“Yes.”
“I want my remission back!”
And rented horses the following day and rode without a guide into the mountains. The animals, both a rich brown the color of their saddles, knew the trails. Ben had not been this excited since that day in the Bucket. He whistled John Denver songs until he caught himself doing it. In San Francisco once he had suddenly become aware that he’d been humming “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” and one time at the shore he heard himself sing snatches of “Ebbtide.”
Patty was in the lead — neither was expert; Patty led because her horse had taken the initiative — and Ben, still stimulated from the night before, called after her. “Horses! Their names. Horses’ names. Cherry, Thunder.” These were the horses they rode. “Lightning. Flicka. They’re sexual traits. Male and female.”
“I’m sorry?” Patty said. “What was that? I don’t follow. ‘Lightning flicka,’ you said. ‘Their sexual traits. Male and female.’ Whatever are you talking about? What does ‘lightning flicka’ mean?”
“Huh? Oh.” She hadn’t heard him when he’d shouted. She’d gotten only the last part. He explained his new insight in a low voice so she could hear, but it was difficult to keep his voice down when he was so excited.
“But pets, dogs and cats, often have joke names, usually the name of their owners’ interests and obsessions. An English professor might call his dog Hemingway, and once I knew a stockbroker with a dog named Florida Power and Light. It’s a sort of inexpensive self-mockery. But boats, sailboats, small craft that sleep four to eight, rarely have funny names. That’s because boats are a big investment. There’s money involved. The men name the boats and give them the code names of sweethearts, their dead sons, and ancient dreams.”
“LaVerne and Maxene,” Patty said. “Ethel, Mary, Lotte, and Kitty. Helen. Gertrude.”
“Yes,” Ben said. “Gee.” There was a sort of clearing off to the side of the trail. They were perhaps nine thousand feet up now. “Would it be all right if we got off for a while? My balls are killing me.”
“You don’t have a jockstrap?”
“I never use them.” It was true. He never wore jockstraps and didn’t really understand their purpose. Into this he had no insight. They dismounted. Ben stumbled. It was as if he had been straddling an elephant. “You suppose they’ll wander off? I guess we could sit on that log and hold on to their reins.”
“How’s the hand?”
“Not bad. I’m glad I thought about the glove though.” He had asked to borrow the wrangler’s glove to wear on his right hand. It was odd. His hand was protected but not his balls.
The view was spectacular, immense. The trail had led through a pass in Cheyenne Mountain, and though the view was open and they could see for miles on almost every side, only the mountain itself walling their vision, they felt themselves separated from the culture they had talked about, on which each thrived and endlessly explained. It was nowhere visible. Colorado Springs had disappeared. Not even firebreaks were to be seen, nor the cog railroad that climbed Pikes Peak, nor the mysterious strand of electric lights visible from the Broadmoor — never identified — that followed the contours of the mountain into the sky. Not even the trail itself, now they had left it and led their horses down the gentle six- or seven-foot slope to the clearing.
“Hansel,” Patty said.
“Gretel.”
They were in nature. Ben let go of Thunder’s reins and stretched out on the ground, the soft scrub just downhill of the log he used for a pillow.
“Ought you do that? He might take it into his head to go back to the stables. Then Cherry would follow and we’d have to go back down the trail on foot.”
“They won’t,” Ben said. “They’ll go off to eat the mountain, but I don’t think they’ll leave us. You can let go.”
“I don’t know, Ben,” Patty said.
“Trust me,” Ben said. “Don’t foreshadow. I’m going to die of multiple sclerosis and you of loud noises. We’re safe. Lie down. Use the log.” She lay down beside him. “Can you feel it?” he said.
“What?”
“Gravity. Nine thousand feet of gravity sucking at our bodies, drawing our blood. The lines of force like tide.”
“Yes,” she said.
“Mother Nature’s blow job, Her Magic Fingers.”
“Yes,” Patty said.
“I feel wonderful,” Ben said.
“I do, too.”
“I feel wonderful. I feel magnificently stupid.”
“Stupid? No, Ben, not you.”
“Sure me. Oh boy. Stupid. It’s good. It’s fine. The incredible stupidity of a man in the sea, or on a mountain — well, I am on a mountain — or some place cold, freezing. Dumb as guys in mines or tumbling in the avalanche or breathing recycled air in submarines. Dumb as astronauts, as men in space, or clumsying the moon. You know what it is?”
“What?”
“It’s throwing yourself on the planet’s mercy, I think. Up here. Up here — a storm could come up. The lightning could whack us, we dassn’t screw or our hearts would explode. Even like this, at rest, they pump away at the thin air as if it were a punching bag. The forests could catch fire. We could die, Patty. The horses could take off. We could stumble. Misjudge the time, let it get dark, let it get too cold. It’s so dangerous,” he said. “All of it. It’s so dangerous. It’s terrific. Shhh. Shhh. I’m out…I’m out of breath.”
He was in nature. As far as he could see. Wherever he looked. In the path of the Ice Age, the scars and pockets gouged by the glaciers. He was in nature, his head as high as the timberline. He was in nature. At the scene of the planet’s crimes and explosions, its rocks thrown up from the center of the earth like an anarchist’s tossed bombs. In nature. His scent in the thin air like a signal to the bears, to the cougars. Out of his element, the franchiser disenfranchised. Miles from the culture, from the trademark and trade routes of his own long Marco Polo life.
And talked, when his breath was recovered, of wonders. Because that was all there was to do in nature, the only way he could protect himself, no place to hide in nature save in the wonderful. He meant the bizarre, he meant the awful, strangenesses so odd, so alien, they were religious. Vouchsafed to die of his disease, it was as if here, in nature, where everything was a disease, all growth a sickness, the mountains a sickness and the trees a sickness, too, with their symptomatic leaves and their pathological barks, the progress of his disease could leap exponentially, travel his bloodstream like the venom of poisonous snakes or the deathbites of killer spiders.
“I heard,” he said quietly — was this praying? was this some crazy kind of prayer? — “I heard of a man who had a bedspread made out of wolves’ muzzles. He kept them in a freezer in St. Louis until he had enough for his tailor to stitch together. I once,” he said, “knew someone who would tell his troubles to strangers on elevators, just the way travelers on buses and trains unload when they know they’ll never see the other party again. He talked very fast, of course, and as he got older and accumulated more troubles, he would have to seek out taller and taller buildings in which to ride. On the way down he never said a word.”
Patty was laughing.
“I guess,” he said, “the most selfish person I ever met was the wife of one of my managers. I happened to be in their town one time when she gave a birthday for her six-year-old kid. My manager told me about it.”
“What’s so selfish about that?”
“Well, she was giving the party, I don’t remember the exact date but this was when I had my Dr. Pepper bottling plant in Jackson, Mississippi, and I usually tried to make it down about the first week in August. I recall I had some car trouble and didn’t get there until late on Friday. The point is, there wasn’t enough time to do any work that Friday and I asked my manager if he’d come in on Saturday. That’s it — I remember — he said his wife was giving this birthday party for their kid on Saturday and he was supposed to help out.”