The Mountain Between Us

by Charles Martin

  I knelt, hands held out, and began peeling off the fraying denim. Neither of us spoke. With my hands free, I pulled off my wet coat and jacket, sat next to her, put my arms around her shoulders and hugged her.

  We’d caught a break, and doing so had pushed back the hopelessness that was crowding in, choking the life out of us.

  AFTER THE FIRE BLED out the cold, I climbed the stairs and searched the bunks. All were empty except one. A single twin foam mattress, six inches thick and partially chewed around the edges, lay wedged and half folded over in a corner. I dusted it off, beat it against the railing, filling the air with dust, dragged it downstairs, turned it over, and laid it in front of the fire. Napoleon immediately took his place at the end closest to the fire and curled into a ball.

  In the three minutes I’d been gone, the fireplace had heated the area around it.

  I pulled out my bag, laid it on the mattress, then unzipped Ashley’s bag and slowly helped her lift herself from her bag to mine. She was weak and needed help to get across. I propped her head on my pack, unbuckled the leg brace, helped her out of her clothes, and hung them across a pew.

  With Ashley dry and warm, I started pulling off my wet clothes and spreading them across the pew. Then I dug in my pack and pulled on the only dry piece of clothing I had. A pair of Jockey athletic underwear Rachel had given me years ago. She’d given them to me as a joke, but they functioned well.

  Then I eyed the kitchen.

  It filled an area of space to the left of the stairs and contained two large black cast-iron woodburning stoves. A single black pipe led from the back of each and out through the wall. Several long preparation tables sat in the middle, and a long stainless steel sink lined the other wall, ending in a tall, white, gas hot water heater. The whole thing looked like it was effective at serving large amounts of food for lots of people.

  I tried the faucet, but the water had been turned off, and when I looked beneath the hot water heater the pilot light wasn’t lit. I tried to shake the hot water heater, but it was full and wouldn’t budge. I grabbed the matches from the fireplace, turned on the gas, smelled propane, and lit the pilot light. I stacked the stove with wood, lit it, and adjusted the damper to feed air to the fire. I filled a huge pot with snow, packed it tight, and filled it again, then placed it atop the stove.

  On the far left wall stood a rather menacing-looking door. Large hinges, bolt, and padlock gave the do-not-enter impression. I pulled. No luck. I returned to the fireplace, grabbed the steel poker, which was every bit of six feet long and thicker than my thumb, and wedged it into the lock. I put my weight into it, pulled once hard, pulled a second time harder, then repositioned it and pulled again. While the lock didn’t break, the hinge did.

  I swung open the door.

  On the left side there were a few paper napkins, a couple hundred paper plates, and maybe a thousand paper cups. On the right I found an unopened box of decaffeinated tea bags and one two-gallon can of vegetable soup.

  That was it.

  I tied on an old apron that looked like it had been used at one time to clean the stoves and scanned the can of soup for the expiration date. Not that it really mattered, but it was still a few months from expiring. Ashley lay in front of the fire, propped on one elbow. Thirty minutes later she snapped her fingers, whistled, and waved me over. I stepped out of the kitchen area.

  “Yes.”

  She waved again. I walked within a few feet. She shook her head and waved me over. “Closer.”

  “Yes.”

  “That…is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.”

  “What…me?”

  She turned up a lip, waved me out of the way, and pointed at the stove. “No, dummy. That!”

  I turned and looked at the kitchen. “What?”

  “The steam coming off that pot of soup.”

  “You need help.”

  “I’ve been telling you that for about sixteen days.”

  AN HOUR LATER, slowly chewing each piece of potato and savoring each chunk of steak, she looked at me, soup dripping off her chin, and mumbled, “What is this place?”

  I’d given Napoleon a bowl of soup with a few chunks, which he’d inhaled. He now lay curled up at my feet, contentment on his face.

  I shook my head. “Some sort of high alpine camp. Boy Scouts maybe.”

  She took a sip of tea and turned up her lip. “Who would make, much less drink, decaffeinated tea? I mean, what is the use?” She shook her head. “How do you think they get up here?”

  “Don’t know. All this stuff had to get up here somehow, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t stick those iron stoves on their backs and just pack them up here. When my clothes dry, I’ll see if I can get into the other buildings. Maybe find something.”

  She took another bite. “Yeah, like more food.”

  Two bowls later, we both lay in front of the fire. Not hungry for the first time in several days. I held my cup in the air. “What should we toast?”

  She held out her cup, too full to sit up. “You.”

  She was still really weak. Tonight’s dinner was good, but we’d need a few more days to start making up for what she and I had spent getting here. I stared out the window. The snow was falling thick. A total whiteout. I set down my cup, rolled up my jacket, and placed it behind her head for a pillow. She grabbed my hand. “Ben?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I have this dance?”

  “If I try and move, I’ll throw up all over you.”

  She laughed. “You can lean on me.”

  I hooked my arms beneath her shoulders and lifted her gently. She slid up underneath me, finally standing. She wasn’t too steady so she hung on me, leaning her head against my chest. “I’m dizzy.”

  I moved to set her back down. She shook her head and extended her right hand into the air. “One dance.”

  I’d lost so much weight that my underwear was hanging low on my hips. Reminded me of some of the swimmers I’d seen. She was wearing a baggy T-shirt that needed to be burned, and her underwear sagged where her butt used to be. I held her hand and we stood without moving. Her head pressed against me. Our toes bumped.

  She laughed. “You’re skinny.”

  I held her hand high, slowly walking a circle around her. I studied us in the firelight. My ribs were showing. Her left leg was badly swollen, nearly half again the size of her right. The skin was taut.

  I nodded.

  Eyes closed, she was swaying. She didn’t look too steady on her feet. I stepped closer, wrapped my arms around her waist, holding her. She put her arms around my neck, wrapping them around my head. Her weight pressed down on my shoulders. She was humming a tune I couldn’t understand. She sounded drunk.

  I whispered, “Let’s not hear any more of this nonsense about me leaving you…going on alone. Deal?”

  She stopped swaying, turned her head sideways, ear to my chest. She let go of my hand and rested it between her chest and mine, pressing it flat. She was quiet several minutes. “Deal.”

  The top of her head came just above my chin. I leaned in, touched my nose to her hair, and breathed.

  After a few minutes, she said, “By the way…” She threw her eyes at me and tried not to smile. “What exactly…are you wearing?”

  The underwear Rachel had given me was bright, neon green. They were meant to be supportive and fit more like athletic briefs or bike tights, but given my weight loss, they hung a little loose. Now more boxer than brief. “I’m always…or was always making fun of Rachel and the underwear she chose to wear. I wanted Victoria’s Secret, something with a little imagination. She liked Jockey. All function and no form. One year for her birthday, I bought her this awful pair of granny panties. Couple of sizes too big, covered up half her torso, they were just gross. In retribution, she actually wore them…and to top things off, bought me these things.”

  Ashley raised both eyebrows. “They come with batteries?”

  The laughter felt good.

  “When Rac
hel gave them to me, she addressed the card to Kermit.”

  “I don’t think Kermit would be caught dead in those things.”

  “Yeah…well, I wear them sometimes.”

  “Why?”

  “To remind myself.”

  She laughed. “Of what?”

  “Among other things…that I have a tendency to take myself a little too seriously, and that laughter can heal the hurt places.”

  “Then…I’d wear them, too.” She nodded and chewed on her bottom lip. “’Course, you might want to get a T-shirt that says JUST SAY NO TO CRACK.”

  WHEN SHE GREW TIRED, I laid her down on her bag, propped her head up, and poured her some more tea. “Drink.” She sipped a few times. I elevated the broken leg, hoping to alleviate the swelling. It needed ice.

  I needed to look into those other buildings, find some food, maybe a map, maybe anything, but I was dead on my feet, it was dark outside, more snow was piling up against the window, and the fire had heated me to my core. I pulled on dry clothes. Finally, I was warm. And dry. And full.

  I laid my bag out across the concrete, patted Napoleon, who was snoring, and lay back.

  I was dozing off when it hit me that during all that dancing, when Ashley’s body leaned against mine, when the feeling of her as friend and woman had warmed me, that I hadn’t once thought of my wife.

  I stood, crept barefooted to the door and out into the snow, where I vomited from my toes. It was a while before I got up my nerve to talk.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Kermit here. Ashley says my underwear looks like it came with batteries. Given my recent weight loss, they’re a little big. Hanging off my hips a bit. They weren’t too flattering before, and they’re no better now.

  At three months the “pooch” started giving you trouble. I’d catch you staring in the mirror, looking at yourself out of the corner of your eyes. Not quite sure what to make of yourself. Hesitant to wear baggy clothes, but hesitant to wear anything tight either. Sort of that midway place. Not totally pregnant, but not not-pregnant either. A volleyball stuffed beneath your belly button. The Tom Hanks movie Castaway had come out, so we started calling the baby Wilson.

  Then it got really active. Doing laps on the inside of your rib cage. You’d page me. I’d call you back from the ER, a blue mask hanging off one ear. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  “Wilson wants to talk to you.”

  “Put him on.”

  You’d place the phone to your stomach. I’d talk to our son or daughter or whatever he or she was going to be. Then you’d tell me, “Ooh, I just felt a kick. I think we’ve got a soccer player in here.” Or, “Nope, nothing. Sleeping right now.”

  Four months in, I came home late on a Friday night. You were craving fried snapper. Hence, our reservation at The First Street Grill. I found you standing in the shower, rinsing shampoo out of your hair. You didn’t see me. I leaned against the doorframe, loosening my tie. Taking it in. The whole wet, pregnant, glowing picture that was you…and was mine.

  It was the sexiest, most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

  You caught me looking. “You better not let my husband catch you looking at me like that.”

  I smiled. “He’ll understand.”

  “Yeah? Just who are you?”

  “I’m…your doctor.”

  “You are?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have you come to doctor me?”

  I smiled, raised both eyebrows. “I’d say somebody already doctored you.”

  You laughed, nodded, pulled on my tie.

  Rachel…when I look back across my life, and look for the one moment where all the good moments culminated into one, it was there.

  And if God would open up time, let me go back, and live in one moment, it’d be that one.

  Well, the next one was pretty good too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dawn outside. Day seventeen. New snow piled high. Pulling on warm, dry clothes was worth its weight in gold. Ashley lay sleeping. Her face was flushed and she was muttering in her sleep, but she looked warm and, for the first time in weeks, not uncomfortable. I found the lever on the wall that supplied the hot water heater with water, broke it loose, and turned it on. Brown, rusty water spilled into the sink. I ran it until it turned clear, then cut it off and turned up the heat.

  A bath sounded like a good idea.

  I slid the hatchet into my belt, grabbed the bow, and set out in search of the other buildings. Well rested, Napoleon beat me to the door, nudged it, and jumped out into the snow. In the fresh powder, he sank to his belly then lay there grounded like a car stuck in ruts. I picked him up and cradled him. He growled at the snow as we walked. Flakes would land on his face, and he’d snap at them. I scratched his stomach and told him, “I like your attitude.”

  The morning was crisp, bitterly cold, and in some places had frozen the top layer of snow, which I broke through, knee-deep with every step.

  I made a mental note to start thinking again about snowshoes.

  There were seven buildings in all. One was a bathroom, split evenly between men’s and women’s. I found a few bars of soap and several rolls of toilet paper. None of the toilets or faucets worked, and if there was a water valve I couldn’t find it.

  Five were cabins—one-room A-frames, two stories, each with a woodburning stove, carpet on the floor, and a loft. One even had a reclining chair. All were unlocked.

  The seventh was a two-room cabin. Maybe the scoutmaster’s—or whoever was in charge. The back room had three bunks, each covered with a foam mattress. A thick, green, wool blanket lay folded at the end of each bed. Six in all. One even had a pillow. In a closet I found three folded white towels and a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle. The picture had been ripped off the cover, but I shook the box and it felt heavy with pieces. On the floor sat a steel lockbox, locked with two padlocks and secured to the floor.

  I hit it hard with the hatchet, busting one lock. I hit it again, busting the other. I lifted the lid. It was empty.

  In the front room sat two wooden chairs, a woodburning stove, and an empty desk with a squeaky chair. I opened the top drawer to find a tattered game of Monopoly.

  It took three trips to haul everything we needed—including the reclining chair. I was closing the door on the third trip when I noticed the most important piece.

  A bas-relief map hung thumbtacked to the wall. It wasn’t a map you’d use to navigate from place to place, didn’t even give distances—was more like something put together by a city municipality advertising the national parks or forests in its area and their proximity to nearby towns. It was a 3-D map with raised, white-capped, plastic mountains. Across the top it read in large letters HIGH UINTAS WILDERNESS. Along one side it read WASATCH NATIONAL FOREST. And in the right-hand corner were the words ASHLEY NATIONAL FOREST.

  Fitting, I thought.

  A small dialogue balloon with an arrow pointed to the center of the Ashley. It read FOOT AND HORSE TRAFFIC ONLY. NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES OF ANY KIND ALLOWED AT ANY TIME.

  Along the bottom, it read 1.3 MILLION ACRES OF WILDERNESS EXCITEMENT FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY.

  Evanston, Wyoming sat in the top left-hand corner with Highway 150 leading due south of it. In small letters across the highway it read CLOSED IN WINTER.

  Around the edges were animated pictures of guys on snowboards, kids skiing, girls on horseback, a father and son hunting moose, couples on snowmobiles, and several hikers with backpacks and walking sticks. It looked like something you’d print if you wanted to advertise all the outdoor activities in your area. Interstate 80 bordered the top of the map, running west to east from Evanston to Rock Springs. Highway 191 led due south out of Rock Springs to a town called Vernal. Highway 40 led west out of Vernal and ambled along the bottom of the map through several small towns before turning up, or northwest, and intersecting Highway 150, which ran north to Evanston.

  Somewhere in the middle of that plastic-capped mess inside the Ashley National Forest someone had
stuck a thumbtack, marked an X, and written WE ARE HERE in black pen.

  I pulled it off the wall, and Napoleon and I returned to the A-frame and the fire.

  As we were coming into the building, Napoleon spotted something on the snow and took off after it. I never saw it, and he was gone before I had a chance to tell him not to. He ran off into the trees snarling, his feet spewing snow.

  Ashley was still sleeping, so I dumped my goods, slid the chair in close to the fire, and checked the door for Napoleon, but all I could hear was a distant bark. I figured I didn’t need to worry too much about him. Of the three of us, he was probably the most able to take care of himself. In one sense, we were holding him back.

  I returned to the kitchen and built a fire in one of the cast-iron stoves. The sink had been welded out of either stainless steel or zinc and sat on legs as big around as my arm. The basin was deep and big enough to sit in. In fact, it was big enough for two people. The whole thing looked strong enough to support a house.

  I washed out the basin and filled it with water as hot as I could stand. When I sat in it, steam was rising off the top. It was one of the more magnificent moments I’d had in the last few weeks.

  I bathed, scrubbing every part of me twice. When I stepped out and dried off, the difference in pre- and postbath smell was noticeable. I stoked the fire, added wood, increasing the heat, plunged our clothes in the water, scrubbed each piece, and then hung them over the pew. I poured two mugs of tea and returned to Ashley, who had just begun to stir. I knelt, helped her sit up, and she sipped, cradling the mug between both hands.

  After her third sip, she sniffed the air. “You smell better.”

  “Found some soap.”

  “You bathed?”

  “Twice.”

  She set down her mug and offered me both hands. “Take me to it.”

  “Okay, but the hot water will increase the swelling. So we’ll need to ice it when you get out. Okay?”

  “Agreed.”

  I helped her hobble to the sink. She caught sight of her own legs and shook her head. “You didn’t happen to find a razor around here, did you? Even a rusty one would do.”