I’d hang around the gallery for another hour till Mom closed. I’d drive her home in her car. Good practice.
And more pleasant than pedaling my ten-speed three miles uphill through junipers and pinyon pines too scrubby to cast any shadow on the mesa road.
In the village, a dozen spindly aspens struggled for survival beside the paved two-lane. I wove from one blotch of shade to the next. The air was still. Gray-green leaves drooped listlessly from the branches.
When I’d left the house this morning, I’d looked sporty in my tan khaki shorts and palm-frond-patterned Hawaiian shirt.
Now, the cotton clung to my skin. My backpack straps cut into my shoulders and fine gray dirt had gotten between my hairy toes and my flip flops.
In Santa Fe County, the school year starts in mid-August. In my first two weeks as a high school freshman, the building’s air conditioning system hadn’t kept up with the ninety degree highs.
For the third day in a row, my deodorant gave up midway through last period.
Still, I’m happy to be in school with guys two and three years older than me. I don’t stand out like the freak I was in seventh and eighth grades.
My little brother is only nine-and-a-half and he’s grown a rug on his chest. Before he starts middle school next year, I’ll give him some pointers on how to get by.
Too bad our last name is Harrison. Kids can’t resist the obvious nickname.
Over the summer, I gained some body mass to go with the facial hair. I’m now five-ten and a hundred and eighty pounds. Wide and solid.
My classmates probably still think Fur Monster when they see me, but they call me Shane and smile like I’m no longer a mutant threat to mankind.
My dad is a hairy, hairy guy. Long ponytail, full beard, furry back. Big, too.
I blame him for passing on the “precocious puberty” gene to my brother Wyatt and me.
The gallery was a block ahead in an old peak-roofed Victorian. The swamp cooler would be rattling away to make the temperature bearable.
For twenty years, only ghosts lived in this village. The scenic route between Albuquerque and Santa Fe wound right past those empty old houses.
In the seventies, artists and craftspeople discovered the cheap rentals and put their creations up for sale.
The biggest customers are tourists who pass through on the old state highway, now renamed the Turquoise Trail. Today, I counted two mammoth RVs and half a dozen shiny rental cars parked alongside the highway.
The drivers were probably checking out the galleries, eating the roadhouse’s famous green chile cheeseburgers, or trying to spot a ghost.
After the living flocked here again, most spirits left. Only the boring ones lingered.
Who needs a weeping woman wandering the streets, trailing gauzy white robes behind her? Or a tongue-tied cowboy strolling with a mysterious señorita in a mantilla?
Not stellar roadside attractions.
I climbed the creaky board steps to the gallery’s front door. Three of Mom’s bowls filled the display window. She’s experimenting with turquoise-colored glazes and her bowls glow with blue-green light. Really pretty.
I reached for the brass knob on the front door. It wouldn’t turn. Locked.
Where had Mom gone?
I spotted a scribbled note taped above the opening hours sign on the inside of the glass door. The note read, “Closed due to family emergency.”
Shit. What had happened?
Mom would’ve texted me any bad news. Unfortunately, I used up all the juice on my phone reading a book during lunch break.
Dad had headed south yesterday on a chile-buying expedition. He hadn’t made it back by the time I biked off to the bus stop this morning. I hoped he wasn’t in trouble.
I ordered myself not to disasterize.
Maybe Mom got an inspiration, closed up the gallery, and whipped home to her studio. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’s dedicated to her art.
Soon as I started kindergarten, she embraced the school bus as my personal babysitter.
Snow or drought, Mom would be out on the narrow highway shoulder with five-year-old me. She’d kiss my hairy little head and mutter, “You have fun at school today, Shane.”
Stuff me in the bus and dash off to her potter’s wheel to create something new and beautiful.
While I spent forty minutes riding a stop-and-go bus to Santa Fe. Plus another forty minutes coming home.
Ten years, those minutes add up. I got my learner’s permit and I’ll be sixteen in January. I need to find a way to buy myself a car.
I was avoiding the problem in front of me.
I forced my eyes back to Mom’s note. What to do?
Maybe Dad had made it back. He might be over at the roadhouse.
He’d been sober for six months. Maybe the manager had decided he was reliable again. Maybe she’d stop sending him all over New Mexico to buy fresh produce. Put him back in charge of the roadhouse kitchen.
Wishful thinking, probably. But I’ve learned not to rush out to meet bad news. Hurts less if I sidle up and let it sink in slow.
If Dad wasn’t at the roadhouse, I could borrow the manager’s phone and call Mom. Quicker than pedaling home. I dumped my backpack with my bike and headed for the roadhouse.
Thirty seconds after I reached the top of the splintery wood stairs to the second-story deck, gray-haired Lottie was motioning me over to the portable steel bar.
The manager, her office was tucked into the top floor maze of rooms. She must’ve stepped out here to watch for me.
Two women smokers were the only customers seated on the deck. On hot afternoons, the air-conditioned ground floor room with the long historic pine-and-oak bar was more popular.
I headed for Lottie, weaving around the empty tables. The spray misters were on. When I passed under them, droplets landed gently on my hair and face and arms. The cool splashes calmed me.
By the time I heaved myself onto a tall wooden stool, Lottie had a moisture-studded glass of homemade lemonade waiting on the white acrylic bar top. I put my lips around that straw and sucked up a big swallow. It tasted sweet and tart at the same time.
Lottie’s hair was longer and straighter than mine. She twisted hers into a bun on top of her head. As usual, a stubby number-two pencil stuck out of it. The eraser looked like it had never been used.
Lottie’s yellow blouse was sleeveless, showing off her ropy arms. She wore rust-colored pants that ended halfway between her knees and her braided leather sandals.
Brownish freckles covered her face, her eyes dots of darker brown behind her bifocals. “You heard about your dad?” she asked.
“No, my phone’s dead.”
Nobody else sat at the shaded bar, but I heard a rumble of male voices coming from the other side of the flimsy wall.
I lowered my voice. “Where is he?”
“ABQ. Around noon, somebody spotted Dan passed out in the truck.”
ABQ is Albuquerque. Dan is my dad.
“Tapped on the window but he wouldn’t wake up,” Lottie continued. “They called nine-one-one. The EMTs hauled him to UNM Hospital. They have all his records from last time.”
UNM stands for the University of New Mexico. Last time was six months ago. I’d gone with Mom to retrieve the car and I’d seen the two empty vodka bottles lying on the mat.
“Took him straight to detox,” Lottie went on. “Soon as the hospital called your mom, she took off.”
I bent over the glass and pulled more of my drink up the straw. I let the lemony goodness trickle down my throat while I reviewed my research on alcoholics.
“Dad can’t help it,” I told Lottie. “His father and his grandfather died from liver failure when they were still in their sixties. His great-grandfather was fifty-five when the booze got him. We Harrisons carry the alcoholism gene.”
Lottie’s eyebrows shot up. “Three generations died from liver failure?”
“Dad won’t say bad stuff about his ancestors. But I put the clues togethe
r. We’ve got something in our DNA that means we can’t handle alcohol.”
Lottie sniffed. “Most folks from drinkin’ families don’t turn into drunks.”
“With the right help, Dad could manage not to drink, too. He should be in a place like the Betty Ford Clinic. Where they’re good at curing people like him. But the insurance won’t cover the cost.”
Dad had been in and out of AA all my life. Last time, he’d stayed sober for five years before he drifted back to the bottle.
In a novel I’d read, a nineteen-year-old girl funded her dad’s rehab by selling her eggs to a fertility clinic. But given my genes, I wouldn’t get a dime for my sperm.
I read novels like that on my phone. Don’t want anyone catching me with my nose buried in chick lit. When you look weird, careful image management is key to survival in high school.
The only books I “like” on my Facebook page are by Tolkien, Lovecraft, and Poe. I didn’t add the teen weeper with cancer perks as a plot twist. Retro worked better with my Deep-and-Gentle-Giant brand.
Still the cancer story got me thinking.
“It’s not fair,” I said to Lottie. “A terminally ill kid can wish for anything he wants and some foundation provides it. My dad needs thousands of dollars to get well. But nobody’s offering to grant his wish.”
“Recovering alcoholics aren’t their target group.” Her brown-eyed gaze sharpened and she leaned over the bar and into my face.
“And don’t you start hoping for a cancer diagnosis so you can turn to Make-A-Wish for help. You love your folks too much to put them through that worry.”
I gave a half-hearted shrug to acknowledge she’d figured me out. I’d abandoned the idea but I couldn’t resist teasing her.
“Maybe the right chemo would make me bald,” I said. “I’d like to experience hairlessness.”
“You stop that.” Lottie pulled a tissue from her pants pocket and blew her nose. “You make any more stupid jokes, you’ll have me crying.”
She yanked the pencil out of her bun and tapped it on the acrylic to be sure she had my attention. “It’s Dan’s job to take care of you. Not the other way around.”
“Dad would do that if he could. When he’s sober, he’s the best father in the world. Nothing healthier for a growing boy than having a professional chef in the house.”
“Dan’s the best cook I’ve ever had in the restaurant.” Lottie tucked the pencil back in her bun. “But I have to be able to count on him.”
Her words reminded me that my little brother had been alone all afternoon.
Slurping up the last of the lemonade, I slid off the stool. “Wyatt’s school day ended at half-past twelve. I better go home and make sure he’s handling this okay.”
Lottie came out from behind the bar and gave me a hug. Still surprised me to find myself taller than Lottie.
Her grip was nice and tight and she smelled like lemons and pencil lead.
“You hug the little guy for me.” She swatted my butt like she was my PE teacher. “I’d give you a ride but I got to get ready for the Friday night crowd. Damn ghosts been rearranging the furniture again.”
Lottie played up the haunted roadhouse thing to draw more customers. She blamed everything that went wrong on ghosts.
“Don’t the spirits like the band that’s playing tonight?” I asked.
“Trying to steal the best seats is more like it,” Lottie retorted. “They’re a restless bunch but not malicious. Haven’t broken any of my wine glasses lately.”
I tossed her a goodbye wave and walked under the mister for a refresher. I slapped down the wood plank staircase treads, hustled up to the gallery back yard, and shrugged into my pack. Grabbing my ten-speed, I headed for the mesa road.
When I reached the rock pile that meant I was halfway home, a man wearing a black hat and a tan duster popped out from behind the stones. He stepped into the road ten feet in front of me and held up a hand to flag me down.
I quit pedaling and rolled to a halt an arms-length from him.
He peered at me from under the broad brim of his felt hat. The skin on his cheeks was yellowed like old paper. I guessed he had twenty-five years on me. Made him about the same age as Dad.
The canvas duster was open and the man had strapped scarred leather chaps over his jeans. The chaps draped onto his boots so only battered squared-off toes showed. The duster and chaps were good details.
With so many tourists looking for a supernatural experience, ghost impersonators kept turning up to con money out of them. When the temperature hit ninety, most left off the extra layer of clothes.
I gave the guy points for effort, but without the Spanish lady in the mantilla, his silent-cowboy-escort act didn’t work.
To let him know I wasn’t buying, I swung off the bike, put my hand on the seat to steady it, and prodded him to speak.
“So where’s the girlfriend?”
He scuffed his boot on the road, jingling his spur. The sound made me think of Marley’s ghost, rattling his chains at Scrooge. Another nice touch but the impersonator opened his mouth and ruined his scam.
“My lady found peace,” he said in a rusty voice. “I, too, wish to cross to the other side. I think you can assist me.”
I shook a no-no finger at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”
“But I must.” He took hold of my handlebar. “I overheard Lottie tell you to make a wish for help.”
I hadn’t seen this man on the roadhouse deck. Still, the top floor had lots of nooks and crannies. Not impossible that he’d heard Lottie refer to the Make-A-Wish foundation.
“As it happens,” he continued, “I have been given the power to grant your wish.”
This con man must think I was a total rube. I’d seen wish-granting offers on the internet that tried harder to suck me in. And not just on porn sites.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, “but the wish angle is no good. Ghosts aren’t famous for granting wishes.”
His face went dead serious like he was going to deliver a lecture that started with now young’un, let me set you straight on that.
“If you review the literature,” he began.
The guy was so lame he didn’t use old-timey cowboy lingo. He sounded like my science teacher after he got laryngitis.
“You’ll find instances when ghosts have granted wishes,” he added. “Admittedly, it’s rare. Vengeful ghosts can’t be trusted to use the power wisely. But I’m a benevolent spirit.”
He smiled, showing yellowed teeth. One incisor was missing on the bottom. Another good detail.
In the Old West, a cowboy on a cattle drive had only one way to deal with a rotten tooth. Pull it out.
I squinted, trying to see if the impersonator had used that black wax makeup they sell at Halloween. The hat brim shadowed his mouth but I thought I saw a hole in his gum.
The New Mexican desert is popular with methamphetamine users. The TV series about the teacher turned meth-cook was filmed in ABQ. This guy might be a meth-head with bad teeth and worse plans for me.
I yanked the handlebar free and put all my weight on my left foot, ready to get back on my bike.
The man shifted to block my way.
“Don’t be afraid,” he croaked. “I did a terrible thing in life. Until I make amends, I’m stuck on this side. With your help, I’ll be able to cross.”
He looked ghostly and he sounded benevolent. If he’d been hanging around the roadhouse with Lottie’s kind-hearted bunch, he might’ve learned to talk modern.
Intrigued, I let my weight settle onto both feet again.
“All you want from me is that I wish for something?” I asked.
His head bobbed in an enthusiastic nod, turning his hat brim into a fan. The faint breeze soothed my itchy chin.
“I can grant a wish only if doing so restores balance,” he said. “Granting it must off-set the wrong I have done. I think you may be ready to make such a wish.”
“Okay,” I said, “maybe I’ll wish for an end
to the family curse.”
He made a spluttering noise with his lips as if he’d heard something stupid. “Your family isn’t cursed. You and your brother are not doomed to become werewolves.”
He must have heard my hairlessness crack. But he’d missed the point.
“The family curse I want lifted is the one on the men in my line. The curse or gene or whatever it is that makes them all drink themselves to death.”
He waved callused hands to dismiss my words. “Your hypothesis is based on false information. Only one of your forebears died from alcohol-related causes. No curse is involved. Again, you’re not doomed. That wish won’t work, either.”
I snorted. “You’ve got some picky wishing rules.”
“And you’re stubbornly refusing to speak from your heart,” he retorted.
He was right. I wasn’t making any heartfelt wishes to a stranger.
I tried short and snappy instead. “I want a million dollars.”
He pulled off the hat and whacked his knee a couple of times with it. The way a cowboy on horseback smacks his thigh with a coiled rope when he wants to move the herd along.
A felt hat holds a lot of dirt. A dust cloud boiled around him. Particles settled in his stringy black hair and grayed his face.
“Money is a means,” he muttered. “Not an end. If I provide you with a million dollars, you might spend it in a way that doesn’t resolve my issue. You might buy yourself a new car. Powerful antiperspirants. Laser hair removal treatments.”
My mouth fell open. I hadn’t mentioned cars or deodorant to Lottie. The ghost cowboy could read my mind.
He carefully centered the hat on his crown again. “Please, Shane. For both of us. I can’t tell you what to wish for. You must speak your heart’s desire. If your wish fits with what I need to do, I’ll grant it.”
I heard an anguished plea in his voice. It swayed me.
Spit it out, I told myself. But my throat was closing, choking back the words.
The cowboy made a clicking noise with his tongue against his teeth. Urging me along.
But I couldn’t speak. When Dad started drinking again, he tore a hole in my heart. I’d done my best to patch it up.
To make that one true wish, I’d have to tear off the patch. I’d start bleeding inside again. I couldn’t bear the pain.
Fiction River Page 22
