by Katy Regnery
Even after we’d left town, Mama mostly refused to talk about my father. The way her face would seize up whenever I mentioned him made me feel bad, and anyway, I gathered that she hadn’t known him all that well.
“He said he was from Indiana,” she told me once. “He said his parents were dead, and he’d used the money from sellin’ their house to buy his rig.”
My parents met while my mother was waiting tables at a café in East Millinocket. He’d pull off I-95 every few weeks and sit in her section, staying for hours and tipping her way too much. Over time, he started bringing little gifts, like pieces of jewelry—items that we discovered, years later, were trophies from his victims.
Mama was beautiful to me, but compared with a few of the much prettier teachers I’d had in school, I knew she was homely. But based on my thin memories and the one photo I’d kept, my father was handsome enough. I imagine the attention of a good-looking, flattering trucker was enough to sweep a naive country girl off her feet.
Once I asked her why he’d never hurt us. She stared at me a long time before replying that she didn’t know.
I guess he’d lived two lives.
“Gramp,” I say, looking up into his weary eyes. “What happens now?”
“Be strong for yore mama,” he says, patting my knee. “She don’t have much time. A handful of weeks. No more.”
Another sob escapes my throat, and I gnaw on my cheeks until I taste blood.
“After she’s gone, we’ll continue on here together, Cass. You’re safe here with me for as long as I’m alive. And I’ll teach you everythin’ I can to be certain that you’ll be able to protect yoreself after I’m gone.”
I cannot bear the thought of losing Gramp, so I push it from my mind. When I do, the grainy image of Adolf Hitler from the front of Mama’s book takes front and center in my head.
“What should I do about . . . the rest?” I ask, wondering about the possible demons that lie dormant inside me, that could spring to life at any time, making me into a monster like my father.
“I know it would ease her heart to know you’ll be careful, son.”
“Careful?”
“Live quiet,” says Gramp, using his preferred terminology for our isolated, off-the-grid lifestyle. His blue eyes hold mine like two life rings, and he nods sagely, comfortingly, patting my knee again. “Live quiet, and no matter what happens inside of you, you won’t never be able to hurt someone, Cassidy. It’s what yore mama would want.”
Live quiet.
Live quiet.
Live quiet.
“I promise,” I say.
“Good boy.”
I nod at him, vowing that the blood in my veins will never, ever infect another life.
I will live quiet.
And Paul Isaac Porter’s terrifying genes will die with me.
Brynn
Hope had instructed me to arrive at the parking lot by six o’clock and told me that before hiking Katahdin, I’d have to stop at the ranger station to:
1) declare my intention to hike,
2) share the route I planned to take, and
3) give my contact information, in case I should go missing on the trail.
An ominous thought.
Hope left for the airport at five thirty this morning, and ten minutes later my Uber car arrived at her house, ready to take me to the Roaring Brook Campground. Roaring Brook served as the trailhead for the Chimney Pond Trail, which would take me three and a half miles up to Chimney Pond. From there I could take the Saddle Trail, another two and a quarter miles, to the summit of Katahdin. It would be eleven and a half miles round trip and a hard climb for skinny, out-of-shape me, but Hope had promised that it was the route Jem would have chosen for me.
Staring out the window at early morning, misty Maine, I wonder if I will ever see Hope again, but something—no doubt the same feeling of farewell I experienced at dinner last night—tells me that I probably won’t. Our friendship had always been an extension of our mutual love for Jem. With his loss, so breaks our connection.
I also think about her words last night about letting go and moving on. The same sentiment I so abhor from my mother and various well-meaning friends struck a different chord with me coming from Hope, almost as though Jem himself was giving me permission, by proxy of his twin, to live again. To say goodbye.
Spying signs for the Roaring Brook parking lot, that feeling of farewell surges within me again and I reach into the outside pocket of my trail pack to touch Jem’s phone, safely inside the evidence bag.
Today I will bury that phone, still bearing his dried blood, somewhere on Katahdin, somewhere that feels right. I’m hoping that the mountain, or Jem’s spirit, will guide me to the right place.
While I acknowledge that burying a cell phone in a state park is an ethically gray area, I hope the universe will forgive me for leaving the small, thin, electronic device buried deep in the mountain woods. Some part of Jem needs to join his soul on Katahdin. And when I return to Roaring Brook this evening, I will bid farewell not only to Katahdin, but to Jem, who, I want to believe, would be happy to know that his final thoughts had led me full circle.
“Here we are,” says the driver, pulling over on the side of the road at the parking lot gates. “I don’t have a parking permit so this is as far as I go.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping from the backseat. I zip up my windbreaker, heft my pack onto my back, and trudge into the surprisingly crowded parking lot. Inside the pack that Hope helped me organize last night, I have day hike essentials: a Katahdin guidebook, a twenty-ounce water bottle, water-purification tablets, a first aid kit, a change of clothes, two pairs of thick socks, gloves, an extra waterproof windbreaker, a Bic Lighter, a Swiss Army knife, a small flashlight, rope, sunscreen, sunglasses, bug spray, wet wipes, two apples, a banana, and a six-pack of energy bars.
When hiking with Jem, I always noted a certain feeling of esprit de corps at trailhead parking lots. People from all over the world, from all walks of life, from all experience levels, come together in one place with one goal in mind: to summit a chosen peak. I understand why these were Jem’s people. Clusters of hikers gaze at maps together, spread out on the hoods of cars, glancing up at the bright blue sky and speculating aloud about whether the Knife Edge will be a possibility today. Others share food, water-purification tablets, or advice. Still others keep themselves separate from the group, their faces focused and intense as they plan to add another epic walk to their roster.
Knowing that this is likely the last arduous hike I will undertake for a long time, another wave of farewell melancholy washes over me as I head to the long line at the ranger station. Hope was right last night: I won’t miss this part of my potential life with Jem. I can admire the beauty of nature as much as the next person, but hiking and climbing? No. I like my creature comforts too much.
I get in line behind two girls, younger than me, who are chatting excitedly about the Appalachian Trail. Checking out the size of their packs—about four times bigger than mine—I realize that they are probably southbound through-hikers.
“Are you AT hikers?” I ask.
One of the two women, tall and fair, with a long, blonde French braid that drapes over her left shoulder, glances back at me.
“Sort of,” she answers with a warm grin, her English lightly sprinkled with what sounds like a German accent. “We’re sort of doing it our own way.”
Her friend, a petite brunette with short hair and a similar accent, chimes in. “If we were AT purists, we’d take the Hunt Trail, but it’s a Class 2 day today, so Saddle’s safer.”
“Class 2?” I ask.
The girls exchange a look.
“High wind up top. Possibility of rain later,” explains the blonde.
Ah. So not an ideal hiking day, despite the blue skies and bright sun.
The brunette gestures to my pack. “You should tighten the straps. Want a hand?”
“Oh,” I mumble. “Sure. Thanks.”
&n
bsp; “Hey, you’re not hiking alone, are you?” asks the blonde, her perfect eyebrows squishing up.
“Yeah.”
“You’re welcome to walk with us,” says the brunette, stepping away as she finishes my straps. “We’re doing the summit today, and tomorrow we’ll take on the 100-Mile Wilderness.”
“Wow,” I say as I look back and forth between the two girls. “That’s brave.”
The 100-Mile Wilderness is the most challenging, and arguably the most dangerous, part of the Appalachian Trail, mostly because, once you start walking, there are no towns or supplies for a hundred miles. No stores. No police. No hospitals. Nothing but the trail, lean-tos, and the woods.
The blonde laughs at my expression. “We figure it’ll take us about ten days. And then another twenty to get back to Williams.”
“Is that where you go to college?”
The girls nod in unison.
“We’re studying abroad this year.”
“This is our summer project.”
“The effects of long hikes on friendship?” I joke.
The brunette chuckles. “Two women on the AT. A firsthand experience.”
“I like it,” I say.
“So join us today,” says the blonde. “I’m Carlotta. This is Emmy.”
I hold out my hand, shaking theirs as we move up a few places in line. “Thanks. I appreciate the offer.”
“Room for one more?” asks a male voice from behind me.
I turn around to face a dark-haired man wearing a baseball cap and glasses, an olive-green T-shirt, and camouflage pants. His expression is eager, and when he leans forward, I can smell stale tobacco smoke caught in his unkempt beard.
“Huh?”
“I overheard you lovely ladies makin’ plans to walk together today. I’m solo too,” he says, his dark eyes lighting on Carlotta’s chest. They linger there for a moment, wider when he lifts them. “Maybe I could walk with you?”
Emmy darts a quick glance at Carlotta, then turns back to the man, her expression caught between wanting to be nice and not wanting some random man following us around.
“Umm, I think we’re all set.”
“I have lots of candy to share,” he says, opening his bag and dragging out two Snickers bars. He smiles and I note that his teeth are a medium-yellow color. “They call me Wayne.”
“Candy’s not a good energy source, Wayne,” notes Emmy.
Slowly, he puts the candy bars back in his pack, his smile fading.
“Thanks for the offer, but we’re having a girls’ day,” says Carlotta, taking a step forward in line and putting her back to Wayne.
“But I know this mountain,” he says, his tone taking on a wheedling edge. “I’m local, born over in Millinocket. I could help you.”
“We don’t need help,” says Carlotta, exasperation creeping into her voice, making her words clipped and more German. “We’re sort of doing our own thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” His expression changes from cajoling to cold in an instant. “But you invited her to go with you.”
“She’s a woman traveling alone,” explains Carlotta, crossing her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing.
“And I’m a man travelin’ alone.” He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes right back at her. He points a stubby finger back and forth between the girls. “You know what you are? Sexist.”
“Pardon me,” says Emmy, “but you don’t know us.”
“No! Pardon me!” he yells, thumping his palm against his chest. “Pardon me for thinkin’ that you’d include another single traveler in yore happy fuckin’ group. Fuckin’ bitches come to my mount—”
“Hey,” I caution. “There’s no need for—”
His eyes flick to me dismissively. “Shut up, Grandmaw. I’m talkin’ to the kids.”
I put my hands on my hips and step to the side, blocking the two teenage girls from him with my slight body. “You’re being a total jerk.”
“And you’re a bitch.”
“We’re done here, Wayne.”
“I just wanted company!” Wayne cries, raising his voice loud enough to attract some curious glances from other hikers in line.
“Then you should have brought your dog,” mutters Emmy under her breath prompting a giggle from Carlotta.
“Did you just call me a dog?” Wayne bellows, his face reddening and eyes bulging behind his glasses as he lurches toward tiny Emmy.
“I said you should have brought your dog!”
“Can you leave us alone, please?” asks Carlotta from behind me, her face unfriendly, her voice direct. “We’re not bothering you.”
“That’s for me to decide,” he yells, prompting more hikers to look over. “I’m just tryin’ to make friends, and this cunt called me a jerk!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Everything okay here?” asks a tall, blond, college-aged guy in front of us.
“It will be,” says Carlotta, hooking a thumb at Wayne, “when this creeper leaves us alone.”
The blond guy steps between Carlotta and Emmy, towering over them. “Hey, man. I think the ladies want you to back off.”
“Stay out of it,” hisses Wayne. “It’s none of yore goddamned business, junior.”
Blond College Guy steps between the girls, standing next to me, directly in front of Wayne. He spreads his legs and crosses his arms over his sizable chest. “I’m making it my business, pal. Shove off.”
“I’m not yore fuckin’ pal!”
“Got that right,” says Blond College Guy with a sneer.
“Motherfuckers like you are the problem with this country!” rants Wayne.
“Like me?”
“You think you own the whole goddamned world!”
“Dude, I’m about to get the ranger over here and have your ass hauled out of the park.
He takes a menacing step toward Wayne, lowering his arms and cracking his knuckles one by one. “You’re seriously annoying people.”
Wayne’s face reddens to the point of fury, and he bunches his fists by his side.
“Fuck you,” he snarls. “You’re just tourists in my dreams. Bear bait. Shit with legs. I hope Katahdin eats you up and spits you out in motherfuckin’ pieces!”
Then he turns and leaves the line, trudging back into the parking lot until I lose sight of him between a couple of SUVs.
“Wow!” says Carlotta, shaking her head in disbelief. “What a freak!”
Emmy chuckles, on tiptoe, still looking for traces of weird Wayne. “Heiliger Strohsack! What was that?”
“Just some crazy local,” says Blond College Guy, turning to face the girls. “By the way, I’m Kris.”
“Carlotta, Emmy, and . . .” She looks at me and giggles. “Oh, my God! I’m so sorry! I don’t know your name!”
“Brynn,” I say, shaking Kris’s hand. “I’m Brynn.”
He gestures to two guys in line ahead of the girls. “That’s Chad and that’s Mike. We go to Bennington.”
The guys turn around, offering grins and waves.
“My cousin went to Bennington last year!” says Emmy with a big smile.
“Small world,” says Kris, grinning down at her like she’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. “Where are you girls from?”
“Düsseldorf. But we go to Williams this year,” says Emmy.
“This is going to be fu-u-u-un,” says Carlotta, looking back and forth between Kris and Emmy before winking at me.
And suddenly I feel like I’m about one hundred years old instead of thirty. Maybe I should tell them to go ahead with the boys, without me, and let them enjoy the rush of meeting people your age—and as beautiful as you—on a sunny summer day.
But then I remember the look in Wayne’s eyes when he called us “tourists in my dreams.”
I nod at Carlotta and smile back, grateful not to be alone.
“Yeah. Totally fun.”
Cassidy
Present Day
“Hey, Mama,” I say, placing a cluster of mountain laurel on
the large, smooth stone Gramp and I used to mark her grave. She’s buried about half a mile from my cabin, not far from Harrington Pond, where she used to take me for summer picnics. “Miss you.”
Beside her grave, there is a slightly larger stone marking the spot where I buried my grandfather, ten years ago today. He died three years after my mom, leaving me alone when I was only seventeen.
“Hey, Gramp. Miss you too.”
I take a deep breath and sigh, placing my hands on my hips and looking back and forth between their graves, longing for them with a breath-catching ache.
“Been keeping up the gardens, Gramp,” I tell him, squatting down to brush some leaves off the stone marker. “Your tomatoes are still coming in strong. Bess died a while ago, like I told you, but I bought a goat off a guy in Greenville last month with some of the savings.”
The “savings” is paper and coin money that Gramp collected from the VA until his death. Gramp had all the checks sent to a mailbox at the post office in Millinocket. He’d go over there every few months to get the checks and cash them at the local bank. Because he’d spent very little money over the years, and had received $1,000 a month until his death, there is still plenty left for me, though my home is so self-sufficient, I have little reason to spend it.
I have Gramp’s old Honda FourTrax, which can get me out of the woods when there’s a need, but I try to stay close to home. Truth be told, I don’t like dealing with people very much and seek them out only when I have to. My experiences with townsfolk following my father's arrest, trial, and death were scarring. I’m not interested in drawing any attention to myself or making anyone uncomfortable with my unwanted presence. It’s just better if I live quiet at home, like I promised Mama and Gramp.
“She should be a mule,” I say, “she’s so stubborn, but I like her company. Named her Annie. I talk to her about history, Mama. And I swear she likes the Beatles ‘cuz she’s quiet when I sing. I can milk her for about six more months before I’ll let her dry. Then I’ll have to buy a male and breed her if I want more milk.” I sigh, the thought of going back to town in six months making me feel anxious. I guess I’ll deal with that when the time comes.
