Cards of Love: The Hermit

by Cora Brent

  Five years.

  Five lonely years since I’d touched a woman, since I’d felt the sweet agony of tender skin, since I’d taken pleasure deep inside a soft body and gave it in return.

  I stayed out there until the position of the heavens indicated it was after midnight then I sought my lonely bed, hoping I’d fall into a dreamless sleep.

  And now I knew her name. D.C. Paskevich. I’d learned that much from Betty Grable today. For once I listened when Betty chattered away as she rang up the box of supplies I’d picked up in her store. Betty had taken a motherly interest in me ever since I arrived here, broken and inconsolable, and although she was aware of my past she was kind enough not to mention it every time we ran into each other.

  Today she wasn’t willing to let me go without an inquiry and I felt a little bad as I lied to her.

  No, I hadn’t seen anyone arrive yet at the old O’Hara place.

  No, I wouldn’t be going over there to introduce myself.

  Betty seemed disappointed that I wasn’t more interested in the arrival of D.C. Paskevich. There weren’t many of us living in a twenty mile radius of Prickly Flats and the appearance of someone new was unusual. But except for the Grables, who cheerfully ran their little tourist trap and greeted everyone like a long lost relative, everyone tended to keep to themselves. We wouldn’t be living in such a forbidding place if we wanted company. I wasn’t alone in my reclusive habits and most of the folks scattered around here living private lives were harmless. But not all of them. I was sincere in my warning to D.C., that she ought to cover her windows. There were some really good reasons to be wary of people who skulked in the desert shadows.

  I parked my truck in its usual spot and looked east, toward the mountains. The sheer vastness of the wilderness was deceptive from down here. Among the rocks and brush there were thousands of places where it was possible to get lost forever. And sometimes people did. Sometimes they went up there chasing something they were never meant to find, whether it was isolation or a fabled gold mine. Every once in a while there would be a discovery of a body. A lost hiker who’d been overcome by heat. A murdered prospector who’d been searching for riches. This was a beautiful place if you respected it properly. And if you didn’t, the consequences could be deadly.

  My gaze traveled away from the mountainous scenery and toward the shallow crest that hid the boxy little O’Hara house. The place D.C. Paskevich now lived wasn’t far at all. When a pair of Minnesota snowbirds rented the place for the winter two years back I could easily hear them shouting back and forth because the man was hard of hearing thanks to all the years he spent beside deafening plane engines in the Air Force. If I heard someone run into trouble over there I could be on the scene in probably twenty seconds.

  But that was if I heard.

  Plenty of things could happen before anyone got a chance to scream. The idea made me uneasy. I wondered if D.C. owned a gun. If not, this might be a good time for her to consider getting one.

  A bead of sweat trickled down my scalp and I was reminded that I had things to do other than sitting in my truck and brooding over my pretty neighbor. Last week a ferocious thunderstorm had unleashed flooding that damaged the fence surrounding the chicken coop. I’d rigged up a temporary solution but I needed to work on getting the posts secured. Hungry coyotes roamed at night and knew how to find weak links.

  I briefly stepped inside to fill my half gallon container with drinking water and got to work. The chickens were milling around and I greeted them in soothing tones before offering up a few treats. After two hours under the broiling afternoon sun I had to concede that the damage to the fence was worse than I thought. Four of the posts were cracked and likely wouldn’t last through another round of fierce winds. Luckily we were at the end at the summer storm season. But I’d either need to scavenge for replacement posts or drive down to civilization. Since I never ventured past Prickly Flats if I could help it I opted for scavenging. There were some abandoned homesteads around that had been left alone for years, decades even. Chances were I could find what I needed.

  But that could wait until tomorrow.

  Today I wanted to scrub the dirt off my skin, heat up some dinner and take a look at the shipment of books I’d picked up this afternoon from Betty.

  Later, when the air cooled, if I decided to set off on a night hike I’d take care to travel in the opposite direction from the old O’Hara house. I was already having a tough time evicting D.C. Paskevich from my head. Hopefully she’d figure out how to keep her windows covered from now on. In case she didn’t, the sight of her body wouldn’t do either of us any good so it was best to just avoid her. Once upon a time I’d been the epicenter of the crowd and I knew how to talk to anyone.

  But since then I’d forgotten how to behave.

  I wasn’t the man I used to be.

  That man wouldn’t even recognize me.

  Chapter Three

  DEIRDRE

  Maybe Jeremy Gannon was able to find everything he needed on the shelves of Burgers/Souvenirs/Museum but I wasn’t so lucky. After leaving the company of Betty Grable I took the road out of the desert and drove twenty five miles toward suburbia where I gave my credit card a workout at the first Target I found.

  Out there in the parking lot I cranked up the air conditioner and searched through my phone, absorbing everything I could on the Tulsa Kid. It was difficult to reconcile the images of the vibrant young boxer to the gruff, inscrutable man I’d met this afternoon. The striking green eyes were the same and that was all. When I came across the details of Jeremy Gannon’s family tragedy my heart softened. Jeremy’s parents, his brothers, his extended family and his fiancé, all lost in an instant.

  “The day after the funerals the Tulsa Kid announced his retirement from the sport where he was already a legend. He has avoided publicity ever since and remains out of the public eye.”

  Indeed, the desolate spot at the foothills of the Superstitions was about as far removed from the public eye as possible. He must have chosen to live in such seclusion for that reason.

  I tossed the phone in my purse and turned my mind toward my work as I headed back to Dead Horse Way. I had no excuse to spend much time thinking about Jeremy Gannon. He hadn’t exactly radiated friendliness.

  Then again I’d come to this dusty place for a reason and that reason had nothing to do with a mysterious recluse, no matter how ripped and sexy he might be. Like Jeremy, once upon a time I’d suffered my own devastating tragedy. But that was irrelevant. Jeremy and I wouldn’t be hanging out together and commiserating over our sad histories. For all I knew today’s conversation might be the longest one we’d ever have.

  Twilight was settling once more when I returned to my little rented home. My first task was to peel the adhesive from the paper accordion shades I bought and stick them to the windows. It would do the trick until I could find a more permanent solution.

  Once I was satisfied that tonight no one would be able to see me sitting at the kitchen table and eating some Chef Boyardee right out of a can I was able to relax. I hauled out my laptop and browsed through the notes accumulated through months of research. I’d looked at thousands of pictures of the mountains and the barren wilderness surrounding them. When I was still on the other side of the country I’d imagined myself in the middle of this landscape and assumed I had a feel for the place. Now that I was here I wasn’t so sure. It hadn’t seeped into my bones, not yet. I needed to go out there and breathe in the desert.

  A sudden yawn overcame me. Breathing in the desert would have to wait. I needed one more solid night of sleep before I could concentrate.

  Before I turned in for the night I stepped outside, marveling over the temperature difference between night and day. The air wasn’t cool but it was downright pleasant compared to the punishing heat of midday.

  A flurry of coyote yips from deep in the unseen brush reminded me that I wasn’t alone. Dozens of creatures native to this environment were likely prowling around
right now, perhaps in the company of a certain green-eyed bearded man.

  Blinking, I tried to get my eyes accustomed to the darkness. There was no moon and other than the warm glow from my small home, no man made lights were in sight. I wished I’d asked Betty exactly where Jeremy Gannon lived. She’d said he was close. But I suspected in these parts that could mean he was two miles away or just on the other side of the nearest hill. In the daylight I hadn’t noticed anything resembling another house. Then again, I hadn’t looked very hard beyond the dirt road that led to my front door.

  A shiver rolled up my spine as another cascade of howling began and I retreated inside, locking the door behind me. Ten minutes later when my head hit my pillow I felt unsettled although I didn’t know why. I was exactly where I wanted to be and I had everything I needed. Maybe the feeling came from something else, a vague prediction that my dreams would be painful.

  And yes, they were painful indeed.

  He laughed when I told him not to go.

  “I’ll only be away for two days,” he assured me, planting a gentle kiss on my lips. Everything about him was like that. Gentle. Trusting. Sweet. That was why he didn’t recognize people who weren’t.

  “It’s dangerous,” I insisted as I tried to hug him close. “They are dangerous.”

  But he wouldn’t listen.

  He couldn’t listen.

  He’d vanished.

  My arms were suddenly empty and I was in the dark. I reached out blindly and felt nothing. I shouted his name and received no answer. I began to sob as I stumbled along and my foot kicked something soft, something terrible. I knew it was terrible before I saw it. There was a click, like a switch being flipped, and a light from somewhere beyond showed me I’d been right. It was something terrible.

  “You should have known,” said the voices that stood behind the light, voices that blended together and were completely familiar to me. I could pick out each one with ease. I’d heard them all my life.

  “You should have known what we’d do,” they said and they were right. I should have known.

  I dropped to my knees and tried to cradle my lover’s body one last time, even though I knew he’d already left it behind.

  But there was nothing there.

  I was already alone.

  The sound of my own voice crying out might have been what woke me up. My cheeks were wet as I sat up in bed and blinked at the light filtering through the makeshift curtains. I’d slept longer than I’d meant to. It was after nine a.m.

  After standing under a lukewarm shower long enough to dispel the cobwebs of my nightmare, I dressed and sat down to a breakfast of toast and dried apple slices. I chewed while browsing through my notes and remembered last night’s resolve to get to know the area better, to inhale the scent beneath the ruthless sun. Somehow I felt I couldn’t bring the place to life with words until I understood it. And I might as well start with my immediate surroundings.

  I wasted no time filling my bright blue steel water bottle and stuffing it into a long suffering backpack that had been with me with since college. I added a notebook and a few pens in case inspiration struck while I was out wandering. After dressing in a loose white t-shirt and a pair of board shorts, slathering on a healthy amount of sunscreen and sticking a Yankees baseball cap on my head I was ready to go. I didn’t plan on being gone for more than an hour and there was no point in showering before a hike.

  I locked the door to the little house I’d already grown very fond of and stepped out into the Sonoran desert. I was expecting it to be hot and it was. Mindful of the perils of the heat, I double checked the state of my water supply and was satisfied that the bottle was full. Anyway, I wasn’t planning on going far.

  Small creatures scurried around in the dry brush at my approach. I was pleased to recognize many of the native plant variations I’d read about. Here was a mesquite tree. There was a cholla cactus. Over there a creosote bush. Every time I lifted my eyes I felt a thrill at the sight of the Superstitions. These mountains had been the focus of so many stories and legends. Many of them might be untrue but that didn’t stop people from being drawn into their orbit, sometimes with deadly consequences.

  My footsteps left few marks in the dry crust that covered the ground. I stepped over rocks and an errant fallen branch while trying to soak in the landscape. Once I glanced over my shoulder to be sure I had my bearings but the terrain was dotted with small hills that obscured the little house. I thought I saw a glint of sunlight reflecting off metal and figured it was probably my car. As I soldiered on I was confident that I knew where I was, that I could find my way home again.

  Half an hour later I realized I was wrong.

  My mind had wandered as I walked, musing over some of the stranger stories I’d read about these mountains. Some people said that somewhere in this range there was a cosmic vortex that lead to other realms. Others insisted that beneath the largest peak lived a colony of extraterrestrials that resembled giant lizards. They were just stories. But then again, maybe that’s what we all were on some level. Just stories.

  Somewhere in the middle of that revelation I realized I’d been walking for a long time. Other than the mountains there was nothing familiar in sight, no hint of humanity anywhere. It seemed like I’d wandered off course from my original path. A vague sense of unease settled over me. That sense sharpened when I reached for my water bottle and discovered only a few ounces remained.

  I swallowed the rest of the water and paused to take stock of my surroundings. I couldn’t have traveled very far. My view of the mountains wasn’t much different than when I started. If I backtracked through the sand and brush then I’d surely run into the house or at least the dirt road that would help me get an idea where I was.

  Or I might just wander in circles until being overcome by heat and exhaustion. No one would think to look for me anytime soon.

  My uneasiness grew.

  How long would it take a body to become a bag of bleached bones, just another soul claimed by this desert?

  “You fucking idiot,” I muttered and tried to take a calming breath.

  Pulling out my phone, my worst fears about the lack of reception were confirmed. A call to the local police department wouldn’t even go through. There was no other option but to keep going. With every step my heel now chafed against my tennis shoes and I wished I’d taken the time to pull on some socks. I could feel new blisters forming with every step.

  Briefly I cheered up when I thought I saw a familiar mesquite tree but when I stood beneath its branches and looked around nothing else stood out. It occurred to me that at this time I was more alone than I’d ever been in my entire life. From a physical perspective at least. Isolation of the heart didn’t count.

  The sudden and unmistakable rattling noise stopped me in my tracks. I’d never heard it for myself before but I knew exactly what it was. My brain summoned a paragraph I’d read about what to do if you encounter a rattlesnake.

  Do not move suddenly.

  Do not jump.

  Do not run.

  But then the sound came again and out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark shape coiled in the dirt six feet away. My reaction was automatic. I jumped back with a gasp. And then I ran like hell, cutting my shins on the spiny plants that crawled out of the sand and once rolling my right ankle enough to make me stumble and scrape my knee on the ground before staggering to my feet. By the time I stopped running I was panting and sweaty and my ankle was throbbing while a trickle of blood rolled down my leg. I was sure I’d left the snake behind. Unfortunately I was also more lost than I had been before.

  Cursing again, I hauled out my water bottle only to realize I’d finished drinking its content moments earlier. The panic kept mounting. I had to calm down and think. I was still facing away from the mountains, traveling in the same direction I’d originally come from. The house couldn’t be very far. In fact I’d probably see it as soon as I topped this small hill right in front of me.

  I was
half right.

  As I painfully limped over the hill I saw a house. It just wasn’t my house.

  In fact it wasn’t much of a house at all. It was a plain rectangular structure that was nearly the same shade as the dirt beneath my feet. But there were signs of habitation. A tiny garden plot covered with shade screen. A small animal pen. A wooden rocking chair that looked ready for the dumpster.

  My vision blurred for a moment and I hoped it wasn’t a mirage. But when I blinked hard the house was still there. I was still panting and my throat was bone dry and coated in dust. I needed water. I needed to sit down. I limped over to the house like a wounded animal, hoping like hell the resident would be kind.

  Even with my limited country knowledge I guessed that the small structure surrounded by a crude rectangular fence was a chicken coop. The chickens were not in sight but it made sense they must have sought relief in the shade of the coop. I didn’t blame them. I was thirsty enough to drink out of their metal water trough, germs be damned. But I didn’t. Instead I knocked on the door. The cabin was small, even smaller than the one I was staying in. It was square and utterly utilitarian with tiny windows and an aluminum roof.

  “Hello?” I called when my banging produced no response. “Hello?”

  There was no sound but the clucking of some unseen chickens. Impulsively I tried the door and was startled when it opened.

  “Anyone here?” I shouted into the dim interior. “I just need some water please.”

  The decor gave new meaning to the word ‘rustic’. I glimpsed a table and chairs fashioned from large pipe spools that must have been discarded. There was a battered stove that looked like it might have rolled off an assembly line in the Model T era. Two cast iron pots hung above it and an array of canned goods lined the narrow shelves to the right.