by B K Nault
He had always wanted to see Yosemite for a couple of reasons. He’d studied it in fourth grade. Half Dome. Bridal Veil Falls. The Obsidian Forest.
Soon after his tenth birthday, which went unheralded as usual, his grandmother left him to finish his homework while she went marketing. Bored with memorizing dates and numbers, and forbidden to leave the house while she was gone, he wandered the rooms, opening and shutting doors. He was searching for something, but he didn’t know how to put the emptiness into words. At the hallway linen closet, he realized he’d grown tall enough to see into a new shelf. Behind the faded towels and extra sets of sheets, a cardboard filing box was shoved against the back wall.
Inside, he found his birth certificate, the court document giving his grandma legal guardianship after his mother’s death, and a faded, grainy Polaroid picture of a couple standing arm in arm, a waterfall rising behind them into a pale blue sky. His parents.
“Honeymoon—Yosemite” was penned across the bottom, the blue ink smudged. It was the only picture he had ever seen of his father, only his chin visible beneath the shadow cast by his hat. Harold ran fingers across his own jaw, wondering if he resembled his father. He sensed something favored the man, because the older he got, the more critical his grandma became of the man she blamed for his mom’s death. He’d shoved the picture under his pillow and gazed at it for hours by the light of the streetlamp outside his window. Ever since, he’d yearned to visit someday. Until then, he’d read everything he could get his hands on about the area and everything around it.
“We all knew his psychosis would harm someone, but we always hoped he’d kill himself first, not the mother of his child.” Harold overheard his grandma’s late night call to a sister in Bellville soon after his sixteenth birthday. “Let’s just hope this boy doesn’t carry the same evil. I don’t think anyone would blame me for hoping the police will call and tell me they’ve found the loser’s dead body hanging from a rafter. What if he comes back to harm the boy in one of his deliriums? Or attacks me? I’ll kill him with my garden hoe if he ever sets foot on my property.”
Chapter Nine
Walter finished scrambling an egg in the bacon grease and scooped his dinner onto a clean plate. His joints cramped and pinched, and he almost dropped the pan. He’d overdone working in the garden in his eagerness to get the vegetable plants bearing. Grasping the iron handle with both hands like a toddler trying to heft his father’s heavy briefcase, he set it in the sink. Outside, he heard voices. He sidled to the front window. More hikers had blown in on the leading edge of the storm.
“Sorry, full up!” he informed them and grabbed the shotgun he kept leaning against the doorframe in case they didn’t take the hint to move on. He stepped onto the porch as lightning flashed, backlighting the pines. The storm had already filled the shed with wall-to-wall bodies. The front porch was lined with packs along the rough wall as hikers had left them to dry out while they slept on the floor of his ramshackle barn. News of Walter’s abundant well water and an outdoor shower for anyone willing to brave the chill had spread along the Pacific Crest Trail, and thru-hikers passed the word he was willing to take unwanted items in payment. With the frequent spring rains, and situated within a half day’s hike to the nearest post office, his cabin had become a popular stop because it was one of the few stops between town and the trail with any shelter.
“C’mon, old man, can’t you find any room for a couple? We got a girl with us.” The kid introduced himself as Cody.
“Hey, don’t blame me.” The girl, who identified herself as Audrey, thumped Cody in the shoulder.
Most of the hikers adopted trail names, and these three were no exception.
“What’s yer handle?” Walter pointed to the third guy with the barrel.
“Popcorn.” Water dripped off his nose and down his beard. “Please? We won’t take up much room.”
Another flash made the girl visibly jump and Walter softened.
“You’ll have to bunk with me, but all I have is a couch and floor.” He lowered the barrel to let them pass and followed them inside. When they’d taken off their packs, he motioned to the table and sat across from them to inform them of the rules he gave everyone. “I don’t ask for anything except that you clean up after yourself.” And he added another caution for the occasional few who got to go inside the shanty. “And keep out of my room,” he warned. “I will kill anyone who steps in there.”
“Cody?” Audrey grabbed the hand of the guy Walter assumed was her boyfriend. One of those trail romances that blossomed like California poppies in the spring.
“We don’t have much money,” Cody hiccupped. “But I can offer you some of this.” He had been sipping from a metal canteen since they sat down around the kitchen table.
“I don’t drink.” Walter furrowed his shaggy brows. “And you shouldn’t be a’drinkin’ that neither.”
Cody, the group’s obviously trail-seasoned leader, opened a cardboard box and lifted out several power bars, a couple cans of Spam, and a bag of peanut M&M’s. Walter’s mouth watered.
“We don’t mean you any harm, sir.” Audrey had a similar, larger box. “My mom keeps sending me stuff I’d rather not lug.” In the lantern light, Walter watched a small pile of well-intentioned goodies amass as they each made offerings to his hospitality. He sorted through, accepting most of the loot. If he couldn’t use it, someone else who happened along would trade him for something he could use.
Walter gestured at the ceiling. “You might have to put some of these pots out when the holes make themselves apparent.” His back was still hurting from the weather change and overdoing the hoeing, so he grabbed his uneaten dinner and the bag of M&M’s, and hobbled toward his room. He turned back with one more caution. “And if you need to smoke, take it outside.”
“Don’t smoke,” Popcorn told him. “What do we call you, man?”
“Gus,” Walter answered with his prepared response. “Gus Katzenjammer.” He threw them a look that warned once again how serious he was about staying out of his room. “And the rest ain’t none of your business.” He retrieved the shotgun from its usual perch and then scraped the door into his lair shut behind him. Through the thin walls he could hear them, and a gap in the doorframe showed him enough he could watch in case any of them approached his door. He regretted not installing a deadbolt, but he’d wanted to plant that new row of pumpkins before the latest storm broke.
“Dude, PTSD much?” Popcorn circled a finger at his temple to indicate crazy. “Agent Orange maybe?”
“Who knows.” Cody shrugged. “All units on alert. Mountain man, armed and dangerous.”
Walter was glad his guests seemed to believe he meant what he said.
“I’m going to try and get some sleep so we can get out of here at first light. Cody, lie here next to me?” Audrey unfurled her sleeping bag, and draped it across a chair next to the stove to dry. “Keep old man Gus away from me. He creeps me out.”
“What do you expect? He lives out here with a shotgun for a companion.” Cody grabbed a sofa cushion to use for a pillow. “He’d pro’lly never hurt anyone. That you know of.” He threw an arm around Audrey’s middle, tickling her until she yelped.
“Lights out, and shut up!” Gus yelled from behind his closed door.
“Yes sir!” The three travelers hunkered down and grew quiet. An occasional snicker emitted until soft snores allowed Walter to relax.
****
The rainclouds parted, and a shaft of moonlight crawled along Walter’s pillow, the striped ticking emitting odors akin to the big cat’s enclosure at the zoo. Around him, newspaper articles flipped up from their pushpins as the rainstorms breezed along, and he watched cumulonimbus clouds lurking past the moon through a dirty pane. The weather was as unsettled as his thoughts.
He cradled the gun across his stomach, hand on the stock, barrel aimed at the door. Eventually Walter allowed himself to doze in between cracks of lightning, but he was ready to spring if anyone dare
d touch the knob to his room.
Walter was rarely alone any longer for more than a day or two. By word of mouth, his cabin attracted hikers going into town for supplies or for their forwarded mail being held at the post office. Most were kids or middle-agers fulfilling a lifelong dream. Some were his age. He had to run off a few alternative life-stylers when they lit up or showed signs of drug use. Most of them arrived late and left early leaving few signs they had even been there.
He had been able so far to keep them moving in and out overnight, exchanging only first names, usually nicknames. They were as interested in anonymity as he was, and no one expressed surprise he was living off the grid.
An unofficial agreement between the travelers was easy enough to develop. When he didn’t ask them prying questions, they were happy to leave him be. He picked up some of the jargon and learned the history of the 2660-ish mile long trail so he fit in. Walter often felt unsettled, like the very trail itself, its actual measured length fluid and variable because of property disputes and natural disasters. He’d learned long ago to adapt to the conditions around him, and one of his best skills was not calling attention to himself. His unprepossessing demeanor, reclusive ways, and use of rural slang were his latest camouflage of choice. At first he worried about all the people coming and going, but then he realized, sometimes to hide, it’s better to be right out in the open.
In just a couple of weeks, he had amassed a dozen bags and bars of granola in various flavors and stages of rancidity, half-eaten jars of peanut butter, cans of pressurized cheese, and several novels, most with their first chapters torn away by hikers anxious to lighten their load. If anyone tried to give him alcohol or cigarettes, he demurred. If they offered or asked to buy drugs, he chased them away. And they could roam the property all they wanted, as long as they stayed out of his room.
Under his bed, Walter kept a most prized possession. He’d swiped a mason jar clean of brittle bug skeletons and excrement, and emptied it nightly to count his coins. Some travelers dumped out their pocket change in exchange for a night’s shelter, or a refreshing shower. During the long afternoons when he was usually alone, after he’d worked his vegetable garden and before the first overnighter appeared in the clearing beyond the gnarled mountain juniper, Harold turned the contents onto the rough wooden table and counted. He calculated that if the summer brought enough kids seeking shelter, he could save enough money for the next stage of his plan outlined in a meticulous flow-chart kept in the notebook by his cot.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Harold rolled over and checked the time. He vaguely recalled promising Pepper they would go to church. As guardian of the Kaleidoscope, Harold had been involved in more discussions about philosophies and mysticism and theologies than he had in a lifetime.
When Pepper learned of the place that started it all, she insisted he take her to see the church. Harold had agreed, but after last night’s wine and late hour, he would have to force himself to get up. He searched for his phone, knowing she would insist on coming over and nursing him if he confessed to feeling ill. That wasn’t so bad. But she might ask what he’d seen in the ’scope, and he was not ready to talk about it.
Resigned, he shook out several aspirin in the bathroom, hoping the effects would kick in soon. While he scraped his razor down his cheek, he rehearsed how he would change the subject when she brought it up. Pepper could talk about anything with anyone, and when she grabbed onto a subject it was hard to dislodge her from it. He went over what he knew about her interests, searching for conversation fodder.
For at least forty-five minutes, Pepper, Keith, and Frank had talked about art and the Getty, LACMA, and Geffen museums. Even before he became lightheaded, Harold felt like he was drowning in the sea of Etruscanism and Jugendstil, divisionism and rococo. They were words he’d filled in on the Sunday edition of the crossword, but these people easily batted them back and forth, an avant-garde mélange of taste and sophistication. A room Georgia would have thrived in.
Someone knocked on his door, and he toweled dry his face, pretty sure he knew who was there.
“Open up, bright eyes!” Pepper’s voice came through, muffled by the closed door. Her upturned face was distorted by the fisheye peephole. “I know you’re in there, I remember returning you last night!” Tap tap. “Let’s go! Hurry up, we’ll be late. I already walked Glenda.”
“I can’t go.” He affected a pathetic cough. Her exuberance was sucking the remaining life forces from his marrow. He wasn’t sure he could keep up much longer.
“Nuh-uh, mister.” Her left eye grew large as she leaned in closer.
“I’m not feeling well,” he tried again.
The knob jiggled. “A bit of the katzenjammer shouldn’t keep you from getting your Jesus on.”
Harold rolled the ancient word over in his head. He hadn’t heard anyone use it since his mom tried to get his dad up after one of his benders. Hangover. He sensed he was just beginning to understand the power this woman had over him. “I need to change,” he muttered.
“Open the door, I already saw your goods last night.” When he finally threw back the bolt, she didn’t crack a smile, but her eyes sparkled as she took in his legs, red-haired and freckled to the line where his socks wore away his thin hairs. She grabbed him by the robe and towed him into the kitchen. “Come on, the fresh air and walk over will do you a world of good. If you don’t have any shades, you can borrow mine.”
There was no mention of the experiment during the homily, and Harold nodded off a couple times, but Pepper sat in rapt attention at Father Tucker’s admonition to live for others, self should come second. After the benediction, they strolled down the block amiably until Harold began to worry she would ask about the ’scope if he didn’t keep the conversation steered in a different direction. He reviewed the list of topics he’d come up with to divert her mind away. But when she grabbed his hand, swinging it back and forth, he doubted he could find his voice anyway, and his mind went to mush.
Blessedly, Pepper didn’t mention the Kaleidoscope. But she did hint at Harold’s ungraceful exit from the party. “You must be getting pretty hungry by now…all things considered. It’s a gorgeous day.” She threw a hand out toward the park, already filling with kite flyers and families pushing prams. “Let’s make sandwiches and play with Glenda in the park.” She poked his rib playfully. “Unless you’re still feeling pissy.”
“I am feeling…fine, thanks.” Something he couldn’t quite describe caused him to agree. Was it her playful insistence that wore him down, or was he just feeling sorry for her? He even offered to make the sandwiches.
They stopped outside their doors, finalizing the menu.
“You should bring the ’scope.” Pepper let herself in her apartment while Glenda barked a high-pitched greeting. “I’m still waiting to hear what you saw.”
Dang it. The door clicked shut and Harold considered tossing the accursed thing into the street below. He’d forgotten about the vision. Pepper would not let him refuse her much longer. He would have to make up something to appease her curiosity.
Chapter Eleven
Pepper’s scarf had slipped off, and her head rested heavily on Harold’s thighs. Her long legs stretched out on the blanket into the sun. He worried she’d burn, but then he wondered if her already dark skin was in danger as his pallid, freckled skin definitely was. Glenda had run herself silly in the dog park, and was lying on her side, her back pressed against Pepper’s. Both were sound asleep.
A familiar stirring bloomed where she rested her head. The first time they’d met, her skin was closer to cinnamon sugar in color, but lately had deepened to a healthier sheen. A glow. He wondered if he could ask her politely, or if he should ask her at all, if she was indeed free of cancer. But he knew she wouldn’t care. She never held anything back. He slid the filmy fabric of her scarf through his fingers, touched it to his cheek and wondered at the complexity of the woman whose presence he’d come to crave. To expect. To re
quire. He breathed her in, trying to identify the perfume she wore.
Pepper shifted, yawned, and Harold wished for a smoother spot to rest his spine against. He was leaning on the same oak tree where the homeless guy had made him take the Kaleidoscope. She rolled onto her back, peering up at him. The back of her head dug into his thigh, her scents filled his lungs.
“Tell me what you saw in the ’scope,” she murmured. When he didn’t answer she wiped a line of drool from the corner of her mouth, and cocked her head sideways. “You can’t fool me, Harry. I could tell you weren’t seeing just pretty shapes and colors this time.”
Harold abandoned the hope of distracting her, and tried a different angle. “It’s personal.”
“No fair.” She sat up to level a gaze at him. “I told you what I saw.” She flopped back down, her head bony, the intimacy heating through to his toes.
“It was…” As soon as he formed his lips around the words, he regretted beginning, but couldn’t stop. “Someone I lost long ago.”
“Was it your mom?”
He shook his head.
“Who was it then?”
“Not her. She’s dead.”
Pepper sat up again. “I’m so sorry.” She stared off into the distance, then back. “What happened to her?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Everything the Kaleidoscope has done so far has been important in one way or another, has it not?” A child ran past, stringing along a kite that bumped and slapped the ground. “I’m just trying to help you make sense.”
She hadn’t asked about his dad. Didn’t matter, he hadn’t planned to talk about it.
“So you saw your dead mom?”
“Why are you trying to make rational sense out of something we all know is nonsense?”
“I was given a message to embrace life, and I don’t want to think I was being hoaxed.” On “embrace,” she took his hands in hers, bracelets clattering. “We need to figure out what it meant by showing you a dead person. Are you sure it was your mom? Maybe it was your aunt—”