Lost Canyon

by Nina Revoyr

  Todd put on khaki shorts and a green striped polo shirt. He hoisted his big backpack onto his shoulders and maneuvered downstairs, setting it down in the front hall, next to his duffel. Then he went into the kitchen, where both Joey and Brooke were sitting at the kitchen table, working on bowls of Cheerios with bananas. It was just before seven.

  “Good morning, Daddy!” Brooke cried out enthusiastically, her face lighting up, spoon waving in the air.

  “Hi, Dad,” said Joey, more shyly.

  “Hey, kids,” he replied, kissing his squealing daughter on the forehead and rubbing his son’s hair. “Good morning.”

  Kelly had been facing away from them, putting the milk back in the refrigerator; now she turned and smiled. “Good morning, honey,” she said, meeting his eyes. There was nothing unpleasant or angry in her look, she seemed genuinely pleased that he was there. But there was something impersonal about it, like a reaction she might have to a good deed done by a stranger—approving, but somehow removed.

  “Good morning,” he answered. “Thanks for getting them fed.”

  “There’s coffee here for you. And I could put in some toast. Do you want Cheerios instead?”

  “Toast is good.”

  “Are you going to work like that, Daddy?” Brooke asked loudly, pointing at his shorts.

  He turned in mock confusion. “Like what?”

  “Like that!” she repeated, waving her finger back and forth. She hiccupped, then giggled, covering her mouth.

  “Well,” he said, taking the chair next to her, “I decided that I like wearing shorts better than wearing suits. Do you think anyone will notice?”

  “Really?” Joey asked, glancing up from the comic book he was reading.

  Todd nodded, looking from one of them to the other. “No.”

  Kelly placed a cup of coffee in front of him and then went back to the toaster. “Actually, Daddy’s going out of town,” she said.

  “Where are you going?” Joey asked now, and there was an edge to his voice. When he was four or five, his father’s travels—usually work trips—hadn’t fazed him. Now, at seven, he was suddenly more attuned and more anxious.

  “I’m going on a backpacking trip. I’m making a big loop through the mountains, and camping out at night.”

  “You’re camping?” Joey said, brightening up. “Like we did last summer?”

  The year before, Todd and Joey had gone with a group of other kids and dads to a camp facility in the Malibu Hills. It was pretty cush—they slept on cots in big domed tents, and ate in a mess hall. But it was the closest thing that Joey had had to an outdoor experience.

  “Something like that,” Todd replied.

  “Why, Dad?”

  “Well, sometimes I like to go out where it’s quiet.”

  “By yourself?”

  “No, I’ll have some friends with me.”

  “All right, you guys,” Kelly broke in, hands on hips. “Time to get ready. We have to leave in twenty minutes. And put your bowls and spoons into the sink so Juanita doesn’t have to pick up after you. Go!”

  There was the scraping of chairs against the tile floor, the clang of dishes and silverware in the sink, the padding of bare feet out the door and up the stairs. Todd smiled—he had fantastic kids, but he worried about them growing up in such a bubble. They lived in an area so pristine it was like a caricature of a wealthy neighborhood. Some houses, like theirs, were relatively modest; others were mansions locked behind ivy-covered gates. People whispered of neighbors’ excesses—the man with the collection of over fifty vintage race cars, the woman who’d spent half a million dollars on her fortieth birthday party, the couple who’d bought the $18 million estate adjoining theirs to create a bigger play yard for their dogs. (“Shih tzus!” Kelly had said, incredulously. “How much space do they need?”) It all fed into a kind of isolation, a museum-like stillness. You didn’t see people out much—the lack of sidewalks discouraged walking. When dogs were walked, it was usually by servants.

  And the kids’ private school, Northgate, was unquestionably strong in terms of academics. But the campus was as nice as a college, and a private one at that. He worried that the kids were getting coddled and soft: even at the luxurious Malibu camp last summer, Joey had had a tough time sleeping on a canvas cot, sharing tents, using a communal shower. Both kids had squealed in horror whenever Roger brought in a dead mouse. For Todd, who’d grown up roaming the countryside, this was all a bit hard to accept. When he suggested, in front of Kelly’s mother, that he take Joey camping “for real,” she’d looked down her fine aquiline nose at Todd and said, “No blood of mine sleeps on the ground.”

  Todd hadn’t fully understood at first what kind of family he’d married into. When he’d started dating Kelly back in law school at Stanford, she seemed like the embodiment of his dreams—beautiful, blond, athletic, and from an old Los Angeles family. She had a social grace and confidence that made her irresistible, and he couldn’t believe that she would fall for him, him—Todd Harris, who, sure, had been a star baseball player at UCLA and was third in his law school class, but was really a blue-collar Midwestern boy at heart. There was no doubt he’d enjoyed all that her family’s money had made possible—the kids’ schools, ski vacations in Aspen and Sun Valley, and of course their beautiful house. But he hadn’t been prepared for the nonstop social obligations, the inane conversations at parties, where the women cooed over each other’s outfits and the men bragged about their golf games and stock portfolios. He hadn’t expected to be applying for the kids’ spots in preschool before they’d even reached their first birthdays. Ten years ago, he’d felt pretty good about his life; he’d thought that if his old friends and relatives in Wisconsin could see him, they’d think he was a pretty big deal. Now he would just be embarrassed.

  When the sound of the children’s feet stopped, Kelly sat down at the table.

  “They sure listen to you,” Todd remarked, not knowing what else to say.

  Kelly took a long drink from her coffee. “They listen to you too. We’re lucky.”

  “Are you going to be all right with them for a few days?”

  She smiled at him and gave him a look he couldn’t read. “I always am.”

  She was still a beautiful woman, his wife. At thirty-nine, her face had thinned out, which made her cheekbones more prominent, and there were a few lines around her mouth. She was thin and toned, thanks to regular trips to the gym, and her hair was still naturally blond. A bit of the suppleness of her skin around the jaw and neck was gone, but Todd didn’t mind these little markers of time passing—he knew he had them too. He much preferred Kelly to age naturally than to resort to the Botox, fillers, and face lifts that made so many of the women they knew look like the walking dead.

  “What are you up to today?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Well, I’ll drop the kids off, and then I’m meeting Leslie for coffee. Then I think we’ll go to Saks—I need a new dress for the museum benefit on the twenty-sixth.”

  “Right,” Todd said, remembering. Another event. Another expensive dress.

  “Then we’ll meet Dana and Adrienne at the Ocean Club for lunch. And after that, it’ll be time to get the kids.”

  She smiled, a formal, distancing smile. Was she really happy with this life of shopping, lunches, and charity events? She’d been an attorney too, a rising star at O’Melveny & Myers. But when Joey was born, she left—just until their son was school-age, she’d said. And then Brooke was born, and she didn’t talk of working anymore. They both knew she wasn’t going back now.

  “Sounds good,” Todd said. Then hesitantly, “I’ll miss you.”

  “We’ll miss you too,” Kelly said breezily. “Joey especially. And what will you be doing today?”

  “I’m going to meet up with the other people in Mount Washington. Then we’ll drive up to the Sierras. There’s a campground near the trailhead, so we’ll stay there for the night. We’ll start our hike in the morning.” He considered telling her w
hy he was so excited about the route—the glacier-carved valleys and sparkling rivers, the pristine mountain lakes, the jagged peaks still covered with snow. But he knew it wouldn’t mean anything to her.

  She took another sip of her coffee. “And who’s going again?”

  “The Pattersons—you remember them, from the Children’s Hospital dinner? And a couple of people I don’t know. Some Hispanic real estate guy, and a black woman who works for a nonprofit. We all work out with Tracy, who’s arranged the whole thing.”

  “I do remember the Pattersons. Your trainer, huh? Isn’t she kind of attractive?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve never noticed. I’m usually too busy crying in pain.”

  “Hmm. Out there in the wilderness with another woman?”

  “Oh, come on, Kelly,” he protested. But he was secretly pleased at her jealousy. Normally it didn’t occur to her that anyone else might find him attractive. “I don’t think of her that way.” And neither would Kelly, he knew, if she actually saw her—his wife and all of her too-thin friends would consider Tracy “solid,” substantial. He noted that Kelly didn’t seem worried about the black woman, and this made him dislike her just a little.

  “And why are you doing this again? I mean, why don’t you just stay in a hotel?” She paused. “I’ll bet you’re going to stink when you come out.”

  He laughed, not sure whether to be hurt or amused. “Thanks! It’ll be good for me, honey. Good to be out of range for a while. But I’ll call you the second I’m out.”

  “Four days with no phone or Internet?”

  “It’s kind of the point.”

  “Well. If the Colsons can live without you for four whole days, then I guess we can too.”

  He smiled at this reference to his nightmare clients. “Being out of touch with them for a while will be the best vacation I ever had.”

  “What should I do if they call here?” Kelly asked.

  “Tell them they have the wrong number.”

  “I don’t think that will work. They know my voice.”

  “That’s true. Bummer. Tell them I went out to the wilderness. Tell them I got eaten by a bear.”

  “Okay,” she said, smiling. “But don’t.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he had hugged both his children, kissed his wife goodbye, and watched them drive away.

  * * *

  Todd had met Kelly during their second year of law school. He’d been walking home to his apartment in Palo Alto one Sunday, enjoying the spring air, when he saw an impatient-looking woman standing beside a black BMW. He recognized her from his torts class; he’d often stared at the fine lines of her jaw as Professor Zaslow droned on about unintentional harm. She’d dropped something off at the building next door, it turned out, and now her car wouldn’t start. She barely registered Todd as he offered to take a look, and he realized the problem was simple—a dead battery. After trying unsuccessfully to give it a jump with his own car, he drove to an auto supply store and bought her a battery. From there it was easy: disconnect the old battery, put in the new. He sat in the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. The leather was so creamy he thought he might melt into it. He looked at the gorgeous instrument panel, the high-end sound system, and his pulse quickened with excitement. He had no right to be touching such a classy machine. When the car finally started, Kelly sidled over and thanked him, and said, “You know, you look familiar.”

  “I’m in your torts class,” he replied, and now she tilted her head and opened her blue eyes wide, as if seeing him for the first time.

  Todd sat at the kitchen table and finished his coffee, listening to the quiet. It was strange, unnerving, the silence of a space that was normally full of life making the space itself feel totally different. He put his cup in the dishwasher and took one final look around—everything was in order—and carried his backpack and duffel out to the car.

  Within minutes he was on Sunset heading east. As he saw the buildings of Century City off to his right, he looked up at the one he worked in, feeling a rush of guilty pleasure at driving right past it, like a usually responsible student ditching school. And he loved that he would soon be unreachable to the Colsons.

  Skip and Dolly Colson had originally hired the firm five years ago to represent them in a land use deal, and now Todd was lead attorney on one of their business ventures. They had created a watermelon-based sports drink, Suika, that was supposed to provide a jumpstart for intense activity, stave off colds, and slow the aging process. With a major branding effort and marketing push—a Lakers star and Oscar-winning actress were among the celebrity endorsers—Suika was a surprise success, and now the Colsons were trying to take down any drink or food manufacturer that used watermelon in their products. Dolly called Todd at least five times a day, starting before eight a.m., and sent at least a dozen e-mails. If he didn’t reply to a message or e-mail within the hour, he’d get a scolding call from Skip.

  The Colsons’ special brand of attachment had not gone unnoticed by other people at the firm.

  “Todd, it’s your favorite lady,” his assistant, Janet, would warn when Dolly called. Rachel McDermott, a dark-haired, sharp-eyed junior associate, would simply say, “Todd, it’s your girlfriend.”

  Then in January, when he came back from a trip to Aspen with Kelly’s family, he’d walked into his office to find an explosion of color: green and pink and orange While You Were Out stickies covering the ceiling and the walls, stuck to his desk and computer, his chair and his lamps and the bookcase.

  Dolly called, read one of the pink notes, pasted on his phone. Wants to know who you like in tonight’s Lakers–Mavericks game.

  Skip called, said one of the green notes, affixed to his chair. Had a question about the real benefits of going gluten-free.

  Dolly called. Was curious about your opinion on index funds.

  Skip called. Wondering if you can shine his golf clubs.

  Dolly dropped by. Saw the picture of the kids on your desk and says you really need to work on another.

  Skip called. Says hi. Just feeling lonely.

  And on and on, over three hundred of them, all written by hand. He kept turning, seeing new ones, a bit overwhelmed, but happy, touched that his coworkers would tease him about his troubles. When he turned back to the doorway, there were a dozen people standing there, grinning.

  “You guys,” he said, shaking his head.

  Todd inched down Sunset, past the Standard, Chateau Marmont, and finally to La Brea, where he took a left to get up to Franklin. He passed Yamashiro, the Hollywood Bowl, turned north again toward Griffith Park. As he got farther from the Westside, he felt the tension subside, felt his job and the Colsons and even his stale marriage become part of the world he was leaving behind.

  He was tired of it—tired of wealthy, entitled clients and of helping people who didn’t really need help. He was tired of worrying about his hypertension, which was what had killed his father. He was tired of socializing with women who wore full makeup to retrieve the paper and with men who could recite daily LIBOR rates but couldn’t put up drywall. Most of all, he was tired of how he felt about himself for doing what he did, which didn’t do a damned thing to make the world a better place.

  When he and Joey had stayed at the Malibu campground, he’d spent some time with one of the other dads, Paul Halstead, a former venture capitalist who now ran the Oakwood School, a private high school in Beechwood Canyon. When Todd had told him of his discontent with practicing law, the master’s degree in History he got before he went to law school, Paul had asked, “Why don’t you become a teacher? I see how you are with kids. And you like history too? Go get a credential. I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

  And that had been the seed. Once planted, it had grown stubbornly, despite his attempts to suppress it. It was totally impractical, he knew. His family couldn’t afford it. And yet, he found himself looking at credentialing programs, and at Oakwood’s website; he was impressed
with the fact that 70 percent of the students were on scholarship. He loved the idea of working with kids who just needed a leg up—he might have been one of those kids, until his stepfather came along. And he wanted that ease and air of purpose that Paul Halstead had—the knowledge that he was doing something good.

  But he knew that Kelly would never go for it. Give up a partnership in a prestigious law firm—to become a teacher? Make a fraction of his current salary? They could manage, he knew. Kelly could always go back to work, or failing that, maybe—although he hated the idea—they could get help from her parents. Or they could just decide to live more simply. Give up the shopping sprees and club memberships and whatever else they spent so much money on.

  He knew it would never happen.

  But he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. He needed a change—before the Colsons and their like pushed his heart past its breaking point, or slowly crushed his spirit. Before he collapsed under the weight of the utter meaninglessness of the way he spent his days. Something had to change—it just had to. Not only for him, but for the sake of his kids.

  He drove past the Griffith Park Observatory and as the street angled down, the hills receded and the San Gabriel Mountains came into view. They were breathtaking. Not majestic and lush like the Sierras, but impressive just the same. For years, he hadn’t really registered that there were mountains surrounding the city. Now he could not look away from them. Straight ahead was a cluster of hills—Glassell Park and Mount Washington. Whatever apprehension he’d felt about this trip began to fall away. All he could see now were the mountains in front of him—the San Gabriels, and later today, the Sierras. He didn’t know exactly what awaited him this weekend. But he couldn’t wait to get there.

  Chapter Four

  Gwen

  Tracy’s living room was spare and minimalist, the furniture white and earth-toned; even the landscape photos that hung on the walls were all in black-and-white. The only touch of color came from the magazines on the side table, and from the dozen or so action shots of Tracy that were scattered throughout the room. Gwen had been to Tracy’s place twice before to meet for hikes, and it seemed like there were fewer things with each visit. The house looked stripped down to the bare essentials.