The Walk (10 page)

I meant what I said about leaving. I couldn’t wait to get out. Without McKale, this was no longer my home. I felt no more connected to this place than the public library. Now that it had officially been claimed by others, it was time for me to go. The only question was
where
?

The first spark of the idea came to me as I watched the banker back his silver Audi out of my driveway. At that moment, one of my elderly neighbors walked by—Mr. Jorgensen from three houses down. Mr. Jorgensen was wearing a polyester baby-blue jacket and straw hat and was leaning against a cane. He had Parkinson’s and was shaking as he walked. I don’t know why seeing him triggered what it did—who knows where ideas come from? But at that moment it was clear to me what I had to do. Perhaps the only thing left for me to do. I needed to walk far
away.

In retrospect that moment wasn’t really the first time the thought of walking long distance had crossed my mind. When I was fifteen I read a book about a guy who walked across America, and ever since then I had secretly wanted to follow in his steps. Literally.

I don’t think I’m alone in this fantasy. I believe that in spite of the chains we bind ourselves with, there’s a primordial section of the human psyche that is still nomadic and still yearns to roam free. We see evidence of this in the walkabouts of the Australian aborigines and the Spirit Walk of the native Americans. We also see it cautiously peeking out its head in our own culture, surfacing in our literature and music. From Thoreau to Steinbeck to
Kerouac—each generation believes they have discovered the dream anew.

But it’s not new. Every generation has dreamed of roaming. Deep in our hearts everyone wants to walk free.

Maybe not
everybody
. When I told McKale about my secret desire she said, “Not me. I’d rather fly.”

“But then you’d miss everything,” I said.

“Not
every
thing. Just the boring stuff.”

“No, the
real
stuff. The real America. The little towns with names like Chicken Gristle and Beaverdale.”

“Right,” she said. “The boring stuff.”

I pressed on. “You mean to tell me that you really have never wanted to just pack up and start walking?”

“Never. But you hang on to that dream, you crazy old coot.”

A quote from one of my favorite comedians came to mind: “Anyplace is within walking distance if you have the time.”

That’s all I had left. Time. Far more of it than I wanted. I retrieved the Rand McNally road atlas from my den, opened it to a map of the continental U.S. and spread it out on the kitchen table. I studied it for a moment, then I went through the kitchen drawers looking for string. The closest thing I could find was a package of shoelaces. I tore the package open and put the plastic tip of one end of a shoelace on the city of Bellevue, then stretched the shoelace to the opposite side of the map, moving it up and
down the east coast to determine the furthest point reachable by foot. Key West, Florida. Key West was as far as I could go from where I stood. That was where I was going to walk. An hour later I called Falene.

She was relieved to hear from me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

“It’s okay. I’ve just been so worried.”

“I need to ask you a favor.”

“Anything.”

“This is a big one. I need you to shut everything down. Sell everything at the agency, the furniture, computers, everything. Put it on eBay or Craigslist. I’ll text you a bank account number to deposit whatever you bring in
from it.”

“What about your personal things?”

“I don’t care. Keep whatever you want. Throw the rest away.”

“What about your awards?”

The
awards
. My golden idols. “Throw them away.”

“What?”

“Also, there are the things in my home. The furniture.”

“But you need it.”

“Not anymore. The bank foreclosed on my house.”

Falene groaned.

“There’s more than a hundred thousand dollars of furniture and junk in here. I guess put it all on eBay or something.”

“My aunt owns a furniture consignment store,” Falene said. “They can send a truck over.”

“Great. Return the van to the leasing company.” I
paused. “And there’s Cinnamon . . .” Cinnamon was McKale’s horse. “Just see if the livery owner wants her.”

“I understand,” she said.

“You can keep half of what you bring in, just put the rest into my account.”

“Where will you be?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Where to?”

“Key West.”

For a moment she said nothing. I think she was trying to decide whether or not I was joking. “You mean Florida?”

“Yes.”

“You’re walking to Key West, Florida,” she said incredulously. “Why?”

“It’s the farthest place I can walk from here.”

“You’re serious about this,” she said sadly. “When are you leaving?”

“This afternoon. As soon as I finish packing.”

“I need to see you before you go. I can be there in forty-five minutes. Don’t leave before I get there. Promise me.”

“I’ll wait,” I said.

“I’ll be right over. Don’t leave,” she said again and
hung up.

I dialed Steve, my accountant. I instructed him to pay off all our bills, then file to dissolve our corporation and close out all our bank accounts, transferring any extra money into my personal account. He was disappointed to lose our business but not all that surprised. With all that had transpired in the last month, anything was possible.

We went over the agency’s remaining receivables, then
I gave him Falene’s phone number in case he ran into any problems. I thanked him for his service and told him I’d check back with him in a few months. His final words of advice to me were, “Wear sunscreen.”

Falene arrived within the hour. I could tell she had been crying. We embraced, then we walked from room to room, talking about the furniture. There was really nothing I couldn’t leave behind. We ended up in the foyer.

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Yes. But half is too much. I’ll just take my salary.”

“It’s going to be a lot of work. You’ll have to hire someone to help you.”

“I’ll get my brother. He doesn’t have a job.”

I handed her a piece of paper. “Here’s my bank account number. I talked to Steve just a few minutes ago, he’s going to close out the corporate accounts and transfer the balance into that account as well. I told him that if he had any questions, he could call you. Is that okay?”

“Of course.”

I looked her in the eye. “Are you sure you can do this?”

“Of course. I’m Vice President now, remember?”

I looked at her wryly. “But are you
sure
you want to?”

“I’m
sure
I don’t. What I want is for everything to go back to how it was. But that’s not an option, is it?”

“If only,” I said.

She glanced at the paper, then put it in her purse. “How will I get hold of you?”

“You won’t. But I’ll call from time to time.”

She didn’t know what else to say.

“Thank you, Falene. Your friendship is the only good
thing to come out of all this. You are one of the finest people I’ve ever met.”

She put her arms around me, and we held each other for a few moments. As we parted, she wiped tears from her eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.”

“What else is there?”

She looked at me with a dark, sad expression, then kissed my cheek. “Be safe.” She wiped her eyes as she walked out of the house. I wondered if I’d ever see her again.

There were only two things I couldn’t discard. First, McKale’s jewelry. McKale didn’t have a lot of jewelry—she preferred a bare look—but over time, I had bought her some nice things. It all had sentimental value, and each piece reminded me of where we were when I gave it to her and how she’d responded. I took her wedding ring and slipped it over a gold rope-chain and put it around my neck. The rest, an opal ring, a ruby-and-emerald necklace, and a pink sapphire-and-diamond brooch, I put in a small pouch and put it in my pocket.

The other things I valued were my journals. Twenty-plus years’ worth. As I looked through them, I came across a dark brown leather journal that I bought on a trip to Italy several years earlier and hadn’t written in yet. The leather was soft, more of a wrap than a book cover, with a single leather thong that wrapped around the entire book. I decided that this would make a suitable road diary.

I put the rest of the journals in a box and taped it up with a note to Falene to send the box to my father’s house.

McKale would want her clothes to go to a women’s shelter, so I put her things in big boxes and marked them for Falene to deliver. With one exception. I took one of her silk camisoles. Then I began packing for my walk.

One of my agency’s former clients was a local retailer called Alpinnacle, a vendor of high-end hiking equipment. It was our smallest account. I didn’t usually pitch accounts their size, but in their case, I made an exception as McKale and I loved to hike, and we were fans of the company’s products.

Every year we produced a catalog for them, and the product samples we brought in for the photo shoot were left with us to distribute amongst our employees. I always got first choice of the booty and had claimed several backpacks, a portable, one-burner propane stove, a poncho, a down sleeping bag with a self-inflating pad, and a one-man tent. I could use all of it. I selected the best of the packs and filled it with the gear.

We kept our camping gear in a closet in the basement, and I went downstairs to collect other things I would need: an LED flashlight/radio with a hand crank, fire starter, and a Swiss Army knife. I put it all in the pack.

While I was rooting through the closet, I came across my favorite hat: an Akubra Coober Pedy, an Australian fur-felt hat with a leather band adorned with a small opal
(Coober Pedy is a famed source of Australian opals). I had purchased the hat six years earlier on a business trip to Melbourne. As much as I liked the hat, I rarely wore it, because McKale mocked me when I did. She said I looked like the guy on
The Man from Snowy River
, which I personally thought was a good thing. It had a wide, sturdy brim and was made for the outback weather, sun, sleet, and rain. I put it on. It still fit comfortably.