The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  He helped her with her bag. “Be my pleasure.”

  He stowed our luggage behind the rear seat, and my curiosity got the better of me. “Any storage space in the tail?”

  He opened a small door near the rear of the tail and smiled. “Currently in use.” He pointed to a bright orange battery-powered gizmo. “It’s called an ELT.”

  “You sound like a doctor, speaking in acronyms.”

  “Emergency Landing Transmitter. If we crash-land, and that thing experiences more than thirty pounds of impact pressure, it sends out a tone on emergency frequency 122.5. That lets other planes know we’ve had a bit of trouble. Flight service picks up the signal, sends out a couple of planes, triangulates our position, and sends in the cavalry.”

  “Why’d it take them so long to find Steve Fossett’s plane?”

  “ELTs are not designed to survive impacts that occur at over 200 mph.”

  “Oh.”

  We climbed into the plane, and he shut the door behind us and cranked the engine while Ashley and I put on the headsets hanging above our seats. He was right. It was tight. Hip-to-hip.

  We rolled out of the hangar, where he sat flicking more switches and moving the stick between his knees and adjusting knobs. I’m not a plane person, but Grover looked to me like he could fly that thing in his sleep. Two dash-mounted GPS units sat on either end of the control panel.

  I’m naturally curious, so I tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. “Why two?”

  “Just in case.”

  I tapped him again. “Just in case what?”

  He laughed. “One quits on me.”

  While he was going through his preflight, I dialed my voice mail. One message. I held the phone to my ear.

  “Hey…it’s me.” Her voice was low. Tired. Like she’d been sleeping. Or crying. I could hear the ocean in the background. The waves rhythmically rolling up on shore. That meant she was standing on the porch. “I don’t like it when you leave.” She took a deep breath. A pause. “I know you’re worried. Don’t be. In three months, this’ll all be forgotten. You’ll see. I’ll wait up.” She attempted a laugh. “We all will. Coffee on the beach. Hurry…I love you. It’ll all work out. Trust me. And don’t think for a minute that I love you any less. I love you the same. Even more. You know that…. Don’t be angry. We’ll make it. I love you. With all of me, I love you. Hurry home. Meet you on the beach.”

  I clicked the phone shut and sat staring out the window.

  Grover glanced at me out of the corner of his eye and gently pressed the stick forward, rolling us down the blacktop. He spoke over his shoulder. “You want to call her back?”

  “What?”

  He pointed at my cell phone. “You want to call her back?”

  “No…” I waved him off, slid it into my pocket, and stared out at the storm. “It’s okay.” I didn’t know how he’d heard anything over the drone of the propeller. “You’ve got pretty good ears.”

  He pointed at the microphone connected to my headset. “Your mike picked up her voice. Might as well have been listening to it myself.” He pointed at Ashley. “There are no secrets in a plane this small.”

  She smiled, tapped her earphones, and nodded, watching him work the controls.

  He slowed to a stop. “I can wait if you want to call her.”

  I shook my head. “No…really, it’s okay.”

  Grover spoke into his mike. “Control, this is one-three-eight-bravo, request permission to take off.”

  A few seconds passed. and a voice spoke through our headphones. “One-three-eight-bravo, you’re cleared for takeoff.”

  I pointed at the GPS. “Does that unit show the weather radar?”

  He punched a single button, and the screen switched to something resembling what we’d seen on the weather channel in the terminal. The same green blob was moving left to right, encroaching on us. He tapped the screen. “That there is a doozy. A lot of snow in that green cloud.”

  Two minutes later we were airborne and climbing. He spoke over the microphone to both of us. “We’ll climb to 12,000 feet and cruise about fifty miles southeast across the San Juan Valley toward Strawberry Lake. Once she’s in sight we’ll turn northeast, head across the High Uintas Wilderness Area and then descend to Denver. Flight time is a little more than two hours. Sit back, relax, and feel free to move about the cabin. In-flight meal and entertainment service will begin immediately.”

  Sardines had more room than the two of us.

  Grover reached into the door pocket, passed two bags of smoked almonds over his shoulder, and began singing “I’ll Fly Away.”

  He cut the song midsentence. “Ben?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long you been married?”

  “Got married fifteen years ago this week.”

  Ashley piped up. “Tell the truth…is it still exciting or just ho-hum?” There was more to her question than just the question.

  Grover laughed. “I’ve been married almost fifty years, and trust me, it gets better. Not worse. Not dull. I love her more today than the day we married, and I thought that impossible when I was standing in that July sun with sweat running down my back.”

  She looked at me. “How ’bout it? Got any plans?”

  I nodded. “Thought I’d bring her some flowers. Open a bottle of wine and watch the waves roll up on the sand.”

  “You still bring her flowers?”

  “Every week.”

  She turned sideways, lowering her head, raising one eyebrow, which pulled up one side of her lip—doing that thing women do when they don’t believe a word you’re saying. “You bring your wife flowers every week?”

  “Yep.”

  Grover piped in. “’Atta boy.”

  The journalist in her surfaced. “What’s her favorite flower?”

  “Potted orchids. But they’re not always blooming when you need them, so if I can’t get her an orchid, then I go to this shop not too far from the hospital and buy whatever is blooming.”

  “You’re serious?”

  I nodded.

  “What does she do with all the orchids?” She shook her head. “Please don’t tell me you just pitch them.”

  “I built her a greenhouse.”

  A single eyebrow lifted. “A greenhouse?”

  “Yep.”

  “How many orchids you have?”

  I shrugged. “Last time I counted, 257.”

  Grover laughed. “A true romantic.” He spoke over his shoulder. “Ashley, how’d you meet your fiancé?”

  “The courtroom. I was writing a story about a celebrity trial in Atlanta. He served as opposing counsel. I interviewed him, and he invited me to dinner.”

  “Perfect. Where’re you two going on your honeymoon?”

  “Italy. Two weeks. Starting in Venice and ending in Florence.”

  Turbulence shook the plane.

  She turned the questioning back toward Grover. “Just curious, Mr….?” She snapped her fingers.

  He waved her off. “Call me Grover.”

  “How many hours have you logged in the air?”

  He dipped the plane hard right, then pulled back on the stick, shooting us upward and sending my stomach into my throat. “You mean can I get you to Denver and your wedding without dipping the nose into a mountain?”

  “Yeah…something like that.”

  He rocked the wheel, left then right, dipping each wing. “Including or not including time spent in the military?”

  White-knuckled, I latched a death grip on the handle above my head.

  Ashley did likewise and said, “Not.”

  He leveled out, smooth as a tabletop. “’Bout 15,000.”

  Her hand relaxed. “And including?”

  “Somewhere north of twenty.”

  I exhaled and let go of the handle. The inside of my fingers were red. He spoke to both of us. I could hear the smile in his voice.

  “You two feel better now?”

  His dog crawled out from under his se
at, hopped up on his lap, and stared over his shoulder at us. Snarling and twitching like a squirrel on steroids. His body was one massive, rippled muscle, but his legs were only four or five inches long. Looked like somebody had cut him off at the knees. He commanded a lot of personal space, and reading his body language told me that this cockpit was his space.

  Grover again. “You two, meet Tank. My copilot.”

  “How many hours has he got?” I asked.

  Grover’s head tilted, and he was quiet a minute. “Somewhere between three and four thousand.”

  The dog turned and stared out through the windshield. Satisfied, he hopped down off of Grover’s lap and curled back into his hole beneath the seat.

  I leaned forward slightly, staring over the top of his seat to watch Grover’s hands. Gnarled. Meaty. Dry skin. Big knuckles. Wedding ring thin around the edges. It hung loosely around the base of his finger, but probably needed dishwashing soap to get it around the knuckle.

  “How long will it take us to get there?”

  He slid a silver pocket watch from his shirt, clicked it open with one hand. A woman’s picture was taped to the inside of the cover. He then stared at his instruments. His GPS gave him estimated arrival time, but I got the feeling he was double-checking his instruments. Something he’d done a lot. He clicked the watch shut. “Given our crosswind…right at two hours.”

  The picture I’d glimpsed was tattered and cracked, but even faded she was beautiful.

  “You got kids?”

  “Five, and thirteen grandchildren.”

  Ashley laughed. “You been busy.”

  “At one time.” He smiled. “Three boys. Two girls. Our youngest is probably older than you.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Ben, how old are you?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  He spoke again. “And you, Ashley?”

  “Don’t you know you’re never supposed to ask a lady her age?”

  “Well, technically I’m not supposed to put two people in that backseat, but I’m old-school and it’s never stopped me and you two seem to be doing just fine.”

  I tapped him on the shoulder. “What’s the deal with one or two people?”

  “The FAA has stated from on high that I’m only allowed one person in that backseat.”

  Ashley smiled and stuck a finger in the air. “So this isn’t legal?”

  He laughed. “Define legal.”

  She stared out the glass. “So when we land…are we going to the terminal or to jail?”

  He laughed. “Technically, they don’t know you’re on this plane, so I doubt they’ll be waiting to arrest you. If they do, I’ll tell them you kidnapped me and I’d like to press charges.”

  She looked at me. “I feel better.”

  He continued. “This plane is designed to fly low and slow. Because of that I fly under a VFR designation, meaning ‘visual flight rules.’”

  I didn’t understand any of this. “Which means?”

  “Which means I don’t have to file a flight plan as long as I plan to fly by sight. Which I am. Which means what they don’t know won’t hurt them. So?” His head was cocked back, looking in Ashley’s direction. “Your age?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  He looked at his instrument panel and then eyed one of the two GPS units and shook his head. “Wind drift is killing us. This is a big storm coming in. It’s a good thing I know where I’m going; otherwise we’d be way off course.” He laughed to himself. “Youngsters. Both of you. Your whole life before you. What I wouldn’t do to be thirtysomething, knowing what I know now.”

  The two of us sat quietly in the back. Ashley’s disposition had changed. More pensive. Less charming. I wasn’t all that comfortable knowing I’d just put her in a precarious position.

  Grover picked up on it. “Don’t you two worry. It’s only illegal if you get caught, and I’ve never been caught. In a couple hours you’ll be on the ground and on your way.” He coughed, cleared his throat, and laughed some more.

  The night sky shone through the Plexiglas above my head. The stars looked close enough to touch.

  “All right, you two.” Grover paused, checking his instruments. He coughed again.

  I’d heard it the first time, but it was the second time that caught my attention.

  He said, “Given that we’re trying to outrun that storm over your left shoulder and given the wind drift and given that we’ve got a pretty good tailwind now and given that I don’t carry oxygen, we’ve got to stay below 15,000 feet or you’ll land with a headache.”

  Ashley said, “I hear a so coming.”

  “So,” Grover continued, “hold on because we’re coming up on the Uintas.”

  “You-what-as?”

  “The High Uintas Wilderness. Largest east-to-west mountain range on the continent, home to 1.3 million acres of uncivilized wilderness, gets five to seven hundred inches of snow a year—more in some of the higher elevations. More than seven hundred lakes, some of the best fishing and hunting anywhere.”

  “Sounds remote.”

  “Ever see the movie Jeremiah Johnson?”

  “One of my favorites.”

  He pointed down. Nodded longingly. “That’s where they filmed it.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding.”

  The ride was starting to get bumpy. My stomach jumped into my throat. “Grover? You know those 3-D theme park rides that move but don’t go anywhere?”

  He rolled the stick toward his left knee. “Yep.”

  “I call them vomit comets. Is this going to be one of those?”

  “Nothing to it. Feels like little more than a roller-coaster ride. Nice and easy. You should actually enjoy it.”

  He stared out the glass and we did likewise. The dog jumped up on his lap.

  “In the middle is a national forest that’s designated a wilderness, which means there are no motorized vehicles of any kind allowed. Hence, it’s one of the more remote places on the planet. More Mars than Earth. Tough to get out of and hard as nails to get into. If you robbed a bank and were wanting to hide, it’d be a great place to do it.”

  Ashley laughed. “You speaking from experience?”

  Another cough. Another laugh. “I plead the fifth.”

  The wilderness spread out beneath us. “Grover?”

  “Yep.”

  “How far can we see right now out the windshield?”

  He paused. “Maybe seventy miles, give or take.”

  There was not a single light in any direction.

  “How many times have you made this run?”

  He tilted his head. “A hundred or more.”

  “So you could do it with your eyes closed?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Good, ’cause if we get any closer to the snowcapped peaks beneath us, they’ll scrape off the bottom of the plane.”

  “Naw…” He was playing with us. “We got a good hundred feet. Although it will pucker up your butt if you start looking at them.”

  Ashley laughed. Grover pulled a sleeve of Tums from his shirt pocket, popped two, started chewing, and coughed again. He tapped his chest, covered his microphone, and burped.

  I tapped him on the shoulder. “Tell me about your bum ticker. How long you been coughing and popping antacids?”

  He pulled back on the stick, bringing the nose up, and we climbed, rose up over what looked like a plateau, and skirted between two mountains. The moon appeared out the left glass. Shining down on a world blanketed in white.

  He was quiet a minute, looking right, then left. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Ashley answered for all of us. “Surreal.”

  “Doc,” Grover started, “I saw my cardiologist last week. He’s the one recommended the antacids.”

  “Did you have the cough then?”

  “Yep, it’s why my wife sent me.”

  “They run an EKG?”

  “Yep. All clear.”

  “Do yourself a favor and go back. Might be nothing. But mig
ht be something, too.”

  “Think I should?”

  “I think it’d be worth another look.”

  He nodded. “I live by a couple simple rules. One of those is that I stick to what I’m good at and I give people credit at sticking to what they’re good at.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  “Probably can’t get in tomorrow, but maybe the middle part of the week. That soon enough?”

  I sat back. “Just get in this week. Deal?”

  Ashley interrupted us. “Tell me about your wife.”

  We were rolling across mountaintops with precision. Grover was quiet a moment, then spoke, his tone lower. “A Midwest girl. She married me when I had nothing but love, dreams, and lust. Gave me children, stuck with me when I lost everything, believed me when I told her we’d be okay. No offense to present company, but she’s the most beautiful woman on the planet.”

  “None taken. So, got any advice for a girl forty-eight hours from walking down the aisle?”

  “When I wake up in the morning, she’s holding my hand. I make the coffee, and then she sits with her knees touching mine while we drink it.”

  Grover liked talking, so we let him. Not that we had a choice.

  He took his time. “I don’t expect you to get all this.” He shrugged. “Maybe one day. We’ve been married a long time, seen a lot, experienced much, but loving somebody gets better the more you do it. You might think an old man like me doesn’t get fired up when she walks across the bedroom in a faded flannel gown, but I do. And she does for me, too.” He laughed. “Although I don’t wear flannel gowns.

  “Maybe she ain’t as perky as she was in her twenties, maybe her skin sags behind her arms and down the back of her butt. Maybe she’s got some wrinkles she don’t like, maybe her eyelids droop, maybe her underwear ain’t as small as it used to be, maybe all that’s true…but I don’t look like the man in our wedding pictures either. I’m sort of a white-haired, wrinkled, slower, sunburnt reflection of that boy. It may sound cliché-ish, but I married a woman who fits me. I’m one half of a two-piece puzzle.”

  Ashley spoke again. “What’s the best part?”

  “When she laughs…I smile. And when she cries, tears roll down my cheeks.” He nodded. “I wouldn’t trade that for…for nothing.”

  The drone of the motor vibrated the plane as we rolled over mountaintop and across valley. Grover pointed at the GPS and then out the glass, waving his hand across the earth. “Spent my honeymoon down there. Hiking. Gayle loves the outdoors. We go back every year.” He laughed. “Now we drive a Winnebago. Sleep under heated blankets. Electric coffeemaker. Really roughing it.”