“Kelly. Look at me,” Elect Sun admonished her. The girl continued to stare at her bare feet. Elect Sun walked over and gently lifted Kelly’s chin. “God made you the way you are. God makes nothing that is bad or ugly. You have no reason to be ashamed. This is Mr. Ramm. He is a friend to all of us here. You may call him Jason, if you like.” Elect Sun smiled down at her.
Kelly took a breath, then turned and faced Ramm.
Elect Peter spoke. “Kelly was born with what they call Moebius Syndrome.”
Ramm pulled his eyes away from the girl, focusing on the elderly man.
“You may remember that before I came here I was a doctor with a family practice. When I met Kelly, I checked up on her condition. It’s a very rare birth defect.”
“Is there any treatment available?” Ramm asked, smiling at Kelly.
“There are a few surgeons working on repairing some of the facial deformities.” Elect Peter placed his arm across Kelly’s shoulders.
“Do they know what causes it?”
“It’s all rather technical,” the doctor said.
“I have some medical knowledge.” Ramm flashed back on his required Special Forces training as a medic, and on the number of times he’d seen skulls laid open, bare muscle and tissue exposed.
“Well, it’s a defect caused by the absence or underdevelopment of the sixth and seventh cranial nerves. These control horizontal eye movement and all of the facial muscles. Also, the muscles in the lower jaw are affected. Though many with the defect are afflicted with deformed hands, clubbed feet and crossed eyes, as you can see, Kelly is not.”
Ramm looked back at the expressionless girl. Her oddly blue eyes stared straight into his. He sensed a familiarity, but didn’t know why. Then the sensation passed.
Elect Sun continued. “The only thing Kelly can’t do, Jason, is smile.”
Ramm’s gaze inadvertently slipped from the girl’s face to her belly.
“And soon, we will have a gift from God.” Elect Sun stroked Kelly’s long, blue-black hair.
7
THE SUBTLE AROMA of split pea soup tempted Kelly, but Elect Sun was not finished with the evening blessing, so the girl kept her hands clasped tightly above her belly.
“Amen,” Elect Sun ended the prayer.
“Amen,” the ten other commune members answered in unison.
A basket containing fresh hot bread was passed around the communal table. The simple meal consisted of soup, bread, and sweet dates, and while this minimal repast suited the older people, Kelly—eight months pregnant and a growing teenager—always found herself hungry, despite the fact that the Children encouraged her to take multiple helpings.
“Kelly needs some protein and more calcium.” Elect Peter smiled at the girl.
The Children were vegetarians, strict in the sense that they refused to eat animal flesh. They did, however, allow the consumption of dairy products.
“It will be a while before the cheese is ready.” Elect Sun was a master at making the fromages de chevre she produced courtesy of the commune’s four goats.
“I think we should purchase some.” Elect Peter wiped his mouth on a blue cotton napkin.
Elect Sun frowned. The Children enjoyed the belief that they were self-sufficient. Though they had no qualms about accepting outside food donations, they rarely purchased items they could produce themselves.
She watched Kelly devour her soup. “You’re right, Peter. We’ll get some cheese.”
“And some milk. It’s a pity we don’t have any spinach in the garden right now. That would be a good source of calcium.”
If Kelly could have made a face, she would have. She didn’t like spinach.
“I’ll speak with Jason.” Elect Sun turned to Kelly. “By the way, what did you think of our guest today?”
The girl hesitated. She still wasn’t used to speaking to anyone but her mother and stepfather. Because of her deformity, her voice had an odd quality that had often drawn as much ridicule as her face. In fact, the combination of her appearance, her speech, and a lack of formal education made people assume she was mentally handicapped. But there was nothing wrong with Kelly’s mind. She could learn if her mother had allowed her to, but Miranda Kelly insisted school was out of the question for her only child. The special needs facility was too far away and too expensive, her mother said, so Kelly had remained year-round in her tiny home outside of Agua Caliente where she cooked and cleaned, an arrangement that suited her mother, that is, until recently.
“Kelly,” Elect Sun addressed the girl again. “Mr. Ramm. Jason. What did you think of him?”
“Um, I think he’s sad.”
“Why do you say that?” Elect Sun spooned the last of the soup into Kelly’s bowl.
But before Kelly could answer there was a knock at the door. The girl was relieved, but not for long. Elect Peter stood and opened the door that lead onto the screened-in porch. A man with a broad handsome face espousing his Hispanic and Native American heritage stood holding a black cowboy hat close to his chest.
“I’d like to see Kelly.” His voice was a barely audible whisper.
Before Elect Peter could respond, Elect Sun was at the door. “I don’t think that would be wise, Mr. Garcia.”
Eduardo Garcia straightened his back and spoke up. “You cannot keep me away—” He stopped when he heard the tires screech to a halt on the pebbled drive. A car door opened, then slammed shut. Footsteps came fast and deliberate, crunching on the stones. The outside screen door opened. Miranda Garcia, on the porch now, stood ten feet from her husband, hands on her shapely hips. She was out of breath. Loose, jet-black hair, the color of her daughter’s, cascaded wildly past her shoulders. Brown eyes framed by long curly lashes pierced Eduardo. Then, from the full soft lips that so many men openly admired, came the venom.
“I told you to stay away from her, you pig!”
“But, Miranda, I have a right …”
“You have no rights!”
“She is my daughter.” He nervously rolled the hat, turning the brim in his hands.
“Thank God she’s not!” Miranda moved toward him. Eduardo, embarrassed that these other people were watching, straightened up. “I supported you both after Bryan killed himself.”
Miranda spit on the floor at his feet. “And do you want me to go to the police? Tell them what you’ve done to your little chica?”
Eduardo moved toward his wife barely concealing his anger.
“Stop!” Elect Sun strained to keep her voice even. “Mrs. Garcia, you asked us to take Kelly in, and we did.” She turned to the child. “Kelly, come here, please.”
The girl remained rooted to the chair, elbows on the table, hands covering her ears. Elect Peter walked over and gently helped her up. He smiled reassuringly and grasped Kelly’s hand as he led her to the door.
“You see,” Elect Sun continued. “Kelly is fine and happy here. Am I right, child?”
Kelly nodded but refused to look at her mother or stepfather.
“Kelly,” Eduardo stepped toward her.
“Stay away from the brat!” Miranda hissed. “If I ever see you near her again, I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them in your mouth.”
“That is enough, Mrs. Garcia!” Elect Sun verged on losing her composure. “This is a house of God. We do not talk this way, nor do we abide people who do.”
Miranda raised her chin defiantly and looked at Elect Sun. “I’m not afraid of you or God or this shithead I married.” She turned to her husband and pointed a long, scarlet fingernail back toward the door. “Go home, Eduardo.”
He hesitated briefly, then edged warily past his wife. Miranda, arms folded across her chest, stared at Kelly for a moment, then turned to Elect Sun. “If my husband comes here again, you have my permission to call the police. Make sure they know he was fucking his own retarded step-daughter.”
Kelly sat on the blue and white log cabin-pattern quilt that covered the twin bed and braided her hair. A simple three-drawer dress
er, a nightstand, and a blue ceramic lamp with a flowered shade filled the tiny corner room. Above the bed hung a print of Jesus surrounded by animals and adoring children, none of whom, she noted, had a face like hers.
Kelly’s favorite part of the room was the four-paned window. From the second floor, she could see past the date palms and the gardens to the stark wild desert beyond. She lifted the window, wanting to hear the soothing night sounds. Crickets chirped their staccato chorus. A far-off coyote howled. Other desert dogs joined his plaintive cry, their sonorous song drifting on the evening air. She smelled burning mesquite from a campfire and the earthy aroma of creosote bushes near the wash. The red-tailed hawk that nested in a nearby cottonwood darted past, a mouse limp in its beak. For a moment, Kelly mourned the tiny creature, but when her tears fell, they were not for the rodent.
8
RAMM SCRAPED THE LAST bit of mortar from the bucket and smoothed the mixture onto the brick. He’d have to get down to the wash and gather more sand if he wanted to finish the fireplace today. After he positioned the brick using the grid line, he troweled off the excess mortar and leaned back to survey his work.
The old bricks he’d collected from the Rowley Mine’s dilapidated buildings, weathered and faded, were much more attractive than new ones. Perhaps old Mrs. Rowley would be pleased. Ramm had done some research on the abandoned mine before purchasing the land and found the original owner’s wife to be one tough pioneer. She had camped and prospected in the Sonoran Desert wilderness, often alone, with nothing but her Winchester rifle to keep her company. She was tall, strong, and formidable—some might say ornery—and had married a man renowned for his sense of humor.
Ramm pictured the lanky woman, sweating and cursing alongside the men, digging holes in the earth in the hope of becoming rich, probably not realizing that even with money she’d probably never fit in with the well-to-do ladies of her time. He tried to imagine Mrs. Rowley associating with the upper-crust women in feathers and silks and tiny ludicrous hats, sipping tea from wafer-thin cups while they commented on the weather.
He stood and looked around the cozy cabin he’d built, then gazed out the picture window that faced the valley and mountains beyond and which nightly framed magnificent desert sunsets. He removed his gloves and rubbed his damaged shoulder. His knee throbbed. The doctors hadn’t been able to piece him back together properly after he’d been blown into the side of an abandoned tank when the soldier ahead of him tripped a landmine.
No matter. He’d been through worse.
He finished his bottle of water and headed down to the wash, just a ten-minute hike from the cabin’s front door. As usual these days, Dog accompanied him. While her cuts were healing, she still limped on the broken front leg, but she needed exercise, and the sandy wash provided gentle footing.
Ramm followed the rambling path of the dry stream bed, which with astonishing speed could turn into a raging, deadly torrent during the summer monsoon. He stopped at the foot of a massive pile of tailings, remnants of the mining industry’s search for copper and lead, one that, in this case, ended as a losing proposition.
Sand spread out around the base of the rocks, fine grained and so white it sparkled when it slipped through his fingers. A definite oddity for the area. He began filling the green canvas backpack. Ten pounds of sand, when mixed with cement and water, would produce more than enough mortar to finish the fireplace.
Behind him, Dog barked, then began to whine and wag her mottled tail. Ramm stepped around the rock pile and spied her quarry. A long-legged, speckled roadrunner darted back and forth in the wash. Not wanting Dog to run hard on her injured leg, he reached down and took hold of the bright red collar, purchased in the hope it might stop an overzealous farmer from mistaking her for a feral beast, a mistake which could easily leave the dog a victim of a bullet.
He tossed a pebble at the bird, and the roadrunner scrambled up and out of the wash and into the open desert. He knelt and held the dog tightly, talking to her, stroking her until the bird was out of sight. When the dog stopped fidgeting, Ramm gave her a treat from his pocket, released her, and returned to the knapsack.
After he’d collected enough sand, he buckled the canvas straps and attempted to stand, but a stabbing pain in his forehead caused him to drop cross-legged to the ground. Ramm forced himself to breathe deeply, steadily, and then tried again to rise, but the sunlight reflecting off the sand pierced his brain, and the pain sharpened. He looked around, crawled several yards into the meager shade of a palo verde tree, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and waited for the pain to pass.
He stood on the brilliant white sand, strong, tall, invincible: one of hundreds of soldiers playing at war, practicing for the real thing. They’d be shipped out any day to a war that raged in swamps and jungle, yet they rehearsed here, on a sandy New Mexico beach with no water in sight.
Before he set foot on foreign soil to take part in the bitter war that changed his life forever, he saw his first man die. The war games at White Sands were a teaching tool, but that day the games had gone awry. Live ammunition was used, but as the sergeant pointed out, “If you keep your fucking heads down, the machine gunfire can’t get you.”
The members of his unit listened and understood and, rifles in hand, crawled on their bellies toward the machine guns they were expected to capture. Just an unfortunate accident was the explanation that came later. A bolt had slipped, allowing one of the guns to drop down, which eliminated the safety zone the soldiers had been counting on.
Sammy Ratigliano, of Bayonne, New Jersey, was the first one hit. The boy’s head burst open with a crack, depositing gray brain tissue on the soldiers behind him. The black kid from Georgia was shot next, grasping at his neck, suffocating in his own blood before a second bullet ended his agony. White sand kicked up. Bullets thunked into flesh. Screams permeated the air, but the shooter was too far away, oblivious to the mistake and the devastation and the wailing of the boys not long out of high school, most of whom had never been away from home, and now would never be anywhere but in their grieving relatives’ minds.
A bullet struck nearby and deflected a sharp piece of stone or metal; he would never know which. He felt a piercing pain as the top knuckle on his left pinkie was amputated. Blood and tears streamed into the sand. He stood, threw his rifle to the ground, and ran.
Ramm felt warm blood on his face. No, he was wrong. His face was wet, but when he opened his eyes he saw Dog patiently licking him. There was no blood; there were no bodies. The sand sparkled in the sunlight and, above him, he saw the cool, clean blue of the desert sky, and a hawk gliding effortlessly on the currents.
The sun had shifted. Ramm lay in a shadow cast by the tailings. He sat up slowly. He’d gripped fistfuls of white sand so tightly that moving his hands was agony. He rubbed them hard to work the blood back. Seeing the amputated appendage, he felt like laughing at the absurdity of the wound. Fifteen soldiers died that day, and Ramm wondered, not for the first time, how much better off he might have been had he died on the white sands of New Mexico with them.
9
BILLY EASED THE RUSTED Chevy to a halt in front of the dirt drive that led to his father’s mobile home. He took another draught from the can of Bud, and considered again whether he should torch the place. There wasn’t another building in sight, so he knew he could get away without being seen. He grinned at the thought of Buck having to sleep on that pile of worm-eaten burlap sacks in the back room at the station, the same place he’d periodically locked Billy for any number of transgressions over the years. There was no heat or air conditioning in the dank space, just one small high window and little light. The place smelled of cat piss and rodent droppings. Termites squirmed in the walls. Billy remembered peeling the rotten wood away, and watching the tiny white larva writhe in protest when exposed.
He drained the last of the beer, tossed the can out the window, and glanced at the rearview mirror. A plume of dust rose down the road.
“Shit!” The r
ed and blue panel of lights topping the vehicle were now clearly visible. Billy slammed the car into reverse and caught sight of Buck’s mailbox. He smiled. Anything he could do to screw up his father’s existence was worth the effort. He cleaned out the box and tossed the mail in the backseat of the Chevy.
Later, Billy reclined in the camouflage-colored canvas folding chair Buck had purchased for relaxing around the campfire after a day of hunting. Lazily intoxicated, mildly content, he stretched his legs, and turned his face to the sun.
The cave behind him was cluttered with Buck’s possessions, including enough provisions to allow Billy to stay there comfortably for about a month. With his grandfather’s money, there was no telling how long he could hold out.
Billy was jolted from his reverie by a rustling sound. He lifted the Smith & Wesson .380 he’d stolen from Buck, but his view was hazy due to the twelve-pack he’d consumed. He expected to see a jackrabbit or a bird or maybe a red fox, something to give him a little competition, so the lumbering desert tortoise that crawled out from under a scraggly, sprawling prickly pear proved a disappointment.
The animal, which seemed not to notice Billy, plodded along at a leisurely pace. The tortoise propelled itself forward in a slow-motion ballet, then stopped for an instant, one leg poised in the air, leathered head turned as if contemplating something disconcerting.
Billy had to squint to focus, but he still managed to blow the tortoise’s head off with the first shot. He emptied the clip into the reptile’s shell.
Ray arrived a few hours later and found Billy absorbed in a magazine and surrounded by a scattering of unpaid bills and junk mail. Hitting a slick spot on the ground, he slipped.
“Shit! What the hell!?” Ray regained his balance. “What’s this?” He inspected a gooey mess that clung to the bottom of one Reebok.
A Light in the Desert Page 3