Will The Circle Be Unbroken? by Clarence Williams (Click here for an Adobe pdf file of the flyleaf, and here for the first four chapters)
Chapter 1 – The Body
I pause at the top of a rise, surveying what’s ahead, and don’t like what I see. The monotonous desert landscape marches on, finally disappearing over a taller hump a mile or so in the distance. Some people might rekindle hope that their goal lies just over the horizon, but I’m more perceptive. The ruts in the road, this scar that had beckoned me from the black top, steadily deepen over the course of the swale ahead, finally becoming impassable to normal vehicles. I slap my thigh, cursing Victoria Goodsen’s siren-like phone call, her tale of a forgotten friendship and a promise that I’d find her easily enough. Well, Victoria, I’ve been circling your godforsaken country for two days and I’m still in the dark. “What the hell am I—” A sharp noise interrupts, drawing my attention to the hill on the left and implanting a decision to go there. “Hm,” why there? It’s another uncharacteristic whim, but I give it just enough thought to worry my brow before moving out. The hill is steeper than it looked, with sandy footing and detours around sagebrush and cactus to boot, so I rest at the top, gulping some hot, stale air before moving past the bush blocking my view of the plateau. Splashes of alien color leap out from a stand of tall grass, so I advance on them, my hackles rising when I get near enough to see their source. The warning doesn’t keep me from moving closer. A woman lies here, legs crossed at the ankles and arms spread wide, calling attention to long spikes of brown grass strangled in her clenched fists. A shudder rocks my shoulders, then passes down my spine and stutters my feet. I crouch to press my fingers against her neck, then spring up, shivering. She’s dead. I turn to leave, but another quiver rattles me, bringing a different decision: I should get her into town. Dropping to my knees, I lean forward and slide a hand under her shoulders, but jerk it back, sucking at the prick mark stinging my finger. Lifting her slightly, I see a flattened mess of cactus, so I drag her off the foul bed and begin ridding her of the spiny things still clinging to her. Finally, I pull the last of the bloated stems from her hair. This one’s stained with blood, giving me the shivers again, so I flip my hand to toss it aside but only succeed in impaling myself. Using my other hand, I finally pull it free and fling it away. The bloody thing stares back at me, strangely evoking not anger but sadness, so I raise my knees and balance on the balls of my feet, brooding over the woman. Searing pain in my arches finally breaks the spell. How long have I been staring at her? I sit, groaning with relief, but my eyes float in and out of focus, then my stomach makes a violent turn. I lie down and find relief, but nausea returns when I try to sit. Sighing, I close my eyes and bring my arm across my face, pressing it hard against the bridge of my nose. Bright lights explode in my head, spinning madly about before settling into hundreds of pulsating pinpricks. A hole opens in the middle, slowly expanding then fading everything to black. A gray film pushes in, moving the dark mass to the bottom, where it starts to roil. I press the bridge of my nose even harder. A bubble breaks free from the black swell, then hangs in the air and turns grayish-pink as it mutates, forming a head, then arms and legs. Eyes form, then a nose, ears, fingers and toes, as it slowly gains on recognizable form. Just as it begins to clarify itself a brilliant light explodes behind it, relegating it to a shadowy silhouette. It jigs to the right, then to the left, but the blinding light is just as quick. A tendril shoots up from the black sea and wraps around the body, quickly followed by others. Slapping and then pulling at each in turn, the thing finally rips free and drifts upward. When it disappears at the top of my vision, the desert pushes against my back, lifting me from the warm earth. I stretch out my arms and desperately clutch at the sand. The pressure from below disappears, but the black at the bottom of my vision slowly fades to pale brown and I see myself lying on the desert floor next to the woman’s body. Curiosity bathes me, and then disappears in a flash as a scream splits the desert air. I scramble to a sitting position and whip my head from side to side, trying to spot the source of the shrill cry, but then a nervous chuckle breaks from my throat and I smile. It was in the daydream. At least the nausea is gone. I scoot near the woman’s shoulder and brush back the hair from her eyes. They’re open, so I look up as well. Only high, faint clouds, caught in the jet stream and raced eastward occupy the sky, so I survey our earth-bound surroundings. Pale sagebrush dominates, joined by patches of tall prairie grass, a few yucca and scatterings of cactus. There’s nothing out of the ordinary to claim my attention, no clues to help me understand why we share this place. I see what appear to be footprints on the hillside opposite my approach, but the loose soil has blurred them. A quick look back at my own path shows identical marks. Okay, she came from there and I approached from the opposite way. So what? I scowl at the woman and cry out, “Who are you? Why am I here?” A piercing bird call startles me and I grit my teeth, growling, “Cut it out!” before sliding an arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. Lifting her legs, I brace her buttocks against my knee before rolling her into my arms and rising. We begin our departure. I’m relatively strong but the body is a little stiff and it’s a struggle. The dead are never easy to carry, I suppose, but this is my first one. Maybe some aren’t quite as burdensome. I shift her often, but there aren’t many possible positions. Heaving her over my shoulder seems irreverent and it’s creepy having her face in my chest. I’m finally forced to lay her down and catch my wind, so I make a closer inspection. She’s wearing faded Levi’s and a sturdy shirt, a long-sleeve, off-white cotton affair. Instead of a belt, she’s woven a red cloth through the loops and knotted it firmly at her side. I jab a finger in the air, shout, “Ah ha!” then pat the front pockets of her jeans and roll her from side to side to check the back pockets. Then I delicately peek in the ones on her shirt, double layers covering her breasts. They’re all empty, she died anonymously. Her shoes catch my attention, white slip-on sneakers that are out of place for her garb. A familiar coating of fine dust covers the shoes but it’s absent from the bright gold circle on each tongue. I rub a finger across one and nod reassuringly. The slick, raised plastic explains the lack of dust and leaves only a closer inspection of her face to complete my visual file. Coffee-colored hair, cropped to medium length, frames a simple yet attractive face, one that hints at an age near my own. I take a deep breath and then let out a long sigh. Death has stolen her face, but deep wrinkles beside her eyes suggest smiles were her practice. Her cheeks are wan now, but I see their cherry-red promise and— “Hm,” her eyes should be closed. I reach out to shut them, but then draw back and look closer. They rest beneath a wide brow, shadowed by delicate but dark eyebrows. Intensely brown irises say they once held an especially penetrating gaze. They should be open. And her nose—a purr escapes my throat—her nose seems ordinary, but… what is it? Ah, yes! Tiny, faint hairs illuminate perfect, soft curves, and it turns up at the end to gently flare her nostrils, the perfect compliment to a captivating face. I scoot back from her and try to remember her, but nothing comes to me, so I lift her and continue our slow trip. On my next rest, I stand and straddle her, cocking my head one way and then the other, trying to form an overall impression, and it suddenly comes to me. She’s beautiful, but not strikingly so. Her beauty is simple, resulting from compromise with many possible features. She would defy description if that were called for in testimony, say a police lineup or gathering of spectators. Everyone drawing her from memory would probably depict this woman differently, perhaps in small ways but important to the whole. “Hm,” history will be unkind to adoring fans, as honest depictions vary widely and bring her very existence into question. But I’m sure that I’ve never been one of her witnesses. I pick up the body for the last leg of our journey. Just as the western sky moves from red to deep purple, we arrive at Lamar’s hospital. I pull around to the emergency entrance and once more carry her in my arms. A small woman covered in nurse’s white jumps out of her chair and waves her arm, shouting, “Oh, my. Over here, over here!” We’re led behind a curtain where a brown examination table accepts bodies, usually live ones. A strip of coarse paper runs down the middle, little comfort to the living, but this one won’t mind. I lay the body on the table and step back, summoning an impassive stare. The nurse waits until I move further back, apparently to a pre-ordained distance, and then leaps into her drill. She presses a finger against the neck and then pats other parts of the body, interrupting her work several times to eye me and sound an irritating cluck. Finally, she parts the curtain, and scurries off, yelling, “Dwight! Dwight! Get out here quick!” Taking a seat on the room’s short stool, I avert my eyes from the woman and focus on the part in the curtain, where the man named Dwight will emerge. Muffled sounds come near and the cloth rustles. My eyes flutter and the fingers gripping the curtain fuse into a thickheaded serpent, with searing black eyes exploring the woman’s body and a wicked tongue testing the air. I screw my fists into my eyes and then look again. Ordinary fingers grip the cloth. The skin is dry and scaly, tight against the bones and peppered with coarse, black hair. Bulging veins and taut, stringy muscles promise that it’s an old man’s hand. I breathe again and shake my head, grunting disapprovingly. A man pushes through the curtain and says with a deep, dry voice, “Hi, I’m Doctor Wood, and your name?” He parts his lips in a practiced grin as the nurse enters behind him. “I’m Carlton Richards, but I don’t know who she is.” I sweep my arm toward the woman but keep my eyes on the doctor. “I found her in a field some miles north and brought her here, thinking this was probably, uh… well the best place for her.” “Let’s take a look,” the doctor says with a frown, before turning to the body and asking me over his shoulder, “What time did you say you found her?” “I didn’t say, but it was about four this afternoon.” He straightens. “My, but that’s a long time ago. Why’d it take you so long to get here?” “I, um… well, I had to carry her more than a mile. My car was parked a long way from where I found her and I didn’t get started right away. I… well, I looked around a bit and sat and just thought for some time before heading out. I guess I was kind of shocked. I brought her here because I didn’t think it was right to just leave her there while I went for help. I, uh… I might have had trouble marking the place.” The doctor mumbles, “Uh-huh,” then bends over her, rolls his head to the side and orders, “Nurse Wilson, please show Mr. Richards here a seat, and then you’d better call Sheriff Young. I’m sure he’s going to want to ask him some questions.” I’m shown the seat just below the low counter guarding Nurse Wilson, where she proffers a form and a pen. “Just fill it in as best you can. You can leave the stuff blank that obviously doesn’t apply. You know, like… like relationship to the patient.” I grab the form, a welcome distraction. The patient’s name, address and age are first and I consider a sarcastic entry, but decide better, leaving them blank. Nurse Wilson noisily picks up the phone and punches in some numbers—the call to the sheriff. The nurse lowers her voice and peeks at me each time she says, “Dead woman.” The form asks for information on the guardian and I smile smugly, entering my name, address and phone number. Questions regarding the patient’s insurance company remind me of Jim, bringing a wry turn to my lips. I pull out my wallet, then the insurance card and fill in the necessary information. When I get to the last section, the part where the form finally gets into the heart of the matter, I tap the pen against my chin. What are her ailments? What allergies does she suffer? Is she allergic to certain medications? What medicines is she now taking? Has she had any prior hospitalizations? With every new question, my consternation grows. I finally grunt, shake my head, and then draw a big X over the whole section. When I reach the small print preceding my signature, I close my eyes and again try to summon her memory. After only a second or two, I sigh loudly and snap open my eyes. I don’t know this woman. Sheriff Young arrives soon after I return the form to Nurse Wilson. Standing about six feet, he’s several inches taller than I am and at least a foot higher than the diminutive nurse. I place his age around fifty but don’t have to guess that he’s a heavy smoker. His clothes have a familiar, rancid odor and his chubby fingers are stained with tobacco. As confirmation of my assessment, the sheriff soon punctuates the air with a rasping cough. The dry hacks should have bothered him, but they fail to bring the slightest notice to his eyes. He finally brings out the instrument of his cough, gives the scowling Nurse Wilson a wide grin, and lights it. The smoke tries to launch me on a sneezing fit, but I squelch it. My father had been a heavy smoker, unfiltered Camels, so I’ve always lived with cigarettes. But shortly after quitting my two-pack-a-day habit ten years ago cigarettes began bothering me, and the sheriff’s cigarettes are especially foul and offensive. I limit my breathing to the necessary and occasionally wave my hand to clear the air. After I introduce myself and give him an abbreviated version of what’s going on, the sheriff asks for my driver’s license and studies it in silence. The silence is uncomfortably long, so I return to a description of the day’s events, this time drawing out a few details. A minute into my tale, the sheriff looks up from the license and hands it back to me. I continue my story, but the man soon interrupts, asking me to return the license, adding, “I think I better run this through records.” Card safely in hand, he saunters off, but just before pushing through the door, he turns and faces me, remarking, “It’s not like I’m arresting you or anything.” A smile spreads across his face, and then he hurries off. I move to the front window and push aside the curtain. The hospital entry light bathes the green and white car, seeming to lift it out of the black night. That spotlight is soon joined by the car’s dome light as the sheriff takes his seat, and I enjoy a sharp focus on the man. He reaches for the radio and then raises his eyes, homing in on me as he speaks into the mike. Finally, the sheriff lowers his head, fingers something beneath the dash and then comes up sporting a deep frown, which he turns to a glare when he eyes me. I return to my station near Nurse Wilson, puzzled by the sheriff’s signals. My concern is deepened when I consider that he’s ignored the dead woman. Before I have time to sort my thoughts, the sheriff returns and tosses me a quick “thanks” along with my license before proceeding to the curtained room. I get up to follow, but skid to a stop when the curtain is thrown open, exposing the woman. Dark nipples and a tuft of black pubic hair leap out at me. I gasp and race to the bathroom, ignoring Nurse Wilson’s alarmed look. Splashing water on my face, I turn frightened eyes to the mirror and then duck my head beneath the faucet, moaning and rolling it under the cold water. “Jesus!” I whisper between clenched teeth, shaking my head even harder and admitting the inadmissible: her nude body aroused me! I whimper, then turn off the water and grind my fists into my eyes. The pain raises my anger and I growl, a low guttural sound that forces the air from my lungs. I growl again, but then cut it off and jerk my hands away from my face, breaking into a grin. Sure, that’s it! Scooping up a handful of water, I splash it on my face, and then run my hand from brow to chin before taking a deep breath and staring at the mirror. It was just the shock, that’s all. I purse my lips and whisper, “This day’s just worn me out. I’m exhausted and my mind’s playing tricks. First the snake, then this silly stirring.” I take another deep breath before drying off and returning to my seat out front, giving the anxious looking nurse a warm, reassuring smile. Emerging from the woman’s cloister, the two officials approach me and I stand to greet them. The doctor dryly informs me that he found no visible clues suggesting the cause of death, but offers that she hasn’t been dead long, maybe only since morning. He announces the coroner will take it from here and then shuffles off. The sheriff takes over and explains procedures. “The body will be turned over to the county morgue for an autopsy, then—” Another man noisily enters the hospital. The sheriff turns away from me and walks toward the new arrival, saying, “Hello, Steve.” They move behind the curtain. I soon hear the familiar pop and click of a camera and turn to face the curtain. My heart takes up the mechanical rhythm of the camera’s cold, indifferent eyes as my own cloud over. A few minutes later, I’m jolted out of my reverie as the sheriff rushes from the curtained room and hurls a demanding, “Let’s see where you found her!” before scrambling through the door and hurrying to his car. Three hours later, we’re in the sheriff’s office and he looks at me with eyes clearly reflecting disbelief. “Now, let me get this straight. You were drawn here by this stranger’s… no, this friend’s phone call. Uh… you don’t know which.” He scratches his nose. “You didn’t find her in the phone book and didn’t bother to check with this office.” He raises his eyebrows. “You couldn’t find anyone who knew her, so you circled the town for two days before turning down the road you, uh… recognized. Now, remind me, how did you know about this road?” “I don’t know… how I knew it. It… well, it just sort of hit me, you know, I suddenly felt sure.” “Yea, right,” the sheriff grunts. “So, you… just knew that it would take you to your friend’s, no, sorry, this… stranger’s house. Then something happened and you—” he raises his eyebrows again “—knew you should go to the top of the hill. But you didn’t know what you’d find there. Is that about right?” I arch my eyebrows, roll my eyes and then discard my words on a deep exhale. “Yes, Sheriff, that’s it.” “Yea, right, but you still don’t know if this body is that—” He eyes his notes “—Victoria Goodsen. And you never saw the woman in your life.” “Yes.” I lean forward in my chair. “And no matter how many times we go over this and I tell you I can’t understand it either, the facts aren’t going to change.” “Well, calm down now. I don’t mean to upset you or anything, but you see how all this is a little hard to swallow don’t you?” “Yes, I know it sounds strange.” I shift my weight in the straight-backed chair I’ve occupied for too long. The phone rings and the sheriff answers. “Hello. Yea, that’s right. Huh? Okay, hold on.” He hangs up and pushes back from his desk. “Be back in a minute.” As soon as the door closes, I sag down in the chair, weary and wondering why I’m even here. I close my eyes to gain some focus. Okay, curiosity… no, a very intense sort of compulsion drove me to find Victoria Goodsen, but I don’t feel that anymore. She can wait until I learn more about this dead woman. Who is she? Why did I happen to find her? So, I spent anxious days circling this damn country, searching for this supposed old friend, and now I easily put it aside. How’s that? I take a deep breath, slowly let it out and then bring in another one.
My eyes drift open as the sheriff nudges me impatiently. “Mr. Richards? Hey! Are you okay?” “Oh, yea, I’m sorry. I must have dozed off, guess I’m pretty tired.” I glance around, reassured that I’m still in the sheriff’s office. He coughs and then announces, “Well, you can go. I’m through with you for now, but I’d like you to stay close.” I raise my hand to object, “Sheriff, I’d—” but drop it to my lap and I give in to exhaustion. “Okay,” the questions can wait. The sheriff escorts me to my car, then leans in and asks, “Where you staying, Mr. Richards?” “The East Range Motel.” “Well, stay put for awhile,” he orders. “That okay with you?” I fire up the engine, then smile at him and say, “Don’t worry sheriff. I’ve got more questions than you have and I won’t leave until I get answers.”
Chapter 2 – Summons
I wait until the sheriff reenters the building before mashing down the pedal hard and aiming toward the motel. Okay, Carlton, let’s review this… this ordeal? Nah, that’s not right. It’s just puzzling. It began several days ago. My sore throat that morning told me that I’d passed the night with snores and fitful turns, a scene so precisely—and often indignantly—described by wives and lovers that I feel I have an observer’s knowledge. And many of those recounts were strikingly similar to memories of my father, so I form quite a vivid picture of how my day had started.
The deep, steady and liquid rumble falters and then takes up again, but this time with a hesitating rhythm. Then the snore catches in my throat and my mouth slams shut. I purse my lips, swallow and then force a rush of air through my pipes, scouring the phlegm from my throat before flexing my lips and working my tongue over the night’s scum. My eyes shoot open, wide and alert. I roll my head to the radio. 6:05 stares back in bright red, well within my schedule. With a dull smile, I throw aside the covers, whip my feet to the side and sit. Taking a deep breath, I stand, stretch out my arms, then harden my face and do ten deep knee bends before finishing with twenty pushups, mere waking exercises. Years ago, I’d conceded prime fitness to my body’s practical advance. After the last pushup, I spring to my feet and charge for the bathroom, only to jerk to a halt after a few strides, my forehead scored with wrinkles. I snap my head around, scour the bedroom, and then rush out to check the security system. No problems there. I’m not used to being uncomfortable with morning anxiety. It’s a voice that carries useful information, like fresh ideas for nagging problems or warnings of forgotten things, maybe birthdays, anniversaries, overdue courtesies, things like that. Or it signals subconscious readiness. Whatever its character, I’ve cultivated this little fear—a convenient word, not really accurate—for years and welcome its insight. But this is different, or at least it seems to be. I focus on the calendar above my dresser, zeroing in on today’s scrawl. Nothing there concerns me. Reaching to the nightstand, I grab my to-do list. I’ve added a few innocuous notes, but there are no gaps in yesterday’s work. Going to the bottom of the page, I scan the list of long-term projects. I’ve extended some beyond their target and I feel a twinge of self-recrimination. Is it my worsening procrastination? It’s a bad habit, for sure, but, no, that’s not it. I scribble on the bottom of the list: “Stop procrastinating.” I shake my head, drop the list, and then glance at the radio before picking up my watch. They’re synchronized. “Hm,” golf at half past eight, and that’s it. I shut my eyes and groan, rubbing my fingers across my forehead, pressing harder with each pass. “Come on, come on, what is it?” My bladder interrupts and I blow out, “I don’t know,” before hurrying to the bathroom and relieving myself. Stepping into the shower, I decide to ignore the thing, which brings a smile. It’s always good to ignore life’s little naggers. I indulge myself this morning, but when I step from the shower ten minutes later the pestilence is still with me. “Damn it,” I grumble, “what the hell’s bothering me?” Jerking the towel off the rack, I furiously scrub my head, and then start on my back, counting out, “One… two… three… four… and, five. Yea, Jill, exactly five!” She didn’t like my instinct for order and discipline, wouldn’t buy my argument that routines bring efficiency. Next, I rake my armpits, and then attack my legs as I shuffle to the sink. Steadying myself with a hand on the counter, I raise a foot to dry it, but then slam it down and shoot my eyes to the mirror, pursing my lips and growling, “I’ll be damned, it’s that phone call!” Nearly a month ago, someone claiming to be an old friend had called. It had been a brief, one-sided conversation. “Carlton, this is Victoria Goodsen,” she began and then interrupted herself with a loud inhale. Without waiting for me to answer, she breathlessly continued, “We knew each other a long time ago but you’ve probably forgotten. It’s time for you to come Carlton, so please hurry. Remember—oh, you will—I’m near Lamar, Colorado. I’ll be waiting for you.” She had hung up before I could say a word. I had first dismissed it as a prank, but later concentrated on my past, trying to remember her, even reviewing old records. But no friend, lover or coworker in those pictures reminded me of her. I had a name or a good guess for each of them, and no one came close to Victoria Goodsen. If not for the haunting words, “It’s time for you to come,” I would have brushed it off as a joke from a disgruntled person, maybe a former employee. As it was, it took a few days of concentrated effort before I had finally forgotten the call. With angry eyes, I pierce the fog collected on the mirror and mutter at the wispy image, “Now here it is again.” I bare my teeth and snarl, “Forget it, Carlton.” I slap my towel over the rack, spin the hot water handle, soak my brush for a few seconds and then stab the mug of soap with it, spinning it around a few times before finally whipping the bristles over my stubble and raising a rich, white lather. Done with one side, I soak the brush again, but then drop it in the sink and glare at the eyes peeking through the fog on the mirror, muttering, “That’s it!” I march to the study, grab a red marker and hurry back to my bedroom to scribble “DIN J 6” on the calendar. Stepping back, I plant my hands on my hips, break out in a big grin, and shout triumphantly, “Yes!” I had forgotten something: Jim’s dinner invitation, and especially his warning that Joyce had invited a friend. It’s trite matchmaking, but I like Joyce and let her get away with womanly interference. “That’s it,” I breathe, slowly nodding my head. Turning my back on the message, I march back to the bathroom, rattling my head from side to side. “That’s what happens when you don’t write things down, Carlton!” After replacing the dry foam, I complete my shave and head toward the closet, glancing at the clock and grunting. Precious minutes are saved with today’s uniform of slacks and knit shirt, but I’m still behind schedule when I sit at the computer and link in to the University’s system. After confirming that the world is safe for another day, I hustle out the door and drive even faster than usual, keeping my eyes peeled for the cops who lurk in the quiet neighborhood I use as a shortcut. When I finally reach the driving range, I look at my watch and smile. I’m back on schedule. Five hours later, I silently curse my failure to employ the skills I’d displayed three weeks ago. Because of those excellent rounds, my handicap is lower than it’s ever been and I’ve lost money to Jim and the strangers paired with us. Jim tugs at my arm and halts me before we enter the clubhouse, saying, “Let’s drop our bet, Carlton,” and then holds out the twenty dollars I’d just given him. “Hell, no,” I bark. “Listen, Jim, that asshole who raised Cain about my outburst on number twelve just doesn’t understand. I apologized to him, didn’t I?” Jim gives me a quizzical look. “Oh, come on, I did too. I said it wasn’t personal and he shouldn’t get so riled. My anger’s a tool, Jim, just a forceful reminder to prevent mistakes, my mistakes, damn it, no one else’s. Shit, Jim, playing poorly isn’t fun. There’s nothing wrong with a little self-directed intensity.” I turn away and head for the men’s locker room. The rest of my Sunday is a well-worn routine. After golf and a Macallan-heavy lunch at the club, I return home, read the paper, and then work the crossword puzzle before taking an afternoon nap in front of the TV. It’s a practice that gives me the energy for Sunday evening’s work, when I plan the upcoming week, but tonight I’ll skip that for Joyce’s dinner party. I arrive shortly after six and Joyce hustles me into the living room, announcing, “Carlton, this is Linda Fisher.” The woman stands and offers her hand, so I extend a smile and step forward, gently squeezing her hand. A sharp tingle sparks in my palm and raises my skin in tiny welts as it races up my arm. Victoria Goodsen’s words echo in my head: It’s… time... for… you… to… come. Pressure closes my ears and starts them ringing, as the blood flees my face to race down and burn my stomach. I lose my smile and tighten my grip on the woman’s hand. Linda politely smiles, “Uh… Carlton… may I have my hand back?” I narrow my eyes at her, but then dispel the idea that she was responsible. Forcing a smile, I say, “Oh… um, sorry, I got a chill.” I wink and add, “I was captured by your beauty.” Bending at the waist and sweeping my free hand out and then down, I kiss the back of her hand. Jim cries, “What a load of crap, Carlton!” The air, which had been heavy, is eased with titters and then brightens with laughter. “Hey, I was serious! You are simply stunning, my dear.” Linda rolls her eyes and groans. Joyce chuckles. “See? I warned you about him.” She grabs my arm and twists it behind my back. “Now you be a good boy!” “Come on,” Jim urges, taking Linda’s arm and moving down the hall, “let’s get something to eat.” Linda looks over her shoulder and smiles, “Compliment accepted, Carlton.” I struggle in Joyce’s hold. “Well, hey, Linda, let’s blow off these two and—ouch!” Joyce again wrenches up my arm, emphasizing, “That’ll be enough out of you or you’ll get no dinner!” She pushes me ahead of the other two, who have stopped to giggle. As soon as I’m past the others my face goes cold. Jeez, what the hell was that? So, you haven’t forgotten the call after all. Well, don’t get excited. “Forget it,” I whisper between clenched teeth. “What?” Joyce asks, finally releasing her hold. I spin around. “Huh? Oh, nothing. What’s for dinner?” Joyce intones, “Steak… baked potato… and salad… Carlton.” I waggle my eyebrows at her and chuckle. She’s bribing me. Joyce argues that my diet is too rich in red meat, starches and salt, but she also complains that I’m often rude with others, appearing aloof when they’re talking, especially when something doesn’t suit me. The meal ensures that I’m pleasant, attentive company. But frankness is one of my family’s hallmark traits, so I spell out Joyce’s plot for Linda, including an admission that I react poorly to “fancy” meals. This brings on a lively debate concerning the merits of various diets, just the kind of distraction I need. By concentrating on my views and vehemently supporting them, I send Victoria’s call to a dusty recess. After dinner, we retire to the patio and drinks. Joyce opposes alcohol, but Jim and I agree that it’s a social necessity, inviting interesting, unguarded and spirited conversations. That comes naturally to me—conversations in my family have always been marked by intensive, competitive debate—but most people need some support. I abhor polite banalities, which would drive me to the important ball game on TV. Tonight, Jim greedily follows my lead in steering the conversation to meritorious topics. When the discussion on Gorbachev’s upcoming visit is exhausted, Linda takes her turn at moving the conversation. “What do you do, Carlton?” I smile. Joyce undoubtedly told her about me, so I know where she wants to go with the question. “Making some changes, Linda, enjoying a… a temporary retirement. I’m recently divorced… from both a wife and a company.” The group laughs and then devours my bait, discussing work, marriage, values and personal changes. Everyone offers powerful views surrounding the single topic that relates these things, but everyone politely avoids a head-on pursuit. I cough, getting everyone’s attention. “I want to make one clarification to something you alluded to earlier, Linda.” I glance at Jim and Joyce in turn. “Jim, you and Joyce have heard this. I am… not… experiencing a mid life crisis.” Linda smiles, so I add, “Yea, that’s what I thought. Sure, I’m making some changes, but crisis is far from accurate, quite the opposite, in fact. For the first time in my life, I’m enjoying a different perspective on things. Now, I’ll admit I’m not yet sure what I’ll do, but… well, the metamorphosis is still ongoing.” Everyone grins. “But that isn’t a crisis. I’m happy in this state of… oh, flux, I guess.” I search everyone’s eyes, but detect neither challenge nor urge to speak. “Well, I’m happy in this new, tranquil state because—” A blush blooms on my face and steals my words, a family curse that comes too easily to me. I take a deep breath and continue, “Well, because I’m comfortable with my new values. Money and material things, for instance, don’t hold the appeal they once did.” “Oh, come on, Carlton,” Linda interrupts, scooting forward in her chair and spilling some of her drink into her lap. She absently brushes at it, sliding her dress up to reveal most of her thigh. “You quit your job three weeks ago, live in a nice house and have plenty of money. How can you profess to such a change?” I chuckle. I like this girl! She’s spunky and honest, also a bit of a good drinker. I’m wary of women too cautious with their liquor. They’re usually timid in other matters. “I see what you mean, Linda, but I’ve been building up to this for some time.” I scoot to the edge of my seat. “For instance, my regard for employees has changed considerably. The last office I closed sealed that change.” I look to Jim. “When was that, a year ago?” “Yea, ’bout that.” I return my attention to Linda. “Well, I’ll sacrifice some short-term benefits in order to keep good people, even if that pisses off the stockholders.” Sitting back, I draw a smirk and add, “And I sometimes go to the park to read.” Jim’s loud guffaw brings a salute from me, and we both follow with long swallows. Linda says, “Okay, I guess I’ll have to buy that… in spite of the sarcasm,” then shakes her head and flashes a smile before asking, “So what do you want out of life now?” “Hm, let’s see.” I stroke my chin and worry my brow. Linda takes a quick swallow and then reaches out to Jim with her glass, dipping low and giving me a sumptuous view of her breasts. Jim springs up and hurries to the bar. As he pours, we exchange private winks. I face Linda, saying, “Well, like I said, I’m not yet sure what I want out of life, but I’m not rejecting money. I enjoy working… and earning money. But right now, I’m just learning how to relax and enjoy simple pleasures. I want to find out what’s so special about serenity. You know, smell the roses. But I still have to work at it. When I’ve mastered it, then I’ll think about doing something.” Joyce excitedly shouts, “Oh, I know exactly what you mean, Carlton! My whole life changed after I found Jesus.” The surprise remark drops a cloud of silence over the group. Embarrassment marks Linda’s face, while Jim’s is set in anger. I, on the other hand, knowingly smile. Joyce is a born-again Christian and converting others—they usually hide that behind bullshit called witnessing—is important to her. Most people are bored with her litany, but I enjoy the repartee, delight in exposing Christianity’s hypocrisy and belittling its elaborate fantasy. Jim cries, “Oh, please, Joyce, don’t start that again!” I wave him off and lean toward Joyce. “You misunderstand, Joyce. There’s no ethereal or spiritual sense in my views, they’re especially down to earth. Everywhere I look, I view the very essence of life—” I squeeze my fingers together and show the group “—the simple pith of existence.” I sit back and add, “Life’s incredibly complex, elemental power is… well, it’s breathtaking.” Jim huffs, “Jesus Christ, Carlton, that’s deep!” “Jim, watch your language!” Joyce retorts. “You know I won’t stand for that.” I smile at her sharp rebuke. The two are compatible in most things but far apart in their religious views. Fortunately, their rift never deepens because Joyce doesn’t try to convert her husband. Jim represents the doubts his wife harbors, and because his ideas are careless and unpersuasive, Joyce sees her views in triumph. So in a perverse way, Jim’s position supports Joyce’s belief. People ruled by Christian delusions find support in strange ways. “Okay, Joyce,” I offer, “Jesus changed your life. Why is that?” “There’s no sorrow when you have Jesus in your heart.” “I see,” I say convincingly. “Let’s assume Jesus was a real figure.” “Oh, Carlton,” Joyce moans. “All right,” I add with raised hand, “there’s reasonable evidence that someone by that name actually existed, but he’s a pretty shady character.” Joyce purses her lips. “Oh, I don’t mean that in a… well, a mean way. I just meant that He’s not very well developed in the Bible. Too much is left to the imagination, especially about his true character. I mean… well for instance, did he love Mary Magdalene or not? Did they have sex?” I narrow my eyes at Joyce, cutting off any rebuttal. “There’s lots of carnal tales in the Bible, so why couldn’t Jesus be a sensual person? But his character is vague for a good reason. The Bible is a compilation of ancient myths that suited a new monotheistic sect, and then addendum written hundreds of years later added Jesus so the priests could consolidate their power.” I throw Joyce a smile that I hope is more mischievous than sarcastic—I won’t deny my views, but she’s still my friend—adding, “But whether Jesus was real or not is immaterial to my point.” Joyce clucks, a polite, practiced little chirp, and shakes her head. “Carlton. Carlton.” I smile, “Well tell me, Joyce, how can you prove that Jesus wasn’t just some popular shaman, insisting instead that He’s the immaculately conceived Son of God?” “Through faith, Carlton,” Joyce replies with a broad smile. “Faith assures me.” I smile politely. Well, there goes an enjoyable debate. That damnable gibberish does it every time. If you can’t explain it, then turn to faith, a distasteful concept, dangerous to weak people who can’t face reality. Faith is a closure to honest discussion, so I turn to Linda and ask, “What do you think, Linda?” “About what, Carlton?” I smile. Smart girl, she’s not going to take up Joyce’s views. “What do you think about life?” “That’s a broad question, Carlton. I’m not sure I can answer it, but I guess it’s a wonderful mystery some people understand, but most don’t.” I smile, “Yea, mystery. I like that. ‘Complex’ and ‘intertwined’ are two other words that come to mind. Much of what goes on depends on something or someone else, action and reaction, stimulus and—” Linda interrupts, “How about divine intervention?” “Oh, absolutely, Linda, God not only made all this—” Joyce sweeps her hand in the air “—but He laid the plans for all living creatures.” I gush, “Well, He sure keeps them hidden from me!” and then follow with a laugh and a long gulp of Scotch. Joyce doesn’t let my words settle. “Seek and you shall find, Carlton. When I first found Jesus, I was in joyous rapture over His intervention. He cleansed my soul of the foul things Satan had brought into my life and then filled me with His joy. There are dark forces out there, Carlton, ready to consume you, anxious to make you one of Satan’s minions. Only Jesus can save you.” I laugh. “Okay, Joyce, okay. I hear you loud and clear. While I can’t bring myself to believe in a world full of little angels and demons, I guess I do believe in some sort of predestination.” I worry my brow and shake my head. “No, that’s not the right word. We’re all like we are because of some influence or other. I mean… uh, well, you know, who am I and why? But I link it—this master influence—to what I can see and feel.” I stare at Joyce. “You like to think religion is the controlling thing. You are what you are because of God.” “And his Son, Jesus Christ.” “Yea, right,” I mumble, “He’s your guide, but I’m not sure.” I tap my chest. “I think our pattern lies in the complex genetic code carried by all living things. Our lives revolve around primal instincts we’re programmed to follow. And I’m not sure we understand or appreciate how powerful those basic instructions are. That’s our predestination, our divine guidance.” “Yea,” Jim yells, “we gotta screw in order to carry on the species and so we eat just so we have the energy to—” Joyce cries, “That’s enough, Jim! Carlton and Linda are trying to talk seriously.” She scowls at Jim and then gives me a smile, urging, “Go on, Carlton.” Linda picks up the conversation instead. “Too many of us refuse to understand, or… let’s see—” she scratches at her chin. “What’s going on in our life, or the life of those around us, the whole world, in fact, is… well, it’s so complex that we just don’t want to work at understanding it. There’s hidden meanings in everything, well not really hidden, but hard to see because we’re so used to seeing things through our… uh, our usual ways. You know, the way it’s always been. We expect something to be or happen just like it’s always happened, so we overlook the obvious. Most of us actually see different things, reach different conclusions after witnessing the same—” Linda stops and eyes each of us, noting our puzzled looks, and then nervously giggles. “Well? That’s kind of what you guys were just talking about. You know, Joyce is happy with her understanding of Jesus, while others—” she giggles again. “All I know is that you’ll understand it only if you look hard enough, or think you understand at least.” She sags into her chair and takes a long swallow from her drink. I break an embarrassing lull. “So, life is complex and not easily understood, might even be understood differently by equal witnesses. Is that what you mean, Linda?” “Well… yea, I guess.” I add, “But it’s all written out or planned by some almighty source, right? A minute ago, you said you believed in divine intervention. Is divine guidance the same thing?” “Oh, I didn’t say I believed in it, Carlton. I asked you what you thought about it.” “Oh, yea, and I told you my views. Everything has a genetic code that decides how it turns out. Mutations advance it, but the basics stay the same. Life is just a programmed response to simple biological imperatives. Oh, we modern humans gum it up with our complex society—we often demand what we’re incapable of giving—but at its core our existence is very simple. Now if that’s divine guidance, then I guess I have to plead guilty as a believer.” I glance around. “Okay, that’s my view, how about you, Linda?” “Oh, I think we follow other guidance from time to time—intuition I guess. How about you, Carlton, have you ever followed just plain old gut instincts?” Linda’s words slam into my skull and then wind me in a tight, suffocating grip. Sitting forward and tightening my grip on the chair’s arms, I stare her down, working my jaw. How did you know about Victoria Goodsen? Linda blushes and attempts a weak smile, looking around for support. Jim coughs, drawing attention and distracting us from the uncomfortable silence. I ease my grip, then look around at concerned faces and blow out a dry, halting laugh. “Hey, I’m sorry—” I cough “—Linda’s words just caught me by surprise.” I gulp some air, wipe my mouth, then roll my eyes around the room and gather my thoughts. Finally ready, I announce, “Well, speaking of intuition, I had a strange call about a month ago.” I take a deep breath and then rattle off my words, running them together. “A woman claiming to be an old friend wanted me to come for a visit but she hung up before I could say a word. And… uh… well, I couldn’t remember her, don’t know anyone in Lamar, Colorado—that’s where she’s from—so I chalked it up as a prank call. I’d forgotten about it until this morning when it suddenly came back to me.” Taking another breath, I continue more slowly. “And I had the strangest feeling about it, like it was urgent or something. I mean it wasn’t just the strange call anymore. There was a… a serious aura about it.” I laugh and look around to see encouraging expressions. “But I still don’t know who she is and… and, well, it gets worse.” I eye Linda and offer a weak smile. “When I first shook your hand, the call came back to me.” I snap my fingers and add, “All of a sudden. It was a real strange feeling. Goose bumps, shooting up my arm! And your comment about intuition did it again. Bam! It popped back into my head.” Jim laughs. “Damn, Carlton, you’re scaring the poor girl.” “Oh, hey,” I reach over and rub Linda’s knee, “it has nothing to do with you. I know that. It’s just that your words reminded me of the call.” I sit back and sigh. “Now that’s pretty weird, isn’t it? My instinct tells me to obey, to try and find her. But I’ve obviously decided to ignore that crazy urge.” I laugh heartily. “See, that’s an example of those wires in our heads going haywire. Right, Jim?” “Ah yea, sounds loony as hell to me. You should be committed.” Everyone laughs, and then Linda interrupts, saying, “I think you should go find her. You have plenty of time on your hands and the intuition or instinct, whatever you want to call it, is obviously pretty strong.” “Oh, come on, Linda, you can’t be serious,” Jim answers. “What the hell’s he supposed to do if he doesn’t even know who she is?” He turns to me. “Give it a few days, Carlton. You’ll remember who she is. It’s probably some old girl friend who just wants your body and—” “Oh, cut it out, Jim,” Joyce grumbles before looking at me and continuing, “I think you should go, Carlton. Now I won’t say what’s on my mind, because you know what’s in my heart. But seeking answers is always hopeful.” “She’s right,” adds Linda. “It’d be scary to have something like that hanging over you. Give yourself some free reign to settle it. Roam around a little. All you’ve got to lose is a few days of your time.” “Oh, come on, guys,” Jim squeaks. “You can’t be serious! Just wander around? What the he—” He cuts off the curse and looks at Joyce. “What kind of advice is that?” He snorts, “Forget it, Carlton. Don’t listen to these women.” “Oh, I know where she is… sort of. Remember, she said Lamar, well, near there, and she said that I’d remember.” Jim laughs. “Near Lamar… near! Now, what the hell’s that supposed to mean?” He steals a quick glance at Joyce, opens his mouth to add more, but then shakes his head and drops back into his seat. I laugh, “Yea, it does sound kind of strange.” “See,” Joyce breathes, undaunted, “you know where she lives. You should go find her and see what’s bothering you.” “Bothering me? She was the one who was bothered.” I laugh and wave my hands in the air. “Okay, truce everybody! Enough about that, I’ll think about it. Okay?”
The steering wheel jerks in my hand and my eyes widen, showing me a Colorado road in need of attention. I turn the wheel to the left and get all four tires back on the pavement. “Whew,” that was close. I furrow my brow to recall my last thoughts. Oh yea, Linda. I smile. She was a nice piece of ass. I slow the car and catch a familiar street sign. A few blocks later I find what I’m looking for, turn right and relax my vigilance, wondering, have I found Victoria Goodsen?
Chapter 3 – Childhood
It’s already 9:50, so I nudge the pedal down and drum my fingers on the steering wheel, muttering, “Come on, come on, where is it?” Maybe I should have asked the— “Aha!” Here’s the street I’m looking for. I smile. Self-reliance, careful observation and a good sense of direction pays off again. A block after making the turn, I round a bend and slam to a halt, giving the steering wheel a glancing blow and yelling, “Aw shit!” The street empties into an industrial complex, and the feeder rail line blocks streets in all directions. “What a goddamn lousy place for this thing,” I growl between clenched teeth, then scan for cops and make a quick U-turn, squealing my tires. Going back a street, I stop and peek both ways. “Shit, Carlton,” there’s no curbside parking going north, but cars line the route to the south. It’s obvious, heavy traffic goes north, taking it around the obstruction. When I finally reach the motel—after two more wrong turns—I’m seething, aching to have someone answer my complaint. Why in hell would you put an industrial park in the middle of town, blocking so damn many streets? If you’re north of downtown, you’ll waste minutes a day getting to highway shopping and fast-food joints. I step into the room and take a deep breath, vowing to set aside my angry thoughts. I have two rules about anger: let it out to let it go, and subordinate it to sleep. The first rule is obvious and easy to apply, but the second is more difficult. My first marriage introduced the second rule, and ensuing relationships proved its universal application. Arguments with consorts are ambiguous—at best—and they’re interminable. Initially, I bowed to my wife’s insistence, and we kept circling the same old defenses until we dropped from exhaustion. And a foggy head the next day made the quarrel even harder to resolve. I began using a motel room if a dispute carried into the evening. My brothers suggested it—they had marital problems too—and it worked. Fresh and alert the next morning, I argued sensibly and strategically, while she was exhausted and addlebrained. I always peppered my more cogent position with a concession—a trick I discovered on my own—and usually won. Over time, our arguments grew shorter and fewer in number. The rule has served me well ever since. Today’s discovery and unforeseen delays mean it’s almost eleven when I finally pull back the covers, too late to jot down the day’s thoughts and set tomorrow’s schedule. “If I lose anything, well, so be it,” I mumble, turning on my right side and curling up to sleep.
My eyes spring open and I roll my head toward the morning-lit window. Another muffled roar of thunder echoes in the room. I slip out of bed and peer out the window. Angry clouds move in from the southwest, boiling up behind a fore guard of wispy, swirling skirts. These harbingers are close to town and spinning madly, obscuring the storm’s general direction. Will her hill get some well deserved rain? Lightning fractures the distant wall, taking me away from the window and sending me to the shower. It’s time to get my answers. Hurrying through the necessities and damning their bother, I’m standing at the dresser in minutes. Reaching for underwear, I catch sight of my watch and grab it off the dresser, breathing, “It can’t be 7:28!” I launch myself toward the TV and scroll through the offerings, muttering, “Come on, come on,” before finally finding a channel with the time and grunting. There’s nothing wrong with my watch. “Now, how the hell did I sleep so long?” I scramble into my clothes, hurry to the car and dash off to McDonald’s. Without coffee I’ll have a dull headache, and this chain offers a strong brew, unlike the tasteless, watered-down stuff motels offer in courtesy. I want my caffeine to give me a jolt, not a coaxing, and I take it without food, I defiantly note as breakfast aromas invade the car. My wives had incessantly encouraged decaffeinated coffee and a full breakfast, claiming to argue for my health, but I rejected their advice, firmly but politely, firmly so they knew I meant it—still meant it—and politely to avoid a fight. When I step to the counter, the smells have an unusually strong appeal, a bemusing contradiction that I note with a worried brow. But I’ve done the breakfast bit plenty of times in my life, so the urge shouldn’t be surprising. I order, “Large black coffee, please.” “No breakfast this morning, sir?” I frown and size up the young girl, impertinent to suggest that I need her help. Blond and blue-eyed with full, red cheeks, she’s quite comely. And, I note with pleasure, she has a nice chest. I move my eyes back to her face, fast enough to disguise my ogling, but slow enough so the delicious image of full breasts and hard nipples remains. The counter arrested my view just as wide hips emerged from a thin waist, but I saw enough to imagine the rest. I erase my frown and replace it with a smile that’s alluring but not crass, a look I use when I’m unsure of a woman’s age, don’t know if a come-on or a fatherly look is appropriate. I don’t want to eliminate good possibilities but I’m not—well, just once, but unintended—into minors. Jail doesn’t appeal to me. Dismissing a future with the girl, I confront and then again reject the temptation to eat. No, is still my decision. “Okay,” I say, “add a sausage biscuit.” The clerk jabs at her keyboard, mouths some numbers and then turns to the kitchen before I can sound my change of heart. The girl returns, slaps the order on a tray, pushes it forward, and again announces the price. I hand her some bills and she returns my change, sliding the tray a little closer, then smiling broadly and cocking her head to eye the woman behind me. I pick up the tray and shuffle toward a table, brooding with every step, but finally brightening when I reach an isolated plastic table. Sure, I missed dinner last night! “Whew.” I set down my tray and step outside to a row of colored dispensers. Grabbing a Denver Post and greedily scanning the headlines, a nervous disquiet takes me. Working to break lifelong patterns makes me tense, and this one seems indelible. Idle time is the devil’s work—my grandmother’s words—especially during these hours. Morning is precious for industry. I was always the first at work, enjoying more productivity in the hour before others arrived than in the whole day that followed. This—I rattle the newspaper—should be read at night, after a quick meal and polite family obligations, just before the evening paperwork. “Well, keep trying,” I mumble before sitting, but then soon find my thoughts repeatedly racing off to questions about the dead woman before scurrying back and forcing me to reread whole paragraphs. The editorial page finally gives me pause—the Post is full of damn liberals—so I march to the phone. After a short chat with the sheriff, I’m back at my seat. One o’clock, he had said, would be a good time to check in. The autopsy should be completed, and they might even have identification. This morning, they’re taking the woman’s picture to a few key places, hoping someone identifies her. I smile. The sheriff had remarked that it was too late to get the picture in the local’s morning edition, a reminder that he was still suspicious of my story. I spot the clerk smiling at me, so I offer a quick, perfunctory one—I’ve got other things to do, sweetheart—and then focus on some distant point, blurring my eyes to concentrate on the sheriff’s words. “By early afternoon, we’ll be well on our way to putting the woman to rest.” No, Sheriff, she won’t be laid to rest until I get some answers. That must be Victoria. Why else would that nagging sense of urgency be gone? I grimace and then drop my eyes to the paper, forcing them to follow a finger as it traces the text. Half an hour later, I return to my motel room and sit on the bed, squeezing my eyes shut. “Okay,” I see her. Now, where did I know her? Well, where? I open my eyes and yell, “Damn it, I don’t know her!” Bitter gas rises from my stomach and a low buzz sounds in my ears. Leaping to my feet, I slap my thigh. “Well, get out of here then!” I shout to the walls. “Walk away from it. Why shouldn’t you? She was nothing to you!” I start pacing, using a deep inhale to push me toward one end of the room and a mighty exhale to propel me back. Scoring the carpet for minutes, I finally stop and pump my hands. “Okay, just hold it now. Calm down.” Everything will make sense after you look at all the facts. Let’s see. My fingers add up the points. First, there’s the phone call, and then no pictures of her anywhere. There’s Joyce’s friend—point three—the trip, the endless hours of circling the town in ever-widening sweeps, then the road and… and what? Darting my eyes around the room, I grab my keys and squeeze, digging them into my palm. I squint at the near corner, then toss my keys aside and move there, fingering a crack before moving back and critically eyeing the whole room. “This is lousy work, cheap as—” I chuckle. Sure, Carlton, you could do better, you hate working with your hands, couldn’t—but hey, my limitations are no excuse for poor work from experts! If you work for me, you’d better know your stuff, and this guy didn’t know his stuff. Narrowing my eyes and then scanning the walls again, I see brush strokes everywhere. And there—I waggle my finger at the spot—the plasterer’s seams are obvious too. He didn’t sand them well. I move close to the wall and eye its full length, scratching at my chin before breathing, “Aha,” then moving to the other wall, repeating the survey and nodding again. This carpenter didn’t know how to plumb walls, probably relied on the accuracy of the concrete pad, a beginner’s mistake. I picture all the artisans at work in turn, comfortably wielding their tools and doing it right this time, and then slowly shake my head. So much of today’s construction is superficial, nice looking on the outside, but rotten to the core. I rattle my head again and chuckle, “Christ, Carlton, you’re no damn carpenter.” Returning to my pacing, I roll my eyes around the room and knead my hands, finally stopping at the TV. I scoop up the remote control, roll it over and over in my hand, then cock my head and frown, bringing it closer and flipping it over. White letters are carved into a black plate: UNIT WORKS ONLY ON THIS TV. I laugh, then slap the remote back on top of the set, grab my keys and hustle to my car. Within ten minutes, I’m on the highway to her hill. A mile into the prairie from the blacktop, I slow to a crawl, easing down a steep grade and up the other side, making a sharp right turn at the top. After the turn, another dirt road intersects from the north, within sight of where this one has returned to its natural state, making it impassable to my citified car. Stepping from the car, I look up. The advance guard of another storm is on the move, this time holding more closely to the cell. I chart the movements of the low-flying clouds and conclude that it’ll pass to the south. I’m nearly a mile down the road when a prairie dog yelps on my left, calling me to a stop. It’s on top of the tailings surrounding its burrow, pumping up and down on its hind legs. I squat then chortle and whisper, “Vermin exercises.” The rodent doesn’t approve and drops down, bobbing and weaving in jerky, frantic motions. It barks especially loud, then scrapes its chin on the ground and rears up on its back legs to sweep the air with its snout. Several yelps follow, and then a second creature dashes in from the brush. They argue with quick, sharp yaps before diving into the burrow. I shiver, then spin around and raise my hands in guard, but drop them when I only see a hawk perched on a post, keenly eyeing me. The bird squats and then leaps off the post, whipping out its wings and slapping at the air, dropping nearly to the ground before finally lifting. High in the sky now, it wheels back toward me and lowers its head to eye me, turning in slow, tight circles directly overhead. With a long screech, it grows bigger than life and I’m nose to beak with the bird. Huge, crystal black eyes stare at me, its dirty-yellow beak opening and sounding another shrill cry. I squeeze my eyes, and then open them. The hawk is still on the post. I spring to my feet and shudder, muttering, “Damn, Carlton, you’ve got to stop this shit.” I start moving, keeping my eyes trained on the bird, and it does the same, zeroing in on me with eyes that measure a kill from a mile away, jerking its head every now and then to reset its aim. When I’m fifty yards away, the bird emits one long cry before flying to the east and out of sight. I turn forward and then freeze. Just ahead is where I had my sudden premonition, my decision to go to the hill. A quick, violent shudder moves down from my shoulders, shaking my hands and trembling my feet. Slowly turning, I study the land and shake my head when the sweep is complete. There’s nothing unusual about this place, no reason to mark it in anyone’s memory. Before long, the hill is behind me. I have to keep my eyes trained on the deeply-creviced road, so I’m surprised when a house shows in the distance, backed by a steep hill. I stop and smile, but then frown when it registers that it’s been deserted for some time. When I reach the end of the road, I scuff my feet on the remnants of suburban grass, then sigh and turn to the foreboding prairie, so close to what was once a green oasis. A sharp breeze picks sand from the desert and tosses it in my face. I throw up my arm, spin around and wipe my sleeve across my eyes muttering, “Jesus Christ.” The breeze stiffens, bringing even more sand, so I hurry for the protection at the side of the house. Rounding the large cottonwood hiding the north face, I come to a quick stop, staring at the wellhead in back, struck by its similarities to the one at my grandmother’s house. I smile, enjoying the scene that comes to mind. I’m squeezed between my brothers in the big feather bed, feigning sleep until they’re gone and I can prop my elbows on the window sill to enjoy the well’s stories of middle earth. Something moves behind me and I glance nervously over my shoulder, but nothing’s there so I mumble, “Don’t let your imagination get the—” A sharp pain explodes in my stomach, cutting off the thought and shooting out a loud whoosh of air. I stumble to the house, press my back against it and slowly slide down. The pain eases but nausea moves in, so I close my eyes, finding comfort and letting my mind wander.
A small, poor-man’s house on the back of a ridge high above Birmingham, Alabama floats in the air. It vanishes in a flash and gives way to a boat rocking on Pacific waves, carrying me to Japan and my father to the Korean conflict. Paper houses, fish markets, honey pots and colorful kites now swarm over the boat, finally erasing it. I shudder as Japan’s raucous sounds and its small, always-scurrying people join the chaotic fray. Bits and pieces of what I’m seeing jump out for clarification and then recede, to be replaced by another scene and then another, the visions racing forward with dizzying speed before dramatically stopping and centering on my home on the American air base, a modern apartment building. A face flashes by and then comes back, staring at me with coal-black eyes.
A violent tremor rocks me, prying open my eyes to stare again at the Colorado prairie, still awash with spinning sand. How can that be? I was just three, or maybe four, too young to remember more than vague outlines. I close my eyes again and my breathing soon slows.
An oily-skinned Asian, bare to his waist, lights a match, then moves it down and forward, close to my wide eyes. Dark shadows cross his puffy face, which is marred by a wicked scar that’s made one eye a dead, crusty hollow. A giggle to my side turns my head. Another child nudges closer, enthralled with the show. Waving his hand, the man kills the flame, hands me the match book and then ushers us into the closet, saying, “Find the magic, Carlton,” before closing the door. I strike a match, but drop it when the flame explodes. When the fire at my feet dies, I rip off another match, light it and then move it out to arms length, a little too quickly, as the flame flickers and dies. “Ooh,” breathes the young girl, excitedly tapping my shoulder. “More, okay?” I strike another, slowly wave it in the air, and then shake it when the flame reaches the end. Bringing the next one close to the clothes in the closet, my friend squeals with glee as her dresses come alive. I push the match closer and the flame grows, so I jerk it back and blow it out, but some stays with the dress. As the fire crawls up the dress, we find our fright and scramble out of the closet, eagerly searching for the strange man. When we fail to spot him, we run from the apartment and separate in the hall. I head for my mother in front of the building, busily chatting with neighbors, and push my head between her legs, wrapping my arms around them. She groans, pats me on the head and then shunts me to her side. I hug the leg on this side. “Oh, well,” she sighs, patting my head and rubbing it, smiling weakly at her friends. “This one always needs extra attention.” The conversation returns to adult matters, but a neighbor’s shout soon brings a burst of activity, and I’m forgotten, tagging close behind my mother. When the activity dies down, she turns to me, a frown darkening her face, “Carlton, what happened?” Two days later, my father rotates home. I slink into the kitchen when I hear my mother talking about the fire—there was only minor smoke damage—but I’m ordered back to my room. Soon, I hear the distinctive boom of my father’s feet, a forceful, deliberate march to my room that announces justice. I scramble away from the door and sit on the side of my bed. My father administers the belt lashing with no preamble and then leaves after getting my agreement that it was justified. Angry red welts ensure that I’ll never again play with matches.
I open my eyes. The nausea is gone but the pain in my stomach has returned. “Stop it,” I moan. Is this what George feels? No, it can’t be. My brother has an angry stomach, but lacks my self-control. No, George takes after Uncle Wilbur, letting everything provoke a boil, and he keeps it simmering for a long time. Now wrapping my arms around my knees, I squeeze tight, easing the pain. It works, but I still feel a sharp twinge whenever I try to unfold my legs. Well, okay, I’ll just rest here a while longer. My eyes grow heavy.
Tucson springs to life, Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, my father’s first post-Korean assignment after deciding to stay in the Air Force. It was a fantasy world for most young boys, but I was shamed by bedwetting and frequent bouts with strep throat, finally contracting mononucleosis, which sent me to bed for months. Brief periods of strength were followed by more bedridden exhaustion, and I missed the entire fourth grade. Mononucleosis, the doctor said, will have to run its course, but Valium might end my bedwetting. Little was known about the new drug, but my parents agreed to use it and it worked. The bedwetting stopped and mononucleosis gave way to persistent health.
A ponderous boom of thunder echoes across the Colorado sky. I gulp for air and moan as my head drops back against the house.
I’m on the desert floor with a group of friends, waging war with our plastic soldiers and tanks. A gang of older boys approaches, drawing our attention. We’re expected to concede this territory, but I glance at my friends and see determination. We hastily pocket our soldiers and stand firm. They bark the expected order, but we greet it with silence and arms folded across our chests. Our effrontery is avenged as we’re shoved and jostled about before a second order is issued. We move back and crowd together, retaining our defiance, so our competitors launch a fiercer attack, matching our little-boy punches with stronger, practiced blows. Soon, our noses are bloodied and a few eyes puffed to later blacken. Two youngsters run away, but four of us continue to struggle. The older boys get the upper hand and we curl up on the ground, protecting ourselves from a rain of fists and feet, before finally being dragged to the edge of a nearby arroyo and forced to our feet. I’m held fast while my friends are punched and then tossed over the side to tumble down the rocky slope. They take up brave taunts from below, but soon find rocks whistling down from above and they scramble up the far side of the ditch. They’re still within range of missiles, growing in menace, so they race away and hide behind a distant bush. The ruffians shuffle about, yelling at the one still holding me, “Come on and give him a shove!” I’m frozen in an iron grip, my captor forebodingly silent. His compatriot’s exhortations grow even more excited. A voice booms, “Stop!” The others freeze in place, so suddenly that it raises the hair on my arms. “I’m waiting,” sounds ominously in my ear. My skin crawls. The voice was deep, too deep, and it was carried on hot, vile breath. Twisting and turning, I fight with renewed vigor, finally giving a shin a mighty kick. But the legs stay rooted to the ground, as if I’d never delivered the kick. I quiet my struggles, but then a siren splits the air with a deafening wail. It’s the warning that a flash flood is coming, that dry canyons might turn deadly and everyone is ordered from the desert. My struggles grow more desperate, finally giving way to a loud cry, “Let me go!” The other boys join my plea, shouting, “Let him go, we gotta get out of here!” Sand and foam hiss at the leading edge of water building in the arroyo. I let loose a blood-curdling, primal scream of terror. My guard laughs and then licks my ear before whispering, “That’s better, Carlton.” The other boys tug at the arms still holding me and I’m finally released, but a shove spills me to the ground, perilously close to the ditch. I start scrambling away but a foot slams into my ribs and sends me over the bank, screaming and flailing my arms. I hit a small clump of grass and grab at the base, finally slowed enough to set my feet and stop my fall. I look down at the water, swirling close to my feet, and then eye the top of the canyon. Four boys anxiously look down, but the face of the fifth one is unbelievably contorted, with muscles straining in all different directions, the mouth set in a sneer that crooks the lips several times as it passes over the teeth. Viscous, brown drool spills over the chin while a thick, bulbous tongue lavishes long, sharp teeth. Ropes of oily, black hair fall down and shadow eyes sunk deep, too deep into the skull. Those beacons focus on me, hard and cold as death, swallowing me in a wicked glare. A wide grin replaces the sneer and brings a hoarse cackle. The evil thing raises its eyes to the sky, shakes its head from side to side and roars with laughter, inhumanly loud and resonant. I scream again, recoiling around my hold but unable to divert my eyes from this thing. It spins around and walks away, the four boys soon scurrying after it. I crawl out of the arroyo, scurry away from the edge and then anxiously eye the departing group. When they disappear, I collapse to the desert floor, giving myself a few minutes to recover before dashing for home. My delay in arriving after the siren sounded is noted and the evening’s lashing administered as due, this time more severely since I’d tried to excuse my behavior with a story about a gang of older boys.
I open my eyes, then mutter, “Huh?” and close them again, asking, what was that? But I can’t recapture the troubling thought, so I shrug my shoulders, brush the dirt from my pants, and move away from the house to study it. “Did you live here, Victoria?”
Chapter 4 – Young Girl
The prairie is unequal to the task of accommodating both uncommon moisture and bright, morning sun, so a dull fog surrounds the house with the hill at its back, blurring it so distant viewers see it as surreal.
“Grandfather, can I be as tall as you?” The old man looks down, smiles and returns to his work. “No, I don’t expect you’ll want to be as tall as me. Things are easier for those a little shorter.” Every word was a measured dose, carefully rolled out in deep, mellow tones from a tanned and withered face. Coarse, black hair, lightly sprinkled with gray, is pulled back in a ponytail and wound tight with a red bandana. The man’s eyes are sharp and blue, suggesting that age hasn’t dulled his wisdom. He softly grunts as he makes the last turn of the screw. “There. That’s done.” The young girl follows him to the front door, holding out her arms and pleading, “Grandfather?” The old man turns and smiles, saying, “Okay” before reaching down to lift the child. Now raised high enough, she reaches out, flips the switch and squirms around to look at the man’s work. The new porch light glows bright amber, lighting the girl’s smiling face. She revels in all his handiwork, remembering his words on such things: your head builds visions and your heart measures all things, but a person handcrafting worthy things from earth’s bounty is truly gifted. “Good as new,” announces the man, setting the girl down. “Now you run along and get your lessons done,” he orders, softly patting her rear. The girl smiles but doesn’t move. “But why would anything be hard if I were tall? You can do lots of things I can’t. Please, Grandfather, I want to know why it’s not good to be tall.” The man chuckles, a low rumble made rich and meaningful by chords brittle with age. Squaring his eyes on the precocious five year old, he cocks his head, then purses his lips in a half-smile and opens his hand. The youngster places hers in his weathered palm and watches intently as his thick, brown fingers gently fold over, finally hiding her hand. He leads them to the swing at the end of the porch. The curly-headed tot pushes back the seat while tilting down the front edge. When it’s lowered to her liking, she spins around and jumps on, kicking out her feet to keep the seat swinging as long as possible. The man waits for it to finally settle before meeting the young girl’s eyes. Both offer wide, knowing smiles, and then he joins her on the swing. “Lots of things,” the old man begins, “are made that depend on how high a person stands or even sits. Take this swing, for instance. See this chain?” He reaches over and fingers it. Coming down from the ceiling, it forks about a foot from the seat so it can be secured at both ends of the armrest. “Now look up where it hangs from the ceiling.” The girl obeys. A large hook pierces one link while others hang loose. She turns and looks at the chain anchoring the other end of the swing, a similar arrangement, and then again studies the one above her grandfather’s head. “Yes, Grandfather, I see.” “Well, I could reach up and unhook it.” He animates the effort. “And then, make the chain longer. Now, what do you think would happen if I did that?” The girl smiles, answering, “The swing would be lower to the ground,” but then follows with a frown and adds, “But Grandfather, you have to lower both sides or the swing would be crooked.” Tilting back his head, the man lets out a laugh that fairly sings of his love for this uncommonly bright child. “That’s right. But let’s say I did the same to both ends. What then?” Her face screws up in puzzlement, but only for a brief moment before a smile breaks open and she says, “Your legs would be bent uncomfortably.” A serious look replaces the smile and she adds, “So most of the swings in the world are set for people who aren’t as tall as you, Grandfather?” “Well, not exactly, but that’s very—” His eyes turn to the distraction at the front door. An old woman leans around the screen, stares hard at the two seated on the swing, and then raises an arm to study her watch. Now dropping it, she focuses on the girl, slowly shakes her head, and then retreats into the house, quietly closing the door behind her. The girl leaps from the swing and races to the head of the steps at the front of the house. She stops, crouches low and then pushes her arms back, straining mightily. As her arms swing forward, she springs up and out, clearing the steps by a wide margin. Landing solidly, she turns and waves at the man, announcing, “See you later, Grandfather,” before spinning around and running across the yard. The man’s face sags as the child crosses the last of the hard-fought lawn, jumps the bordering ditch and races off into the prairie. When she’s out of sight, he turns his eyes to the front door, his face lost in a dull stare. The window curtain near the man’s shoulder parts ever so slightly and a nose pokes through. Dark, glowering eyes peer out at the back of the man’s head, but his attention never turns from the door. The woman pushes her face close to the window and looks to the other end of the porch. With a quick nod of her head, she moves back, and the curtain falls closed. The old man turns to look at the window, and then slowly shakes his head from side to side, mumbling, “This can’t go on.” He squares back around, closes his eyes and tilts back his head, sadness scouring his face. The young girl stops running only after a hill looms near. Winded, she places her hands on her hips and bends over to catch her breath. When her panting slows, she arches her head to look up the steep incline and plan her route through the maze of sagebrush and cactus. Something catches in the corner of her eye and she rolls her head to the left. A lizard hides in the shade. She drops to her knees, inches closer to the creature and then stops within a foot of it. Opening her right hand, she places it near the ground, turns the palm to face the creature, and eases it forward. As the palm closes, her left hand moves in from the rear. With lightning speed, she grabs the lizard from behind. The reptile scratches and wiggles and bobs its head up and down in quick jerks before finally quieting. Raising the animal within inches of her face, she gently shakes it. “Hello, Mr. Lizard, it’s a nice day to be in the shade, don’t you think?” She lowers her hand and releases the captive, smiling broadly as it darts off, wagging its rear for top speed. The girl hops to her feet, runs to the base of the hill and then launches into her climb, soon crawling on hands and knees because of the steep pitch. Half way up, while moving blindly around a large sage, she freezes her hand in midair, missing a patch of cactus by inches. With a sharp gasp, she scrambles to the left, frantically rubs her palms across her thighs and then secures them in her armpits, all the time keeping an earnest watch on the brown-splotched clump of thorns. Her eyes go wide and she steals a careful look down and to the left, where another needle-infested cluster stretches its limbs just inches from her leg. She squeals and jumps to the right, then springs forward and continues scrambling up the hill. At last reaching the hilltop, she hurries to an opening near a stand of tall grass and sits. With a little squirming, the loose soil affords a comfortable seat and she closes her eyes, bringing her palms together and then raising her elbows as far as possible, straining her fingers. She pants purposefully for a minute and then measures her breathing, slowly expanding the inhaling and exhaling before finally sounding a soft, rhythmic hum. Minutes pass, with the soft rustling of her hair the only movement, and then a giggle explodes from her mouth. She slaps a hand over her mouth, says, “Oops,” and then repeats her earlier movements. Soon, the hum returns to her lips. Thirty minutes later her eyes shoot open and she scoots around to stare at the nearby grass. A locust crawls into the open and then stops, studying her. Her eyes widen as the creature takes wing without warning, flying right at her. She springs to her feet and bats it down, but it rights itself, scoots around to face her, and then launches again. This time, the girl snatches it out of the air, closes her fist around it and shakes hard before racing to a nearby rock and throwing the locust against it, breaking its skeleton. Bringing her foot down on the cripple, she grinds it into the dirt and then flips it aside with her shoe, staring intently at it. A loud buzz sounds behind her. She turns and raises her arms, but a locust makes it into her hair. Frantically combing her fingers through the curls, she finds the thing, flings it down and grinds it into the sand beside its brother. A triumphant smile crosses her face when she brushes them together with the toe of her shoe, but then she erases the smile and spins around to face the grass. A horde of locusts spills into the open, setting up for attack. Setting her face in a scowl, the girl spreads her legs and balls her hands into fists. The locusts take wing and throw themselves at her en masse. Dozens crawl across her body, feeling at her skin with soft mandibles and leaving their spittle. Her hands swat, brush and grab as many as possible. When she catches one, she slaps her hands together, throws it down and goes for another. As the numbers still clinging to her body grow small, she starts stomping her feet to crush the insects crawling on the ground. The battle still rages, but her face slowly turns from a determined grimace to a broad grin, and the bodies pile up at her feet. As suddenly as they’d come, the survivors crawl away from the girl, then form up twenty yards away and scurry about, crawling over everything in their path, even each other, before finally rising into the air and flying out of sight. The young girl raises her hands and grimaces at the stains left by her kills before rubbing them off against her jeans. She bends over and roughs her hair, shaking her head from side to side, raining down body parts, and then straightens, brushing her shirt as she shuffles to the base of a large sage. She plops to the ground and issues a tiny sigh before starting to hum, a monotonous buzz. Several minutes later, she says, “Legs,” then draws them up and close together before moving her knees apart and breathing, “Arms.” She spreads out her arms in a lazy arc and lodges her elbows against the pad of skin pushed out beside her buckled knees. “Fingers,” she breathes, dancing them in the air before gently touching them together and whispering, “Hands.” She moves her hands together at the palms and rests her forehead on the platform formed by her thumbs and forefingers before pushing the knees together while resisting with her arms. A soft, thin grunt echoes from her chest. Closing her eyes, she sucks in long breaths through her nose and then blows them out through lips curled into a circle. For nearly thirty minutes, the small girl is immobile, save for the rise and fall of her chest and the faint rustle of her lips. Her hands and face slowly redden as sweat forms on her upper lip. When the first bead moves out and down to her chest, she opens her eyes and leaps to her feet, grumbling, “Oh, darn!” She huffs and stomps her feet, then shrugs and breaks out a wide, joyful beam before bounding from the hill. Pushing through the door, she stops and yells, “Grandfather!” The old woman comes instead, stopping in the kitchen doorway to carefully eye the child. Wringing her hands on her apron as she moves forward, her face slowly builds into a scowl. She stops in front of the girl, then grabs her shoulders, turns her to rudely brush her back several times and then faces her forward, demanding, “What happened?” “Locusts, Granny, locusts attacked me.” “Victoria!” “They did too!” That brings an angry look from the woman. The child smiles weakly. “But Granny, I finished all my lessons.” The old woman shakes her head, says, “Let’s go,” and marches to the stairs. On the third step, she stops and turns to look at the girl, a scowl on her face. “Well? Take those things off and come on.” The youngster frowns, then brightens wistfully when she searches the side rooms, and finally deadens her face to eye the stairs. A second later, she produces a bright smile, strips off her clothes and then marches toward the old woman.
Strong mid-morning winds wash over the prairie, racing away from the mountains to the west and scattering the haze, leaving the dilapidated house to stand lone sentinel in the blazing sun.