by Katy Regnery
“I still keep the chickens. One rooster and the six hens. They keep me in eggs. Since you been gone, I haven’t had the heart to, well, you know.”
Every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter, Gramp used to slaughter one of the chickens for dinner. But I can’t do that. Besides the fact that the chickens and Annie are my only company, and therefore elevated to a status closer to friend than animal, killing anything leaves me cold. Even more than that, it worries me. I don’t want to believe that I am capable of killing anything. It seems like an awfully slippery slope, given my genetics.
I remember studying the Salem witch trials with Mama and reading about how some women were condemned to death for having a mole on their chests that resembled a third nipple. It was called the devil’s mark, and the common thinking of the day was that evil women had such a mark on their bodies to nurse the devil.
I don’t have a third nipple on my body, but I have convicted serial killer Paul Isaac Porter in my blood and bones. That’s condemnation enough not only for me, but surely for the rest of the world.
Most of the time, I feel damned.
Live quiet.
Live quiet.
Live quiet.
Sometimes I pray to a God I barely know that, regardless of my parentage, whatever chaos and evil lived inside Paul Isaac Porter doesn’t live inside me. That somehow the gene that made my father kill those girls was a mutation within him that wasn’t passed down. Or, even if I inherited the gene, it will never be turned on. Or better yet, that even if Paul Isaac Porter had a “kill” gene, that the corresponding gene from my mother overruled his. I want to believe that she was so good, it would be impossible for anything evil from my father to overpower what I received from her.
In the years after my father’s conviction, Mama amassed a library of books about hereditary evil and genetics, and over the past decade I have read all of them—some several times, adding to the collection now and then when the Millinocket Library has their annual sale.
A Swedish study of Finnish prisoners found that the majority of violent criminals studied carried the MAOA and CDH13 genes, a combination also known as “the huiman warrior gene” or “kill” gene. The study revealed that a monoamine oxidase A (MAOA) low-activity genotype (contributing to low dopamine turnover rate) as well as the CDH13 gene (coding for neuronal membrane adhesion protein) can result in extremely violent behavior.
In 2009, an Italian prisoner’s sentence was reduced on appeal because he showed proof of carrying this gene in his DNA. And in 2010, an American man named Bradley Waldrop, who also carried the combination of MAOA and CDH13 genes, was able to convince a jury that his crime of passion (shooting his wife’s friend eight times in front of the couple’s children) was manslaughter, not murder. Why? Because his genes made him do it.
For every story of a serial killer’s child becoming a police officer or a teacher and living a normal life, there’s another story that supports the idea that evil can be inherited. And each one chills me through:
Two of Albert Fish’s siblings were hospitalized for mental illness, and at least three more relatives going back two generations had a history of mental illness. Aileen Wuornos’s biological father was a psychopathic child molester who hanged himself in prison in 1969. The grandson of one of the Hillside Stranglers ended up shooting his grandmother and killing himself in 2007.
The unfortunate net result of my reading is the knowledge that, even if I somehow sidestep my father’s insanity, the “kill” gene could still be a part of me, inactive within me, waiting to be passed on to the next generation. It’s well within the realm of possibility. And it’s the terrifying fact that makes it impossible to imagine what I crave more than anything else in the universe:
Companionship. Love. Family.
While having children is physically possible for me, it is ethically impossible.
Which means that, despite my urges and longings, loving a woman is impossible too.
Because it would be wrong to deprive a woman of children, and it would also be wrong to risk infecting the world with the terrible legacy I might carry in my DNA.
Not to mention, by virtue of my genetics, I could be a danger to a wife and children someday.
As a concept, I accept this truth.
It’s a little harder in practice.
My body, which is hard and strong from years of work, longs for a woman’s touch. I dream nightly of what it would be like to be kissed or held.
My fingers, which haven’t touched another human being since Gramp’s death, probably shouldn’t remember the soft texture of skin anymore—the warmth of it, the way it felt pressed against my own. But they do. All ten of them remember. And sometimes I wish I’d never known the miracle of touch, the beauty of skin against skin, of my hand clasped safely within Mama’s, or Gramp’s warm, raspy palm on the back of my neck. You can’t miss something you’ve never known. You can’t long for something you never had. Once I knew the glory of human touch. Now I miss it.
Generally I’m pretty good at keeping my loneliness at bay.
But it’s been ten years today.
So today, it hurts.
Glancing at the graves one last time, I look up at the clear blue of the sky, at the high sun of midmorning. Perhaps it would be a good day to be around other people the only way I feel comfortable: from a distance, in the woods, staying off the actual paths, but walking up the same steep mountain as the rest of them.
There is a detached camaraderie that I experience by hearing their voices and listening to the crunch of their hiking boots over the leaves and twigs littering the many trails.
I don’t want to be around people directly, per se. I don’t want to talk with them or share my name or expose myself to questions. But slipping easily through the woods on the mountain, seeing without being seen, a part of and apart from humanity, making my own way to the summit?
Yeah. Today, I want that.
Slowly turning my glance to Katahdin, I wonder how busy it will be today. Baxter Peak is an eight-mile walk from where I presently stand. Five miles from here, I’ll find the Saddle Trail, and I could shadow it to the top, listening to the hum of human conversation from the safety of the parallel woods, and pretending I’m a part of the human race. For a few precious hours.
“I’ll stay out of sight, Gramp,” I promise, backing away from the stones. “Won’t draw any attention to myself. Won’t talk to anyone. Nobody’ll even know I’m there, Mama.”
I promise.
***
Three hours later, I’m sitting on a boulder in a heavily wooded area several yards from where the Chimney Pond and Saddle Trails merge, catching my breath. Earlier I saw a lot of walkers through the trees, but more and more are turning around now, due to the cloud cover rolling in. The wind is whipping up too, and the temperature’s dropping.
A group of six hikers—three women and three men—come into view, and I focus on them, quickly assessing their ages as best I can. Having lived most of my life isolated, I’m challenged by one of the three women. While the other two look younger than twenty, she appears to be older—in her late twenties, possibly even thirty. I can’t tell for sure.
Why she captures my attention, I’m not certain, but maybe because she’s closer to my age than the others. I watch her carefully through the trees, tracking her movements as she sits down on a bench while the other five remain standing, laughing, and talking as they take out their water bottles.
My gaze shifts back to her.
She wears sunglasses, but as she sits down, she pushes them on top of her head, taking a deep, weary breath and letting it go.
And the
world
stops
spinning.
And all the oxygen made by every tree in that forest is sucked away, leaving me light-headed.
Because I have never seen such a beautiful woman in my life. Not in real life, when I was little. Not in books. Nowhere.
Her eyes.
Her eyes are the same green as ivy leaves after a rainfall. Deep and alive. Bright and unforgettable. The sort of green that heralds spring and promises rebirth. Glorious, vibrant, and wide, with sweeping, dark lashes, those eyes steal my breath away.
Her hair is a rich, dark brown, held back in a ponytail, and her lips, which she licks after drinking, are red. Her face, with a smattering of freckles concentrated on the bridge of her nose, is shaded with a quiet melancholy that reminds me of my mother.
Everything about her calls out to me, captivates me, makes me long to speak to her and hear her voice, to watch those eyes up close as they look back into mine, to know something about her . . . to know everything about her.
As she leans her head back against the bench, I wish I was the sun so I could shine down on her, so I could examine every peak and valley of her face until I have it memorized and can recall it at any lonesome moment: the sad, beautiful, green-eyed girl from the forest.
“So what do you guys think?”
My attention shifts away from the woman on the bench to one of her friends, a tall blonde woman with her hands on her hips.
“Weather’s definitely changing,” says one of the men.
“It’s colder—”
“—and windier,” adds a small brunette woman standing beside a tall, good-looking blond man.
“I think we should skip the peak,” says one of the guys, and I can hear the disappointment in his voice. “Saddle gets gnarly in the rain. Can’t hardly scramble up the boulders.”
“Yeah,” his friend agrees. “Instead, we could take Dudley to Helon Taylor. Change up the scenery on the way down.”
“Let’s do it,” says the third man, the tall blond guy, who grins at the brunette staring up at him. His voice becomes playful as he gazes back at her. “We have a site at the campground. You’re welcome to stay with us for the night. We can try it again tomorrow.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” she asks, her smile wider.
They’re attracted to each other, I think, watching their body language. The girl puts her hands on the back of her waist, which pushes her small breasts forward. I see his eyes drop down to glance at them for an instant. His smile widens when he looks up at her, and she cocks her head to the side and bites her lower lip. Yep. Attracted.
“Nah,” says the guy, winking at her. “We’ve got beer and cards. It’ll be fun.”
The brunette turns to her friend, her face expectant. “What do you think?”
“Ja. Fine with me.” She nudges the woman on the bench with her knee. “How about you? What do you think, Brynn?”
Brynn.
Brynn, sighs my heart.
Her name is Brynn.
She lifts her head to look up at her friends, and my entire body braces for the sound of her voice. I still my breathing, straining my neck to hear her as clearly as possible.
“I can’t stop,” she says, hooking her thumb toward the peak. “I have to go on.”
Her voice is deeper and richer than I would have guessed, more mature than either of the other women’s, which tells me I’m right about her being older.
“Brynn,” says the blonde woman, “we can come back. I promise we’ll reach the summit tomorrow.”
Mesmerized, I watch the play of emotions across her face—the moment of hesitation that is quickly chased away by something stronger. She stands up and adjusts her pack. “I’m halfway there. It has to be today.”
The blond guy steps toward her, dropping a hand to her shoulder, and I am immediately up on my feet, every muscle tense, ready to pounce if he should threaten or hurt her, and wishing like hell that he’d take his damned hand off her person.
“Brynn,” he says, towering over her, his voice imperious. “You shouldn’t climb alone. Come back down with us.”
She sighs, and somehow I know that her reason for being here today goes far beyond adding another summit to her list. She’s small and thin, not muscular like a career hiker, like the others. Yet she practically hums with purpose, and whatever her reasons, they won’t let her climb down until she reaches the top. Today.
“I’ll be fine. When I get back down, I’ll come find you guys, okay?”
“Suit yourself,” says the man, stepping away from her and walking toward the start of the Dudley Trail.
A low growl of thunder sounds, and a light sprinkle of rain starts falling. I look up at the sky, then back at Brynn, feeling tense again, split in my hope that she’ll turn back with the group for safety . . . but wanting her to keep going, because it is clearly so important to her. I hold my breath, wondering what will happen next.
“Brynn,” says the brunette gently, reaching for her hand, “it’s raining. And the higher you go, the colder it will get. Come down with us.”
“I wish I could,” she says wistfully, pulling her hand away, swinging her pack off her back and setting it on the bench. She unzips it and pulls a raincoat from within. “But this is something I need to do.”
“You sure you’ll be okay?” asks the blonde woman, looking over her shoulder in the direction of the three guys hovering close by.
I can see it like a play upon her face: fear overpowered by determination. She forces a smile, nods at her friends, and slips into her rain jacket. Her voice is higher and sounds falsely cheerful when she insists, “I’ll be fine! I’ll come find you in a few hours, okay? Be safe getting back down. Go on now.”
The two girls share a quick look, then lean forward and hug Brynn before waving goodbye. They run to catch up with the boys, the sound of low, manly voices and high-pitched giggles fading as they disappear from view.
And Brynn?
She watches them go, standing quiet and alone for several long minutes as her smile falls with the rain. And when her friends and her smile are gone, my heart clutches, because she looks so small, so sad, and so alone.
And though I wish I could join her on the path, walk with her, talk with her, find out what’s compelling her to walk through a storm, I know I can’t.
Live quiet, and no matter what happens inside of you, you won’t never be able to hurt someone, Cassidy.
She lifts her chin, and I watch with admiration and a little bit of awe as she takes a deep breath, glances up at the sky, and hoists her pack.
“I’m coming, Jem,” she says to no one, turning her body in the direction of the Saddle Trail. “I’m coming.”
Brynn
With the wind at my back and the rain whipping my hair into my face, I continue alone, all but blinded, slowly trudging up the challenging Saddle Trail and wondering if I am being foolish. Should I have returned to Roaring Brook with Carlotta, Emmy, and the Bennington boys? Is it madness for a novice hiker to continue alone?
During our companionable walk from Roaring Brook to Chimney Pond, I’d seen a lot of hikers, but Saddle has considerably less traffic, many walkers likely opting, as the rest of my group had, to return below and save the summit for another day. But I have the heaviest feeling in my heart that if I don’t get to Baxter Peak today, I never will. So I push forward, despite Kris’s warning, Emmy’s sweet concern, and my own trepidation.
My thoughts turn inevitably to Jem as the near-howling wind pushes at me and icy raindrops pelt my face, and I try to take some small comfort in the notion that his feet walked this trail dozens of times. I try to feel close to him, but to my immense frustration, I can feel my connection to Jem fading, even here, in this place that he loved so well. The trail is rocky and winding, and it impedes my slow progress. As the sky darkens and the rain falls harder, I have to concentrate wholly on forcing my body forward.
As two hikers approach me, descending from the summit, one of them shakes his head in warning. “Bad up there! You can’t see a thing.”
His friend nods in agreement, squinting his eyes against the rain. “Not worth the walk up!”
I wave at them weakly. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” says the first guy as he passes, both of us turning slightly so our bodies won�
��t touch each other on the narrow trail.
“Turn back,” says his friend, making eye contact with me for a nanosecond as he walks by.
I clench my jaw as their footsteps fade, pausing for a moment to tighten my hood. My hands are freezing, but I don’t want to take out my gloves yet. I’m not certain they’re waterproof, which means they’ll be sopping wet in two seconds if I put them on now, and my hands will be that much colder.
Underneath the gloves, in its sealed Ziploc bag, is Jem’s phone, still smeared with the fingerprint of blood. It’s that smudge that makes me keep moving through the punishing conditions. Picturing it, tears flood my eyes, and I look up at the steep, rocky trail, wishing I was anywhere but in these godforsaken woods in the middle of nowhere.
Sniffling pathetically, I reach up and swipe at my nose before trudging forward. I promised Jem that I’d bury a part of him at the top of Katahdin, and that’s exactly what I aim to do . . . no matter what.
“Coming up on the left!” I hear a voice call from behind me, and I glance back to see two men with walking sticks making their way briskly toward me.
As they pass by, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. They aren’t letting the rain get them down. Nor am I.
Lifting my chin, I soldier on, trying to ignore the weather, though my pants and socks are drenched and getting heavier and colder by the minute. To comfort myself, I softly hum one of my favorite songs, an old Beatles tune my mother used to sing to me as a child.
There are places I remember . . .
I wish I’d thought to call her this morning before setting out; no doubt she’s worried about me. Once I get home on Wednesday morning, I’ll take a couple of days off and go see my parents in Arizona. I’ll tell them all about my treacherous climb up a mountain, and how I’d been able to finally say goodbye to Jem. And maybe I’ll cry a little. Maybe they will too. But they’ll know that this trip wasn’t in vain—that it was a necessary step toward living my life again.
Living again.
What does that mean, exactly?
Hmm.