Black Maps

by Jauss, David

  So I told him the lie. We were taking a breather, sitting on a big slate ledge in the sun, looking down at the creek at the base of the bluff and the pine woods beyond, and I told him I had once climbed Mount Rainier. Chuck looked at me then, but he didn’t say anything.

  “This was a long time ago,” I said. “Long before you were born. Even before I met your mother.” Then I told him a friend and I had gone up the mountain in the winter of ‘51. “Everything went fine,” I said, “until we got halfway up the mountain. Then the wind kicked up and snow began to fall and pretty soon we were caught in a first-class blizzard. We couldn’t see anything, the snow was so thick, and the air was so cold it burned our lungs just to breathe. Before long the wind was blowing to beat Billy Hell and we could barely hang on to the side of the mountain, even with our spiked boots dug in.” I went on to tell him we knew we’d freeze to death if we didn’t get up to the next ledge and dig a snow cave, so we kept climbing, feeling our way up the mountain inch by inch like blind men.

  The story was a true one, but it hadn’t happened to me—I’d read about it in Reader’s Digest. But I told it like it was my story, not somebody else’s, and Chuck sat there looking out toward the horizon, his forehead creased like he was thinking hard. And as I told the story, I got excited and started to make up things that weren’t even in Reader’s Digest. I told him my friend fell and broke his leg so I had to strap him onto my back and lug him up the ridge with me, and I told him we were trapped there for three days before the weather cleared enough for me to carry him back down the mountain. I even told him my name had been in all the papers and the governor of Washington himself came to the hospital where I was recuperating to shake my hand and congratulate me for saving my friend’s life.

  I’d hoped my story would make Chuck proud of me, make him forgive me for being a drunk and a bad father. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat there, looking down at his boots. I figured he knew I was lying, and was even madder than before. But then I saw that his lower lip was trembling.

  “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “You could have died,” he answered.

  When he said that, I thought maybe I had won him back after all. “That’s right,” I said. “I could’ve died. But I didn’t.” And I tousled his curly blond hair.

  But he kept looking at his boots. “But what if you had died?”

  I tried to laugh it off. “Then I would’ve died,” I said, and punched him lightly on the shoulder.

  He reached down then and picked up a small stone and flicked it off the cliff. We watched it hit a ledge below and bounce off out of sight.

  “Then I wouldn’t have been born,” he said.

  I was wrong about Barbara’s new husband. He wasn’t the tall stoop-shouldered guy after all. He was the squat meaty-faced fellow with thick glasses. He didn’t look at all like the type Barbara would marry, but then again neither did the tall lanky guy. And, I suppose, neither did I.

  “You must be Alec,” he said, when he opened the door. “I’m Gale. Come on in. It must be freezing out there.”

  I’d never met a man named Gale before. “Gale” seemed like a woman’s name to me, even though it was spelled different, and I’d never liked the fact that Barbara had married someone with a name like that. I shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Denton,” I said, and stepped in the house.

  It was a nice house, a lot nicer than any house Barbara and I ever lived in. To the right of the entryway was a living room with a red brick fireplace and a blue and gold Oriental rug, and straight down the hall there was a dining room with a chandelier tiered like an upside-down wedding cake. To my left, there was a short flight of stairs that led up to a hallway of rooms. Everywhere you looked there were plants and fancy paintings. I felt like I was stepping into a copy of Better Homes and Gardens and I said so. Gale laughed. It was a host’s laugh, high and cut short like a cough.

  “Let me have your coat,” he said. “Barbara’s in the den. She’ll be right up.”

  I shrugged off my parka and watched Gale hang it at the far end of the closet, away from his and Barbara’s coats. Then Barbara came up some stairs near the dining room and walked stiff-legged down the hall toward me, her face tight like she was afraid something bad was going to happen. “Hello,” I said. Then, before she could say anything, I leaned over and gave her a peck on the cheek. I glanced at Gale to see if he’d minded. If he had, he didn’t show it. I didn’t look at Barbara to see what she thought.

  “Well, how was your trip?” Barbara said. She spoke like she had to force the words out, like they hurt her throat.

  “It was good,” I said. “Good as could be. Under the circumstances.” Somehow the word circumstances made me look away from her. “I like your house,” I added quickly. “I didn’t think they had houses like this out in the middle of Wyoming.”

  Gale smiled. “The company takes good care of their people. They may make us live out here with the jackrabbits, but they provide us with good housing.”

  “That’s good,” I said. Then we all just stood there a moment. Finally Barbara said, “Gale, don’t you think we ought to let Alec freshen up before dinner?” Then she turned to me, only she didn’t look right at me. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

  “And I’ll get us something to drink. What would you like?” Gale said, putting his fingers together the way servants do in movies.

  “Nothing for me,” I answered. “Thanks anyway. You go ahead.”

  Barbara looked at me, squinting just a little, like she was sizing me up. “Your room’s just up the hall,” she said, and led the way. I followed her, noticing how she’d spread out over the past six years. She’d always been a bit hippy, but now she was big. Still, I must admit I didn’t mind watching her walk.

  At the end of the hallway, she opened a door and switched on the light. “This is your room,” she said.

  I looked in and saw pale blue wallpaper and a bed with a wheat-colored comforter and dust ruffle. There was a reading light on the headboard, and it made me remember how Chuck used to lay in bed at night reading Hardy Boys books. “Was this—” I started.

  “This is the guest room,” Barbara said quickly. She nodded toward a door just up the hall. “That was his room.” Then she looked at me, her face hard. “I don’t want you in there,” she said. “I don’t want anyone in there. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t say anything. Then she continued, “I’ve put some towels on the dresser for you. The bathroom’s right next door. If there’s anything else you—”

  “It’s good to see you again, Barbara,” I interrupted. “I only wish to God there was another reason for it.”

  She looked at me. “Don’t think you’re fooling anybody with your ‘Nothing for me, thanks,’” she said. “I smelled that Binaca on your breath. I know you’ve been drinking. Now, I don’t mind you coming in here and invading our home, but I don’t want you getting drunk and embarrassing us at the funeral. If you can’t stay sober out of consideration for me and Gale, I hope you can do it for Chuck. Is that clear?”

  I set my bag inside the door. “I’m still crazy about you too,” I said. For a second, Barbara looked like she was going to slap me, but then she just turned and strode off down the hall.

  “I loved him as much as you did,” I called after her.

  During dinner, Barbara barely looked at me, and she didn’t say anything to either of us, except when she asked Gale to pass the roast or the potatoes. As soon as we finished eating, she excused herself, saying she had a headache, and went to bed. Gale apologized for her. “This has been awfully hard on her,” he said. I didn’t know whether “this” meant Chuck, or me.

  Later that night, Gale and I were watching TV in the den. Gale was on his fourth Scotch, but I still hadn’t had anything but club soda. I was worried I’d get the shakes, like I did at Intercept, but I didn’t want to drink in front of Gale. I wanted him to think that Barbara had exaggerated about me, maybe even made some
of it up.

  Gale was talking about the TV. The oil company had paid for cable TV hook-ups; that’s why he could get so many channels. Twenty-three in all. “Imagine that,” he said, “twenty-three channels right here in the middle of nowhere.” He gestured toward the walls with his drink, like nowhere was everywhere around us.

  “That’s something,” I said. On the TV a young blonde was stepping out of one of those antique claw-footed bathtubs and wrapping a white towel around herself. There were tiny soap bubbles on her shoulders and thighs. From the music, I could tell she was going to get murdered soon.

  “There’s still nothing to watch, though,” Gale said, and he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

  “You tired?” I said. “Don’t let me keep you up if you are.” I was hoping he’d call it a night so I could sneak myself some bourbon. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep unless I had at least a couple of drinks—the last two nights I’d had to drink the better part of a fifth before I could even close my eyes.

  “No, I’m not tired,” he said. “How about you?”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  Gale nodded like he was glad I was fine, then walked over to the bar and poured himself another drink. I was thinking about Barbara’s luck with men. For someone who hated drinking so much, she’d picked a couple of winners.

  “He was on his way to see his girlfriend,” Gale said then. “Tammy Winthrop. When they found him, they called me at the camp. Told me there’d been an accident. That’s all they said.” He came back over to the easy chair and sat down heavily. A little of the Scotch spilled on his cardigan sweater but he didn’t seem to notice. He set his drink down on the end table and sighed. “Hardest thing I ever had to do was identify him.” He leaned forward and looked at me. “I mean, I thought they’d have him cleaned up and everything. But they didn’t. They hadn’t done a thing to him. All the blood and everything—” He stopped and sat back, shaking his head.

  I was getting angry at him. I didn’t want him to tell me this. But all I said was, “I’m sorry.”

  Gale sat forward in his chair again. “You had him when he was a boy. I’ll always envy you that. But I saw him grow into a man. And he was a fine man. He would’ve made one hell of a fine officer, I can tell you that.” Then he started to cry. He covered his face with his hands and his shoulders heaved.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just sat there, looking at the TV. A man in a ski mask had stalked the blonde to her bedroom and she was crouching in the corner of her closet, trembling. The man had a barber’s razor in his gloved hand, and the music was going crazy. I watched for a minute, then turned away. I wasn’t scared—that kind of movie never scares me much—but I kept thinking about that girl’s father watching the movie and seeing her crouched there like that, naked and afraid. Even though I knew it was all fake, I couldn’t bear to watch it anymore.

  I had to say something to Gale. “Are you all right?” I finally said.

  “I’m sorry,” Gale answered, and wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Please forgive me.”

  “There’s nothing to forgive,” I said. “I feel the same way you do.”

  Then Gale finished his drink and stood up. “Well, I guess it’s about that time,” he said, looking at his watch. “We’ll have to get up early tomorrow.” And then his face fell apart again.

  “It’ll be all right,” I said, but I didn’t get up, pat him on the shoulder, or anything like that.

  “Yeah,” he said, getting a hold of himself. “I guess it will.” He shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “No problem,” I said. “I understand.”

  “Well, goodnight then,” he said, and started toward the door. But before he got there, he stopped and said, “Listen, Alec, if you’re going to stay up awhile, why don’t you go ahead and help yourself to anything you want?” And he waved his hand toward the bar.

  I sat there, looking at him.

  “I just want you to know I understand,” he added. “And I’m sure Chuck would understand too.”

  I said, “Thanks, Gale. I appreciate that.” But I decided that minute not to take a drop of liquor as long as I was in his house. And I wouldn’t do it for him or Barbara or even myself; I’d do it for Chuck.

  “I hope she’s asleep,” Gale said then.

  “I do too,” I answered.

  He nodded, said goodnight again, and left.

  I waited until I heard him climbing the stairs, then I got up and turned off the TV.

  A few hours later, when I went up to my room, I stopped in the hallway outside Chuck’s door and thought about opening it. I wasn’t thinking about going in or anything—I just wanted to take a look. I wanted to see what his life had been like since he and Barbara left me. But I just stood there in the dim glow of the bathroom’s night light and stared at the whorled pattern of the wood grain. Then I went to bed.

  I couldn’t sleep, so I laid there awake. The longer I laid there, the more I started to wish I’d drunk some of Gale’s liquor after all. But I couldn’t take a drink, not until the funeral was over. Even if I had to stay awake all night, even if I had to get the shakes, I wasn’t going to drink anything. I wanted to show Chuck I could do it; I wanted to prove to him I wasn’t a drunk or a bad father.

  So I laid there, trying not to think about drinking or Chuck. I thought about Betty and my new job at the Swift plant, and I wondered how long it’d be before I lost both. But thinking about Betty and my job only made me think of Barbara and the fights we had the winter I was laid off. I saw Chuck sitting on the old flowered couch, watching TV, pretending he didn’t hear us fighting, and I remembered how I turned on him and shouted, “Don’t just sit there like you’re deaf and dumb” and how he swallowed like he was afraid I’d hit him and said, “Okay, Dad.” And I remembered my lie about Mount Rainier again, I saw Chuck’s lips trembling as he looked down at his boots and tried not to cry, and I felt like something inside me was falling off that cliff with the pebble he flicked over the edge. Then I tried to think about something else, it didn’t matter what. I made myself remember my home town, the neighborhood I grew up in, and who lived in each of the houses on our street. I went down the block: the white two-story with the wraparound porch was the Petersons’; the squat brick house was the Randalls’; the rust-brown house was Old Man Roenicke’s. But I couldn’t remember who lived in the stucco house at the end of the block. Somehow it seemed so important that I remember. But there was nothing. The whole family was gone, as if it had never existed.

  I made myself think of something else. I tried to remember all the houses and apartments I’d lived in since I was a boy and their addresses and phone numbers. I tried to remember the names of my classmates in high school and some of the dates I learned back in history class. But it was no use. Everything kept getting confused in my mind—places, addresses, numbers, names. I sat up and put my head in my hands.

  Then I remembered Sheila, the red-haired waitress I was seeing when I first met Barbara. I hadn’t thought of her in years. If I’d married her, everything would’ve been different. We would’ve been living somewhere far away, maybe on a farm, a quiet place in the country, and we’d probably have a child, a daughter maybe, a tomboy just starting to wear dresses. She would be slim and freckled, like Sheila, and when she laughed she’d toss her head back and hold her sides. Sheila and I would sit on the porch steps and watch her do cartwheels on the lawn. We’d be happy, nothing bad would have happened. Chuck would not even have been born.

  I stood up then. I couldn’t lay there anymore; I had to have a drink. I’d only have one, or at the most two—just enough to help me sleep. If I didn’t get some sleep, I’d be worse at the funeral. And if I didn’t drink something soon, I’d get the shakes.

  But as I crept down the dark hallway, I heard something that stopped me. At first, I thought it was Barbara and Gale whispering, then I was sure it was the sound of them making love. I could’ve sworn I heard the sm
all gasp Barbara used to make when I entered her. I’d forgotten that sound, and it cut through me like a cold wind. I stood outside their door and strained to hear. After a moment, I heard the sound again, and this time I knew what it was. It was Barbara, trying to cry quietly, so she wouldn’t wake Gale.

  I leaned my head against the wall then, and wondered if she had ever cried like that when I was sleeping beside her. And whether Chuck had ever stood outside our room in the dark, listening.

  The next morning, when I went into the kitchen, Barbara was already there. She was wearing a yellow robe and drinking coffee from a blue enameled mug.

  “Good morning,” I said. I hadn’t slept all night, and I felt worse than if I’d had a hangover.

  “Gale’s not up yet,” she said, without looking at me. “I thought it best to let him sleep as long as he could.”

  I went to the counter and poured myself a cup of coffee. “That was good of you,” I said. There was a Cuisinart on the counter next to the Mr. Coffee. I glanced at her fridge and stove. Harvest Gold.

  I sat down at the table across from her. My head was throbbing and my eyes burned. I looked out the window. It was snowing, an easy snow, the kind that comes down peacefully and covers everything. The birdfeeder on the railing of the patio was already mounded over with snow. There weren’t any birds around.