The Ascent

by Ronald Malfi

  I’d lied to Marta earlier when I said I thought she’d thrown all those letters away. I knew very well she’d tucked them inside that shoe box under my bed. I’d gone through them a number of times since, though not with any sense of remorse or regret at having missed the opportunities. In fact, I felt very little emotion when I looked at them, except maybe for a sense of anchoring, of stabilizing, the way a ship gets tied to the docks when it growls into port.

  They were letters requesting my services as an artist and a sculptor. Usually they came from multinational conglomerates and faceless corporations throughout the country’s major metropolises, requesting some titanium twist of modern art for their marbled courtyards. Or some board member I’d never heard of from a company of equalanonymity would pen a letter, explaining he’d read such and such an article and would love to have me chisel the bust of their CEO in granite, something they could prop on a pedestal in their lobby.

  Over the past few years, these requests dwindled dramatically but not to the point of extinction. The latest—the one Marta had read this afternoon on the balcony—was from a textile company in Manhattan. The company’s vice president was infatuated with the number three, the letter explained, and it was this man’s desire to hire Timothy Overleigh to design a wrought-iron numeral to be displayed in his office. His reasons for choosing me were appropriately threefold: the magazine on whose cover I’d once been pictured was called Three Tiers; I was once named the third best sculptor in young America by the Washington Post; and lastly because of the sum of the letters in the abbreviated form of my first name.

  I finished off the last of the Macallan and was feeling pretty good. When I squinted, the lights along the shore blurred and spread out in a greasy smear. The chill from the strong breeze caused my injured leg to ache. I turned the chair around and, thumping over the rubber doorjamb, rolled back into the apartment.

  Hannah stood across the room, mostly hidden in the dark.

  My breath caught in my throat. I felt the empty liquor bottle slide from my hand and strike the floor with a hollow thud. Suddenly I forgot all about the pain in my left leg. Unable to move, I sat frozen in the wheelchair, staring across the room, trying to dissect the shadows to better view my wife.

  “Hannah.” It came out in a breathy whisper, the sound of it—the foolishness of it—forcing rational thought to override my panic. She wasn’t there, of course. She was dead. Hannah was dead. She was—

  I watched her move along the far wall, an indescribable shifting of depth, until she reached the section spotlighted by the moonlight coming in through the balcony doors. I anticipated her coming into relief the moment she crossed that panel of bluish light … but shenever did. She vanished before she reached it, dispersing into granules of dust in the darkness.

  “Jesus,” I uttered, my voice choked and nervous. I forced a laugh; it came out as a bark.

  I decided to get the hell out of the apartment for the night. My eyes locked on the pair of crutches leaning in one corner of the room. It was not difficult to maneuver on the crutches, although they certainly provided less comfort than the chair, and I quickly rolled over to them and dragged myself out of the wheelchair while leaning against the television for support. I winced as I carelessly banged my left leg against the credenza, a million fireworks exploding before my eyes, then took a number of slow, deep breaths as I situated the crutches into the sockets of my armpits. Upright, I balanced precipitously for a moment before lunging toward the front door.

  My apartment was in walking distance of downtown but not crutching distance, so I had the building’s doorman wrangle me a cab. It was a feat getting into the cab’s backseat, even with the assistance of the doorman and the cabdriver—both of whom spoke little English and looked as though they may have hailed from the same South American country—but I was soon shuttled off and deposited at the city dock.

  It was a beautiful night, and the streets were alive. I could faintly hear live music issuing from a number of the closest taverns and beyond that the distant growl of boat engines. The bars along Main Street would be packed at this hour, and I was not in the mood to have my leg bumped by drunks in Navy whites, so I hobbled down an alleyway to seek out a more reclusive haunt hidden from summer tourists.

  The Filibuster was as reclusive as one could hope for. A narrow, redbrick front fitted with iron sconces, boasting none of the typical Annapolis fanfare in its windows—goggle-eyed ceramic crabs or miniature rowing oars crossing each other to form an X—the Filibuster was easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it. Brom Holsworth, aretired Department of Justice prosecutor, owned the place ever since I could remember. Inside, it was musty and dark, the walls adorned with yellowing photographs of disgraced Washington politicians, many of whom Brom helped to disgrace.

  Tonight, as expected, the bar was only mildly populated. I nearly collapsed on the closest barstool and, leaning my crutches against the wall, let out a hefty sigh.

  The bartender was a nice enough kid named Ricky Carrolton. His face seemed to light up when he saw me. “Been gone so long, I was beginning to think you jumped off the Bay Bridge.”

  Something about his comment bothered me. “Downtown’s more crowded than usual,” I said quickly, trying not to let my discomfort show. “What’s the deal?”

  “Regatta race starts tomorrow morning. Didn’t you read today’s paper?”

  “I only get the Sunday paper.”

  “We’ve even been getting some of the stragglers all the way down here.” As Ricky spoke, he fixed me a whiskey sour. “Out-of-towners, most of them. All the hotels are busting at the seams. Good for business, though, I guess.”

  “How’s Brom?”

  Ricky set the drink down in front of me. “Laid up with the gout.” He nodded toward my crutches. “When are you gonna get off those? You seem to be moving around better.”

  “I’m biding my time.”

  “Doc keeps giving you pain meds as long as you’re a cripple, huh?” Ricky said, laughing. “I dig it.”

  A hand fell on my shoulder.

  I turned, expecting to see someone I knew, but this man was a stranger to me. Perhaps one of the out-of-towners Ricky had just spoken of.

  “Your name Timothy Overleigh?” the man asked. He wasa large, barrel-chested behemoth, with grizzled white tufts of hair spooling out from beneath his mesh cap and pepper-colored beard stubble covering the undulations of his thick, rolling neck.

  “Who wants to know?” I retorted.

  The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward a darkened corner of the tavern. “Guy in the back,” he said, turning his rheumy eyes from me so he could scan the collection of liquor bottles that climbed the wall behind the bar.

  I peered across the room and could make out the shape of a man seated by himself in a corner booth. The lighting was too poor, however, to get a good look at his face.

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “He say his name? It’s a bit of a hike for a guy on crutches, particularly when he’s not comfortable with the idea of leaving his drink behind.”

  “Didn’t say no name,” grumbled the man, who sat two stools down and lit a cigarette.

  Over the past several weeks, I’d become rather adept at using one crutch. I did this now, holding my drink in my free hand, and made my way to the darkened corner.

  As I approached, the man’s features seemed to materialize out of the gloom. He was a good-looking guy, in a somewhat ordinary sort of way, with high, almost feminine cheekbones and a small slash for a mouth. His eyes were large, deeply set, and black like a bird’s. He had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  He lit a cigarette and grinned with just one corner of his mouth. Then I recognized him—not fully enough to recall who he was but enough to know I had seen that grin before.

  “It is you,” he said, the cadence of his voice equivalent to a low, breathy gasp. “I looked up and thought, shit, that’s Tim Overleigh sitting over there, his leg all fucked up. And I was right.”


  “Holy shit,” I uttered, realizing who he was.

  “Holy shit, indeed,” said Andrew Trumbauer, his one-sidedgrin widening.

  In disbelief, I mumbled, “Last time I saw you—”We almost died,” he finished.

  3

  I FIRST MET ANDREW TRUMBAUER IN A WHOLE

  other life. I can still picture him coming out of the ocean and strutting toward Hannah and me, this strange creature whose skin is so pale it is nearly transparent. His scarecrow-thin body beaded with seawater, his bare feet dotted with white sand. That grin overtakes one corner of his mouth, cocking it upward into an almost comical gesture of aloofness, and he raises a mesh bag of dog biscuits. He’s got a pair of goggles around his neck, the band pulled so tight it appears to be choking him, and he is so horridly, morbidly pale I imagine I can see his skin start to sizzle and turn pink, then deepen to red as he approaches from the other side of the beach.

  4

  I SAT DOWN IN THE BOOTH ACROSS FROM ANDREW.

  still somewhat shaken.

  “You remember, don’t you, Overleigh?” he said, his voice remaining low and breathy. The way the shadows played off his face, he was a patchwork of dark hollows and blaring white flesh. My name sounded comfortable coming out of his mouth, too, as if no time had passed between us. “How we almost died?”

  “Of course.” The words were automatic—I had no idea what he was talking about. It occurred to me that the last time I saw Andrew Trumbauer was at Hannah’s funeral three years ago.

  “That was something,” Andrew muttered, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

  “No, wait,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  Andrew frowned. It was a grotesque gesture, his face too thin to accommodate it properly. Instead, the corners of his mouth seemed to sink to twin points, and his chin wrinkled into a walnut. “You don’t remember?”

  “No, I have no—”

  Then it all came rushing back to me: leaving the funeral service in the gray, rain-soaked afternoon, Andrew behind the wheel and me in the passenger seat, Andrew turning at the last minute as the power line snapped, spitting fire as it whipped the ground, the car nearly running over the downed line …

  “The power line,” I said, my voice distant. I’d almost forgotten about it, the other events of that horrible day overshadowing all else.

  Andrew leaned back in his seat, a look of satisfaction overtaking that vague little frown of his. Something glittered in his eyes that caused me to turn my gaze down at my drink.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after the silence between us grew too long. “That was a shitty thing to bring up right off the bat like that.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “You look good,” he said.

  I smirked. “Liar. I know I look like shit.”

  “What happened to your leg?”

  I told him about the caving accident and admitted that it had been foolish to undertake such an excursion alone. “The bone came right up through the skin. I was a mess. I’m just lucky a car happened to stop after I made it out to the highway. Was probably the only car around for miles.”

  “Talk about luck,” Andrew said, although he didn’t seem too impressed.

  “Six months later,” I went on, “and I’ve learned my lesson. For the time being.”

  “Thing about lessons,” Andrew said, “is that there’s always a new

  one to learn.”

  I bummed one of his cigarettes and said, “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway, man?”

  “Regatta race.”

  “You’re in it? Get the fuck outta here. You have a boat?”

  “Not my boat. I’m one of the crew.”

  “You can sail?” But I knew this was a stupid question. Andrew Trumbauer was one of those guys who did everything from hiking the Grand Canyon to rafting down the goddamn Nile.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten involved in the race yourself,” he said, thankfully ignoring my question. “You live down here, don’t you? You’re an adventurer at heart. Doesn’t take those crutches and a busted leg for me to see that—I know you. And you’ve never sailed the Regatta?”

  I shrugged. “Been a busy few years.”

  “That’s a sad excuse. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

  I considered this. After Hannah’s death and the disappearance of my artistic talent, I’d submerged myself in the world of extreme sports—skydiving, spelunking, white-water rafting. But I knew nothing I said could compete with anything Andrew had done. So I said, “I once ran out to get my mail in the middle of a downpour without my rain slicker. It was risky, I know, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.”

  Andrew smiled. This time the expression looked more human. “You still sculpting?”

  “Actually, no. I gave it up.”

  “You make it sound like you just quit smoking.”

  “No, I still do that from time to time.”

  Andrew’s smile died. “Wait—you’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  “Jesus, man, why? You were brilliant.”

  “It’s … it’s a lot of mitigating factors. Complicated bullshit.”

  “Life is full of complicated bullshit. Yours is no different than anyone else’s.”

  I felt my heart flutter. For some stupid reason, I said, “I see Hannah.”

  Andrew stared at me with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. “What are you talking about?”

  “Forget it.” I waved a hand at him.

  “Tell me.”

  I sighed, watching a group of older men shoot darts. After what felt like an eternity, I said, “You’ll think I’m crazy, but I believe she’s been haunting me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I first saw her that night in the cave.” I explained how I’d gotten free of the cave and found the highway, following what I thought was Hannah’s ghost. I didn’t know if I expected Andrew to laugh or clap me on the shoulder and tell me I needed psychiatric help, but he did neither; he merely watched my lips move while I talked and never interrupted. “After that, I kept seeing her in my apartment. Out of the corner of my eye. But every time I turn to look, it’s a coatrack or a pile of clothes. And every time I flip the lights on, she vanishes.” Once again, I waved a hand at him. It seemed a sane gesture, one I was required to do in relaying such a bizarre story. “It’s stupid, I know. But it’s been bothering me.”

  “Why?” said Andrew.

  I didn’t know quite what he meant. “Because it’s fucking unnatural.”

  “No.” He fluttered some fingers before his face. “I mean, why is she coming to you now? She’s been dead for three years.”

  “Never mind,” I said. “It’s all in my head. I’m dealing with a lot of shit about her death.”

  “Maybe it’s a warning. Like she’s trying to tell you something from beyond the grave.”

  “Or maybe it’s that I’ve been spending too much time alone with my thoughts.”

  “And back in the cave?” he said, cocking one eyebrow.

  “Back in the cave I was in agony, and I was nearly hypothermicand dehydrated and whatever else you can imagine. I could have imagined I’d been rescued by Bigfoot, and it would have seemed perfectly natural at the time.”

  Andrew sighed and rubbed at his upper lip with an index finger. His eyes never left mine. “You’re such a realist. You remember all that crazy shit we used to do?”

  I nodded. I remembered it well.

  “Realism will be your downfall.”

  I snorted and said, “That makes no fucking sense.”

  “Everything makes sense. Listen,” he said. His voice had adopted a less breathy tone. “I believe in fate. And I believe fate had me run into you here tonight.”

  “Why would fate go through the trouble?”

  “So I could apologize.”

  His words surprised me. “Apologize for what?”

  “For all the time we lost af
ter Hannah’s death. For disappearing for three years. And for siding with her in the separation.”

  I glanced away and watched the smoke coil up from the tip of my cigarette. “It was only fair. You were Hannah’s friend, too. And I was an asshole. I was fully to blame for the split.”

  For whatever reason, I waited for Andrew to tell me that wasn’t the case, that both Hannah and I were equally to blame, but he didn’t. If he had, it would have been a lie. Hannah leaving me was my fault, not ours.

  “Have you ever heard of the Canyon of Souls?” he asked. It was like something straight out of an old movie—particularly the way he leaned over the table and whispered to me in a conspiratorial tone. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a canyon, an ice canyon, slick like a buffed flume, that runs under the earth, and no one on this planet has ever been able to successfully traverse it from one end to the other. Hell, no one’s ever even seen it. No one, Tim.”

  I felt a frozen finger touch the base of my spine. Suddenly I was no longer sitting here in the bar; I was back in my apartment, watching the molten shadows shift in the darkness from across the room. I was back in the caves, too, with my leg all fucked up and the stink of my own inevitable death filling my nostrils. I thought of Hannah’s hand coming down through the opening in the cave’s low ceiling, hoisting me up. Of Hannah’s visage appearing through the desert trees, beckoning me toward a road I could not see …

  “No one,” I heard myself echo.

  “I’ve done a lot of shit. I’ve been all over the world. Look at this.” He rolled up one sleeve and revealed a puckered, shiny panel of flesh along his forearm, roughly the diameter of a tennis ball. “You know what did that? You have any idea?”

  “No idea.”

  “Bull’s horn. Gored in the streets of Pamplona. Shit, I’ve eaten the hearts from live snakes in Vietnam while drinking shots of bile. I’ve seen the wildest sex acts you could image in the remotest parts of the world—shit with donkeys and mules and some unbelievable thing called the ‘elusive transplant.’ That stuff’s old for me now. I’m going big-time.” He winked, and I thought I could hear his eyelid snap. “I’m going to touch the other side.”