The Ascent (18 page)

“You got it,” said Chad. “Money on the wood makes the game go good. Ante up, boys.”

After everyone had gone to sleep, I crawled over to where Shotsky lay, half petrified against the side of the stone outcropping. His snores were like the buzz of a chain saw. I poked his chest lightly and whispered his name into his ear over and over until his snoring broke up and his eyelids fluttered.

“Wha—?”

“Quiet,” I told him. Thankfully Petras’s thundering snoring compensated for Shotsky’s.

“Tim, wha—?”

“Listen. I spoke with Andrew. He’s going to give you the money whether you finish this thing or not. He doesn’t want you to know because he wants you to finish, but we need to be honest here, Donald.” I used his first name, hoping to appeal to the soul of the man. “This trip is going to get one hundred times worse than today. You’re going to kill yourself.”

His eyes were large and beseeching. I couldn’t tell if he was fully awake.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Sure.” His voice was calm, relaxed. His breath was warm in my face, smelling of onions and cigarettes. “Thing is, maybe I
do
need to prove this to myself. Maybe Andrew’s right. Maybe I
need
this.”

“Andrew’s out of his mind. He’s playing a game with you. You don’t need to prove a goddamn thing.”

“But I do.” His voice was oddly serene; just hearing it caused goose bumps to break out along my arms. “I do.”

“Then you might die proving it,” I whispered and crawled back to my sleeping bag.

Shotsky was snoring again before my eyes closed.

2

IN THE SCANT MOMENTS BEFORE DAWN. I AWOKE

to find Andrew and Shotsky standing above me with their packs on. For a second, I thought I was dreaming. I turned over and saw Curtis’s slumbering form wrapped in a flannel sleeping bag. I could hear Petras’s snores echoing off the stone walls of the valley.

“What’s this?” I muttered, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “I’m taking Shotsky back to base camp,” Andrew said, his voice flat and emotionless.

“That’s a full day’s hike,” I said.

“And another day coming back,” he added. “We can do it quickly.” I stared at Shotsky, but he refused to meet my eyes. “You want me to go with you?” “It’s not necessary.”

But I was already lacing up my boots. “I’ll come.” “Tim—”

“Remember what you said to me when I told you I’d gone caving on my own? That I was a fool and I could have died down there?”

Andrew looked away, rubbing his jaw. He seemed to chew on my words.

“Well, you were right. I’m coming with you.” I gazed at the camp, which was still dark in the predawn. “Besides, what the hell am I gonna do? Sit here and lose all my money playing poker with Chad?”

“Quiet,” Chad groaned a few yards away. “Still sleeping.”

Again my gaze shifted to Shotsky, but he still refused to look at me.

Finally Andrew said, “Hurry up and get dressed.”

While I dressed, Andrew spoke with Petras and told him to wait here until he and I returned which, with luck, would be in less than two days. Petras accepted his duty as next-in-charge in Andrew’s absence without protest; however, when he peered over at me, there was a dubious glimmer in his eyes. I could only roll my shoulders in response.

We set out before the sun had time to rise. Conversation was nonexistent. The only sounds were of our boots crunching in the snow, the top layer having frozen in the night, and the collective sighs of our respiration. The descent was easier than the initial climb, and Shotsky had to stop only a handful of times to catch his breath. Each time, Andrew did not wait for him; he continued descending the passage, tromping through our footprints from the day before, until he was once again a dark speck at the opposite end of the passage.

I remained with Shotsky, but we did not speak to each other. There was nothing to be said, and we both knew it. I could tell he was uncomfortable around me, and I could tell by the distance Andrew created between us that he was upset, too.

“I’ve gotta take a leak,” I told Shotsky during one of his breaks and climbed farther down the passage where I urinated into the snow.

When Shotsky caught up five minutes later, somewhat refreshed and ready to continue, I sighed and said nothing. We continued down the slope until my nagging thoughts got the better of me and I said, “What was all that talk last night about needing to finish? You seemed determined.”

“Guess I had time to think about it,” he said, his voice small. “You’re right. Who am I kidding?”

I said no more about it. We stopped for a late, freeze-dried lunch, and none of us spoke. I found my mind wandering, occupying itself with things other than the descent and the coldness between the three of us. I thought of Hannah and how she—

3

—STUCK HER HEAD UP THROUGH THE FLOOR HATCH

of our loft. Soft, tallow light framed her face. She smiled as I set down my hammer and chisel and wiped my hands on my pants, leaving white smears of powder on them.

“You need to see this,” she said.

“I need to finish this.”

She climbed out of the floor hatch. My studio was actually the attic, accessible only through the small hatch at the center of the floor. Brushing dust off her clothes, she stepped around the sculpture and behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “I thought you weren’t going to do the memorial.”

“I’m not.” I traced a thumb along the base of the sculpture. It was far from being finished, the bottom half still an unrefined cube of marble. Three faceless soldiers, their rifles drawn and their helmets covering their heads, rose out of the cube of marble, each of them facing in a slightly different direction. “I just couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing this in my head … and I knew this chunk of marble was up here, growing cold and ugly.”

Hannah reached out and stroked the cold, white stone. “It’s beautiful.”

“What’s so important that I need to see?”

“Outside. They’re shooting fireworks over the water from the Naval Academy.”

I examined the blank oval heads of the three soldiers beneath their helmets. “I should finish,” I said, picking up one of my carving tools.

“You should leave their faces blank,” she suggested.

“You think so?”

“Seems to make a bigger statement. Like they could be anyone and everyone. All the young men who died over there.”

“I need to finish,” I told her. “Please, Hannah …”

She kissed my cheek, and I felt her hand slide off my shoulder. The floorboards creaked as she made her way to the floor hatch. “I love you,” she called to me.

“Love you, too,” I said and watched as she descended through the hatch, under-lit by the shaft of yellow light.

I finished the sculpture, but it wasn’t good enough. I sat and stared at it for an undefined time, my stomach cramping with hunger and my bladder swollen with piss. Sometime during the night, I’d decided to submit it to the memorial commission after all. Leaning closer to it on my stool, I scrutinized every detail, every nuance. There was anguish and fear in the soldiers’ blank faces, creases and tears in their uniforms, and I could almost convince myself that I could see the grease on their hands from their weapons.

And it occurred to me like a burst of fire in a darkened cave: there was
too much
detail. It was
too much
.

Like they could be anyone and everyone.

One week later, I presented the sculpture to the memorial commission—a donation from an up-and-coming artist who’d done only a meager number of commissioned works. Reviews of the sculpture proclaimed it to be powerful, all-encompassing, otherworldly, yet somehow completely unassuming. It graced the covers of several design and art magazines. I started receiving work from more elite clients.

One man in particular, the publisher of a national newspaper, desired a personalized sculpture for his office, something he could set on the mantel above his fireplace. Upon our first meeting, he pumped my hand vigorously and said, “I fell in love with what you did for the memorial, Tim—can I call you Tim? So simple yet so

complex. That’s how I live my life, really.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “How did you ever think to keep the soldiers’ faces blank?” “Guess I was inspired,” was my response.

That night in bed, I kissed Hannah on the shoulder and told her what the newspaperman had said. I felt her smile in the dark. “So we make a good team, you and me, huh?” she said. “Marry me,” I said.

4

WE WERE NO MORE THAN RN HOUR AWAY FROM

base camp when Donald Shotsky died.

It happened just as twilight deepened the sky to a blend of cool purples and pinks, the moon visible in the eastern sky. For the past half hour, I had been conscious of Shotsky’s breathing—the rasping, closed-throated labor of it—so when it stopped, I was keenly aware of it.

I snapped my head around and saw him ten feet behind me. His eyes were bugging out of their sockets, his mouth working like a fish out of water. One of his pudgy, white hands fluttered in midair. I could almost hear his heartbeat closing the distance between us. I watched as his eyes filmed over, going blind. That fluttering hand clutched his chest. A small, froglike croak issued from his gaping mouth, and a moment after that, he pitched forward face-first into the snow.

I ran to him and dropped to my knees. It took some effort to roll him over on his side, and I knew it wasn’t a good sign that his eyes were still open.

“Andrew!” I could see him about to climb down the far end of the snowy passage to the path below. “Andrew!”

I pushed Shotsky over on his back. He didn’t blink. “Come on, Shotsky,” I pleaded. “Don’t do this.” Pressing two fingers to his carotid, I couldn’t make out a pulse. I quickly commenced with chest compressions, but he was wearing

too much restrictive gear. I unbuckled his pack and opened his coat, then proceeded with more compressions. My breath whistled in my throat, and my pulse drummed in my ears.

“Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on—”

“What happened?” Andrew barked, running toward us.

“Heart attack!”

Like a runner stealing second, Andrew slid in the snow and slammed against one of my thighs. He braced Shotsky’s head and positioned it back on his neck, creating a clearer passageway for air. With one hand, he administered quick little slaps to the side of Shotsky’s face, which was quickly turning a mottled shade of purple.

My arms were getting sore. I counted under my breath and continued with the chest compressions. A trail of snot descended from one of my nostrils and lengthened until it pattered on my balled, pumping fists.

“He’s not breathing,” Andrew said, sitting up. He released Shotsky’s head, but it did not recoil back on its neck. “There’s no pulse.”

“ … seven … eight … nine …”

“There’s no pulse. He’s dead.”

“Come on …”

“Overleigh. Tim.” Andrew put one hand over both my fists and steadied them on Shotsky’s chest. My breath was burning my throat. “He’s dead. It’s over. It’s over.”

Not moving, I sat there for several minutes. Andrew’s hand remained on top of mine. Once I felt my heartbeat begin to slow and regain its normal cadence, I lifted my hands off Shotsky’s chest and dropped onto my buttocks in the snow. I was still breathing heavily, but the cold night air was beginning to freeze the sweat on my face and neck.

“Fuck,” I uttered and eased back against my pack. Unbuckling the straps, I worked my shoulders out of them and pitched to my side in the freezing snow. “Jesus Christ, Andrew.”

Andrew sat forward on his shins and stared at Shotsky’s body.

“Did he have kids?” I asked. “Was he married?”

“No.” Andrew’s voice was small.

“No family?”

“He spent half the year alone in a tiny apartment in Reno, the other half as a greenhorn on crabbing boats in the Bering Sea. He was a pickup man.”

I didn’t know what a pickup man was; all I knew was Donald Shotsky, his face no more than three feet from my own, was dead.

“What do we do?” I said, sitting up. The cold was beginning to get to me.

“We leave him here.”

“Right here?”

“It’s no different than dragging him to base camp. And we certainly can’t carry him all the way down to the valley.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Get out your flags—the ones I left in your cabin. The blue ones.”

I unzipped my gear and produced the set of vinyl flags attached to wire rods. Andrew took off his own gear and stripped Shotsky’s pack off his body. He dragged the bag aside, then searched through Shotsky’s pockets.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making sure we’re not leaving anything important behind,” said Andrew.

“Like what? His fucking wallet? Let him be.”

Andrew slammed a fist into the snow, mere inches from Shotsky’s head. “Fuck, Tim—you wanna play Pope, go to the fucking Vatican.” He continued searching through Shotsky’s pockets.

My eyes locked with Shotsky’s. They were already beginning to glaze over. His mouth was frozen in an O, as if he were freeze-framed singing an opera. Again I thought of the stories I’d read on the Internet about the bodies found on the Godesh Ridge and all through the Himalayan mountains. I thought of George Mallory, dead

somewhere on Everest.

Inevitably I thought of Hannah and David, burning to death in their car after it drove off a cliff. David, Hannah’s lover, died on impact in the crash, but the coroner’s report identified smoke inhalation as Hannah’s cause of death. I imagined her, bloodied and disoriented, slamming a single hand against a window as the car filled with smoke.

“Stay with me, Overleigh.”

I snapped out of my daze. Andrew bundled Shotsky’s body in his clothes, buttoning his coat and positioning his head at a more lifelike angle.

“The flags,” I said, holding them up.

“Find peaks, high places. Plant them in the center, where someone can see from a considerable distance. Somewhere they won’t get buried if it snows too hard.”

Without a word, I stood and meandered around the snowy passageway, driving flags into mounds of snow and atop stone precipices. When I turned a curve in the slope, hidden behind a mass of white rocks, I removed my canteen and took two healthy chugs. The bourbon seared my throat, which was already abraded from dry, heavy breathing. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and slipped the canteen back into my pack.