He’d come this way back then, too, riding a Kawasaki 400—which wasn’t exactly a big bike—across the desert with his hair blowing free, like in Easy Rider. Most of it was a blur, lost in time and the general haze of drugs and drink that marked that era of his life.
As he walked the dogs tonight, whistling them into obedience when a car drove by, he breathed in the cool, crisp mountain air. Another life. In a way, it all seemed so innocent now, despite Vietnam and the acid trips and all the runaway kids that must have broken the hearts of their parents. All those kids qualified now for AARP, the generation that wouldn’t get old.
Not that they had grown old the same way. Whatever else had come from the psychedelic sixties, he knew that his generation of sixty-year-olds was not the same as that of the sixty-year-olds he’d known as a child, the bent grandmothers and snowy-haired sages in their pristine Buicks.
What would he find when he got to Los Ladrones? He was nervous about revisiting the town. Nervous about seeing the commune again, which he’d have to do, even if it was buried in rubble and yucca. It didn’t sound like that would be the case, though. Nervous that Tessa would never forgive him. Ever.
The dogs, soggy with the rain that kept falling, hustled him back to the motel. He dried them off, but the smell of damp dog still filled the room for the rest of the night. Sam ordered a pizza for delivery, drank some 7Up so caffeine wouldn’t keep him awake, and fell asleep before the news came on.
After work, Annie was determined to figure out how to make poached eggs. She bought a full dozen eggs at the supermarket. Vita had loaned her a heavy cast-iron skillet and a slotted spoon and walked her through the steps one more time before she left. “Practice makes perfect.”
And how. She was getting the hang of a lot of things at the café, but poached eggs defeated her every time, the threads of white scattering in the water until the eggs looked like an amoeba or a jellyfish or something. Not like an egg.
She stopped by the cards, too, and picked a funny one to send to her brother. He’d written her a lot while she was in jail. He was actually her foster brother, a member of the family that had finally let her stay, when she was thirteen and worn out from going place to place to place whenever a family got tired of her or one of the siblings got mad at her. He’d joined the Army when he was eighteen and had traveled all over the world. Right now he was in Afghanistan, a sergeant.
When she got home, she fed Athena and then put all of her utensils and supplies on the counter. She started water simmering in the skillet, about two inches deep. It boiled too much at first, and she turned the heat down until it was a mild simmer. To the water she added a tablespoon of vinegar, which Vita told her helped keep the eggs in shape. She’d cracked two eggs into single dishes and had a wooden spoon at the ready. Holding her breath, she poured the first egg into the water, and the whites instantly spread into goopy strings, which she tried to catch and spoon gently over the yolk.
“Argh!”
Athena jumped up on a chair to watch. Annie spooned out the messed-up egg and put it in a bowl. She tried again. And again. At egg number four, she started to get the rhythm. At number six, she almost nailed it. At number nine, she poached an egg perfectly and reproduced the action for eggs number ten, eleven, and twelve.
“Guess what we’re eating for supper, cat?” she said, and laughed. Wiping her fingers on her apron, she kissed the kitten’s white nose and sat down to write out a note to her brother.
Dear Joe,
You would never believe what I just spent an hour doing: cooking an egg in hot water, which is called poaching. You can poach eggs in salsa, too, which is awesome, but it’s way hard in water. I finally got it! Whoot!
I hope you’re being safe, taking care of yourself like you should. I just got your last letter, and you cant fool me—I know it’s not all flowers and butterflies over there, but you’re a good soldier and I know you know how to take care of yourself. Anybody who can get through the barrio can get through the desert!
I’m writing from the table of my new apartment. I brought a red table over with me from the old place, my first “official” piece of furniture, which the manager let me switch for the table here. I moved on account of a cat that adopted me. Her name is Athena. I drew a pic for you. She sleeps with me and it feels so great. I love to hear her purr.
I’ve got the bracelet on for a year, but it ain’t bad. Job is good. This old lady is teaching me to cook. Vita, who is more than sixty years old and still runs marathons! Crazy, huh? So far, I can fry eggs and make waffles and I’m learning to bake bread, which is really, really cool. Maybe sometime you can come for a visit.
Just wanted to let you know where to mail things now. I can get a cell phone maybe next month, and I can use the computer at the library, though I haven’t had time for that since I got here. Same email as always, of course, but I like written letters! Don’t stop writing! I like seeing your actual handwriting and stuff.
Okay, gotta go. I’ve had my hair dyed for ten years, and I’m tired of it. Got some stuff to bring it back to the normal color.
Write soon!
Love, Annie
In the quiet of her little house, Tessa uploaded the photos she’d taken earlier of Vince, realizing only as she plugged the camera into the laptop that she’d never uploaded the flower photos, either. She forgot about Sam’s lies and the history of life and the mysteries clogging up her brain and fell into the pleasure of playing with line and shadow and color.
The series of flower stems through the bottom of the vase pleased her mightily, and she uploaded them to her Flickr groups, hungry for the feedback she knew she would receive.
Only then did she let herself open and admire the shots they’d taken naked. First Vince, then Tessa, and she liked the ones he’d taken of her but nowhere near as much as she liked the shots of him.
It was just that you never saw many good photos, art shots, of the male body, like you did of women. This was it. The light, hiding and revealing, washing over his beautiful skin with such softness, gave the photos an elegant mood. In one, the light caught on his jaw, the round of his shoulder, and his massive, muscular thigh. Everything else fell into shadow. In another, he looked directly at the camera, his belly and organ and thighs wide open to the viewer’s gaze. It gave her a shiver. Sexy, definitely, but not sleazy.
But her favorite was one he’d shot—of his hand around her breast. It was in perfect focus, and the light was again very quiet, making it look nearly like a black-and-white photo or even perhaps a sepia. His giant hand, fingers curling gently, pressing into the flesh of her breast, the nipple aroused and framed by his thumb. She sent it to him in email, and within a few minutes he called her.
“Jesus,” he said. “That’s so hot it makes me want to come over there right now.”
“They’re all beautiful, Vince, I’m not kidding. I could probably sell the ones of you.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you dare.”
“I would never. Just saying.” She clicked through them again. “Are the girls in bed, all safe and sound?”
“Yes. Jade and Natalie played jacks for two hours, so I think all is well.”
“And the blouse?”
“Practically good as new. Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything.” She clicked through the photos. “I’m sending another one.”
“Is it a naked one of you?”
“Wait for it.” She smiled. It was the full frontal of him.
“Huh,” he said. “I have to admit I like this one. Show your friends.”
She laughed softly. “I don’t exactly have any friends, or I would. I can post it on the Internet, if you like.”
“Why don’t you have any friends?”
“I mean, I do. All over. But not close friends.” She flipped to the trio of their heads side by side on the pillows, looking up. The light caught their faces from the left, leaving the right in deep shadow. One eye each looked up. Hopeful. It made her feel airless. �
��I had a really nice time with you today, Vince.”
“I always enjoy your company, Tessa. Seriously.”
“Me, too.” She even liked having him on the other end of the phone, hearing his voice. “Tell me a story about your life.”
“What kind of story?”
“I don’t care. Winning a race. A happy day. Talk me to sleep.”
“I can do that,” he said. “Go lie down.”
Tessa carried the phone to her bedroom and did just that. “I really do mean a story story,” she said. “Not a sexy something. I don’t have any energy left.”
“No,” he said. “Me, either. This is about winning a race and landing an endorsement.”
“Perfect.” She closed her eyes. “I’m already getting sleepy.”
Vince chuckled, the sound like a warm breath against her ear. He told her a story and she drifted into sleep. Outside, the wind began to howl.
Saturday morning, Vita awakened out of a sound sleep and bolted upright in the darkness. For a long, long moment she held her breath, listening, but only the slight, faraway drip of a faucet disturbed the silence. Her heart pounded wildly, and she pressed her palms to it protectively—had she had a bad dream?
No. Only the velvet of good sleep came to her.
Flinging off her covers, she padded over to the window in her pajamas and pushed the curtains aside, looking out to the alley behind 100 Breakfasts and the trail that led to the river. It was raining softly, steadily, and there was no one about, not even a stray dog climbing into trash cans.
And then she heard the wailing, an eerie, familiar moan that rose up from the river on nights like this. Some said it was the wind whistling through the boulders and caves along the banks. Some said it was the voices of the missionaries slain by the Indians, or the Indians slain by the soldiers, or the seven women who’d been stolen right out of the plaza by the Comanche during a wedding feast. It made the hair on her arms lift.
Tonight it sounded like a portent. Annie. It had to do with Annie and the man who skulked around town, hiding in plain sight, like an evil spirit. For the first time in decades, she remembered things that had been carefully boxed up and tucked away from view, dark things, sad things, things she regretted, things she mourned, things so far gone she could do nothing about them anyway.
Looking into the empty street, she rubbed her arms and then got dressed. It was only an hour early, and she wouldn’t be going back to sleep. Cooking would make her feel better.
She went down to the kitchen and, for the first time ever, just before she turned on the overhead light, she felt afraid, looking into the darkness for some hint of what might be coming. She peered apprehensively into the gloom, seeing only the bones of the stainless-steel counter and a ladle catching light from the other room.
In the air rose a scent of thyme, an herb that always made Vita think of the days when she first arrived at the commune. It had been planted along the paths and in the kitchen garden—parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, like a song. She saw herself, weary and too thin, rubbing a stalk of thyme between her palms and bending into it, closing her eyes to let the fragrance fill her head. She had made carnitas with it, with thyme and cinnamon sticks and local chiles. It was a dish to steal a man’s soul, and whenever she made it at the café, there were always love affairs kindled, stories settled.
It was so adamantly pleasant that she found the courage to turn on the lights. Any ghosts that had been lingering scurried into the shadows, and she started the coffee and flipped through her books for something special to make for this Saturday morning. She set a pot of oil to heat for carnitas, pinched marjoram for protection into the sausages, and sprinkled rue and black pepper along the doorways, all the while feeling that creeping sense of unease, as if some miasma were floating beneath the doors with the cold wind.
When Annie finally came in, at five, Vita said, “Are you okay?”
“Great.”
“It feels like there’s something in the air,” Vita said, shaking her shoulders, then she made a choice. With one hand on her hip, she looked right at Annie. “I didn’t want to scare you, but I keep seeing a man skulking around here, and I worry it might be your ex.”
The strangest smile moved on Annie’s mouth. “Not my ex,” she said. “When he killed my cat, I killed him.”
Breakfast #38
Carnitas and Eggs: A traditional hearty breakfast for a body working the fields. Spiced shredded pork stewed with New Mexico chiles, cinnamon, and other secret ingredients, served with eggs cooked your way, fresh flour or corn tortillas, and a tall glass of cold milk.
SPICED CARNITAS
2 lbs. boneless pork shoulder
6 T corn oil
1 medium yellow onion, diced
4 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped
6 cinnamon sticks, broken into pieces
½ cup diced mild green chiles, roasted, skinned, and seeded (or use canned)
3 New Mexico red chiles, stems and seeds removed, broken into small pieces
1 tsp kosher salt
1 tsp freshly ground pepper
½ to 1 cup water
Flour or corn tortillas
FOR GARNISH:
2-3 limes, quartered
Diced tomatoes
Diced onion
In a large, heavy pot, heat the oil to 200 degrees and add the pork shoulder, whole. Cook over medium heat for about 1–½ hours, turning regularly to ensure a crispy brown surface all around the roast.
When it is finished, remove the pork, set aside, and add onions, garlic, and cinnamon sticks, and stir until onions are tender. Add the chiles and other spices. Cut pork into quarters and add it to the mix along with the water. Stew over medium heat until pork shreds into the mixture and flavors are well blended. Serve on warm tortillas with wedges of lime, tomatoes, and onion.
For breakfast, scramble eggs enough for your number and serve along with the carnitas.
TWENTY-THREE
Sam was waylaid in Gallup by a broken axle that took two days to replace, but it was finally fixed late Friday night. By then he was in no mood to deal with semis rocking their way through the mountains and delayed his start until morning. It wasn’t a real long drive.
About ten miles outside of Los Ladrones, he was overtaken by a fit of nerves and pulled into a rest stop to give the dogs an airing. The weather had followed him all the way across Arizona, and now the skies even in New Mexico, where the sun shone famously, were gray and dark. Rain fell in a light, steady mist. Cold. He’d forgotten how cold it could be at higher altitudes. He shrugged into a jeans jacket that was as old as Tessa and carried Peaches into the field. The trip had been kind of hard on the poor old thing. She was barely moving this morning, stiff and confused. Tonight he’d brush her good, and just seeing Tessa would make her feel better, too.
The other two dogs raced through the field, getting soaked by the low-growing stands of sage and long grasses. Along the rim of the world was a blue smudge of mountains, like pastels smeared beneath low gray clouds. It was very quiet, as if the trees were holding their breath.
It had been a long time since he’d come this way. More than thirty years. Even in the days when he and Tessa had traveled the Renaissance festival circuit, they’d never come through New Mexico, and given his choice, he would never have come this way at all, ever again. Too much drama. Too much trouble.
But he’d forgotten how beautiful it was.
As he waited for Loki and Wolfenstein to do their business, he leaned on the truck and let the air fill him. Clear, light, breathable. He thought of his old self, and “Born to Be Wild” played in his head.
Weren’t they all?
What he could see from the distance of forty years was how wrecked he’d been by his tour of duty. Nowadays they’d treat his post-traumatic stress disorder with drugs—proper drugs, not street stuff—and therapy. In those days, they self-medicated with heroin and pot and vodka. Learned to sleep under bridges. A lot of them were still th
ere. Sam counted himself lucky on that score.
He wished, oddly, for a cigarette, despite the fact that it had been a couple of decades since he’d given them up. Even at the height of his smoking, he’d never been a hard-core smoker—maybe four or five a day, but he’d really wanted each one. Over time, he came to see that he’d used cigarettes the same way he’d once used drugs or booze or faceless lays: just a way to escape his own thoughts.
So what thought did he want to escape right now? Was there some long-delayed regret rearing its ugly head?
No. He’d made a bargain with himself at the end of his tour that he’d never again do a single thing he didn’t want to do. From that day to this, he never had. He had lived exactly in accordance with his beliefs. You didn’t spend your life amassing stuff and pouring poisons down the drains of the world. You didn’t work all day and all night to live for six seconds on a Saturday afternoon every week. You did unto others until it came to the defenseless and weak, and then you defended them as required. You took care of the creatures—human, feline, and canine—who came under your watch until death you did part.
He had done what he needed to do. And he believed that any man who established his own code and lived with integrity shouldn’t have any regret. Even when other people judged you wrong.
This morning, however, he could use some courage. It was going to take all he had to walk into a town where everybody thought a little girl had drowned and smile as if he’d played a joke.
Picking up Peaches and carrying her into the truck, he whistled for the other dogs. “Time to face the music,” he said, and got into the car. He didn’t wear a watch on general principles, but, by the light, it was getting to be about mid-morning. He’d head for the café Tessa had been talking about, have something to eat, then chase down his daughter.
The Secret of Everything Page 29
