She was confused by the suddenness of his departure, and she was unhappy by the way it was achieved. When Ethan came to visit Bob at the library the next day, Bob took him to task for his rudeness. Ethan bowed his head; in his defense he claimed that he’d had a sudden case of ants in the pants, and Bob surely knew what that was like. Bob said that, actually, he’d never had ants in his pants, at least not that he could remember. “Well,” said Ethan, “trust me when I say it makes it so you’ve got to move.” Bob encouraged Ethan to apologize to Connie, and Ethan said that he would, but he didn’t. Connie merely shrugged when Bob recounted the interaction; she said it was a shame, but people would often let you down, and that was all there was to it. Bob felt, for the first time, unimpressed with Ethan; he wondered if he hadn’t finally achieved the full-scope portrait of the man. Later, after the household went to pieces, after the thing with the string, Bob supposed that what had actually happened was Ethan had fallen in love with Connie during his convalescence. This was why he had left in such a rush, and this was why he began to hide himself away from her; to pretend, really, that she didn’t exist in relation to Bob’s life. Perhaps he thought if he ran away fast enough and stayed gone long enough then he might get clean away from the cursed, blessed feeling.
CONNIE DECIDED THAT SHE AND BOB WERE NOT TAKING ADVANTAGE OF their proximity to Oregon’s natural surroundings, and that they should go on hikes, and become hikers, and she bought a book on the subject of hikes and also a pair of hiking boots. Bob didn’t want to give away a Saturday’s worth of couch reading to what he believed was a fleeting desire of Connie’s, but in the name of peace-in-the-home he agreed that they would and should attack a five-mile loop at the base of Mount Hood that coming weekend. The afternoon before the hike, Bob met Ethan for lunch at the Finer Diner. Since Ethan had left Bob’s house he’d taken on a paleness or apartness from the world that on this day was mounting in the direction of the acute. Bob asked Ethan what was the matter, and Ethan made a long inhalation through his nostrils. The impression he had, he said, exhaling, was that the current was directly, unmistakably, and for the first time in his life, against him. Every step he took was wrong; every natural decision and inclination resulted in some manner of snubbing or rejection. Bob still had no true comprehension of the reason for Ethan’s crisis; he told Ethan that slumps were a part of life and that his would soon pass him by. “You don’t get it,” said Ethan simply. “Something is wrong. Even my good news is bad news these days.”
“What’s your good news?”
Ethan hesitated. “Never mind.” He began busily stirring his black coffee.
“Then what’s the bad news?”
“Nothing, Bob.” He put his hand on Bob’s arm, and he looked contrite. “I’m sorry I said anything. I’m fine. Let’s skip it.”
Bob invited Ethan to come on the hike and Ethan demurred, but when Bob pressed him he agreed that it might be helpful to get out of town, out of his apartment, away from the fumes of himself. “Though, Connie probably won’t want me along,” he said.
“Sure she would.”
“You think she would?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” He told Ethan they’d pick him up at nine o’clock the next morning. At eight o’clock, Bob stood lurking at Connie’s elbow while she cooked their breakfast. “You’re emitting that wants-something ozone, Bob,” she said, and he admitted it was true, and explained about his idea that they should bring Ethan along with them to Mount Hood. Connie’s face expressed nothing; finally she said, “Can we not?”
“We don’t have to. But I think it could be good for him.”
“Why, what’s the matter with him?”
“I don’t know what, and he doesn’t know. But he’s very low, lately.”
Connie still wore a blank face, her arm stirring a pot of porridge. “I wanted it to be just us.”
“Just us is not new,” Bob told her. He didn’t mean it as a complaint, didn’t intend it to be anything other than true, but Connie did harden up after he’d said it, and now came the concession: yes, Ethan could tag along, if that was what Bob wanted and thought was best. When the Chevy pulled up outside Ethan’s apartment he was waiting on the curb, standing hatless in the drizzle and staring into the air, ruffled and damp and confused-looking. “Jesus, he’s like a hobo,” Connie said. Ethan climbed into the Chevy as though he were getting into a taxi. He sat in the back, looking out the window, not speaking, not responding to Bob’s good-morning greeting. Connie turned around in her seat and began to tease Ethan, pinching his nose and poking his middle, as if he were a baby. “Stop,” Ethan said in a flat, croaking voice.
“Maybe,” Connie said to Bob, “maybe his heart was nicked by that steak knife after all, and now it’s all flat and rubbery like a popped balloon.” She took Ethan’s face in her hand and crushed it slightly. “Does that not look like the face of a man with a popped balloon heart?”
Bob couldn’t understand where Connie’s meanness was coming from, and it made him uneasy as they moved away from Portland and in the direction of the mountain. They drove for forty-five minutes along a winding, two-lane highway. The cloud cover lifted and the sun came down over the road, steam rising off the pavement. Connie put on a pair of sunglasses and rolled the dial on the radio, landing on an antic jazz number. She snapped her fingers and popped her mouth; when the station dropped away she changed over to the news station. They came to an isolated diner and Connie volunteered that Bob should go and get them a thermosful of coffee. It had been Bob’s job that morning to fetch the thermos from the Chevy, but he’d forgotten to fill it before they left. “Now,” Connie told him, “you can turn back the clock and set your mistake to rights, Bob. Isn’t that lucky?” Bob pulled over and walked across the parking lot with the empty thermos. He entered the diner and the waitress said it would be five minutes until the pot was brewed and so he sat in a booth to wait. Looking out across the parking lot he saw that Ethan was sitting up high in the backseat of the Chevy, and speaking to Connie as if he were scolding her. Connie had shifted to the driver’s position, hands on the steering wheel, looking forward, sunglasses still on, expressionless. Bob watched as Ethan reached up and touched Connie’s shoulder. Connie pulled away and turned to face Ethan, addressing him sharply, fiercely. After she had finished, and resumed her forward-facing driver’s position, Ethan dropped back in his seat, his posture sullen and low. Neither of them was speaking anymore. Minutes later, as Bob crossed the parking lot with the full thermos, they still were silent, ignoring each other. When Bob got in the car, and before he could ask what was the matter, Connie said, “Ethan’s trying to ruin the day, Bob. But we’re not going to let him, are we?”
Bob asked Ethan, “Why are you trying to ruin the day?”
“I don’t know why,” he said.
“Notice that he doesn’t deny he’s trying to ruin it,” Connie said.
“I did notice that,” Bob said. He asked Ethan, “Won’t you deny it?”
“I won’t, no. Because I am trying to ruin it.” He reached for the thermos and, unscrewing the lid, poured himself a cupful.
Connie was adjusting the rearview mirror. “Well,” she said, “if he’s going to try to ruin the day then he should just get out of our car and walk home, or walk into traffic, either one.”
Bob turned to Ethan and made a face of mock shock. He wished to defuse the situation, to undo whatever was the matter, but Ethan was distracted by his own bitter mysteries and wouldn’t go along with this. He took a sip of the coffee, winced at the heat of it, fanned his tongue, and put his tongue away. “You know what, though, Bob? She’s right. And I’m sorry. I’ll stop. I’m stopping.” And then he did stop; by the time they arrived at the trailhead he was sitting up and behaving normally, or more normally than he had been.