Conserve the water, I kept telling myself. What little we had. It had to last us three days. Maybe more, considering the slow time we was making. Three days. Three days.
We was out of water by next morning.
Can’t say I remember much after that. Bits and pieces come and go, like snatches of a dream you might recollect. I knowed that Sister Geneviève tossed her empty canteen to the dirt, and that I picked it up. Big Tim Pruett one time was reading this Beadle & Adams half-dime novel. I disremember the title, but it’s the one in which Jesse James is wandering through the desert and his canteen’s empty, so he pitches it into the saquaro and keeps wandering, and Big Tim tossed that five-penny dreadful into the fireplace, saying only an idiot would get rid of a canteen in the desert, then told me what he’d just read, to which I had said, “I ain’t never seen no saguaro in Missouri.”
There ain’t no saguaros in New Mexico, neither. ’Cause I would have been able to use that knife and carve into it and eat some of it. I think I read that in one of them five-penny dreadfuls Big Tim Pruett once loaned me. I did, however, come across some saltbrush. I picked some of the leaves, popped them in my mouth, started chewing, and plucked some for Sister Geneviève.
Tastes just like pure salt. Enough to keep us going.
What else do I remember?
No rain. Not even clouds. The sky was a deep blue. At first. Then it turned pale. Wasn’t long till it looked just white.
She fell, Sister Geneviève did. Just lied down, panting, Blanco’s shirt tight against her. Staring at the sky, but not seeing nothing.
I picked her up. Not brag, just gospel. Picked her up and carried her till I couldn’t carry her no more. Dragged her after that, till even that was too hard. Then I was on the ground beside her, my own breath ragged.
“Let’s . . . rest . . . here,” I managed to say.
So we did. Baking in the sun, then freezing in the night, us huddled together, but me not getting no manly desires, not even with me spooning her like I was doing.
Another memory. Laying in the sand, it being morning, and we should have been walking, before the sun got too high, too hot, but my eyes was closed, hearing her breathing, letting me know she was still alive.
Then her saying, “What are those? Angels?”
Taken all the strength I could muster to pry my eyelids up. I looked at Geneviève, but she was just staring into the sky. I turned back, looked up, saw them angels. At first, I mean. With no food, no water, no chance, you see strange things. Mirage, I reckon you might call it.
Mirages don’t last long. Your mind clears up, and you see that that pond of ice blue water is really just heat waves shimmering ahead of you. Same with them angels.
I rolled over, made myself stand.
“Buzzards,” I told her, and took her hand, pulled her up, made her walk. Made me walk. I wasn’t gonna feed no buzzards. Not yet.
Big Tim Pruett was walking right beside me, Sister Geneviève on his other side. I know. That was a mirage, too. Or a hallucination. Or Big Tim’s ghost. Walking, bigger than life, reading a Beadle & Adams half-dimer, laughing, saying only a fool would toss his canteen away while he was walking across desert without water.
I stopped, knocked that paperback out of his hand, and put my finger right under the scar on his chin that he’d gotten from a busted beer bottle in Tascosa when we was selling stolen horses.
“Let me tell you this, pard. You throw away the empty canteen because it’s dead weight. You hear me! Dead weight. You ain’t got no strength to carry the sumbitch. Can you understand that? Tell me! It ain’t nonsense. It’s extra weight. That’s what it is. And you’re dead. You been dead. And we ain’t dead yet.”
I realized I was yelling and pointing at a dead cholla, nothing left but its brown spines. Good size cactus. Nigh as tall as me, but nowhere near Big Tim’s size.
I laughed. Then I turned and saw Sister Geneviève, maybe fifty yards ahead of me, walking. No, more like weaving. I hurried to catch up with her, and left Big Tim. No, I mean I left the dead cholla.
Somewhere, I’d also left one of the empty canteens. Because I’d been right. And so had that colonel what’s-his-name who had penned that wild, fanciful story about Jesse James lost in the Missouri desert.
Dead weight. You can’t carry it. Not in Hell.
She was running, and I saw why. Then I was running, too, but it wasn’t no mirage. She was kneeling by the pool of water, and cupping her hands, and bringing it to her mouth, and then I tackled her, knocked her away, felt water drops sprinkle my blistered face.
Geneviève was getting up, crawling for the pool, crying.
I fell, grabbed her ankles, and pulled her back, my heart about to bust, my lungs heaving. I tried to say, “You can’t . . . drink it,” but if I said anything, I don’t think it sounded human. Somehow I got to my knees, moved to her, leaned over, whispered because by that time that’s all I could do. “You . . . can’t . . . drink . . . it. Salt . . . lakes . . . water’ll . . . kill . . . us.”
No tears was coming out of her eyes. Kinda like the dry heaves.
Reckon we laid there an hour, then I managed to get up, helped pull Sister Geneviève to her feet, and we moved through those small lakes, arms over each other’s shoulders. That’s the only way we could get through, without losing our minds, our reason, and drunk up that salt water till it killed us.
Two days? Three? I don’t know. I remember once I tried to make myself pee. Sister Geneviève just watched. I wasn’t ashamed. Wasn’t embarrassed. Managed to squeeze out a couple drops that looked bright orange and smelled so bad, like ammonia, it practically made my eyes water.
“Our kidneys,” she whispered hoarsely, “are shutting down.”
“There are times,” I said as I buttoned my fly, “when you know too damned much.” Said it clear. Thought I did. Must have. ’Cause she laughed.
I looked around, my brain thinking clear, recollecting something I should have recalled long before. “There should be . . . playas.”
“Playas?”
“Seasonal lakes.” I didn’t have time to explain to her. That monsoon from back whenever? Storms like that filled some pools. That’s how animals and people managed to survive in this country. I ran to a lake bed, but it was hard-packed earth. I ran to another. Same thing.
Sister Geneviève caught up with me, reminded me that we was supposed to be resting in the heat of the day.
“If we rest, we die.” Then I sat down. Sat down and laughed. Yep. My mind was addled. Maybe gone.
“How long did Moses wander?” I asked her.
If she understood, she didn’t show nothing. Nothing but fear.
On account I’d gone purely mad and grasped this round stone that could just fit in the palm of my hand. “Didn’t he get water out of a stone? Do I have that right, Geneviève? Strike this stone, and water shall pour like beer through a tapped keg.” I hit it with the barrel of the Dean and Adams. Nothing.
“It don’t work.” I looked at the blazing sun. “What’s the matter, God? You’ll help Moses, but not a Sister of Charity and a poor, miserable sinner?” I hit the stone again. Nothing. Didn’t have strength enough to strike it hard. The pistol fell between my legs, Geneviève just stared at me, and I tossed the stone away, fell back, laughing, thanking God.
I turned my head, watched that stone roll and roll and roll, before it dropped and disappeared down a hole.
Geneviève and me both heard, clear as a bell, the splash.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I dragged myself across the rocks and cactus till I reached the spot where that little stone had disappeared. Behind me, I heard the Sister’s footsteps. I dipped my hand inside that hole, not caring, not even thinking about the possibility of rattlesnakes, but couldn’t touch no water.
My hand came up, and somehow, weak, thirsty as I was, I got to my knees, bent down, and grabbed this good size, tabletop rock that partly, I hoped, covered the hole. I grunted and cussed and strained. Next thing
I knowed, Sister Geneviève was beside me, her hands underneath the sharp edge. Well, we couldn’t flip that thing over, but somehow we managed to slide that rock a bit in the dirt, revealing a hole maybe six inches wide. The one canteen we had left had a diameter of seven inches. The damned thing wouldn’t fit.
So we started digging and scooping, shoveling sand and dirt and small rocks like two dogs digging for a bone. Finally, we got the opening wide enough, and with scarred, bleeding hands, I shoved the canteen in the hole, gripping the canvas strap for dear life.
I shoved my arm all the way to the shoulder. Could see the nun kneeling beside me, swollen, chapped lips moving in silent prayer. When I couldn’t get my arm down any farther, I almost bawled like a newborn. “It’s not long enough.”
I slowly withdrew the canteen, placing it on the rock. The strap to the canteen was a tad under two feet. Quickly, I took a pebble, dropped it down the hole. It splashed.
“How deep . . . is it?” Geneviève’s voice was strained.
“I don’t know. Can’t be much farther.”
Talk about pathetic, about hopelessness. Here we are, dying of thirst, and there’s water maybe a foot, maybe only two or three inches out of our reach.
“Your sash!” It struck me quick, and I turned to the nun, and felt my heart break again.
“I . . . I . . .” Her fingers fell to the waist of her free-flowing dead man’s shirt.
The sash was gone. She either lost it, or just chucked it. Dead weight and all. Remember?
Without no shyness, no discomfort, she said, “Here!” and pulled that dirty piece of cotton over her head and arms, practically flinging it to me, and just knelt there, topless, and dropped onto her hands, staring into that small, dark hole, as my tired, battered fingers tied one sleeve to the apex—I think that’s the word—of the canteen’s canvas strap. Tied it good. Then holding the other sleeve, I lowered the canteen through the hole. I felt the canteen hit water, and sighed.
Waiting . . . then . . . heartbreak.
“What is it?” Sister Geneviève must have read the devastation in my face.
Hurriedly, I brought up the canteen, placed it between the nun and me. I could see the water on the canteen’s edges, could see Sister Geneviève running a swollen tongue over her chapped lips.
“Take some,” I told her, and she did, running her fingers over the drops of water, then across her lips, her tongue.
I got busy untying my bandanna.
“It won’t go under,” I told her. “Not heavy enough.”
After unrolling the bandanna and laying the frayed silk square on that rock, I found a fair-sized stone nearby, and set it in the center of the bandanna. Brung the ends of the bandanna up, wrapping the rock, tying it, then affixed the bandanna to the strap with some tight knots. The nun greedily snatched another finger of water before I lowered the canteen again. Didn’t blame her none at all.
The canteen hit with a splash, and immediately, I heard the gurgling as the rock sank the canteen, and water, precious water, began filling it. The weight of the water strained my muscles.
“Don’t let go,” the nun pleaded.
“Not on your life,” I told her, but I done another loop of the shirt around my palm and wrist, just to make certain-sure.
“Exactly,” she said, then added, “Our lives.”
Carefully, I drew up the canteen and the rock, heard the water dripping off the sides into that pool. The canteen appeared, got lodged for a second because of the bandanna-wrapped rock, and Sister grabbed one side of the strap and me the other, and we pulled that beautiful baby up.
Both of us started, quickly stopped, kinda looked at each other sheepishly.
I wet my lips. Tried to, anyhow. “You first.”
“No, I had some,” she said.
You know, here’s the funny thing. She’s standing there, practically inches from me, and her top is naked, skin all pale in contrast to her sunburned face and throat and hands, all perfect, but I didn’t notice nothing. Not then.
“You go,” I insisted.
She didn’t need no more inducement. She reached for the canteen, dragging the shirt behind her.
I reached out to take the canteen, felt the coolness of the water on my fingers.
Taken all the courage I could muster not to snatch the damned thing from her hands.
Instead, I managed, “Not too much. Just a little. All right?”
She lowered the canteen, just so I could see her eyes twinkling. “All right,” she said, and started to bring the canteen to her lips.
Just like that, she lowered it.
“What if... ?” Her eyes got concerned. Couldn’t say nothing else.
“Poison?” I shrugged. “It don’t really matter. Not now.”
Her eyes twinkled again, and she drank. I feared I’d have to stop her. You know how crazy a body gets when dying of thirst. No, most likely, you don’t know. So you gotta trust me.
But she was strong, real strong. She taken a little swallow, then another, then poured some into her hands, and brought it to her face.
She didn’t moan. Didn’t smack her lips. Just rubbed her fingers gently over her lips. After that, she passed the canteen to me.
Tasted like the best Irish whiskey I ever had. Better even than that expensive Scotch from that highfalutin place in Denver when I started a row at a poker table, and while the bouncer and beer-jerker hurried to toss me out, Big Tim Pruett reached across the bar, snatched a bottle of something called Glenlivet, and hid it inside his coat. The saloon thugs tossed me out into the mud. Big Tim followed, grinning, and helped me up, and we wandered to the wagon yard where we was sleeping, and emptied the bottle into our empty bellies.
“Tastes like iron,” she said.
“Iron ain’t arsenic,” I told her.
“Can I drink some more?”
“Just a swallow.”
We each taken another small swallow, then I handed her the canteen, and after I nodded my approval, she emptied it over her head. Like to doubled over then, moaning, then laughing, tossing me the empty canteen, then rising up, water spilling down her dirty brown locks, over her face, over her breasts. That’s when I noticed them. That’s when I noticed her.
“Oh, my,” I said, and taken that canteen, turned around, put that canteen down the hole, filled it up with water again, brought it up, took another swallow, then emptied the water over my head.
I imagined you could see smoke coming from my hair ’cause it sure seemed that I could feel the fire in my brains getting put out by that cool, glorious water after being baked by that blazing sun.
Again, I lowered the canteen, again it filled, but this time, I corked it, and untied her wet shirtsleeve. That took some doing, sore and aching as my fingers was, tight and wet as that knot was. After I handed her the shirt, our eyes met. Swear to God, she smiled a little bit mischievously, taken the shirt, pulled it over her head and arms, and them perfect breasts disappeared.
“What now?” she asked.
I pointed. “Let’s find some shade. We’ll wait here, drink our fill, get our strength back.” Already, I could feel some improvement in my aching, sun-cooked body. I mean, I spoken all them words, didn’t hurt none, my mouth didn’t ache, and they sounded plain as day to me.
Once I managed to stand, with the nun’s help, I carried the canteen. Sister Geneviève put her arms around me, and we made it to what passed as some shade on the side of an arroyo. My brain wasn’t so addled that I even found that purple mesa in the distance, which didn’t look so far away anymore.
I sat beside the nun and handed her the canteen. “Remember, not too much.”
She took a sip and handed it back to me. I swallowed a mouthful, and run my wet fingers over them ugly lips.
Again, our eyes met, and we gave a short little laugh.
“What, er, what made you become a nun?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Fate. A calling. God’s will.”
“You like it?”
> Even with them lips and her sunburned face, her smile made her beautiful. “Do you enjoy being a . . . a . . .”
I finished for her. “A miserable old reprobate?”
Her laugh was giddy, probably from the insanity that was slowly passing out of our heads. “You are not old, Mr. Bishop.”
“You ain’t, neither.”
She reached out, and them long, lovely fingers, touched my chin. That coarse stubble of mine must have pricked her sore fingertips like needles from a jumping cholla. But she didn’t show no pain. Slowly, she lifted my head. Our eyes met.
“Is that why you are staring at my breasts?”
Well, wasn’t much I could do but stutter or stammer. Reckon I had been staring. ’Course, she was all properly covered now with the green and white checked shirt. Must have been remembering.
“I don’t show them for every man . . .” Then she done something different, unexpected. “Micah.” She called me by my given name, and she said it so softly, so lovely. ’Course, I was already smitten by her by that time. Had been. I wrote that down already.
Her arms lowered. And we just looked into each other’s eyes.
“I . . . I reckon not.” My voice sounded foreign, not on account of the sand I’d been eating and my tongue slowly reducing to its normal size. “I mean . . . you being . . . a nun . . . and all.”
Her hand dropped into her lap. “Yes,” was all she said, and she looked away.
“Sister—”
“Please call me Geneviève. Or Gen if you like.” She laughed again. “Geneviève is a handle.”
“It’s right pretty. Like . . .” Well, I didn’t finish.
Her hand reached up to one of them shiny buttons. I thought, likely hoped, she was about to unbutton it, but the fingers trembled, lowered, and she said, “I must have lost my crucifix.”
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