The Upright Man Read Free Page B

would have gone badly, which would be ironic as all hell, but again, not something he wanted. He was unpopular enough.
    He maneuvered the car so it was facing in the right direction once more and then slowly backed past the pull-off. Sarah would have been able to reverse straight in, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t confident of doing so, at least, so he didn’t try. That had always been his way. Hide your faults. Keep your secrets. Never run the risk of looking a fool even if it means you look a fool, and a cowardly one at that.
    He pulled forward into the small parking area, crunching over a six-inch line of snow plowed off the road. The lot evidently belonged to the head of some lesser-known hiking trail, firmly shut for the off-season. Only when the car was stationary again did Tom realize his hands were shaking badly. He reached to the passenger seat for the bottle and took a long swallow. He looked in the rearview mirror for a while but saw only the pale skin, brown hair, baggy eyes, and incipient double chin he expected. Middle-age camouflage.
    He opened the door and dropped the keys into the side pocket. No sense making it too obvious. He hauled himself out of the car, slipped immediately on a rock, and fell full-length on the ground.
    When he pushed himself to his knees he saw there were small wet cuts on one of his palms, and his forehead and right cheek seemed to be dripping a little. His right ankle hurt too. Face pricked with tiny pieces of flint, stunned into a winded moment of sobriety, he knew finally that what he was doing was the right thing.
    He got his backpack out of the trunk and shut it, the finality of its sturdy clunk making him realize that he felt something toward the vehicle after all. He made sure the car was locked, then stepped over the low barrier made of logs and set off between the trees, taking care to set off in the direction opposite to the trail.
    The bird, or another very like it, was still making its rasping noise. Tom tried shouting at it, at first words and then mere sounds. The bird went silent, but soon started up again. Tom got the message. In here he was just another noisy animal, not in any position to issue commands.
    He let the bird be, and concentrated on not falling down.
     
    THE GOING WAS HARD AND STEEP . H E SOON REALIZED why there’d been no rest areas: this forest wasn’t restful. It wasn’t here for anyone’s benefit: there were no roped paths, rest rooms, or snack stops, none of the traditional mediators between the cooked and the raw. That was okay. His needs were few, and catered for. The backpack had almost nothing in it except alcohol, and he’d paused to repack the bottles so they didn’t clink. He had nothing inside him except alcohol either. He was already doubting vodka as a way of life. It wasn’t for the faint of heart, that was for sure. It took a high level of tolerance for feeling like shit. His wasn’t actually that high, but he was being quite brave about it.
    After two hours he estimated he’d only traveled three miles, though he’d climbed enough to leave the birches and fiery dogwood behind and be alone with spruce and cedars. Up here the ground was mainly clear of snow, but it was choked with fallen branches and aggressive bushes that grabbed at his jeans and coat. The trees were tall and quiet and grew wherever the hell they liked. Occasionally he came across a stream. At first he jumped these, but as his ankle began to ache more he made detours to find places where it was easier to cross. Sometimes he muttered to himself. Mainly he kept quiet, saving his breath. The faster he went, the less he had to be aware. When he finished thebottle he dropped it and kept on going. A hundred meters on he realized this had been brutish, and reeled back to find it. He couldn’t, which suggested he was doing his jobs well. He was becoming both profoundly drunk and very lost. He kept walking steadily, an earthbound plane arcing deeper into the forest. Time