Crossroads

by Jeanne C. Stein

  If I told him the truth, that I was just about to have an orgasm and he interrupted not a nightmare, but a really, really good dream, I’m not sure who would be more mortified. Frey for mistaking moans of passion for groans of terror or me for admitting it. I decide to save Frey the humiliation.

  “I can’t remember what I was dreaming. You know how it is.”

  Frey doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Must have been awful.”

  There’s an undertone of sarcasm that makes me swivel in the seat to search his face. Is he screwing with me? Is the only misinterpretation going on here mine? But it’s dark in the Jeep and in profile, only a hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth. He’s not giving anything away and I’m certainly not going to pursue the subject.

  I turn my attention back to the road. The Jeep is bumping along and I realize we’ve left the paved highway. I remember Frey mentioning unpaved and unlit roads. He wasn’t kidding.

  There’s no moon, either. But when I look up, the sky seems closer than I’ve ever seen it, the stars so bright, I have to fight the impulse to reach up a hand and pluck one down. As I watch, one of them separates from the rest and tracks slowly across the sky, blinking at me as it goes.

  My breath catches. “What is that? An airplane?”

  Frey follows my pointing finger. “No, too high. It’s a satellite. You don’t see many of those in the city, do you?”

  I watch until it disappears out of sight. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  Frey shoots me a sideways glance. “You have, you know. The night we went after Belinda Burke and stopped the demon raising. You don’t remember?”

  The memory floods back. Frey and I racing across the desert. Panther and vampire. The sky as brilliant and close as it is now. I nod. I remember.

  Frey pulls the Jeep to a stop. “Put your seat back. Let’s watch the show.”

  We both recline the seats once more, mesmerized by a sky that moves and shimmers as if it were alive. Within minutes, we see two shooting stars, one right after the other, meteors trailing bits of rock and dust that disintegrate into fiery balls when they hit the earth’s atmosphere. The Milky Way, a soft blur of hazy white light, divides the sky. Constellations form patterns that I can actually distinguish. I feel like a kid, lost in awe and trembling with delight. It’s so beautiful.

  “Is it like this out here every night?”

  I’m whispering. Somehow to speak out loud might break the spell.

  Frey whispers, too. “Is it any wonder the Navajo consider this a sacred place?”

  My heart pounds in my chest. Why have I never been here before? How could I not know of such wonders?

  Frey turns toward me in the seat. “Wait until sunrise. This valley is one of the most breathtaking on earth.”

  I glance at the clock on the dashboard. It’s almost four—and to the east, a faint line of pink blossoms on the horizon. Not an unbroken horizon. Jagged rock formations rise from the desert floor like the ghostly abodes of long dead gods. One rises straight and narrow to the sky. It towers over the rest like some giant navigational pylon aimed at the stars.

  Frey follows my gaze. “That’s called the Totem Pole. It’s four hundred fifty feet high but only a few meters wide. It’s one of the most photographed spots in the valley.”

  I glance over. “You know a lot about this place. How often do you come?”

  “Not often.” His tone is regretful. “I should come more.”

  “Why don’t you? You obviously love it.”

  “It isn’t a good idea for me to spend a lot of time in the valley.”

  He’s answering my questions, but he may as well not be. The closeness we’d been experiencing shatters into a million hard, brittle pieces. “For god’s sake, Frey, spill it. What keeps you away?”

  When the silence lingers on too long, my temper flares. I reach over and punch him in the arm.

  He yelps and grabs at his bicep. “What was that for?”

  “For being a jerk. You know every fucking thing about me. Every bad thing that’s happened, every man I’ve ever slept with, every body I’ve buried. And you won’t share with me one single detail of your personal life? After all we’ve been through together? You’re really beginning to piss me off.”

  Frey grips the steering wheel. “Why would you be interested now?”

  His voice is rough, whether with suppressed anger or guilt I can’t tell. It hardly matters. My own suppressed anger boils to the surface. I slam my seat back into its upright position. Jerk around to look down at him.

  “I’ve had a bitch of a week. In the last three days I had Max, David and Harris in my face. Then Chael showed up. I’d like to think you have some appreciation for that since I came to you out of concern for your son.

  “I’m sorry about Layla. I’m sorry I didn’t call to check in with you sooner. I’m sorry if my life keeps screwing up yours. If I could change any of it, I would. Maybe that’s what this trip is about. Maybe if things work out, I will be out of your life forever and you can go back to Layla. She won’t have me to blame anymore for your problems and you can go back to your safe, stupid, boring existence.”

  When the tirade passes, I swivel away from him on the seat and wait for Frey to unload on me. He should. He has every right to. My body tenses, every muscle steeling itself to receive the verbal blow I deserve.

  Nothing happens.

  I steal a sideways glance. Frey is staring straight ahead, his knuckles still stiff on the steering wheel, his face pale.

  Another moment passes. Then, slowly, he brings his seat to an upright position. He looks over at me. At first, his mouth is drawn in a tight line, his brow furrowed into deep, angry grooves. As I watch, though, his expression shifts. Like ice cream melting, the lines smooth, the mouth turns up instead of down. His shoulders start to shake.

  Frey begins to laugh.

  A laugh so hard it doubles him over.

  A laugh so hard, tears run down his cheek.

  A laugh so hard it casts a net that catches me up and before I realize it, I’m laughing like an idiot right along with him. I can’t say why. I don’t really care why. Letting go is such a fucking relief.

  Our laughter echoes across the still night air and bounces off the rock citadels around us. We’re howling like moon-crazed wolves, lifting our faces to the sky. For the first time in weeks, I feel something loosening deep within me. A knot finally cut. A fist suddenly open.

  I feel hopeful.

  I recover my wits first. Wipe tears from my face. Slump on the seat, blinking in disbelief. “What just happened?”

  Frey draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, shaking his head. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

  “Why did you start laughing?”

  His face in profile, I see an eyebrow arch. “Well, my first impulse was to smack you. Then I started to think what would happen if I did. I got this image of the two of us wrestling in the dirt like something from Monday Night Raw. But you’d kick my butt and I’d be humiliated, and knowing you, I’d never hear the end of it.”

  “And that made you laugh?”

  “I didn’t say it made sense.”

  “I guess I should say thanks for not smacking me.”

  “And I should say thanks for not kicking my butt.”

  It’s grown quiet all around us, the echoes of our manic laughter finally fading away. Frey and I retreat into our thoughts. I’ve spent more of the past year, my first as a vampire, in the company of this man. Yet I know so little about him.

  I lower my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye so he won’t catch me studying him. His eyes are still on the stars, his expression relaxed and unperturbed. He’s a good guy. I wish he’d let me in even if I don’t deserve it.

  I make a vow to myself. I’ll keep my friends closer from now on. Not just Frey, but Culebra, too.

  I’ll be the kind of good friend they’ve been to me—not just a friend when I need one, but a friend for al
l days.

  And I make that vow to the bright glow of the morning star.

  CHAPTER 17

  FREY PUTS THE JEEP IN GEAR AND WE’RE BACK ON the road just as the sun makes its first appearance over the desert. Shafts of light flood the valley, painting inky silhouettes with shades of red. So far, I haven’t seen any sign of human habitation. Or much of any habitation at all. A few ground squirrels and rodents. A hawk circling against an ever-brightening sky. Low-to-the-ground scrub brush and spindly yucca. A desolate but remarkable landscape.

  After traveling for another thirty minutes, I ask Frey, “Where the hell does your son live?”

  “Patience. We’re almost there. The area we’re traveling through is called Wildcat Trail. Not many people venture back here because this is private land. There are hogans and houses all around us, just so far off the trail, you won’t see them unless you know where to look.”

  “Hogans?”

  “Some Navajo still live as their ancestors did—in small, mud dwellings. They’re called hogans.”

  A concept hard for me to grasp. I think of my own cottage. Could I give it up to live in a mud house? Even in this beautiful place? Could Frey? I think not. “Does your son live in a hogan?”

  Frey laughs. “No. His mother is much too modern. She likes her creature comforts. She lived in Boston for a while. It’s where we met.”

  His words trigger a memory. Frey lived in Boston before moving to San Diego. He was tracking a pedophile—the same one who abused my niece, Trish. It was how he and I met. How we learned to trust each other. Seems like a lifetime ago.

  “You thinking about Trish?”

  I blink over at him. “Can you read my mind again?”

  “Not your mind. Your expression. You get a certain look when you’re thinking of your family.”

  “Hmmmm.” I refocus. “What was your ex doing in Boston?”

  “She was spending the summer with a mutual friend. She went to Massachusetts to study at Amherst. Native American Studies. She’s full-blood Navajo.”

  “Why did she move back to the reservation?”

  Frey shifts in the seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. His reaction prompts me to ask, “Did she leave because she got pregnant?”

  He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The answer shows on his face. Guilt. Regret. Longing.

  “Why didn’t you go after her?” I ask softly.

  “I did. She sent me away. Only after our son was born did she let me back into her life. And then only for visits. Brief visits. I was an outsider in her world. She made it plain that I was unwelcome.”

  I want to keep Frey talking. This is the most information I’ve ever gotten from him about his past. But we’re turning off the dirt road and heading for an outcropping of rocks in the distance. I don’t know how Frey knew where to turn. There’s not even a rutted trail to follow. He scans the terrain, searching for landmarks indistinguishable to me, but obviously as clear as street signs to him. He drives straight onward through hardscrabble dirt. I grab the sissy bar to keep from being bounced out of the Jeep. Clouds of dust billow in our wake like ragged coattails.

  I don’t disturb his concentration. For two reasons. I don’t want to distract his driving and end up upside down in a heap. And secondly, I’m lost in my own head, filled with speculation about this woman who bore Frey’s child. This woman … I can’t believe I haven’t thought to ask her name. No. If I’m honest, I know exactly why I haven’t asked her name. A name takes her out of the realm of conjecture and makes her real.

  The Jeep hits a deep rut, and I’m jerked back out of the fuzzy world of conjecture. Frey is pointing to the left. I follow his direction, and there in the distance, a trail of smoke like a white ribbon rises to the sky. It issues from what looks like a small, round dome. I feel an inexplicable thrill of anticipation.

  “A hogan?”

  He nods.

  “It’s so small.”

  “It doesn’t need to be big. It’s used mainly for shelter when the weather’s bad and certain ceremonies. The Navajo spend most of their time outdoors.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Others?”

  “Don’t the Navajo live in villages?”

  He shakes his head. “No villages. No towns.”

  “A lonely existence.”

  “Not if you’re used to it. The Navajo have a special connection to the land.”

  He turns his attention back to driving and I turn mine back to the scenery. It’s as if we are the only two people on earth and for the first time in my life, I feel the force of nature. The wind, the sky, the sun on my face. The contrast of red sand and tall rock formations bathed in the newly minted gold of daybreak swamps my senses, and yet, I fight to take it all in. A thousand years—ten thousand—years ago, this land was as I see it now. A taste of eternity. Of timelessness.

  Of eternal life.

  A tug of melancholy. This may be where I belong.

  Here. With other ageless things.

  Strands of early morning mist rise from the desert floor and twine around and through stone arches on their way to the clouds.

  I follow with my eyes, watch as wisps break free, travel straight and sure to the heavens.

  I wish my way were that clear.

  A sound reaches us—haunting, melodic, rising and falling like feathers on the wind.

  “Do you hear that, Frey?”

  He just smiles and steers in the direction of the music.

  The Jeep traverses around a series of low, flat outcroppings and there, ahead of us, a house rises as if born of the earth. A small, single story house made from logs the same color as the dirt and rocks with a roof of caramel-colored tile. A porch spans the front, facing due east, and on the porch steps sits a girl, a flute at her lips. The melody from the flute and the golden rays of a rising sun reflect off her like a halo, giving the scene a surreal quality.

  Frey stops a few yards away and turns off the engine. The dust cloud that had been following us gusts away as if fanned by an invisible hand.

  Frey makes no move to get out or greet the girl, neither does she acknowledge our presence. She continues to play, the sweet song poetic in its simplicity.

  Her skin glows in the sun. Her black hair hangs shiny and straight over her shoulders, framing brows drawn in concentration. Her full-lipped mouth is pursed over the flute, an expression of pure joy on her face. It’s impossible to tell her age, she has a face that seems at once youthful and mature. But my impression is that she’s young.

  I sneak a look over at Frey. How old was she when she got pregnant, you dog?

  She is dressed in a long-sleeved full cotton shirt, a velvet skirt that covers her ankles, a pair of leather moccasins on her feet. She wears no jewelry but a belt that looks as if it is made of carved black onyx, small rectangles linked together by silver, cinches her waist.

  The setting, the way she’s dressed, the ethereal quality of the music, all seem to belong to another time. If it was a hogan instead of a house, I’d imagine her a Navajo princess paying tribute to the sun god with her playing. The idea makes gooseflesh race up my arms.

  When she finishes the song, when she lowers the flute, only then does Frey open his door and jump out.

  The girl flashes a huge grin, whoops, and runs to meet him. She wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. She peppers his face with kisses. She’s laughing and talking all at the same time, her bunched-up skirt showing a lot of leg.

  I turn away in embarrassment. So much for the image of the stoic Native American. And so much for Frey’s apprehension that she would not be happy to see him. If she were any happier, I’d have to cover my eyes.

  Frey is laughing, too, though turning his face this way and that, as if trying to avoid those persistent lips. He is also making an attempt to set her back on her feet. An attempt she resists by tightening her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist.

  The banging of a screen door behind us
makes me jump. I turn to see another woman standing on the porch steps.

  “Mary Yellow Bird! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  Her sharp voice brings the joyful reunion to an abrupt end. The girl sighs and releases her hold on Frey, jumping down and turning with a sweep of her long skirt.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I was just saying hello.”

  “I could see what you were saying,” the newcomer snaps. “Get inside. Give John-John his breakfast.”

  The girl stomps by with a scowl and disappears into the house. Frey and the woman on the steps stare at each other. She has the same coloring as the other, the same sculpted facial lines, is a few inches taller, a few pounds heavier, several years older. Her hair is drawn back in a bun, a tricky configuration adorned with ribbons and beads. She is dressed in jeans and a Western shirt, a bandanna tied around her neck.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and taps one booted foot. Rings of turquoise and silver adorn two fingers of both hands, flashing as they catch the sunlight. She is wearing earrings of turquoise, too, long strands that almost touch the collar of her shirt.

  Her expression is in startling contrast to the exuberant greeting of the other.

  This woman is not so happy to see Frey.

  This must be Frey’s ex.

  CHAPTER 18

  THE STANDOFF GOES ON. IT’S OBVIOUS NEITHER Frey nor the woman is willing to be the first to break the silence. I feel like an intruder. An invisible one, maybe, since she hasn’t paid me the slightest bit of attention, but an intruder nonetheless.

  Should I say something? I find myself shifting impatiently from one foot to the other. I try to distract myself by perusing the surroundings. The yard around the house is bare dirt, the only greenery a couple of scraggly desert junipers on each side of the porch. There’s a carport on the south side, a tarp strung between four poles sheltering a battered GMC truck. I can see one pole of a clothesline in the back of the house and hear sheets flapping in the breeze. Still farther back, a corral with an open, rough-hewn wooden shed. Three horses nibble at something in a long feeder that spans the back of the lean-to. I also hear the hum of a generator. Since I see no overhead electrical wires, I assume that’s how they get their power. Frey did say his ex liked her creature comforts.