The Intentions Book

by Gigi Fenster

  Who followed the car down the road? Did anyone lead the spirit out of the world or was it still bouncing about in the house, banging doors and creasing tablecloths? Spilling out. Always spilling out.

  Morris should have been there, walking behind his father. He should not have gone rushing off to hide at Norman’s, to sleep on the floor on Joan’s side of the bed. Boy oh boy a Lincoln Toy.

  David hasn’t come back to report on the weather. It’s probably bad news. David doesn’t like giving bad news. He left it to Rachel to phone people when Sadie died.

  It must be bad news.

  Morris listens for noises in the house. He should go and look for David. He should open the curtains, fold the pink blanket, brush his teeth, put the kettle on. He should get up from the sofa.

  Or you could have described yourself.

  Described myself?

  When David asked you what kind of person tramps alone, you could have described yourself. You’d just come back from tramping on your own when we met—well, when we met properly and I chased you down the road. I thought it was sad and sweet and sorry for you to have gone on holiday on your own. I pictured you walking down a long dusty road trailing a suitcase.

  A suitcase on a tramping trip?

  Forget the suitcase. The point is that you’d gone tramping alone. It made me sad that you went alone. You’d been gone for four days. Four days all alone.

  It had to be at least four days. Four days was Morris’s minimum for tramping alone. The first day was for making the transition. That morning he would have woken in a bed, eaten at a table, looked in the mirror and turned a tap. He might have spoken to people and still be full of their words. On the first day he repeated phrases in his head—advertising jingles and snatches of equations whose only value was that they fitted the rhythm of his footsteps. He ran through his plans in his mind, repeating rivers and mountains, track names and times over and over. He looked at his hands and feet on the first day, getting his bearings. Sometimes he fell into counting footsteps.

  The second day was for looking up at where he was going and looking down at where he’d come from. Once, on the second day, Morris crawled out of his tent and saw the sun shining off a river. Beyond the river was the mountain he would climb. It had sprinklings of snow on top. Everything was sparkling and silent. He stamped his feet—I am here, alone in this world—then let out a great whoop. Mouth stretched, eyes closed, Morris Goldberg cleared his throat.

  The second day was for elation. At the end of the second day he looked down at where he’d come from and thought, I am closer to God and there’s nothing wrong with it.

  The third day was for coming down and being tired. The third day said you’re right. You are insignificant. You’re nothing and that’s the way it’s supposed to be. The bush closed behind him and forgot he was ever there. Morris liked the third day best.

  But on the third night he’d start thinking about what he was going back to. When the tent was up and the fire was made, he’d start thinking. And telling himself not to think. Telling himself there was still a full night and most of a day to go.

  The fourth day was for walking out safely, for making it out.

  It made me sad to think of you alone for four days. And then you stopped.

  It made you sad and then I stopped.

  Not because it made me sad. Because you got the malaise.

  The malaise?

  The tramping-alone malaise—that uneasiness when you’re tramping. Like the Craglet said.

  The Craglet?

  Craglet Craig, almighty president of the Canterbury Tramping Club. Father figure to university students far from home. The Craglet who you haven’t thought of for years and now keep thinking about.

  Only because you make me.

  I make you?

  Morris did not get the malaise, though his experience was similar to the one Craig described. It started, as Craig had said it would, with general uneasiness and murmurings of anxiety in the air around his skull.

  He’d done what Craig had said he’d do: ‘At first you don’t realise that it’s in your head so you do a kind of tally on your body and on your surroundings. You check that everything is where it should be. You try to focus on some real pain like the blister on your heel that bothers you every time you put your foot down. You tell yourself to feel the pain but you can’t feel the blister and you don’t recognise your surroundings and there’s this sucking-in feeling telling you it’s stupid to keep on going.’

  They were sitting around the fire when Craig told his story—Murray, Morris, Craig and a friend of Craig’s who’d joined them for the tramp. The friend handed Craig a hip flask. Craig took it but didn’t drink. They all gazed into the fire.

  At last Craig said, ‘You tell yourself to be cool. It’s just the weather, you tell yourself. It’s just a funny feeling that will blow away, you tell yourself.’

  When stories are told round the fire there are long silences, draws on the hip flask, time to pause and think about what has been said. When stories are told round the fire you can keep up with them.

  Craig held the hip flask towards the fire, turned it and pulled it closer to study the engraving. ‘Maybe you’ll be lucky and it will blow away. I wasn’t. It got worse and then I thought, What the hell am I doing here?’

  It was unlike Craig to use strong language.

  ‘I knew the area well. I’d done that route often, but I suddenly looked round and thought, Where the hell am I and what the hell am I doing? I didn’t recognise my surroundings at all and everything seemed completely pointless. It’s like there were voices in my head telling me I shouldn’t bother to keep walking. I should sit down where I was. Just sit down. Just stop.’

  The fire was as red as the inside of a marble.

  Murray said, ‘What happened? What did you do?’

  ‘I did what one does in those situations. I picked myself up. I put one foot in front of the other.’

  Craig called it trampers’ malaise.

  It made Morris think of the voice of an old man wishing him Mazel Tov in an accent so strong he had to lean forwards to catch the words. The noise of a classroom when you’re trying to concentrate. A boy saying, ‘so they can … wait for it … breathe!’ All your father needs is a bit of peace and quiet. Here’s a backpack filled with food. Nothing is too much for Morris.

  Craig said, ‘It can happen to anyone. Any time. But people don’t want to talk about it. They hold it in and they hold it in, and then they stop tramping and they become miserable buggers. I’m not saying it will happen to you, but it could. Chances are it will. And when it does, you have to talk about it. Tell someone as soon as you get back. Tell as many people as you can.’

  It started exactly as Craig had said it would, and yet it took Morris a while to consider that he might be suffering from trampers’ malaise. It wasn’t until he found himself unable to recognise the track he’d walked on many times that he remembered Craig’s story.

  Morris considered but quickly rejected the idea that he was suffering from the malaise. For it to be the malaise it would have to be something out of the ordinary, and for Morris there was nothing extraordinary in feeling lost. Feelings of unease and futility might have been unusual for Craig but for Morris they were all too familiar.

  Morris Goldberg moving beyond the title page of tramping hardly warrants a fireside story.

  How easy it would be to lie down on the edge of the ravine, to let himself go, to fall down.

  But you didn’t. You didn’t. You picked yourself up. Put one foot in front of the other.

  Plodded my way through my failures.

  Plodded your way—oh Morris. Did you tell someone when you got back? You didn’t tell me.

  He didn’t have to rush off and talk about it. It wasn’t like it was anything unusual. Morris couldn’t sustain the myth that he was good at something. Morris was surrounded by anxiety and uselessness. Morris was true to character—you couldn’t share a hip flask over that.<
br />
  He was thinking of giving the tramping a break anyway. Sadie was pregnant and shouldn’t be on her own.

  Aha, so you’re blaming David for the fact that you stopped tramping.

  David? How does David come into this?

  Well, I was pregnant with him at the time.

  —

  Okay, so maybe that’s a long shot. Anyway, the point is, you made the malaise worse ’cause you didn’t follow Craig’s advice.

  I didn’t follow his advice because it wasn’t the malaise.

  You didn’t tell anyone. You bottled it in like a miserable bugger. And you didn’t get back in the saddle.

  Morris might never have tramped again had Rachel not one day said, ‘There’s a boy at school who’s going camping with his father. He keeps boasting about it.’

  So what did you tell Rachel about the malaise?

  Tell Rachel?

  About the malaise. How did you explain it to her? When did you explain it to her?

  I—

  You never explained it to her. Oh Morris.

  The pink blanket still needs to be folded. The gym flier is lying on the floor next to the sofa. The curtains have yet to be opened. Morris Goldberg did not tell his daughter about the malaise.

  Or about the other dangers of tramping alone.

  Other dangers?

  You know, how people push themselves too hard. It was another one of the El Presidente’s lessons.

  El Presidente.

  El Presidente. Craglet. You know—Craig. He must have had a lesson about tramping alone. Doesn’t sound like the sort of man to let that one slip, our beloved Presidente.

  They were on a tramp near Blenheim when they encountered the red deer—Morris, Craig and a group of beginners who were, to a man, completely thrilled by the deer. Craig said the deer were destroying the bush, but that didn’t dampen their excitement.

  When they stopped for lunch, Craig told how he’d once come across a red deer feeding right on the track. He got so close he could almost touch it. He’d been alone at the time and was moving quietly. ‘Not like you lot, charging about like bulls in a china shop.’

  And that’s how he’d got on to talking about what it’s like to tramp alone, and how it had both advantages and disadvantages.

  ‘The advantages,’ said Craig, ‘are self-explanatory,’ and Morris thought, Of course they are. They’re obvious. It’s the disadvantages that needed explaining—what could be bad about being alone in the bush?

  For some months the idea of tramping alone had been tapping at his thoughts. Imagine if you didn’t have to talk at all, if you could go at completely your own pace, only you and your thoughts. No distractions. Imagine if you were all alone. It wouldn’t be risky if you planned it properly.

  Craig said, ‘The biggest disadvantage is that it’s definitely more dangerous. Whatever anyone tells you, it’s more dangerous.’

  Morris said, ‘D’you think it’s always more dangerous? What if the person is really careful and doesn’t take chances?’

  Craig leaned back on his backpack. ‘That’s a reasonable question. What if it was a careful, risk-averse kind of person?’

  Someone like me, thought Morris.

  ‘The problem,’ said Craig, ‘is that even the most cautious person turns quite reckless when they’re alone in the bush. I’ve seen it happen often.’

  One of the beginners said, ‘If they’re alone, how could you have—’

  ‘People alone take more risks. They push themselves too hard. If there’s more than one person, you can test ideas on each other. You can make sure that no one does anything rash. But when you’re on your own you become … you become literally your own worst enemy.’

  Your own worst enemy.

  ‘It’s like you’re competing against yourself, and that’s no good. That’s when people do stupid things.’

  The pink blanket still needs to be folded. The flier is still waiting to be returned to the coffee table. The curtains have yet to be opened. Morris Goldberg did not warn his daughter about becoming her own worst enemy.

  You have to go there.

  I have to go there.

  Morris is calling, ‘David, David’. He’s breathing hard. He wants to bang on doors. ‘David. David. I have to …’

  David sticks his head through a door and Morris says, ‘We have to go there. To where Rachel is.’

  David says, ‘Okay. Give me five minutes.’ His head goes back in, then out again. ‘Tell Wendy what’s happening.’

  It’s that simple.

  Wendy’s in the kitchen. She says, ‘Didn’t that cop say we should stay put?’ Then she says, ‘The cop’s an idiot. If you feel you need to be there you should be there. David too. It’s not like you’re going to interfere with their rescue plans. I’ll stay here by the phone. If Molly calls I’ll tell her you’re on your way. Or maybe I won’t. That cop doesn’t scare me.’

  She bangs the kettle on the table. ‘I’ll make a flask of coffee.’

  Morris is awash with relief. And with something else that could be affection for Wendy. He says, ‘Thanks for … for …’

  She says, ‘Take a quick shower. Ten minutes won’t make a difference.’

  David rests his hand on Morris’s shoulder when he comes into the room. ‘Man, I’m pleased you made that suggestion. I’ve been thinking but didn’t want to—’

  Wendy is firing instructions and questions.

  To David: ‘Good. You’re here. Is your phone charged?’

  To Morris: ‘Jump in the shower.’

  To David: ‘Phone Debbie and tell her what’s happening.’

  To the kettle: ‘God it feels better that we’re actually doing something. I’ll make a flask of coffee.’

  Her voice propels Morris to the kitchen door. He is almost out of the room when he thinks, And when we get there? What will we do then?

  Behind him, David says to Wendy, ‘I have no idea what we’ll do once we get there.’

  She says, ‘Once you’re there you’ll find out.’ She says, ‘Sometimes you have to go somewhere to find out what you’re doing there.’

  David says, ‘Sometimes you talk a lot of crap.’

  ‘Morris, go already. Take the shower,’ says Wendy.

  It starts raining as soon as they get on to the highway. Hard. As if God is saying, You want to go there and see what’s to see? You want to wring your hands and experience something of what Rachel’s going through? Well, I’ll give you something to see. I’ll give you something to wring about. Hell, I might even give you floods. That’d be good for a laugh. And snow. Snowy floods. I like that. And I’ll tell you something, you gabbling turkeys—you won’t experience even an inkling of what she’s going through. I can lay on hell and high waters and you still won’t have the faintest idea what Rachel is going through.

  God is quieter in the tunnel. The windscreen wipers drag noisily against the glass. David switches them off with a flick of irritation, says, ‘Just because it’s raining here doesn’t mean it’s raining there too. Could be the contrary. Could be that the rain is heading south.’

  ‘Could be.’

  They listen to the news, which is full of two teenaged boys convicted of killing a neighbour. Morris listens for mention of the Arctic ice but it seems that teenaged murderers are more important than opening sea routes. He wonders whether the teenagers really are more important, then quickly corrects his own priorities. A murder must be more important than a bit of melting ice, surely. One committed by teenagers, definitely. Think what the families of the deceased must be going through.

  David says, ‘God, it must be awful for the families of those teenagers.’

  Morris’s priorities take another shift.

  The weather report offers little. There’s rain in Wellington and rain in Kapiti but no special mention of the Tararuas. David turns the radio off and says, ‘Molly would know what the weather’s like. D’you think we should call her and ask?’

  ‘Um—’

&nbs
p; ‘No, no, you’re right. There’s no point in worrying her.’

  David’s cell phone rings. He says, ‘Maybe that’s her. Speak of the devil. You answer it, Dad,’ and he hands the phone to Morris.

  Morris hesitates before taking the phone. Why should he be the one who has to tell Molly where they’re heading?

  He’s relieved to hear Wendy’s voice, even if she does say, ‘That was a worried-sounding hello. You thought I was Molly. You thought you were in trouble, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’

  ‘Um—’

  ‘Anyway, this is no time for jokes.’

  ‘I wasn’t … wasn’t—’

  ‘Some guy from Search and Rescue just called. They found Rachel’s phone.’

  ‘Found Rachel’s phone.’

  ‘They couldn’t get any information from it. It was too wet. It had been in the river. Washed up on some rocks.’

  ‘Washed up.’

  They’re putting extra searchers on the ground.’

  ‘Does that mean—?’

  ‘I don’t know what it means, Morris. I don’t know if it’s good or bad. I don’t know how many extra people and I don’t know why. The guy wasn’t one for chatting. He just said, “We’ve found her phone and I’ve been told to let you know that we’re putting extra searchers on the ground,” and he hung up.’

  ‘Hung up.’

  ‘Okay, so he said goodbye and then he hung up.’ As if to demonstrate, Wendy says, ‘Goodbye,’ and the phone goes dead.

  Morris repeats the information to David quickly, without pause for David to ask, What? What? What does it mean?

  David doesn’t ask what it means. He just frowns like it was unfair of Morris to give him such news.

  Downstream and wet and caught on a rock.

  Focus on a fixed point, Morris tells himself. If you focus on something steady and still you won’t be sick. He puts his hand on the dashboard. Focus on that.