The Other side by Jp relph

The morning I plan to get out of Ketchum on the bus in from Texas, a mountain lion closes off the town. He comes in off Bald Mountain, starts strolling downtown like a tourist. The cops and Sheriffs close all the roads, tuck in behind their patrol cars with high powered rifles. The Mayor says nobody’s killing on his asphalt anytime soon - we wait for Fish and Game.

~

In the bus station, travelers watch the story unfold on their phones. I’m too nervous, sure Momma will storm through the doors any moment, high heels like gunshots. Ready to drag me home like an errant puppy, back to my stultifying life. ‘The grass ain’t always greener, Dory’, she'll say for the hundredth time ‘and sometimes it’s hidin' snakes.

~

Someone says the mountain lion stopped for a drink outside the pub; a bowl on the patio for thirsty dogs. A chef throws yesterday’s wings from the kitchen window, the big cat sniffs them, bats them away with his huge paw. The woman in the ticket booth laughs, seems that ole cat has taste, returns to her queue of grizzling passengers.

~

I get talking to a boy called Dylan. He’s from Eagle Pass, has a guitar case and a rolled-up notebook “full of song words.” He’s going to Colorado to join a band. His eyes are the blue of the crashing oceans I’ve seen only in travel magazines. His voice seems too smoke-battered to sing of love.

~

Live feed shows the mountain lion on Walnut, staring at the thrift store mannequins in their preloved sweaters. I imagine him confused as to why they stay there, stiff and faceless, when there’s so much world. He snarls at them, thumps his fat tail, pisses on the window. In the bus station, the man sweeping the floor says, he’s markin’ his territory and I wonder why a mountain lion would feel the need.

~

Dylan asks why I’m leaving. I start to say I’m bored; want something more from my life, but end up talking about Daddy. How after the car wreck I felt like I was crushed too, smeared against the tree. How Momma went crazy and now people call her a “cougar” and she dresses too young, in too little and lust-laughs when strangers ask if we’re sisters.

~

The mountain lion heads down Main, past people sweating in their locked cars. He lopes through the cemetery, chasing birds like our neighbor’s tabby, stops for a rest right next to Hemingway’s grave. People take to the socials, posting blurred photos, trying to make something mystical of it all. He just growls in his nap, big whiskers twitching. I wonder what a mountain lion dreams of.

~

I ask Dylan if I can go with him. Denver is as good a city as any to see life, feel life. He says, ‘Sure, I’ll show you the city.’ He’s not much older than me, but his eyes have a developing hardness, like heartwood. I realise maybe he’s not a boy at all. Snakes in the grass, Dory.

~

When the mountain lion bores of downtown Ketchum, he starts running. Dylan grabs my hand and we race to catch him crossing the river. Mist slithers down Bald Mountain; it looks insidious, desperate to snag you, hold you in place, but Dylan says it’s beautiful, could be in a song.

Just past the bridge, the mountain lion looks over his shoulder, right at me. His black-ringed eyes, bright as the yellow monkeyflower I picked and pressed as a child, blink, blink. Then he raises his head to the sun shredding the mountain mist, dusting it gold.

‘Home.’ I whisper, swiping stupid tears with my sleeve.

Then he’s gone. Into the trees and the trails that will lead him there.

~

Momma left a voicemail while I was on the bridge – a boundary it now seems, between home and the other side. Where are you baby? I’m sick to my belly with worry. Dory come on home; I don’t want to lose you too. I suddenly need her fierce hug, the t-shirt she sleeps in against my cheek – one of Daddy’s – both of their scents in its fraying fibres. My morning resolve breaks apart like the sun-shredded mist.

~

When the roads open, the Greyhound grumble-rattles to wakefulness. Dylan will be stashing his guitar in overhead storage, maybe turning to look for me. As I walk into downtown, I feel like I’m stepping into still-warm pawprints. Mist swirls at the mountain’s foot now. The Douglas firs seem to stride through it in their black-emerald cloaks. I’ll get out of Ketchum one day, but the right way, not angry and sad. I think I know now what the mountain lion dreams of: the lure of the other side, and how it’s nothing like home.

JP Relph is a writer from Cumbria, England. She edits Trash Cat Lit. You can find her on X @RelphJp.