Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

I expected to find a womblike niche punched in the snow … but what it turned out to be was a winding wormhole that gradually went up through the center of the mountain. The snow inside was ribbed and made for easy handholds. I climbed through the throat of the snow tunnel, pausing in the crook of its turn to see just how far up it went. It was impossible to tell due to a second bend farther in the tunnel, but I thought I saw faint daylight reflected along the wall.

I continued climbing while the wormhole continued to tighten around me. The impossibility of this tunnel’s existence was not lost on me: this was a man-made structure, as things this perfectly symmetrical do not exist in the natural world—and a recently man-made structure at that. Where had it come from? Who’d been here before us to dig it?

Halfway up, I got stuck. Arms pinned in front of my face like those of a praying mantis, I found I couldn’t budge, couldn’t struggle and work myself free. My breath made the air stale. Suddenly I was dying in the dark, lost and alone in a cave somewhere in the Midwest.

If I closed my eyes, I was certain I’d smell the moss and dampness of rank soil and stagnant pools of fungal cave water. If I closed my eyes—

8

— I COULD CONVINCE MYSELF IT WAS ALL A NIGHT-

mare. But when I opened them again, I was alone in our bed, the achy shades of twilight blues and purples filtering through the bedroom windows.

Downstairs, I heard the front door squeal open.

“Hey,” I said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Jesus, Tim,” Hannah said. “You scared the hell out of me. Why aren’t you at the studio?”

It had been three days since the incident at David Moore’s house and three days since I’d last seen or spoken to my wife. Standing before me now, she looked better than I thought she had any right to look.

“You cut your hair,” I said. “It’s so short. I like it.”

She turned away from me, a hand going to her mouth. “I didn’t want to do this with you here.”

“Do what? You said we’d talk.”

“I know what I said.”

“So let’s talk.”

“We can’t.”

“We never talk, Hannah.”

“I can’t do this.”

“So why’d you come back?”

She had her floral suitcase with her; the reason was apparent.

“We had our time to talk,” she said. “We had our time to try and fix things. But some things can’t be fixed.”

“No,” I said. “That’s not true.”

“You’re a good man and a talented artist. You care about what you do. I love that about you, but I need someone who puts me first.

You don’t do that. I’ve never felt like you’ve put me first.”

“Don’t say that. It’s not true. You’ve always been first. Always.”

“You say it, but you don’t show it. You say it, but then you get drunk, and you forget about me and what’s important to me. Your art makes you drink, and your drinking makes you put me in second place.” She shook her head, tears rolling down her face. Her hair did look beautiful. “I’m tired of being second place.”

“Hannah—”

“No.” She carried her suitcase toward the front door. “Never mind. I don’t need to pack anything. I shouldn’t have come here.”

“Let’s have dinner tonight.” It sounded petty, but it was the first thing that came to my mind.

“No—”

“Then tomorrow night.”

“No, I can’t.”

“I don’t see why—”

“I’m leaving tonight,” she said. The way she said it was like a confession, and I knew that it hadn’t been her initial intention to tell me. “I’m going to Europe. There’s a collector there who’s interested in a few pieces from the gallery. I thought it would be good to take some time to myself away from this place.”

“Are you going with him ?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Just answer the question. Are you?”

“It doesn’t change what’s happened between you and me.”

“Do you love him?” I asked.

“Tim—”

“Do you love me? Did you ever?”

Her tears had stopped, and there was a look of disappointment on her face now. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I’m not,” I said. “You’re doing it to me.”

“That’s unfair.”

“It’s true.”

“No, it’s not. That’s just more proof of how you don’t understand me. You don’t understand any of this.”

“Then explain it to me,” I said calmly. I felt myself going numb right there in front of her.

“There’s nothing to explain,” Hannah said, “and I don’t have the patience anymore.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Can I see you when you get back?”

She closed her eyes. I could almost hear her thinking from across the room. Finally she said, “Yes. Okay. When I get back.”

I stepped aside and leaned against the wall. “You can get some of your things. I’ll stay out of your way.”

“No. It doesn’t matter.”

“I love you, Hannah.”

“I know you do.”

“Be careful.”

She left without a response. And since her funeral was closed casket, it was technically the last time I saw her.

9

I WAS JARRED BACK TO REALITY WHEN THE TUN-

nel loosened and I slid down several inches. The heat from my body had widened the opening while I hung there, daydreaming. Reaching above my head, I worked my fingers around one of the ribbed corrugations in the snow. My feet pushed off the ribs below me, and I continued ascending the tunnel.

When I reached the bend, I climbed around it and froze when the tunnel opened to dazzling daylight no more than five feet in front of me.

“Here we go,” I said, my breath whistling through my restrictivethroat, and began crawling toward the opening.

10

THE TUNNEL OPENED UP IN THE WALL OF A CAN-

yon—the Canyon of Souls. I crawled from the opening onto a narrow ledge of black stone. Above me, the walls of the canyon yawned to a gunmetal sky. Below, they ran on forever, the canyon’s bottom nonexistent, my eyes surrendering to the optical illusion. The other side of the canyon was a tremendous distance away. I’d hiked the Grand Canyon a number of times, and this was no less impressive.

Pebbles pushed against my fingertips. I flicked a few over the edge. They fell but seemed to float, never landing, as if gravity had no authority here. It seemed to take whole minutes before they disappeared into the abyss below.

The ledge I was on ran the length of the canyon, both to my right and my left. It went on farther than my eyes could follow, and the ledge never seemed to get any wider. An attempt to walk its length on foot would be nothing short of suicide, as foolish as walking along the windowsills of a skyscraper.

Something shimmered behind the ice along the opposite wall. I winced, staring hard at it, and saw colors swirling behind the ice like oil on water. They moved as if alive, spiraling and intertwining with one another, these living snakes of uncataloged hues, commingling and bleeding together only to separate again.

It was then that I realized the entire canyon wall was alive with these streaks of color, pulsing like blood through veins and arteries, colors that went straight to the heart of this sacred land. The colors themselves were nostalgic, like they were solely associated with specific events from my past. Looking at one would cause me to weep; looking at another would cause me to laugh; yet another projected a soul-rattling melancholia I associated with childhood …

Two red splotches of blood fell on the back of my left hand. I touched my nose and found it was bleeding again. My headache was back, too, and my respiration had grown increasingly labored.