The Road to Amazing
Copyright © 2016 Brent Hartinger
Smashwords Edition
For Michael Jensen
And for everyone who fought
for marriage equality —
Talk about a leap of faith!
CHAPTER ONE
I'd come to the end of the gravel road. If I went any farther, I'd drive straight into Puget Sound.
"This is wrong," I said to my boyfriend Kevin, sitting next to me in the car. "It's another dead end."
"We're going to be late," he said. "We need to call and tell that Christie woman." He looked at the clock on the dash of our rental car. "Oh, geez, we're already late."
"No, wait," I said, spotting something through the pine trees on our left. "I think that's it."
It was early evening, right after sunset, but through the trunks of those trees, I'd seen the vague outline of a house. It was grey, and long and angular, like a collection of boxes all spread out and askew, perched at the edge of a cliff and looking over the water. It was called the Amazing Inn, but it wasn't an actual inn, with a desk clerk or a bellhop or anything like that. It was just a big house you could rent for the weekend. There wasn't even a sign outside.
"Finally," Kevin said, even as he sat stiffly in his seat.
The Amazing Inn was located on Vashon Island in the middle of Puget Sound in Washington State. To the northeast of the island was the city of Seattle, and Tacoma was located directly to the south. I read somewhere that Vashon Island was surrounded by some three million people — all the people crowded into those cities on the mainland — so naturally you'd expect the island itself to be crowded too. But it wasn't: there were only a few thousand people on what was actually a pretty big piece of land. Every time the state had proposed building a bridge, the islanders had revolted.
And so, despite being so close to everything, at least as the seagull flies, Vashon Island was hard to get to. As a result, it felt a little bit like a world apart, a place out of time, with woods and farmlands and rolling hills. But it didn't feel "rural" exactly either, because it didn't have that redneck-y vibe, with trailer parks and Bible verses posted everywhere. On the contrary, the island was covered with organic farms, and artists' studios, and funky little coffee houses.
In short, Vashon Island was a cross between Burning Man and Anne of Green Gables.
The part we were on, the upper west side of the island, was especially empty. It was probably because of all the steep hills and twisty roads. The forests grew really thick here, and there weren't very many houses. The ones that were here, like the Amazing Inn, were built atop cliffs right above the beaches and coves, and tucked away at the end of long, winding, gravel roads.
It was funny, because Kevin and I had been to this exact spot once before, a couple of months earlier, when we'd decided to rent this house in the first place. It hadn't seemed so hard to find then, but that had been in daylight. Now it was late on a Friday at the end of September, and the lights in the house were all off, which was why it had been so hard to see.
"We should send out an email," Kevin said. "Tell everyone it's hard to find."
"Yeah, maybe," I said.
We sat there for a second, then Kevin said, "So where is she? Maybe she already came and left."
He meant Christie, the person who'd showed us the house before. Now she was meeting us to hand off the key, and also take us on a final walkthrough. Unlike a real inn, there wasn't anyone living on-site, so we were going to have the complete run of the place all weekend long.
I glanced at the clock. "We're fifteen minutes late," I said. "I can't believe she wouldn't wait fifteen minutes."
"But what do we do if she doesn't show up?"
"I guess we could send out an email about that too. 'Don't come. The ceremony's been canceled.'"
Kevin didn't laugh, not even a smile. He was nervous, not just about our being late, but about the whole weekend. And, well, it was also a really stupid joke.
I guess I'm sort of burying the real story. Kevin and I were getting married. That's why we'd rented this house for the weekend. The actual ceremony was taking place in two days, on Sunday afternoon — sixty-seven guests in all. But we'd invited our closest friends to join us here for the two days before, partly to get everything ready, but also because we wanted to celebrate.
Why didn't I mention this until now? It's not because I was dreading the wedding — that I had serious doubts, or last-minute jitters, or anything like that. That's also not why I made that stupid joke about canceling the wedding.
Kevin didn't have any doubts either. I was sure that's not why he was nervous.
He and I met when we were sixteen. We connected online first, then in person in a park at night (probably not the best choice on my part, but hey, it worked out in the end). He ended up being my first romance. We'd been on and off again for a long time after that, but then two years earlier, we'd gotten together for good. We'd gone through some difficult times, and also some really good ones. In the end, I'd been the one to propose, and he'd accepted without hesitation.
The time had been so right. And ever since that proposal, I hadn't doubted for one second that it was exactly the right thing to do.
I wanted to marry Kevin, and I was certain he wanted to marry me.
It's funny, because contrary to what the religious nutjobs tell you, I think gay guys like weddings more than anyone. And it isn't that we're mocking the institution of marriage, or because we want to destroy it all to hell. It's because we really, really want to get married.
What a concept, huh?
It makes sense when you think about it. Almost every older gay person alive today has been told most of their lives: "You don't fit in! You're not good enough for marriage! You can't have a star on your belly!"
For a while, that made a lot of gay people (understandably) angry and offended. "To hell with you!" a lot of us said. "We didn't want to be part of your stupid old institution of marriage anyway!"
But then society changed. It said, "Okay, we've changed our minds. I guess we'll let you get married after all. You can totally thank us now."
Some gay people were still pretty bitter about this, especially the older ones who had to put up with a lot more shit than the rest of us. And every gay person, except maybe the gay Republicans, was at least a little annoyed by this expectation that we were supposed to be so incredibly grateful that society was finally treating us the way we should have been treated all along, like they were somehow doing us this huge favor.
But despite some lingering bitterness, most of us gay folk went running straight for the elaborate wedding cakes and flash-mob wedding proposals. "Yay!" we said. "Now we can have stars on our bellies too!"
When it comes right down to it, a lot of us gay guys are romantics at heart. You can take us out of a Broadway musical, but you can't take the Broadway musical out of us. (Yes, yes, I'm stereotyping shamelessly. But come on.)
With my entire being, I wanted to marry Kevin Land, and I was just as certain that he wanted to marry me too.
* * *
Headlights appeared behind us, tires crunching on the gravel road.
"Here we go," Kevin said, turning for the car door. We both stepped out into the little parking area, which was also sort of a cul-de-sac.
The other car parked next to ours, and a woman climbed out — Christie, the person we'd met before. She was this slight Asian woman, a little like a hummingbird, simultaneously no-nonsense and a little bit flighty.
"Sorry!" she said. "Sorry I'm late! I'm so, so sorry!"
I was about to tell her that she didn't have anything to worry about, that we'd been late too, and only arrived a minute or two before she did, but she didn't give m
e a chance.
"Really, I'm sorry!" she went on. "Just so sorry."
She'd given us about four more "sorrys" than was necessary. In ten seconds, she'd gone from being sympathetic to annoying.
I looked at Kevin, both of us rolling our eyes a little behind her back.
"Don't worry about it," I said to Christie.
"It's fine," Kevin said. "Can we look at the house now?"
We grabbed our suitcases from the car, and Christie led us to the big grey house, apologizing a couple more times along the way.
"Oh!" she said when we reached the front door. "You're the ones who are getting married, aren't you?"
"Yeah," Kevin said, "that's us."
"That's so great! Congratulations, I'm so happy for you."
Maybe Christie was this happy about all the couples who rented her house for their weddings, but I think part of it was that Kevin and I were a gay couple. And can I just say? Out of all the people we'd dealt with over our wedding — caterers, gift registry people, the clerk at city hall — not a single person had acted weird about the fact that we were two guys. On the contrary, a lot of people had acted like Christie, excited by the semi-novelty of it all.
I can't tell you what a nice surprise this was, especially after all the bullshit you hear about the horrors of gay marriage from politicians and conservative Christians.
"Where are you going on your honeymoon?" Christie asked us.
"We're not going on one," I said. "We couldn't really afford it. Maybe next year."
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Christie said. "I'm really sorry."
"It's okay," I said, and behind her back, Kevin and I smiled at each other again over her new string of apologies.
The truth is, this time Christie sort of had done something wrong — though not something she had to apologize for. Kevin and I couldn't afford a honeymoon, and it sucked to be reminded of that. Hell, we could barely afford this wedding. The year before, we'd moved from Seattle to Los Angeles, and now I worked as a barista, trying to make it as a screenwriter, and Kevin did freelance writing and editing for IMDb. So to save money, we'd moved the wedding from summer to fall (when the rates were cheaper), and we'd given up on the idea of a honeymoon entirely, even a weekend away.
Inside the Amazing Inn, Christie turned on the lights, and it was just as great as I remembered. The house wasn't new exactly, but still modern. It was all one floor, with lots of angles and lines, and sunken steps, and huge picture windows that looked out over the water — up toward Blake Island to the north and down toward Point Richmond on the opposite side of Puget Sound. Somehow the house was bold and interesting, but unobtrusive, a beautiful picture frame outlining the sweeping water view. Just outside, the house also had a massive wrap-around deck.
The main room was by far the biggest, with a high ceiling and open area that flowed into the kitchen and the dining room, off to one side. The plan was for our wedding ceremony to take place out on the deck, which was (hopefully) big enough for sixty-seven people, but we also had this large inside room in case it rained.
We couldn't afford a honeymoon, it's true, but we'd managed to find a pretty fantastic wedding venue. That made me happy, and Kevin was smiling too.
Christie had shown us the house once before, months earlier, but now she went over the basics: what not to put down the garbage disposal, where the extra toilet paper was stored, stuff like that.
When she was showing us the gas fire pit out on the deck, she stopped and said, "Oh, I'm sorry, I hope I didn't forget to ask. There aren't any kids staying this weekend, are there?"
"No," Kevin said. "No kids."
Was it my imagination or did Kevin sound kind of wistful?
Honestly, this was another thing about the wedding, sort of a disagreement between us. Remember what I said before about gay guys all wanting to get married? Well, a lot of gay guys don't just want to get married — they want to get married. They want the whole kit and caboodle. (Does anyone say "kit and caboodle" anymore? Did anyone ever say "kit and caboodle"?).
They want to cuddle in front of the TV, hate-watching American Horror Story. They want Thursday game nights, and Saturday dinner parties, and Sunday trips to Costco. They want a dog, and a late-night health club, and a house with a yard (but not a house in the suburbs, because, come on, gay guys aren't crazy).
And kids. It suddenly seemed like every gay guy I'd ever met was talking about having kids.
I don't want kids.
Some people say, "Never say never! You never know!"
But I'll say it:
I. Will. Never. Want. Kids.
I don't want to offend anyone, so I'll leave aside all the talk about how kids are shrill and stinky, and how most parents talk about nothing except how amazing their shrill and stinky kids are (and how, thanks to their kids, they never get enough sleep).
The point is, I had all these plans for my life, things I wanted to do, that would simply have been impossible with kids in the picture.
I was never shy about this opinion with Kevin. He was pretty clear with his feelings too: that he didn't know for sure, but yeah, he probably wanted kids someday. So before we planned the wedding, we sat down and talked it all out. Basically, I said, "I'm never going to want kids. Are you okay with that?" Because kids aren't really something you can compromise on.
In the end, Kevin had said, "Russel, it's fine. Being with you is more important than having kids. Kids weren't that big a deal to me anyway."
It was great to hear, but even now, months after we'd had that conversation, I wondered if it was really true.
* * *
Later, Kevin stayed in the house unpacking, and I walked Christie to her car.
"Thanks for everything," I said. "This place really is amazing."
"Oh, that's not why we call it the Amazing Inn."
"What?"
"It's named after the town. Amazing, Washington."
"Yeah?" I'd lived in Washington State most of my life, and I'd never heard that name before. "Where's Amazing?"
"Well, it doesn't exist anymore. But it did, years ago. Right here."
"Wow," I said, only mildly curious. I wanted to get back inside the house and check out the Jacuzzi tub in the master bedroom.
"Sorry, not here exactly." She gestured toward some trees on the opposite side of the road. "There. You can see ruins and everything."
I looked over my shoulder.
It turns out I'd been wrong: the road hadn't ended where I thought. Just up from the parking area, another dirt road headed off into the forest. But it was so overgrown that I'd missed it, or maybe I'd assumed it was only another driveway.
"Ruins?" I said.
"Well, not ruins-ruins. Just some foundations and an abandoned well. I'm sorry, did I ask you if there are going to be any kids staying here this weekend?"
"Yes," I said. "And no, no kids. Absolutely no kids!"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Christie said, and I felt bad I'd sort of snapped at her.
"When was all this?" I said, lowering my voice. "When was there a town here?"
"Turn of the last century. Amazing was one of the stops on the Mosquito Fleet. Just a small place, really."
Puget Sound was a long, complicated series of bays and waterways, and back before they built good roads to connect all the cities and towns on the sound, people used boats to get around. There had even been this circuit of private steamboats that ran up and down Puget Sound, stopping at each dock. Because this was the main source of transportation, towns grew around those docks. Later, the roads got better, and people started driving cars, so the Mosquito Fleet was replaced by the Washington State Ferry System, which had boats big enough to carry cars. But it wasn't the same thing. The Washington State ferries only stopped at ferry landings, and there was usually only one landing per island.
"So Amazing disappeared when the Mosquito Fleet faded away, huh?" I said, feeling a little pleased with myself that I knew as much as I did about local history.
But
Christie shook her head. "No. It was years before that."
"Yeah? What happened?"
"No one knows."
I looked at her skeptically.
"It's true!" she said. "Apparently, one day the whole town simply vanished. The people, I mean, not the buildings. There were only twenty-six people total. One day they were here, and the next day when the steamboat arrived, they were all gone."
"That's crazy. Someone must know where they went."
Assuming it's even true that the people vanished in the first place, I thought.
"No," she said. "People have studied it. Every few years, a reporter writes an article about it for the Seattle Times, or does a piece for one of the local TV stations. A team of historians came out here once — stayed at the inn almost two weeks. Everyone thinks they can solve the mystery of Amazing, Washington, but no one ever does." Christie fumbled for her keys.
I looked back over toward the road to Amazing. It still wasn't completely dark outside, but it was funny how quickly the road disappeared into the trees. I swear I couldn't see more than five feet down it.
I'd been bored with her story at first, but I wasn't anymore. I mean, come on, who doesn't love a mystery?
"What do you think happened?" I asked.
She found the keys in her purse and looked up at me. "What?"
"To the people of Amazing."
She looked over at the road, even as she seemed to draw in on herself, like a vole ducking out of sight from a raptor.
"What?" I said.
"Nothing."
"No, seriously. I want to know."
Clutching her keys, she stared at me.
"Aliens," she said at last.
I laughed before I realized that she hadn't been kidding.
"Really?" I said.
She nodded at me with wide eyes. Then she lowered her voice, as if someone was going to hear us way out in the woods of Vashon Island, or cared about alien conspiracies anyway. "This guy came and stayed here once, and he told me all about it. They look for places like Amazing — remote, isolated towns. And they observe, sometimes for years. Then one day it happens: the people disappear! Aliens did the same thing to that colony on Roanoke Island in Virginia back in the sixteenth century."
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