Free Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail by T.J. Forrester Page A

gentle. . . .
    Another knock, this one much softer, and she invites Emanuel inside. Her legs are spread and she has never felt more vulnerable, should be embarrassed, is not. His fingers take the place of hers, and he asks if this is what she wants. She says this is the only thing she ever wanted, then asks if Sinatra might be appropriate for the occasion. He tells her that he’ll be right back, that it will only take a moment to find the right album, and sometime latershe discovers him asleep in his recliner. Leona covers him to the neck with her shawl, slips off his shoes. He wakes and apologizes for getting sidetracked, holds her hand, asks her to visit him tonight. She runs her fingers through his hair, loses herself in the yellow strands, marvels at the fullness. . . . That forgetting feeling comes over her, ephemeral, elusive, like whatever she seeks floats in a mist just out of reach.
    The mist clears, only for a moment, a clarity that prods her toward the phone. She has forgotten to call Heather to see if she made it safely back home to Boston. Leona dials and looks out the window at the mountains while she waits for her oldest to answer. The last remnant of the lowering sun paints the slopes a deep amber, and on the ridges fog tendrils snake out of the folds like wood smoke. She nods respectfully and sits at the breakfast nook. Leona and Emanuel Brougham are not dead yet.

5
    APRIL 7TH: I drive to a used car lot and sell my Buick. The money more than pays for a shuttle up to Amicalola Falls, where the approach trail ascends to Springer Mountain. On the way out of town, I ask the driver to stop at a pay phone and I get out and call Roxie. Across the street, a woman and a fat kid sit in deck chairs next to a hotel pool. She wears a one piece, and the kid has on baggy trunks that hang to his knees. The woman shakes her finger at the kid, who unwraps a honey bun and crams it in his mouth.
    Roxie says hello, and I tell her I sold my car and I’m on my way to the AT.
    â€œJust like that?” she says.
    The fat kid jumps into the shallows. Water splashes over the side, onto the woman, who closes her book and towels off her legs. The woman scoots her chair away from the pool and lies back down. My ear—the one pressed against the phone—itches, so I move the phone to the other ear and scratch away.
    â€œI have to do this,” I say.
    The fat kid waddles to the deep end and dips his hand inthe water. I hope Fatso can float because the last thing I want is to fish some drowned kid out of the swimming pool. The woman looks up and says something, and the kid walks across the concrete to a trash bin and throws away the plastic wrapper. I change the phone to the other ear, listen to Roxie breathe in and out.
    â€œI’m giving up coke for good,” she says. “You, me, we’ll work it out. We’ll get regular jobs and move into a—”
    â€œI want you to meet me up in Franklin, North Carolina. Twelve days from now. I got us a room reserved. It’s a trail town over the Georgia border.”
    Her words have a bite to them. “I’ll have to borrow my mom’s car.”
    Roxie’s pissed because I didn’t leave her the Buick, but I know her too well. She’d drive it for a week, then sell it for a high.
    â€œCome if you can,” I say.
    â€œI’m not saying I will, and I’m not saying I won’t.”
    I give her directions, hang up, and watch the fat kid wade through the shallow end. He wears blow-up floaties on his arms, and he flails in tight circles. The kid takes aim at the deep end. He has this grim smile and paddles for all he’s worth. His eyes are wide open, like he’s scared and surprised at the same time. I know the feeling. I’ve lived my life on flat land, never walked through mountains. Am I scared? Hell yes. But there’s no sense admitting it, no sense saying it out