Leadville: 300 Days Away

by Kara Skye Smith

  The bike messenger does not feel the soldier has any reason to detain him.

  "I'm in the middle of a delivery," he says, "the old woman just wanted some tea. I will tell her the merchant was busy; and, I will be going on my way now," he says.

  "Put the bike down," the soldier says. And with that, the bike messenger knows he has lost the duel of wits against this man. For

  three soldiers with a van - there is no way. But, if he puts down the bike and explains, he already knows, his words will be heard by the unprovoked intimidators as an excuse in protest of why they would consider his determined words of action to continue his job lame, he knows 'weakness' already shows - where 'weakness' would not - and that is the 'result' they are looking for; the 'result' of their intimidation. Unprovoked intimidators looking for 'result' making 'weakness' where 'weakness' does not show find excuses; find excuses to feign provocation, find excuses to force explanations into excuses - he knows he can not out run the van, anything else to them, now, is just an excuse - and intimidators like these find excuses to murder.

  The bike messenger is strong. He inhales, his chest rising with his breath, his gaze, like a hawk sets straight across the landscape onto a tiny alley way. The bike messenger's eyes shift left to right determining the distance that the soldiers stand away from him, and as he fakes the movement of his bicycle, as though he might actually put it down, rest it against the wall; the bicycle messenger jumps onto that bike and rides, a dead run ride, straight for the tiny alley, the alley he knows is too narrow for the soldiers' van; and he rides, with the speed of wind, split-second fast, like lightening. He makes it too. He smiles entering the tight opening between the walls that now surround him safely. He feels the joy of freedom; the joy of knowing who one is and not succumbing to the ball sac of hatred, the 'suck-it-till-your-people-die' hatred of unprovoked intimidators, weak inside, twisted, forcing weakness where ever their 'polished' boots are seen as covered with the shit they won't admit their hate and intimidation is full of.

  The bike messenger rides through the alley, but the alley does not last forever. The bike messenger, accepting this fate, looks frantically up at the windows that overlook the alley, the places he imagines running into, closets he could 'hide' in, as he rides. He rides through the alley, to the other side; and there, the van, with four soldiers standing outside of it, sits waiting, impatiently, blocking the alley way's exit.

  After kicking the bicycle messenger twice, once in the stomach and once in the ribs, the soldiers search his clothing; they search the contents of the 'mail bag' in his bike basket. One soldier rips off the bike's little bell. He holds it up to the bike messenger's face. He throws it to the ground and stomps it with his boot until it is broken.

  In the pocket of the bike messenger's jeans, the soldiers find a picture that he always carries with him, each and every day as most Buddists do, in Litang, a picture of the Dalai Lama. And for this, the bike messenger is immediately arrested. In the bag inside the bike basket, the soldiers find a letter, among the other letters there, a letter to Matseidha, sent years ago, sent to her from Leadville, Colorado. It had gone through Lhasa. It had been opened. Somehow, it had gotten to it's intended recipient, and until now, it had never been found by Chinese soldiers, never been taken to task by unprovoked intimidators; until now. The bike messenger is hand-cuffed in front of a store where people watch him, crying; a good man shamed in front of his own people, by the people he has served - often carrying their letters, often answering their questions. The bike messenger is dragged into the van. He is taken to prison and held there on two counts; carrying a picture of the Dalai Lama, and being found with a letter from Camp Hale, Colorado.

  The old woman, Matseidha's mother, in her home, that day, places her last piece of fire wood for the day into her pot belly stove; and makes herself a pot of tea. As she puts the lid back onto her tea canister, she smiles like a little girl thinking of the bike messenger. She hopes the bike messenger will stop by today for 'his visit'. She knows when he 'senses' that she would most enjoy his visit; and for some reason, she usually 'senses' just when he'll 'stop by'.

  "That day is today," she thinks to herself. She takes the broom and sweeps the floor. She thinks happy thoughts, because of him, while she does this. She washes all the tea cups, so that he will have his choice and puts them on the shelf. She smiles thinking thoughts about the little dog he always mentions. Again, as she usually does when she thinks about the bicycle messenger, she wonders why, when he talks about 'that little thing' so much, he doesn't just get himself a dog.

  1972 Leadville.

  Mary Beth calls out after the thirteen year old hiking shoes that she follows down the trail along the ridge of the Colorado Rocky Mountains; the sun high over head bringing out the natural pink of her cheeks and a light sweat to her brow.

  "Let's stop and have a drink of water, hey?" He stops. Holding the straps of his backpack, he turns around, looking out over the edge of the ridge onto one of the most beautiful sights his thirteen year old's eyes have yet to see.

  "Wow! Look at that," he says to her. She smiles, knowingly.

  "I thought this place might lighten your attitude. It has place has a way of doing that," she says, removing her pack and setting it down onto the ground. She rummages for the water bottle she had filled down at the trail's head milepost where a water spigot from a brown post stands at the head of the trail, a yellow water drop painted on the side alerts hikers to the fact that the spigot pours water instead of gold.

  "This is really something," he admits.

  "Here," she hands him the water bottle after unscrewing it's tupperware lid. He laughs as she hands it to him.

  "Mom has these same water bottles."

  "I know," she says flatly, "I lived through her Tupperware party stage too. You probably don't remember."

  "Yeah," he says, "I guess I don't."

  "She still drunk by the time the guests arrive?"

  He laughs, "So you do know."

  "Yeah," she says. "You gotta hand it to her, she's kept it together, though." The boy does not say anything to this. He swallows about half of the water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "I like it here," he exclaims. "Maybe we could come here again."

  "I'd like that," Mary Beth tells him. "I'd like that very much." She lifts the camera she has just taken out of her pack and holds it to her eye.

  "Do you think you could give me a smile Mr. James Dean Micheal Turpington?" He looks at her, surprised by the middle and last names she has just added to the first names he has gone by his entire life. She snaps that look of surprise. An excellent photo. She turns the Minolta camera to the side and adjusts the focus. "And now smile," she says. He nearly laughs. "Great! Look out over the ridge," she takes a profile shot.

  "Beautiful," he says.

  "Just like I thought you'd be," she says.

  "Not me! I meant the scenery," he tells her.

  "That too," she says. "Let's get going. We don't want to get caught out here at night. If you like this view, you'll love the top," she tells him. They hoist their packs back up onto their shoulders and return to hiking along the trail.

  "When did you start coming here?" he asks her.

  "About the time Stephanie 'let me go'."

  "What do you mean by that? Did she have you captured?"

  "Kind of. I just meant that there's a whole world out there, you haven't seen yet. And this is just the part that's right outside your door. Hard to see it, sometimes, when you're locked into thinking about who you aren't, instead of taking who you know you are, to where you want to go."

  "Huh?"

  "I didn't see it either... for quite a while. That's why I'm here, I guess, after all these years, to make sure you have some hands to hold." He shakes his head.

  "What?"

  "You're not making any sense. I'm starting to think mom was right about you," he turns and smiles a sassy smile at her.


  "Oh you! You really do know how to push some buttons, don't you." She pulls a branch off a bush along the trail side and whacks him with it, across the backpack.

  "Stop!" he shrieks pretending that she hurt him. She laughs. She knows she did. The two of them are quiet along the trail until the top, this moment lasting between them, pounded out, bit by bit, with each footstep of shoe sole against the Colorado dirt along the trail.

  At the top Mary Beth puts her arm around her pride and joy. She squeezes his shoulder. They are quiet, aghast at the sights that lay before them.

  "No matter how many times I hoof it up here, it never ceases to amaze me of its beauty." She is quiet, then turns toward him and lets spill what she has really wanted to tell him, by coming here today.

  "I hurt you, by leaving, and I know it. But in my defense, let me say, if I'd've stayed, I don't think I'd be standing here with you, right now. I don't. And I just went out, to find the world, to bring it all to you. That's how much I love you. I'd never give you that box inside Stephanie's heart, cause you know she'd take that one she'd give out in her house," she chuckles. "I came to give you this," she makes a sweeping motion with her arms, "sans the pain I struggled through. I came, James Dean Michael Turpington, to give you the world. And I hope you take it off my shoulders, when you're ready. It's been a heavy load to carry. But I'd carry it for you, so that you could find it later on, as you step off that doorstep of that very, bitter - although she doesn't show it much - woman that raised you."

  "You really don't like her, do you?"

  Mary Beth shakes her head, no.

  "I'm just afraid, from her looking in the mirror comment, that she doesn't like y- oh, never mind," she says and pulls her hand through the air. "I'll make it work with her, if I have to. If that's what it means to be a part of your life. I'd like to be a person you can turn to, whenever you may want to go, you know?"

  "Cool," he says. "I guess so."

  Mary Beth hugs the boy she'd named after her favorite Hollywood movies star tightly, but this time, she reminds herself to let go, before she frightens him into wondering what this is all about.

  "Sorry," she says and pats his shoulder. He shrugs.

  "It's okay, I guess. This is cool," he looks around. "I like it up here."

  "Good. Let's have something to eat," she says, "before we go back."

  "Yeah, okay, I'm starved."

  "You don't look it," she teases.

  She opens the pack and sets the food out onto a rock.

  She hands him a small blanket, "Find a place for this," she says. They sit and eat talking about the trees and sights they see around them.

  "A hawk!" the boy says as its cries out, piercing the canyon with its eery sounding cry. He points to it.

  "Oh look, she has something in her mouth," Mary Beth notices.

  "A nest. She's taking it to the nest, on that rock."

  "Cool, let's go up closer." Mary Beth gets out her camera and they quietly walk as close as they can to the ledge of the rock, watching her feed her one, young baby.

  "Here," Mary Beth hands him the camera. "See if you can get some good shots of it."

  "Wow, thanks," he says. He asks her lots of questions about the focus and the f-stops. Mary Beth helps him until he's taken quite a few photographs. As he hands her back the camera and they walk back to the where the food and blanket lay, chasing two squirrels out of their food, Mary Beth's voice becomes low and soft, not a whisper, but almost.

  "I wasn't going to tell you this, but I feel the hawk, and her one baby was a sign. I'm your real mom, Micheal Dean. You were taken from me, as a baby, by your mom now... by Stephanie."

  "No!" he says and stops dead still in his footsteps. And then he pats her shoulder and smiles. "Just kidding," he says.

  She laughs, "What?"

  "I knew it when I saw you. Well, not right at first, but by the time you and mom got through talking. I figured," he says. "Mom messed up so many times, anyway, trying to talk to me, sometimes, about when I was a baby and blah, blah, blah. I hate these conversations - in case you can't tell. Especially when she starts talking about it when she's drunk. Ahh!" he says. "She drags out old photos. You were always in them. You haven't changed much, have you? I mean, I didn't know, until you told me, just now, really; but I kind of knew. The hike, the hugs, all the talk about how you don't like mom. It's not like it took a genius to figure it out, you know."

  "So, you're not angry."

  "Oh, I'm angry," he smiles.

  "But you're not going to cry?"

  He makes a sad face, "Oh, I'm going to cry."

  "Shush!" she says. "And you'll come with me, to live, at my house and never go back to that woman who stole you from me?" she quickly adds.

  "What?!" he says loudly, a look of surprise - no more teasing - on his face. "but that's my home. No matter what you may say about it, Aunt Mar-, mom, whatever, that's my home. Are you asking me to never go back home?" and then his eyebrows knit together for one single moment. Mary Beth looks at the ground. "You aren't kidnapping me, are you?" he asks.

  "I'd like to," she says. "I can't believe you call that home. I can give you a home, Michael." "I don't go by Michael." "I can give you the things that Stephanie won't. She'll expect you to work in her bar. She'll use you..."

  "Maybe I want to work in her bar, ever think of that?" he says, his voice becoming whiny.

  "No. No I didn't. Because I know it isn't you. I know it isn't, because you are my child and I already tried that. I know it isn't you, because it isn't..." she says, her voice accentuating every single sound and syllable of isn't, distinctly.

  "Isn't you," he says, "doesn't mean it isn't me. You might be my mom, but you weren't there. Stephanie was there for me."

  "She wouldn't let me be! I was there for you; she tried to bury me - push me away from you - all along!"

  "Can we go now?" he asks. He pulls the drawstring of his back pack, fastens the buckle and pulls the straps over his shoulders. "I want to go."

  "See there," she points at him, "you see?! You didn't say home. You didn't say, 'I want to go home'. You said 'I want to go'," this makes Mary Beth smile.

  He raises his eyebrows and looks at her, waiting for her to put her backpack on. He stares.

  "Right," she says, "my backpack." She starts to snap tupperware bowls back together and stacks them into her pack.

  "Could you fold the blanket up," she asks him. He scoffs, but does it.

  "Here," he says, kind of throwing it at her.

  "Thanks," she says and stuffs it, sort of folded, into her backpack.

  As she fastens it up and puts it on she tells him, "I'm good with that. A place to start, at least. An opening."

  "Fine! Let's go," he says and starts out on the trail.

  "Wait!" she calls, opening a folded paper she has left out of her packing.

  "What now?"

  "I have a map. There is a short cut back to the trail's head from here," she says. "A place that's called the garden," she tells him. "I read about it in a hiking manual."

  "Gre-eat," he moans.

  "Look, can you tell where to go from here?" she asks, knowing that involving him in the decision he will be more into enjoying the hike with her.

  "This is it and I think we are here," she says.

  He focuses on the map deciphering where to go and how to get to the circled area Mary Beth has outlined in pencil on the map. He points to a trail head across the meadow from where they stand and exclaims, "Over there, look!" He shows her on the map.

  "That's what I thought too," she says.

  "Doesn't matter," he tells her. "I think they all lead back to where we started."

  "Let's go."

  The thirteen year old is very chatty on the way back, much more than he had been on the way up. He tells her about things like Stephanie's dog and the telescope her boyfriend, before the husband she has now, brought over, once, to show him.

&n
bsp; "This is great," he finally blurts out. "I hope we do this again, sometime."

  The two enter another meadow, after about an hour and a half of hiking. It is surrounded entirely by sheer peaks of white-tipped mountain tops and in the center, there is a sign - not a State-issued signpost like the one with the yellow painted water drop for hikers; not one of the brown and white signs at trailheads like the one with the stick figure holding a walking stick and walking the squiggly, white-painted line. It is a sign that seems hand made, hand painted, and it is signed with the signatures obviously of the artists who made it along the sides. Mary Beth takes out her camera. She and her boy of the Hollywood name approach the sign to take a closer look, and Mary Beth takes the sign's photo.

  "Dh-u-m-era. Dum-ra," her son sounds out.

  "The garden," Mary Beth says, reading its translation underneath the word spelled out above. Her son touches his finger to each one of the signed-in-permanent-marker names along the side, counting.

  "15!" he yells. "Fifteen signatures. I wonder who made this."

  Mary Beth focuses her camera up closer, twisting the lens's focus ring until the lettering comes into clearer view, "Tiyo," she says and snaps the picture. She pulls the camera away from her eye and looks at the sign. She touches it; the names, the title, the translation.

  "Tibetan," she tells the teenager, "this word must be a Buddist term, for garden." He looks around, up to the tip-tops of the mountains, the sky, and down to the wild flowers that scatter across the 'tucked away' field.