The Other Side of Death

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Decaf,” he said, filling a Styrofoam cup.

  “Tequila,” said I.

  “You still drinking that stuff?” He shook his head.

  “You still wearing those shirts?” I asked. Guatemalan shirts had disappeared a decade ago from most places, but in pockets of northern New Mexico they still dressed like hippies, even though they drank like yuppies.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” the guy asked.

  “Albuquerque,” I said.

  “Albuquerque, jeez.” He shook his blond Rasta curls. “I’ve never understood how anyone can live there.”

  I was rescued from this dead-end conversation by an arm around my shoulder, a face full of blond hair.

  “Neil.”

  “Lonnie.”

  “Good to see you again.”

  “How have you been?”

  “Great.”

  “You look wonderful.”

  “So do you.”

  Actually, Lonnie looked worn out, but she always had, it was part of her appeal. Her hair was thin and frizzy and she bleached it almost beyond repair. She had a soft, voluptuous body that was always on the verge of turning to fat, but hadn’t yet. Fair-haired and delicate when she was on, frowzy when she wasn’t, she was often pretty, always vulnerable, the kind of woman men love, leave and love all over again.

  “The steps you take in this life set up the karma for the next one,” Ci said … loudly.

  “Is that what you call psychic babble?” I asked Lonnie, leading her to the far side of the kitchen where the kind of stove with burners that are part of the counter filled the spot where once an ancient wood stove had been.

  Lonnie laughed. “She babbles for bucks. Ci’s hot stuff right now. The psychic of the moment. What do you think of her hair?”

  “On her I like it.”

  “Sometimes I think I’ll let my hair go gray when the time comes,” Lonnie sighed. “It doesn’t look so bad if you’ve got a young face.” Lonnie had the face of a young woman older than her years or an older woman who still looks young. Somehow the fine age lines didn’t fit, which happens sometimes to fair and thin-skinned women. “Ci washes her hair in Perrier.”

  “Give me a break.”

  “It gives it body, she says.”

  “What’s her act?”

  “She used to be an astrologer. Now she takes people into their next incarnation, forward life progression, she calls it. It’s an amazing experience, Neil. You ought to try it sometime.”

  “I’ve got enough problems in this life, thanks.”

  “What you do in this one determines what will happen in the next, Ci says.”

  “A futuristic Shirley MacLaine. Does that mean it’s okay to have an affair with a married man in this lifetime if you plan to suffer for it in the next?”

  “Shirley MacLaine stiffed me. Did I ever tell you that? When I was a bartender at La Posada. I waited on her all night and she took off without leaving me one thin dime.”

  That had been Lonnie’s life, rotten jobs, no tips, and bad men, too. “What are you doing these days to support yourself?” I asked. In the time I’d known her she’d been a bartender, a landscape artist, a real estate agent, a messenger for Tim’s Helio Courier Messenger Service—a typical career in Santa Fe, where there are fifty applicants for every crummy job. Most people who follow that path are trying to be artists or artisans. As far as I knew, Lonnie had just been following a man.

  “I’m the manager of the Sangre de Cristo Health Club.”

  “The Blood of Christ Health Club?”

  “That’s it.” She poured herself some white zinfandel.

  The top buttons of Lonnie’s shirt had come undone. Pinned to the shirt was a “no” button with a red line drawn across the word UGLY. I’d seen Lonnie look better, but even at her worst, she wasn’t ugly.

  “Why the button?” I asked.

  “I’m on the Committee to Stop the Ugly Building,” she replied. “First Associates wants to put up a truly hideous office building on Paloma. It’ll be the tallest, largest, ugliest building in Santa Fe. It will fill the whole block, hide the view, dominate and ruin the entire downtown area.” A cause. Lonnie had been involved in them as long as I’d known her. She’d been unable to ban the bomb, save the whales, the dolphins or the baby seals either. The Vietnam war ended finally, however, I’d give her some credit for that.

  “Are there any tenants lined up for this building?” I asked.

  “The Zia Bank has the ground floor and the Santa Fe branch of your old law firm, Lovell, Cruse, Vigil and Roberts, has the two top floors.”

  They’d be the first to arrive on the doorstep of something ugly.

  “You could help us by talking to them, Neil.” The wine in her paper cup masqueraded as pink soda and that’s how Lonnie was drinking it. She poured herself some more.

  “Believe me. I’m the last person Lovell, Cruse, Vigil and Roberts would listen to. You did say the architect for this Ugly Building is First Associates?”

  “Rick himself. Doesn’t it make you sick?”

  Rick First was an architect Lonnie had been involved with off and on ever since I’d known them both in San Miguel de Allende. They’d been married for a few years but that didn’t bring them together. Then they got divorced and that hadn’t torn them apart.

  “What does Rick think about this?” I pointed to the UGLY button.

  “He’s pissed. It’s over between us, Neil.” She spun the wine around in her cup.

  “I’ve heard that before.”

  "No. This time it's really over. He has someone else."

  I’d heard that before, too.

  “This one’s a real estate developer from Texas with megabucks who’s helping to finance the Ugly Building. Giving Rick a chance to make a name for himself. Can you believe it? Rick with a shark-faced real estate developer? Christ. Her name is Marci Coyle, Marci with an i—like I said, she’s from Texas.” Lonnie’s lips puckered when she mouthed the name as if her zinfandel had been made with sour cherries. “Rick’s gotten as greedy as everyone else these days.”

  Always one to keep up with the times. In the extended sixties when I knew him—better than I should have, I’ll admit it—Rick First was a dope-smoking hippie, more interested in drugs and sex than money or architecture. I could see the appeal to a guy like that of a rich and powerful woman. I could also see the appeal of a Lonnie who’d always be down there for him to fall on. A Marci Coyle, on the other hand, might expect a return on her investment.

  “Darlins.” Tim was filling up at the decaf machine.

  “Timito.” I called him by his San Miguel nickname.

  “Timber,” said Lonnie, leaning sideways until she fell on him.

  “Neil, come on over here.” Tim squeezed me against his other side. “Sandwiched between two of my favorite women, right where I want to be.”

  “If we’re the white bread, then what does that make you?” I asked.

  “The meat. I’ll be the meat in your sandwich any day.”

  “Baloney,” said Lonnie. “Baloney, Maloney.”

  “Lonnie, Lonnie, Lonnie.” Tim pulled her tight. “I’m the man your mother warned you about.”

  “Don’t you wish,” she said.

  Jamie wasn’t visible, but if she had been, she probably would have ignored us. No one is as flirtatious as a safely married man. I’d always thought Tim carried on like this because he was anchored and married. Lonnie, who was neither, leaned on him hard. It was a risk for Tim to be on the wagon at a party, but risk taking is the luxury of people with something to lose. The steps Lonnie took that might seem risky to some had always looked to me like a grab at security.

  I was ready for another Cuervo Gold, so I peeled Tim’s arm off and searched the kitchen counter, pushing aside empty, nonreturnable soda bottles, seltzer bottles and Styrofoam cups with the dregs of decaf in the bottom. “God damn it,” I said, “somebody took my bottle.”

  “Now darlin’, why would a
nybody do that,” Tim asked, “when nobody drinks spirits anymore in Dolendo?”

  “You mean they don’t drink their own.”

  “Have a decaf,” said Tim.

  “I never drink that stuff. How can you be sure it’s real? At least when you drink tequila you know you’ll be asleep at three in the morning.”

  “I know it’s decaf,” said Tim. “I made it myself.”

  “You know, Tim, what I used to enjoy about your parties was that there was always someone there behaving worse than yourself.” I lit a cigarette. “Now everybody’s gotten the holies.”

  “I’m not that holy,” said Tim. “How about you?” He gave Lonnie a tighter squeeze.

  “Me neither,” she replied.

  2

  A GOOD PARTY has a rhythm: ice clinks in glasses, someone keeps turning the volume on the music up, conversations get louder and dumber, flirtations flare, smoke thickens. At this party someone kept turning the volume down, the band went home early, no one smoked but me. Styrofoam cups don’t clink. By ten forty-five the house had emptied into islands of halfhearted partyers. I got tired of making sober conversation, had a cup of decaf for the road and said good-bye: to Foxy Lady, who hit me up for a cracker; to Jamie, whom I hoped to see again before she left; to Tim; and to Lonnie, who was leaning against the wall with one more button undone on her shirt.

  The party’s not over till the drunk lady leaves, and it’s not spring till it’s spring in New Mexico. It had been close to seventy degrees when I left Albuquerque a few hours before. While we’d partied soberly, winter returned to Dolendo. It has a way of hanging on in the higher elevations. “Shit,” I said, dodging snowflakes as I ran to my Rabbit, expecting to turn the fan to six and the heat all the way to the right and shiver until the car warmed up. When I turned the key in the ignition the radio came on, but the engine didn’t. The radio was tuned to KJOY—killjoy, I thought as the starter made a cranking noise, whirred and then shut up. I turned the radio off, tried again, heard the rattle of money, then nothing but the March wind and my chattering teeth. “You’re a pain in the ass,” I said to the Rabbit. One of nature’s laws is that when your life is falling apart, your car won’t run. But my life wasn’t so bad; this breakdown was out of sync. I abandoned the car and ran back to the house. When I pulled open the heavy wooden door snowflakes swirled around me like I was the ghost of winter past.

  “Look what the wind blew in,” Tim said.

  “Winter all over again,” I replied.

  “Darlin’, you know we always have at least two winters here before we get spring.”

  “My car won’t start.”

  “Maybe the battery’s dead. I’ve got jumper cables if you need ’em.”

  “It’s not the battery—the radio still works. It’s something worse.”

  “Neil, I think it’s time for a professional woman like yourself to get a new car or a new mechanic.”

  “I’m happy with my mechanic, thanks.”

  “A new car then.”

  “I don’t want a new car.” Ugly and unreliable as el conejo, the orange Rabbit, was, it was paid for. My checkbook had no place in it for car payments, none for repairs either.

  “I don’t know anybody we can call at this hour. What do you want to do?” asked Tim. A lot of men would have gone out there and insisted on trying to start the car themselves, but I’d never known Tim to waste time being macho about the small things.

  “You got me.” I couldn’t ask the Kid to drive all the way up here in a snowstorm, besides it was a quarter to eleven and he’d only be on his first set at El Lobo.

  “Come into Santa Fe with me, spend the night and worry about your car in the morning,” Lonnie said, standing upright and buttoning her shirt. “I’ve got a sleeping bag and a blanket in the car if we run into any trouble.”

  “It’s not snowing that bad,” I said. She had a point about Santa Fe. I’d rather be in town where at least you could rent a car than be stuck out here. Besides Lonnie looked like she could use some help with her driving.

  “Okay,” I said, “Andale. Let’s go.” I moved toward the door, but Lonnie was into long and sappy good-byes with lots of hugs and kisses and see you soons. She lingered, lingered and lingered some more. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I opened the door and let some winter blow in.

  “It’s time to go, Lonnie,” said Jamie, pushing her out.

  Lonnie hadn’t dressed for winter either, and we ran to her car, a yellow Nissan. She was wearing high-heeled boots and she tripped in a rut and fell. I helped her back up. “Give me the car keys, Lonnie,” I said.

  “I can drive, Neil.”

  “I can drive better.”

  “I’m a good driver.”

  “Maybe, but I only had one short tequila hours ago, and you’ve had a whole bunch of white zinfandels.”

  “Not that much. I can drive.”

  “Lonnie, give me the keys.” We stood at the door to the Nissan shivering in the wind.

  “Oh, all right, if you’re going to be like that about it.” She was pissed but she gave up and got in the passenger side. I shook my head and brushed the snow off before I got in the car, but she didn’t bother. For a few minutes before it melted the snow lingered on her hair and turned it prematurely white.

  The Nissan started right up. Lonnie pulled the sleeping bag out of the backseat, wrapped it around her and sulked in her corner. I backed out of the driveway, turned left and met three snarling black dogs who ran beside us barking and snapping at the front wheels. When I passed the cemetery it would have taken a minor wrist action to send them off to meet their pals who were waiting at the gate, but the black dogs hugged the wheels as if they had nothing to fear from me. They amused themselves like this until we got to the highway where they lost interest and loped off, real machos with another pointless victory under their collars.

  It’s a few miles from Dolendo to the lonesome, hypnotic highway that runs from Denver to Texas. I’ve gotten on that road at night and, forgetting I had a destination, gone right past the Dolendo turnoff, but when you’re heading north you meet the interstate before you go too far wrong. The wind blew with fury across the highway, a long-distance wind with Arizona behind it and Texas to go. It was confusing the seasons, swirling snowflakes around, picking up tumbleweeds and slamming them into the car. The howling wind and snow had a female presence, I felt, an angry woman who wanted something from Lonnie, from me. It made me shiver but not with cold, because the Nissan had a good heater and it had gotten warm enough inside for Lonnie to take the sleeping bag off and throw it in the backseat. The defroster cleared the windshield, the wipers ticked. The Japanese import bucked in the wind, but I held on tight. I kept my mind on my driving, my eyes on the road—I wasn’t getting any conversation from Lonnie to divert me.

  We went under the highway overpass, made a sweeping turn and came up on the interstate right behind a semi with lights of Christmas-tree red, red across the top, down the sides and on the bottom. It seemed like too much trouble to pass him on the windblown highway, so I stayed behind letting the slipstream pull us along.

  Not being the kind of person to hold a grudge for more than a few minutes, Lonnie broke her silence. “So, Neil,” she said, “you practicing safe sex?”

  “Perfecting it.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “What’s to tell? Safe sex is an oxymoron.”

  “You’re having safe sex with a moron?”

  “You’re drunk, Lonnie.”

  “Not that drunk. Come on, tell me about it, I want to know what your sex life is like.”

  “If you ask me, the whole point of sex is that it isn’t safe. That’s what makes it interesting.”

  “There’s the feeling that you’ve gone over the edge and might not come back, that your bones are dissolving. That’s pretty interesting,” said Lonnie.

  “Nature’s way of luring you into making babies and preserving the species,” I replied.

  “The ora
nge whistles and the invisible globes on the other side of death. That’s what Rick said.”

  “Maybe, but Garcia Márquez said it first.”

  “Well, whoever. Why do they always talk about orgasms as a kind of death when what you’re doing could create a life?”

  Why indeed?

  “Remember that Rolling Stones song ‘She Comes in Colors’? Does that ever happen to you, Neil? Do you ever come in colors? Late one night years ago when I was tripping my brains out somewhere I heard an ad for a sofa bed on the radio. ‘Spend a lifetime of comfort in the color of your choice,’ it said. If you had a choice what would your color be?”

  “Right now? Sunshine.”

  “I’d pick purple, deep violet purple. Whatever else anyone wants to say about Rick, he was a violet lover—the best I’ve ever had.”

  One of nature’s perverse laws is that you can have the best sex with the worst men. Sometimes there’s an inverse correlation between the intensity of the desire and the worthiness of the object. Subconsciously some women are probably attracted to rotten men because it’s easier to get out of it, but not Lonnie. She’d stuck it out.

  “Would you get married again for really great sex, Neil?” she asked.

  “Oh … probably not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it would break your heart if it didn’t last, and if it did you’d never do anything else.”

  “Who’d want to?” sighed Lonnie. “Neil, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you. Now’s as good a time as any.” She was leaning forward in the semi’s red glow, brushing the hair from her face. We’d come upon an incline and the truck was losing speed. The time had come to pull out of the slipstream, get back into the wind and snow. I edged the Nissan into the passing lane.

  “Yeah.”

  “How was it?”