The Other Mr. Bax

by Rodney Jones

  “Thirsty? There’s beer in the fridge,” Fred said. “I’ll have one too, while you’re at it.”

  Roland got back up and went to the refrigerator. It, like everything else in the trailer, was small and old, separated from the cooking stove by a two-foot-wide section of cabinetry. A couple of mayonnaise jars with the labels soaked off, sat on top, filled with what looked like dried herbs. An old, wooden cigar-box was tucked back behind the jars. He pulled the fridge door open and found a full six-pack of longneck bottles parked at the front edge of the top shelf.

  “Want one, Anna?”

  “Sure.” She reached over, grabbed a bottle opener, which was magnetically attached to the side of the fridge, and handed it to Roland. He pried the caps off while Anna scooped fried potatoes and pork chops onto three large plates. They scooted in at the table—Anna, alongside her father, and Roland, opposite them. The plate before him was piled high with food. Pork chops. He’d not had pork for many years, a decade or more, and couldn’t remember now why it was eliminated from his diet. He sliced off a chunk, shoved it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, took a sip of beer, sampled the potatoes—a bit spicier than he was used to—then another sip of beer. “Very good.” He nodded.

  Anna acknowledged him with a glance.

  “We’ve met before,” Roland said, “in your store. My wife bought some pottery.” He found a picture in his mind: Joyce studying a clay vase, turning it over in her hands, and Anna walking up, offering information about the craftsman who’d made the vase.

  “When was that?” she said.

  “Around Christmas, I think… last Christmas.”

  She turned back to her dinner and sawed at her pork with a knife and fork. “I see a lot of people. I don’t remember most of them.”

  Roland’s eyes shifted from Anna to her father, who appeared concerned only with eating, then dropped down to the task waiting on his plate. As he shoved a fork loaded with potatoes into his mouth he caught a glance pass between his hosts.

  Little more was said as they ate—small talk and news Anna had picked up while at her store, regarding people Roland had never heard of. But then, as they were finishing up, she said, “Dad tells me…” Her eyes skipped about as though seeking an escape. “Why don’t we go to my shop and get you a few things… some clothes.”

  Roland turned to Fred.

  The old man shrugged.

  He imagined himself arriving home and being confronted by a worried, and justifiably angry, Joyce. Perhaps the condition of his clothes would lend credence to his story. But what exactly would that story be? He sighed. “I appreciate it, Anna, but I’ve got plenty of clothes at home.”

  She cocked her head to the side. “You live nearby?”

  “Olberg Road.”

  “Well then, I could at least give you a lift home.”

  As the night desert flew by the window on Roland’s right, the comforting assurances of familiarity began to arise in him. The moment seemed linked to the past by an endless network of road, connecting all the places he’d ever been or wanted to be—moving forward, progression, resolution, possibility.

  West Olberg Road left the reservation about two miles north of The Trading Post, Anna’s place, then passed through a small, sparse, subdivision of newer homes. Roland watched as houses he’d seen a thousand times scrolled by on his right. After another two miles, the road dipped back into the reservation—no homes—then, about a mile before his house, it returned to his side of the border. “Next house on the right… about a quarter mile up.” Roland silently willed his house into existence, pushing it from the crazy dream he remembered, from the night before, back into reality.

  The night was cloudless and moonless, leaving it exceptionally dark. Anna slowed the truck.

  “You’ll see reflectors to either side of the driveway.” He squinted, expecting—wanting and hoping to catch the dim glow of lights from the windows, or the flood above the garage doors illuminating the driveway, welcoming him home. There were no such lights however—nothing but the desert and its darkness. Beyond the windows of the truck, the night appeared as impenetrable as the confusion, which, again, had begun to stir in his mind.

  “Stop,” he said.

  “Here?”

  Roland wagged a finger toward the window on his right. “Yes, yes, please.”

  Anna steered to the edge of the road. The muted crunch of tires on gravel filled the cab. She brought the truck to a stop, then forced the shifter into park. The engine idled low, just above a stall. The beams of the headlights fell half upon the sun baked asphalt and half upon the rocky shoulder where, about ten-yards ahead, a small metallic object, a piece of liter, reflected back with a glint. Roland stared out the side-window, then turned and peered back through the window behind him. He pushed the door open and stepped down to the invisible ground. The black silhouette of a tall ponderosa pine stood motionless in the distance, dull in contrast to the dark sky around it. As he gazed toward the empty lot before him, the fog of confusion began to lift; a memory of the house he and his wife had built took form. He walked up the road a few yards, entering the stark beams of light from Anna’s truck—his thick, black shadow swinging out before him, becoming nothing from the hip up, as it merged with the night.

  With no sign of a driveway, Roland turned and looked again to the south. The road suddenly disappeared as the headlights of the truck went out. The engine stopped. The air fell silent except for the dull rumble of traffic coming from somewhere to the north—miles away. The driver’s door popped and creaked as Anna pushed it open. She stepped down, then came around to the front of the truck, her heels clopping against the hard asphalt. Roland’s eyes began to adjust to the yellow glow of the truck’s parking lights.

  “Is that your house up the road?” She pointed toward a lit house, a half-mile east of where they stood.

  “No… that’s my neighbor, the Browns.”

  Faint snaps and pops from the truck’s cooling engine crept into the silence. “So where is it?” Anna said, standing several feet away. “Where’s yours?”

  Roland pointed to his right, toward rocks, cactus, brush, and the pine silhouetted against the night sky.

  “What are we doing here?” Anna said.

  He shook a finger toward the pine in the distance. “This isn’t real, is it?” He could hear his own breath whispering in his nostrils. “I don’t want this. I want to go home.”

  “Uh… I don’t… Are you saying you had a house here? What?” She pointed. “Was it on wheels?”

  “Anna, you’ve lived here the past five years?”

  “My whole life.”

  “You really don’t remember a house being here?”

  “There’s never been a house here.”

  “Just two days ago, I woke in my bed… right there.” He pointed off into the darkness. A light breeze brushed across the road. They both stood there, staring toward the desert.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. There was never a house here.” Anna turned toward her truck as if she was about to leave, but then spun back around and threw her empty hands out in front of her, shaking them as though she were shaking a log. “You’re making me nervous. You have to know there was no house here, so why—”

  “I know, I know, I know…” Roland pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Look.” He opened it. “See this? My driver’s license. See? My home address”—he held the wallet out toward her—“West Olberg Road.” He jabbed a finger at the card. “This is the place.” He turned toward Mineral Butte. “My house was… right there.”

  As Anna peered off toward the butte, a faint rustling came from somewhere to their right. They both turned, but then it stopped. It was too dark to see anything.

  “So, you know the people that live there?” She pointed up the road, toward the Browns’ home.

  “Yes.”

  “And they know you?”

  “Of course they know me.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe they can help
.”

  Minutes later, Anna pulled up to the garage door at the side of a sand-colored, adobe-style home. “I’ll wait here,” she said.

  Roland pushed the truck door open and climbed out. As he approached the corner of the house, he peeked back toward the truck. Anna was watching him.

  He rang the doorbell and waited until a hefty, dark-complexioned face appeared in the small, diamond-shaped window of the door: Howard Brown. His short-cropped, military-style haircut gave him an intimidating look. A light, directly above Roland’s head, came on, engulfing him like an escaping convict caught in the beam of a searchlight. The door opened. The expression on Howard’s face was not one of welcome.

  “Hey… Sorry about the unannounced visit.” Roland shifted from foot to foot as he struggled to ignore the growing sense of disconnect he sensed between himself and his long-time acquaintance. “Listen”—he sighed—“something seriously weird has happened.”

  Howard glanced down at Roland’s bloodstained pants.

  “It’s a… I don’t even know how to—”

  “Do I know you?”

  Roland peered into his neighbor’s eyes, finding no hint of empathy—only distrust. “You don’t… your neighbor”—he twisted his head in the direction his house once was. “That’s my…” There were plenty of memories to draw upon: Howard’s crude mannerisms, his stupid jokes, his favorite football team, and TV sitcom. He recalled a barbeque in his back yard, Led Zeppelin blasting from his stereo. But now it seemed he was standing before a stranger, and wished only that he could undo the encounter.

  “Did you have an accident?”

  “Oh… no, I’m okay. A few scrapes.” Roland lowered his eyes. “Not as bad as it looks, really.” Feigning confusion, he squinted toward his old neighbor and quickly patched together a lie. “Did I… Oh, Jesus, this isn’t East Olberg, is it?” He shook his head—“Hmm”—and rolled his eyes. “I have the wrong house.”

  Howard eyed him with suspicion. “Apparently, you do.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you. I don’t know how…” Roland threw a glance back over his shoulder. “It’s hard to read these signs at night.” He backed away, knowing full well his pathetic act was blatantly transparent.

  The front door shut. He hurried back to the waiting truck, climbed in, and said, “Could you please just go. Let me out anywhere… up the road. I don’t care. Anywhere.”

  Anna started the engine, backed out to the road, then continued driving east. “They don’t remember you, huh?” She shook her head. “I really don’t know what to make of you, but crazy is the first thing that comes to mind.” She paused. “Why the hell do I get involved? Gives me the fuckin’ creeps.”

  Roland stared out the window to his right, saying nothing.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Anna hit the brakes, steered to the side of the road, and skidded to a stop. Roland braced himself stiff-armed against the dash.

  “Who the hell are you? You’re too nice to be crazy, or maybe not. How the fuck would I know? But, Christ, what happened to you? Look at you. Were you always—”

  “No! I wasn’t… I’m not. I have a life. I’m…” He shook his hands out before him. “I’m a painter, an artist.” He grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled it away from his chest. “This is not who I am. I have a closet full of clothes. I take showers. I wear deodorant, drive a car, money, credit cards… all that god damned stuff that says you’re normal. I’m telling you, my house was back there… exactly where I said it was.”

  “Then I must be crazy. In the forty-four years I’ve lived here, I’ve never seen a house there. Hell, I remember when there were no houses at all along here. Watched them pop up one by one. Yours did not popped up.”

  Roland closed his eyes and drew in a breath. “Maybe I am crazy.”

  Anna let out a sigh. “Look, crazy or not, I can’t just dump you at the side of the road like a dog.” She put the truck in gear and made a U-turn. “You’re not dressed for this, for one thing.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My place. You can have the couch tonight. We’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

  Roland gazed toward the dashboard. On one hand he wanted to decline her offer, feeling nearly as uncomfortable with her as he imagined she was with him. But on the other hand, clean clothes and a good night’s sleep was more than tempting. He knew it would’ve been a different story had he have been left on his own.

  “Anna?”

  She glanced his way.

  “I don’t mind sleeping at your father’s place.”

  She turned back toward the road.

  He added, “I’ve never hurt anyone, if that’s of any concern.”

  “I wouldn’t have let you in my truck if it was. And my dad’s capable of taking care of himself.” She paused. “If you’d rather sleep in that crappy little trailer, it doesn’t matter one bit to me. You’ll still need clothes though, won’t you?”

  He laid a hand over the tear in the knee of his pants. “I’ll pay you for them.”

  “With what, a credit card?”

  “I’ve got cash too. Not much, but—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  They again passed the spot where Roland’s house had been, or so he believed. He twisted around in his seat, peered out the back window, and watched the pine tree fade into the darkness behind them.

  Chapter thirty-four – listen

  The building Anna parked before appeared no different than Roland remembered: a two-story, mars-red structure, with a raised wooden porch; its decking and railing, weathered and unpainted, stretched the full width of the building. As a part of its old-west façade, a parapet, rising eight-feet above the second-floor windows, had a large, decorative crenel cut out along its cap. A streetlight, by the road, thirty-feet from the porch, cast a surreal, yellowish tint across the parking lot.

  Anna’s boots drummed across the porch as Roland followed a few steps behind. He waited as she dug into her handbag for a cluster of keys, unlocked the door, then pushed it open. The lights came on, throwing quadrangle shapes across the porch floor.

  “So… jeans.” Anna click-clacked across the bare-wood floor to a shelving unit stocked with piles of folded blue denim. “What size?”

  “Uh, thirty-three, thirty-four.”

  She squatted as she hunted through a stack of jeans, then pulled out a pair near the bottom. “There you go.” She handed them to him.

  He let the folds fall out, then held the waist band against his belt buckle. “They look about right.”

  “How ‘bout a shirt?” She went to a rack against the wall. “You like flannel?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve got some sweat shirts,” she said, “with stuff silk screened on them. Touristy stuff, if you don’t mind that.”

  “Flannel’s fine,” he said.

  The shirts were all different color combinations of the same plaid pattern. He chose one with a red and black base, and accents of green.

  “Wanna T-shirt?” Anna held up a blue shirt with an image of the Grand Canyon across its chest—big bold letters spelling it out. Roland stepped over to the rack of T-shirts, looking for plain, solid colors, but there were none. He chose a shirt with a saguaro cactus on the backside and “PHOENIX” printed across the front. “You’ll take a credit card?”

  Anna gave him a puzzled look.

  Roland dug out his wallet, pulled out a card and handed it to her.

  “Bax. That’s your name?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dad seems to think you’re from another planet or something.”

  “What?”

  “Did you tell him that?”

  “No.”

  “I could have you arrested for trespass, you know.”

  “But I’m not. I just want to go home.”

  Anna glared at him.

  “Well, I didn’t,” he said.

  She grabbed the clothes from the counter and marched off toward the back of the store. Roland follow
ed her to a door, which opened to a bleak unfinished stairwell. Their feet produced dull thumps, creaks, and scuffs as they climbed the uncarpeted steps to a landing on the second floor. A single, bare, light bulb dangled from the ceiling by the same wire that provided its power. The smell of dusty wood and the faint oily odor of rancid cooking oil hinted at faraway places and times—perhaps his own childhood, another lifetime, or another reality.

  There were two doors on the landing: one, straight ahead; the other, to the right. Anna opened the first, then flipped a switch on the wall as she stepped through. “Not much, but I don’t need much.”

  The kitchen ceiling felt too low and confining. A cool, sickly light filtered through off-white sheets of fly-speckled plastic held in place by the same metal tracks that supported the dingy, acoustic tiles. To his left, four-feet from the door, stood an old wooden table with three chairs tucked in around it—it and the chairs brush-painted white. The reflection of a plump, potted jade, positioned near the center of the table, came from the window to the right of it. The floor was covered with embossed linoleum, made to resemble grouted red-clay tile. A small football-shaped patch was cut in before the refrigerator, its pattern, though identical to the linoleum around it, was slightly askew.

  Anna laid the clothes on the corner of the table. “You want anything to drink? A beer?”

  “No, thank you. You mind if I use your shower?”

  “I figured you might want to.” The corners of her lips turned up—the first time Roland had seen anything other than a frown on her face. “At the end of the hall.” She pointed over her shoulder. “Wait a second, I’ll show you.”

  She led Roland to a small bathroom at the end of a short hallway. He waited at the door—his new shirt and jeans, folded up in his arms.

  “Towels and washcloths.” She pointed to a wall-mounted shelf stacked with folded towels. “There’s soap and shampoo in the shower. You good here?”