The Ascent(47)

Hannah reached out and stroked the cold, white stone. “It’s beautiful.”

“What’s so important that I need to see?”

“Outside. They’re shooting fireworks over the water from the Naval Academy.”

I examined the blank oval heads of the three soldiers beneath their helmets. “I should finish,” I said, picking up one of my carving tools.

“You should leave their faces blank,” she suggested.

“You think so?”

“Seems to make a bigger statement. Like they could be anyone and everyone. All the young men who died over there.”

“I need to finish,” I told her. “Please, Hannah …”

She kissed my cheek, and I felt her hand slide off my shoulder. The floorboards creaked as she made her way to the floor hatch. “I love you,” she called to me.

“Love you, too,” I said and watched as she descended through the hatch, under-lit by the shaft of yellow light.

I finished the sculpture, but it wasn’t good enough. I sat and stared at it for an undefined time, my stomach cramping with hunger and my bladder swollen with piss. Sometime during the night, I’d decided to submit it to the memorial commission after all. Leaning closer to it on my stool, I scrutinized every detail, every nuance. There was anguish and fear in the soldiers’ blank faces, creases and tears in their uniforms, and I could almost convince myself that I could see the grease on their hands from their weapons.

And it occurred to me like a burst of fire in a darkened cave: there was too much detail. It was too much.

Like they could be anyone and everyone.

One week later, I presented the sculpture to the memorial commission—a donation from an up-and-coming artist who’d done only a meager number of commissioned works. Reviews of the sculpture proclaimed it to be powerful, all-encompassing, otherworldly, yet somehow completely unassuming. It graced the covers of several design and art magazines. I started receiving work from more elite clients.

One man in particular, the publisher of a national newspaper, desired a personalized sculpture for his office, something he could set on the mantel above his fireplace. Upon our first meeting, he pumped my hand vigorously and said, “I fell in love with what you did for the memorial, Tim—can I call you Tim? So simple yet so

complex. That’s how I live my life, really.” He winked conspiratorially and added, “How did you ever think to keep the soldiers’ faces blank?” “Guess I was inspired,” was my response.

That night in bed, I kissed Hannah on the shoulder and told her what the newspaperman had said. I felt her smile in the dark. “So we make a good team, you and me, huh?” she said. “Marry me,” I said.

4



WE WERE NO MORE THAN RN HOUR AWAY FROM

base camp when Donald Shotsky died.

It happened just as twilight deepened the sky to a blend of cool purples and pinks, the moon visible in the eastern sky. For the past half hour, I had been conscious of Shotsky’s breathing—the rasping, closed-throated labor of it—so when it stopped, I was keenly aware of it.

I snapped my head around and saw him ten feet behind me. His eyes were bugging out of their sockets, his mouth working like a fish out of water. One of his pudgy, white hands fluttered in midair. I could almost hear his heartbeat closing the distance between us. I watched as his eyes filmed over, going blind. That fluttering hand clutched his chest. A small, froglike croak issued from his gaping mouth, and a moment after that, he pitched forward face-first into the snow.

I ran to him and dropped to my knees. It took some effort to roll him over on his side, and I knew it wasn’t a good sign that his eyes were still open.

“Andrew!” I could see him about to climb down the far end of the snowy passage to the path below. “Andrew!”

I pushed Shotsky over on his back. He didn’t blink. “Come on, Shotsky,” I pleaded. “Don’t do this.” Pressing two fingers to his carotid, I couldn’t make out a pulse. I quickly commenced with chest compressions, but he was wearing

too much restrictive gear. I unbuckled his pack and opened his coat, then proceeded with more compressions. My breath whistled in my throat, and my pulse drummed in my ears.

“Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on—”

“What happened?” Andrew barked, running toward us.

“Heart attack!”

Like a runner stealing second, Andrew slid in the snow and slammed against one of my thighs. He braced Shotsky’s head and positioned it back on his neck, creating a clearer passageway for air. With one hand, he administered quick little slaps to the side of Shotsky’s face, which was quickly turning a mottled shade of purple.

My arms were getting sore. I counted under my breath and continued with the chest compressions. A trail of snot descended from one of my nostrils and lengthened until it pattered on my balled, pumping fists.

“He’s not breathing,” Andrew said, sitting up. He released Shotsky’s head, but it did not recoil back on its neck. “There’s no pulse.”

“ … seven … eight … nine …”

“There’s no pulse. He’s dead.”

“Come on …”

“Overleigh. Tim.” Andrew put one hand over both my fists and steadied them on Shotsky’s chest. My breath was burning my throat. “He’s dead. It’s over. It’s over.”