BOUND

Approx 1,826 words

“Are you sure this shortcut is ok? It doesn‘t look very well traveled.” The whining from the right side of the truck had droned on unabated since we had left our mountain cabin an hour earlier.

“Hell,” I thought, “who wouldn’t want to take a shortcut with you yammering at me all the time. I swear, about two more syllables per second and my eardrums are gonna bust wide open. Damn but that woman can talk”. We had been on the outs for some time now. I’d thought this weekend alone might help us to work things out and maybe do a little damage control on our marriage but it hadn’t worked that way. Over the last few years we’d grown increasingly intolerant of the little quirks and foibles that we used to overlook and had become ever more insensitive to each others feelings. Naw, that wasn’t right. We weren’t really insensitive at all. In fact, we’d developed an unhealthy hypersensitivity to any unguarded opportunity to fling stinging verbal barbs at one other. I’m talkin art form here, not just your everyday run of the mill unpleasantness. The time we spent together was anything but quality. We just seemed to bring out the worst in each other and in the last few weeks she had become downright impossible to get along with.

“Just sit back and relax will ya? I came through this way last July when the kids and I were up here.”

I wasn’t about to admit that I’d been a little concerned for the past half hour myself. It hadn’t been snowin’ flakes the size of cow pies back in July. We’d gotten a late start leaving the cabin and what had begun as just scattered flurries, barely dusting the juniper and pinion pines had now become a serious winter wonderland thing. I’d already shifted into four wheel drive climbing up to the pass and figured the windward valley on the other side would be worse yet. Even now the tires were occasionally searching for a grip on the slippery ground. Visibility was down to about 50 feet and looking to get worse. The road, which was little more than a game trail under the best of conditions, now began to blend into the landscape.

As we rounded a bend I spotted the landmark I had been searching for, a dilapidated rancher's cabin loomed up in the soft haze before us. Long abandoned, but still intact it lay between the hillside and the road. The front yard, judging from the Model A tire which hung from a frayed rope in a pine tree, must have once echoed the shouts and laughter of kids at play. Overgrown now, with rabbit brush and sage, it lay in mute witness to the occasional nervous traverse of a random jack or cottontail.

On the left was the weather beaten old barn and deteriorating remnants of a corral. A few pine fence posts stood, adorned by rusty barbed wire in silent testimony to some long dead and forgotten cowboy‘s hard work and sweat. The kids and I had stopped here and enjoyed a leisurely exploration of the place over a long weekend. Few travelers passed this way and those that did were mostly respectful of another man’s property, even if he was no longer around to watch it. The old forge and bellows were intact and a set of hames and some desiccated traces hung from nails in the wall. A dilapidated collar, some old horseshoes and hand made blacksmithing tools lay scattered on the dirt floor among the rabbit pellets.

The ranch house retained most of its windows and the door still stood guard on squeaky hinges. The fireplace had once been home to a pack rat but I guess he couldn’t make a go of the place either and had moved on or been invited to some lonesome coyotes dinner table. The wooden floor creaked in protest to unaccustomed footfalls and the roof sagged ominously along the ridgepole but remained aloft. A couple of small shed-roofed rooms had been added to the main structure, probably bedrooms for a growing family now long gone; one at the end opposite the fireplace and one on the hill side of the room. Faded flower printed paper hinted at a former feminine presence and still clung in strips to the walls. A couple of small non-descript out-buildings, an outhouse with a slight lean and a rickety wood shed completed the suite.

“Looks like we’re gonna spend one more night on the mountain”, I said resignedly. The front bumper of my old Ford truck dutifully pushed snow up into the yard. We stopped by the open front door and I switched off the engine. I steeled myself for the recrimination which was sure to come. Predictably, I didn’t have long to wait.

“I knew we shouldn’t have come this way. We could have been halfway down the mountain by now if you had just stayed on the main road.” she sulked.

“Yeah“, I thought, “and I coulda been a hell of a lot happier if I’d never married you!” But even as the thought evolved I knew there was an element of untruthfulness to it. We had been in love once. For years we had loved and laughed and delighted in one another’s company. We had raised two beautiful children together; a son and a daughter now in their late teens that had been the joy of our hearts. They had also been the glue that held our marriage together. Now they would soon be off to live their own lives and we would be left with …left with what? “Where does love go to rest when it gets tired“, I wondered absently.

“I hope you don’t think I’m going to stay in this shack tonight”, she huffed indignantly.

“Nope. I think I’m gonna stay in this shack tonight. You are more than welcome to backtrack down the trail. At least as long as you can still see the tire tracks. With a little luck you might get back to the cabin by this time tomorrow.”

I didn’t have to look to know the icy glare of contempt that was being hurled my way, I could feel it clear to the bone. Strange, it didn’t hurt like it used to. I guess I’d just grown used to it. Or maybe what used to be a fairly tender and sensitive heart had just scarred over and toughened up from the tiny little cuts and slices so carelessly inflicted. Where love had once rejoiced, chronic heartache now resided, a constant, albeit unwelcome companion.

I pushed snow back with my door and bailed out as she slammed hers and stomped into the house. I dug the sleeping bags and grub box out from beneath the tarp in the back of the truck and started for the door. As I paused for a moment to survey the place I was suddenly overwhelmed by the all encompassing silence that surrounded me. Not a breath of wind stirred. The huge flakes that drifted gently to the ground had bleached all color from the earth and muted every sound. The little valley was so full of hush that I wondered if in an act of infinite mercy I had been struck deaf. A palpable feeling of peace seemed to wash over me. For just an instant I felt strangely connected to the very essence of tranquility until reality rudely intruded.

“What are you doing? You’ve been out there for ten minutes.”

My reverie thus interrupted I carried our belongings into to the house, scrounged some dry wood and utilizing the former residence of the packrat as kindling, soon had a very comfortable fire radiating heat and light as nightfall descended. An upturned five gallon bucket and an old wooden dynamite box were drafted into service as chairs and we sat, depleted and distant, the only sound emanating from the crackling fire.

I had watched him in silence as he provided for our needs. It was obvious that this was no emergency to him, just a minor inconvenience to be taken in stride, adapted to and overcome. He moved calmly and purposefully as he gathered and arranged makeshift furniture and wood for the fire. Memories of past family outings and events flooded over me. He had always been a good father and for most of our marriage a good and loving husband. We were at our best as human beings and parents. It was something we were both created for, wired for. It was our strength and our gift. Perhaps it was the quiet, the welcome warmth from the fire, or the soft light that seemed to gentle me. His calm relaxed me. I felt so vulnerable on so many levels. I wasn’t sure why but he seemed suddenly very comforting. I needed comfort: motionally, spiritually and physically. Could he, would he be able to provide anything of the sort once I finally find the courage to say what I have to tell him? Without turning I softly said, “I’m sorry I’ve been so irritable lately."

“Here we go on another mood swing.” he thought. “The tears won’t be far behind.” He waited in silence.

She continued, “I know what you were trying to do with this weekend. I know I haven’t made it easy.”

“You think?” he thought bitterly to himself.

Fighting back her tears she took a quavering breath and continued. “There isn’t any easy way to say this.”

“Oh God,” he thought. "Here it comes. She wants a separation, or worse, a divorce."

In a voice that was barely audible I managed to say, “I’m pregnant.”

He sat motionless, stunned, letting the words, their meaning, and all the ramifications sink in slowly. This had not even been on the radar screen but here it was. There were options, he knew, but he also knew that only one would ultimately be acceptable to him, to her, and to God. For a long time they just sat, staring into the glowing coals, each with their own thoughts. At length he asked, “So who has to give up their room, Scott or Sandy?”

“Both.” she whispered.

He turned to her and for the first time in a long time saw the woman that he had been in love with for so many years. His face softened as he asked with obvious amusement, “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

With all shields lowered, her glistening eyes mirrored her woman’s heart as she slipped her small hand into his and said, “Only that I am so very sorry and that I love you very much.”

For him no more words were necessary between them. It wouldn’t be without challenge but clearly love was still viable, still alive somewhere and perhaps, if they both looked hard enough, they could find it again. It was a start.