Lions zeroing in on the kill, running.
Faster and faster, their frenzy growing more rapid with each step.
They hit the car with the force of an earthquake and the sound of a whisper. The sun was eclipsed, and the only thing Jack could hear as he blacked out was the sound of his own muffled scream.
19
Her knees were tucked up under her chin, her arms wrapped around her legs, slowly rocking.
Her eyes searched for bearing but she was blind. Too long in the dark now. How many days? She didn’t know.
Molly could feel the rock wall to her back, the warm stone underneath her.
Silent movements stirred the air around her, and occasionally she could feel a presence grace the hair on her bare arms. A haunted breeze, a slow exhaling of foul wind.
The cell, for that is how she thought of it, was silent to everything but her heartbeat. She could hear the blood flow through the veins in her neck up into her head. The slow, rhythmic beat of life. The air stirred with the beat, jumping pace when she was startled by the graze of the unseen shadows.
She thought about how she had come here. Not the mechanics of the fact; she recalled that all too well. But rather all the nuanced steps that she had taken, all the seemingly small choices that spiraled out of control and landed her in oblivion. She thought of her mom with her heavy hand of practical suburban life. She had yearned to live freer, to do what she wanted, to make decisions for herself. That is where the dream had started. She had longed to live without restraint, not realizing she was incapable of living without support.
In the dark she could feel her tears moisten the skin on her forearms and run to the crease in her elbow where they pooled and evaporated. Vapor gone before their existence could be noticed by the ones that came after them. Much like herself, she thought. Gone before actually living.
The shadow breaths moved with her despairing thoughts. Suicide had never been in her vocabulary, but with each drip of a tear, with each whiff of silent shade, the dark thoughts would pop into her mind like a twisted whack-a-mole game. She worked to beat one down, to have another thought take its place, taunting her with sarcastic laughing.
She grieved for her shattered image.
Why did she do this? She could see the vision of home in her mind. The day she packed her backpack and headed out the front door. She could feel the coolness of the brass handle in her palm. Stop, turn around! she thought as she watched the scene in her memory, but her doppelganger simply closed the door and walked down the driveway, an impish grin on her face and invincibility nestled in her back pocket. She watched herself disappear down the street and mourned. Despair, regret, and shame swam in the deep pools of her memories.
The shadows were her only companions.
20
If a soul walked west into the wasteland of the Mojave, and kept walking until all hope of finding civilization had been lost, dehydration had turned the brain to a mushy paste, and fear had given way to slow acceptance and welcoming of death, ten steps past this point of utter despair they would find the cabin of Boots.
It was not so much a cabin as it was a trailer with an add-on not designed by any skilled architect. A porch graced the front of the shack, and its exterior was patched together with an odd assortment of material. The tin roof was beaten with age and shimmered in the desert sun.
The yard, if rocks and sand could be called such, sprouted a few resilient weeds that clawed for life between the stone and eked out a meager existence. The property line was undefined and could have stretched for miles toward the western mountains, which offered a spectacular view.
Around back, there was a small pen and horse stable suitable for its lone inhabitant, a brown-and-white pinto of questionable disposition. Clouds of dust fell after each footfall as the mare sauntered back and forth between its water trough and the pen rail.
South of the pen and pushed a little farther out was a small cemetery plot with washed-out stones of memorial. A family plot it seemed, the names of which were now lost to time. Broken souls who may have given up hope of ever finding paradise now resting their bones among the sun-soaked stones.
The cabin itself offered little comfort of modern life. It contained a single bedroom with a small nightstand. There was no plumbing out here in the wasteland, so the decrepit bathroom off the hallway only served to mock an anxious bladder. A homemade lean-to outside provided a primitive solution.
Through the front door was the open living space that served as a kitchen, dining area, and living room, all in Spartan fashion. The owner of the place never bothered to clean, as the desert winds just blew more dust in through the open windows before a broom could make a dent. The only decoration apart from the candle sconces was a framed picture next to the door. The sketch inside was similar to what a young Ansel Adams would have hung on his mother’s refrigerator.
There was no power out here, no television, no reception on any radio if Boots had bothered owning one. The kitchen had a hand pump that brought cool water up from a deep well and made the residency of the cabin even possible. Though the sun beat down with a vengeance, the air in the hut was cool, as if the sun dared not cross the threshold. This was the place that Boots brought the couple he had saved from death on the deserted road.
He was a small man, old and weathered by the sun. His beard was long and hung to the middle of his chest, and though not white, the gray mixed with the black of its natural color to form a mop that hung from his chin. His teeth were not holding well against the years of neglect but still supported him fully in chewing whatever he may need to chew, especially when it came to his pouch of tobacco.
His western shirt sported the timeless fashion of the discount thrift store, and the only point of pride in his dress were his ranch hand Nocona boots. A philosopher once said that “a man’s feet must be planted in his country, but his eyes should survey the world,” and Boots was sure that his shoes planted him firmly on his piece of earth, and his view of the Mojave was splendid.
He looked at the two people who now occupied his cabin. The woman was resting on the couch. The man was back on the bed. Boots began spreading his backwater healing on them with patience and purpose. The woman had seemed in dire straits when she first arrived, but she was recovering quickly. The man, however, continued to thrash in a fevered state. Cold compresses from the water pump were refreshed every half hour or so, and the only break Boots took was to enjoy a dip on the front porch. He refused to chew in his house. “Man’s gotta have standards,” he always said.
The woman began to stir out of delirium and opened her eyes. She was startled by the desert nomad staring back at her.
“What . . . who are you?” the woman whispered.
“I’m Boots, and you’re going to be all right. Just rest there. Ain’t no use trying to get up.”
She nestled down and drifted between waking and sleep, unsettled as if haunted by a dream.
Boots walked to the back room and tried to pour some water into the man’s stomach, but he would have none of it. Again, with the same elderly patience, Boots worked to break the man’s fever, to cool his raging body temperature and bring him back to the land of the living.
Man is not made for the desert. The sun slowly begins to cook the organs inside the body. Cramps and exhaustion rack the muscles. Insanity creeps in as the body temperature rises. Corpses have been found along the border where illegal immigrants have tried to claw the skin off their bodies in a vain attempt at cooling their internal thermostats. It is not pleasant when the baked man gives up the ghost. Boots worked to make sure that Jack would not join their number.
Laura woke the next morning, and though she still felt nauseated and wiped out, she sat up and placed her feet on the floor. The rug below them spun and then settled down. She looked over to see an old man sitting at a small table just a few feet from her. She jumped back into the couch, clutching the blanket that had slipped down around her waist.
“Wh . . . where a
m I?”
“This is my place.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“Jack? That his name? He’s in the back bed. Don’t worry about him. He’s coming along. Not as quickly but just as surely.”
“Good.” Laura felt her muscles relax. Something in the old man’s voice soothed her anxiety, and though she didn’t think of herself as naïve, she felt as if she had little to fear from the stranger sitting across from her. “You’re . . . Boots, right?”
He nodded. “You’ve been through a lot, it looks like.”
The man got up and retrieved a fresh glass of water for her. She looked at the cool liquid floating in the aged Mason jar and sipped it slowly.
“You drink that slow now, no need throwing up on my rug.”
“All right.”
The old man sat back in his chair and eyed her, looking her over as if she was born from a different species than himself. Laura stared down into her glass, sensed his eyes probing. Her mind checked the myriad of feelings in her body, but she felt assured that she was unharmed. Waking up in a strange man’s trailer got her thoughts to racing, but she quickly reassured herself that she had not been messed with.
She looked over at Boots sitting in his chair and saw a sense of contentment in his eyes, empty of malice, but not entirely sure if madness didn’t creep in around the pupils.
Boots broke the silence. “So, what you two doing way out here?”
“Just driving. The car broke down. We didn’t see anyone.”
“Don’t see much out here”—he smiled—“that’s why it’s called out here.”
Boots chuckled at his own joke and Laura smiled with him, despite her pounding head. “Well, thank you. I thought we were goners.”
“Don’t mention it. You two were in a bad spot. Least I could do.”
Laura forced another mouthful of water down her throat. The coolness soothed the soreness for a moment. “So where’s here?”
“Here’s kinda between the cracks, about as far away as you can get from crazy folk. Don’t worry, I’ll get you where you need to be in a short while.”
“Do you have a phone?” she asked, looking around the room for any sign of technology.
“Ain’t got no phone out here. Naw, I don’t need all that stuff. Out here you gotta rely on yourself. Jack will be all right. Fever looks to be breaking. And you, well, you’re coming around just fine.”
“Shouldn’t we get a doctor?”
“Naw, y’all be fine. Seen it before. Yeah, you’ll be just fine.”
“My head hurts.”
“It will for a bit. Gotta get the water back in you is all.”
She set the glass on the table in front of her and her head swam. In the pit of her stomach, she felt the growl of hunger pains and tried to think about the last time she had food. It seemed like a different lifetime.
“Do you have anything to eat?” she asked.
“Sure do,” he said.
Boots got up and fixed a small plate of rations on the table for her. It was mystery food to be sure, but the aroma smelled fine and the fact that Laura’s taste buds felt burnt out of her mouth made the meal palatable. She was not about to complain.
After eating, she settled back on the couch and napped off and on. Sometimes she would open her eyes and see Boots busying himself about the kitchen, other times she would be alone in the room. She took water off and on and could feel her body begin to normalize. Nightfall came and she slept soundly.
By the next morning, Laura felt like a new woman.
21
Time passed without observance. Jack woke in a bed covered by an old patchwork quilt. He felt filthy, as if he had broken a fever and had not showered in weeks. On the battered nightstand next to him was some water and towels. He had no idea how long he had been asleep or any clue as to where he was. He tried to recollect what had happened, but it too seemed like a dream in which he could grasp the sentiment but not the action. His head ached and his muscles screamed as he tried to sit up.
Jack tracked his memories. He remembered driving out into the desert, the car dying. He remembered the spider. How could he forget that? He remembered someone carrying Laura to a horse and taking off.
Laura!
He jumped to his feet despite the pain and opened the bedroom door. Laura sat at a small table in a large room that served as a kitchen and living area. She stared back at him from her plate of pancakes with a look of shock.
“Jack! You’re awake!” she said as she ran to him. “Here, let’s get some clothes on you.”
He was still too weak in the head to have noticed his nakedness, but didn’t resist her as she pushed him back into the bedroom. She sat him on the bed and grabbed his clothes.
“Where are we?” he struggled.
“A cabin. This man found us and carried us here. We thought you’d never wake up.”
“How long?”
“Four days. Your fever was high. It broke last night and you took a little food.”
“Who is he?”
“Just some sweet old-timer. He calls himself Boots.” She smiled. “He’s got these old leather boots that tap the floor like Gregory Hines. I’m not sure what his real name is.”
He slumped back on the bed after she pushed his shirt over his head. “I feel like garbage.”
“Come on out and eat something. You need to get your strength back.”
Sitting at the table, Jack forced down a pancake. His throat was swollen and his cracked lips bled a little when he tried to chew. He glanced at Laura, who looked little worse for wear by the whole ordeal.
“So where is this guy?”
“He stepped outside about half an hour ago. He said he’d be back soon.”
Jack glanced around the cabin. It was something out of a photo shoot for White Trash Living. There was no power that he could see. Candles sat in the middle of the table and in sconces on the wall. The kitchen had a single iron tub with a hand pump water faucet. No TV. No telephone.
“This guy doesn’t believe in modern living?”
“I don’t think so. Doesn’t even have a car. Just an old horse. But that horse saved our lives.”
“I bet,” Jack said, still looking around. “Did he go to get help?”
“I don’t think so. I think he just went to get some food for today.”
“Hmph.”
Jack thought back to the highway. To the feeling of being pulled from the car and poured over the back of an animal. Somewhere in his mind he could feel the sensation of a slow trot and the clicking of hooves, the smell of horse hair and dust. He had no idea how long the walk was, just as he had no idea of how long he had slept. He stared back at Laura, who had a look of contentment on her face.
“You having fun yet?” he asked sarcastically.
“Bunches,” she said with a slight grin. “We are very lucky, Jack. We could be dead right now . . .”
“Because of me?”
“If it wasn’t for Boots. He saved us.”
“Yeah.”
“Jack,” she whispered, “we are lucky.”
He dropped his eyes to the plate. He had almost killed them both, driving into solitude just for curiosity’s sake. Jack could see Laura listless in the passenger seat, slowly edging toward death, the result of him wanting to be “John Wayne for the day.” That phrase was now eternally etched in his mind. How could he ever forgive himself? How could he come to grips with the fact that he wasn’t an adventurer, just a desk jockey whose only skill was punching a time card? He felt like a failure before her. Emasculated. Weak.
“It’s all right, we’re okay now,” she whispered as she reached across the table for his hand.
He let her take it. He hated her at that moment. Laura, the benefactress of his ambition, the one who looked up to him, offering comfort to his brokenness. He hated his whole life in one fell swoop. His mind racing, he almost wished he had died in that car. He let the rage pass before he looked up at her, but before he could speak,
the front door opened and Boots walked in.
22
“So, you’re awake. Good,” said the man walking through the door. He was an odd specimen for the twenty-first century. He was decked out in a worn western shirt with pearl buttons on the pockets, the plaid pattern worn down to more of solid beige. His denim was as dusty as his boots, which indeed did tap across the wooden floor to the water pump where he washed his hands. He placed his cowboy hat on the counter as he ran water over his head and scrubbed some into his mangy beard. Jack recognized him—from every western and gold rush movie he had ever seen. Here was a walking stereotype of the grizzled mountain man. But what stereotype is not rooted in reality, some subtle gene that pops out like pheromones to explain an object in its essence. This was Boots. Rasputin of no-man’s-land.
“What say you, Jack? Getting your strength back?”
“Yes. Thanks, uh, Boots, is it?”
The old man nodded.
“Nice place you have here, Boots,” Jack said with a mild tone of condescension.
Laura shot him a look of disapproval that Jack didn’t take the time to acknowledge.
“Thanks. It ain’t much, but it’s mine. Been out here a long time, so it’s just broke in to suit. Got anything you would need to scratch a living.”
“Got a phone or a car? A way back to town?”
“Don’t need that stuff. Ain’t ever been in a hurry to get there. I got my horse and she does the trick. You met her already. She can pull her share, but now gets tired right quick. Ain’t like she used to be.”
The old man sat down at the table, his beard still dripping water onto his shirt. A small bead ran down his forehead. Boots’s eyes looked right through Jack as they sat across from each other. The old man’s crystal blue irises awash with age. Jack felt uneasy, exposed, like lying on a gurney in a hospital smock as a doctor flipped through charts looking for the diagnosis to an unexplained disease. He didn’t like the way this old man made him feel. He could sum that up right away. Something about him just did not seem right.
Purgatory Road Page 5
