Biting the Moon

by Martha Grimes

  He smiled. He beamed. “Lucky you. I hardly ever get to.”

  She knew she was blushing furiously and tried to counteract that with what she hoped was a casual tone. And a shrug. “Me either. I’m not very good.”

  He kept looking at her in that clear and direct way as if he had never spent a self-conscious moment in his life. The eyes that she had thought were simply gray had shards, splinters of green and gold in the iris.

  “But there is a trail?”

  “Oh, yes, plenty of trails. You going to do some hiking? It’s dead winter.”

  “Yes, I know. We’ll see, I guess, when we get there.”

  “It’s really popular with hikers. You know the trails? No, stupid of me”—and he actually blushed, which made her feel her own blushes were less noticeable—“you’ve never been there before. The most popular trail’s La Luz, if you’re trying to get up to Sandia Crest.” He thought a bit. “South Crest Trail is good. The trailhead’s in Canyon Estates; that’s a sort of residential district.”

  “Trailhead? You mean the beginning of it? How do you get there?”

  Andrew inclined his head backward a little, squinting up at the ceiling as if he could pick out the starry trails through it. “You’d have to take the Tijeras exit off I-Forty—you’re driving, aren’t you?”

  “My family’s picking me up.” She had never known she could be so glib.

  He nodded, frowning slightly, looking down at her shoes. “Those look pretty sturdy, all right, good ankle support. You should see the people trying to do it in Reeboks. Even sandals, I’ve seen them wear.”

  They laughed and so did the owner, before she turned her attention to another customer, a woman with a little baby.

  “What kind of maps have you got?”

  She shrugged, reached into her backpack that was hanging by one strap from her shoulder. “Just these.” She handed him the maps.

  He studied them, shook his head. “You need a topo of the mountains. Wait a minute.”

  The woman with the baby had walked out, and she took the opportunity of not being overheard to say to the owner, “He’s really kind, isn’t he?”

  “Andrew? A real nice kid, nicest I’ve ever hired. I own the place, and it’s hard to get kids to come out this far.”

  “Does he work here all year round?”

  “No, because he goes to school. Up at St. John’s, you know it? He’s smart.” Here she tapped her head, nodded. “He works in his time off.”

  “Is he—” But she cut off her question because he was coming back toward her, with a map half outspread.

  “This is what you need, a topographical map that shows you all this stuff. See, here’s La Luz Trail and here’s the Faulty Trail, which might be the best one for you; it starts right at Canyon Estates—or behind them, I mean. You can get off it after a while and take one of the lesser trails to Sandia Peak. One of the peaks. There’s two of them, North and South. Some of the springs along the Faulty are marked. The shelters, other stuff. If you take the tram, of course, that’s a different direction and you’d want to drive along Tramway Road. Have you got a poncho and stuff?” He looked worried. “I hope you’re not thinking of going all the way up, not in winter; weather’s always chancy, but especially in winter.”

  Andi was touched to the point of tears by his concern for her preparedness. She did not have a poncho or any rain gear, but she didn’t tell him that. “I think I’ve got everything I’ll need.”

  He was still frowning. “There aren’t any campsites in the Sandias, you know. It’s a wildlife refuge.”

  She nodded. “We’re not going to be gone long. But, look, I can’t take your map away—”

  “Sure you can. You can always bring it back when you come this way again.” There was that smile again, that beaming smile.

  She wanted to return the smile, but the corners of her mouth tugged downward, and all of her effort was going into holding back tears. She had to look down, fumble the maps into the backpack. Reluctantly, now, she turned to the counter for her groceries in the smiley-face bag.

  “You want me to help you?” He reached for the bag.

  But she dragged it off the counter before he could take it. “Thanks, but I’ve only got a little way to go.”

  “Her life on her back, I told her,” said the owner, seemingly pleased with the phrase.

  “I guess,” she said. She turned to go, having no excuse now not to.

  “Was that sandwich I made okay?” he asked.

  She looked at him and surprised herself by saying, “You should own a place called Sandwich Heaven.” She looked away. “Good-bye.”

  Then she was out the door and across the wide dirt area where the pumps stood before she let out her breath. Their drivers were pumping gas into a couple of pickup trucks. She swept a glance toward the two men, both of whom were looking her way. One smiled; one nodded and kind of raised a finger to the brim of his big-brimmed hat. One looked to be probably in his thirties; one was old. The one in the hat, the old one, looked like an Indian with the black braid down his back, the brown and solid face. The younger one had very dark hair and was almost as handsome as Andrew inside. He was leaning against the side of his truck, whose bed was empty, letting the pump do the fill-up for him. The Indian was bending over his pump, eyes squinting to see the amount registering.

  She took in all this at a glance as she passed by them, both trucks headed in opposite directions, both with New Mexico plates. She smiled vaguely in her turn.

  Then she started down the highway, forgetting that the highway, even this lesser one, might be dangerous. The road was empty and she crossed it, crying. This, she had to remind herself, was the way it would be.

  For solace, she tried to keep her eyes on the mountains, dark blue and gray and violet like a Japanese print in the distance. As she walked, she wiped away tears.

  She’d been walking for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes when a pickup truck slowed down to a crawl and the driver asked her if she’d like a lift.

  Earlier, she wouldn’t have. But now, though, she was horribly tired, on top of being depressed. “Thanks,” she said, and when he reached over and opened the passenger door she saw it was the man from back at the store: the younger one, the good-looking one. His eyes—he had been too far off before to tell this—were incredibly blue.

  “What should I do with these? Put them in back there?” She’d removed the bedroll and was shrugging out of the backpack. Seeing he was going to get out, she said, “No, it’s okay, I can do it.” Carefully, she stacked the gear in the truck bed, together with the smiley-face bag. Inside, with the door closed, she thanked him again and he smiled. God, but wasn’t she seeing her share of handsome men today?

  “Where you headed?”

  She was tired of the question but nodded toward the distance. “Up there.”

  He squinted through the windshield. “The mountains, you mean?”

  “That’s right. Sandias. Sandia Peak.” She was beginning to feel knowledgeable about her little part of the Southwest. “To ski.” Looking at him to see if he was going to question this and seeing he wasn’t—he just smiled again—she relaxed.

  “I like to ski,” he said. “Don’t get much of a chance. Ever been to Telluride? Great skiing.” When she shook her head no, he went on. “Beautiful place. Me, I’m headed for Albuquerque, Silver City.”

  Out of his washed-blue shirt he drew a pack of cigarettes, Merits, and offered her one. Andi was tempted—she’d never smoked, as far as she knew; if she’d been a smoker, she’d have been hankering after a cigarette. Now, because she was nervous and sad (which must be reasons for people smoking), she said, “Thanks.”

  He lit it with a slim gold lighter, then lit his own. Holding the cigarette awkwardly, carefully, she inhaled. Not much, just a little, but still. . . . She coughed and coughed, the acrid taste, the burning in her throat and nose pulling her head toward her lap.

  He gave her a few ineffectual taps on the back, s
aid, “Not used to it?”

  Her head came up; she wiped the tears from her eyes. “I’d forgotten what fun it was.”

  Heartily, he laughed until the laugh became a chuckle. “Haven’t smoked in a while, huh?”

  “I’m trying to quit. Haven’t tried one for over a year. You forget what they’re like.”

  “Hell, these are only Merit.” He made a face, crushed his out. “No nicotine, no taste.”

  “Still.” She shrugged.

  There were the inevitable questions about where she was coming from, where she lived, went to school, and so on and so on. She slipped into her easy lies, continuing to smoke the cigarette, wondering how people ever got in the habit, looking at his hands on the steering wheel, rough but well cared for, feeling uncomfortable in the looking. He lit up another no-taste cigarette, bringing out the gold lighter to do it. He talked about the East and how he’d hated it and moved out here. Ever since he was a kid, he’d loved the outdoors, the mountains and rivers. His daddy had owned a fishing lodge. Fishing was his daddy’s life.

  When he said that, she flinched and turned to look out of the passenger window. Daddy.

  There was little traffic on this road. Only a couple of cars passed them, and there was just one behind them. As she watched the mountains drawing closer, instead of seeming to recede, she thought she’d been right to take the ride; she’d never have got this far, not even by tomorrow night. Now she could get off the roads, out of the towns. Away, just away to the mountains.

  The pickup truck behind them passed. Looking through the driver’s-side window, she saw it was the old Indian. He turned to look at her, the Indian in the big hat, and made some sort of sign.

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “What? Who?”

  “The man in the other truck. You know, he was back there getting gas—” Something stopped her, a pause filled with warning. What? She went on. “He looked Indian.”

  “Well, that’s hardly unusual around here. What’d he do?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just made some kind of sign.”

  “You have an admirer.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said, feeling cold again. But there had been something odd in that sign he’d given. Was he a kind of shaman, or whatever they were called?

  “Wasn’t me he was looking at, darlin’.” He laughed. “I don’t know where you’re headed, exactly. I mean, where do you want to be dropped off?”

  “Well, does this run into I-Forty? Do you know where the Tijeras exit is?”

  “Yeah, I know that. But I’m not letting you off at some highway exit. So where do you go after that?”

  Andrew had certainly made things easier for her, sharing his fund of information. Confidently, she said, “To Canyon Estates. But you certainly don’t have to drive me all the way there. I mean, even Route Forty’s out of your way, I imagine.”

  “Not really. Anyway, a few more miles isn’t going to hurt me; I’m not in any hurry.” He turned to look at her. “But what happens then? I mean, you’re sure not going up to Sandia Crest this evening?”

  “Oh, no. I’m meeting my family at the trailhead. My father and brothers.” Why her father and brothers saw fit to let her hitchhike to their destination was a question she hoped he wouldn’t ask.

  He didn’t. “No problem, we’ll find it.” He started whistling under his breath. “Let’s have some music.” He fiddled with the radio for a few seconds, got static, then a country music station.

  • • •

  He found the Estates and the parking lot and helped her get her things from the truck bed. He said he’d wait until her family showed up.

  Of course, she couldn’t have that. But it was nice of him, she thought, to be reluctant to leave her here on her own. She said, “My brother told me just to wait for them in the parking lot.” This was a poor direction to give; it invited too many questions in itself. She was getting lazy in her lying, overconfident.

  He blew on his fingers; he had no gloves. “You’re not going to do any hiking this evening, are you? It’s near dark. Well, dusk, anyway.”

  She looked up at him, backlit by the light of the dying sun that was pink on the western face of the mountains. She was getting tired of making up answers; he asked too many questions, anyway. Probably he just wanted the company, and she could certainly understand that. She said, “Oh, they’ve probably lined up some hotel or motel where we’ll stay overnight.” But if that was the case, she thought, why wouldn’t they have had her meet them there?

  At least he didn’t think of that question. He just stood there looking up at the mountains. When she was starting to strap on the bedroll, she stopped, remembering her brothers were supposed to pick her up, so she wouldn’t have to shoulder all of her gear again. She set it down on the ground beside the smiley-face bag. She put out her hand to say good-bye and they shook hands.

  He opened the driver’s-side door and hopped back in the truck. “Listen: I like to ski, like I said. Maybe we’ll see each other on the slopes.” He smiled and winked.

  “Maybe,” she said, raising her hand in farewell.

  He started up the truck and drove off. Then she realized she did not know his name.

  She sat down on the bedroll, as if she were waiting for someone, until his truck was out of sight.

  6

  She had left the parking lot and had been hiking along this trail, Faulty Trail, it was called, for a short while. She stopped and looked down the canyon walls to her left, at the slopes of piñon and ponderosa pine, and watched the sunset. A straight line of carmine diffused and spread into a melting bank of violet, blue, and rose. It seemed to pull the color from the landscape—the ocher of the desert, caramel-colored foothills—and cover it with a silvery sheen, with the crust of ice on the snow as bright as a pink-tinted mirror. She could have watched for a long time, but now it would get even colder and she’d better keep going.

  She pulled out her compass, not to get directions—east and west meant nothing to her now—but rather to see some concrete evidence that her movements were stabilized, that she wasn’t floating away like seed filaments on the air. Every fifteen or so minutes that she walked, the temperature seemed to drop by another five degrees. The air got thinner; she could smell its purity. She took out Andrew’s map again. She had missed the trail that went up to Sandia Peak and was too weary to go back and search it out. The trail she was on was well marked and maintained and she decided to keep to it. Tomorrow, she could find the peak.

  When she came to a grassy shoulder, strangely fresh and unfrozen, she dropped her backpack and sat down, leaning against the trunk of a pine. She’d been hiking up (and she supposed ascending) the mountain for over an hour. Gratefully, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Night fell quickly, like a blind, in this country. Yet there was never dead dark because of the unearthly light cast by the moon.

  Her bottled water was nearly gone. There was a spring near; she had seen a sign. But she was too tired to get up right now. She decided she could just sleep right here; she unrolled her sleeping bag. Then she got out the wrapped submarine and ate two-thirds. As she ate, her head dropped and she slept for a few minutes. She dreamed in fragments, broken wings of images. Coming awake, she shook herself. Surprised and still holding the sandwich, hand on her knee, she thought that even if she couldn’t remember her life, still it was there, locked away in her unconscious. This made her feel better. At least she knew that her old self was near her, as if it were someone waiting behind a shop window, anxious for her to turn up. She finished the sandwich and struggled into her sleeping bag, zipping it up after her as one might lock a door.

  She was turned toward an opening in the branches, and through them, at some distance, she thought she saw a weathered wooden wall. Quickly, she rose and went back to a secondary trail that branched off from the maintained one, walked along that, and then to another that was more a depression in the ground than a trail. She came to a clearing in which sat a small cabin in perf
ect stillness among the trees, unoccupied (she was sure). But how could anyone build a cabin in this wilderness area? It was a wildlife refuge, Andrew had said; it would hardly convey as private property. Perhaps it was just outside the boundary line and perhaps near some other residential area in the foothills. That must be it. Or maybe it was a ranger’s cabin.

  Wood was stacked neatly to one side of the door, and around the corner of the cabin stood several big barrels. She looked in them and saw water. Rain barrels, they must be. You can’t holler down my rain barrel, / You can’t climb—The snatch of a song swiftly came and vanished, like childhood. Someone singing in her head.

  She crossed to the door, expecting it to be firmly locked. It opened at the turn of the knob. She stood in one large room, very neat and clean. In the corner opposite the door were bunk beds and a big dresser. In the center of the room sat a square pine table and mismatched chairs. An oil lamp on a pulley hung from the ceiling over the table.

  There was running water, apparently, for there was an old cast-iron sink dressed up with a faded flowered skirt, and behind a curtain of the same material was a toilet. No bathtub or shower, or perhaps the barrels were there to collect rain, soft water to fill some kind of tub. Beside the sink stood a black wood-burning stove; that was what the stacked wood and kindling were for, then. The surface of the stove was flat and had in it two round inserts like little manhole covers. This would be what they cooked on, all of their food cooked over a wood fire. Imagine.

  She wondered who “they” were.

  There must be a road somewhere nearby, but she didn’t see one. What did the owner use it for? A hunting cabin? A summer retreat? Behind the skirt of the sink were pots and pans, and lined up on the wooden counter were mason jars filled with beans, rice, and other grains. Also, there were cans of soup, a big can of peaches, and small tins of sardines and anchovies. She could hardly believe it: shelter, warmth, food.

  Wooden pegs nailed to the wall held metal hangers that rattled in the wind coming through the open door, a sound like tiny chimes. The place was cold, cold as the outdoors. But she could drive this away once she got a fire going. She stood there hugging herself, not from the cold but from the sheer joy of her changed luck. Somewhere she knew there would be matches, for there was everything else.