Wild Mountain

by Nancy Kilgore

  “I’m the only person he trusts. Not that he trusts me, really. But he thinks of me as next of kin.” Mona realized she was speaking in the present tense, and nobody corrected her. She looked up. The two hikers were standing in front of them: Frank’s daughter Erica and the reporter Jake. Erica was crying, and Jake, for once, was speechless.

  Frank gestured for Erica to come sit beside him, and he put his other arm around Mona. Jake sat beside Erica, and the four of them were silent while the FAST Squad, which had just arrived, moved Gus’s body into a body bag and strapped it onto a stretcher. The two young men carrying the stretcher were familiar to Mona from the squad, and nodded to her as they passed. They’d all dealt with dead bodies before. But this was Gus.

  As they trudged back down the trail, a coyote howled in the distance. Or. . . .“Wait.” Mona stopped and put up her hand to shush the others. The howls came again. “I think that’s Darling.”

  “Darling?” Frank asked.

  “Gus’s dog.”

  “Oh, no! The little white dog!” Erica cried. “What’s going to happen to it?”

  “We’ll have to come back and get her.”

  The howling continued, an almost human sound, like a wailing or a keening. And now the tightness in Mona’s chest released, like a dam bursting, and the tears flowed.

  35

  HEATHER SQUIRMED IN HER SEAT, spread her muslin skirt over her boots, and stared out the tall window. Almost seven o’clock, and the sun was still shining through the trees. She could be planting lettuce and arugula, weeding the spinach, or thinning the young zinnias in the greenhouse instead of wasting this good light sitting here in the town hall. She hated these public spectacles, but she had promised Roz, and really, she needed to be here for herself, too. If she were home, she’d no doubt be obsessing and worrying about the outcome of the meeting.

  As town halls went, this one was tiny, thank God, because it meant that not more than fifteen people could fit into the little room to heckle the select board. Recently painted in a fashionable muted green, the walls, lined with beadboard up to a chair rail, ascended to a high Victorian ceiling, giving the room a touch of elegance. The large center table was a flimsy-looking wooden affair, and the chairs around it, as well as those in the audience rows, were a mishmash of styles and ages: a couple of beat-up wooden pews, two scruffy captain’s chairs, and some folding chairs in metal or plastic.

  Tonight, all of the seats were taken. Charlie Perry and Edson, of course, along with Pauline, sat in the front row, their murmurs filling the room with an undercurrent of resentment. Acheson Levy was hunched over in the back, and in between sat a few people she didn’t recognize. Alice Spinelli was with a tall, gray-haired man, Asa Clement, a farmer Heather knew slightly from the Environmental Quality Incentives Program. All the usual characters were there, except for Luke and Cappy, the two chiefs who normally came to every meeting. Why weren’t they here tonight? Maybe they wanted to maintain a neutral position. Thanks a lot, you guys, she thought. And what had happened to Mona? She’d promised to come. People turned and whispered, the chairs creaked, and the tension was almost tangible in the cautious glances and edgy silence.

  Roz, at the center of the select board table, shuffled her notes and looked at her watch, waiting for the stroke of seven to strike the gavel. Heather shifted in her seat and re-crossed her legs. Roz looked confident, but Heather knew she wasn’t feeling as assured as she looked. How could she even face this crowd? Heather herself would have resigned already, but she, after all, was not a fighter. She felt she must be the most nervous person in the room. And the most humiliated. She scrunched up her shoulders. If she could just disappear, make this all go away.

  Should she go away? Not just from the meeting, but from the whole situation? The town. Roz. Could she leave Roz? Lately, it had become so much more evident how incompatible their goals were. Of course, she was proud of Roz’s accomplishments—her brave stance for gay rights—but Roz was so wrapped up in her crusade that Heather felt unheard, almost invisible. Last night, for instance, she’d tried to tell her, to express how important peace and harmony were to her, but Roz, as usual, had cut her off and plowed into her spiel that the only way to achieve peace was to change the laws. Roz didn’t get that Heather was talking about their personal relationship. Did she even understand the difference between personal and public life?

  Heather hadn’t brought up the fact that she had, indeed, been thinking of leaving the relationship, mainly because she hadn’t wanted to sabotage Roz before this meeting. But she could do it. She and Eli could rent a house with some land, and she could start over with the organic farm. Live quietly.

  Evening sunlight streaked into the room, a balmy June light that belied the anger and passion raging around its hub—Roz.

  Roz raised the gavel, and gave Heather a look before she struck it. A sweet and loving look, a secret look, a look that recalled so many tender moments between them, and that seemed to assume that Heather was right there behind her, her main support, the woman behind the woman. Heather braced herself against the tears that suddenly pushed inside her throat and eyes. How could she think of leaving?

  Roz plowed into the agenda, through the treasurers’ report and all the other routine items before getting to the petition. She sat tall in her seat and looked boldly at the audience. “As you know,” she said, “the select board has been presented with a petition. And since the matter for a vote is my continued tenure on the board, I will recuse myself from this portion of the meeting. But before the select board votes, the public is allowed a voice. And from here on in, Leo Bailey will moderate.”

  Heather shrank further back into her seat as she sensed the Perrys straining forward.

  Leo, who was sitting beside Roz, picked up a paper and read the petition out loud. “We, the citizens of Wild Mountain, Vermont, believe in the value of family and the sanctity of marriage between a man and a woman. The chairman of the select board, as evidenced in many verbal opinions and in her political activities, does not represent our values. We demand the resignation of Roz Allingworth.”

  Charlie raised his hand. “Charlie Perry,” Leo said, acknowledging the hand.

  “Almost seventy-five signatures there,” he said, pointing to the petition.

  Iris Gold, in a subdued brown tweed jacket, was sitting at the select board table. “But,” she said in a quiet, measured voice, “there are one thousand people in Wild Mountain. So, that means that nine hundred and twenty-five people did not sign it.”

  “But that’s just because they’re lazy,” shouted Edson. “A lot more people want this bitch to go.”

  “Verbal abuse will not be tolerated,” Leo said. “Any more, and you’ll have to leave, Edson.”

  “Sure, sure,” Edson sulked, “but you guys have to pay attention. That piece of paper represents a groundswell in Wild Mountain.”

  Groundswell. Heather raised an eyebrow. Who knew Edson had such a sophisticated vocabulary?

  “Any other comments?” Leo asked.

  Asa Clement stood up, and Leo acknowledged him with a point of his finger. Asa, in a green flannel shirt and pressed khaki pants, seemed to fill the room with an imposing authority. “I’d like to speak in favor of Roz,” he said, and Heather let out the breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “Roz has done a fine job as chair, the best we’ve had since I’ve been here.” Charlie Perry turned and faced the audience, rolling his eyes dramatically. Asa looked at Charlie. “And that means fifty years.” He turned back to the audience. “And so, I urge you members of the select board to vote in favor of her staying on.” He sat down. Alice, who was sitting beside him wrapped in a purple shawl, smiled and squeezed his hand.

  One by one, almost everyone in the room took a turn to speak, and Heather found her emotions pulled this way and that as people expressed opinions. Most of them she’d expected, like Edson and Acheson speaking against Roz, and people like Al Snyder, who came to every meeting, taking a neutral stance—bu
t then Pauline Perry stood up and surprised everyone with an emotional speech on Roz’s behalf, ending with, “I don’t believe in discrimination against women or gays.” Charlie was staring at her with a stunned look as Edson bent over, hanging his head and shaking it vigorously.

  Finally, Leo held up his hand, looked at his watch, and announced that it was time for the vote. Everyone except the six people at the select board table were asked to leave, including Roz. She stood and came up to Heather, and they left the room together. A few people went into the town clerk’s office to wait while Heather and Roz stood outside. The light was fading, and the mountain, hovering above the hotel across the green, fell into blackness. Roz, uncharacteristically silent, chewed a fingernail as she paced back and forth, and Heather stepped up in front of her to stop her. She looked into Roz’s worried, pale blue eyes and took her hand.

  36

  FRANK TOOK A CHUG OF HIS LONG TRAIL BEER, and tried to think of something to say. What was there to say? They sat at the booth in silence. The Stone Tavern was dimly lit and eerily devoid of people, except for two dumpy-looking guys at the bar. Even the jukebox was silent, without the usual cry-in-your-beer music that seemed to define the atmosphere here. Mona gazed off into the distance and wiped her face with a napkin. Erica pushed her wineglass from spot to spot, and Jake drummed his fingers on the table.

  Frank had to do something to dispel the gloom. He raised his glass. “Let’s have a toast,” he said, “to Gus.”

  “Yes.” Mona lifted her glass. Jake and Erica followed suit, and the clink of their glasses accentuated the cavernous gloom in the bar.

  “I know he was strange, but I thought he had it all figured out,” Frank mused. “How to live the simple life, off the grid, not needing much. And the stones—”

  “Heart attack,” Mona said, her voice monotone, listless. “His dad died the same way, but even younger, in his forties. If only I had gotten him to the doctor—”

  Frank restrained himself from grabbing her and pulling her close. It was hard to believe that just a couple of hours ago, she had been naked and laughing in his arms. He inched closer, so their thighs touched, and glanced at Erica, who grimaced. He still hadn’t talked to Erica about Mona. He moved back a little. “But just this morning,” he said, “Gus was so lucid. He was telling me about the stone circle, how the stones work with astronomy, and his theory about the sacred female presence there.”

  Jake looked up from his phone. “Actually, that’s why we went up there today.”

  “For an article?”

  “I was going to write one.” Jake took off his cap, rubbed his hand through his flattened curls, and looked guiltily at Mona, who was still in her own space, staring off into nothing.

  The bartender, a man in his fifties with a shaved head, gray beard, and wire-rimmed glasses, came to the table and set down a large plate of sweet potato fries, a specialty of the Stone Tavern. Mona looked at it in disgust while Frank, Erica, and Jake reached in to take one.

  “Schizophrenic,” said Erica.

  Mona bristled.

  Frank put his arm around Mona. “He was Mona’s friend, Erica,” he said. “And mine, too, back in the day. I don’t think we need to label him, now that he’s gone.”

  “Well, it’s true,” Erica said. “That way he had of blanking out, the blunted affect—”

  “Erica—”

  “It’s okay, Frank,” Mona said. “But it wasn’t schizophrenia. Gus was seen by a psychiatrist who said he couldn’t give a diagnosis. Gus was just odd. And after he taught for a few years, he started withdrawing and talking about going up on the mountain to live. We tried to get him back to a doctor. A couple of times. I went up there with Cappy and tried to talk him into going with us, but we couldn’t convince him.”

  “He was probably paranoid, too,” Erica said, “afraid of being locked up and poisoned by drugs, drugs that would have helped.”

  Frank sighed. This was the know-it-all side of Erica that was too reminiscent of her mother. “But he seemed to manage,” he said, “in his own little world.”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “Manage? Really, Dad. Committing arson?”

  “I don’t believe that.” He took another chug of his beer and exchanged a look with Mona. “Maybe he was autistic, but he was also brilliant. And I think he was really onto something with the stone circle. He figured out that it’s a power spot, one of those places on the earth where spiritual energy is concentrated, like Stonehenge. And when you think about it, the mountain has always represented a spiritual place, the place to find God. Like Moses on Mount Sinai.”

  “Gus wasn’t exactly Moses,” Erica said.

  “No, but he seemed to think of himself as keeper of the flame. Guardian of that place.” He put down his beer and bowed his head. “I’m afraid I got a little too enthusiastic about it. I think I scared him.”

  Mona took Frank’s hand. “It wasn’t your fault either, Frank.” Someone had put money in the jukebox, and the soft strains of the Beatles singing “Let It Be” filled the room.

  Jake ran his fingers through his hair. “So where did he actually live?”

  “Nobody knows,” Mona said. “We figured he must have a cave somewhere. He came into town occasionally, but if you wanted to see him, you’d have to go up on the mountain. If he accepted you, he’d appear.”

  Frank rubbed his beard. “I guess he accepted me. But I get the impression that Chief Spinelli thought he was some kind of Unabomber, up there plotting to blow things up.”

  “Or torch the farm stand,” Jake burst out in an angry voice.

  “Oh, God,” Erica moaned, trembling now. “That gray face. Like a sarcophagus.” She burst into tears. “I’ve never seen a dead body before, Dad, it was awful.”

  Frank reached over to touch her arm, and she pulled her jacket more tightly around her shoulders. “Jake tried to give him artificial respiration,” she said, and shuddered.

  Jake twisted a sweet potato fry around with his fingers. Frank noticed that he himself was the only one eating the fries. Beside him, Mona’s seat was empty. He looked around the room. “Where’s Mona?”

  37

  YOU MAKE LOVE, YOU FIND YOUR CHILDHOOD FRIEND DEAD, you puke all over the floor in the bathroom of the Stone Tavern, and then you have to go to work, just like every other day of the week. It’d been three days, and Mona was still feeling numb. She and Frank had retraced their steps up the trail to look for Darling, but there had been no trace of the dog. Cappy took some kids from the basketball team to look, too, but they couldn’t find her, either.

  When Luke called to report on Johnny, she’d almost forgotten about him. “We couldn’t find him,” Luke said. “He’s not registered to vote in New Hampshire” (surprise, surprise, Mona thought,) “and he doesn’t even have a driver’s license. We don’t know where he is.” And without an address, he said, they couldn’t put a restraining order on him. Maybe he was back with Michelle, she thought, wherever that was, and maybe he wouldn’t come back to Wild Mountain. Of course, she’d thought that before, and look what had happened. She lifted her eyes to the sky. Would she ever be unchained from that man?

  Mona walked through a cool gray mist down the path to the store, and when she came around the corner, a figure was slumped on the porch, a cigarette in her mouth, a stick in her hand. Whack. Whack. Whack. She whacked the stick against a post, a lethargic rhythm, a what-the-fuck melody that sank into Mona like a stone in mud. Limp hair hung drooping over her face and pale skin. She wore a stretched-out, dirty T-shirt over patched leggings, and presently, a pair of startling blue eyes rimmed with dark lashes looked up at Mona.

  “Sierra!” Without the makeup, colored hair, spangles, and cleavage, she’d hardly recognized her.

  “I know, Sierra is supposed to be happy, bubbly, all of that shit.”

  “So, what’s the matter?”

  Sierra clammed up and thumped the stick a few more times. Mona clenched her fists. This was the last straw. She had a store to ru
n here. She started to march inside, but then Sierra dropped the stick and slumped over on the bench, looking so forlorn that Mona stopped. What was she thinking? Sierra had suffered a loss, too. “This is about Gus, huh?” she said.

  “I’ve never known anyone who died before.”

  “Well, he was pretty sick. We just didn’t know it.”

  Whack. Whack.

  Mona stopped herself from rushing into the store. Sierra seemed to want to say something else.

  “I can’t stop thinking about it.” Whack. She raised her head and looked up at Mona, her eyes red and her face streaked with tears, or dirt, or both. “I mean, anyone could die at any time. How do I know you’re even going to be here tomorrow?”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Mona banged around the store, sweeping up behind the deli, throwing away old paper towels that somebody, probably Sierra, had stashed under the cooler as if she thought no one would find them. She took the turkey out of the cooler and slapped it onto the cutting board, picked up a knife, and sliced off two pieces; then she took tomatoes, pickles, and onions out of their containers, and put it all together between two slices of rye bread. She hadn’t been able to eat much since finding Gus on Sunday, and now she was ravenous.

  The front window was open, and above the sound of the river, she could hear voices. Charlie Perry’s voice was deep, the flow interrupted by a raspy cough. Acheson Levy spoke in a low, muted tone, hesitant but sweet, and their voices rose and fell like a song, the old man’s bass narrative punctuated by the baritone response.

  Mona took a bite of her sandwich and stepped closer to the window. The inside bulletin board beside it was littered with messy notices tacked one on top of the other, and with her other hand, she took some down and placed them on the counter. Too many bulletin boards around here.

  The porch went silent, and she stepped back. Had they sensed her presence?