Finding West

by June Gray

  I took a step and my leg was swallowed up to knee by the snow. “I seriously doubt it. The only plow in this town is the one attached to the front of Larry Masterson’s truck and last I heard, the truck was getting an engine overhaul.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  I took a few more steps, feeling the snow sneaking into the top of my boots. This was not good. “I’m pretty sure my Jeep can make it,” I said, looking dubiously at the square-shaped object under all that snow. The snow had made my all-terrain, bad-ass vehicle look like a marshmallow. With my bare hands, I wiped at the snow on the door to get inside and immediately regretted it. Why wasn’t I wearing gloves?

  With my frozen fingers, I turned the key in the ignition and was relieved to hear the engine turn smoothly. “Get in,” I called to him. Josie stood at the doorstep, unsure of what to do with all the snow. “Stay, girl. I’ll be back soon.”

  After closing the door behind him, the man waded through the snow. I belatedly wondered if I should have lent him a pair of snow boots as well; he was wearing a pair of black leather boots, but in no way were they waterproof. He climbed into the passenger seat, the lower half of his jeans completely coated in white. He brushed it off. “I’m sorry about the mess,” he said, indicating the pile of snow that now lay at his feet.

  “No big deal. It’s just water.” I put the car in reverse and hit the gas gently. The snow crunched under the tires for a second before the Jeep stopped moving. The wall of snow surrounding us might have something to do with it. “Come on, baby,” I said and hit the gas.

  The engine roared and the vehicle jumped backwards but didn’t move more than an inch. I changed gears and went to Drive, stepped on the pedal again. The car jumped forward and out of the snow bank. I turned the steering wheel, narrowly missing the side of my house, and headed towards the road. We were almost at the entrance to my property when the Jeep got stuck in a dip in the ground.

  “Fuck,” I said, slamming a hand on the steering wheel. I’d been meaning to fill that ditch in but had just never got around to it.

  “Hold on,” he said and jumped out. A few seconds later, the Jeep lurched forward as he tried to push it out of the embankment.

  I stepped on the gas as he pushed, but I only spun my tires. He came around to the front and I hit reverse but no dice. I watched him through the windshield giving it his all and found myself admiring his commitment. He was pushing with such a mighty effort that his face turned red and veins popped in his forehead.

  After fifteen minutes of trying different tactics we finally conceded to Mother Nature. My Jeep was good and stuck. Shivering, we trekked back towards the house, and by the time we got inside, the guy’s pants were soaked nearly to the middle of his thighs. He sat on a kitchen chair and took off his boots, sighing as he pulled off his soggy white socks.

  As he massaged some warmth into his feet, it suddenly dawned on me that he was stuck here. Unless he wanted to walk the mile and a half into town balls-deep in snow, this complete stranger would have to stay at my house until the snow had abated some.

  Most surprising of all was that it didn’t even scare me. He didn’t scare me. And I finally understood why: he was completely at a loss. A man wandering around without a clue was about as fearsome as a stray puppy.

  I sighed and shook my head all the way to my dad’s bedroom. Technically my father had never even slept in this room, but I’d set it up with his belongings when I moved from Anchorage, ready for the day he came home.

  I walked over to the pine dresser and pulled out a pair of jeans and thick socks. Before I changed my mind, I also pulled out a flannel shirt. “Here. I’ll throw your dirty clothes in the wash.”

  He looked up at me, his grey eyes filled with emotions I couldn’t even begin to understand. “Thank you,” he said barely above a whisper and looked down at the clothes in his grasp. “I know this can’t be easy for you, having a strange man in your home.”

  Here’s something nearly everybody in town knew about me through personal exposure or otherwise: I’m one stubborn, contrary motherfucker. And I have a potty mouth.

  But for as long as I can remember, I have always enjoyed proving people wrong. Tell me I’m sad? Well, I’ll paste on a smile and laugh in your face. Tell me I can’t possibly replace my tires myself? Done and done.

  So for this guy to insinuate that I couldn’t handle having a strange man around made me all the more determined to prove him wrong. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to think this stranger was harmless, but I never said I was smart either.

  I shrugged. “Not at all.”

  “You’re taking this all very well.”

  “So are you. Seems to me like you should be the one freaking out, since you lost your mind and all,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Unless, you’re lying.”

  “I wish I was.” He ran a hand through his hair then grimaced as his fingers came away with dirt and grime and old blood.

  “You could use a shower.”

  “Yeah, I feel really…”

  “Disgustingly gross?” I offered.

  “Dirty was the word I was looking for,” he said in such a wry manner that I let out a soft chuckle. At the very least, he wasn’t some humorless dickhead.

  “The towels are in the bathroom, under the sink,” I said and turned away.

  2

  STRANGER

  I am a man without an identity.

  A heavy mass of dread weighed down my legs as I made the short walk from the kitchen to the bathroom. I knew it had to be done, but even the idea of looking at the stranger in the mirror one more time fired fear down my spine.

  But I did it. I put down the bundle of clothes on the counter, took a deep breath, and looked in the large rectangular mirror. Seeing the face I didn’t recognize wasn’t so bad the second time around, not quite as shocking. I still didn’t recognize the man who stared back, but at least I no longer wanted to throw up at the sight of him.

  The bandage on my forehead looked fairly untouched, but I pulled it off anyway to see the damage underneath. The wound that had allegedly knocked me out was held together by butterfly strips, but it was not so big that it might cause memory loss. At least, I didn’t think so.

  I ran a finger along my dirt-stained cheek and pulled my lower eyelids away from my stark grey eyes but felt no spark of recognition.

  “Who the hell are you?” I asked, my breath fogging a spot on the mirror.

  My dark brown beard was thick: not completely unkempt, but coupled with my wild hair, I looked like a mountain man. It was a wonder the woman outside hadn’t mistaken me for a bear and just left me to die on the side of the road.

  Not wanting to keep my host waiting, I tore off my clothes—finding no wallet or any form of identification in my pockets—and stepped into the tiny glass-walled shower and turned on the water.

  The cold blast of water was a shock, like a thousand little knives stabbing my chest, but it was reassuring in a way. Pain was something I remembered, something I was apparently used to. I looked down at my body, surprised at the definition in my stomach, at the muscles on my legs. Then I saw them, the indented lines on my body consistent with scarring. I saw one on my thigh, then a long one along my side, and suddenly it was like a hunt, as if finding each one could unlock the memories in my head.

  Who the hell was I and why did I have so many scars on my body?

  It felt good to be clean, to wear dry clothes again even if I was freeballing in some other man’s jeans. Even the reflection in the mirror looked marginally better. I combed my fingers through my hair, brushing it away from my face, and straightened out my eyebrows. It was the best I could do under the circumstance.

  When I came out I was greeted with the most heavenly scent known to man: the mouthwatering aroma of frying meat. I followed my nose and found my host in the kitchen, pouring orange juice into two glasses.

  She spun around when my grumbling stomach announced my return. “I guess I’m hung
ry,” I said, rubbing my stomach and eyeing the food, hoping she’d made some for me.

  She pointed to a plate on the counter. “Help yourself,” she said, taking her own food to the table.

  I followed suit and sat down across the round table, feeling a little awkward at the normalcy and domesticity of it all. “Thank you for—”

  “You can stop thanking me now,” she said in that raspy soft voice of hers that was always edged with steel, as if she had to constantly prove something. “Anybody would have done the same.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” I said. I didn’t know how I knew, only that I was certain kindness like hers did not happen every day, that not everybody was hiding a heart of gold under a gruff exterior. “So thank you.”

  She flicked a hand in the air and began to eat. I watched her for a few moments, fascinated by the movement of her lips. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a ponytail, and there was no trace of makeup on her pale, heart-shaped face. Still, anyone with eyes could see that she was a blue-eyed beauty hiding underneath a baggy sweatshirt and an attitude.

  She put her fork down. “Would you stop staring at me?” she asked. “I don’t like being looked at like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m a piece of meat.”

  “I wasn’t even…” I shook my head and stuffed a slice of bacon into my mouth before I could say or do anything else that would offend her. For the first time it occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one with a hidden past, and based on the stubborn set of her jaw, something had made an obviously beautiful girl hide herself from the world. The possibilities left me cold.

  “I just realized I don’t even know your name.”

  She glanced up at me. “Kat. And you?” she asked, then quickly added, “right, I forgot.”

  I chewed quietly, watching her watch me.

  “How about your age? Do you have any clue how old you are?”

  I scratched at my bearded cheek. “I have no idea.”

  Her blue eyes studied me for a moment. She was so fearless. “I’m guessing you’re around mid-thirties.”

  “I don’t feel that old,” I said. “What about you?”

  “How old do I look?” She sat back and raised an eyebrow.

  I shook my head. “Hell no. If I tell you what I think, you’ll get all huffy because I’ll inevitably say the wrong number. I might not know much right now, but I’m aware that age and weight are two things men never discuss with a woman unless he wants to lose a testicle.”

  She stood up, her chair scraping along the linoleum, and smirked. “I’m twenty-five and one hundred and fifty pounds,” she said, taking her plate to the sink. “And that’s a very antiquated idea you’re running with.”

  My eyes followed her movements as my brain tried to make sense of the information. She was tall, slim but not skinny, and she had a nice curvy behind. “It must be all in your chest and ass,” I mused out loud.

  She spun around, her eyes wide, and crossed her arms across her chest. She didn’t say anything, I suspected out of shock, but she didn’t have to. Her body language alone was enough to chastise me.

  “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight,” she said through stiff lips. “If you want my help, you can’t say shit like that. Ever.”

  I nodded, disturbed that I might be the kind of guy who usually said things like that to women. “Sorry. It just slipped out.”

  She looked away. “That’s your first and only warning, Lenny.”

  I frowned. “Lenny? Did I miss something? Did you see my name somewhere?”

  “No. I just decided you deserved a name.”

  “Yeah, but… Lenny?” I hoped to God my real name wasn’t Lenny.

  “Yeah, Lenny sounds like the kind of guy who’d talk about a girl’s ass and tits, don’t you think?”

  I sighed through my nose. “I think I’m more of a Dean or Jack.”

  “More like Hershel.”

  “Dean?”

  “Gilbert.”

  “Jack?”

  “Herman.” She fought off a grin. “I can go all night.”

  “Fine,” I conceded. She could win this one for now. She fed me bacon after all. “Greasy Lenny it is.”

  Kat made me wash the dishes while she stood on the other side of the counter and watched. She was, I was beginning to understand, hardheaded and a bit of a smartass, traits that I didn’t think I’d like on a person. She was both surly and soft at once, a confounding study in contrasts.

  She retrieved her laptop from the bedroom—the fact that she had one surprised me as she seemed like a low-tech, off-the-grid kind of girl—and set it on the kitchen table. “I’m going to look in the police database for missing persons in Alaska.”

  “If I’m even from Alaska,” I said, drying my hands on a dishtowel.

  “This is going to be a long ass day,” she mumbled as I walked around to look over her shoulder.

  She searched website after website tirelessly, but every link she clicked on, every new page with missing persons listings, sent me deeper into a dark place. I’d seen more depressing things than I’d ever wanted to.

  After an hour and a half, Kat had finally had enough. “I need a drink,” she said, pushing away from the kitchen table. “I can’t see any more pictures of abducted children.”

  “Do you mind if I look?” I asked, but she grabbed the laptop before I even had a chance to touch it.

  “Hold on,” she said, holding onto the computer with one hand while doing something with the other. Probably clearing the browser history, if I had to guess.

  “You have something to hide there, Kat?” I asked when she finally handed the machine over.

  “Don’t we all?” she asked and made her way to the fridge while I found a police database we hadn’t perused. “You want a beer?”

  I meant to say yes but my entire body was suddenly frozen with fright. Right on the screen was a mug shot of a guy with a thick beard, grey eyes and dark hair, and underneath his picture was the caption: Murder in the first degree.

  3

  KAT

  “Hey Hugo, did you hear what I said?” I closed the fridge door and found the man staring at the computer screen, his face pale from shock. I walked over and set the bottles on the table. “What is it?”

  He tried to shut the laptop, but I wedged my fingers in between. “It’s uh—”

  “Don’t say it’s nothing because I will punch you in the throat,” I said, wrestling the computer away from him. He gave up without a fight.

  I flipped open the computer screen, studied the picture, then laughed. “That’s not you.”

  He blinked a few times, relief seeping into his taut features. “Are you sure?”

  I set the computer back down and pointed at the screen. “Look, the bridge of your nose is thinner and you have a little less forehead than he does.”

  He stared at the pictures, still apparently unconvinced.

  “I’ve been looking at your face all morning, I think I can spot the difference.”

  “Please be certain.”

  I rolled my eyes before focusing on his face, starting with the bushy beard that covered a good portion of his face, to the straight nose, and ending with those luminous grey eyes, which were looking straight into my own, seemingly holding me in place. My chest felt tight, which was in itself a scary reaction to studying the face of a stranger.

  I don’t know how long I stared at him—probably longer than was socially acceptable—but I finally wrenched myself away from his gaze and straightened. “I’m…” I cleared my throat. “I’m sure.”

  Then he smiled and any lingering doubts in my head melted away as his eyes wrinkled at the corners and his nearly perfect teeth shone against his dark beard. The kind of look that seemed genuine enough to make me feel warm inside. Uncomfortably so.

  I grabbed my beer and made a big production of opening it in order to ease the tension. I didn’t know this guy; h
e had no business making my stomach feel this way.

  For the first time, I questioned my decision to bring this man into my home. For the first time, I felt fear.

  He spent a few more hours on the computer, looking up website after website, while I sat on the couch with Josie and watched the news. It should have felt strange having him in my home but he was quiet and unobtrusive and, honestly, it was nice to have someone to talk to again. Even Josie was starting to warm up to him, or at least no longer growled if he made any sudden movements.

  At nearly two in the afternoon, he slammed the laptop shut and let out a ragged sigh.

  “Hey, watch it,” I said. “Laptops aren’t cheap, fuck you very much.”

  He stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice tight with irritation. “I just… I can’t just sit here, doing nothing. I need to go into town.”

  “The snow is—”

  “I know, but I need to try!”

  The desperation in his face took me aback. He was so utterly lost that my heart broke for him a little. “Okay,” I said. “Stay right there.” I went to my dad’s closet and pulled out his skiing clothes.

  I went back to the living room and threw the waterproof snow pants, insulated socks, and heavy duty snow boots onto the couch. “You can borrow these. Just leave them at the police station and I’ll pick them up later.”

  His eyes studied me quietly for a long, tense moment. Finally, he said, “These look new.”

  “Yeah, well, my dad never had a chance to use them,” I said, sitting on the arm of the couch.

  “Where did he go?”

  “He’s dead. I stabbed in his sleep for touching me inappropriately.” I don’t know what made me say such a thing, but I badly wanted to see his reaction.

  The stranger just shot me a weary, unconvinced look. “I call bullshit.”

  I bristled. “Don’t act like you know me. I could be capable of cold blooded murder.”