Down the Throat of the Mountain

by Jennifer Erickson

  They threw those words at him but he couldn't lob them back. The worst part was they used his story as another excuse to turn Emily and Jake away from him. "Your father is not right in his head," they said.

  But as Emily and Jake grew older, they discovered the hidden Bible, read the story of a cave of wonders and a lost golden bear that might be cursed.

  Bonesy was dead by then. His will and his spirit had drained out of him, and he had faded away.

  His children passed the Bible and the story down to their children, not because they believed, but because it would have been so wonderful if only it were true.

  Back in Long Shot, Charlotte laid claim to the new passages in the mountain behind her hotel, and a heavy metal grate appeared over the upper entrance, far above town.

  The Long Shot Hotel thrived and expanded until the Great Depression. Then, suddenly, business dried up. Charlotte's riches dwindled. She died alone in her apartment on the fifth floor of the deserted hotel. The son she'd borne and sent away at the age of three inherited the property from the mother he'd never really known. He never went back to Colorado to see it. It lay vacant for forty years.

  The vault door stood strong all that time.

  Chapter 11

  It was 2013, just a few days into Janie Gundy's purgatory.

  "Janie!" Aunt Margaret's caftan sleeves flapped over two generations of Gundys like an automatic carwash. "I am not sad about your dad." Her eyes shone as she put a dramatic hand to her heart and sniffed. "He had a good life, and we should be happy that he's gone on to the void, right? Right?"

  Janie had forgotten how intense Aunt Margaret could be.

  So many times Janie had wished for a better father, someone less embarrassing and better looking, who would talk to her like an adult and send her shopping with his credit card. Someone who wouldn't ask nosy questions about boys or call her friends' parents "just to check in".

  But that stuff didn't matter any more. The night of the stolen purse, of the fight with George, had changed everything. Dad had died alone while she was off pretending to be a grown up.

  "Yeah. You know, Aunt Margaret, I'm not all that happy."

  Janie's second cousin Ben ducked and shifted to protect his plate of potato salad from Aunt Margaret's gesturing arms.

  "But you should be!" Aunt Margaret craned her neck. Her stare was meant to be sympathetic, but Janie just felt unclothed. "He's gone to the upside-down topsy-turvy, where the impossible is possible, where change changes nothing, because all potentials are already there."

  "Aunt Margaret, he didn't believe in that shit."

  "He didn't have to," she said.

  "But that's not where I want him to be." Janie tried to smile to take the edge off. "I want him here. I don't even care if he lectures us about tax law or spills wine down his sweater. Even then. I want him sitting right there." Janie pointed at the sofa, where her second cousin's self-conscious kids were lined up like Russian dolls.

  Then, she drew in a deep breath and burst into tears.

  Aunt Margaret swept Janie off her chair into a hug. Janie hid her face in her bosom and sobbed like a baby until she realized she was trapped. She brought a hand up, cleared out an airway, kneading cloth and bosom aside, then took a shuddering breath. It was just her and Aunt Margaret now. Aunt M, the Traitor.

  "Come live with me, Janie."

  Not a chance in hell, thought Janie.

  "I know, you said you don't want to, but you're too young to be all alone."

  Janie had been taking care of her father since Mom left. She could take care of herself. Not that she would tell Aunt M that. It would make Aunt M think she was right about Dad, that he was a plodder, a failure. But maybe he wouldn't be that way if it weren’t for Mom. Mom had broken his heart.

  "Never trust love at first sight", Dad had told Janie, when she asked about Mom.

  Mom had been a student in one of the community school classes Dad taught: Prepare Your Own Taxes or Be Credit Smart. This was way back when Mom was twenty-two and gorgeous. Dad was almost fifty, smart and kind. Maybe Mom had liked that, at first. Whatever it was, it wore off.

  When Janie was about ten, Mom started going out to bars with her girlfriends and coming home late. Sometimes, she bounced in all happy-happy at seven a.m. on Saturday. Even now, Janie didn't like to remember those mornings.

  And then, the ultimate betrayal: Mom moved in with Aunt M while she "got her head together and decided what she wanted out of life."

  And when Mom decided she wanted to divorce Dad and move into an apartment with a swimming pool, Aunt M took Mom's side. Janie had heard Aunt M and Dad arguing about it. Aunt M said that Dad had stolen Mom's youth, and Mom should be allowed to "live a little before it was too late."

  Then Mom met this guy Brad and moved to El Paso, Texas to be with him. Janie had visited once. There was a drive-in porn theater near their house. That pretty much summed up El Paso. Janie kept making excuses for why she couldn't visit again. Mom hadn't even come for the funeral, so Janie guessed she could stop pretending she wanted to see her.

  Now Aunt M was giving Janie some sort of pep talk: "You're the end of a noble line, Janie."

  "Aunt Margaret, I hope you're not telling people we're Ute, 'cause you know it's not true."

  "Just because there's no documentation doesn't mean it's not true. It's oral history."

  "Then why don't you get your DNA tested? Find out for sure."

  "I don't need some scientist to tell me what I know in my soul. I have an Indian spirit."

  "Well, I'm pretty sure I don't have an Indian spirit. I'm not sure I have any spirit at all."

  "Oh, Sweetheart, don't say things like that. You have so much spirit. So much!"

  Janie stifled a groan. "Plus, I don't think you're supposed to say 'Indian' any more. Aren't you supposed to say, like, Native American, or--"

  "Well, phooey. I can call myself whatever I--"

  "Okay, it's not important."

  Aunt Margaret believed the most outrageous things, as long as they served her. Among those things was their ridiculous family mythology. Indian blood? Buried treasure? As though life were some rollicking musical.

  "Didn't your father ever tell you the story of the Golden Bear?"

  "The treasure that Great-great-grandpa Gundy supposedly stashed in a cave for our family to uncover?"

  "You think it's silly."

  "Well, yeah. Everybody always wants to think they're on the verge of striking it rich. Nobody seems to want to actually work for a living."

  Aunt Margaret's answer was a condescending smile. Janie winced. Aunt M made a great living selling New Age junk to people on the internet. Janie was the one who spent all day watching TV.

  "I heard you lost your job." Aunt Margaret murmured. “But it’s probably for the best.”

  "I don't want to talk about it."

  Aunt Margaret squeezed her, then held her out to look her in the eye.

  No, not that again.

  Janie's eyes kept slipping sideways out of that gaze.

  "You should go to college in the fall, Janie. You're smart." She gave Janie a shake. "It might not be too late to register at Metro State. I'll pay."

  Fingernails dug into Janie's biceps. Aunt Margaret was surprisingly strong.

  "Fine," said Aunt Margaret, "but call me if you'd like some help. Money or a job? A friend of mine is looking for someone."

  "I really don't see myself working in a crystal shop or something," said Janie. Aunt Margaret's friends were a bunch of patchouli-drenched weirdos.

  "Your father told me you're interested in marketing."

  Janie caught herself nodding.

  "Well, then, there we go," said Aunt M.

  "No we don't," said Janie.

  "What?"

  "I don't want your job."

  "We'll see."

  Chapter 12

  Craigslist had a few jobs. Monster.com had a few more. Janie walked into every business in Boulder with a resume. She go
t a couple of interviews. Everything fell through. Janie imagined them calling Storm Marketing ("Take the World by Storm!") to check on her employment history. What would Leslie tell them? Would she tell them that Janie had been fired? Would she explain why?

  "If you call Storm Marketing, make sure you talk to George, not Leslie," she blurted out at one interview.

  "And why is that?" Eyebrows raised politely.

  "Leslie might give you the impression that I didn't do a very good job. But George (that's her husband), he offered me a full-time position and everything. He said I had a lot of promise." He'd said she was born for advertising. He'd said she could be writing copy within a year. He'd said a lot of things, actually.

  "But the other person Leslie, why wouldn't she agree?"

  "She's just jealous," said Janie. Did that sound as stupid as she thought?

  "Jealous?" The man's voice was so careful, so even.

  Janie took Storm off her resume completely, but that meant her only job reference was the ice cream place she'd worked at the summer before sophomore year. The Luminescence Candle Store gave the cashier position to Christie Bailey's little brother. Janie had $1.60 in the bank and couldn't pay the mortgage or utilities for the second month in a row. She gave in and called Aunt Margaret.

  "Janie, first of all, I sent a copy of your father's death certificate to the bank, so they're not going to foreclose right away. Of course, we'll have to sell it. I'll help you with that. But I wanted to give you some time to think about your future."

  "We're not selling my house."

  "But Sweetie, you're barely eighteen. You can't afford that place. You don't even have a job. And there are utilities, taxes--"

  "I'm not selling it. It's my home."

  Aunt M paused. "I can help you out, of course. I'm happy to give you money, but I'd rather invest in your education."

  "I don't want your money."

  "So you have said."

  Accepting the money would make Aunt M think she could run Janie's life. Next thing she knew, she'd be sucked into Aunt M's orbit and she'd end up like her mother.

  "The reason I called," said Janie, "is that you mentioned that maybe someone you know has a job..." It was hard enough for Janie to ask that much.

  "Of course!" Did Aunt M seem a little too eager? "I know exactly the thing!"

  Chapter 13

  For decades, Long Shot had been a ghost town, its stone buildings deserted. Broken glass, scorched walls, rusted old mining equipment and beer cans littered the valley. Visitors didn't stay for long. The place just didn't feel right. And those who did stay lurked in ramshackle compounds in the bush with guns and liquor.

  Anything could happen there. You felt it in the back of your neck and the twisting of your gut. If you paused to really listen, you could hear the hum of the universe there.

  People whispered about mysterious accidents, strange noises in the night, odd discontinuities, coincidences, the way things seemed in flux, even in their disintegration, watchful in their stillness.

  The sheriff drove through occasionally, but he knew that he wasn't welcome. The few residents had their own code of conduct. If the sheriff accidentally did spot trouble, he'd make a half-assed attempt to solve it without leaving the safety of his truck.

  Nowadays, much of the town still lay vacant, but there was a gas station and a new casino, The Silver Dollar, famous for spectacular wins and bankrupt suicides. Across the street was a mysterious business run out of the old Long Shot Hotel: Long Shot, Inc.

  Perhaps a hundred years ago, the Long Shot Hotel had been grand, but now it was a dump. Standing in the dirt parking lot, Janie saw an eroding sandstone facade and smeared windows. A man in a bathrobe sat on the mossy steps, staring at her. Janie gazed up at the building until her neck hurt, putting off the moment when she would have to enter and interview for the mysterious position offered by Aunt Margaret's friend. The business definitely wasn't a crystal shop. Was it off-track betting? Aunt Margaret's explanation was a bunch of gobbledygook.

  Janie pretended not to see the man in the bathrobe as she slipped past him to the door. The lobby had cracked black and white tile floors, dull brass, an arching mosaic ceiling and an impressive reception desk with a big chunk missing from the corner.

  The desk guard's face lit up: "You again!"

  Janie tried to place the face. It did seem familiar.

  "It's the girl who was mugged!" he said.

  Ah! The night watchman who'd been so kind to her on the night she'd been robbed, back when her life ended and purgatory started. What had it been? Two months ago?

  "So you changed jobs?" she asked.

  "I was trying something else for awhile, but I couldn't stand the commute."

  "Thanks for your help that night."

  "You got your purse back?"

  Janie nodded. Then she remembered why she was there. If she was going to get the job, she should probably pretend to be little more on-the-ball.

  "I have an appointment with Ron Essing," she said. The desk guard's smile froze.

  "Of course."

  "Wait a minute. How do you know about my purse?"

  He glowered. "You think it drove itself home?" Was there such a thing as a friendly glower?

  "But how--"

  He held up a hand as he mumbled into the phone.

  How had he found it? Why had he bothered?

  "Somebody ditched it in the alley. Fifth floor," He brushed off her thanks and gestured toward an ornate brass elevator.

  As the elevator squeaked slowly upward, she rehearsed her schtik: ...thought it was time to try something new...have always wanted to work for Long Shot, Inc...excited about this opportunity...in the fascinating field of...of what?

  The door clanked open to a musty Victorian parlor with cut glass sconces on the paneled walls and saggy armchairs grouped in the corner. The floor squeaked under the worn carpet as she approached a battered desk plunked in the center of the room, facing the elevator.

  The girl who greeted her there was a little older than Janie. She wore some sort of flowing garment, and her eyes glowed with peace. Or something.

  "Namaste." The girl raised her hands in a prayer-like greeting.

  Just then, Janie heard a loud flush and a man Aunt Margaret's age in a wrinkled blue suit ambled down the hall to meet her. "Jenny?"

  "Janie."

  He wiped his hands on his trousers, grasped her hand with his damp one. "Yeah. Crystal, get some towels for the bathroom." He ran a hand over slicked-back grey hair. "Okay, come with me."

  Crystal grimaced apologetically. Janie followed in a faint wake of B.O.

  He ushered her into his office, closed the door, sat on the edge of the desk.

  Janie slid into the client chair and leaned as far away from him as she could.

  Ron Essing tugged up his pant legs, adjusted his skinny behind on the edge of the desk. "First of all, I'm sorry about your father."

  Janie nodded, swallowed a lump in her throat.

  "But I'm glad you finally decided to accept my offer."

  "Well, I'm not sure. I mean I guess so. I mean, if you're offering a job, I pretty much have to take it, if I don't want to live on the street..." Could she ever just keep her stupid mouth shut? She winced and started over. "So, yes, please, if you're offering me a job, that would be great, but my aunt didn't really explain, um, what the position entailed." That was better. A little bit better.

  "Your aunt says you've got some special skills that we can use here at Long Shot, Inc.," he said.

  Janie's heart sank. Obviously, Aunt Margaret had been spreading stories about Janie's so-called gift. God knows what she'd said. All of the stories were exaggerated and some might even be wholly invented, but Janie wasn't sure because her memory of the toddler years was spotty. She did not "speak" to animals. She could not predict the future, she could not read minds. She had been precocious, maybe, but not the genius her aunt suggested. She was just an ordinary kid with an active imagination a
nd poor social skills. Thank God, she was normal now. Relatively normal.

  "You mean the psychic stuff? My aunt means well, but I'm not--" She started to rise.

  "No! No!" He beckoned her back. "Actually, I was talking about marketing. She said you used to work for an ad firm."

  Janie must have looked doubtful.

  "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I trust Margaret's judgment. She's quite a woman. A marvelous woman. I can't say enough good about her."

  Janie wished she had some of Aunt M's mojo.

  "We'll put you in the Trends department to begin. It may seem tedious, but it will get you into the groove of things. Once you've developed an understanding of the business, I'll have you work with me on communications. I've been reading about viral marketing and I need someone young, somebody who's tuned in, someone who can Tweet and Facebook. I've got to admit, this stuff scares the hell out of me." He leaned forward. "I don't even have a cell phone." His smile was disarming. "Do you have any questions?"

  Yes! She had questions! For example, why did this seem too good to be true? But she didn't say that. Good girl.

  Instead, she said, "My aunt says you're old friends."

  "Yes, well, she hasn't aged like I have," he chuckled, "but yes, your aunt and I were young once. I know it's hard to believe. Sometimes I start thinking I'm still that young man, and then I catch my reflection in the mirror and I'm horrified."

  "I know the feeling," Janie said, under her breath.

  At Ron's pained expression, she said, "I mean, not about you, about me. Never mind. Sorry. Go on."

  "Your Aunt Margaret and I first came here together in the '70's, and while she moved on, I never managed to leave. From the time I arrived, I felt deeply connected to the Long Shot Hotel, to the cave, to its power. You know about the cave?"

  Alarm bells went off in Janie's head. She swallowed. "I'm not sure."

  Her temple itched. She wondered whether this had something to do with Great-great-grandpa Gundy's treasure.

  "We know now that this is a sacred place," he continued. "A place where one can experience the undifferentiated world, see through the illusion of time. But at first, I just thought it was cool."

  Janie tried to keep her face straight. Yes, he was definitely a freak.

  "Some people don't believe. A lot of people. Most people. And that's okay." He gave Janie an understanding smile.

  "The original structure dates from around 1866. You might have noticed it's built right into the hillside, and there's a reason for that. A cave system extends into the mountain here. The Indians called it the Womb of the World. It was used for special ceremonies and only with careful preparation, purification, that sort of thing. It's not the kind of place you want to take too casually. The cave is a place where the veil is very thin."