by Warren Adler
“And if it wasn’t restaurants, Dad, would you back me?”
“That’s not a fair question. I have backed you.”
“I know, Dad, but that was when technology tanked, this time it’s basic. Food. People have to eat.”
“I’m sorry, son. It’s too risky for you or any investor. Really, Scott, what do you know about the restaurant business? It’s hard enough for experts.”
His statement had an air of finality. A wall had risen that, Scott knew, would not be easily breached. Besides, his earlier bankruptcies made it impossible to secure credit.
“Are you trying to force me into your business, Dad?”
“No, but it will always be an option. Besides, I’ll never understand why you haven’t come in. It will be yours and Courtney’s some day.”
Scott could never reveal the real reasons for his refusal.
“I guess you’ve lost faith in me.”
“You’re my son, Scott. I love you, but I’m convinced that going down this new path will only hurt you more, not help.”
“I don’t agree, Dad. It’s a great deal.”
“Maybe so. But I won’t back it. Believe me, to refuse you is painful for me. But I’m sticking by it.”
Before, when Scott had approached him for other investments, he had not even required any pro forma or financial justification. That phase of his support was obviously over. The conclusion of this interview was not very pretty.
“I can’t understand it, Dad. I’m your son. You’re in good financial shape. Don’t say I’m counting your money, just observing the obvious. All I want is a little help. Frankly, I think you’re being cheap. What the hell are you going to do with your money? Sure, I’m very, very disappointed in my track record. But hell, who could have predicted the technology meltdown? Not every deal works. You’re a businessman. Someday I’ll click. I know I will. Who else would you back if not your own son? You say you love me. I’m not sure. If Mom were alive, she’d be in my corner.”
Nothing seemed to move the old man. He stood stubbornly to his conviction. But unlike Courtney, Scott had not closed the door completely. He told himself he was being more practical than his sister, betting that his father’s decision would one day be reversed. He hoped that this experiment with bonding might achieve such a reversal.
Seeing his father that morning convinced him that however strained their relationship, the old man had not cut the ties that bind. Nor had his son.
The ties that bind. Scott mulled its meaning. At times, early memories of his childhood, warm happy memories of loving family life would surface. Little vignettes like sound bytes on a television screen would intrude on his mind: clutching Dad’s warm hand as they walked through the Central Park Zoo, cuddling in the safety of his parents’ bed to dispel the horrors of a sudden nightmare, the sweet pleasant aura of his mother’s perfume, parental embraces, words heard around the dining room table, the reassuring timber and tone of his parents’ voices, the distinctive taste of his mother’s cooking, household smells, the view from the window of his old room, familiar pictures on the wall, his father’s proud face when he dumped a basket at a high school game, and echoes of his father’s praise, pride, approval, and admiration in his modest childhood achievements.
They were mostly images and memories of life before puberty, when separation and secret treachery began.
He felt transient sensations of a child’s love and would often be baffled by their enduring power, no matter how divisive their present differences. When his mind drifted to such memories, he tried gamely to exclude them and perhaps summon up the level of his sister’s antagonism to his father. He could not. The memory of his disloyalty and dissimulation was too much of a barrier. His guilt was too overwhelming.
After about five hours on the trail, they stopped in the shade of a stand of poplars near a stream, dismounted, and after their father shot more pictures of everyone including the horses and mules, they sat on a fallen log and ate their lunch. Scott’s knees ached, but it did not affect his appetite as he devoured the roast beef sandwiches Tomas had prepared and washed them down with water from his flask. They were also provided with Milky Ways, Snickers bars, and nuts.
During the lunch break, Harry refreshed their memory on the mysteries of the ceramic filter, which was designed to strain the giardia virus from the waters of rivers, lakes, and streams. The virus was spread by animals and could make one permanently subject to cramps and diarrhea, although Harry, who acknowledged drinking directly from the crystal clear water of the mountain streams, had remarked with a chuckle that he found a heavy dose of bourbon could be equally effective, although he was quick to point out that it was definitely not recommended for his clients.
The reek of spirits that clung to the outfitter and his florid complexion were further proof of Harry’s frequent use of this remedy. Scott hadn’t remembered any suggestion of hard drinking during their last foray but acknowledged that twenty years had made a big difference in all of them.
The mechanical ceramic gizmo took thirty-one hard hand pumps to fill a one-pint flask, but the effort was a necessity since dehydration was an equally serious problem at high altitudes, and the limited water supply carried in by horse and mule would quickly be depleted. The demonstration reminded Scott of the hardships that were still to be endured on the trek, a depressing prospect for someone as out of shape as himself.
“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” his father said, his eyes roving the landscape to observe the carpet of wild grasses and the vast forest of evergreens, poplars, and shaking aspens that edged the meadow. Looking upward, he shook his head in admiration of the white cottony puffs of clouds gathering against the background of the cerulean blue sky. He hoped such weather would hold, although the longer-term weather report called for rain.
That first trip through the West had been his father’s idea as well. He had characterized it as an obligatory educational trip to see parts of the country radically different from city life in New York. He characterized it then as a broadening experience.
Earlier in Courtney’s and Scott’s preteen life, their parents had taken them to Europe, Mexico, and the West Coast. Always, they had considered these family trips educational opportunities for the children. Always for the children. Their parents during those early years rarely traveled without their children. Both Scott and Courtney, eager frisky teenagers with exploding hormones, had welcomed the earlier Yellowstone trek with great anticipation. The family had flown to Jackson Hole, hired a car, and proceeded to West Yellowstone.
Their mother, who had never shown any inclination to outdoor adventure, took to it with surprising gusto and good humor. At their last meal around the campfire, she was voted Miss Congeniality by the family, complete with a burst of applause that echoed through the canyons. The recall brought a surprising film of tears to Scott’s eyes, and he turned away to hide its effect.
Going over Eagle Pass had been a particular trial for their mother, but she had been a good soldier, making the descent mostly with eyes closed, stiff with fear in the saddle, dismounting with effort as she led her horse along the dangerously narrow switchback trails. When they reached the valley floor, she had thrown up and vowed “never again.” But they all acknowledged her as a genuine heroine, offering hugs and kisses of acclaim. The steep climb and equally hazardous descent along narrow switchback trails was often cited as “the worst few hours of her life,” and she could always mesmerize guests with a blow-by-blow account, which grew greatly exaggerated by the passage of time.
His father had done considerable research to find the very best outfitter with the finest reputation. This turned out to be Harry McGrath, then the most experienced and expensive in the business. He was determined that the trek give his children a real taste of the hardships of the wilderness and the joys of an adventurous experience. It had easily fulfilled both criteria, although they had experienced it as far more profound than they had bargained for.
More than twenty years had
passed since then, and there was no denying that a man in his seventies would have a tougher time than any of them. Chronology was chronology. Their father was indeed putting himself at risk. Courtney was correct in that assessment. Scott pushed her suggestive comments from his mind.
“Beats Central Park, Dad,” Scott joked, determined to use banter to keep the atmosphere light and friendly.
His father nodded and smiled. Scott watched his nostrils twitch as he took a deep breath.
“The air is cleansing,” his father said.
“And thin,” Scott said. “Less oxygen to feed the brain cells.”
“Not to worry, Scottie,” Courtney chuckled. “Probably not much left for you to feed.”
Courtney giggled at her little deprecating joke, and they all laughed. Their general attitude augured well. They were all behaving admirably, Scott observed, a good sign. He exchanged glances with Courtney who, catching the message, nodded agreement.
“Good idea, kids. Wasn’t it?” their father said, a reminder of the way they had been addressed growing up.
“So far,” Scott commented.
He called to Harry, who was checking one of the mules’ legs. “How much longer?”
Harry looked at the sky. “Maybe six hours to camp.”
Scott nodded. Six hours seemed like forever. He popped two more ibuprofen tablets.
“Off to the loo,” his father said, getting up. Scott watched the old man move behind a stand of trees and then turned to Courtney.
“What do you think?” he asked.
Courtney shrugged.
“He’s certainly in a good mood. He’s enjoying the whole experience, holding up very well. Very fatherly, I’d say.”
“He called us ‘kids’.”
“I noticed.”
“I don’t know how to read it,” Scott said.
“Augurs well.”
Scott grew silent for a long moment.
“Considering, he doesn’t look too bad for over seventy.” Scott paused. Perhaps he was putting a better face on his father’s physical condition than it deserved. “Probably eliminates the deadly disease theory.”
“So much for optimism.”
“Jesus, Courtney. That’s pretty cold-blooded.”
“Nobody lives forever,” Courtney muttered.
“You’re talking about our father.”
“I know. He does have the power to change my attitude. He wants a loving daughter, he knows the price.” She winked. “You, too.”
“Leave it alone, Courtney. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“That’s your problem, Scott. Too many things make you uncomfortable.”
Harry and Tomas had eaten quickly and were attending to the horses and mules and checking the saddles and horseshoes. Harry paused, lifted his canteen, and took a long drink.
“Booze,” Courtney whispered.
“All we need, a drunken guide.”
“Now that’s something to be uncomfortable about.”
Courtney shrugged with indifference. Suddenly she reached into her pocket and brought out her mobile studying its face for messages.
“Shit,” she cried. “I forgot. No way to connect out here.”
“Too bad,” Scott said, chuckling.
“Shit. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle the withdrawal.” She held up the phone. “This is my connective tissue. How will I know about auditions?”
“Will it matter?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean out here. No auditions out here. Did it sound sarcastic?”
“Bet your ass it did.”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he lied.
“Fuck you.”
She pouted for a few moments and then sucked in a deep breath.
“Truce,” she said. “We’re off on the wrong foot. We need to portray a common front. No negativity. No sarcasm. Just loving siblings. For the next few days, consider us in the ingratiation business. We’ve got a mission here. Immerse yourself in Daddy love.”
“I’ll buy that,” he agreed.
They stopped their discussion abruptly when their father returned. He sat beside them on the log.
“You should both take a pit stop,” he said.
“Good advice, Dad,” Courtney said, standing, brushing the crumbs of her sandwich from her lap as she moved to the privacy of the woods.
“The wilds are for boys,” she said when she returned. “Just whip it out and done. I forgot tissue. We’ll smell like rotten fruit in a few days.”
“We can always wash in the streams.”
According to the list of things to bring, they had packed biodegradable soap.
“Freeze our asses off, remember last time,” Courtney said. She cut a glance at Scott who shrugged and turned away.
“My turn,” Scott said, getting up and moving into the forest, squatting against a tree to defecate, disobeying another of Harry’s wilderness caveats: “Dig a hole first, then cover it up. Respect the wildlife.”
He could never really understand what that meant. Hell, the wildlife shit in the woods without covering the mess, why couldn’t he? He didn’t, using leaves for tissue.
When he returned, Harry called on them to remount. Scott led his father’s horse to the log, and both he and Tomas helped him up to the saddle, which he accomplished with some effort.
“Sits well,” Harry said to them so that Temple could hear.
“Born on a horse,” their father replied with a smile from his perch in the saddle.
“Lots of cowboys in Manhattan,” Courtney said, laughing.
The mood was lighthearted, friendly. Scott painfully lifted himself into his saddle. Soon they were moving again. But after a few moments, Harry dismounted and moved to one of the mules. Tomas joined him, and they inspected the mule’s leg.
“Better dismount,” Harry ordered. They obeyed the order and waited beside their horses while Harry and Tomas unloaded the injured mule’s burdens and shifted them partially to the other mules. The remainder was wrapped in canvas and raised by ropes to a tree.
“What happens to that?” Scott asked, pointing to the canvas in a tree.
“Mex goes back and gets it. Way it goes. He fucked up.”
“How?” Temple asked.
“No problem for you, Temple. Just business. He don’t mind. Right, amigo?”
“Si, Señor Harry.”
Temple looked puzzled.
“Leave it alone, Dad,” Scott urged.
“So what happens now?” his father asked, still obviously confused.
“We go to Plan B,” Harry muttered. He moved to his horse and from under the cantle bag produced an object wrapped in canvas. It was a rifle. He took it and signaled to Tomas to bring the mule.
Then they led the limping mule further away from where the family waited. At that distance they could see the two men, but their voices couldn’t carry, although they did hear occasional shouts and curses.
“What the hell is going on?” Scott said.
“Can’t make it out,” his father said.
But there was no doubt that an argument was ensuing. At one point, the argument grew physical, with Harry lashing out at Tomas, beating him to the ground.
“The Mexican is catching hell,” Courtney said.
“He’s mistreating the guy,” their father said. “I don’t like that. I’m going to talk to him.”
“Don’t, Dad. It’s not our business.”
“I still don’t like it,” their father said. “I don’t like the gun either.”
“He said he was armed,” Scott said. “He told us why.”
“Sure is a lot different than last time,” their father muttered.
Soon the two men weren’t visible. Apparently they had led the limping mule deeper into the forest. Suddenly a shot rang out. After a while Harry came out of the forest holding the gun. Tomas followed, his face expressionless. Scott and his father exchanged glances. His father nodded, silently acknowledging h
is son’s advice. Scott signaled his approval with a returning nod.
“Not to worry, folks,” Harry said cheerfully. “Mule’s leg was lame. Had no choice. Dumb Mex fucked up on the packing weights. Let’s mount up again.”
“And the dead mule?” Temple asked. It seemed an extraneous question.
Harry chuckled.
“He’ll be scattered bones by morning. Everything gets recycled out here. Now let’s mount up.”
Harry and the Mexican helped their father mount. Then they all mounted, and Harry rode up to the head of the train and led them forward. Tomas followed, leading the two remaining mules.
“He did say adventure,” Courtney said. They looked toward their father who seemed somewhat depressed. Scott moved up and addressed him.
“I’m sure they know what their doing.”
“I still hate to see the way he treats the Mexican.”
“Come on, Dad. You’re not the personnel department. Accept it. Not your call.”
“He told me there would be two people to help him.”
“For crying out loud, Dad. Leave it alone.”
His father nodded.
“You’re right, Scott.”
Scott brought his horse back into line.
They threaded their way through deep forests, meadows, and ravines as the sun slowly descended. During July, Scott remembered, complete darkness didn’t come until late, perhaps ten. The trek seemed endless. Even the horses showed signs of fatigue, stopping more and more frequently to nibble at the grass, despite Harry’s cries of “don’t let ‘em eat.”
At one point, Harry stopped the pack train, removed a pair of binoculars from his saddlebag, and held them to his eyes.
“There,” he said, lowering the binoculars. “There’s your first grizzly sighting. Do I deliver or do I deliver?”
He passed the binoculars to Scott. A grizzly was drinking from a stream. It looked benign, serene. Scott passed the binoculars to Courtney who put them up to her eyes.
“Looks like a teddy bear from here,” she said.