The Walk

by Richard Paul Evans

  She was relieved to hear from me. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

  “It’s okay. I’ve just been so worried.”

  “I need to ask you a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “This is a big one. I need you to shut everything down. Sell everything at the agency, the furniture, computers, everything. Put it on eBay or Craigslist. I’ll text you a bank account number to deposit whatever you bring in

  from it.”

  “What about your personal things?”

  “I don’t care. Keep whatever you want. Throw the rest away.”

  “What about your awards?”

  The awards. My golden idols. “Throw them away.”

  “What?”

  “Also, there are the things in my home. The furniture.”

  “But you need it.”

  “Not anymore. The bank foreclosed on my house.”

  Falene groaned.

  “There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars of furniture and junk in here. I guess put it all on eBay or something.”

  “My aunt owns a furniture consignment store,” Falene said. “They can send a truck over.”

  “Great. Return the van to the leasing company.” I paused. “And there’s Cinnamon . . .” Cinnamon was McKale’s horse. “Just see if the livery owner wants her.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “You can keep half of what you bring in, just put the rest into my account.”

  “Where will you be?”

  “I’m going for a walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “Key West.”

  For a moment she said nothing. I think she was trying to decide whether or not I was joking. “You mean Florida?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re walking to Key West, Florida,” she said incredulously. “Why?”

  “It’s the farthest place I can walk from here.”

  “You’re serious about this,” she said sadly. “When are you leaving?”

  “This afternoon. As soon as I finish packing.”

  “I need to see you before you go. I can be there in forty-five minutes. Don’t leave before I get there. Promise me.”

  “I’ll wait,” I said.

  “I’ll be right over. Don’t leave,” she said again and

  hung up.

  I dialed Steve, my accountant. I instructed him to pay off all our bills, then file to dissolve our corporation and close out all our bank accounts, transferring any extra money into my personal account. He was disappointed to lose our business but not all that surprised. With all that had transpired in the last month, anything was possible.

  We went over the agency’s remaining receivables, then I gave him Falene’s phone number in case he ran into any problems. I thanked him for his service and told him I’d check back with him in a few months. His final words of advice to me were, “Wear sunscreen.”

  Falene arrived within the hour. I could tell she had been crying. We embraced, then we walked from room to room, talking about the furniture. There was really nothing I couldn’t leave behind. We ended up in the foyer.

  “So, you’ll help me?”

  “Yes. But half is too much. I’ll just take my salary.”

  “It’s going to be a lot of work. You’ll have to hire someone to help you.”

  “I’ll get my brother. He doesn’t have a job.”

  I handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s my bank account number. I talked to Steve just a few minutes ago, he’s going to close out the corporate accounts and transfer the balance into that account as well. I told him that if he had any questions, he could call you. Is that okay?”

  “Of course.”

  I looked her in the eye. “Are you sure you can do this?”

  “Of course. I’m Vice President now, remember?”

  I looked at her wryly. “But are you sure you want to?”

  “I’m sure I don’t. What I want is for everything to go back to how it was. But that’s not an option, is it?”

  “If only,” I said.

  She glanced at the paper, then put it in her purse. “How will I get hold of you?”

  “You won’t. But I’ll call from time to time.”

  She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Thank you, Falene. Your friendship is the only good thing to come out of all this. You are one of the finest people I’ve ever met.”

  She put her arms around me, and we held each other for a few moments. As we parted, she wiped tears from her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

  “What else is there?”

  She looked at me with a dark, sad expression, then kissed my cheek. “Be safe.” She wiped her eyes as she walked out of the house. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

  There were only two things I couldn’t discard. First, McKale’s jewelry. McKale didn’t have a lot of jewelry—she preferred a bare look—but over time, I had bought her some nice things. It all had sentimental value, and each piece reminded me of where we were when I gave it to her and how she’d responded. I took her wedding ring and slipped it over a gold rope-chain and put it around my neck. The rest, an opal ring, a ruby-and-emerald necklace, and a pink sapphire-and-diamond brooch, I put in a small pouch and put it in my pocket.

  The other things I valued were my journals. Twenty-plus years’ worth. As I looked through them, I came across a dark brown leather journal that I bought on a trip to Italy several years earlier and hadn’t written in yet. The leather was soft, more of a wrap than a book cover, with a single leather thong that wrapped around the entire book. I decided that this would make a suitable road diary.

  I put the rest of the journals in a box and taped it up with a note to Falene to send the box to my father’s house.

  McKale would want her clothes to go to a women’s shelter, so I put her things in big boxes and marked them for Falene to deliver. With one exception. I took one of her silk camisoles. Then I began packing for my walk.

  One of my agency’s former clients was a local retailer called Alpinnacle, a vendor of high-end hiking equipment. It was our smallest account. I didn’t usually pitch accounts their size, but in their case, I made an exception as McKale and I loved to hike, and we were fans of the company’s products.

  Every year we produced a catalog for them, and the product samples we brought in for the photo shoot were left with us to distribute amongst our employees. I always got first choice of the booty and had claimed several backpacks, a portable, one-burner propane stove, a poncho, a down sleeping bag with a self-inflating pad, and a one-man tent. I could use all of it. I selected the best of the packs and filled it with the gear.

  We kept our camping gear in a closet in the basement, and I went downstairs to collect other things I would need: an LED flashlight/radio with a hand crank, fire starter, and a Swiss Army knife. I put it all in the pack.

  While I was rooting through the closet, I came across my favorite hat: an Akubra Coober Pedy, an Australian fur-felt hat with a leather band adorned with a small opal (Coober Pedy is a famed source of Australian opals). I had purchased the hat six years earlier on a business trip to Melbourne. As much as I liked the hat, I rarely wore it, because McKale mocked me when I did. She said I looked like the guy on The Man from Snowy River, which I personally thought was a good thing. It had a wide, sturdy brim and was made for the outback weather, sun, sleet, and rain. I put it on. It still fit comfortably.

  I went back upstairs and retrieved my Ray-Ban Wayfarers sunglasses. Also, a roll of toilet paper, six pairs of socks, two pairs of cargo pants, a parka, a canteen, and five pairs of underwear.

  I pulled on my pants, heavy wool socks, a T-shirt, and a Seattle SuperSonics sweatshirt. Fortunately, I had good hiking boots. They were lightweight, sturdy, and broken in. I sat down and laced them up. Then I slung the pack over my shoulder. It wasn’t too heavy, maybe twenty pounds.

  The door locked automatically behind me, and witho
ut a single key in my pocket, I stood outside on the front patio. Then, without looking back, I began to walk.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-three

  I have decided on a destination; the path is but detail. I have begun my walk.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Chyan li jr sying, shr yu dzu sya. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. I read that in a Chinese fortune cookie. Technically I suppose, it wasn’t really a fortune—more of a proverb—and probably wasn’t even Chinese. It was likely just some American copywriter churning out yarns for a cookie company. I suppose all those years in advertising had made me cynical.

  Whatever its origin, the proverb was applicable. Mentally and emotionally, I found that a walk as far as Key West was a little hard to wrap my mind around. My ultimate destination might as well have been China. I needed an interim target, a destination that was far enough to motivate me but close enough not to break my will. That place was on the other side of the state. I set my mind on Spokane.

  The drive from Seattle to Spokane along I-90 is about four hours by car. But I wasn’t traveling by car, and 90 is an interstate. The Highway Patrol would definitely have some problems with my route. The preferred (and by “preferred” I mean “legal”) route for bikers and hikers is Highway 2, a scenic two-lane road that climbs through the Cascade mountains up to Stevens Pass, one of Washington’s ski resorts. I knew that at that time of the year there would be snow at the pass, but I pushed it from my mind. I’d deal with that when I got

  there.

  I followed 132nd Avenue north to Redmond Road, then walked about six miles northeast into Redmond. By the time I arrived at the city center, it was around two in the afternoon, and the traffic was heavy.

  I was a bit conspicuous traveling through downtown Redmond with a backpack and sleeping bag slung over my back, and I drew a lot of curious glances, but I didn’t care. The first casualty of hitting rock bottom is vanity.

  From the heart of Redmond, I continued north up Avondale Road. The walk was flat, and the side of the road was wet and spongy, carpeted with copper-hued pine needles fallen from the trees that lined the route. As I walked farther away from the city, I noticed that my mood softened a little. The sounds of birds and water, the rhythmic fall of my feet, and the cool, fresh air untied my mind from the craziness of the night before. I’ve always

  believed that a good walk in the woods is as effective as psychotherapy. Nature is, has always been, the greatest of healers.

  By Woodinville—about sixteen miles from Bellevue—my legs already felt tired, which was a bad omen. Even though I was an avid hiker and runner, the last four weeks I had sacrificed everything to be with McKale, including exercise. Not surprisingly, I had lost muscle and gained weight—enough at least that my pants were snug at the waist.

  There was a Safeway grocery store at the edge of town, and I stopped in for supplies and to get something to eat. I bought two quart bottles of water, a pint bottle of orange juice, a box of peanut butter and chocolate energy bars, two boxes of frosted blueberry Pop-Tarts, two Braeburn apples, a Bartlett pear, a bag of trail mix, and a sixteen-ounce bag of jerky.

  People instinctively fear people with beards (like Santa Claus, or the homeless guy who sits next to you on the bus), when, historically speaking, it should be mustaches we most worry about (e.g., Hitler, Stalin, John Wilkes Booth).

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  After some deliberation, I purchased a travel pack of shampoo and a package of disposable razors and shaving gel. I had considered letting my beard grow until I looked like one of the ZZ Top guys, but decided against it. The truth is, I’ve never liked wearing beards. I grew a goatee once, but McKale said it hurt to kiss me and threatened to withhold her lips until I shaved it off. (She also told me that it made me look like Satan. I don’t know how she knew what Satan looked like, but the goatee came off that night.)

  My pack was noticeably heavier as I left the Safeway. I continued walking north until I reached Highway 522, and turned east. I was finally free of suburbia. The forest around me was overgrown on both sides, thick with ferns, evergreens, and lichen-flocked black cottonwoods.

  In spite of the ballast I’d added, the walk became easier as the road gradually descended, and my pack seemed to be pushing me downhill.

  Seattle is amphibious. Even when I couldn’t see water, I could hear it somewhere, an underground stream or viaduct or a roadside waterfall. Under these conditions other cities would mold or rot—but on this side of Washington, wet is the natural state of things—like a salamander’s back.

  By four-thirty darkness was already starting to fall. As daylight faded, the temperature dropped to the low forties. I decided not to take chances with my remaining light and find a place to camp.

  I had just reached Echo Lake when I encountered a bank rising 30 feet or more into thick forest, providing a screen from the road. I climbed the bank, grabbing on to ferns and foliage to avoid slipping on the muddy hill. At the top, I looked down and saw a small inlet. I wasn’t the first to discover the site. There was a flat area where someone had camped before, evidenced by rocks gathered into a fire pit.

  I hiked down the ravine to the edge of the water, found a dry spot, and laid down my pack. I looked around again to make sure I was alone, then I pulled the tent out of my pack.

  Even though I had written the brochure for this tent, I’d never actually assembled it. Fortunately, it was as easy to construct as I had promised. I was glad for this. Whether I was selling tents or politicians, more times than not, I wrote my pitches based on what the product should be, not necessarily what it was. This made me a professional liar. At least I was right about the tent.

  I rolled out my self-inflating pad, then laid out my sleeping bag, a down-filled mummy sack. I took off my clothes, climbed inside, and lay back with my head sticking outside of the tent’s vinyl screen door. The sky was veiled behind layers of thin, black clouds. I looked at the fire pit.

  When I was twelve years old, in scouting, my scoutmaster told us that the first thing one should do when lost in the wilderness is start a fire. He asked us why, and we offered our answers. Heat. Warmth. To keep wild animals away. To signal rescuers where we were.

  “All good answers,” he said, “but none of them what I’m looking for. You start a fire to keep yourself from panicking.”

  I should have started a fire. As night descended, so did the panic of my situation. I realized that I was not walking alone. I was being followed by three fellow sojourners: grief, bitterness, and despair. I might get ahead of them for a while, but they always caught up. I wondered what kind of legs they had and how many miles they’d follow me and across how many state lines. The whole way?

  I could hardly believe that just that morning I was living in a $2 million home with a computerized home environment system, a king-sized canopy bed with a plush mattress, and Egyptian cotton sheets with a hundred thousand thread count. (I might have exaggerated that last fact.) Now I was living in a tent. My world was upside down. I wanted to tell McKale about it. She’d call me a crazy old coot. She’d say, “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this.” Then she’d say, “Yes I do. You’re a dream chaser.”

  I realized that this was how my life would be from now on—not necessarily living in a tent, but living in contrast to my former existence. Like the Gregorian calendar’s Anno Domini, my life would likewise be designated, Before and After McKale.

  I had been with her for so long that not only did everything remind me of her, everything I experienced was viewed relative to her—what she liked, hated, laughed at, or endured for my sake.

  I couldn’t believe I had to live the rest of my life without her.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-four

  Today I met a man without hands. He is a living, breathing metaphor of my life.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Birds woke me. I didn’t know what species they were, other than a
nnoying. The racket was probably my fault. They were likely just screeching at me for intruding on their world.

  Almost as soon as I woke, the pain returned. If you’ve known loss, you know what I mean. Every morning since McKale’s death had been that way—within moments of consciousness, I felt the heaviness of grief settle over me. If nothing else, grief is, at least, reliable.

  I sat up in my tent and rubbed my legs. My calves were sore from the previous day’s walk. I figured I had covered close to twenty miles. I hadn’t walked that far in one day since McKale signed us up for the Muscular Dystrophy fundwalker. I should have stretched before going to bed. I just didn’t think about it. I had too many other things on my mind.

  I opened my pack and brought out a Pop-Tart and the bottle of orange juice. There were two Pop-Tarts in a package, but I ate just one and returned the other. I drank the whole bottle of juice. Then I took out my razor and cream and went to the water to shave. The lapping inlet water was cold, and it braced my face as I rinsed off the shaving cream, clouding the water white. I’m soft, I thought. I’ve become soft.

  McKale’s and my idea of roughing it was a hotel without twenty-four-hour room service. I once read that in the Wild West, men would avoid baths because they believed warm water made them weak. They might have been right. Warm water had made me weak.

  As I was putting back my razor, my cell phone rang, startling me. I had forgotten that I had it. I instinctively checked to see who was calling, but I didn’t recognize the number, so I didn’t answer. The phone was my last link to the world I had left behind. It was more than a link—this sleek device was filled with contacts, schedules, and