Mirror Lake Highway
Martin Haven lived alone in a cabin on Mirror Lake Highway, Utah. Secluded as it was, Martin welcomed many people into his home over the years, though it was easy to see the circumstances were not in their favor. He met brave cyclists, musicians touring the country; runaways; and teenagers on a pilgrimage to Evanston, Wyoming for “real beer” or fireworks. Most were looking for the fastest way out of the state, but instead they found Martin’s front door, their car in a ditch, and a new sense of mortality.
Martin supposed some of them might have been too injured to call for help, had he not lived so close. The car accidents were not usually life-threatening, but about once every other year Martin found reason to call an ambulance. Martin was a tall man, and he had the shoulders of someone who splits wood by necessity. He could manage to lift a person from the ditch if the situation called for it. However, that was the exception; most were just bruised and shaken. As an extra precaution, he had taken first-aid lessons and he was CPR certified. Martin took pride in his role, and he thought of himself as a sort of guardian. In time he would never imagine leaving his post.
Because the accidents usually occurred at a late hour, Martin offered his guests a room free of charge. They didn’t often stay past breakfast the next morning, but once an older woman who had sprained her wrist stuck around for three nights. Her name was Margaret, but she insisted he call her Peggy. Every time Martin offered to drive her to town or call a tow truck, she suggested they have a bite to eat instead. Over the course of her stay, Peggy told Martin her life story with impressive detail. Peggy was an actuary for the state of Utah Securities Agency. She and her tabby cat Tangy had outlived her two husbands, both of whom died in car accidents. If Peggy noticed the irony, she didn’t say. Martin usually worked around the house in silence, so he didn’t mind Peggy chatting by his side as he bevelled, painted, and carved his leathers.
Martin didn’t ask these people many questions, but he received plenty of answers. They say people like to talk about themselves, but Martin was continually surprised by how open they were about their lives. One man even revealed that he was a fugitive, quite calmly in fact, and that he had been on the lam for upwards of three years. He supposedly robbed two banks and a jeweller in the same day with nothing but a convincing BB-gun. Martin was astonished by how brightly the man spoke as he described holding a teller at BB-gunpoint. With pride, he claimed to be the most successful robber ever to hit San Luis Obispo, California. Thankfully, the man didn’t threaten Martin, and Martin refrained from asking his name.
Being retired and divorced, Martin didn’t have other company, so he had every reason to be hospitable. The only reason he left his home was to replenish his groceries and craft supplies, which required a lengthy drive into Salt Lake City. Other than that he enjoyed walks around his home and the serenity of the forest: the evergreen pines and broad-leaved scrub oaks, the smell of wild sage, the purple columbines, and the aspen trees. Most of all, Martin appreciated the aspen. In a place where everything was green or dead, flushed with life or drowned in white, the aspen had personality. In the month before the first snow, its leaves flushed an infinitude of shades between deep red and vibrant yellow. A single tree rarely stuck to one color for its leaves, instead mixing them all like a child with finger-paint. Martin believed that the aspen truly lived only when on the verge of losing its leaves.
Similarly, Martin wondered if his guests’ talkative nature had something to do with the shock of the accident. Maybe being close to death brought out the true chatterbox in them. Or maybe they were just lonely, and that’s why they took a drive on Mirror Lake Highway in the first place. Or maybe they were bored, and their only pleasures in life were frivolous conversation and hitting icy curves at high speeds. In any case, Martin’s house stood within a hundred feet of the most dangerous bend on Mirror Lake. Anyone driving too fast or in bad weather was bound to end up in the ditch with the nose of their car nuzzled in fresh snow. In their jarred, injured, and garrulous state, they would find their way to Martin’s front door, where Martin kept a dry coat and his first-aid kit ready.
* * *
This time it happened late in the evening.
Midnight Notebook 