“The mountains,” she said, as if understanding perfectly. “The mountains called to you.”
“I guess.”
“Their spirit. The mountains have a spirit that is unlike the plains or the ocean. Their spirit is different. And it called to you.”
“I guess it did.”
She turned to her side, propped up on one elbow, and faced me.
“I’ve wondered, too, what brought you here,” she said. She touched my chest with one finger. “Not to Colorado, specifically. But to Boulder, and to the brewery that night, and to the mountains thereafter. What brought you to me.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And what did you decide?”
“Oh,” she said, “there’s no decision. I can’t understand, fully. We can’t understand these things any better than we can understand the call of the mountains. The pull they have. But we know it’s present. And I know there was a reason for you—that things worked out how they did. I know it has meaning.”
“You just don’t know what the meaning is.”
“Correct.”
“Well,” I said, “that makes two of us.”
“You have a good heart, Julian.”
“Right,” I said. “Real good. Just up and left everyone I know to go run across the country. Left my wife, high and dry.”
“She wasn’t good for you.”
“You didn’t know her.”
“Of course I didn’t,” she said. “Of course I didn’t. I only know her through what you’ve told me. But the relationship was destructive, Julian. I’m sure of it. You practically told me as much.”
“As much my fault as hers.”
“But why does that matter? What is the importance of placing blame?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It always seemed important.”
“Julian, if the relationship was fallacious—if it wasn’t beneficial to both parties—it doesn’t matter which party is at fault. All that matters is recognizing fault exists. And you did that. Rightfully. There’s no need to tear yourself down for it.”
“That’s not how it feels.”
She lay back down on her back, looking up at the ceiling. “What about the man?”
“The man?”
“Yes, the other man.”
“I can’t prove that,” I said.
“Do you need to?”
I thought about it briefly, then stopped, because thinking made it worse.
“Suzanne, you have a certain way of looking at things.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“I’m not sure it was a compliment.”
“It was.”
18
For another week I worked the bar in the evenings. I hiked two new trails near my apartment, each time combing through dense pine forest until elevating to exposed rock. The views from there were breathtaking. One led me to a sheer, rugged trail, which overlooked the valley, and I ascended until I was dizzy. I sat there for thirty minutes, eating dried apricots from my pack, the gentle mountain breeze blowing in my face. At that moment, if at no other, I understood what she said. Suzanne’s words—seemingly nonsense in the dark of night, inside a man-made structure—rang true. The spirit of the mountain. Vitality.
Other days I drove. I went west on I-70, farther into the hills. Up, up, up. Past Copper Mountain, over Vail pass, and then down. Eagle County. Down into West Vail, and through town, I exited and parked on a side road. Vail, of grand mystique and lore, the quintessential rich-man’s mountain getaway, at least in the thoughts and dreams of easterners, and in magazines. Vail. The word evoked thoughts of high-dollar fur parkas, pristine skiing, opulent condos. At Wilson-Keen, partners would often talk of ski vacations to Vail. Flying directly into the Eagle airport, spending thousands on airplane tickets, then tens of thousands more on a week of lift tickets, mountain lodging, and shopping in Vail Village. Then it was back to work for a gauntlet of eighty-hour weeks until next year.
I got out of my car and made my way toward the base of the mountain, and the center of the action. The freeway literally ran straight through town, which I had not expected. It was hard to fathom a quiet mountain getaway here. I strolled though Lionshead and Vail Village, and this was where the money was. Overpriced specialty shops, thousand-dollar clothes hanging in windows, restaurants advertising happy hour. Manufactured cobblestone roads. In the summer, it reminded me more of an outdoor mall than a ski town. But I could imagine it blanketed in white, milling with blonde trophy wives and salt-and-pepper millionaires, carrying skis and outfitted in the latest trends. Vail. I stopped into a café for a fifteen-dollar burger and fries, and was on my way.
The next day I awoke earlier, setting an alarm for 7 a.m. after my shift ended at 2. I made coffee and drove west again, but past Vail, through Avon, Edwards, and Eagle. I drove until the scenery changed from pine-covered rocks to low-standing bushes and prickly shrubs. The rocks flattened out and turned to red, and the road cut through an enormous canyon along the Colorado River. There were rafts and kayaks. I drove farther, until the road began to descend, and took a right exit for Glenwood Springs, a small town just off the road. An hour drive from Vail, but a world away in terms of culture. There were no buxom blondes or cobblestone streets in Glenwood Springs, only quaint homes and modest two-lane roads, with just enough activity to know the town was awake. The shops were not lavish but sensible, and the dress was mountain flannel. It was simple and modest, and in that way, it was beautiful.
Glenwood represented the last real stop in the high Rockies, before the land dropped down into the western slope of Grand Junction, and on past to the great basin of Salt Lake City. I found the closest thing I could to downtown and parked my car on the street, then strolled to a deli and ordered an egg sandwich with chips and a Coke. Seven dollars all in. The woman behind the counter was tired and short but polite. I ate at a counter by the window and thanked her.
The morning was overcast, a rarity in that region from what I’d seen. The early parts of the day were always clear and sunny, the air rapidly warming and hitting in the seventies by noon. In the afternoon came the showers, quick but fierce. They rolled through and soaked the land for a half an hour, then cleared the area for late afternoon and the evening sunset. I had seen more of the outside world in the last month than in my entire adult life, and knew now what I had been missing.
I strolled Glenwood Springs for an hour and bought two beers at a street-side café. Then I got in my car and pointed east again, back to my apartment to prepare for work. On the drive, I thought again about my conversation with Vince, which may have been a coincidence or may not have. I changed lanes and looked at my hands on the steering wheel, moving slightly from side to side and navigating the car down the freeway. I accelerated and set the cruise. It wasn’t that hard, driving. It wasn’t hard at all. I’d mostly avoided it in New York, because it wasn’t necessary, but it had quickly again become second nature. It wasn’t that hard. Money was not yet an issue, but that was bound to change. At some point, maybe soon, maybe not, I’d look at my bank statement and realize I was nearing the end. And then it would be a problem, and then this would all be for nothing. I passed a slow-moving van on the left. It wasn’t that hard.
That afternoon I returned to my apartment, showered, and dressed for work. And then he showed up, there, without warning or without knowing the directions. He showed up just to talk, which I had not expected.
19
He arrived without announcement at the front door of my apartment, then immediately came inside. He did knock, for knocking was polite, but he didn’t need to. He knew this, and now I did. He knocked twice and let himself in.