Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set

by Richard Paul Evans

  Fortunately, by late afternoon, the elevation had fallen to 2,800 feet, and the snow was considerably diminished on the road, gathered only in occasional crusted patches that I just stepped over.

  My thoughts kept wandering back to my Ralph encounter. I wondered if Cheryl already knew he was cheating. I didn’t regret saying what I did. Revenge, they say, is a dish best served cold. I have no idea what that means, but it seemed especially apropos for a ski resort. At any rate, I could have done much worse.

  At twilight, an Acura MDX that was headed down the mountain slowed down next to me and a blond teenage girl leaned out the passenger window. “Want a ride?” she asked. I guessed she’d been drinking. Coldplay blared from their stereo.

  “No thank you.”

  “Where you going?”

  “Florida.”

  “Where is he going?” the driver asked. She was also a teenage girl. I hoped she hadn’t been drinking. Just then a car pulled up behind their car, honked, then swerved around them.

  “He said Florida,” the window blonde said.

  The driver said something I couldn’t hear. Then the girl leaned back out the window. “We’ll drive you.”

  “Thanks. I’d rather walk.”

  She laughed. “Have fun.”

  The car sped off.

  After two more miles, there was no more snow on the road or shoulders, which I was especially pleased about since it was time to make camp. According to my map, there was a town ahead, but I wasn’t sure how far or how big it was, or even if there would be any place to stay. I hoped there would be. I was chilled to the core and desperately wanted a warm bath and a place to wash my sweat-stained clothes.

  In spite of the time I spent lingering at the pass, I had covered a lot of ground—the most of any day so far—nearly 30 miles. My legs were okay, except my knees hurt a little from walking downhill.

  As I came around a gradual bend in the road, I saw something set back through the trees. There was an unpaved, gravel pull-off, and not far behind it was a collection of dilapidated yellow shacks. They looked like they may have once been one-room rentals for skiers, but they had obviously been deserted for many years. One of the shacks was completely collapsed, the roof now lying on the ground, its asphalt-tile roof covered in moss and leaves. The other structures were in varying degrees of disrepair.

  There was something about the place that made me anxious, and as I approached the first shack, I had the sudden macabre thought that I might find something inside that I didn’t want to see. I suppose it reminded me of the kind of place serial killers hid things in True Crime stories. I didn’t know what made me think of that.

  I looked inside the first structure. There were no bodies, but it was clear that I wasn’t the first human to find the place. The interior was a man-sized rat’s nest. The room was filled with some bizarre junk—drained beer bottles, a molded mattress, an army jacket, the back seat of a Ford Pinto, a purple brassiere, empty plastic antifreeze bottles, and shredded newspapers.

  I checked out the other shacks. They also had wood floors likewise heaped with their own eclectic contributions from past occupants. Two of them still had remnants of the original carpet—rotted and spotted black with mold like a leopard’s hide.

  The windows were all broken out of them, and they offered only a little shelter, but there is something about a roof overhead that makes one feel more secure.

  The shack I settled on was structurally the most sound of the four and had a fireplace that was still intact. I inspected the hearth and chimney, then gathered wood from one of the fallen structures and started a fire. The hearth was filled with wet leaves, and the chimney was partially clogged, so smoke backed up inside the room, which wasn’t much of a problem, since there were holes in the roof and walls.

  The flame was a thing of beauty as the shack filled with heat and light. I wondered if anyone would notice the fire at night, but I didn’t worry about it. People driving by were going somewhere. They didn’t have time to care about such things.

  I laid out my pad and sleeping bag, then rooted through my pack for dinner. There wasn’t much left to eat—an apple, jerky, trail mix, and two energy bars. I should have bought something at the resort; I had planned to, but I was in a bit of a hurry to leave. I finished off the trail mix and jerky, then sat back and slowly ate my apple.

  I had accomplished a victory of sorts. The snow and mountain had worried me more than I let on to myself, but it hadn’t really been that big a deal. I wanted to tell someone what I had accomplished, but there was no one who would want to hear. McKale would have wanted to know all about it.

  I threw the apple core into the fire, then crawled into my bag to sleep.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-seven

  It happened again. Sometimes the most frightening place to be is in our own skin.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  I woke in the night at the sound of hail. It was an impressive storm, and even with the dense tree cover overhead, it sounded like a hundred ball-peen hammers pounding on the shack’s roof. Marble-sized ice balls flew in through the window and popped off the floor like popcorn, gathering in one corner in frozen white piles. The fire was smoldering, its embers glowing and occasionally hissing from the hail. I considered starting the fire up again but decided against it. It was too cold to leave my bag.

  Suddenly my body turned on me. My chest and throat constricted, my skin flushed, and my heart began to race. This wasn’t the first time I had had a panic attack. It happened a lot when I was a boy in the months following my mother’s death. I never told my father about it. McKale was the only one who ever knew. She was the only one who had ever comforted me through it. Now it was happening because of her. Or lack of her.

  I sat there for several minutes, trembling. I reached down the front of my shirt and grasped the ring that hung from the chain around my neck.

  Then, in the dark, I groped through my backpack until I found McKale’s camisole. I pulled it out and buried my face in it. Through the silk fabric I shouted, “Why did you leave me! Why did you make me promise to live?”

  There was no answer but the pounding hail. I pulled my sleeping bag up over my head and tried to go back to sleep. I couldn’t stop shaking.

  I don’t remember falling asleep, but I woke at daybreak. The hail had stopped, replaced by heavy rainfall. I sat up. My back hurt from the hard floor. I climbed out of my bag, and for a few minutes I just sat, listening to the rain, watching a steady stream of water cascade down the east wall and pool near the fireplace. My chest still ached from the night before.

  For the first time, I wished I had my cell phone. I felt lonely. I wanted someone to talk to. I wasn’t particular. Anyone who would listen.

  It wasn’t just my back and chest that hurt. My whole body ached, but I wasn’t sore from walking, and I wasn’t sick. At least not physically.

  I looked out at the rain and sighed. I had no desire to walk. The only thing more painful would be to sit inside a dank, molding box and think.

  I was also nearly out of food. I rooted through my backpack and brought out the energy bars. I took one of them, peeled back the wrapper, and ate it. Then I ate the second one, depleting the last of my food. I threw the wrappers on the floor—my contribution to the nest. There was no need to douse the fire. The rain had already taken care of that.

  I pulled my poncho on over my parka, put on my hat, flung my backpack over my shoulder, and walked out into the storm. The forest floor was muddy and dark, and torn strips of green leaves littered the ground, shredded from the night’s hail.

  As I left the protection of the trees’ canopy, the rain loudly bounced off my hat and poncho. I truly loved my hat. It was one thing that made me happy. I could imagine the Aussies in the outback, herding sheep or kangaroos or whatever in their Akubra hats, the rain spitting down on them, rolling off their hats’ brims to their shoulders. The more it rained the more I loved my hat. I wondered if I would look ridiculo
us wearing it in Key West.

  The traffic was light, whether because it was still early or because everyone else was smarter than me and stayed inside, I don’t know. The road still gradually descended, though not as much as the first few miles from the pass. I was glad for this, as not just my spirit was resistant to walking, but my body as well. I felt like I was forcing every step. I hoped there was something in the next town.

  Ninety minutes later I spotted a building. The 59er Diner—a relatively ambitious establishment for a gas-stop town—was a fifties’ style building with bright pink streamers and a neon sign that proclaimed WORLD FAMOUS SHAKES. I was deliriously happy to see it.

  To the east of the building was a small side yard with a healthy grass lawn and a wood fence as eclectically decorated as a yard sale. There were old bicycles and red Radio Flyer wagons, a parking meter, pink flamingos, and a set of drive-in movie speakers.

  Behind the yard was a row of small bungalows brightly painted and clean, about twice the size of the shack where I had spent the night and probably not unlike what it looked like a decade or two ago.

  I walked up to the restaurant. I held the door while three women exited, then stepped inside to the warmth and the pleasing smell of ice cream and pancake batter. The interior of the building was loud and cluttered with fifties relics. There was a vintage neon-lit jukebox playing vinyl 45s—Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock”—and a soda counter with chrome-stemmed, vinyl bar stools.

  This place was serious about their claim of world-famous shakes. There was a whiteboard with the number of shakes served that year, 23,429 so far, with an appeal to help them break their annual record of 27,462.

  A tall, flaxen-haired woman approached me. She wore a pink apron and a name tag that read BETTY SUE. “Nice hat,” she said. “Just you, honey?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Right this way.”

  She led me to a round, laminate-topped table in the back of the restaurant. “How’s this?”

  “Just great. Thank you.”

  “Your waitress will be right with you.”

  I took off my pack and leaned it against the wall, then removed my hat and poncho. I set my hat on the table, rolled up the poncho and stowed it in my pack, then sat down. The walls were decorated in a fifties collage of old license plates, Life magazine covers, Elvis paraphernalia, record covers, antique Coca-Cola and Pepsi signs, and pinups of fifties stars: Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando, James Dean, and Lucille Ball.

  There were also printed advertisements from the fifties, including one for an iron that promised to iron 30 percent faster (and so many women are using them!), and another for cool compresses for “tired eyes.”

  Mounted on the wall above me was a small black-and-white television playing The Three Stooges. I decided that I truly was impressed with the work that had gone into the place, and not just because I’d spent the night in a landfill.

  I pulled a menu from the chrome table stand and looked over their breakfast offerings. Banana pancakes with two eggs just $2.99. Biscuits and gravy $3.49. Everything looked good.

  Just then my waitress arrived. She was a little over five feet, thin and didn’t quite fill out the jeans she was wearing. She had long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and dark, almond-shaped eyes. She looked at me as if she recognized me.

  “Hello. Nice hat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m Flo.” Her introduction was redundant as her name was amply displayed on the license plate–sized name tag on her chest.

  “Flo,” I repeated. “What’s your real name?”

  She smiled. “You know, in the three years I’ve been here, you’re the first to ask. It’s Ally.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ally.”

  She rested her hands on her hips, then asked, “Are you okay?”

  I was surprised by her question. “Sure. A little wet. A lot wet. But I’m fine.”

  She nodded. “Okay. Are you ready to order?”

  “Yes. I’ll have the banana pancakes and biscuits and gravy.”

  “Hungry,” she said as she wrote it down. “Hungry and soggy. Anything to drink?”

  “Orange juice and some hot chocolate.”

  “Orange juice. Hot cocoa,” she said. “Be right back.” She spun around and walked away. She returned a minute later with a mug. There was a cloud of cream about half as tall as the cup. “There you are. I hope you wanted whipped cream on your cocoa. I went a little crazy with it. I’ll scoop it off if you don’t.”

  “I like whipped cream,” I said.

  “Good.”

  “Do you know anything about those bungalows out back?”

  “Yes. What do you want to know?”

  “Are there any vacancies?”

  “I’m sure there are.”

  “How much are they?”

  “About a hundred dollars a night.”

  “Do they have hot water?”

  She smiled. “Well, of course they do. They’re just like little hotel rooms.”

  “How do I rent one?”

  “I’ll get you a flier.”

  She walked back through a set of swinging doors, then returned with a small, color-copy sales piece. Like the diner, the bungalows were themed. There was a western motif, a tropical island paradise, and the Big Bopper, which looked like an extension of the diner.

  “They’re all vacant. It’s $98 a night,” she said. “But I’m sure I could get you a deal.”

  “Thank you.”

  Ally stepped back from the table. “And your breakfast should be out real soon.”

  She returned a few minutes later holding a large platter with a hot pad. “Here you are. Be careful, the plate’s hot.”

  The tall, lightly browned biscuits were covered with gravy and garnished with parsley flakes and paprika. As she set the plate down, I noticed two thick scars running horizontally across her right wrist. She caught me looking and quickly withdrew her arm, laying it to her side.

  “I talked with the owner,” she said. “He says he’ll rent you a bungalow for just $59 a night. And you can occupy it immediately.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that.”

  “When you’re done eating, I’ll take you through them. Do you need anything else?”

  I looked over the table. “My juice.”

  “Of course. Sorry.” She ran back, then returned with a tall glass of orange juice. She handed it to me with her left hand. “That’s on me. Enjoy your meal.”

  “Thank you.”

  The food was delicious. The biscuits and gravy were especially good. When I finished eating, Ally returned with my bill.

  “Anything else?”

  “No, I’m good.” I gave her my debit card.

  “I’ll ring this up then show you the bungalows.”

  A moment later, she returned with my card, the check, and three room keys attached to wooden key chains roughly the size of boat paddles. On each key chain was printed the name of one of the bungalows.

  I signed the check, then put on my hat, lifted my pack and followed her out the back door.

  The first bungalow she took me to had a tropical decor. The walls were brightly painted with island foliage, exotic birds, parrots, and cockatiels. I wasn’t particular about where I stayed and said so, but Ally insisted on showing me her favorite—the Big Bopper. “I think this is the nicest of the three,” she said unlocking the door.

  The interior was clean and painted robin’s egg blue, the same color as a Tiffany’s gift box. The walls were covered with pictures from the fifties: Sinatra, Brando, Elvis, but predominantly of Marilyn Monroe, which included a large poster of her kneeling on a bed. The front room had a black-and-white checkered tile landing, a couch, and a television.

  The kitchen was small, crowded with a microwave oven, a small laminate table with two chrome-back chairs, a small refrigerator, an electric fan, and a porcelain sink with two pink fuzzy dice hanging from the ceiling above it. The bathroom had a shower bath with plastic sh
ower curtains printed with pictures of silhouetted girls in poodle skirts.

  “This is perfect,” I said. I laid my pack against the front wall. “I’ll take it.”

  “Don’t you want to see the Western bungalow?”

  “No, you said this is your favorite. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Here’s your key.” She walked to the front door. “I work until seven tonight, so if you need anything, you know where to find me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You are very welcome. Have a nice stay.”

  She stepped outside, and I shut the door behind her.

  The first thing I did was dump the contents of my backpack in a pile on the floor of the front room. Everything I had was filthy, damp, and smelled. I filled the tub with hot water, then dropped in all my clothes, including the ones I was wearing. I kneeled down and hand washed them all with shampoo. The water turned the color of weak coffee. When I had washed everything, I emptied the water from the tub then refilled it with fresh, scalding hot water and let my clothes soak. I wrapped a towel around myself, then opened the front door and shook out my pack, emptying it of crumbs, trail mix, and dirt.

  I went back to the tub, unstopped the drain, and, piece by piece, pulled my clothes from the water, wrung them out by hand, then hung them to dry over whatever I could find: chair backs, the sofa, towel bars, the bed’s headboard. I hung the clothes I needed first in the kitchen next to the fan. I considered putting my cargo pants in the microwave to dry them but decided against it. The last thing I needed was a fire.