by Edward Lorn
Probably texting, Jaleel thought. Fucking kids. Jaleel let his id fuss all it wanted. His inner thoughts kept him polite, personable.
“I’m sorry, Jaleel,” the mother said. “Please continue.”
“It’s quite all right, Marsha.” Jaleel smiled. “Let the boy ask his questions. Curiosity is a part of growing up.”
Lyle beamed at his mother as if to say, “Told you so,” before giving Jaleel a wink.
Get the kid to like you, and the mother will follow, Jaleel thought.
Yeah, but if you piss off the mom by siding with the kid, you have zero chance of finding out what’s under those painted-on jeans of hers, his id returned.
Jaleel clapped his hands, focusing back on the group. “Any more questions?”
“Yep.” Off to the side, the white guy with the black girlfriend stepped forward. “My girl wants to know how long you been doing this, bro.”
Jaleel almost rolled his eyes. The ending—’bro’—grated on his nerves.
Fine. You scored a sister. Congratulations. Now stop with the hood speak.
Let him have her. You have Marvelous Marsha to covet.
“I don’t care how long he’s been doing it, fool,” the girlfriend—Jaleel checked her nametag: Justine—interjected. “I just wanted to know if he’s any good at it.” She had her breasts pushed up in a spandex halter that revealed her flat stomach, and Jaleel found his eyes lingering. The silk button-up she wore over the midriff fluttered in the wind.
His id mentioned how it reminded him of Marilyn Monroe standing over that vent, and Jaleel concurred. Only blacker.
“To answer both questions, I have been employed by Pointvilla Parks and Recreation for the past seven years. I have been doing this job, in particular, for the last four. Before this job, I used to go spelunking every weekend. I’ve been in, around, up, and down mountains, gorges, and caverns since I was about nine years old. I’m now thirty-nine, for those of you who want to do the math.”
“What’s splunking?” the white guy asked. Another nametag check revealed his name was Trevor.
“It’s spee-lunking.” Jaleel laughed. “It’s another word for cave exploration.”
Trevor smiled. “I thought you meant like that one song, Toss skeet skeet skeet.”
“Trevor!” Justine slugged her boyfriend in the bicep. “There’s a kid here!”
“My bad, baby.” Trevor gave the girl puppy-dog eyes, and Jaleel felt like he was going to be sick.
Just ignore them.
Jaleel planned to do just that.
“Well, if that’s everything, let’s get started. It is now…” Jaleel checked his wrist watch. “… ten thirty, and if we leave right now, we should be at Fairchild Lookout about eleven on the dot. Everyone got everything?”
With a resounding yes, the group stepped forward. Mark raised his camera, and Jaleel grinned for the photo.
“Good deal,” Jaleel said. “Let’s get going!”
6
MARSHA LAKE STAYED IN THE middle of the group as the tour guide set them on their path. The man seemed confident enough, and she settled her nerves so that she might enjoy her day out with her son.
She and Lyle followed the throng into the tree line. The narrow trail was nothing more than a beaten path. She’d never thought Pointvilla had that kind of land. Every time she imagined the area, she saw trees devoid of life, withered and scalped, along with rocky mountain ranges. She hadn’t realized the way to the chasm held greener, denser areas. It was rather beautiful, and a terrific addition to their trip.
She had to keep reminding herself that the day was for Lyle, not her. Marsha’s trepidations about being out there would just have to stay buried, out of sight. She had to pretend she was enjoying herself. For Lyle.
Marsha supposed her own acceptance of Paul’s death had stemmed from losing her mother to the Big C. Not that Paul’s death hadn’t hurt, but she had seen the telltale signs, had been prepared. Even when the doctors had said that horrible word, ‘pancreatic,’ Marsha had been more worried about how Lyle was going to take it. Maybe it had been the soft way they had told their son about his father’s cancer, the reassuring tone they had used, that had given Lyle too much hope. Marsha would forever wonder, never really knowing. It pained her inside.
“Please put that away,” she told Lyle, nodding at the smartphone.
“I’m posting to Twitter,” Lyle said, as if the excuse should be enough.
“Lyle…” Marsha tried to maintain her calm. “Now.”
“Jeez, all right already.” He shoved the cell into his back pocket.
“See, now you’re going to sit down somewhere, or back up against something, and crack the screen. What happened to the holder I got you? The one that clips to your belt?”
“It broke.”
“And you were going to tell me when?”
“When you asked.” His smile, filled with boyish charm, made her scream in her own head. Would you stop that? You have no power over me, child!
“At least move it to your front pocket so it doesn’t get damaged accidentally.”
“Fine.” Lyle did as she asked. “Better?”
“Much.” She ruffled his corn-yellow hair, admiring the way he kept it. Paul had worn his hair like that. It looked even better on their son.
Lyle shrank away, pulling his head out of her reach. Marsha cringed, a tight feeling growing in her chest. She wished she could get through to him. Even if he didn’t realize it, he was all she had left.
7
MARK SIMMONS FELL TO THE back of the group. The trail dipped and dived in front of him. Up, then down. Every ascent stealing his breath, each descent giving him a chance to catch it.
“One… two… three…”
“What do you get when you reach a hundred? A cookie?” The little guy’s nametag read Donald. Mark locked the name away in his memory banks. He wouldn’t forget it.
“Didn’t realize I was counting out loud. Sorry.”
“No need to apologize, big fella.” Donald’s legs pumped quickly, carrying him along at the same pace as Mark.
“My name’s Ma—”
“Good to know.” Donald pointed ahead, toward the rest of the group. “You have any of those things?”
“Huh?”
“Kids. Do you have any?”
Mark realized Donald had been pointing at the kid. Mark hadn’t paid much attention to the boy, other than to check his nametag—Lyle. He had noticed Lyle’s mom, Marsha, and wondered if Lyle’s father was still in the picture. “Nope. You?”
“Skirted that disaster so far.” Donald gave him a thumbs up. “You married?”
“Never.”
“Good job, Tubby. Keep it that way. Chicks are nothing but trouble.” Mark started to add something about how being single wasn’t his preference, but Donald cut him off. “See the kid laughing? Betcha he looks back at us. Watch.”
Lyle didn’t turn his head. Donald didn’t seem too happy about being wrong. Mark watched his hands curl into balls. Relax, repeat. “He will. He’ll make a joke to his mother, then turn around and give us a look. Something about the midget and the fat guy. Sure, his mom will tell him to behave himself, but it will already have been said. Just you wait.”
Mark thought about the little girl at the airport that morning—Deborah—and how she’d commented with great enthusiasm about his girth. He’d responded, poorly, by flipping her off. But that had only been the jetlag, or at least he would tell himself that. “Not a good way to go through life, is it? Expecting the worst out of people?”
“You expect the best? You?” Donald laughed. “Good luck with that shit.”
Mark was aware that as he walked, he jiggled. He could feel Donald watching his stomach as it rolled and shook. The little guy was sizing him up, taking in all his faults. Mark had grown used to it over the years, but he thought it funny how Donald wanted to focus on his shortcomings when the guy was coming up short himself.
“I just don’t think
—”
“That’s what you get for thinking. I can’t hear a word that guide is saying. Can you?”
Mark let Donald’s brash attitude roll off his back. He was there to do a job. And it would be done. Speaking of which…
He raised his camera and began snapping pictures of the trail. He caught the scrub on either side, the sun coming through the trees, cylindrical beams filled to the brim with motes of dust. He couldn’t be sure how much of it he could actually use, but better safe than sorry.
“… something about who made this trail. Fuck if I know.” Donald wasn’t talking to him as much as he spoke around him. Mark figured not responding was the best response.
Mark caught the couple at the head of the procession—Justine and Trevor. They looked like they were in love. Cute. Mark knew he would never use a picture of them for the paper, but he took it anyway. Glassing them over, he snapped off a shot. Trevor had an arm around her waist. Justine’s hand was buried in the guy’s back pocket.
“Think she’s holding those damn things up for him?” Donald chuckled. “She’s cute… for a black chick. Not that I’m racist. I used to date a…”
“You used to date a black girl?” Mark finished. He had no idea why he cared, but he felt he needed to ask.
Donald’s eyes had changed. He didn’t seem so cocksure anymore. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter. Say you haven’t been married, huh? So how does Tubby get his rocks off? A man has needs, after all.”
“Why are you so interested in my sex life?” He knew better than to kick a hornet’s nest, but he’d just blurted it out.
“Just making small talk, Tubby.”
Small talk. Mark almost laughed, but caught himself at the last moment and gave no response.
“Nothing? I left the door wide open. Small talk? Get it? Oh, well. You’re thinking it, though. I can tell. I know people.”
Mark felt himself flush. Donald was good.
“I knew it. It’s okay. I get people’s snide remarks all the time. I’m sure you do, too. Tubby. Big man. Fat ass. All that crap. They like to point out the obvious, don’t they?”
Mark didn’t like the way Donald was making him feel, as though he should judge people by their reactions to the fact that he was a little overweight. Okay. Maybe more than a little, but that wasn’t the point. “If you go around hating everyone based on what they might be thinking, you’ll drive yourself crazy.”
Donald stopped and focused a cold glare on him. “You saying I’m crazy?”
“No. Not at all. I’m just saying—”
“Calm down. What am I gonna do, Tubby? Kick your ass? Highly unlikely.” Donald began walking again, laughing as he went.
Little bastard’s getting to me.
One… two… three… four…
“You coming?” Donald called back to him.
Mark nodded. He grimaced when he felt his chin quiver with the action.
Five… six… seven… eight…
Mark raised his camera and turned around. He took several pictures of the way they had come. The beginning of the trail was out of sight. He supposed his banter with Donald had served a purpose other than irritating him. He’d gotten pretty far, and though his breathing was still labored, he didn’t feel as if he’d been walking all that long. His knees weren’t even bothering him yet.
When he turned back around, Jaleel was leading the group around a soft curve. Mark took a deep breath, his stomach rising and collapsing with the effort, then put a foot forward. He’d catch up with them eventually. No need to hurry. There seemed to only be one way in or out of this place, so it wasn’t like he was going to lose them.
Nine… ten…
8
MARSHA NOTICED HER CALVES BEGINNING to burn just as the path widened into a clearing about thirty feet in diameter. By her estimate, they’d been walking for about twenty minutes and hadn’t seen anything but trees and scrub. She kept wanting to check her watch, track the time they’d been gone from the car, but she knew Lyle would notice. If he assumed she was bored, her plan might be ruined.
The tour guide stopped in front of a tall posterboard with a map pinned to it and did his best Vanna White impression, all stylish hands. “Here we are, folks. Fairchild Lookout. Sponsored by—”
“Yeah, we know. Cheapo Cola,” Trevor interrupted. Justine elbowed him in the side.
Marsha had to laugh. The couple reminded her of the way Paul used to go back and forth with her.
“Fairchild Lookout is named after Waverly Fairchild,” Jaleel said. “Waverly was the first person to stumble across the chasm back in the 1930s. While exploring with his son Scooter, he—”
“Wait!” Lyle burst into guffaws. “He named his son Scooter?”
“Shush!” Marsha pinched the back of Lyle’s neck with her thumb and index finger. Lyle screeched as he rubbed at the already reddening welt.
Probably used to interruptions, Jaleel just smiled before continuing his spiel. “Waverly was allowed to name the spot after the state claimed it as a park. Back then, all of this was public land, and loggers frequented it looking for free timber. When Carringer-Cummings realized the harsh winters at this altitude had caused severe rot over the years, they abandoned the forests for stronger wood. In 1933, the state swooped in and gobbled up most of the land for a new park.”
“What happened to Waverly Fairchild?” Lyle asked. Marsha was glad he hadn’t asked how the man had died, even if that was probably what he meant.
“Waverly lived to be a hundred and four years old. Though after naming the chasm, he never returned to it. He moved to Florida, where he died of natural causes.”
Lyle pushed. “Why didn’t he ever return?”
“Well, Scooter disappeared. He fell into Waverly Chasm, and his body was never recovered. Waverly said the chasm just brought back too many memories, or so the stories tell.”
“I knew it!” Lyle gushed. “I knew someone had to of died out here! You lied!”
“Not really, Lyle.” Jaleel smiled. “No one ever found out what happened to Scooter. Like I said, a body was never found.”
Lyle furrowed his brow. “But he fell.”
“Just drop it,” Marsha said. “Let’s just enjoy this without all the death talk. No one has died under Jaleel’s watch, and that’s all that matters. Right, Jaleel?”
“Exactly. Now, if you folks will gather around the map here, I’ll show you the course we’ll take to Scooter’s Dive, the lowest point on the tour of Waverly Chasm.”
With that, the group settled in around Jaleel. Mark, the man with the camera, pushed his way to the front, snapping photo after photo of the large map.
9
MARK SIMMONS CLICKED THE SHUTTER release six times before he caught an image he liked on the screen of his Nikon. The picture was a high-definition snapshot of the map on the poster board. The creases of the folded map had softened and could barely be seen. Those little things, the bits no one else noticed, were what Mark coveted. There was a story in those folds. Someone had brought the map there, unfolded it, and pinned it to the board. Which way had they come to do so? The same way his group had come? A secret path through the sparse woods that surrounded them? Mark didn’t know, but he wanted to; he wanted to know so bad.
The questions were a welcome reprieve from the thoughts that clouded his brain. Being fully involved in his new story would help with forgetting the phone call he’d received from Willy and Julia. Mark was almost certain the conversation had happened post-coitus. Mark knew Julia had fucked her way into his position. The thought had occurred to him that he could just quit, but with the state of print publications and the current economy, a bad job was better than no job at all. He might have to take up blogging for an eZine before long, a concept he didn’t want to think about too hard.
“There is another place we will be stopping that isn’t on any map,” Jaleel said. Mark perked up as he turned his attention back to the guide. “Just short of Scooter’s Dive is a place I like to call Flat Ro
ck. On our way down the trail, the pathway is kinda narrow until we reach right around… here.” The guide traced his finger along the dotted lines of the map to an unmarked area. “Right here, the path will open up to a flatter, wider section where we can rest before moving on to Scooter’s Dive. Now, when we get there, I will ask you to please stay away from the ledge, as the guard wire stops here…” He demonstrated on the map. “… and the chasm’s cliff-edge is open. The wire begins again after this section, and the trail will be safe for the duration of our journey down.”
“What’s with the open space?” Lyle asked.
Mark was shocked that the youngest of the group asked the smartest questions. Hell, even Mark wanted to know the answer to the latest one.
“Don’t know for certain. I suppose they just never got around to installing it. You know. Budget cuts.” Jaleel’s eyes flickered briefly, just enough for Mark to notice. The guide was lying. From the look on Donald’s face, the little guy had seen it, too. Mark would have to keep an eye on Jaleel. A story hid there; Mark was sure of it.
Mark flipped the power switch on his camera, and the screen went black. He checked the strap’s connecting parts before allowing gravity to take over and the camera to dangle around his neck. The last thing Mark needed was something coming loose and causing his six-thousand-dollar Nikon to go sliding into the chasm’s depths. Mark doubted Willy would sign a requisition form for another one. Given that Julia was now much closer to the man than Mark could ever become, Mark would be left cameraless. No camera meant no job. No job meant no food. Couldn’t have that. Had to feed the rotundness.
Mark started to step forward, but noticed the black girl glaring at him. Hard.
The stare was one of those uncomfortable ones where he would meet the other person’s eyes, hoping they would look away, but they didn’t. Mark held the girl’s gaze for what felt like an entire minute, even raising his eyebrows as if to ask, “What the hell?” but she never looked away. Her nametag said her name was Justine. Mark preferred to call her rude.