“Luca! Get your baby face over here with those ‘biners.” Hector yanked the harness of his hiking pack and rocked on his heels as he tested the weight balance. Luca emerged from the equipment closet and chucked a pack of carabiners at his stomach, making him ‘oof.’ Earlier this year, Luca had picked up a part-time job at Paddler’s when he and his wife of barely three months found out she was pregnant. When they’d shared their news with our stunned circle, he simply said, ‘one helluva honeymoon.’
“Why is your husband in the closet?” Luca asked me.
Angel grinned and opened his mouth, but I pointed at him. “Don’t even say it. For the love of my sanity, no more innuendos.”
It was our traditional Friday Lunch at the Valdez family’s store, and Hector and Luca geared up for another mountain climb. I’d declined. We’d barely made it down Mount Elbert with Samuel’s sprained ankle, and I wasn’t ready to tackle another winter route.
We circled a shiny new tailgating grill, containers of carry-out spread across its plastic-wrapped rack. Molly was perched on a ladder, draping red and green tinsel across antlers. If anyone noticed her anxiety, they didn’t bring it up.
Behind us, Santiago manned the register, miserably munching on a veggie lettuce wrap (his bluegrass chick had eliminated meat, dairy, gluten, flour, caffeine, and sugar from their diet. I wondered if this might be the death of their relationship).
The Longmont premiere of Samuel’s movie was tonight (Samuel would be sporting a new pair of crutches). Though small scale compared to Hollywood’s red carpet shindig, it was a crucial appearance for us. I loved my town on the edge of the Rockies, but gossip was its bread and butter. Sometimes, your biggest fans can also be your harshest critics, and it was no different for Samuel Cabral, acclaimed Colorado author and social misfit. Even though his return to the Front Range brought him back to the people who loved him, it also dropped him in the center of an aquarium. He was the sole exotic fish among a school of guppies. Their eyes followed him through grocery store aisles and waited for him to up-end a holiday poinsettia display. If he spent an afternoon in the library, heads peeked around shelf corners to make sure he wasn’t defacing books. The last straw was when Molly let it slip that Alan Murphy had added a “Cabral-Watch” app to NixieNet.net and was making a killing on advertising. (Alan’s parents were now demanding he move out of their basement since he had a steady income.)
Curiosity waned as time passed. But it returned like a charging bull every time a Water Sirens movie hit theatres, like now. That’s why Samuel currently hid in a literal closet.
Santiago fixed his meticulously-styled hair and approached the two sparkly phones staking out Samuel. He flashed a row of white teeth. “Lemme guess, you found the ‘Cabral’s Hometown Haunts’ map on NixieNet.net.”
The girls exchanged a secretive look. “Yeah, the map said he’s sometimes here on Fridays.” She shrugged. “We saw her here and thought we’d take a chance.” Judging by the way the word ‘her’ dripped like poison from her lips, I didn’t think she liked me. A small yet vocal faction of the WS fandom believed I’d caused Samuel’s bipolar disorder.
“That’s great you’re into his books.” Santiago the Salesman. “Here’s the thing. You’ve loitered here for an hour and haven’t bought anything. So I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Unless you plan to make a purchase.”
The girls grabbed tubes of Burt’s Bees lip balm from the display and plunked them on the counter. “Have a nice afternoon,” said Santiago, then politely but firmly hustled them from the store, observing the youthful cheeks spilling out of their shorties. “Still can’t believe Samuel never took advantage of that,” he mumbled. Yep, his bluegrass chick was definitely on the way out and I wouldn’t blame her one bit. Santiago could be a bit of a dillweed.
Angel still beamed at me, lips scrunched together.
“Don’t say it.”
He held up his hands. “All I’m gonna say is, that Togsender guy did raise some interesting points. Samuel always was a little too touchy-feely after baseball games.”
“Cripes, Angel! Togsy wrote that he was gay, not a flipping molester. Besides, gay humor sailed years ago, on the same ship as blonde jokes and Your Mom.”
“Then there was the whole team showering thing during baseball season.”
Ugh, Latin machismo was the worst. “From what I hear, you did your fair share of towel-snapping. Aren’t you supposed to pick up your son by two?”
Dani shot her husband a withering look and turned to me. “Seriously, why’s he in the closet?”
“He’s writing.”
“And he finds inspiration amid Paddler’s rafting equipment?”
“Samuel just needs to chill before the crowds tonight, Dani.”
“Okay, sure.”
At first, our friends tiptoed around what happened in Boston. Words like “bipolar” and “episode” were mouthed, the way people mouthed “sex” in polite conversation. Then Dani, blunt as a butter knife, asked Samuel how the new meds were working. The floodgates opened and no question was taboo.
Molly snickered as she arranged a Santa in skis. “Maybe you should help Samuel with those ‘metaphors.’ Relive glory days in the equipment closet.”
I froze, water bottle halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
“Oh please,” Santiago mumbled through alfalfa sprouts, “everyone knows you and Cabral used to get it on like bunnies in that closet behind the life vests. Our long-time customers still joke about you guys ‘breaking in’ our new gear.”
“We did not!”
“Alan Murphy should add that closet to his Cabral tour map, right after the ball diamond,” Danita teased. “Well, beneath the bleachers at the ball diamond.”
I spewed water down my shirt. “Does everyone really know about that?”
The circle erupted. But really, what did I expect? The town had known much more about its teenage population’s shenanigans than we ever gave them credit for but, in my defense, hormones had wreaked havoc on my judgment. I cringed at what our parents had been aware of and never mentioned, save for Sofia’s occasional threats to take Sam and me to a Boulder workshop called What’s NORMAL Anyway?: Facts and Fallacies of Teen Sexuality. I wiped dirt from my rear and joined Luca as he inventoried fishing lures.
“Hey. Did you ask your sister about tonight?” Down the aisle, Hector’s back stiffened at the mention of his ex.
“Yeah. Jaime said, ‘If your ‘Care Bear’—she means you—‘calls me again, I’ll give her a reason to file a restraining order.’ So I don’t think she’s coming.”
Disappointment clenched my gut. Ever since the blow-out at our wedding and Hector’s elopement with Dr. Tricia not three weeks later, I’d seen Jaime precious few times. “Quite the hubbub happened while you were in Zermatt,” Sofia had tactfully put it.
“Attention everyone.” Molly hopped down from the ladder and frowned at the back room. “Cabral! Time to come out of the closet, your presence is required!” At last, Samuel appeared from his hideaway of musty life vests and kayak paddles, laptop under his arm and blue eyes squinting like a cat’s in a suddenly bright room.
“As you know, Cassady and me…the thing is…” I winced, because I knew what Molly was about to announce. Her lower lip trembled as she looked at me. I gave her an encouraging nod. “Well, there’s not an easy way to say this. We’re leaving Colorado.”
A chorus of “oh no” and “aw man” rose and died. She continued. “We won’t be a world away. Well, kind of. Cassady wants to go to Alaska and I’ve never been.”
I was glad to see Cassady reach for her hand. I hoped he wouldn’t abandon her and drive Betty the Campervan somewhere into the wild, ala Chris McCandless.
“Anyway, Kaye and I think we could make this work in TrilbyJones’ favor, since Alaska and Colorado have similar clientele. There are the mountains, the national forest, lots of outdoor tourism. We’ll hire a couple more employees, expand our base.�
� She nodded, as if convincing herself.
Cassady pulled his long, shaggy hair into a tail. “We’ll come back to visit.”
“And we’ll definitely be back for the benefit concert in June.”
It’s just time to move on, ya know?” He held out his fist for a bump from Samuel, which was reluctantly returned. “Sorry man. It’s tough leaving behind friends.”
“I’m sure we’ll still cross paths,” said Samuel.
Angel cleared his throat. “While we’re making announcements, we also have news to share.”
The air in the room was thick with tension, at odds with the sparkling decorations and holiday tunes tinkling from the speakers.
Danita turned to her brother. “We didn’t want to announce this until after Thanksgiving. Mamá and Papá already know.”
“I’m being deployed,” said Angel.
Oh no. No, no, no. We’d all known this was coming again, but so soon, and just after Christmas? I tallied the months…two…three…four years since his last deployment. Son-of-a-Nutcracker, not soon, after all. Where to now? Iraq again? Afghanistan? How would little Gabe handle the separation?
Then Danita said something I was not expecting to hear, though I should have.
“Angel’s being deployed for eight months,” she said with a quake, “and I’m going to have another baby.”
Chapter 7
Rock!
When rocks fall, a climber shouts a warning ‘Rock!’ to those ascending below them. A heads up is always polite.
Winter wind bit our cheeks and gray slush clung to our boots as we huddled together at Buckley Air Force Base to wish Lieutenant Angel Valdez and the 460th Wing farewell. Christmas had been a quiet affair. We made it special for el changuito, but our joy was marred by the bitter taste of Angel’s deployment. When he returned next year, he would find a two-month-old infant and a son who’d grown a foot.
No one dared consider that bleak conjunction: If.
Angel frowned at my long face. “Oh Kaye-bear, none of that. After all, ‘It’s the mooost, wonderful tiiiime, for a beeeer!” he sang with all the boisterousness of a North Pole bartender. I hugged his neck and smiled through watery eyes.
“Take Dani out every now and then, will you? Get your nails done or something,” he asked. “Don’t let her sink into herself.”
“Dani’s usually the one who calls me out on the sad state of my nails. I don’t think that will change anytime soon.”
“Still.”
“We’ll take good care of her and the kids, Angel.” I flicked a fuzz ball from the shoulder of his fatigues. He was so dashing and heroic.
Angel gazed behind me at his wife, who conversed with another military wife as their toddlers darting around their legs. “They tell us that spouses withdrawing from us is normal, in the days before we’re deployed. That…that they do it to cope. Sometimes they even wish we’d just go ahead and leave already, so we can get the deployment over with. It’s damned awkward, though.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I reassured him again we’d take care of his family.
He choked back the tears he was loathed to showcase and grabbed the duffel bag at his feet. “Don’t you sell my kayak seat on the Glenwood Canyon trip. I’m reclaiming it next May.”
“Never. I am so proud of you, Angel. Danita is, too. Be safe.”
That night, like the children we once were, Samuel and I slept on either side of Danita in her old bedroom while she wept into her pillow.
Two weeks later, Molly and Cassady left for Alaska. Why someone would move to Alaska in the middle of their dark and endless winter was a mystery. I couldn’t understand Cassady’s peripatetic lifestyle…staying somewhere long enough to establish roots, only to yank them out of the ground on a whim.
After a hurried goodbye, Samuel and I zipped up our coats and turned toward St. Vrain. His ankle sprain had all but healed, but long runs were dicey so instead we strolled through the stripped winter trees along our creek.
“Talk to me. Every inch of your body is tense.”
I sighed. “Life is changing too fast. It’s like being in the middle of a paintball fight without a paintball gun. There’s my folks and this ridiculous affair that’s going to blow up in their faces. I need to step up my game for Danita and el changuito. Now there’s this uncertainty at TrilbyJones. Our employees are worried about Molly’s move to Alaska. They depend on their jobs to pay rent and feed their families, so of course they’re concerned. I’m concerned, too.”
Samuel lifted a branch weighed down by ice and snow. “Do you believe expanding into Alaska is a foolish business risk?”
“Risk-taking is how businesses put a pin on the map. Alaska’s a good move, but…” How to voice my feelings? “The thing is, I don’t feel comfortable with the reason behind the expansion. If Molly hadn’t decided to follow Cassady to the clam capital of the Alaska—and I have no idea how we’re going to position that on our website—we would never have considered this. Watch the ice.”
He jumped over the slab. “Most new opportunities come from unexpected avenues.”
“I suppose so. But expansions are usually chosen through careful market research.”
“Molly brought in new clients when she moved to Breckenridge and managed the payroll, correct?”
“Breckenridge is still Colorado. We have connections in Breckenridge.”
“Knowing Molly, you’ll have connections in Clam Gulch in no time.”
I waved my hands, frustrated. “It’s Clam Gulch, Alaska! How many connections can she possibly make?”
Samuel’s smile was wry. “Alright, city girl.”
We breathed in air that made our nostrils tingle. The creek split here: one branch traveled north and the other, south. “Left toward Old St. Vrain Road, or right toward Planet Bluegrass?” Sam asked.
“Let’s try Old St. Vrain today. I want to see if there are any acreages for sale.” We wandered through the woods until we hit blacktop.
“Has Molly ever dropped the ball with TrilbyJones?”
“No. She’s a rock.”
Ah, there it was. She was my rock. She wasn’t supposed to up and move across the country for a guy. Shame at my selfishness burned in my cheeks.
Samuel continued, gently. “Don’t forget how supportive she was when you shouldered my promotional tour several years ago.”
“And I followed a guy halfway across the country, too. Man, I’m a ho-bag.”
“No. You love your friend and your employees, and you want to see them happy. You’re asking the questions you should ask and I’m merely helping you find perspective.”
I squeezed his hand in mute thanks. “What do you worry about?”
Samuel grew quiet as we walked along the deserted road. A homeowner had recently placed a herd of papier mâché sculptures in their yard. Dragons? Iguanas? With snow in the forecast, they wouldn’t make it through the week, but perhaps that was the intent behind the art. In Lyons, who knew?
“What do I worry about? No matter how much of myself I put into my novels, no matter how I push to be a better writer, I’ll never again have a book as well received as the Water Sirens series. I worry that my career has peaked in my first decade of publishing. Sometimes I obsess about this, play those negative reviews over and over in my head, and I don’t know if it’s because of my bipolar brain or if it’s a hit to my ego, but I have trouble letting go. Is that a gecko?”
He studied one of the sculpted lizards— painted red, white, and blue—as puzzled as I. Patriotic or satirical? We shook our heads and he continued.
“I worry that I’ve disappointed you.”
“Samuel, no. I’ve told you a million times how amazingly talented you are. It’s just en vogue for critics to tear down writers who’ve gone mainstream.”
“Most of the reviewers were fair in their crit. Sea Rovers did lean too heavily on cliché. You can’t win ‘em all.” Samuel kicked a stray rock into the ditch. “I worry you might have enough of my mood
s and leave. I worry about you, too. That I’m stifling you, keeping you from doing the things you love. And those panic attacks.”
“Sam—”
“I make issues out of nothing. I know I do this, it’s okay. That’s why I’m constantly moderating my head. Catastrophes happen when I act on instinct and don’t evaluate whether my thoughts are normal or extreme.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“You have no idea.”
What thoughts did I moderate? Nearly two months after our L.A. trip for Samuel’s movie premiere, I still hadn’t told him about my desire to have a baby. I should. But I also knew what his response would be, and I was absolutely certain my telling him would drive a wedge between us.
Isn’t your silence also driving a wedge between you?
He reached for my hand again. “I don’t think my worry here is extreme. You’re unhappy. You’ve been unhappy for a good six months now, and that goes beyond your parents’ affair, Angel’s deployment, Molly’s move. I don’t believe it has anything to do with mountain climbing and panic attacks, either. What’s going on?”
The trunk of an old cottonwood encroached upon the road. Someone had carved the face of a wood spirit into its bark, as angled and creviced as the bark itself. I patted its cheek. “You know how you asked me to trust you on the matter of your visit to Tamaulipas, how it was better if you didn’t tell me? Well, this is the same situation. It’s best if I not say anything.”
He gave a brusque nod, but he was as satisfied as a squirrel with an empty nutshell. He’d broach this again. We often had talks like this along our creek. It was our place of candidness.
Some people imagine Colorado as arid. It’s dry, to be sure, but in our corner of the state, streams weaved through red rock foothills, lined by evergreen shrubs and trees that dappled sun-beaten waters with shadow. Creeks froze over in the winter months, and Samuel and I crunched our way through ice in our winter boots. In the spring, melted snow and rain from the Rockies flooded these narrow creek beds and rushed down the mountains, gurgling full to their banks.
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