Wild Mountain

by Nancy Kilgore

  She put on her best sweater and jeans, and the blue cashmere socks that her niece had given her for Christmas—that at the time, she’d thought way too extravagant—and went down to the kitchen. A small kitchen in a small house, but just fine for her. The kitchen faced southeast, and the sun streaming in right now illuminated the whiteness and yellowness of the walls, cabinets, and appliances. Photos of her nieces and nephew—and Boris, of course—decked the refrigerator, and the gold, yellow, and white weaving that Heather had given her hung above the table.

  “Hi!” she said.

  Frank was at the stove. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn last night: black corduroy pants and a blue sweater with a Nordic pattern on it. They still smelled scorched, but the smell was not too bad, almost like the smell of a wood fire. His hair was mussed around the bald spot at the crown of his head, and he looked relaxed.

  “Pancakes and bacon, coming up,” he said.

  She sat at the round oak table, where he had put out juice and coffee, knife, fork, and spoon, milk and sugar. Suddenly, she felt a frisson of shyness, a wave passing through her body, some extra sensitivity, like a raw exposure to the atmosphere. Her familiar space was filled now with the large presence of this man she had just made love to, this man who had fifty years of life behind him, in spaces and times of which she had no knowledge, and who suddenly felt like a strange and foreign body plopped down into her life from some other planet.

  The frisson passed, and the well-being returned—or perhaps the shyness remained, just occupying another place in her brain. Maybe the two could exist side by side in her, like people of different ethnic backgrounds living next door to one another.

  “This is something else.” She laughed. “To be served breakfast in my own house. How did you know where everything is?”

  “I’m a good snooper.” He placed a plate stacked with five pancakes and bacon in front of her. “My secret recipe.” He smiled and puffed out his chest.

  “Wow. That’s too much for me.” She forked two from the top, stood up, and took them over to the stove, placing them on the plate beside Frank, who was flipping another batch in the pan. She became aware of his warmth next to her and stepped closer, savoring the firmness of his body. He put down the spatula and turned with open arms, and they embraced again, this time with no sense of urgency, just acceptance, contentment.

  They ate in an easy silence, broken only by occasional questions that they both blurted out at once:

  “Where did you get that sculpture behind the store?”

  “When did you go to Australia?”

  “What did you do before you had the store?”

  “How long have you been coming to your cabin?”

  Boris padded back and forth between the table and his bed, a cushion covered by a red plaid blanket in the sunny corner. The light streaked in the window, and his black fur glistened in the warmth. Mona sipped her coffee. If only this moment could last, this warmth and comfort and newness of love, when the future beckoned like an angel calling you to heaven.

  “And what about that mountain man?” Frank asked.

  “You mean Gus?”

  “Yes, what’s his story?”

  “Well, he sort of dropped out and went to live up there on the mountain. Like Thoreau, he said.” She put down her coffee cup and leaned over to pet Boris, who was nuzzling her leg. “Gus’s parents both died young, and he never had any brothers or sisters.”

  “But he’s an educated person?”

  “Oh, yes, Gus is brilliant. Some people think he’s crazy and make fun of him, but I don’t know. He believes that Wild Mountain is a holy place, and that he’s the keeper of the flame. Sometimes, that makes sense to me.”

  “Hmm. More and more interesting.” Frank finished off his pancake in silence, then looked up. “Would you like to cross-country ski today?” he asked. “There are some trails up there that I haven’t tried, and now that my ankle is better, I’d really like to get out before the snow is gone.”

  She smiled, and felt the angel already here in this moment. “I’d love to,” she said, “but I should go see Heather and Roz.”

  They decided to do both. Taking Frank to Roz and Heather’s would be like announcing her relationship with him. Normally, she’d squirm at the thought, but today, it was okay. In fact, she was not only ready, but eager to step into public with him. Proud. She was proud of him.

  But first, they talked. And had more coffee. And talked some more. Mona told him about Johnny O., and how they’d first met at an Aerosmith concert where Johnny was working the sound system. Later, Johnny became a music producer, and they’d gotten married, but he was away so much, and when he’d come back, he’d get drunk and stoned and then throw things and hit her, and she put up with it, because marriage was a sacred vow, she told herself, though now, she didn’t know why she’d thought that a violent husband was better than no husband. And finally, one day, he just didn’t come back. At the time, she had been crushed, but she saw now that it had been for the best.

  They washed the dishes. Mona packed her skis and put them in the car, and she waved to Brian Olp, the mailman, as he pulled up to her mailbox.

  “Oh, I’ll get it, Brian,” she called, and walked the short distance to the end of the driveway. Brian had already put the mail into the box, so she pulled it out, scooping up a stray envelope that was wedged at the back, and as she made her way back up to the house, she started sorting through it, her usual routine to separate out the junk mail.

  But the small white envelope that had been separated from the other mail, she noticed, had no stamp or postage, and as she turned it face up, she gulped. In big block letters was written: MONA PRIVATE! CONFIDENTIAL! She knew that hand. She quickly hid it under the other mail, and took a deep breath. She’d look at it later. She would not let Johnny O. spoil her day with Frank.

  Frank was waiting by the car, looking as happy as she had felt a few minutes ago. They drove to his cabin to pick up his skis, and he told her about his marriage, and how, when Erica was in high school, Patsy had left him and gone into a Benedictine convent out in Arizona. Frank had had quite a few girlfriends since then, she surmised. It wasn’t what he said, but she could read between the lines.

  He had been, Mona saw, always devoted to Erica, and never violent. And, he said, he had learned his lesson about relationships. When she heard this, an automatic thought tinged into her mind: What a crock. But before it spiraled into a scornful thought stream, she cut it off, angry at herself. Was she going to let Johnny O.’s poison seep into everything?

  They parked the car, put on their gear, and crossed the road to the trailhead. Frank skied ahead, and Mona followed. She’d forgotten about this trail up on Wild, high enough so that there was still snow in April, but following a ridge that was fairly level.

  “Sunshine! Clean!” she called, and he turned around and smiled. They both knew they’d soon be with Heather and Roz in the midst of the turmoil and charred remains of the burned-out building, at the heart of the fears and the rage and the not knowing. Here, the snow smelled cool and damp beneath the pines, and the sun lay in pristine patterns of light around them.

  The snow was a little sticky, even up here, where the temperature was a good fifteen degrees lower than in town. They kept moving, gliding so it wouldn’t have a chance to stick and clump on their ski-bottoms. Mona planted her poles and coasted along the path, surrounded on both sides by hemlocks and white pines.

  When they came to an opening, a large field, Frank stopped to let her catch up. An expanse of dazzling white and glare so bright that they both put their sunglasses on. She felt like someone in those pictures in National Geographic, the trekkers on the summit of Mount Everest or at the South Pole with their goggles on against the harsh arctic light. But this was not a cold, harsh kind of light; it was April, and there was a softness in the air, a gentleness—and, even up here at three thousand feet, the promise of spring.

  And now she understood. All that
posturing and protesting, with herself and with Heather, all the reasons she had found and invented and picked out of the clouds of her previous life—like being squelched and stunted in her marriage with Johnny O.—those roadblocks and sandbags that she had trucked in from the past to shore up the banks of her frightened self…she didn’t need them. She could let go of the roadblocks and sandbags, and simply enjoy being here with Frank in a field of snow on a sunny day. What kind of cynic wouldn’t trust this happiness?

  They went back to her house, and even though it was way past lunchtime, ate a lunch of omelets and salad. Even though Mona could feel the pile of mail conspicuously there on the counter, she ignored it. They got back into Frank’s car and headed off to Roz and Heather’s.

  As they turned off Ben Beavers and up Hemlock Hill, her mood began to sink at the thought of the remains of the farm stand. It would be worse in daylight. Frank slowed down as they came near, and she slumped down in her seat, covering her eyes with her hands like she used to do in scary movies. “I don’t know if I can take it,” she said. “First the bridge, and now this—one more part of my life gone.”

  “Yeah. Bummer.”

  As they approached the driveway, Frank stopped the car. He let out a long, low whistle.

  Mona was still slumped down with her hands over her eyes. Okay, Mona, she told herself. Buck up. You’re not nine years old. She uncovered her eyes, and there it was: a heap of blackened and probably still-burning rubble. Not even one of the spectral posts remained.

  She let out a loud sigh. “It looks so small and insignificant, just another little piece of the field now. Almost like the farm stand was never there.”

  “Like some avenging angel swooped down and wiped it out.”

  “Some evil force that’s swooping into Wild Mountain and wiping out all the important things.”

  Frank scratched his head. “So maybe the mountain man is on to something.”

  When they pulled into the parking area at the end of Roz and Heather’s driveway, two other cars were already there, including a badly-painted ’92 Volvo, bright green and splotched with red. “Sierra,” Mona said, and started to open the door.

  “Sierra.” Frank said. “What is it with her and Gus?”

  “You mean that soup he spilled on her?”

  “No. Well, sort of. It’s like she has a crush on him.”

  “A crush? No! He’s old enough to be her father.”

  “I know. But it’s kind of weird, the way she looks at him—”

  “Hmm. I hadn’t noticed.” She stepped out of the car, opened the back door, and picked up, from the surprisingly clean seat, the Mexican casserole dish containing the blueberry cobbler she’d taken out of the freezer this morning. This was a bit like taking coals to Newcastle, since she’d picked the blueberries from Heather’s bushes last summer, but Roz and Heather didn’t bake much, so it would be a treat for them.

  Inside, Sierra was sitting at the table with Eli, playing chess. The table was piled with more than the usual accumulation of stuff. A tumultuous scattering of papers surrounded Roz’ computer beside a pile of clothes and unopened mail. Sierra was dressed all in black, with black pants and black sweatshirt; and her auburn hair, though messy and dirty, seemed to be its natural color today. Eli’s afro had been trimmed shorter, which made him look more mature. A tall boy, he almost looked the same age as Sierra now. Engrossed in the chessboard, they nodded at Mona as she walked past them and put the cobbler on the kitchen counter. “Where’s your mom, Eli?”

  “Out in the greenhouse,” he said, his head still down, watching the chessboard.

  “And Roz?”

  “I don’t know. You better watch your king, Sierra.”

  “Ha. Ha. Ha,” Sierra said triumphantly and moved her bishop to put his queen in check.

  Frank stood behind Eli. “Hmm.” He cleared his throat and pointed at one of Eli’s bishops.

  “Oh! Yeah, thanks!” Eli exclaimed and moved his bishop to block Sierra’s move.

  “No fair!” Sierra shouted.

  “I’m going to find Heather.” Mona walked through the kitchen, opened the back door, and went outside.

  Frank sat down beside Eli. “How you doin’?”

  “Okay.” Eli made a face and slumped down in his seat.

  Frank frowned. So, he didn’t want to talk about it. “Been playing chess long?”

  “I’m on the chess team at school,” Sierra said. “And I’ve been teaching Eli. Mr. Throckmorton used to be our teacher, and he is so brilliant at chess!”

  “Mr. Throckmorton?”

  “Well, you probably know him as Gus.”

  “Oh, Gus. But isn’t he the hermit up there on the mountain?”

  “He is now, but he used to be the math teacher,” she said. “He is way cooler now, with his stones and goddesses and stuff,” she gushed.

  The math teacher? So, he hadn’t lived on the mountain that long. “Do you go see him?”

  She made a face. “Well, I saw him here at that potluck last week. But he won’t tell anyone where he lives, and when I try to find out, he walks away. He can be so rude.”

  “Why do you want to find out where he lives?”

  “Because he knows some way cool stuff about Indians and goddesses, and I want to go up and worship the goddess, too! I’m a Wiccan.”

  “A Wiccan? You mean a witch?”

  “That’s the crude layperson’s way of saying it, and we don’t like that term, because it’s so misunderstood. People think witches are bad, but we are just the opposite. We believe in healing the earth and healing people. Wiccans are totally earth-based.”

  Eli rolled his eyes, and Frank winked at him.

  22

  WHEN SHE FINALLY GOT HOME THAT NIGHT, Mona took Boris out, then stopped at the store to ready it for opening the next day. She checked the dairy cooler for past-date items, tidied the fruit-and-vegetable bin, put aside a few discolored apples, straightened up the deli, arranged the cash in the cash register, and wiped the counters. Boris was shuffling around the room, whimpering to have his usual walk, so she closed everything up and took him down to the road. The sky was changing from pink to twilight blue, and the wind was picking up, swirling in fitful gusts. Almost May, and still these March winds dashed and scuttled across the valley and down the river, which was brimming with whitecaps tonight.

  She supposed she’d better look at that letter from Johnny.

  She tramped up the hill to her house and went inside. Hungry after the skiing and the excitement at Roz and Heather’s, she took yesterday’s casserole out of the fridge and put it in the microwave. She gave Boris his food and refreshed his water.

  Everything had been out of balance at Allingworth Farm today. Heather had been wandering back and forth in the greenhouse with her watering can, looking agitated and despondent. “I keep forgetting what I have to do,” she’d said. Roz had been trying to get her to come inside and relax, but that seemed to make Heather more restless. Both of them were feeling the shock in their own way, but they still seemed to be in some kind of standoff with each other, though they were polite to Mona and grateful for the cobbler.

  Mona dug into the casserole. It was filled with chicken, spinach, cheese, and a mixture of rice and quinoa, and was better today than yesterday. She finished the whole thing. The letter was hidden under the pile of mail, but it seemed to loom in her vision, with its heavy block letters and exclamation points like raised fists. She washed her plate and the casserole dish and put them in the dish drain, then looked at the pile of mail. Maybe she should watch some TV first, to get her mind off it. Well, really, Mona, she said to herself, it’s probably nothing. Just open the damn letter.

  She pulled it out from the bottom of the pile and sat down on the couch. An ordinary-sized envelope with stark black lettering, like an accusation. She tore it open. Inside was one small sheet of white paper, and written on it, clearly in Johnny’s handwriting, in thick black script:

  You better stay away f
rom your dyke friends. I can help you. Meet me at the hotel tomorrow at 7.

  What did this mean? She felt herself clenching her shoulders, and her chest had that fluttery fear again. Did Johnny know who had set the fire? Was something else going to happen to Roz and Heather? Was Johnny involved? But that would contradict what he’d been saying in the store the other day, about everyone having the right to marry. Of course, in the past, he’d used any excuse to keep her away from her friends. This was obviously a ploy to reel her into his domain again. She was not going to fall for it.

  She thought about Frank, and a warm, snug feeling supplanted the fear. She would see him again soon. He’d said he would call.

  But Frank didn’t call the next day. She must have picked up her phone fifty times, checking to see if she had turned it off by mistake, or if she’d missed his message. It sat there, silent, on the counter beside the cash register. When it finally rang, she snatched it up, but a woman’s nasal voice asked, “Do you have Duncan Hines cake mix?”

  Mona gritted her teeth. “No, but we have two other brands.”

  “Which one is better?” the woman asked, “because I’ve heard that Duncan Hines is the best for a moist cake, but do you know if Betty Crocker is as good? My daughter told me to buy only Duncan Hines, but I’ve also heard that King Arthur is a really good brand in Vermont, and—”

  Mona clenched her fist. “I don’t know!” she blurted out. “I just sell the stuff!” And hung up on her. Oh shit, that was stupid. Probably lost a customer, and maybe more, since this is the kind of person who will blab all over town about how rude Mona Duval is.

  Charlie Perry came in. “Sorry about the fire, Mona,” he said, “but your friend Roz has been making enemies all over the place.”