Ten Miles One Way

by Patrick Downes

  Wrap it in my flannel, Q. We’ve found gold.

  MILE EIGHT

  How can I recall everything?

  I forgot, until right now, the first quote of the day, when we started out. From Henry David Thoreau, who loved his walks: “Methinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.” It doesn’t change the story, my forgetting to put that in. Nest was preparing me, nothing else. It only proves I won’t remember in perfect order or include all that was seen, said, and done, no matter how hard I’ve tried.

  Walking in the city: endless shops, restaurants, cafés, buildings, cars, buses, taxis, and all the people striding, riding, running, and moving. A person can’t remember every dress in a window, every necklace and ring; every man and woman down on their luck; every millionaire; every sculpture, poster, and mural; every busker strumming for coins. Did I mention the edition of cat haiku and a copy of The New Joy of Sex, in hardcover, on the dollar table outside a bookshop? Or the dog walker with nine leashes attached to nine different dogs? Or the mannequin dressed in black, bent to resemble a cocked gun?

  You can’t find the whole story of my half walk with Nest, because it doesn’t exist. Or it does, but only in the memory of a god, or in the memory of the Fates, not in any human mind. Not even in Nest’s.

  And the whole story, every detail, would bore people enough to make them cry. Who wants to read about the five hundred times I checked the pimple behind my ear? Who wants to read about the dog poop on the curb, the spilled soda, the sun striking the windshield of a convertible?

  Even now, in story time, we’re still walking, Nest and I. We’re walking, and Nest is talking. She’s in her jeans and white tank. It’s as warm as the day will get, maybe seventy. She’s moving as she walks, like I’ve said, her whole body, not in a riot but in a dance.

  We go street after street, light after light; we turn one way and another.

  This is one of my favorite shops: Ladyfinger. Where else would I find a hand-painted tarot deck, hand-stitched shoes, hand-knit scarves, hand-dyed denim, hand-tooled leather journals, and hand-wrought bronze jewelry, none of it affordable for a girl like me, in a space no bigger than a closet?

  I won’t make you go in, but I love it.

  We should have gone in. We should have dawdled and laughed. I would’ve made a mental list of what Nest wanted most, what I would have to save for and buy in a thousand years.

  Instead, we made it to the corner two blocks east in time for a car that jumped the curb.

  Maybe the talk of Dr. M poisoned Nest. Maybe her tiredness started to catch up, the few hours talking to me, entertaining me. But the wild car that never stopped, the driver who might have killed us both, or a kid on a bike, or a grandmother with her shopping, that was the last straw.

  “Did he stop?” Nest bent over and moaned.

  The close car—.

  Nest shook her head, like a horse shaking off a fly. “Did he stop?”

  She gnashed her teeth, and on that street corner, in the moment’s commotion and among the mob, I could hear her molars creaking.

  Nest hissed and snorted, and she retched over the curb.

  Nest suffered. What could I do? I put my hand on her back, to soothe her and:

  “Don’t you touch me.”

  Chimaera.

  I knew her voice. It had to be her voice: low, husky, and arctic.

  “Don’t you ever touch me.” I couldn’t see her faces. “And don’t say a word. Don’t let our Eleanor hear you. Don’t add your pretty voice to all the noise, the engines and horns and shouting.”

  Then she stood.

  What can I say? Nest and not-Nest. Horns and beard; muscle and mane; hood, fangs. Split hoof, split tongue, and six blue, stone eyes.

  Smoke.

  Behind the three faces, a dream of Nest.

  “Be careful.” The Chimaera stretched her goat’s head to whisper in my ear: “The Angers.”

  I stood back.

  Harelipped lion: “Are you afraid?”

  I shrugged.

  Smiling goat: “I’m not your enemy.”

  Silent, weaving snake.

  Nest’s Chimaera hardly ripples when she walks. Poised, I think you could call it. Only her restless serpent.

  She crossed the street, and I followed.

  “You should be afraid,” the Chimaera said. “You live in a world where you can die on the street at any moment. The careless men who kill. The careless women who kill. The children who laugh and laugh, because the dying people look funny to them. What makes you so different, young man? What makes you worthy of our Eleanor? What makes you more than another? No answer? Nothing to say? Nothing but your gaping mouth and your fear—? Are you anything other than ugly? Are you beautiful? Are you not different for your patience and courage? Your kindness toward our Eleanor?”

  The Chimaera stopped. She frowned at me, three ways: all sadness. “I’m not supposed to be here. Eleanor hoped and hoped you wouldn’t meet me, wouldn’t see my heads and fire, but then the car and fear and tiredness and memory and longing and—.”

  The Chimaera led me into a dark vestibule between a pizza parlor and a florist. I remember a black iron door and a brass lock.

  “It’s not supposed to be like this. I’m not wanted here.”

  The snake coiled, the goat buried her head in the lion’s mane, and the lion slid to the concrete.

  “I feel sick to my stomach.” Nest wiped her eyes and pushed back her hair. “I know what this means.”

  What could I do? What could I say?

  “Please don’t say anything. It had to happen sometime.” She held her head and coughed. “Could you find me a ginger ale or water?”

  The cup of water came from the pizza place. Nest was standing against the iron door when I got back.

  “Thanks.” She drank a little, and tried smiling at me.

  She doesn’t always stay long. Did she talk to you?

  Of course she did. Couldn’t have been much, though. We didn’t go very far.

  That car. We live in a world where anyone could die on the street at any time. No one should die waiting to cross the street. No one should die on the curb.

  We didn’t. We might have, though, and some—.

  I’m sorry, Q. I don’t remember anything after the car. I saw a little girl’s hand pressed up against the window. Did she even know what had happened? Was her father driving? I never remember what happens.

  Did she hurt you, my Chimaera?

  I guess that sounds like a stupid question. You’re huge, but she’s big, twice me. And I imagine she’s much stronger, lion strong. And don’t forget the chance of fire.

  Nest finished the water and started to cry.

  I can barely look at you. I’m so—.

  And I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now. You must really regret ever having taken this walk with me. If I were by myself, I’d have walked with my Chimaera until she finally left. Who knows? Maybe miles.

  But what about us, you and me? We’ve gone too far to go separate ways. We’d have to take the same train, but different cars, or different times. Or one of us by bus, the other by.

  I should make myself walk home, and you should take the bus. Would you leave me here? I’d be all right. Perfectly fine. I’d just.

  Would you leave me here—?

  No. You wouldn’t. There’s a reason I chose you. As if I’d had a choice. I trust you. My Chimaera trusts you.

  We’ve been through a lot on this walk, Q, which is why I.

  I walk to live.

  We have to walk to live. I can’t stand here, crying, snotting, shivering, and.

  I have to calm down. We have to keep going.

  We’re going somewhere, you know? Not a destination you can measure or photograph, but we’re going to a place I’ve neve
r been. You have to come with me. Only you.

  Was I scared?

  No. Not anymore.

  Calm, sad, watchful. Amazed. Not afraid.

  Nest worried for me. Even her Chimaera worried for me. And I worried for them. When you watch a girl lose herself to her beast, you have to wonder what it does to the girl.

  The Chimaera usually stays long enough to scourge and purge the world around her. Trial by fire. Every time, every time: the end of everything. The Chimaera breathes her fire. She can’t help it. The scorched trees. The charred stalks that were once living people. The sooty buildings and the smoke and.

  Nothing makes sense. The world’s alive. Nothing’s happened, right? You’re here and safe. The trees, the people, and the buildings are clean. There’s no smoke.

  It’s inside me, all the trouble. But it feels like the end of everything I’ve known. I have to ask myself, what have I destroyed this time? It seems as if the world’s gone through total fire. No life, no humanity, no love, nothing.

  We were walking again, at once slower and faster. I felt we were accelerating toward something, but moving more patiently.

  It takes a little while for my eyes to adjust, Q. At some point I realize I haven’t destroyed anything, not anything real at least. But I’m scared something invisible has been lost. I have to think I’ve ruined something because I feel like something in me has been ruined. Every time my Chimaera arrives, I—.

  A part of me dies in every fire. Burned up.

  Every transformation subtracts. Every transformation wounds. Every transformation is a cause for grief. This is what I sensed then and know now for sure.

  The monster inside the girl and inseparable: frightening and necessary and gruesome and simple-hearted, unreasonable but always in the right. The monster who can show up in the street or behind the steering wheel of a car traveling a winding two-lane road at sixty mph.

  I knew I would love the Chimaera just as I loved Nest. They are each other, and they are one. I knew the Chimaera wanted and needed from me what Nest wanted and needed. Someone honest and patient, quiet, and brave enough not to run. A witness.

  My father.

  When the Minotaur falls asleep and my dad comes home, I know what he goes through. My mom always has to pick up the pieces of my father, and I’m not sure what that means for her. We’ve never talked about it. What would it mean for you to pick me up?

  It might be worse for you, since I’m sure I’ll need—.

  I’m only going to get sicker.

  In the aftermath, we’ll sit or walk or hold each other, and one day, you’ll be left with my body. Chimaera dead, and me.

  I shook my head. But she was right, of course. Today, tomorrow, the day after, maybe she won’t wake up, the Chimaera and the girl both gone.

  We’ll see.

  But this has worked out. Today. Right now. You’re walking with me still. We haven’t been destroyed.

  I don’t know what I would’ve done.

  You’re brilliant, Q. All that light shining out of you.

  Nest laughed. The Chimaera had come and gone, and we were in the heart of the city. Nothing had died or been lost. We walked.

  Then, Nest found a story.

  Money’s a great motivator. In 1809, a Scottish gentleman named Robert Barclay Allardice walked a thousand miles in a thousand hours for a thousand guineas. Guineas were gold coins that were worth a little more than—it doesn’t matter. They were solid gold coins, and, if he won, Barclay would run his fingers through piles of them. The original bet for a thousand guineas only started the pot. Captain Barclay, as he was known, took bets adding up to a hundred thousand pounds. He might’ve lost a huge fortune. He didn’t. Every hour of every day for forty-two days, the captain walked a mile. All the way to a thousand.

  No one should have bet against him. Barclay was famous for walking. One time, he walked seventy-two miles between breakfast and dinner. Another time, he walked sixty-four miles in ten hours. If there had been an Olympics then, he might have won for walking.

  What’s funny is that the captain walked the same mile a thousand times, more or less around the block. Nuts. He lost a lot of weight, thirty pounds, and barely slept, and.

  In today’s money, Barclay won nine million dollars.

  The first person to walk around the world. Well, who knows? But the first person officially judged to walk around the world was from Minnesota. This is excellent trivia. Dave Kunst walked 14,452 miles over four continents. He had to take a couple planes to get over oceans, but that didn’t count against him. If he could walk on water, he would be remembered for a lot more than strolling across continents.

  The Soviet Union wouldn’t let Kunst walk in Soviet territory. Cold War stupidity. Maybe the Russians sent out some poor guy to walk from Belgrade to Kamchatka, and from one end of Cuba to the other. I don’t know, but that wouldn’t have added up to 14,452.

  Here’s the thing: Dave Kunst didn’t start his walk alone.

  In June 1970, Mr. K started the walk with his brother John and a mule named Willie Makeit. Who else was going to carry their gear? Though I think they should’ve gone with a camel. No one thought of it, I guess. One mule later, violence. Way over in Afghanistan, thieves shot and killed John and wounded Dave. Much worse than a car driving over the curb. Dave recovered and began walking again from the spot where one brother was shot dead with his second brother, Pete.

  At the end of mainland Asia, Dave sent Pete home and took on Australia alone. A third mule died, probably somewhere really inhospitable, like the burning desert. Again, I’m thinking: camel. But if Dave had had a camel, he might never have met his wife. Once the mule dropped dead, Mr. K had to drag along his supplies by himself, until a woman named Jenni Samuel, a teacher from Perth, Australia, caught up to him. Jenni offered to drive alongside the rest of the way, towing Dave’s things for him, saving him. Of course he married her.

  There’s a reason we go to a high school for nerds: we passed the entrance exam. Enough said. I know you do, but I try not to think in math. Sometimes, though, I can’t help it.

  By the time he stopped in October 1974, four years after he started, Dave Kunst had gone through more than twenty pairs of shoes and walked more than twenty million steps. So, a pair of shoes might last a million steps. Give or take.

  This is good math. Maybe even fun.

  If I think, a yard per Nest step, three feet; 5,280 feet in a mile divided by three—.

  Hold on.

  — . . . —

  One thousand seven hundred sixty steps per mile. Then a million steps divided by that. Easier to add zeroes and multiply.

  — . . . —

  Add two zeroes: 176,000, which is almost 200,000. Times five, a million; but—.

  — . . . —

  Really, Q, you look like you’re hurting. I’m going as fast as I can.

  A hundred seventy-six thousand goes into a million more than five times, but less than six. But we’re talking about steps, and we added two zeroes, so—.

  Let’s say a million steps, rounding up, is around 600 miles. One pair of shoes to walk from—I don’t know—Boston to Pittsburgh? Tel Aviv to, I’m guessing, Baghdad, not counting rough roads? Beijing to Seoul, walking on water? Copenhagen to Paris? That would make for something like four pairs of shoes to get you from Disney World to Disneyland.

  And to make it personal—since it’s all about me, after all—I estimate, today, I’ve already taken—.

  Fourteen thousand steps.

  And we’re not even halfway.

  I sometimes think about walking a long, long way. Across the country, ocean to ocean, or from here to Uruguay or Labrador. Even if no one’s done exactly that before, people have done all sorts of things like it, or in parts. Think of all the adventures thought to be impossible made possible. Think of everything men and women have
survived.

  “You’ll be bothered from time to time by storms, fog, snow. When you are, think of those who went through it before you, and say to yourself, ‘What they could do, I can do.’”

  That’s the kind of thinking that will keep you alive, or keep you hopeful. Or comfort you when your toes are black and bleeding. Or when the glare and heat of the sun turn your eyes to glass. Or when your mule dies.

  MILE NINE

  Something else that keeps you alive is food.

  I won’t lie. I was hungry. I needed

  Fuel.

  I promise, Q, we’ll eat soon. You’re a big boy, and.

  Your cannoli was forever ago.

  Here, take this. It’s not much, just Life Savers. Have the rest. You like Wint O Green?

  And we’ll get a couple bananas.

  I usually don’t eat much on these walks. I think and think, watch and learn, and I forget. Finally, my body shouts over my brain. Then it’s blueberries and water, or a peach, or grapes, or chocolate. Sometimes, if I have to, I get a sandwich, maybe banh mi, sometimes streetmeat, or a pretzel, or roast chestnuts. Or.

  It’s almost enough for my mind to eat itself. Thinking nearly gets me from one end of the walk to the other. But the body has its needs.

  Fuel.

  When I was young, my mom would make me hot bananas, sliced up, with milk and brown sugar. Actually, she still does, like a couple days ago, when I couldn’t sleep. I can never be my mother, nothing as good, but I want to give comfort. To my friends, my children, strangers, you. How can anything be wrong with that?

  I’m not sure what’s more important to remember than to comfort another human being. This is the second part of hospitality, right? After making sure your guest has enough food and water, and a chance to heal from any wounds or sickness, then you give comfort to get rid of fear. You give sleep. You give bananas and milk and sugar. You give toast and butter, chocolate and quiet.