The First Rough Days of Eternity

I: The Man on the Bridge

      The silhouette cut a somber figure, wearing a big brimmed hat and a long black coat. He might be waiting for the morning river mist to clear and the murkiness sparkle, but the Browning Tributary to the Willamette had too long been neglected by environmentalists and didn’t reflect light anymore. He paid no attention to Jeremy’s habitual jog along the bridge path – a half-hearted effort to keep his promise to Frieda to ‘get healthy.’  Should he speak to the man? Maybe he was saying morning prayers. Maybe he was desperate.

      “Are you here to fish?” Jeremy asked as he slowed down.

      “I’m not contemplating suicide,” the man replied as Jeremy, breathing hard, stopped to check his heart rate. 

      They were close enough that Jeremy could see the man’s leathery face. Strained and gaunt. “I hope you’re not kidding ‘cause I can’t swim.”

      “Then you won’t be much help if I change my mind.”

      Jeremy’s grandmother joked like that about death when she was 102 years old and still fed her chickens at 6 a.m. every morning. “You want to talk?” Jeremy said in that off-hand way guys talk. 

      “You mean, can you talk me out of doing something stupid? It would save us both time. We should take steps to make life economical.”

      “How about we get some coffee? There’s a vendor who sets up early about a quarter-mile down the path.”

      “That’s alright. I’ll pass. I’m too young to die.”

      He looked at least eighty. But if somebody really wants to off themselves, nothing can stop him. Even in a padded cell. “And I’m too tired to run anymore. Adios.”

II: The Plan

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      “You look like hell, Jeremy.” Frieda handed him a bowl of oatmeal and raspberries. 

      “You’d look like hell, too if you were forced to eat water soluble fiber in a gallon of milk.”

      “It’s a natural vacuum cleaner.” She sat on the bed, supervising each swallowed spoonful. 

      “I’m glad you’re home. How’d the audition go?” 

      She let out a theatrical sigh and dropped her shoulders. “Aside from the conductor declaring me tone deaf, and bekng escorted out of the Albert Hall, it was fine-al.”

      “Frieda, you didn’t go to London, you went to Seattle for two days.”

      “You do listen once in a while!” She pulled his lower eyelid down and examined the color of the muscle. “Are you having nightmares again?”

      He handed her an empty bowl. “No.”

      “Liar. Peggy and Mike want to go hiking this week-end. We’re going.”

      “Awwww, Frieda, no ….”

      “Exercise. Sunshine. Fresh Air. Humans need these things as much as food and water.” She inspected the remaining milk, moving the spoon around like a submarine. “Good, all gone.” Not even Covid dared threaten her health. Where did she get boundless energy, beautiful hair, and a cheerful disposition? Exercise, Sunshine. Fresh air. She wasn’t tone deaf, either. People called her the Napa Nightingale. Maybe he could invent the Mother of All Excuses, and still have sex with her. Peggy believed the lies he told her when they were a couple. 

III: The Woods

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      Movie-makers film woods with heavenly shafts of light shining on cute animals that sing happy songs as they play peek-a-boo in old growth roots. He never read articles by armchair hikers who read National Geographic, or fantasized about catching trout in a crystal-clear lake. Forests were dark and smelled of water-logged vegetation – the kind he slipped on and slid down thirty feet down to the creek.

      “Are you okay, Jeremy?”  The one thing Frieda couldn’t do was disguise the laughter in her voice when she asked innocent, caring questions. 

      “Yeah, but I’ll need help getting up this damn mountain. I think I broke my ankle.”

      “We’ll get help. Don’t go anywhere. Jeremy, did you hear me?” 

      He thanked the map gods. He couldn’t use his cell, and behind him was thirty feet of dirt and trees. If he couldn’t walk, he’d have to crawl. Inside his backpack was a plastic container of peaches. It wasn’t much, but he was hungry after crawling, it seemed, for hours. He checked his watch: 3 p.m. Four hours of daylight left. Where the hell was Frieda?

      He felt an arm wrap around him. “Need some help?” 

      The voiced sounded familiar but he couldn’t place it until he saw the black wide-brimmed hat and black coat. For an old guy, the bridgeman was strong, shouldering the backpack and supporting Jeremy’s weight, too, as they struggled upwards. A few more yards and they were on the hiking trail. Just ahead was a bench and a tree with a white “STAY ON THE PATH” sign nailed to it. 

      “You didn’t stay on the trail,” the bridgeman said.

      “Mike told me the creek water was so clear you can see your reflection. I went to the edge of the trail to see if I could see it from up here. Stupid fool.”

      “Him or you?”

      “Me of course. You don’t have a car, do you? I’m supposed to meet my friends at the rest stop. They said they’d get help.”

      “Your friends … three people. A guy with blond curly hair, and two pretty girls.”

      “That’s them. Damn nature lovers.”

      “I told them I’d find you. They’ll bring Search and Rescue, and meet us at the cave. It’s supposed to rain.”

      “What, no blizzard? Oh gee, no White Christmas.” 

      “C’mon, smart ass. The sooner we get to the cave, the sooner you can elevate that foot.”

IV: The Cave

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      The tumble he took must have scrambled his brain because one minute they were hobbling on the hiking trial, and the next they were deep into the forest, and his rain-soaked clothes were drying quickly.

      “Just a few more feet,” the bridgeman said.  

      Three more steps and he was staring at the Old Beverley gold mine’s ten-foot by ten-foot entrance reinforced by railroad ties. “I read about this place,” Jeremy said. “You used to be able to go through the mountain and come out the other side, but they closed the interior. I don’t remember why. Too dangerous. Too many fumes.”

      “More like too many drugs and guns stashed there … I’m going back to the rest stop and see if I can get phone service. You’ve got food and water and a flashlight, right?”

      “Yeah, I’ll be okay for a while. But tell my goofy girlfriend to get her rear in gear.” Jeremy pulled a LED light from his backpack and the cave lit up like daylight. He sat on the nearest flattest rock and hoisted his leg. The excruciating pain turned into a dull ache. Immobilize. Cold compress. Elevation. The EMTs would be proud --- if they ever came --- he managed two out of three directives for sprains. 

      He wanted to thank the bridgeman, but he’d disappeared as stealthily as he’d come. Jeremy checked his backpack for a first-aid kit. Frieda was the aware one in the relationship, maybe she packed pain meds. Bingo! No oxy, but there was aspirin. He swallowed three before devouring the peaches. 

      Shelter. Water. Food. What he needed was a fire in case wild critters smelled vulnerability. The one thing Frieda didn’t pack was a weapon. He took a long, panoramic inspection of the cave for dry wood. Nada. But something metallic caught his attention. Someone had been here to party. And they’d left their cassette player behind.

V: The Song

      Surprisingly, the antique player still worked. Go Boomer! He checked the cassette. Whoever heard of a band called Eternal Traveler? The Traveling Wilburys, yeah. Handle Me with Care. The End of the Line. He pushed the PLAY button. Maybe this was a cover band. 

      No. This band had a chick … who sounded like Frieda. Memories, hiding in the corners of his mind … he listened carefully. She sounded like one who has lost a loved one. Photographs?
Yes, he and Frieda had taken many. Senior Prom. The first trip to Vegas. That’s where his grandmother saw Babs Streisand at the Stardust. Or was it Caesar’s Palace? The way they were. He still had stacks of family pictures in the Nike shoe box in his closet. Now their closet. But his grandmother had died, so what was the point? That he had a family that was once “were” seemed irrelevant. Frieda wanted to hire a professional photographer for their wedding. He argued it was a waste of money, but surrendered to a woman’s biggest-gun in her arsenal: crocodile tears. 

      He leaned back against the stone and stared at the opposite wall, half plastered and decorated with a half-painted mural of strange creatures playing musical instruments. Whoever heard of a tidy, decorated cave? It didn’t smell of rotting vegetation, or guano. He might as well have been in his living room. But then words began to appear, as though someone was writing on a blackboard: TELL THE TRUTH. The words became larger and brighter, like a neon bar sign that dimmed and then brightened like a waxing and waning of the moon. 

      Tell the truth about what? He wasn’t a liar. Alright there was one truth he hadn’t told anyone. He didn’t want to marry Frieda. He didn’t love her, and she obviously didn’t love him. Why didn’t she stay with him and let Mike and Peggy go for help? She should be with him now, the two of them laughing at his clumsiness. Resentment clawed at his throat. The truth was, he wanted to wring her neck and boil Mike and Peggy in oil for abandoning him. He re-wound the tape: Like hidden corners of my mind. 

      Perhaps he should explore the cave’s corners. That’s where demons hide, the ones who give practical advice and lend their strength to worthwhile projects like getting rid of bodies and making a clean get-away. 

      His eyes drifted back to the wall: YOU HAVE OTHER FRIENDS. He couldn’t remember their names and they weren’t with him now. He listened to the song again. It sounded so much like Frieda; he would have thrown it against the wall except he didn’t want to be the one to make a clean cave messy. SHE made him consider neatness a virtue. The rag.

VI. Hasard Means Chance in Babylonian 

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      He noticed a bulge in his backpack’s secret compartment. Maybe there was a secret. Hooray! The biggest Snickers he ever saw. One munch, and he wretched. It tasted like Frieda’s rebukes. Or was it that song that squelched his appetite?

The bridgeman was back, in either case, and brought a Happy Meal with him. Knowing that Frieda would shudder at every bite, every one was a dagger in her heart, he ate slowly, as though boring the blade into her 2% body-fat ribs. “You know, you’re a stand-up guy, and I don’t even know your name,” he said between bites.

      “Eluard.” 

      “That’s not an American name. You an immigrant?” 

      “I consider myself a new citizen of the world with an Old-World name.”  

      “Interesting. Well, thank the bridge gods you turned up at the right time. What were you doing there, anyway?” Jeremy asked as he savored every French fry. 

      “You’ve become curious,” Eluard said. 

      “This is a curious place. Neat as a hotel room. And, look at this.” Jeremy turned slightly towards the cleft in the wall that was full of fresh water filtered by its journey from topside down to the inner sanctum of the cave. He scooped a handful of the sweetest and drank it. “It gives a whole new meaning to the man-cave.”

      “Then you’ve given up the fantasy that your girlfriend will eventually rescue you?”

      Eluard’s deflection made Jeremy more determined to learn more about his octogenarian nursemaid. “What Frieda does doesn’t interest me,” he said tersely. “But it’s strange that we should meet on a bridge, and then on a hiking trial. What are the odds?”

      For the first time in what seemed to be two weeks Jeremy had been in the cave, Eluard removed his hat revealing a face wrinkled and drooping with age, pointed ears, and yellow-tinted eyes. He eased onto one of the other flattened rocks. “I was staring at the water denied to me by a vengeful god. You are looking at a desert, an arid man yearning to be cleansed. I watch you drink water, and curse him who has decreed I can only drink body fluids. Blood, tears, spit …. It’s a fate only the dammed can stomach.”

      Jeremy winced. “That’s a whopper of a lie.”

      “It’s no lie. Water burns my throat. What is the song you hear on the cassette player?”

      “Memories …. The Way We Were.”

      “I hear Cool Water. All day facing the barren plains without water …cool water.”

      To prove to Eluard he was wrong, Jeremy hit PLAY and the now-familiar ballad began. “Somebody tricked you. This is the only song that plays, and it must be on a loop because that’s all I hear. Unless I’m dead,” Jeremy said in jest.

It seemed Eluard had shrunk by half. His yellow eyes turned red. “You’re not dead. The condemned never die. You’ll remember the way you were as you grow old, and older, and older still.”

      “The only thing I’ll remember is how she betrayed me.”

      “You wished them dead. I granted your wish.” He pulled a hunting knife from his coat pocket, and stabbed at the air. 

      The news confirmed Jeremy’s suspicion. What a fool Eluard was to confess both sins and penance. Jeremy stood before the water pool, cupped both hands and lavished his face and neck with the water, washed his hands, and dank in exaggerated gulps. 

      The bitterness of his friends’ betrayal disappeared with the torture of their murderer, and filled his being until he’d burst from happiness. A month in the cave … or was it two? No matter. He was content. Tears of joy streamed down him cheeks, and when he wiped them from his eyes, he saw Eduard crouched on the rock he’d occupied. Jeremy moved way from him, able to stand and walk without pain.  He picked up his backpack, and inched towards the mouth of the cave. 

      Eluard sprang at him, pinning his arms to his side. Jeremy struggled to free himself from the man’s grasp, but couldn’t pry himself lose from the old man’s grip as his long, rough tongue licked the salty droplets from his face. The rancid smell of blood gagged the boy, and he vomited. Eduard let go. His victim had provided lunch. 

      Jeremy headed toward the sunlight, but was stopped at the line that separated the brightness from the dimness of the cave by iron bars. There was no escape, just as there had been no rescue. Eluard was playing the cassette player again. Memories …. 

      “You’ll have your memories,” Eluard said, his voice as hollow as desert air, expressing neither hate nor satisfaction. “That’s all you’ll have. And I? I’ll have my water when you weep.   

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