The Walk

GiGi Huntley

Alma was six miles past the old country bar when the sidewall of the tire ruptured. It was after midnight, and she was still wearing her dirty forest ranger uniform. Good thing it came with comfortable shoes and a warm jacket, because the bar was the only place close, and the spare was never replaced after the last blow out. She wasn’t afraid of the dark. For her, worse things had happened during the day, and being a ranger meant she carried a gun. She grabbed a lashlight from the glovebox and started the trek. Coyotes yipped from the river below; owls hooted from the hill above. It was beautiful. She thought about how her husband Ed would have loved it — a dark walk, animal sounds, only the half moon and stars providing light. She clicked on the lashlight. She missed him every day. Cancer had taken him from her ive years before. Being alone meant she kept the ranger job even when she should’ve retired. She was good at it, so no one pushed. The skin on her face showed every year. She joked that her wrinkles were a map of every gravel road she’d ever driven, every creek she’d ever ished. She igured it would take a couple of hours to get back to the bar. She wasn’t as quick as she once was. “Well, the old truck is still getting me where I need to go. Can you believe it? The odometer has probably turned at least twice since we bought it. I had to clean the carburetor a few weeks ago. Good thing I remembered how. Too bad I forgot to put the spare back, huh?” He never answered, but she was always talking to him. She wished sometimes that he were a ghost, following her around, laughing at the way she reused tea bags still. “You know that Lipton is pretty cheap stuf, right? We can aford for you to use more than one bag a day. Treat yourself !” he would kid her. She chuckled, swatting at a moth that came for the lashlight’s relection on her glasses. Life wasn’t always easy. Dad was a drunk who used prospecting as a way to avoid family life, only coming home to get Mom pregnant or yell that

none of them were good for anything. There was always a wayward cousin squatting, sometimes pregnant themselves. Food was scarce. She remembered her youngest brother poaching a doe one winter, quietly dressing it in the shed behind the house. Alma dug away at the frozen earth that day, hoping to ind an old onion or garlic bulb to help with the stew. It was the best Christmas of her youth. Dad lived in Nevada then, only he called it “being away for work.” Mom was a saint. She died when that same little brother was in Vietnam, his wife pregnant with a granddaughter she would never see. Alma tried to stand in for their mom, getting the kids gifts and making sure everyone had a place to go on Thanksgiving. Motherhood never came her way. She never questioned why. She started as a secretary, but hated having to wear pantyhose, so her husband talked his bosses into letting her take a ranger job. They igured she’d hate it and quit within a season. She showed them. “They’re bringing in younger and younger kids to train for your old job. No one seems to stick, though. Guess this generation can’t handle the workload they threw at you.” The coyotes yipped a response. “I’m thinking about selling the house. I don’t need a big place anymore. I’ve been falling asleep on the sofa anyway. Some young family would get better use out of it. Gabby says I could get an apartment at one of those old folks’ homes we used to laugh at. Might be nice not to have to do my own cleaning. I could inally read all those books you bought from that book-of-the-month club, too. “Glad the bar is downhill, but my knees are gonna ache tomorrow. Remember the bruises from that time we tried skiing? Of course, that’s nothing on these veins on my legs. Looks like an interstate roadmap down there.” Each step made a satisfying crunch. These old river roads were her favorite spots. She’d take her own truck out and ish after work. It was the best part of the job. The blackberries were done for the year, but when it was season she’d bring home a bucketful and eat them warm while she fried up her catch. Fishing was the one thing she could do with her dad that supplied any kind of happy memory from her youth. “Shouldn’t have stayed out this late, Ed. I’m too old for this. Driving at night… It just doesn’t work. I have to drive so slow. And I fell while climbing

up from my favorite hole and dropped the ish into an old blackberry bush. Didn’t bother going after them. It’s a good thing I keep those horrible granola bars you loved in the truck, or I’d a starved by now. It’s like chewing on particle board, though. I never understood how you could like them.” She glanced down at her watch. If she was walking her normal 20-minute mile, she was halfway there. She hoped the downhill slope was giving her a few minutes. Something crackled to the right where the river wandered. She moved the light that way and saw a row of glowing eyes looking back. She kept walking, turning sideways to keep the light their way. A family of raccoons ran across the road behind her, and she lit the way up the embankment for them. She rounded a bend and saw the lights of the bar below her. She was always amazed that a bar in the middle of nowhere could bring in enough money to stay open, but she was grateful this one was there. “Remember all the stories I would tell you about Uncle Glenn? How I’d head out to pan for gold with him and always ind a giant nugget? Still can’t believe it took me years to igure out that it was always the same rock,” she laughed, “He’s been on my mind a lot lately. I’m hoping you two have met by now. I saw an old truck the other day with dozens of bumper stickers on the tailgate like he used to have. Felt like a wink from him. Tell him I said hi.” Her outstretched foot rounded over a large rock, and she barely stopped herself from falling. “Damn it!” The lashlight hit the dirt, bouncing once before landing and dimming. Alma picked it up and shook it, glad to see the brightness return. “Just a loose battery. Thank goodness.” Her ankle felt a bit wobbly and there was a new soreness, but she walked on just as rapidly. Being able to see the bar gave her reason to quicken her pace. “Thinking I’ll actually buy a beer while I wait for a tow. I hope it won’t take too long to get someone out here. There weren’t a lot of cars when I passed it around midnight. Maybe I’ll just hitch a ride with someone into town and come back for the truck tomorrow.” She guessed she was just over a mile away and started a slow jog. The ankle wasn’t happy, and she was feeling the last ive-ish miles. She saw someone

pull out of the lot and head her way. She waved the lashlight to get their attention. “Hey! You okay?” “Yeah. I blew a tire and realized I didn’t replace the spare. Any chance you can give me a lift back to the bar? I turned my ankle. It’s starting to swell.” “Hop in the back.” She hoisted herself into the backseat. “Thanks.” “Not sure you’ll get anyone out here tonight to give you a tow. If you can’t, I’m heading into town.” “Thanks. Mind waiting until I put in a call?” “Not a problem.” They pulled up to the door. Alma carefully jumped out, putting her weight on the good side. They walked in together. “Hey! Back for more?” The bartender nodded at the men. “Yeah, we found this woman up the road and gave her a lift.” “Can I borrow your phone? I blew out a tire and want to see if anyone can give me a tow.” “Sure, but I don’t see it happening. It’s almost 2:00.” He bent down and pulled a rotary phone from under the counter. “I know, but it’s worth a call.” As Alma picked up the phone to dial, her vision went dark, and she fell to the loor. The obituary mentioned it was an aneurysm that took her that morning. The whole town talked about how she managed to walk almost six miles before dying. Her job was illed within the week, and her house was sold in three.