MOTIVE AND DENIAL - A SHORT STORY
by JAY CLAYTON WILSON
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2010 Jay Clayton Wilson
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MOTIVE AND DENIAL
Entire mountains are washed away by summer snowmelt. Slowly, one grain at a time, rugged peaks disappear into the valleys and then to the sea where they will rest until nature determines otherwise. Erosion in the Rockies takes its toll from grandeur without remorse. Dramatic landslides expose visible scars where trees once flourished. Less dramatic are the arroyos and canyons where vistas abound. Less dramatic still are the steep washes whose narrow sides slash into the mountain as if it will not notice nature's rhythmic intent to gouge a larger path for snowmelt as the ages flow by. Until then, man that is oblivious to their presence in winter when the snow is deep and the cold presses his attention to precious comforts.
There are other gouges in the high country that also take their toll in less spectacular ways. Mountain villages in the Rockies are joined to high ski areas by the effort of man to touch the majestic. Such roads twist and turn in an ascending mosaic between communities like Dalton and the top of the world at wind swept Sun Crest Ski Village where plush condos arise at the foot of gondolas. Hotels and chairlifts suffice for those who ski harder, or who are somewhat less affluent.
The hardtop mosaic is virtually invisible to all other than those who are shuttled through green forests that blanket the high landscape between unnamed valleys and across tiny streams where ice interlaces with winter snow. The route is littered with pinecones and the spoor of animals that prance and keep watch for storms.
Rachel Gold told a young man to put her skies on the shuttle. She adjusted her stylish, horn-rimmed glasses to better address him. "Here," she added as an instruction, "put my boot case inside near the front." She pointed to a nylon bag that sat near the concierge desk. Her fur tipped Bogner parka and logoed Fila pants suggested a reason for the young man to hurry because he might get a very nice tip out of the deal. He grabbed her ski boots and jogged away.
But it was not to be. Several minutes later he returned to the spacious lobby where the aroma of cedar and pine set the ambiance for luxury and adventure. He said, "Miss Gold, I've got some bad news for you. The last shuttle trip for the day has been cancelled."
"What? Who cancelled it?"
"Well, the driver said the storm could blanket the road before dark. It's late and he doesn't want to go."
Thirty-one years old and rather attractive, she had ways of handling situations that inconvenienced her. Being Stanford educated and from a moderately wealthy family taught her to accept only those conditions that were suitable and make provisions for the rest. Provisions usually meant using her considerable charm and persuasive personality to bring things around to meet her agenda. It can be that way with pretty women who are able to flash bright, intelligent eyes.
"Well, look. I'd like to speak with the driver. Would you take me to him?"
Fifty-seven years working in and around ski areas had produced a certain curst on the driver that evidenced itself in his somewhat distant eyes. They hid themselves beneath graying eyebrows. His weather beaten face commanded no special attention when he pulled his floor length overcoat closer to his stubbled chin. He almost growled, "Lady, look out there. It's late and it's snowing. The wind is starting to blow pretty hard. The forecast isn't any good and it's getting colder. A blizzard could be on the way.
"So think about it. No one wants to drive up there tonight. It could be dangerous, or there..."
"You're right," Rachel said. Smiling at just the right time and twinkling her eyes always made people want to hear what else she had to say. "I know it will be a little uncomfortable. But you have driven up there many times in weather much worse than this." She wasn't at all flirtatious, but she was just charming enough to make things sound a lot better than they were. "So it won't be very bad. Wouldn't you make one more trip for me? I'd appreciate it so much."
"Nope."
"Well, I understand. But let me ask. How many others signed up to go on the shuttle this evening? Are there others?"
"Yes'um, There's one guy. His stuff's out by the van. But I think he went to the bar a while ago."
"Okay, here's how we'll do this. It's only takes about an hour to drive up there. Maybe a little longer in the snow. I'll give you an extra fifty dollars. He'll probably give you something as well because there's going to be great powder in the morning.
"What do you say?"
"Well, I don't know. Fifty dollars? I guess I could. It's true that I could work a few hours up there at the lodge if I got there soon enough. Make a few bucks, you know. Let me think about it," he said while borrowing a cigarette and a light from a passerby. He blew smoke downwind.
Twenty minutes later Rachel sat in the first row of seats in the nine-passenger luxury van. Her new K-2's were tucked into the outside ski rack next to a set of Rossignol's. Her nylon boot bag was exactly where it should have been, at her feet. Frigid air was neutralized by the van's heater. Fine condensation covered the window through which she gazed at the faint outline of Dalton's bars, hotels, outfitters and grocery stores. The skyline seemed to hold no interest for her other than a focal point for a satisfied, forty mile stare.
Steam rose from the driver's coffee cup. The engine idled. The windshield wipers stroked snow away.
When the guy who had gone to the bar finally showed up, he climbed into the van with a leather carry-on and a canvas boot bag. He smiled easily at the driver and said thanks for deciding to make the trip. Then he climbed into the back seat and made himself comfortable. But not so comfortable as to have neglected his seatbelt.
No need to acknowledge the woman. She was looking out the window.
* * * * *
The gears engaged and the tires grappled at the slick street as the van pulled away into the gathering evening. Cautiously, the driver approached the bridge that crossed a stream on the upland side of Dalton. Although salted and sanded, ice was hidden beneath a new layer of snow. Whipping wind could not blow it away. The van slipped a few inches toward the guardrail before traction took hold.
Beyond the bridge, tire tracks were still visible enough for the van to follow. Traction was almost perfect for the next two miles. A handsomely designed dashboard heater was adjusted to blow upwards and wipers were turned to high speed because snow had already started to impede good vision.
Three miles farther and the tire tracks disappeared into deepening snow. Daylight began to fade. The headlights were turned on and the driver began to watch reflective snowplow poles for assurance that he was in the middle of the road. Less than a third of the way to their destination, only twelve miles from Dalton, the wind began to blow violently. Snow flying from the upland side of the road accumulated faster than the wipers could clear. Ice began to form. On a sharp uphill curve the van slid ever so slightly.
"Dang it. I knew chaining up would be a good idea. I shoulda done it. But it was too damned windy and cold."
A little while later, Rachel asked, "How far are we. Is it pretty hard to drive in this?"
"Um. The sooner we get there the better."
The guy in back noticed that the driver had to look out of the side window to see the snowplow guides. Neither of them could see clearly out front. By that time it was snowing so hard that the headlights were dimmed to the point of being useless.
The van slid.
"Damn it."
Rachel adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses and tried to see out. "I'm glad you are driving. I can't see a thing."
"This trip was nothing but a big mistake," the driver replied. "We should have waited out the storm."
Rachel didn't comment about wonderful powder or how many times the driver had faced bad weather on the mountain road. When she couldn't see anything other than whirling snow and blackness, she tugged on her seatbelt and made a suggestion. "Maybe we should go back."
Beginning to struggle with the steering wheel, the driver concentrated on his job for a moment before answering. Then he said, "Lady, you can't even see the road. There's a bar ditch on the uphill side and a downhill plunge on the other. Turning around is impossible."
"No guardrail," she asked.
"In some places, yes. But mostly, no."
A particularly violent gust of wind whipped the van sideways. It stopped in what the driver hoped was the middle of the road. Everyone looked out. They could see nothing except blackness and faint glimpses of snow that pelted the icy headlights. Gamely, the driver gunned the engine for an instant to bring the back wheels around. Gradually, he gained traction until he reached to top of the next rise. Keeping his foot off the brake, he let the van begin to roll downhill.
The snow was blinding. The wind rocked the van from side to side. Cold air forced its way through the windows and formed ice on the inside.
The van gathered speed.
"Damnit. I shoulda chained up."
He couldn't see the sharp curve at the bottom of the hill. But he knew it was there. Carefully, he tried to reduce speed by applying the brakes. But the van immediately lost traction and began to skid sideways. He jerked the wheel to the left. The rear end came around and the van spun out of control.
It went over the side, nose first.
A tremendous crash vaulted the driver's side. The van hit hard and rolled upside down. Gathering speed, it slid on its roof down a steep embankment until it hit another boulder. The windshield shattered. Then the van careened over another boulder and crashed into the opposite side of the canyon where it lodged upside down. It was wedged between the walls of a narrow, snow covered wash.
* * * * *
Jarred about and hanging upside down in their seatbelts, everyone stayed very quiet for a moment. Nothing else was quiet. The wind howled and steam from the engine hissed in the darkness. The minutes went by.
The guy in back could hear a woman's groans taking form. At first they were so faint that the wind drowned them out. Then they got louder and finally yielded to sobs.
"I can't get out of my seatbelt. It's cutting into my shoulder." She sobbed. "Will one of you help me?"
The guy in back struggled a against his seatbelt. But it was useless. He couldn't release the buckle. Reaching around his belt, he found his Gerber pocketknife in its holster. I better not cut the belt. I'll fall on my head. He got a firm grip on the bottom of the seat and started to slice the sturdy nylon belt. When it gave way, he lowered himself to the ceiling of the inverted van. It was now the floor under him. Staying on his knees for a second gave him time to feel around in the darkness, trying to get oriented. Then he stood as straight as he could. Total blackness surrounded him.
"Lady, you okay?"
"Help me."
"I'll be there in a sec"
"Hurry. This belt is cutting me."
It was easy to maneuver toward her because he was walking on the ceiling without having to negotiate between the bench seats. It took only three or four steps to reach her and a little more time to feel his way to her waist.
"Put your arms around me and hold on. Hold tight. You're going to fall when I cut the seatbelt."
When he felt her grip tighten around him, he cut the belt, lowered her to the floor and eased her legs toward the back.
"Are you hurt," he asked.
"Oh. Oh." she moaned. "I'm bruised from top to bottom and I think my shoulder is cut."
"Just lie still for a sec." He yelled to the driver above the howling wind, "Are you okay?"
There was no answer.
"Be still for a sec. I'm going up front to check on the driver. This may take a sec because I can't see a damned thing."
He crawled under the backs of the seats and felt his way until he reached the driver. He was hanging upside down above a smashed windshield. Rocks had torn it apart. When the driver wouldn't answer, he slid between the seats, felt around and found the glove compartment. There was a flashlight. After he turned it on he glanced at the driver, turned it off, and buried his face on his forearm.
After a moment of self imposed silence, he turned the light on and crawled back to the woman. She asked, "How is he?"
"Don't ask."
"Why? What's wrong?
"I just got through telling you not to ask. "
"He's hurt, isn't he?"
"He's dead. There's a rock stuck in his skull. You just had to ask, didn't you."
She took the light and shinned it toward the front, but could see nothing.
Then she turned the light on the man who had helped her. She screamed.
"It's you!"
He took the light and said, "Lady, what the hell are you screaming about?"
Then he turned the light on the squirming, screaming woman. "Oh, my God. Rachel Gold!"
Jack Jordan let her writhe and kick and force herself away from him. Her face had turned into a crimson bulb enshrouded in coal black hair. Her boot heels jabbed into his parka until she cringed by the rear door, hysterical and out of control.
Jack fell silent, turned off the light, and rolled onto his side with his hands over his face. He lay there for half an hour until Rachel regained enough control to say, "You keep away from me, you bastard."
"Count on it."
An hour later Rachel mumble to her self and to the wind that whistled through the van and filled it with freezing air, "I'm cold."
The wind blew harder. At times it shook the van. That was not a good thing. It could be hanging on a precipice, ready to plunge hundreds of feet down a cliff.
Jack didn't answer the moans. He lay as still as possible and forced thoughts of cold away from his consciousness. Only one person could keep him warm. He pulled his arms around his chest.
The moans continued. If not hers, then the wind. Grief descends so suddenly. It shatters the continence with dreadful angst. In utter darkness one has no place to hide - not from himself - not from his demons. Man is totally defenseless, helpless, and vulnerable while in the grasp of what he cannot see. So is woman. But she is never more helpless than when she is in absolute darkness near the grasp of a man whom she hates and fears.
* * * * *
Toward morning her crying intensified. Jack could hear her teeth chatter. She was miserable and, perhaps, in danger of freezing. No way he was going to give his parka to her. And there was nothing he could say. So he cuddled up with himself and shivered until he fell back into a fitful sleep. Twenty minutes later she cried out. There was nothing he could do.