Mysterium

by Susan Froderberg

  Troy gives his friend a raise of the eyebrows.

  Reddy thought to explain. But enough said, and so he did not explain. For to speak of it would be to recall the first hint of Maggie’s illness, a part of the weekend he did not wish to conjure, that of the image of his wife mounded over by a downy cover alone in the middle of the bed. The tumulus shape she made. Her hair splayed out across the pillow—when had it become so gray? Gray as the rain that had settled into the valley. Gray as the day. Maggie had not left the bed. Nothing he offered to do could rouse her from her lassitude. She had turned away from him, lay staring out the window. How could he have helped her then, knowing now what he knows? He would not have neglected her. He would not have taken his eyes away, his touch away. He would have listened. But he did not know. She did not know. She had been to the internist. She had been to the psychiatrist. She had been to the naturopath. She had been even to a psychic. She had complained, among many things, of her diminished libido. “You’ve been married for a considerable amount of time,” said the man who delivered her son, Devin, twenty years prior. “Sex with the same person after so many years? Sorry, but we just don’t have a pill for that.” Reddy’s wife had laughed. “You mean yet,” she said. She touched the swell of her lower belly, the place just below the solar plexus. Center of sexual drive. Hub of reproduction. She had wondered if this area of tenderness was her sacral chakra or her root chakra. She would ask the yoga teacher at the lodge out on the peninsula over the weekend.

  That would have been Vida. Vida Carson. Vida with her ordinary pretty face, but for the one eye that was just slightly askew, a particularity Reddy found immediately appealing. She had a young, muscular body, shoulders rounded and full from repetitive poses, chest held in a position of intention, as if supporting an unreliable weight inside. Vida who now shifts about in her seat. She crosses her legs, uncrosses them, leans forward and takes a sip of the coffee she wishes had been tea.

  “Cancer got my mother,” Devin says, shaking his head. “Married to a cancer doctor and not a thing in the world he could do about it. He or anyone. Then again, Father was always busy at the clinic doctoring, at least when he wasn’t out climbing.”

  “Medicine is not a perfect science,” Reddy says. “And doctors are not gods.”

  “Right,” his son says. “They just too often act like they are.”

  Reddy lowers his eyes. It is not arrogance, but the neglect his son accuses him of that was his wrongdoing. This is his guilt, his shame. He had forgotten his wife. He had turned away from his son, Maggie’s son. And the years too quickly went spinning by.

  “I’m sorry, Devin,” Vida says. “About your mother. And your wife, Doctor Reddy.” But the doctor does not lift his head to look up as she speaks.

  Troy goes to the fire, his wife’s gaze on all from her perch above. “My husband doesn’t care to discuss dead wives,” Amanda’s eyes are saying. “He prefers quoting poets,” say her eyes, “and he will tell you No poet talks about feelings, only sentimental people do.” He adds another log to the dwindling flames, then puts the wrought-iron screen back to sentinel post and turns to face the group, speaking louder than he needs to. “How about we get on with what we came here to do this afternoon?” He looks at his watch.

  “We might wait a little,” says Vida. “Aren’t we here because of Sara?”

  Wilder says, “It’s an hour late already.”

  “Yeah, what’s the rush, man?” Devin says. “Have some coffee.” He smiles at Wilder, noticing the look on his friend’s face, one that’s almost always there, a kind of flickering impatience, or else like he’s working out calculus equations in his head half the time. But once you get Wilder in the mountains, he’s all right. Then it’s Wilder at his best. Everyone knows this. Nobody as strong as this guy, nobody as skilled. So he’s been a little out of sorts the last year or so, since his brother. But the accident wasn’t Wilder’s fault. It was just one of those freak things that can happen on a climb. Wilder wouldn’t talk about it, but Devin knows being back in the outdoors is his friend’s way of working things through. So they get out on the trail a lot, and they train hard. Devin likes the brotherly feeling that comes with being out on the steep together, maybe being an only child and all. And though his father had finally begun to invite him along on some of his climbs, Devin no longer has much interest in being with him. It’s too late. Anyway, now he has Wilder, and it’s a good thing. They’ve sat together on punishing summits, looked out to spectacles of snowcapped peaks, looked for different ways up the steepest faces, played the game of naming. They had run up to the top of Apollo with backpacks weighted with cantaloupes. They had talked places, thinking Denali as soon as Devin’s semester was over. And then—what luck—chancing into this.

  “The photograph,” Reddy says, “she would be at the top of where?”

  The front door opens and Sara Troy bursts forth in a gust of cool air. She wears a white hooded poncho and is dripping with rain. She pries her rubber boots off, pushes the hood back off her head, shimmies her way out from under the poncho, hangs it on a hook by the door. She is rosy with color, dewy with weather, radiant with smile.

  “Everyone’s here,” she says. “Hooray!” She holds a brown paper bag soaked with rain that has begun to tear away in places.

  “You’re late,” Troy says.

  The doctor’s son grins at Sara. “You’re fine,” he says. More than fine. Starting with the first time he set eyes on her, that day on campus, with some rare bird warbling a song from one of the blossoming cherries. Devin had stood at the dorm window looking out into a dazzling light, a light that began to insinuate itself into settled colors and shapes, like a vision of some kind. It was amazing, unbelievable really, seeing all the radiance and shape suddenly becoming a clear and perfect human being. A girl more beautiful than he had ever before seen. He had leaned out the window, hearing the chiming of silvery bracelets as she raised her arms to push the veil of hair away from her face. She had been so near below he could smell the smell of her rising up to him, some sort of cinnamony food is what she smelled of, or buttery, he thought, something totally delicious to eat.

  Sara goes over to Troy and kisses him on the brow. She sits on the arm of his armchair, her hair damp and matted against her head. Introductions are made all around. “You look so much like your brother,” she says.

  “Maybe it’s he’s the one who looks like me?” says Wilder.

  Sara would like to say she’s sorry about what happened to Lucas on the Stone Sentinel trip, as everybody in the local mountaineering world has heard about it by now, certainly everyone here in the room, but she can see by the way Wilder holds himself, his head down and looking at nothing in particular, fumbling with something he’s got in his pocket, see that it would not be the right thing to talk about at the moment.

  “In answer to your question, Reddy,” Troy says, “the photograph on the mantel, that’s the top of Kilimanjaro. Nothing technical, you know.”

  “Mother’s picture,” Sara says. “See her belly? That’s me.”

  “Risky, that altitude at pregnancy,” Reddy says.

  Troy clears his throat, takes a sip of coffee. “How about we call our meeting to order?” He puts his cup down, sits up straighter. “I suppose I don’t need to remind us all of our good fortune at being here with this remarkable opportunity ahead of us, what with a glorious mountain so long closed off to anyone.”

  “I’ll say,” says Devin. He nods toward his father. “I’m even willing to put up with this dude day after day.”

  Wilder snickers.

  “We do our best,” Reddy says, “is all we can do.”

  “We’re even more fortunate,” Troy says, “in having Virgil Adams to lead our expedition.”

  “Where is he?” Wilder says. “Shouldn’t our leader be here?”

  “He’ll meet with us next time. Mrs. Adams will join us then too. She’s offering to manage Base Camp.”

  “They’re not a little over the
hill for a climb like this?”

  “They’re not, Wilder,” Troy says. “Rest assured.”

  “He’s superfit for a man of sixty,” Sara says. “And his wife, the same. They took me on a hiking trip when I was out visiting them in Boston and, I’m telling you, I was huffing to keep up.”

  “Truly remarkable that Virgil Adams was right there with William Hilman,” Reddy says. “First two to make the summit of Mount Sarasvati. What a feat that was.”

  “Devin, have we met?” Sara asks. “At school maybe?”

  “I’ve seen you,” he says, face reddening. “On your way to class, I guess.”

  Troy says, “I’ve looked through everyone’s climbing history, and thanks to all of you for getting your info back to me. We’ve got a strong group here for a self-chosen bunch. A lot of complementary skills among us. We would not do as well one without the other.”

  Reddy clears his throat. “There is one thing, one troubling matter.”

  “All concerns are out on the table today,” says Troy.

  “What troubles me is having married couples on the team.”

  “Come on, Doctor Reddy,” Vida says. “You’re joking.”

  “We can’t all be single,” Wilder says. “Widowed, or whatever.”

  “I mean it not against you, Mr. Carson, in particular,” Reddy says. “Or your wife.” He glances at Vida, that slightly off-center eye making her vulnerable and lovely again.

  “Then who in particular are you talking about here?” Vida says. She looks at Reddy now as if she can’t really place him. This man who had once been a lover to her. This man she had put her lips to, breathed the words into his mouth: “There is nothing more than this. There is nothing more to want. No other place to be. No one else to be with.” Could these words really have been hers?

  Sara says, “The Adamses are married too.”

  “No need to take my concern personally,” Reddy says. “But I have seen what can happen. I have seen the dynamics between marital partners, or boyfriend and girlfriend, couples in general, I have seen tendencies that seem to diminish the ability for these people to keep minds straight and to concentrate. I believe, as well, that a couple’s allegiance often compromises other team members in that a couple’s fidelity is primarily to each other, not to the group itself, nor to the goal itself, which is for all to make it to the top. Be it marital loyalties, or marital disagreements, such things can be absolutely detrimental to an expedition. I have seen it happen, and I have heard many stories too, most all of them with endings not intended.”

  “Maybe it’s a cultural thing you’re hung up on,” Wilder says. “Being Indian, I mean. With the wife at home doing the cooking and cleaning.”

  “I am as American as you are, Mr. Carson.”

  “Disagreements don’t just occur between married people,” Troy says. “Men and women in close proximity, whether married or not, all can have their problems. I’ve seen more tempers fly man to man.”

  “Loyalties shift too,” Wilder says. “I’ve been with guys on a team who double up and care only about the two of them themselves making the summit. Happens all the time. Couple of stronger climbers leaving the rest behind, and not the least bit married.”

  “Why point your finger at married people, Doctor Reddy?” Vida says.

  “It is that, that I…” Reddy waggles his head as he speaks, not nodding a yes or shaking a no, but offering some gesture between. “It is, as I am trying to say, have said, it is that oftentimes couples will insist on sticking too closely together, repeatedly to the disservice of others.”

  Wilder says, “Point’s just been made otherwise.” He does not explain that sticking too closely together would not be a problem for him and Vida; that he and his wife are rarely aiming for the same thing in the outdoors anymore. He does not tell of the number of times they had tried to get up Rainier before a clear day finally arrived to allow them the summit. He does not say that waiting for the perfect day and predictable conditions takes the splendor and mystery out of a climb. But Vida does not think this way. She is able, but has become too timid above alpine. She needs reliable weather, no surprises. There are arguments every time these days; the mountains too often turned an obstacle between them. Vida shouting, “I cannot be Lucas for you.” Vida crying.

  “Anyway, Doctor Reddy, you won’t need to worry,” Vida says. “I’m not on the expedition because I’m trying for the top of Mysterium. My plan’s to stay at Base Camp and help Hillary Adams manage there. She’ll be needing help, especially with the equipment and technical stuff.”

  “Listen, Doc,” Wilder says. “Vida and I are happily married and tight as two people can be.” He puts an arm around his wife’s solidly sculpted shoulder, gives it a squeeze. “But my aim is to get to the summit. Summit is all. No marital strings or quarrels are going to stop me.”

  “I’d be happier hearing you speak as a member of the team.”

  “Hey, I’m team, Professor,” Wilder says. He straightens himself up in his seat. “All team. Don’t worry about my not being team.”

  “We’ll prove how well men and women can work together,” Sara says. “We don’t need to give in to what was or has been.”

  “I’m afraid to say you’re outvoted on this one, Reddy. I hope this doesn’t eliminate you. You’re our needed expedition physician, and I don’t know of any replacement at this point with your degree of mountaineering expertise.”

  “Troy, you are my friend. Would I back out on you now?”

  “What do we call ourselves,” says Devin. “The Adams Party?”

  “I think we should call ourselves the Sarasvati Party, as this expedition is really all Sara’s idea,” Vida says.

  “Why do we have to call ourselves something?” Wilder says.

  “Everything’s in a name,” Sara says. “That’s why.”

  “Sarasvati Party—any opposed?” Troy says.

  People shake heads.

  Wilder shrugs. “Whatever.”

  “Good,” Troy says. “Now all are agreed.”

  “Now that’s settled, let’s talk plan of attack,” says Devin.

  “Alpine-style,” Wilder says. “Up fast, down faster.”

  “Risky,” says Reddy. “Not everyone has your speed and strength.”

  “I agree with Reddy,” Troy says. “I’d prefer a traditional approach, a straightforward Himalayan approach. Safer that way.” He gives his daughter a stroke on the back.

  Wilder makes a face. “Taking the time to umbilical-cord ourselves and supplies up is not necessarily the safer way,” he says. “And you know it. The slower we go, the more days on the mountain. More days on the mountain, likelier we are to die on it. Look at your statistics. Simple as that. Especially on Mysterium. Just getting through the Gorge and past the Sanctuary is going to be a bitch. Entire mountain will be a bitch.”

  “Our style depends on the route we choose,” says Troy.

  “Professor’s right,” Devin says. “Route’s key. But I’m still for going up with less and getting in and out like lightning.”

  “An alpine approach, I know, is aesthetically more appealing,” Vida says. “But I’d feel safer going expedition-style.”

  Wilder lets out an audible breath.

  “Alpine’s easier on the younger of you, for sure,” Troy says.

  “You’re only fifty!” Sara says. “Please.”

  “We’ll speak to Adams, see what approach he votes for,” Troy says. “Meanwhile, everyone think more about it. We’ll discuss next meeting.”

  Heads nod.

  “Now as to routes. We’ve got but two to choose from, as I see it.”

  “I say to take the north route,” Wilder says. “It’s not been done.”

  “I would prefer to take the original route,” Reddy says. “West Ridge was good enough for Adams and Hilman, and it is good enough for me.”

  “Not bad footsteps to follow in,” Troy says. “Must admit.”

  “Quick retreat may be difficult
on the northern route,” Reddy says.

  “I’m with Wilder,” Devin says. “Doing what hasn’t been done.”

  Troy says, “Any decision awaits Virgil Adams’s opinion.”

  Again a nod of heads.

  “Oh,” Sara says. “I almost forgot.” She hurries into the kitchen, comes back with a large bowl. She puts the bowl on the table and empties the contents of the paper bag into it. “Figs! Big fresh juicy ones. Aren’t they perfect?” She holds the bowl up in both hands, proudly, for all to see.

  Vida reaches for a fig. “Wow, look at these beauties.”

  Sara offers the bowl around. Wilder puts a hand up to refuse.

  “Whichever route we decide,” Troy says, “it will put me and Sara, Adams and Reddy, and Devin and Wilder on the summit slopes for a try to the top. We can break into groups of two, even three, figuring who goes up first and with whom once we’re up there.” He takes a bite of fig. “Damn, these are good. We’ve also got the Sherpas to consider. We’ve got several qualified men in mind, at least one of them intent on reaching the summit too. Any way it goes we’re a sufficient number for a team. Or a party, as that’s what we intend to call ourselves. Hillary Adams and Vida can manage the appurtenances from Base Camp, and they can direct the porters who’ll be relaying food and gear up to us as needed. Adams has already started the colossal job of raising funds. Given his prestigious history, he’s our ticket up. But he’s got to have a team that looks good on paper to those doling out the cash and equipment.”

  “I read that William Hilman died just a while ago,” Vida says.

  Devin nods. “Got butted off a steep trail by a wayward yak.”

  “He was leading a group of students over a high Tibetan pass,” Sara says. “Mr. Adams told me about it. Really sad.”

  “He’ll give us the details around a campfire some night,” says Troy.

  Reddy takes another fig from the bowl, and bows his head to Sara.

  “I’ve made a list of about a dozen big companies so far who might be potential backers,” Vida says. “I could help the Adamses make the inquiries. We need to be thinking publicity too, to bring in more cash and supplies.”