Chapter 7
A lull in the men’s conversation before Dave, who Zach began to think was the type of person who got uncomfortable during even a friendly silence, asked, “Did Mariah seem solid this morning, Shane? We passed over a bunch of slide paths on the way up.”
A flicker of confusion surfaced and then vanished from Bram.
Of course his father hadn’t recognized these.
Hadn’t realized Zach purposefully lagged behind, watching Bram traverse alone where the trail crossed treeless terrain.
Zach had fantasized about his father being torn away in a slide, Zach searching and heroically uncovering him, Bram grateful, so very grateful.
But he’d also felt a dark quiver of longing at picturing the alternative—Bram snapped into pieces like the trees tangled at the base, gone blue as ice, powerless and dead.
As Zach picked his own way across the avalanche path, the appeal of that vision cascaded into a superstition that because he’d indulged in such awful thoughts, he’d be caught in a vindictive, righteous slide that would hurdle him down the mountain.
What would Bram do then? Would he search?
“No signs of avalanche activity on the Bowl. But it was completely skied out,” Shane told the group. “Other than a few spots here and there in the trees, everything was shaved off and hardpacked.”
As an experienced inbounds resort skier, even Bram understood that while the lack of avalanche risk was ideal, the state of the snow Shane described was bad news.
He and Dave nodded stoically, their eyes drawn toward the windows and the better conditions that the black clouds hovering on the horizon might promise.
The men drank and snacked on a steady stream of bread, cheese, and cookies that Steve dutifully shuttled in and out from the kitchen.
Zach let himself sink into a kind of half sleep as Dave interrogated Jon over why he preferred his fan-fueled backpack airbag over Dave’s canister type, both designed to deploy and float you to the surface or create an air pocket if caught in an avalanche; what Jon’s favorite ski touring setup was; if he used the plastic ribbons called ski traces that might let you more easily find a ski lost in powder; the best outdoor smartwatch, GPS, radio, beacon, shovel.
Zach puzzled sleepily over how Jon could so adeptly answer these questions, debate all the gear, so clearly speak the language of danger—yet have left his radio off. Have ditched his friend. Done the opposite of everything Zach’s mother had taught him.
The day they’d found the cabin and its mine, Zach and Grace had hiked up Mariah Bowl with a group of four other mothers and their older children, Bonnie back at the hut with some of the moms supervising the littler kids.
About six inches of snow had fallen the night before, and Mariah Bowl had gleamed with promise.
Zach was the youngest included, had never been allowed to ski Mariah before, and knew that being part of this contingent meant his mom thought he was ready, responsible, accomplished enough to handle it.
At the summit, the women dug an avalanche pit and identified a worrying layer of sugary snow under a dense slab, new powder on top of that. Each of the mothers inspected this suspicious layer, the way it ran grainy through their fingers, impossible to pack.
“Hoarfrost,” the mothers said. “Not a good sign,” they agreed.
They cut a column of snow within the pit, placed a shovel on top, firmly tapped its blade, and the snow peeled away, collapsing at their feet.
“Not bad,” said one.
“Not good, either,” said another.
The mothers bent heads together to discuss. And discuss.
In Zach’s memory Bram rolled his eyes and pointed at his mother chatting with a group of PTA mothers after a meeting. “Blah, blah, blah. The bigger the mouth, the smaller the mind, kid.”
The children, seduced by the accomplishment of reaching the peak, by the steep plane of open powder below, by the knowledge that they had no real responsibility, impatient with the blah, blah, blah, repeated, “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”
But no, the mothers said, breaking from their huddle.
In the face of protestations, they explained to the children things they’d already been taught, but never had to put into practice.
Had them find the layer of loose, crumbling snow.
Had the children sift its stiff crystals through their mittened hands as the mothers explained the way it might act like ball bearings, allowing a broken slab to roll and unleash the snow’s potential energy into annihilation.
The call was close, agonizingly close, but—retreat was safest.
The group skied down the gentle slope of the ridge they’d hiked up, the other children sullen and resentful as Zach. All that work, all that climbing, for nothing. Zach felt knowledge of his mother’s failings seep from deep in his bones to blend seamlessly with his blood, like truth.
His father was right. In his mother’s face he saw an irritating self-righteousness, a pride in ruining everything, so dramatic.
Zach moved slowly, complaining, clinging to the possibility that his mother might listen, that she might see reason. See past the uselessness of all that blah, blah, blah.
Grace interrupted Zach’s griping to snap, “I taught you better than this, Zakky. I thought you understood the hardest, bravest thing to do is make the tough call of giving up what you’ve worked for, what you want, so that you stay safe.”
At recalling this Zach’s eyes burned.
She was such a coward. Such a liar. She couldn’t even give up drinking, so she hadn’t stayed safe.
A rush of frigid air yanked Zach from his drifting, half-awake state, and he looked up to see that a short, stocky man had opened the hut’s door.
“Pike, finally!” Bram boomed.
It had grown far colder, and the chill had drained Pike’s face of color but for a bright red nose above his close-trimmed beard. Bram, a head taller, embraced him with a firm arm. Pike didn’t return the hug, just gave a stiff nod.
As Pike took off his coat, his snowpants, Zach gawked, wondering how much work it took to get muscles like Pike had, each arm bigger than Zach’s thigh. Pike’s arms stuck out wide from his body in a way that reminded Zach of a toddler in a too-thick snow suit, unable to rest his hands by his sides.
“Sorry I’m late.” Pike’s voice was a deep, scratchy rumble. “Car trouble.”
“Let me introduce you,” Bram said. “Everyone? This is Pike Whitlock. Pike, I think you know Shane? And Dave. And this is Dave’s son, Russ, and Shane’s buddy Jon.”
Pike bobbed his head to acknowledge each new name as he hung up his things, removed his boots.
And though Zach filed away that Bram hadn’t introduced him, he knew what his father expected.
He stood to shake Pike’s hand, trying to tamp down the heat of embarrassment flushing his cheeks at having to perform again in front of Russ.
“You look like I feel, Pike,” Dave said. “Exhausted. Quite the hike up, isn’t it?”
Dave was right. Despite his bodybuilder’s frame, Pike’s breathing was short, his thin, light hair was plastered dark with sweat, and his shirt clung to him, wet along the collar and underarms.
“Yeah,” Pike said. “Hustled like hell to get up here before dark. And you know, had to deal with the damn car.”
“Arlo couldn’t make it,” Bram said. “Ginny either. That’s probably for the best, though, huh?”
Pike’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever.” He rubbed at a thin, angry red cut on his huge neck.
“Right,” Bram said brightly. “Ancient history. Have a seat. Want a drink? Plenty to choose from.”
Pike poured himself a whiskey in the kitchen, downed it, refilled it, then carried the glass and a can of beer into the living area.
Shane watched this with amusement. “Good to see you, man.” He lifted his chin at the two drinks Pike set on the table. “Trying to catch up to the rest of us?”
Pike’s eyes narrowed. “Not all of us are lightweights.”
Shane good-naturedly patted his belly. “Certainly not me.”
“How’s married life?” Pike asked. “It’s been, what—a year?”
“Almost two.”
“Right.” Pike didn’t blink, nose wrinkling as if a bad smell hit him as he said, “Guess that’s easy to forget, huh?”
Shane’s laugh sounded empty. “Sure, man.”
Into the silence that followed, Bram said, “So guys—you mind if I get my business spiel out of the way? It’s gonna be low tech. By which I mean no tech. But hey, that suits the place.”
“No death by PowerPoint?” Dave asked. “Be still my heart.”
Bram didn’t mention how Ginny was supposed to bring up his computer, his papers. If Zach hadn’t heard his father’s fury earlier, wasn’t attuned to the subtleties of when Bram’s enthusiasm was feigned, he never would have realized anything at all had gone wrong.
“How about you boys go play outside?” Bram looked at his watch. “Over an hour until it gets really dark.”
Zach’s stomach tightened at the idea of going back outdoors; at being exposed to hungry eyes, dissecting claws, especially given that the descending sun already stretched shadows from the trees.
But in his father’s stony face he recognized a command.
Zach stood, then froze at hearing Russ jeer, “Play?”
Bram’s Underself eyes stared at the teenager as if he might pierce him, drain him.
“Don’t be rude,” Dave sounded amused despite the scolding words. “Go on with Zach. Leave the phone here. And be nice.”
Russ rolled his eyes. Got up as though it took a great effort to stand, to walk, to set his phone on the table. “My game was boring anyway,” he mumbled.
Zach shot Russ a pained smile that the teenager ignored.
“All right.” Bram clapped his hands. “Let’s get this done so we can enjoy ourselves.
I’ll start with something I think you’ll all appreciate”—he winked—“pun intended, because you better expect some dad jokes on a father-son trip.” Dave guffawed at this, and with a flourish Bram held up an envelope.
“Your returns!” He opened the envelope, took out a clutch of checks, and walked from man to man, handing them over face down.
Shane and Dave each peeked at their checks, smiles flitting then fading as if trying to maintain a poker face.
A quiver of annoyance traveled through Bram when Pike ignored his payment, letting the check sit untouched on the coffee table as he sipped his drink.
Jon, who wasn’t an investor, feigned disinterest and began to vape again, causing an overly sweet candy smell to drift through the room.
Bram pointed a finger at the guide, then his thumb at the door. The guide gave a two-fingered salute, message received, and like the boys went to the entry to dress for the outdoors.
As Zach left the hut with Russ, as the guide closed the door behind them, Zach heard his father lying with the comfort and ease of a man lounging under the sun, full-bellied, content, cold drink in hand.
“Despite the larger market’s absolutely abysmal performance over the last six months, Ajax Property Tech’s software is operational, and the properties we identified and sold have brought in record returns…”
His father sounded so confident. Maybe that meant everything he’d overheard his mother accuse Bram of was wrong.