Ronald Malfi - The Ascent

“Regatta race starts tomorrow morning. Didn’t you read today’s paper?”

“I only get the Sunday paper.”

“We’ve even been getting some of the stragglers all the way down here.” As Ricky spoke, he fixed me a whiskey sour. “Out-of-towners, most of them. All the hotels are busting at the seams. Good for business, though, I guess.”

“How’s Brom?”

Ricky set the drink down in front of me. “Laid up with the gout.” He nodded toward my crutches. “When are you gonna get off those? You seem to be moving around better.”

“I’m biding my time.”

“Doc keeps giving you pain meds as long as you’re a cripple, huh?” Ricky said, laughing. “I dig it.”

A hand fell on my shoulder.

I turned, expecting to see someone I knew, but this man was a stranger to me. Perhaps one of the out-of-towners Ricky had just spoken of.

“Your name Timothy Overleigh?” the man asked. He wasa large, barrel-chested behemoth, with grizzled white tufts of hair spooling out from beneath his mesh cap and pepper-colored beard stubble covering the undulations of his thick, rolling neck.

“Who wants to know?” I retorted.

The man jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward a darkened corner of the tavern. “Guy in the back,” he said, turning his rheumy eyes from me so he could scan the collection of liquor bottles that climbed the wall behind the bar.

I peered across the room and could make out the shape of a man seated by himself in a corner booth. The lighting was too poor, however, to get a good look at his face.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “He say his name? It’s a bit of a hike for a guy on crutches, particularly when he’s not comfortable with the idea of leaving his drink behind.”

“Didn’t say no name,” grumbled the man, who sat two stools down and lit a cigarette.

Over the past several weeks, I’d become rather adept at using one crutch. I did this now, holding my drink in my free hand, and made my way to the darkened corner.

As I approached, the man’s features seemed to materialize out of the gloom. He was a good-looking guy, in a somewhat ordinary sort of way, with high, almost feminine cheekbones and a small slash for a mouth. His eyes were large, deeply set, and black like a bird’s. He had long black hair pulled back into a ponytail.

He lit a cigarette and grinned with just one corner of his mouth. Then I recognized him—not fully enough to recall who he was but enough to know I had seen that grin before.

“It is you,” he said, the cadence of his voice equivalent to a low, breathy gasp. “I looked up and thought, shit, that’s Tim Overleigh sitting over there, his leg all fucked up. And I was right.”

“Holy shit,” I uttered, realizing who he was.

“Holy shit, indeed,” said Andrew Trumbauer, his one-sidedgrin widening.

In disbelief, I mumbled, “Last time I saw you—”We almost died,” he finished.

3

I FIRST MET ANDREW TRUMBAUER IN A WHOLE

other life. I can still picture him coming out of the ocean and strutting toward Hannah and me, this strange creature whose skin is so pale it is nearly transparent. His scarecrow-thin body beaded with seawater, his bare feet dotted with white sand. That grin overtakes one corner of his mouth, cocking it upward into an almost comical gesture of aloofness, and he raises a mesh bag of dog biscuits. He’s got a pair of goggles around his neck, the band pulled so tight it appears to be choking him, and he is so horridly, morbidly pale I imagine I can see his skin start to sizzle and turn pink, then deepen to red as he approaches from the other side of the beach.

4

I SAT DOWN IN THE BOOTH ACROSS FROM ANDREW.

still somewhat shaken.

“You remember, don’t you, Overleigh?” he said, his voice remaining low and breathy. The way the shadows played off his face, he was a patchwork of dark hollows and blaring white flesh. My name sounded comfortable coming out of his mouth, too, as if no time had passed between us. “How we almost died?”

“Of course.” The words were automatic—I had no idea what he was talking about. It occurred to me that the last time I saw Andrew Trumbauer was at Hannah’s funeral three years ago.

“That was something,” Andrew muttered, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling.

“No, wait,” I said. “What are you talking about?”

Andrew frowned. It was a grotesque gesture, his face too thin to accommodate it properly. Instead, the corners of his mouth seemed to sink to twin points, and his chin wrinkled into a walnut. “You don’t remember?”

“No, I have no—”

Then it all came rushing back to me: leaving the funeral service in the gray, rain-soaked afternoon, Andrew behind the wheel and me in the passenger seat, Andrew turning at the last minute as the power line snapped, spitting fire as it whipped the ground, the car nearly running over the downed line …

“The power line,” I said, my voice distant. I’d almost forgotten about it, the other events of that horrible day overshadowing all else.

Andrew leaned back in his seat, a look of satisfaction overtaking that vague little frown of his. Something glittered in his eyes that caused me to turn my gaze down at my drink.

“I’m sorry,” he said after the silence between us grew too long. “That was a shitty thing to bring up right off the bat like that.”

“It’s okay.”

“You look good,” he said.

I smirked. “Liar. I know I look like shit.”

“What happened to your leg?”

I told him about the caving accident and admitted that it had been foolish to undertake such an excursion alone. “The bone came right up through the skin. I was a mess. I’m just lucky a car happened to stop after I made it out to the highway. Was probably the only car around for miles.”

“Talk about luck,” Andrew said, although he didn’t seem too impressed.

“Six months later,” I went on, “and I’ve learned my lesson. For the time being.”

“Thing about lessons,” Andrew said, “is that there’s always a new

one to learn.”

I bummed one of his cigarettes and said, “What the hell are you doing out here, anyway, man?”

“Regatta race.”

“You’re in it? Get the fuck outta here. You have a boat?”

“Not my boat. I’m one of the crew.”

“You can sail?” But I knew this was a stupid question. Andrew Trumbauer was one of those guys who did everything from hiking the Grand Canyon to rafting down the goddamn Nile.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never gotten involved in the race yourself,” he said, thankfully ignoring my question. “You live down here, don’t you? You’re an adventurer at heart. Doesn’t take those crutches and a busted leg for me to see that—I know you. And you’ve never sailed the Regatta?”

I shrugged. “Been a busy few years.”

“That’s a sad excuse. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”

I considered this. After Hannah’s death and the disappearance of my artistic talent, I’d submerged myself in the world of extreme sports—skydiving, spelunking, white-water rafting. But I knew nothing I said could compete with anything Andrew had done. So I said, “I once ran out to get my mail in the middle of a downpour without my rain slicker. It was risky, I know, but that’s just the kind of guy I am.”

Andrew smiled. This time the expression looked more human. “You still sculpting?”

“Actually, no. I gave it up.”

“You make it sound like you just quit smoking.”

“No, I still do that from time to time.”

Andrew’s smile died. “Wait—you’re serious, aren’t you?”

“As a heart attack.”