35
West of the Sun
I fled the mountain with my bags half packed and did not retrieve anything
that was left behind. I went to Salt Lake and spent the rest of the holidays
with Drew.
I tried to forget that night. For the first time in fifteen years, I closed my
journal and put it away. Journaling is contemplative, and I didn’t want to
contemplate anything.
After the New Year I returned to Cambridge, but I withdrew from my
friends. I had seen the earth tremble, felt the preliminary shock; now I waited
for the seismic event that would transform the landsape. I knew how it would
begin. Shawn would think about what Dad had told him on the phone, and
sooner or later he would realize that my denial—my claim that Dad had
misunderstood me—was a lie. When he realized the truth, he would despise
himself for perhaps an hour. Then he would transfer his loathing to me.
It was early March when it happened. Shawn sent me an email. It
contained no greeting, no message whatsoever. Just a chapter from the Bible,
from Matthew, with a single verse set apart in bold: O generation of vipers,
how can ye, being evil, speak good things? It froze my blood.
Shawn called an hour later. His tone was casual, and we talked for twenty
minutes about Peter, about how his lungs were developing. Then he said, “I
have a decision to make, and I’d like your advice.”
“Sure.”
“I can’t decide,” he said. He paused, and I thought perhaps the connection
had failed. “Whether I should kill you myself, or hire an assassin.” There was
a static-filled silence. “It might be cheaper to hire someone, when you figure
in the cost of the flight.”
I pretended I hadn’t understood, but this only made him aggressive. Now
he was hurling insults, snarling. I tried to calm him but it was pointless. We
were seeing each other at long last. I hung up on him but he called again, and