Beavertail, Bearmouth, Gold Creek, Phosphate, the signposts ebb, the landscape whizzes by, a blur of scrub grass and crumbling hillsides. Somewhere around Deer Lodge, we begin to discern the infamous Big Stack in the flats to the southeast, a gray monolith rising at a gentle taper to a height of nearly six hundred feet from atop a bald hill. The stack draws us like a beacon but seems to recede as we draw closer. For something so blunt, Big Stack is elusive. This industrial relic, all that’s left of the massive smelter that once belched arsenic into the surrounding valley, represents a milestone in our journey, as it will be the first stop since George, Washington, that is actually on our itinerary. Exiting at Highway 1, we work our way south through the knobby foothills of Anaconda huddled in the shadow of the Rockies. Big Stack continues to elude us, now and again flashing its gray tip around corners, then disappearing around bends. Somewhere along our circuitous path we’ve managed to lose the Skylark, or it’s just dropped back.
Cresting the final rise, Big Stack reveals itself in full, gray and lonesome atop the bald hilltop, stretching stupidly halfway to the sky, like some towering landlocked lighthouse. The perimeter is fenced off with chain link, circling a wide buffer of dead soil, maybe a hundred yards in diameter. They cordoned off the area in the 1980s because the stack was still bleeding trace amounts of arsenic. Back in the day, the smelter was the engine of Great Falls. Now it’s the world’s tallest tombstone.
Dot unbuckles Trev as I ready the lift. Trev rolls out of the van, and the girls duck out after him. The wind sweeps in hot gusts across the barren hilltop as we cross the vacant lot toward the interpretive area. At the fence, we diverge. Trev and Dot gravitate to the east in tandem, their voices trailing in the wind behind them. Peaches drifts to the west, where she stands with her back to the fence, hands on her swollen belly, and looks not at Big Stack but out across the foothills toward the interstate in the distance, running like a zipper down the center of the valley. I wonder what possibilities she sees down there, what future she envisions for herself and little Elton, as the shadow of a lone cumulus engulfs the valley. I wonder what Trev and Dot are talking about twenty miles from Butte. I can see by Dot’s frenetic movements and Trev’s bobbling head, that they are jovial. And though I know their merriment is perishable, that it cannot survive a thousand realities, I can’t help but wish them a lifetime of it.
As I’m watching them, Dot breaks away from Trev and begins ambling slowly in my direction, pausing several times along her way to make cursory appraisals of Big Stack. Finally, she stations herself right beside me at the fence, where she remains silent for ten or fifteen seconds, as a warm gust of wind rockets past our ears.
“So I was thinking,” she says, at last. “Even though it looks kind of stupid and touristy in the postcards, I wouldn’t mind seeing Yellowstone.” She fishes her cigarettes out of her jean vest, lights one up, hooks one hand through the chain-link fence, and exhales a plume of smoke straight at Big Stack. “I mean, you know, since you guys are driving through it or whatever. I’ve got money.”
“Did you ask Trev?”
She turns her attention to Trev, who sits perfectly still at the fence about fifty yards downwind of us, straight-backed, still-headed, staring through the chain-link hexagons across the dusty expanse at the moldering brick remains of a boomtown. I don’t know what Dot sees, but to me there’s something achingly desolate about the scene, as though the whole world were dying before my eyes.
“I’m asking you,” she says.
ghost town
Though we’re still twenty miles shy of Yermo, already this excursion to Calico promises to be the shriveled cherry atop this melted sundae of a vacation—the one I’ve been force-feeding my family for six days. If the Benjamins were so red-eyed and road weary as to be underwhelmed by the Grand Canyon—if say, the unfathomable sun-striped revelation looked to certain Benjamins like a collapsed wedding cake moldering under a heat lamp—well, then, we are officially beleaguered two days later, as we start backtracking east on I-15 toward Calico. It’s ninety-two degrees. Piper’s peeling sunburn has exposed a fresh canvas for the searing heat. In the passenger’s seat, Janet is no longer blotchy—just solid red and sweat-soaked. The air conditioner is still kaput. The baby is dancing the Nutcracker in Janet’s womb. Nowhere, but nowhere, in this vast moonscape surrounding us is there even a hint of shade.
The nineteenth-century silver boomtown of Calico (that is, its reconstructed facsimile), squats in the dust at the foot of King Mountain. Upon approach, I’m thinking the place is sure to be a bust—just as sure as there’s nothing even remotely regal about King Mountain, which looks to me like any one of a dozen piebald nubbins in the vicinity. Even as I’m paying the fifteen-buck admission, I’m visualizing another sticky fiasco in which I’m forced to ply Piper into submission with cotton candy and overpriced sarsaparillas. Janet will need to rest her swollen ankles. Some old lady will probably drop dead of a heat stroke at our feet while we’re waiting in line for the Mystery Shack.
And yet . . . and yet . . . Calico surprises, even dazzles, in its hokey fashion! The whole town is air-conditioned. There’s a whorehouse. An apothecary. A jail. You get to chuff around the perimeter in a little train. You get to pan for gold. Even King Mountain seems to loom larger, a little more stately, against a blue sky.
“They should’ve had this at the Grand Canyon,” says Piper, sipping her butterscotch milkshake at the Miner’s Cafe (six bucks!), where Janet is elevating her ankles, and I’m watching the clock—I don’t want to miss the Wild West Show. I know that the main event will be a hopelessly lame reenactment, a clinic on bumbling theatrics. I know that the sheriff will have a big mustache and a name like Bart, that the villain will be a hyena with bad teeth (presumably Mexican). Somebody will fall out of a saloon window. Old Doc will pronounce him gut shot. A histrionic woman of questionable repute will be dragged kicking from his prone body. I know the whole thing will end with a standoff at high noon in the middle of Main Street. And I know that Bart will be the last man standing. But somehow I can’t help myself. I’m giddy like a kid.
“See, I told you this place would be worth the detour,” I say.
“Yeah, but you said the Grand Canyon would be worth it,” she says.
“Your mom said that, not me.”
“Same difference,” she says, slurping at the dregs of her shake. “Can I get another?”
“Absolutely not,” says Janet.
“Please.”
“No,” I say.
“What if I don’t finish this one? Then can I try chocolate?”
“No,” Janet says.
“Besides,” I say. “You already finished that one.”
“Nuh-uh! Look!” she thrusts the nearly empty glass at me. “And lots of it is still stuck in the straw.”
“I’m sorry, Piper, but the answer is still no.”
“Fine,” she says, folding her arms. “Then I quit this dumb vacation.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s not funny,” she says. “I quit it. It’s the dumbest vacation ever.”
Again, I can’t suppress my amusement. Poor kid. She’s been a trouper. Look at her: a road-weary waif worthy of Dickens, greasy-haired and slump-shouldered, her ravaged forehead flaking like onion skin. By God, the kid has earned another milkshake. I might consider letting her have it, even if meant going to bat against Janet, were it not for three things: one, my foreknowledge of the inevitable two-shake sugar crash; two, I repeat, six bucks!; three, the Wild West Show starts in seven minutes, and I have no intention of missing it.
“Honey,” I say. “You can’t just quit a vacation. It’s not that simple.”
“Oh yes it is,” she says.
She’s still pouting as we spill out onto the boardwalk into the breathtaking heat, wending our way through the gathering crowd, past the General Store and the Saloon to the Leatherworks, where we jostle for three spots against the rail. Main is cordoned off through the heart of town. S
hutters creak in the hot wind. Dust devils dance midstreet. Horses whinny in the Livery. Somewhere in the wings, adhesive mustaches are applied, squibs are concealed, and lines are hurriedly rehearsed as Old Doc dons his stethoscope and Bart buffs his badge and straps on his six-shooter. The tension is palpable. For some of us, anyway.
“I’ve gotta find a bathroom,” Janet announces. “I’ll be back.”
She turns and begins inching her way through the crowd belly first, just as the first gunshot rings out. Suddenly, a body crashes through the railing on the second floor of Hank’s Hotel. A buxom redhead bursts through the saloon doors.
“They got Gus!” she proclaims, falling to her knees. Her great chest begins to heave. “Oh, Gus!” she laments.
Here comes Old Doc hobbling down Main Street at a trot, as patrons spill out of the saloon and gather around Gus.
“They got me,” says Gus through gritted teeth. “See to my mama, Darla. Send word to my people back in Laramie.”
“He’s gut shot,” Doc proclaims. “Somebody round up the sheriff.”
“Round up the priest while you’re at it,” says a gruff voice from behind the saloon doors. Now the Hyena steps out from the shadows, squinting snake-eyed into the sunlight, casting a long shadow down Main Street. He’s wearing a sombrero and a serape and wielding a bottle of mezcal.
“You’ll hang for this, Gomez!” says a bystander.
No sooner does Gomez draw his pistol in a sun-glint flash of silver than the bystander crumples in the street, clutching his chest. The squib fires late, and somebody’s cell phone rings, but the effect is good enough.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper. “It’s not real.” But when I look down, Piper’s not there.
“Honey?”
She’s not behind me or along the rail to either side.
“Piper!”
“Shhh,” someone says.
A cold hand grips my heart as I push my way back through the crowd, craning my neck to scan the neighboring storefronts. I see Janet navigating her way back from the bathroom. Before she can register my panic, she’s upon me in front of the leatherworks.
“She’s gone,” I say.
“What do you mean ‘she’s gone’?”
“She was standing right next to me watching the show. When I looked down, she was gone.”
“Jesus Christ, Ben.”
“Check that way,” I say. “I’ll look up this way.”
My panic hardens into something much denser, as I force my way through the throng, past the craft store. “Piper!” I call.
Frantic, I search the blacksmith, then the Sweet Shop.
“Have you seen a little girl?” I ask the clerk.
“What does she look like?”
Eight minutes later, I’m on the boardwalk in front of the livery, talking to two security guards.
“She’s six years old. She’s wearing—Christ, what the fuck is she wearing? She’s wearing a dress. I think a red and white dress.”
Janet trots across Main Street toward us, clutching her stomach as she bounces. All the color has drained from her face. She’s been crying.
“I’ve looked everywhere,” she says breathlessly.
“She’ll turn up, ma’am,” says the pudgy security guard.
“She can’t go far,” the skinnier one assures us.
“Why weren’t you watching her?” Janet rasps, breaking down into tears again. “Goddamnit, Ben, why weren’t you watching!”
“Calm down,” I say. “What was she wearing?”
“A blue-checked dress,” she whimpers.
“And you say her name is Piker?” says the pudgy one.
“Piper, with a p,” I say. “Her face is peeling. One of her front teeth hasn’t come in all the way.”
As I’m describing her, I know with a terrible certainty that I’m never going to see my daughter again. That I’ve lost her. That somebody has taken her, forced her into a van, drugged her. Still, the hopeless search continues. Security personnel plumb the silver mine with flashlights. The schoolhouse is turned upside down. A half hour passes in a jangled blur as I dart frantically in and out of storefronts. To make matters worse, the Wild West Show has ended, and everywhere there is movement as the horde fractures and undulates, but there’s not a blue-checked dress among them.
As hard as I try to push the thought from my mind, I can see the man who’s taken her. He has a mustache. Sunglasses. A jagged little scar above his left eyebrow. He’s wearing a sweatshirt in spite of the heat.
Suddenly, through the photo parlor window, I glimpse a dark head of hair and burst through the door. But it turns out to be a boy half Piper’s age. My mind is playing tricks on me.
“Have you seen this girl?” I ask the photographer, thrusting a wallet-sized photo into his face.
Nobody’s seen her. Not the woman in the Needleworks, not the old lady in the Candle Shop. Not the Chinese guy in the Boot and Saddle. My cell phone is running out of juice. The pudgy security guard continues to reassure Janet in front of the ice wagon.
The grim scene plays out in my head. There’s no stopping it. I can see the van trailing a cloud of dust as it speeds out into the desert—there’s not even a road where he’s taking her.
At the far end of Main Street, I hurry up the hill through the cemetery toward the squat little Christian church. I push through the door. The place is empty. Still as a sarcophagus. Slants of sunlight swimming with dust. I walk down the aisle between the pews, feverish, heartsick, certain that my life will never be the same. Bile is rising in my throat. The room is starting to wobble. I’m going to puke. I double over, steadying myself on the last pew. Just when I’m about to lose it, I see her, asleep on her side on the bench with her mouth half open, her blue-checked dress pasted to her sunburned knees.
the edge
Highway 191 begins in the unassuming flatlands a dozen or so miles west of Bozeman, where it picks up the Gallatin River, running flat through sprawling pasturelands. Soon the mountains converge before us, and the road begins a winding ascent through the steep forested slopes of Gallatin Canyon. The snowcapped Madisons rear up to the west, buttressed by squat green foothills, while abruptly the craggy Gallatins crowd in on us from the east. The van labors in low gear, as we inch our way up the ever-steepening grade toward the Yellowstone plateau, a treacherous two-lane crawl along shoulderless overhangs. The vistas are among the most dramatic we’ve yet to encounter. Just over a guardrail, ominously buckled in places, strung intermittently with memorial wreaths, the world falls away precipitously into a bottomless tree-stubbled gorge. Mercifully, I’m unable to crane my neck. Above us on either side, the cliff faces are studded with sandstone and marred by recent slides. I’d grip the wheel harder if my bandaged hands would allow me.
In the backseat, Dot and Peaches converse with the familiarity of old friends, occasionally in hushed tones. Though Dot is younger, she is more worldly and does most of the talking. Peaches takes it all in like the gospel, her bright eyes shining above her cherubic cheeks. Now and again, I catch snippets of their conversation.
“Let me guess,” says Dot. “Every time you bring it up, he talks about wanting everything to be perfect, right? He talks about some future where all the details are taken care of and the timing is right.”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Because they’re all that way—Ron, Kirk, my dad.”
“What way?”
“Scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of everything. So they invent a future where they’ve got nothing to be afraid of. It usually has to do with having more money.”
Peaches cradles her belly in both hands, and looks out over the gorge. “Elton was gonna make us rich,” she says sadly.
“Don’t worry,” says Dot. “He still will.”
Beside me, Trev seems perfectly at ease. The transformation is remarkable. Never mind that our journey has been hopelessly derailed at every juncture, that we’re overbudget, behind sched
ule, and have no clue where the nearest medical facility is located. Never mind that the dummy light is on again. Never mind that the man to whom he has entrusted his health is wrapped in gauze, wearing a neck brace, and teetering precariously on the edge of sanity. Trev is a rock.
“So, are you gonna come back to work?” he says to me, out of the blue.
“I mean, when this is over?”
“I’m not sure.”
“What else would you do?”
“I have no idea.” The fact is, I haven’t given it a thought. I’m lucky to see my hand in front of my face in my current state of myopia.
Trev looks out his window at the cliff face hugging the shoulder, then rolls his head back toward me. “You gotta do something.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“My mom will be fine with it. It’s my decision, really. Look, dude, you’re old. This is serious. You gotta figure out what you’re gonna do.”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do before?”
“Nothing, really. I wrote poetry.”
“No, really, what did you do?”
“Worked some bullshit jobs.”
The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Page 20