Читать книгу Snow - Mike Bond - Страница 10

TREADMILL

WHILE CURT FED his horses Steve and Zack scrubbed the iron skillet in which Curt had cooked the elk liver and onions and the tin pail in which he’d boiled the potatoes. They washed the plates and silverware and dumped them in boiling water so nobody came down with the shits, and rinsed their coffee cups and turned them upside down so snow wouldn’t freeze inside them.

They sat close to the fire, which always leaves you too hot in front, Steve said, and too cold behind. But better than the deadly night. That kills you if you stray from warmth.

The thought of dying out there in the cold made Zack shiver. His body was worn and aching – from the miles hiked through deep snow in subzero winds, from slinking silently through dark timber seeking the distant flicker of an elk’s tail between the trees, from kneeling to peer beneath the low boughs for the glimpse of a deer leg between the trunks … Intense and exhausting. But how lovely to come home to the fire’s brave heat and light, to booze and hot food, good friends, a warm sleeping bag. To be rescued another night from cold death.

He thought of the feeling he’d had seeing the firelight through the trees on their way back to camp. Out of the cold darkness. Back to our roots.

But this year his body was paying the price.

It was harder to do what he used to do easily.

On TV he’d always encouraged kids to play football, but was that right? Wasn’t he enticing them into an impossible lottery, a hundred thousand to one? But making them pay the dues anyway, the broken bones and dislocations and battered muscles, the torn cartilage and tendons, the smashed knees, the jaw that won’t shut right, the ringing in your ears and the confusion in your head, with the knowledge that every year the pain and soreness just get worse?

He was here now, whatever it took. He hadn’t tagged the elk the griz had eaten, so he could hunt another. Tomorrow he’d climb above 9,600 feet, where the big bulls hid in dark timber on the north-facing slopes.

He tugged off his boots and socks and stretched bare feet toward the fire. How funny and pale his toes looked, like white worms. “How blissful this is.” Then, as if to explain: “Leaving LA, getting out of that weird scene for a week.”

Steve smiled. “That’s why we do this, every year.”

“And to stay in touch.”

Standing with his back to the fire Steve hunched his shoulders into the heat. “How you doing, your other investments?”

“Not so good, why?”

“Just wondering … The world out there is changing. Money’s getting hard to find.”

IN THE LOG-POLE CORRAL Curt opened a bag of oat cookies and gave each horse three. You had to be careful to give them all the same number or there’d be trouble. He rubbed down each horse, along the neck across the withers and back, murmuring, “You good buddy, Tom, my beautiful gray baby,” or “You too Kiwa, don’t you act jealous, I’m giving you a good rub too, and you got three cookies just like he did …”

Then he gave each a muzzle bag of oats, marveling as always how warm they stayed, how the snow melted off their muscular backs, their short hair. He gave each a hug and a kiss on the ear, sniffing their lovely odors, and from each got a warm nuzzle in response.

He checked each hoof for impacted ice or a wedged stone in the frog, rubbed their legs to make sure each horse was warm and comfortable, broke free a chunk of new alfalfa for each from one of the two bales Tom had carried on his packsaddle up the mountain.

Not wanting to return to camp, he sat on a corral pole enjoying the evening and the bitter stars cutting through the branches. It was so free, this, so open, so wild. What the ancestors had.

What was bothering him, he realized, was Zack and Steve. Something different about them this year. A tension, distance. Out of touch.

Though you couldn’t live in a place like Lost Angeles or New York and have any connection to the earth. When you move away from nature, like the ancestors said, your heart becomes hard. No matter how real you think you are. How much money you have.

Our first teacher is our own heart, the ancestors also said. But how can it teach us if it becomes hard?

Zack seemed to love the wild country. But if you did, how could you go back to what he did? Curt had seen him on TV, the famous linebacker talking football between commercials. Tall, rugged with a hard jaw, square-faced under a blond crew cut.

Not a guy you want to mess with. Not ever.

But who was he? Sometimes a real person who then faded into his TV talk, looking at you with those deep blue eyes.

Never ever trust a guy who looks you sincerely in the eye.

And Steve this millionaire banker, an ultra-marathoner, whatever that is, still complaining there’s no cell service up here and he can’t call his wife and kids every night. Give them a break, buddy, away from you.

Though in his own way just as tough as Zack, runs ten miles on a treadmill every morning, he says. Dark-haired and narrow-faced, the opposite of Zack.

Where did he get time to run on a treadmill, with all this investing he did?

Isn’t their entire life a treadmill?

“The markets are a scam,” Steve had once said. “The world would be better off without them.”

How, Curt had wondered, can you keep doing something the world would be better off without?

And Zack had said the same thing about TV football. How you got into high school football because you loved it, loved it despite the pain. Then college, and if you work like a demon, are very good and very lucky, the NFL. But then, maybe after a few years and many injuries, you start to see it’s fake, unreal. Has no real value. Just hurts lots of people … In more ways than one.

So how can you keep doing it?

Back in camp he checked that everything was covered and safe from the deepening snow. For morning he put the coffee and filters, the big pot, and the bread all under a tarp, and tucked the dozen eggs by the foot of his sleeping bag so they wouldn’t freeze.

FOR FOUR DAYS Steve hadn’t talked to Marcie and the kids. It had become a gnawing desire, as if he couldn’t breathe without the reassurance of their voices. He turned on his phone, fingers numb. No service. 8:12 pm, so just after ten in New York. Marcie’d be checking the kids’ homework, keeping them off the internet. Telling them good night stories about real life.

Did he really need to call, or was he just lonely?

He could call. To say what? That we’ve been up here in the snow and I’m freezing. I miss you. Why am I here? Yes, I know why: to better hone myself as a man.

“You don’t need to hone yourself,” Marcie said inside his head. “You already are.”

I knew that, he realized. Then why call?

I love you, that’s why.

To call he’d have to go down the mountain. But couldn’t tell Curt he was going. Or Curt would say call 911 about the crashed plane.

“In the old days,” Curt had once joked, “guys left for months on hunting trips. No cell phones back then. No talkin with the wife every day, back then.”

No, Steve had thought, just the pure white light of every moment in elegant untouchable nature. Skies thick with birds, prairies dark with antelope and bison, nights bright with many thousand stars, cold clear water in every creek … “Yeah. I wish we could be back there.”

Curt had glanced at him, surprised. “You would be back there?”

“Thinking it over, what we’ve gained and what we’ve lost, I think we lived better back then. Trouble is, we didn’t understand the universe. Inside the body. Inside life.”

Curt had looked away, back at him. “And we do now?”

IT SEEMED A BAD OMEN to Zack that Curt had shot the first elk. When he was supposed to be finding the elk for them. Not that Zack wanted to be guided. Or be with Steve. What he really wanted was to be alone. Why, after all these years? These ten days they’d looked forward to, every year.

“Keeps us in touch,” he’d said. But did it?

He hadn’t told Steve about last Friday in Malibu, the two Vegas toughs who showed up at his front door the morning before he flew to Bozeman. “You got a week,” they said. Plus their boss Haney the Rat calling Zack every day. “Pay us or we drop the bomb on you.”

The Vegas guys don’t invite you to the high money tables because they like you. You were stupid to think they did. It was because they needed you there to pull the suckers in, to legitimize the place. And because maybe you’d be stupid enough to lose your own money there too. Like you were inciting everybody else to do.

Other gamblers, the rich spenders and wannabees, so idiotically impressed that Zack was there. The future Hall of Famer, the famous linebacker, the TV sports guy with the solid shoulders, strong jaw and winner’s smile. The guy everybody trusted because they thought football makes you noble. Giving gambling a veneer of cool respectability.

How they fought for a chance to kiss his ass. What was wrong with people?

Now despite all this he owed the Vegas guys two million. No big deal in real terms. But no more gorgeous hookers. No more frothing hot tubs with two magnificent women fighting over his prick.

No matter what Steve recommended, Zack had to cash out his portfolio, pay Haney the Rat and the other Vegas guys their two million before they got mean. And the transactions should please Steve, with all the commissions he’d get.

Like so much in life, you do what you have to.

But how do we find happiness? Despite all the lies of modern life, the ads, the TV, the corporations and politicians, the distractions and “entertainments” that turn us into serfs?

What is good, and what evil? When cocaine is money, does that change how we see it? When money’s an option, don’t we embrace and defend what we used to call sin?

And come to love it.

Why was he worried?

What am I here for, he’d used to wonder. But could never find an answer so gave up asking.

Is it true, that you have to do what you have to?

The bullet snapped past his head.

STEVE WAITED ten minutes after Curt and Zack had gone to their tents before he shouldered his rifle and headed down the mountain. The snow was deep and the air very cold, burning his cheeks and the inside of his mouth when he opened it.

But it felt lovely, prehistoric, primal. Just him and the night and the cold and the mountain. The ancient battle. Which in the end life always lost.

For now it was joyous. The black trunks and white snow, the delicate mist of crystals sifting down from the boughs, the air a razor in his nostrils, So good. A challenge: live or die.

“Way too much snow,” he said when he finally reached Marcie. “We may have to leave camp, go down.”

“You poor thing … Are you staying warm?”

“It’s warm in the tent. And once you’re out hunting you don’t mind the cold.”

“If you have to go down, you’ll be home sooner?”

“Yeah, why? Everything okay?”

“No worse than before. No, yes. It is. It is worse.”

His chest went hollow. “What?”

“Those securities you were going to sell? Merrill Lynch says we can’t cash them.” She said nothing for a moment, gathering herself. “They’re worthless.”

“They can’t be! They’re cash equivalent. Oh shit.” He turned from the phone, staring at the black firs against the white night, his chest crushed by this news as by a bullet, something he could not survive. “Oh Jesus Marcie.”

“So all your clients …”

“Zack – I put all his money there.”

“You put lots of people’s money there.”

“How will I ever …”

“It gets worse.”

He shook his head, as if she could see him. “It can’t.”

“The Lefkowitz deal just fell through.”

“Fuck!” Her 1.2 percent broker’s take on a $9.3 million apartment, next month’s rent and expenses down the drain. “Why?”

“Parnell found them a place. Gramercy Park for God’s sake!”

The air burned his throat, pierced his lungs. For an instant he thought of the climb he had to make back up the mountain to camp. When what he wanted was to sit down and die.

“Steve, what are we going to do?”

“Don’t give up, baby. Don’t give up. I’ll be home soon.” He shut off, wondering how he could tell her not to give up when he already had.