to know where our stuff was so they could take it up for us. Remember the porters? That’s them.” Jon seemed unconcerned.

  “Are you sure?” Darrell frowned.

  “Yeah, they’re part of our group. See how they’re all dressed in blue, like our tour guide? That means they’re part of our group. They’ll carry up the stuff we need to sleep in and camp in, and they’ll go ahead of us so that we can take our time.”

  “If you say so,” Darrell said.

  “I do,” Jon responded. “Look, the tour guide is trying to get us over there. Let’s go, old man.”

  “Old man?” Darrell sputtered as he followed Jon. “I’m only three years older than...”

  “Yeah, so stop acting like it’s twenty, okay?” Jon shot back as they approached their tour guide.

  The guide was a thin, wiry man who spoke in heavily accented but perfectly understandable English. “Señores, señoras, señoritas—welcome! Welcome to Machu Picchu. If you have not given your sleeping equipment to these men, please do now so they may go ahead and prepare camp for you all. We will be leaving shortly. As you read in the instrucciones we sent you, you must all be wearing hiking boots that will not allow you to twist your ankles or slip. We will start here at the Kilometer eighty-two marker. Some parts of the trail are muddy, and there are also steps. Please stay together as much as possible, but if you must go slowly, we will understand.” White teeth flashed in his dark face. “Camp will be there when you catch up.” The group tittered politely.

  The man went on, but Darrell left the listening to Jon, who seemed to understand the man’s accented English better than he did. Then, suddenly, they were crossing a long wooden bridge over the river and were on the first leg of the trail—one that would, at the end of the day, cover eight hours of hiking and about twelve kilometers, which they had already discovered was just under eight miles. The guide announced that their destination was a place called Wayllabamba, which didn’t mean anything to Darrell, but he hoped the first day wouldn’t be too steep.

  It was, but not in the way he’d expected. After crossing the river, they hiked up a fairly steep hill through a small village, and then through some ruins (“Hoo-eel-ka Rack- ay,” the guide informed them). By that point, Darrell was already starting to feel the burn of the first sharp ascent and the equally sharp descent that followed. His canteen was half-empty when they reached another river, the “Koo-shee- ak-a” river, and then stopped for a bite to eat.

  The porters had already preceded them with a full lunch of Peruvian cuisine: spiced meats and what looked like stuffed potatoes (but weren’t), cornmeal masa cakes filled with meat and cheese, pasta dishes, breads, vegetables, fruits, and lots of water.

  During the meal, they finally had the breath and energy to learn about some of their tour mates: Miche and Ella, who identified themselves as “uni-mates” from New Zealand, and Will and Laurie, a couple from Boulder, Colorado. Miche, a short, solid, vivacious woman with short, dark brown hair and dancing eyes, and her tallish friend Ella with her longish brown hair twisted up in a bun, couldn’t stop chattering about the beautiful landscape and the courtesy of the porters. They had been at university together in Christchurch, and were “tramping” this trip as a celebration of their graduations. Will and Laurie were fitness enthusiasts in their midtwenties who had just bought a “tiny house” on a ranch property outside of Boulder, and wanted to have one last travel hurrah before settling down. Why’d we have to fall in with the young, fit fanatics? Darrell thought, but did not say. He and Jon introduced themselves as lifelong friends from Los Angeles who were in Machu Picchu to keep an old promise they’d once made. Neither of them mentioned the book.

  After lunch, they were back on the trail, following the river that bubbled along to their right. He and Jon didn’t say much to each other, mostly focusing on left foot, right foot and left stick, right stick as the trail went on and on. They stopped twice more for food and water, and the second time, Darrell looked around and then asked, “Is this really what you thought it would be like?”

  “No,” Jon admitted, “but I think Ed would have got a kick out of it. Cece, too.”

  Darrell had nothing to say to that as they stood up and continued on.

  The first day wasn’t that hard, but it wasn’t easy. They passed many locals on burros, with dogs, with handcarts. Children and chickens ran around on the sides of the road, the children laughing, the chickens clucking and scolding. Darrell pulled out a small notebook at each rest stop to make notes on the trip so far, but the notes were mostly complaints: Will and Laurie act like they’re cheerleaders. That tall guy with the camcorder in the green tour group keeps on missing his footing; he’s going to slip over the bank into the river if he doesn’t watch himself. Did anyone train for this except me and Jon? I wonder.

  Most of the people on the road with them, apart from Will and Laurie, weren’t in the best of shape. An older British man was the slowest, taking a rest break every half hour or so, and a younger man stayed with him, encouraging him to keep going. Will and Laurie led the way, bookending the guide as they went. Other Americans in other groups were grumbling loudly at the humidity and the lack of modern amenities, but mostly, Darrell tuned them out. What, did you think this would be like Disneyland, where there’s a bathroom every fifty yards? he noted in his notebook at the second break he and Jon took, while they chewed on some trail mix and sipped water. One woman in the yellow group began complaining of a headache and an upset stomach, but for the most part everyone was fine.

  They made it to the camp in good time, where the porters had already set up their tents and begun preparing dinner in a larger area under a sunshade. Will and Laurie were first on site, of course, but when Charles, the old Brit, finally limped into camp last, the entire crowd gave a rousing cheer.

  At that first dinner, the groups seemed to pull together. Darrell found himself sitting between Jon and Will, the guy from Colorado. Will’s girlfriend Laurie and the two New Zealander women occupied the other side of the table.

  “You’re keeping up really well,” Laurie said to Jon. “I’m impressed. Are you guys athletes or in a sport or something?” Jon was in the middle of a bite of food, so Darrell answered for them. “My buddy Jon here actually insisted we train for this. I think we’ve walked every hill and outdoor staircase in Los Angeles. But that was all pretty much at sea level. The trail here started at over nine thousand feet—are any of you

  feeling it?”

  Miche swallowed the salad she was chewing and shook

  her head. “I’m not, but then Ella and I planned for the altitude. We stayed in Cusco for a week to get used to it. Also, we’ve hiked the Fiordland on South Island a couple of times during uni, so it’s not as bad for us. Milford Sound’s elevation is about fifteen hundred meters.”

  Will and Laurie grinned. “We’re originally from Denver, so altitude isn’t really a problem for us,” Will said. “I admit I’m a little worried about that fellow from England, though.”

  “Who, Charles?” Ella said. “No, he’s just slower because of his age.”

  “How old is he, do you know?” Jon asked.

  “I think they said sixty-six earlier. Did you know there is an upper limit for age to go on this trail? They won’t let people over sixty-seven even try it,” Will said.

  “Then I’m glad we got here when we did,” Jon said, grinning sidewise at Darrell, who grunted and continued eating.

  “Well, you two have ten to fifteen years before you hit sixty-seven, don’t you?” Laurie asked. “Don’t answer that. I want to continue thinking you’re men in your early fifti
es.”

  “You flatter me, madame,” Jon said. “But all right—we won’t spoil it for you.” Darrell opened his mouth to do just that, and Jon elbowed him. “Shh, Darrell. I made a promise. Don’t make me break it.”

  “Tomorrow is going to be the worst part, or so I’ve heard,” Miche said.

  Most of them nodded. “It’s because it’s the first day you’ve really put yourself through the trail,” Will said. “It’s like any first day of the real thing, even if you train for it.”

  “Did you all watch the videos about the hike?” Miche asked.

  Heads nodded around the table. “Yeah,” Darrell said. “But none of them had folks as old as Jon and me, so we’re still not sure how bad it’s going to be for us. I mean, I found blogs by people our age, but no videos.”

  “You sure look fit enough,” Ella said. “I don’t think either of you even got short of breath.”

  Darrell waved away the compliment, but inside, he was startled. They finished their meal and the porters moved to clear away their dishes.

  Their tent had been set up six tents away from the kitchen, a bright-yellow dome tent with their sleeping equipment piled inside the door. As they unrolled sleeping mats and sleeping bags, Jon said, “So, what do you think now that we’ve had one day on the trail?”

  “I’m really wishing they’d had a hot tub waiting for us,” Darrell said as he pulled off his boots.

  Jon snorted, a short laugh. “Yeah, that was one thing we should have trained for—the absence of your hot tub.”

  Darrell didn’t respond. His feet throbbed, and his back ached. He lay down on top of his sleeping bag and stretched, feeling his spine crackle. Why did I sign up for this?

  Because you wanted to prove you were more fit than him,

  Cece’s voice whispered in his head.

  Yeah, that was stupid, Darrell responded. I’ll remember