Gray Magic

by Sarah Dreher

  Beale is also hip-deep in history. There's a crumbling Cavalry Fort west of town, from which originated a score of Indian massacres and which is visible in winter when the prairie grasses die back. Two of the local boys fought in the South Pacific in World War II. One came home, the other stayed in San Diego. After some heated discussion, it was agreed that anyone who preferred California to Beale must have been driven mad by the war, and his name appears on the plaque at the Town Hall, which is also the Post Office, police station, and barber shop.

  In' 47 the mayor caught his wife in bed with a traveling salesman (bathroom fixtures), shot them both, and ran two successful re-election campaigns from the County Jail. A family named Clark once owned a farm nearby which burned to the ground under mysterious circumstances. The 1958 high school basketball team made it to the state quarter-finals and managed to score twelve points against the team from Holbrook, down the road. Ethel Boyd’s Rhode Island Red once laid an egg with three yolks. In the late 60s a band of hippies camped for a while at the edge of town - but nothing was happening, man, and they moved on.

  Nowadays there's plenty going on in Beale. You can get a decent meal at the Waldorf Cafe, or a quick sandwich at the Rexall counter. The Episcopal Church holds a bingo night once in a while, which causes the Mormons to accuse them of 'turning toward Rome'. A couple of real estate agents have moved in, but nobody knows why. You can go down to the county seat and watch the local lawyers sue each other to keep in practice. Now and then somebody claims to have heard about somebody who spotted a descendent of Beale's camels out on the prairie. Since the story is usually told well after eleven p.m. on a Saturday night at the Sheepherder Tavern, that remains an unconfirmed rumor.

  Every afternoon about four, the dry wind rises and moves the waxed paper wrappers around a bit.

  Stoner pulled into the IGA parking lot and cut the motor. 'Want to start loading, or should we see the sights?"

  "From the looks of it," Gwen said, "we can see the sights without leaving the parking lot. Cute little place."

  "Another in our endless succession of small towns," Stoner said as she slid to the ground. "It can't be worse than Castleton, Maine, can it?"

  "If you want to see real small-town life," Gwen said, "some day I'll take you to Jefferson and parade you in front of the crowd at the A and W Root Beer stand. All the girls 1 grew up with will die of envy."

  "Or shock." Stoner filled Tom Drooley's water dish from the emergency canteen and woke him up long enough to tell him to "Stay! Guard!” - which he probably didn't understand - and left him with his legs dangling over the tailgate. She locked the truck cab and pocketed the keys.

  "Sure you want to do that?" Gwen asked. "The locals might be offended if you lock."

  "If I were a teenager," Stoner said, "and lived in this town, I would steal this truck."

  "And Tom Drooley?"

  "And Tom Drooley."

  She stepped out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street. Across the way, someone in a second floor apartment raised a dark green shade and peered out. Gwen waved. A figure in gray cotton bathrobe and pink foam rubber curlers waved back.

  Stoner squinted against the light, felt the breeze finger her hair, smelled dust and tar. Down the street, a cluster of men in patched Levi's lounged in front of the Sheepherder and tossed pebbles at a parking meter. A black and brown mongrel dog browsed through litter in the gutter until one of the men threw a rock at it and it skulked away, casting dark looks over its bony shoulder.

  Gwen paused to examine a 4-H exhibit of quilts and aprons in the bank window.

  "Look at that sky," Stoner said. "I wonder what it'd be like to make love under that sky."

  "Roomy, I expect," Gwen said. "Also hot."

  “I meant at night." She ran her hand along the sun-warmed stucco wall. "This place is like something out of a movie, isn't it?"

  "You mean that one where the kid wants to go to New York and study art, but his father wants him to stay home and run the Feed and Grain business, and the mother ran off with a no-good cowboy and is living a life of pregnancy and oppression in Mexico while the cowboy drinks himself to death. Then the brand-new, blonde, anorexic schoolteacher shows up ... "

  "No," Stoner said. "The one where five murderers break out of jail and terrorize the town until this high school kid-who really wants to be a physicist but can't afford to go to college-sets up these special effects with lasers made from old telephone wires and soda straws, and explosives that are really all the pressure cookers in town rigged to boil dry and blow up simultaneously so the murderers think they're surrounded."

  “What I really had in mind," Gwen said, "was the one about the schoolteacher who has a falling out with her family over the woman she's in love with, and runs away to Arizona..." Her voice caught.

  Stoner touched her. "Gwen, it'll be... it'll be..."

  "All right?" Gwen laughed bitterly. "If you can predict how this one will turn out, you can go into the fortune-telling business." She leaned her head on Stoner's shoulder. "Can we get a lemonade?"

  Stoner kissed the top of her head gently. "Goodnight's Rexall is on Stell's forgot list. Want to check it out?"

  The inside of the drug store was cool and smelled of marble and cherry syrup. A soda fountain ran along one wall, shelves of over-the-counter medicines and magazines along the other. A fan turned lazily in the ceiling. At the back, a pair of giant apothecary jars-one filled with red water, one with yellow-marked the limits of the pharmacist's territory. A skinny young man in a stained white uniform lounged against the soda fountain counter reading a Marvel comic. He glanced up indifferently, took one look at Gwen, and snapped to attention. "Get you something?"

  "Iced tea," Stoner said as she swung up onto the stool.

  "Lemonade," Gwen said. "Easy oil the sugar."

  "You folks ain't from around here," he said as he put the glasses down.

  "That's right," Stoner plucked a straw from a stainless steel and glass container.

  "Passing through?"

  “We're staying with the Perkins'," Gwen said. "At the trading post at Spirit Wells."

  "Mrs. Perkins is swell," he said, tossing a lock of sandy hair from his forehead. "But that rez is dead. You oughta go see the Grand Canyon."

  "I'm sure we will," Gwen said.

  "I mean it. The rez is the deadest place I ever saw."

  Unlike Beale, Stoner thought. A veritable beehive of activity.

  "It's a change," Gwen said. “We've never seen a reservation, dead or alive."

  "Nothin' but wind and dust and Indians."

  "I think it's pretty, in a strange way. I never knew dirt came in so many colors."

  "It's about what we expected," Stoner added. “What do you do for excitement in town?"

  "Not much," the boy said. "But at least we got TV."

  "Cable?"

  "Naw." He pouted. “We keep tryin', but nobody wants the franchise. Not enough population out here."

  "Yes," Stoner said, "I see the problem."

  "Television," Gwen put in, "rots your brain and stifles your imagination."

  The boy scowled. "Jeez. You sound like a school teacher."

  "I am."

  “Where at?"

  "Boston."

  He brightened. "Hey, Boston. They got a lot of crime there, right? Mafia and stuff?"

  So this is what happens to kids in small towns, Stoner thought. They grow up wanting to be the Godfather. Good thing I ran away from home. In Rhode Island, I'd have had half a chance.

  "Listen," the boy said, "what's the ocean like? I never seen an ocean."

  "It looks a lot like the desert," Gwen said. "Big, lots of sky, only wetter."

  "Bet you go swimming all the time, huh?"

  "Not too much. The Atlantic's pretty cold."

  "The desert gets colder'n a whore's eye," the boy said. "But you can't swim in it. They have a town pool over at Winslow. And in some of the motels. But they don't let you swim in them unless you're from
there. Some of the guys get jobs in the motels just so they can swim. That's what I'd do, if my folks didn't need me here. Bet I'd be good, too. Swimming. If I knew how, bet I'd be real good." He scooped ice into a paper cup and drew himself a Hires'. "You really gotta see the Grand Canyon. It's really big."

  "I've heard that, " Gwen said.

  "No, you wouldn't have heard how big it is 'cause it's too big to say, even. So big you don't even know it's big. You walk along the edge, see, and feel like you're strollin' down Main Street, and you don't stop to think, if your foot slips or somethin' you'd fall a mile. A whole mile. That's no exaggeratin'. They measured it. I read about that in National Geographic. "

  "You see?" Gwen said. "If you had cable TV you never would have read that article."

  He looked at her as if she were crazy. "I read it in school, lady. Jeez." He spread a daub of egg salad on a saltine and gulped it down. "Little kids run right up to the edge and hang over. That's on account of they don't understand how big it is."

  "Sounds dangerous," Stoner said.

  "Heck, yeah, it's dangerous. You wouldn't catch me hanging over the edge of anything that big." He took another saltine and spread it with cream cheese and olive. "Give you an idea how big it is, you can stand in front of EI Tovar—the hotel—and look down on the top of thunderstorms. You ever seen the top of a thunderstorm?"

  "No," Gwen said. "I've missed out on that."

  He spread another cracker with ham salad. "You oughta try and do that. It'll move you. How long you here for?"

  "About two weeks," Stoner said.

  "Jeez, in that time you could see the Grand Canyon two, maybe three times. Couldn't see it all, though. I'll bet nobody's ever seen it all, on account of it's so..."

  "Big?" Stoner offered.

  "Yeah, right, big." He leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. "There's this place, down in the canyon. A secret place, see? Where the Indians think they came up out of this hole in the ground. So it's a holy place, kind of, and they go out there and do ceremonies and stuff, and they leave things behind for their Spirits. Presents and stuff. Mr. Begay's gonna take me out there some day."

  "If it's secret," Stoner asked, "how does Mr. Begay know where it is?"

  "Mr. Begay knows everything, especially about the Indians. There's this other place we're gonna find, up on the rez but he won't tell me where. A long time ago the Indians buried a whole lot of stuff up there. Gold and stuff. We're gonna find it and then he's gonna help me get out of Beale for good. My Dad says that's a load of crap, but he don't like Mr. Begay much, and anyway Mr. Begay says don't listen to him, he's trying to hold me back and this is a free country, I got a right to try and make any kind of life I want for myself." He grinned shyly. "Though Mr. Begay puts it a little different. You know how Mr. Begay puts it?"

  "Give me a hint," Gwen said.

  "Fuck 'em hollow. That's how Mr. Begay puts it."

  “Well," Gwen said. "That certainly is expressive."

  "And poetic," Stoner added. "Is this the Begay that runs the Texaco Station out at Spirit Wells?"

  The boy beamed. "That's him. You know him?"

  “We haven't met," Gwen said. "But I wonder, if he can get you out of Beale, why he hasn't gotten himself out."

  "I dunno," the boy said thoughtfully. "Maybe he likes it here. Bein' part Navajo and all"

  Gwen looked over at Stoner. "Sounds like a credit to his race. We should pick up Stell's order."

  "Right." Stoner turned to the boy. "Did Mrs. Perkins phone in an order?"

  "Sure did. I got it all put up." He reached under the counter and hauled up a cardboard box. “When you see Mrs. Perkins, tell her Jimmy Goodnight says 'hey'. She's a swell lady, ain't she?"

  "Sure is,’' Stoner said.

  He looked her up and down. "You oughta wear sunglasses out here. And sunscreen. Looka that, you're gettin' burnt already. Guess you don't have a lot of sun back east."

  "Not like you have here."

  “We got some good glasses over on that counter. Not too expensive. Some places, they'll try and sell you real expensive stuff, rip you off. But there ain't much difference unless you wanta get into the real high class French stuff. We got a nice selection, though. You got your pick of brown, green, yellow. Wire rim or plastic. I'd go with the plastic. Better get yourself a tube of sunscreen. With your coloring..." He studied her in a deeply serious way. "I'd say go with a fifteen, tops. You gonna be out on the desert much?"

  "There doesn't seem to be a lot of choice," Gwen said, "unless we stay indoors and play double solitaire."

  Jimmy Goodnight leaned forward earnestly. "I don't wanna scare you bad," he said with obvious relish, "but there's a lot of snakes out there this time of year. Rattlers and sidewinders. Tarantulas. Scorpions. You know how to take care of yourself on the desert?"

  "Probably not," Stoner said.

  He reached under a stack of Marvel comics and pulled out a mimeographed sheet of paper. "This'll tell you what you need to know. Most important thing is, make sure someone knows where you're going."

  "I know," Stoner said.

  "You ought to carry a mirror and matches," he went on, "along with your canteen. So you can signal for help." He handed her the paper. "You can have this. Part of the service. Now, if you get lost, don't wander around. Stay where you are and let them find you. Don't sit on the ground, and don't take your clothes off."

  "Take my clothes off?" Stoner said in alarm. “Why would I want to do that?"

  "Some folks think it'll make 'em cooler. “Course, some folks're pretty dumb. You probably wouldn't do a dumb thing like that."

  "Not like that," Stoner said.

  "Not with snakes and tarantulas," Gwen muttered under her breath.

  "Burning tire makes a good signal fire," Jimmy Goodnight said.

  "Assuming I happen to be rolling one along with me."

  "Now, if you can't find water, you can always make a solar still. Start with a sheet of plastic, about six feet in diameter..."

  “Which I have tucked inside my rolling tire."

  "... and a pail and a drinking tube—that should be about five feet long—and a trench shovel. .."

  Stoner held up her hand. "Jimmy, we're only going sightseeing, not joining the French Foreign Legion."

  He raked his sandy hair. “Well, you promise me you'll read this until you understand it total, okay? No skimming. It could save your life."

  "Yes, Sir," Stoner said with a smile. "I appreciate your concern."

  "Hey, you're friends of Mrs. Perkins, you're friends of mine." He grinned at Gwen. "Even if you are a school teacher."

  "Same goes for me," Gwen said, "even if you are a punk."

  He blushed. "I'll bet Mrs. Perkins is real glad you're here. She's been wantin' company something awful.”

  "Jimmy Goodnight," Gwen said when they were out on the street, "must be the loneliest individual I ever met."

  Stoner balanced the carton on one hip, put on her new sunglasses, and looked up at the sky. Through the brown tinted lenses, it resembled a bad sunset. She took the glasses off and settled them on top of her head.

  "Goodnight. Do you think that's an Indian name? He doesn't look Indian."

  "The Goodnights were ranchers out here in the early cattle days," Gwen said.

  “What do you know about Begay's."

  "The name crops up in some of Tony Hillerman's novels," Gwen said. "That's as much as I ever heard."

  "If I were the Goodnights," Stoner said, "I might not be too pleased about my son hanging around with him."

  “Well, you're not the Goodnights, my dear friend, and as far as we know, Larch Begay may be a cut above the general populace."

  Stoner tossed the carton into the back of the truck. Tom Drooley crawled out from under a silver Windstream camper.

  "Poor old dog," Stoner said, knuckling his head. "I'll bet you're hot."

  "That," Gwen said to Tom Drooley, "means you get to ride up front with the air conditioning."

&
nbsp; * * *

  The afternoon air was brittle. The backs of her hands tingled as if tiny, invisible creatures were walking over her skin. Static electricity. She wondered if it meant rain.

  Gwen pulled up to one of the two rusty pumps at Begay's Service and cut the motor.

  The shack's tarpaper roof was cracked and flaking. The screen door listed drunkenly from a single hinge. Old tires and dented hubcaps littered the ground, and a junked '64 Nash Rambler was sinking slowly into the sand. Inside the garage, a vehicle of unknown make and purpose was jacked up at a crazy angle, surrounded by grease-caked tools and oily rags. Through the fly-specked windows of the room marked 'office', they could see the feeble flicker of a black-and-white television.

  "Stell's nuts to do business with this character," Gwen said. "There could be anything in that gas."

  "Yeah, but it's the only station around." Stoner got out of the truck and stretched her legs.

  Climbing down from the cab, Gwen stood beside her. "He doesn't seem exactly eager for business."

  Tom Drooley pressed his nose against the windshield and sneezed.

  "Maybe we caught him in the middle of his favorite soap opera," Stoner suggested.

  "Or he didn't hear us." She thought for a moment. "I wonder what the local customs are in situations like this. Back in Georgia, we used to honk the horn."

  "Try it."

  She tried it. Nothing happened.

  The breeze began to pick up. The air took on the smell of ozone.

  “Well," Gwen said, "we can't just stand here like a couple of idiots." She climbed the two rickety steps and rapped on the door frame.

  From inside came a series of bangs, moans, and low curses. “Hold your piss," a man's voice growled. "I'm comin'."

  Gwen jumped back as he shoved through the door.

  The man was of about average height and built like a bear, stocky, short-limbed, and running to fat. His dark hair was shoulder-length and greasy. The skin of his face-what little was visible beneath an untrimmed and spiky beard-resembled a lunar landscape of pock-marks. A monstrous beer belly overlapped his belt, the tarnished brass buckle sunk deep in his flesh. He wore cowboy boots with rundown heels, jeans caked with something dark, stiff, and mysterious, a filthy undershirt. The hair on his chest was matted and wet-looking. His eyes were tiny, red-rimmed, and unnaturally bright. His eyebrows were ponderous. A droplet of spit or beer had caught on his beard. He smelled like the Celtics locker room after the NBA playoffs.