by Todd Hafer
Murphy came to the final game and screamed himself hoarse from the Rockies’ dugout. After the game, Brett tried to give his no-hitter game ball to Murph, who politely refused it.
“You earned that, so keep it,” he said. “You guys already gave me the best gift I could imagine.”
Chapter 6
Danger in High Places
With baseball season officially over, Cody took a week off from doing anything more athletic than watching ESPN.
But he couldn’t stay on the couch long. He and Drew resumed their running, working up to an occasional eight-miler. And he finally kept a summer-long promise to Robyn that he would shoot hoops with her before high school started.
“Thanks for doing this, finally,” Robyn said, “being my rebounder.”
Cody caught Robyn’s twenty-third consecutive free throw as it whispered through the net at the Grant Park outdoor court.
He smiled at her. “Technically, I think you have to miss before I can officially be called your rebounder.”
“Well, let’s do some catch-and-shoots next. I need help on those. My shot really needs work.”
Cody shook his head. “Yeah, right. Is that what you told Alston this past basketball season?”
Robyn frowned. “He was mad about what I did, wasn’t he?”
“Let’s see, Hart. It’s the heart of hoops season. Coach Clayton brings you into practice because Alston has been talking so much trash about what a scoring machine he is. He has you two play H-OR-S-E, and you smoke him on seven shots. You don’t miss once. You don’t even get one letter. How do you think a guy with an ego that big is going to feel?”
“Maybe he’s going to realize his ego is bigger than his game. One needs to grow, the other needs to shrink.”
“I think he’s making some progress. Maturing a little.”
With that, Cody fired a chest pass to Robyn as she backed up to the top of the key. Her shot hit the front of the rim and she slapped herself on the thigh. Cody retrieved the ball and passed it to her again. This time the ball rattled through.
“Still not right,” she muttered.
“What? You have to swish every shot now?”
“Why not? Why not shoot for perfection?” Robyn moved to the right wing and banked in an eighteen-footer. “Dude, I can’t wait for my high school career to start. I just have to make varsity my freshman year. Nobody’s done that for, like, three years.”
“I hope you do. Me, I’ll be lucky to make the freshman team.”
“I don’t know, Cody. You have some skills. And you’re the best stopper around. I like the way you play D.”
Cody shrugged. “Thanks.”
“But you know what I like even more?”
“Chocolate?”
“Ha, ha, ha. No, idiot. It’s what you did for AJ Murphy. How you organized the baseball team to be there for him when he needed it most. It reminded me of how you stood up for Greta Hopkins this past year. You showed me something. More important, you’ve showed AJ and Greta something—God’s love.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do. You see, when I moved here in fourth grade, some kids made fun of me because of my glasses. I just wanted to cry. But then this skinny kid comes up and says, ‘Come on, you guys—how would you feel if you wore glasses and you got treated this way?’ Then this skinny kid introduces me to his friend Jill Keller, who becomes one of my best friends. That skinny kid made a difference for me. Now he’s done it for other people, too.”
Cody practiced a yo-yo pass, trying valiantly not to smile. “Man, I had forgotten all about that. That was a long time ago.”
“I remember. It’s not the kind of thing a girl forgets.”
“For real?”
“For real. Take Greta, for example. I can promise you she won’t forget what you did. Not in four years. Not in forty years.”
Cody nodded. He bounced a pass to Robyn on the left baseline. She head faked and then swished a fifteen-foot jumper.
Smiling, she said, “Finally. That’s more like it.”
Luke Martin sat cross-legged on the floor, a disemboweled vacuum in front of him. To the left of the machine was a cone-shaped pile of dirt that looked like a giant gray anthill.
Uh-oh, Cody thought. Dad’s trying to fix something. This can’t be good.
He remembered the time in fifth grade when he came home to find his mom pacing the kitchen, wringing her hands. Dad was under the sink—so far under that Cody could see only his legs protruding from the cabinet.
“Sweetheart, can you hand me the pipe wrench?” Cody had heard his dad call. “I’ll find that earring in no time.”
“Heaven help us,” Cody’s mom had whispered as she handed over the wrench.
It had taken every towel in the Martin household to sop up the water that cascaded onto the kitchen floor when Cody’s dad removed a section of pipe—without shutting off the water valves first.
Later, as Cody handed the heavy, dripping towels to his mom and she loaded them into the washing machine, she had told him, “I get so frightened when I see your dad with tools in his hands. I’m just thankful that we don’t own any power tools.”
Cody’s dad looked up from the vacuum project. “Hey, Code, what’s up? You okay?”
Cody sighed. “I guess so. I was just thinking back on the Murphy funeral. I mean, Murph was really surprised to see the whole team show up. I could tell he was glad we were there. But it brought back hard memories for me, about Mom. Memories I’m having a hard time shaking.”
His dad nodded. “I was afraid that might happen. Nonetheless, you did the right thing.”
“I know. I’m glad we were there for Murph. I can’t imagine how tough it is for him. He’s kind of quiet, and I don’t know if he has any close friends here.”
“Well, you were a good friend to him. I’m proud of you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that before. Most kids who have gone through what you have would be thinking about themselves when that Dreaded Death Anniversary came up. But you reached out. You were unselfish. Just like your mom was. It must feel good to do what you did.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But what?”
“I don’t know if I can explain it, Dad.”
“You can try.”
“Well, I thought that if I could get through the, uh, anniversary, I would start to feel better about things. Like I had reached a goal or something. That I could have—I don’t know—peace.”
Cody’s dad set down his screwdriver and popped to his feet. He put both hands on Cody’s shoulders and studied his face. “Finding peace can take a long time. Sometimes I think I’ve found it, but then I start to think about what we lost, and I get angry all over again—confused, hopeless. They say grief is a process, but it’s not a smooth process. Maybe you can relate?”
“Kind of, Dad. But what’s bugging me most is that I still feel like I let her down.”
“Let her down? No way, Son. Think of all you’ve accomplished this year. Shutting out East in football. Making the all-tournament team in basketball, winning your first race in track. And standing up for that poor girl—Gertrude, was it?”
Cody smiled. “Greta. Her name is Greta, Dad.”
“Yeah, that’s right. Standing up for her to those bullies at your school—that took courage. I know your mom is more proud of you for that than for any of the athletic stuff, or your straight-B average in school. Son, when I think about it all—the baseball no-hitter, your thoughtfulness, all of it—I don’t understand how you can possibly say you let anyone down, especially your mom.”
Cody felt a hot tear slide down his cheek. “But I couldn’t say a word at her service. I wanted so bad to tell that churchful of people what an awesome person she is, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to get three words out without breaking down. She did so much for me, and I just want to do something for her. To honor her, you know, just like the commandment says.”
“Just a minute,” his dad said, frowning thought
fully. “I’ll be right back.”
Luke Martin disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom and returned with something cupped in his hands. “Here,” he said, extending his hands to Cody.
Cody reached out to accept the small maroon velvet bag tied with a matching ribbon. He opened it. For a moment he was puzzled. “So, Dad, you’re giving me a bag of rocks and dir—oh, hold on. Is this—”
His dad nodded. “Yes, Son. When your mom was…well, you know. I saved some of her ashes. Some for me. Some for you. On Saturday, August third, I drove to the park, where she and I used to picnic, and scattered them on her favorite hill. I thought you might want to do something, as well. I was waiting for the right time to give this to you. But with the tournament and the Murphy funeral and your injury—I admit, I kind of forgot for a while. I’m sorry.”
Cody held the bag in his open palm. It was heavier than he expected. It’s more like stones and sand, he thought. I always figured the ashes were like the ones from a cigarette or a campfire.
Swallowing hard, his dad said, “Anyway, Code, take some time. Think about what you’d like to do.”
Cody nodded. “I will, Dad. But I think I already know.”
Standing on a sidewalk in downtown Manitou Springs, Cody felt Blake’s and Chop’s eyes on him, studying him. Finally his teammate let out a long, slow whistle, like the kind a kid makes to mimic the sound of a bomb falling. “Dude, this is the craziest thing you’ve ever attempted. A fourteen-thousand-foot mountain, an eight-thousand-foot gain in elevation? I mean, whoa! But it’s also the coolest thing.”
Cody reached his arms high above his head and stretched. “Thanks, Chop. Mom loved Pikes Peak. Admired it. But she never got to the top. She wanted to hike it, but that never worked out. Then, when she first started feeling bad, we planned to drive to the top, on the Pikes Peak Highway. But she got nauseated less than halfway up. It was disappointing because she wanted to see that view. She would always say, ‘You know, that panorama inspired the song “America the Beautiful.”’ And I’d go, ‘Really? Cool.’ Anyway, I know she’d approve.”
“Yeah,” Chop whispered.
“Now all I have to do is make it to the top. Man, I’ve never even run ten miles on a flat course. Don’t know how I’m going to do thirteen up a mountain. But I have to try.”
Blake walked over to Cody and draped his arm around his shoulder. “You sure you don’t want company? I’m not in that great of shape, but—”
“Nah, thanks, B. I gotta do this alone. Besides, if I wouldn’t let Drew Phelps come with me, what makes you think I’d even consider dragging your over-the-hill carcass along?”
Blake looked as if he were going to protest, but he stopped himself. “Okay, then. I’m gonna buy Chop dinner, maybe see a movie, and then we’ll drive to the summit and see you there in about four and a half hours.”
“I hope so,” Cody said solemnly. “I sure hope so.”
He took a deep breath, said his trademark “Help!” prayer, and began the third-of-a-mile trot that would take him to the head of Barr Trail. The bit of extra distance would make the run exactly thirteen miles. On the drive from Grant to Manitou, he had explained to Blake and Chop, “I have to do thirteen miles, because thirteen is supposedly an unlucky number. And Mom didn’t believe in unlucky numbers. So when I run the distance and scatter her ashes at the top of the mountain, I think, finally, it will be the right tribute to her.”
He felt the sports drink in the three water bottles on his running belt slosh as he headed up the wooden steps that marked the official beginning of Barr Trail.
Soon he came to a series of steep switchbacks that swung rhythmically back and forth. He used the end posts of a series of thick log fences to slingshot himself up each section of trail. Before long, the hum of Manitou traffic was behind him, and the only noises were the occasional chirp of a bird and the sound of his running shoes scuffing over dirt and gravel. He kept his eyes focused forward and slightly down, watching for the embedded rocks and baseball-bat-thick tree roots that Drew had warned him about.
A half hour into the run, he patted a pocket of his belt to ensure that his father’s cell phone—and three energy bars—were still there. Then he slid his hand to a smaller pocket to check the small velvet bag with his mom’s ashes.
At forty minutes Cody reached the Nose Rock, a huge piece of stone that looked as if it could serve as the nose for one of the guys on Mount Rushmore, if his current one fell off for some reason.
At the one-hour mark Cody reached French Creek, about four miles into the run, and began munching on the first energy bar. “If you wait until you’re really hungry to eat,” Drew had told him, “you’ve waited too long.” The bar tasted like a shoe. Except a shoe would probably have more flavor, Cody thought. But as long as it gives me energy, I guess I’ll let the taste thing slide.
As he trudged through Barr Camp, just past the halfway point, Cody felt a sense of panic begin to rise in him, starting in his ASICS-clad feet, then drifting upward like smoke to his gut, his heart. He was exhausted. He still had miles of steep, rocky ground to cover. And the air was getting thinner.
Breathing hard, Cody dialed his cell phone. He looked at his watch as he listened to the faraway, gurgling ring.
“B,” he said when he heard Blake answer, “I’m doing okay. Already through Barr Camp. But you and Chop better make it about five hours, not four-point-five. I’m hurting a little, running out of gas.”
“You gonna be okay? I’m concerned. Are your ribs starting to bother you again?” Blake’s voice sounded as if it were coming from another world. A world inhabited by sane people who didn’t embark on adventures for which they weren’t remotely qualified.
“Nah, I’m okay and everything. Not hurt, only tired. This is just harder than I thought. Way harder. But if I slow down, I think I’ll be all right.”
“Good strategy. And you remembered to refill your water bottles at Barr Camp, right?”
Cody swallowed hard. “Uh—”
“Dude, if you’re not too far beyond the camp, you need to get back there, okay? You don’t want to be getting dehydrated at fourteen thousand feet!”
“B, you’re right that I should go back. Sorry. I just forgot.”
Cody clicked off the phone. “There’s no way I’m going back,” he muttered. “I can’t go backward at this point. Besides, I still have almost a bottle and a half left. And, who knows, maybe it’ll rain.”
As Cody climbed toward the A-frame lean-to that marked the ten-mile point of his journey, he encountered a series of switchbacks again. They seemed endless. Every time he crested one of them, hoping for a section of level ground, he rounded a corner, only to find another steep climb ahead, taunting him. The increasingly rocky terrain added to his woes. His feet ached from traversing the sharp, unforgiving rocks that jutted from the trail.
He guessed he was about a mile from the A-frame when, for the first time, he found himself gasping desperately for breath. Each time he inhaled, it was like taking a gulp from a canteen—and finding it held only a drop of water.
Finally he saw the A-frame, perched at the edge of Dismal Forest, so named because it was littered with bristlecone pine trees that had been struck by lightning.
Well, Cody thought, trying to reassure himself, at least I haven’t seen any lightning. I might suffocate, but at least I won’t get fried by a lightning bolt.
As he left Dismal Forest behind, he noticed light fog settling in around him. No problem, he told himself. It’s windy. That’ll blow this stuff away.
However, just as he dribbled the last few drops of water bottle number two into his mouth, he found himself engulfed in fog so thick that he had to stop. It reminded him of when he took a hot shower after a workout and filled his small bathroom with so much steam that he had to feel his way to find the sink or the towel rack.
Cody narrowed his eyes, straining to see the trail ahead of him—and which way it would bend and climb next. Carefully he began walking i
n what he felt was the right direction. He knew he had failed when his right foot slid off some scree at the trail’s edge and he tumbled downward. He felt himself roll three times before a large boulder, which he smacked into with his left side, stopped him.
Hmmm, he thought grimly. And here I thought my bruised ribs were all healed. Apparently not. Or maybe it’s “not anymore.”
He rose slowly to his feet. He reached for his third water bottle—and felt cold panic slither up his spine when he discovered it wasn’t there. He would have swallowed hard, but he couldn’t muster up enough saliva.
“This is not good,” he admitted aloud, gasping. I still have three miles to go, he thought, and I’m getting dehydrated. Man, I can’t believe it. Here I am, trying to carry Mom’s ashes to the top of the mountain, and I just might die in the process. That would be just too—What was the word? Ironic. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely. “Ironic.”
Cody grabbed his cell phone. Holding it inches from his face, he struggled to discern the numbers. He wasn’t sure if it was due to fog or fatigue. He slid his fingers along the keypad, dialing by feel more than sight. Pressing the phone to his ear, he waited. He heard nothing. Maybe I can’t get a signal, he reasoned. Or maybe I broke the phone when I fell. Oh well, at least there’s someone I can always connect with.
“God,” he pleaded, “I’m scared. I admit it. Please help me. I know I need to go up, but I’m not sure where up is.”
He waited for a few moments, leaning into the wind and staring hard at the milky fog in front of him. For a moment he caught a glimpse of a sliver of trail. Energized, he began walking again. Soon his eyes fell upon a trail marker.
Cool, he thought. The marker will point the direction of the trail and maybe tell me how far I have to go. Thank you, Lord!
He reached the marker and stopped, waiting for his eyes to focus. He heard himself laughing grimly as he read the brief tribute to G. Inestine Roberts, who had died near this spot during her fourteenth ascent of the peak. Well, he told himself, that’s encouraging.
