I smirked. “That’s not enough.”
But that gaze, I saw something in it that threw me off. His eyes looked into me, distant and aloof. I shivered suddenly, despite the heat. Those eyes, bright green—there was a major loneliness in there, but next to it happiness too, so profound it almost blew your head off, so profound I could never reach it, would never be part of it. I’d seen that gaze before, and it always shook me up, because it shoved the question in my face: How well do we actually know the one we love? Like every time Nick was getting ready to go to the mountains, this creature would awaken in him, not a person but a force of nature, an entity that was always hiding and that, now that I’d caught a glimpse of it, I didn’t want to let slip through my fingers.
And to tell you the truth, it got me hot. Much as I hated Nick’s climbing sprees, after three years together, the first honeymoon more or less behind us, this elusive creature in him felt powerful, forbidden, like a secret lover I could hook up with for a quick, heated affair.
So, before I knew it, Nick had heaved me up and pressed me against our bedroom’s doorpost, my hands around his waist and his hands—check this out—gripping both ice axes, gently tweaking the back of my neck with the spikes, forcefully pulling me against his body, those cold, metallic teeth digging into my neck, and goose bumps, oh Jesus, all the way down my spine.
“Those axes make you so unsexy,” I breathed into his lips. But I was bullshitting, and he knew it.
“You can’t mount me without them.”
“No way, Nick. That line is even worse than E. L. James.”
“A hundred million readers can’t be wrong.”
Ramses sauntered down the stairs, tail in the air, but he didn’t need a sixth sense to know what was about to happen. As always, he made a show of letting us know he had better things to do.
3
I drove along the Hudson and through rolling hills I remembered only vaguely, till I was close up to the Catskills. Suddenly they were there, rugged and depressing and unchanged. It was like I was driving back in time. My memories of Huckleberry Wall had blurred with the years, but when I turned off the interstate and followed the Onteora Trail westward, they came back with a cold clarity that caught me by surprise. These mountains were less rugged and sinister than the ones I’d left behind in Europe, but even with the August sun doing overtime, they gave me the chills.
Back then the mountains were white, not green. It was the dead of winter and the storm was wailing around the house. The clouds and the blizzard had obscured the mountains and that only made matters worse.
I thought, Turn back. Don’t disturb the past.
Thought, Fly to Amsterdam. Buy a Tiffany ring.
But I drove on.
I wondered if I could still find the place, but it was like I was on autopilot. I got off the main road at Phoenicia, crossed the creek, and drove past the old lodge where Grandpa and Grandma always took us for a blueberry waffles breakfast, every time we came to stay. Weird, since Grandma made them better than anyone could. After that, the road curved sharply upwards through the woods, cottages concealed on both sides, and gradually transformed into a track. I remember it always looked like it would dead-end farther up, but it never did.
Past the last lot that marked the beginning of civilization, the track took a sharp curve to the left onto a dirt road Grandpa always called the Panther Mile. It climbed all the way up to the end of the world, to Huckleberry Wall.
The Cabin in the Woods.
The Last House on the Left.
A mossy wooden beam was now suspended over the sharp left in the track that always forced us to almost stop before continuing the jolty crawl up. The path beyond that was overgrown. Duh, because there was nowhere to go to up there anymore; the Panther Mile had dissolved into the Catskill Park trail system. I parked the Corvette at the edge of the lot and wondered what to do next.
Last time here was fifteen years ago, but nothing about my spoiled New York experience had changed. The sounds in the woods a low-rent “Sounds of Nature” meditation mix. The smell a discounted Fairway Market toilet freshener. My nature savvy drip-fed by Spotify and pine-scented cleaners.
I was going to do that movie-macho move where someone leaps over and out of the sporty convertible, but my hands were trembling like crazy, so I just used the door.
The grounds were exceptionally green and the farm was in good repair. I didn’t know if the same people were still living there after all those years, but the apple tree was still there. I didn’t have a plan, not even a name, just a memory. In that memory, they were already old. But that didn’t mean much. When you’re nine, anyone older than your mom looks ancient.
I halted halfway across the lawn because I heard the prattle of a local radio station. The screen door opened and an elderly lady holding a transistor radio came out on the porch. She was preceded by a house dog that first almost tripped her, then came pattering toward me, barking inquisitively.
The lady must have been in her seventies, but I recognized her immediately by her apron and long silvery hair. She turned off the transistor, telescoped the antenna, and slid it into her apron. “Down, Zeus!” she called. “Don’t worry, young man, he won’t do anything as long as you don’t either. Can I help you?”
Zeus was medium size, brown; anything else, you decide—I’m no good with breeds. I patted his head, then hooked my shades in my shirt collar. “Maybe you could give me one of those apples from your tree, like you always used to.”
She squinted her eyes and walked down the veranda stairs. “Yes, I know you . . . Remind me?”
“I had a little sister. And a grandfather and grandmother.”
“Heavens! You’re Herb and Dorothy Avery’s grandson!”
I smiled. “Sam. Sam Avery. Happy to see you again.”
She clapped her hands. “Sam Avery! My god, you sure have grown! Last time I saw you, you were still a little tyke.” She approached me and not only shook my hand but also clasped it tightly. I could feel the bones and fragility in her fingers. I realized the woman was probably in her eighties instead, but those fingers were distinctly peppy. Zeus wagged his tail. “I wish I could give you an apple, Sam, but I’m afraid they won’t be ripe until September.”
“What’s your name again, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Abigail Bernstein, but—”
“Auntie Bernstein! Of course! That’s what Grandma always called you!”
“Bingo,” she smiled. “Unfortunately, Uncle Bernstein left us six years ago, but I still keep my own chickens. What brings you all the way up here, Sam?”
I didn’t know exactly what to say.
“I’m living in Europe now. I can’t often . . . Well, I happened to be in New York. I thought maybe I’d go for a ride.”