One mile becomes two and then four and I feel the sweat beading across my top lip. Lou’s truck has an air conditioner and I’ve cranked it up; but I am facing the afternoon sun and I am more than a little nervous that I might get lost in these desert hills or drive up on some motorcycle gang’s property. I keep going.
Finally, I hear the words I have been waiting to hear, the announcement from the voice of the GPS telling me I have arrived at my destination. I see a narrow driveway to my right and make the turn.
I feel a little bad that I’m taking Lou’s truck on such poorly maintained roads, but I’m also a bit relieved that this isn’t Faramond being forced to drive the rocky terrain. I’m almost certain he would get stuck in one of the deep ruts that Lou’s truck seems to be able to move across without sinking.
“Did you drive this every day?” I ask Roger, thinking he must have had to replace his automobiles yearly if he lived out here. I think about how it must have been in the winters. I wonder how he ever managed to drive on this path when the monsoons came. “You would need a tractor to pull you out if you got stuck in mud out here.”
And as soon as the words leave my lips, I see a tractor standing in the middle of a field to my right. It’s an old one, a rusty red Ford with a snowplow still attached, the weeds growing up and through it. I stop and glance over. I look down on the passenger’s seat and reach for the box, hold it up. “That yours?” I ask my silent companion. And it makes me smile to think of him seeing his old farm equipment again after such a long time.
I place the box on the dashboard now and use one hand to steady it so that it won’t slide off. We drive about five hundred more yards, and then the driveway ends and there is nothing there but the remains of a corral, a few boards still connected in places on fencing that circles a long wooden trough. There’s a worn spot in the dirt. Maybe a trailer was parked there, or a small house was torn down, everything taken away. I stop and park. I turn off the engine and get out of the truck, taking Roger with me.
It is late in the afternoon, the sun is sinking behind the hills known as the Zuni Mountains, I’ve learned, and the western sky is turning shades of pink. It is quieter here than even what I found at Lou’s place, and I hear only the sounds of ground squirrels and songbirds. I close my eyes, take in a deep breath, open them, and then place Roger on the hood of the truck.
“This is quite a spread,” I tell him, glad to be where we are, glad to have found his property, the place I am sure he lived before he died.
A hawk flies overhead, circling us, welcoming us; and I take Roger and walk past the corral and out beyond where I parked. There is a faint sound of water and I head in that direction. Ponderosa pines tower over this secluded piece of land; green-topped mesas lie ahead. I know a little bit about these mountains because I read everything I could find about this area of New Mexico before making this trip, hoping to find clues as to what Roger’s life might have been like. And of course, researching facts is a reporter’s idea of fun.
I know, for example, that the Zuni Mountains are surrounded by red sandstone and that the range sits on the Continental Divide and forms part of the southern end of the Colorado Plateau. I remember reading that the string of hills is about sixty miles long and forty miles wide and that the highest peak is Mount Sedgwick, though I’m sure the Native people call it by another name. I know the land has been logged and mined and that more than a few landowners grew rich as a result.
I glance around at the unbelievable beauty surrounding me. However Roger Hart lived his life, if he lived here—and now that I’m here, I’m quite certain that he did—he lived with some of the most breathtaking views in the land.
“How did you get this place?” I ask him, wondering if the acreage has already been claimed by county or state, its driveway so close to the marked territory of a national forest.
“Are you Zuni?” I ask, but that seems impossible. Surely his people would have buried him in the traditional way, not sent him to a white man’s funeral home, sending his body away to be cremated and then picking him up in a box. I also believe that the people of the pueblo would be much more careful with a loved one’s remains and would not have allowed them to end up in a storage building at the other end of the country. But maybe I’m just a romantic that way. Maybe he is Zuni. Maybe he pulled away from his people and just got lost while living out here by himself.
I walk a bit farther in the direction where I hear running water, but I cannot find it. I see small paths running up the hills, deer crossings, I guess, and openings in the pines; but I cannot find a creek or river, although I can hear one. I stop in the field and look up to the sky until, finally, I decide to turn back. The sun is setting. I need to leave.
I stop for a second, the late afternoon breeze picking up around us, and lift Roger up, high above my head. I turn from the direction I was going—east toward Grants—back to the west toward the mountain, and I stop again. I close my eyes and stand quietly for a few seconds. And then I turn to the north and then to the south. I do not know what is leading me, but I want to pray for the soul of Roger Hart. So I do. I pray for a restless spirit and I ask the maker of these hills and trees and fading sun to bring peace to this son, this spirit of a man who I now know is from this place. I make one final turn and, with the box still in my hands, I head back to Lou’s truck.
chapter forty-one
“HE didn’t really have anybody,” Georgia Pointer is telling me after she has flipped through the file that the funeral director gave me. She’s in her sixties, I think, boxy with short white hair and a streak of pink down the middle. She wears glasses and has three diamond studs in each ear.
We decided to meet at the Denny’s near the highway. She was driving home from a meeting in Albuquerque and she likes the Grand Slam breakfast for dinner. We order our meals and Georgia fills me in on Roger, the man I have delivered back home.
“He moved out beyond San Rafael when he came back from Vietnam,” she explains. “Bought the piece of land from an old rancher. Was married for a few years; but he couldn’t even remember exactly why they broke up, just said the desert was too hard for some people and that his wife never quite got used to the dry, hot air.”
“Was he originally from New Mexico?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee and glancing around the restaurant. There are a few truckers at the counter, some tourists making a stop off the interstate. There don’t seem to be many locals.
“Not born here, no,” she says. “But I think he was part Navajo. Like I said, came back from Vietnam and made his home up on Zuni. That was, what?” She looks for me to fill in the blank, so I do.
“Nineteen seventy-five?”
She nods. “Forty years ago. That’s long enough to call this place home, don’t you think?”
I shrug. In North Carolina, your parents have to have been born in the town for you to be called a local; otherwise you’re still thought of as somebody just passing through.
Our dinners arrive and we both dig in. I ordered pancakes, and I reach across the table to grab the syrup.
“He drove a cement truck for two or three decades, retired from that job when he was seventy, I guess. He was my patient for two years,” Georgia tells me before taking a bite of egg and bacon. “He was a little standoffish at first, but after he figured out I wasn’t going to report him to the IRS for not paying taxes or call any of his kin while I cared for him, we got along just fine.”
Georgia was his hospice nurse when Roger was admitted with a diagnosis of bone cancer. He refused aggressive treatment and died before having to make the hard decisions about long-term care and moving out of his house.
“I think he willed his trailer to an old buddy from AA, left the land to the government. He didn’t have much else to give away. After he died, I called his ex-wife and his nephew. I think there was a child he raised for some years, too. But none of them really wanted anything to do with him,
so I had him cremated and paid the bill myself.” She takes a drink from her glass of water. “I know Harold pretty well, and he gave me a discount because of all the business I bring him.”
A hospice nurse and a funeral director, I can see the connection.
“Anyway, like I said, Roger was a loner. Worked in the mines, went to war, drove the truck, stayed up there underneath the mountain all the time, came into town for groceries and gas, but that was about it.”
I eat a bite of pancake. It sounds true enough.
Then I ask the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “But how did he end up in North Carolina?”
She finishes her mouthful and swallows, peers out the window facing the interstate. She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that one, sheriff.”
And that makes me laugh a little, since I’ve never been called that before.
“Did you ask Harold who picked up the ashes?” she asks me.
“Well, Mr. Candelaria wasn’t all that forthcoming,” I explain. “And in the files it just reports that the ashes were picked up a couple of weeks after the cremation, doesn’t list a name.”
“I’ll call him tomorrow,” Georgia tells me, taking another big bite of her nighttime breakfast.
I nod.
“Was there a service?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not that I recall.” She seems to be thinking about it. “The chaplain visited a few times,” she remembers. “But I don’t think they ever agreed on what he wanted when he passed. Knowing Roger the way I did, I seriously doubt he would have agreed to a gathering on his behalf and having people stand around making up stories about him.”
She takes another bite.
I drink some coffee.
“He loved the wolves,” Georgia says.
I wait for her to finish.
“There’s a sanctuary down the road from his place in a little town called Candy Kitchen. He used to volunteer there when he was first retired. He talked about them all the time, the wolves, how wrong people were about them out here.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Ranchers hate wolves. It’s a big fight in the Southwest; but Roger loved them, talked about them like they were family. I don’t know, maybe they were.”
I’ve eaten all the pancakes I can handle, and I push aside my plate. It’s nice to hear real memories about Roger, but I’m not really getting any more information than I started with. “I guess I was hoping for a reunion of some kind.”
“What’s that?”
I didn’t realize I’d spoken out loud and I know I must seem a bit surprised by Georgia’s question. I shake my head. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” I confess to the hospice nurse. “I guess I had this thought that there would be some family member desperate for the remains of their loved one. I think I was imagining that there would be something that would cause all this to make sense.”
“A happy ending,” she notes.
I shrug. “I guess.”
Georgia takes a drink of water and puts down the glass. “I used to think I knew how to help make a right kind of death for everybody.”
“What do you mean?”
“I used to think I could lead people to forgive or be magnanimous with their hearts, tell their loved ones that they loved them, stay engaged in life as long as they could, do life review, make good choices, let go of their burdens.” She shakes her head. “But I eventually gave up on my ideals. I realize now that most people die exactly the same way they live. Angry people die angry. Broken people die broken. Lonely people die lonely. Burdened people die burdened. I can’t change any of it even if family members are desperate to be a part of something they have waited for all of their lives. I can’t make a person’s path twist the way I think it should go.”
I can tell she isn’t finished, so I don’t respond.
She puts down her fork, wipes her hands on her napkin.
“What I’m saying is that we don’t always get the happy endings we want; but that shouldn’t change what we try to make right.”
I shake my head, not sure what she means by that last comment.
“You brought back Roger’s ashes because you felt inclined to do it, just like I feel inclined to be a nurse who works for hospice. There is no grateful, grieving wife for Roger. There is no child that has searched desperately for his father, to whom you now deliver great comfort by returning the remains. Roger died just like he chose to live, alone, in the desert near the wolves, and you are bringing him back. That’s the happy ending. And you and Roger get to share it.”
“I think my head hurts,” I say. I need a little time to think about all of this.
“I got your number in my phone. I’ll call you after I talk to Harold.” She pats her belly. “That was a grand slam.” And she smiles.
I pick up the check and start to exit the booth. “My treat,” I tell her and she seems pleased.
“You staying in town?” she asks.
And I nod in the direction of the Holiday Inn next door to the restaurant. “I’m here for the night.”
“Well, I hope you sleep good and that you have a safe trip home to North Carolina.” She gets out of her seat and stands next to me. “You taking Roger back to his place?”
I nod. “I guess I have to if I’m going to have the happy ending.”
She smiles and slaps me on the back. “That’s it,” she says. “And don’t forget, sheriff: live how you want to die.” And she heads out the door.
chapter forty-two
MY sleep is fretful. There are doors slamming around me all night; I can hear the traffic from the highway and I can’t get Georgia’s words out of my mind. Angry people die angry. Lonely people die lonely. Died just like he chose to live. Alone.
When I do nod off, I dream of howling wolves and old men walking down dirt roads, old men who will not speak to me even as I keep running from one to the other, asking them where they are going and who they expect to find. They just keep walking to nowhere and I keep chasing them. I finally fall into a deep sleep just as the sun is rising, my mind and body exhausted from all the running and tossing and turning.
I’m twisted in my sheets but dead to the world when the banging on my door bolts me upright. I shake my head, trying to clear the images and the cobwebs and remember where I am, since there have been so many beds in so many places this past week. Was that another dream or is there somebody at my door?
When the banging starts up again, I’m pretty certain that even in this state of disorientation, I am likely to do harm to a hotel maid.
“Al, wake up.”
How does the maid know my name? I stay where I am.
“Al, get up, it’s Blossom. Open the door.”
“Blossom?” I wipe my eyes, untangle myself from the bed linens, and stand at the door. Was she with me last night? Are we still traveling together?
I peek through the small hole in the door and it’s definitely Blossom. I glance around the room: one bed, one suitcase—I’m pretty sure she didn’t come with me from Texas.
“What are you doing here?” I ask as I let her in.
She walks in with Casserole, who seems slightly put out to be up so early, but maybe a little happy to see me, too.
“Is something wrong with Cass?” I bend down and give my dog a hug. He sits down, allowing me full access as I probe him from end to end. He seems fine: two ears, two eyes, one nose, three legs, no blood or bandages. I stand back up, slide my fingers through my sleep-matted hair, and try to straighten out my nightshirt while Blossom closes the door behind her.
“Do you have your phone on?” she asks.
I left it charging in the bathroom. Apparently, my ringing phone was one of the few sounds I didn’t hear during the night. I turn back to Blossom and shake my head. “Why? What’s up?”
She takes me by the hands. Everythin
g feels a little off about her appearance and about how she’s behaving. Her clothes and hair are disheveled, like she’s been up all night; she seems tired and nervous, evidence to me that this is not the Morning Blossom I am accustomed to. In the days that we’ve been traveling together, I have never seen her look like this. It’s all a little unnerving.
“It’s your dad,” she says.
Not good news, that’s pretty clear. Nope, not good, not good at all.
“What about my dad?” And I feel a kind of thud hit my chest. My legs feel a little wobbly, and my pulse picks up.
Blossom leads me over to the bed and I sit down. Casserole comes over beside me as if he’s fulfilling his role in delivering this bad news. I look from him to her, and back again.
“He’s in the hospital,” she tells me as she kneels in front of me next to my dog. “He’s had a heart attack and he’s having surgery this morning.”
“What?” The words hang over us like they’re stuck in balloons.
“He had a heart attack last night. Everybody tried contacting you, but no one could get through. I finally got a message on Facebook.”
“How—?” I don’t finish the question; I’m just shaking my head at the news.
Blossom is explaining how she found out about it. “When I opened your account in Nashville, a couple of your contacts friended me. James William and Dixie.”
My head is just shaking, back and forth, back and forth. None of this is making sense.
“Dixie messaged me because she couldn’t reach you and then I tried to call; and, well, I just decided to come here and tell you in person.”
I’m still shaking my head, still trying to make sense of this. What a horrible way to wake up.
Traveling Light Page 18
