Black Ambrosia

by Elizabeth Engstrom

  May peace be with you.

  Rosemary.

  Tears ran down my cheeks. I knew exactly what she meant. I could easily end up like her, old, alone, picking up crippled kids in out-­of-­town truck stops on Christmas Eve in order to satisfy that . . . that . . . what? God! I crumpled the letter in my hand and gave myself up to a half-­dozen solid sobs.

  I was different from her. I would never end up like her. Never. I could beat this thing. I would beat it. I was beating it. I just needed to get to Sarah’s.

  I tried out the cane, practiced with it, began to learn how to walk with less pain. When my insides had calmed down a bit, I washed my face again, blew my nose, and combed my hair. Then I hefted my pack and limped, cane in hand, through the door, leaving it open behind me.

  I hobbled down the stairs and into the early nighttime traffic. It was cold, but there was no biting wind. I looked around for a few moments, trying to get my bearings, but then I had no bearings. I didn’t even know what city I was in.

  I still had the ten dollars the salesman had left me, so I walked to a little coffee shop on the corner. It was warm inside, one whole corner filled with police­men drinking coffee and talking quietly among them­selves. I took a seat at the counter and ordered hot cocoa and a sandwich. The folded newspaper on the counter said I was in Santa Fe. I was close. Probably less than one hundred miles stood between us. I knew Sarah would take me in. She had taken me in when I was sick before, she would take me in again. She would help me, and this would be the last time I would ever need anyone’s help. The very last time.

  I drank the cocoa and ate a few bites of tuna, paid my bill, and walked over to the table of blue uniforms.

  “Excuse me,” I said, and immediately had their attention—all six of them. I leaned a little heavier on my cane. “Is there a bus station, or . . . some way for me to get . . .” I stopped and looked for a moment at the worn toe of my boot. I didn’t know what to ask. “I’m trying to get to Red Creek. No. I’m going to Red Creek, but I don’t have a ride. I mean I had a ride, but she . . .” I stopped again. They must have thought I’d been drugged. I felt as though I’d been drugged.

  Then the worst happened. The tears that have pushed against the backs of my eyes since—since when, since I was twelve?—began to fall and splash in the dirt on the black-­and-­white linoleum floor.

  “I need to get to Red Creek, and I don’t know how.” I hiccuped loudly, then took a deep breath, ashamed of my display. The silence at the table grew dark. After I had collected myself, taken a couple of good breaths, swiped at my eyes and my nose, I looked up at them.

  All six of them were looking at each other, thinking, apparently, about my plight, then one said, “Have you got money?”

  I felt in my pocket and drew out the four ones and change left over from my meal. I looked at it stupidly. I felt as if my senses had left me.

  “That won’t get you too far,” said another. “Where are you from?”

  “But I have more,” I said. “I have a bank account in Pennsylvania.” Again they all looked at each other; this time they each seemed to be uncomfortable—embarrassed, almost—in my presence.

  One of the policemen stood up, pulled a smooth five-­dollar bill from his wallet. He held it out to me. “Here,” he said. “There’s a little motel a couple of miles down this road. It’s called ‘Fivers.’ The lady who runs it is named Molly, and she charges five dollars a night. You get there and stay the night, and in the morning you call your bank in Pennsylvania and have them send you some money here, okay?”

  I stood there, looking at the money in his hand, thinking about calling the bank in Pennsylvania in the morning. I wouldn’t be awake in the morning. Bank­ing hours were daylight hours, and I couldn’t call them unless I was awake. And how on earth could I get miles down the road with these legs?

  He shook the money at me. “Here. Take it. Don’t hang around the streets here at night. It’s dangerous.” He looked at his friends. They avoided his gaze. “Here. Take it!” Reluctantly I accepted his gift. “Now get down to Molly’s or one of us’ll arrest you.” His companions grinned, the tension broken.

  I mumbled a thanks and turned around, went back to the counter and asked for another cup of cocoa. I couldn’t believe what I had just done. Was I totally insane? Where had all my intelligence gone? My resourcefulness? My sense of adventure, my in­vincibility? To beg a policeman for money! Angelina!

  I was so ashamed, I wished I hadn’t approached them, told them my stupid story. I wished I hadn’t taken the money, and now I’d ordered more hot chocolate and had to sit here in front of them and drink it, instead of running away, and worse than that, I had to pay for it. He didn’t give me money for hot chocolate. Oh, God, I was miserable.

  I picked up the Santa Fe newspaper and opened it up to distract myself from self-­destructive thoughts, and my mind gagged on what it saw.

  Boyd’s picture was on the front page. The head­line read: “Colorado Slaughter Linked with Nevada Murders.”

  Seven Slopes, Colo. (UPI)—The mur­der of a crippled newsstand proprietor in Seven Slopes may be connected with three murders committed two years ago in Westwater, Nevada, according to a Westwater man in town to assist police with the investigation. Boyd Turner is in Seven Slopes to see if the murders have certain elements in common. “If they do, then I think we can piece some clues together. We may come up with the identity of a prime suspect,” he said. The police chief declined comment.

  The grisly murder of Vietnam vet Josh­ua A. Bartholtz has terrified the local popu­lation of Seven Slopes. Deadbolts have sold out of the local hardware stores. The town has emptied of tourists, and in addition to the prospect of a homicidal maniac loose in town, business people are faced with eco­nomic disaster. This is all very similar to a situation in Westwater two years ago when three people were murdered in one bizarre holiday weekend. Those murders remain un­solved.

  I couldn’t read on. I could only look at the photo of Boyd, captured with mouth open as he talked to reporters. His Stetson was riding high on his fore­head, pushed back, no doubt, in a reflexive show of frustration. He wore his corduroy jacket with sheep­skin lining, and he stood in front of the Snowson Hotel in Seven Slopes. A little tug of homesickness tweaked me in the midst of my horror.

  Now Boyd was hunting me. He’d given up on small animals and birds. Now he had a quarry worthy of his tracking skill.

  My senses seemed to snap back into place. I quietly folded the newspaper, finished the cocoa, hefted my pack, and picked up my cane. I walked back to the policemen and lay the five-­dollar bill down in front of the officer who had given it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I have no need for this. I’m really quite all right, and I do have a place to stay tonight. I just sometimes . . . lose track. Please par­don me.” And I walked out with as much dignity as my ineptitude at being crippled would allow.

  I will go to Sarah’s, and I will get well. And then I will call Boyd and we will talk it over. I will let him take me in if he needs to, but not like this. Dear God, not like this.

  I put my thumb out as soon as I was out of sight of the coffee shop, and got a ride right away.

  “It doesn’t seem to matter much what I do. It’s all the same—life’s all the same. I could be a Madison Avenue type, and it would be the same, dealing with the same types of people, doing the same things, handling the same disappointments, the same tests of character, and I’d perform just the same at any of those jobs. I’d just do it the way I’d do it.

  “My old man worked construction until he couldn’t anymore. His muscles and spirit wore out about the same time. He tried a desk job, but he was just too far gone. Life had worn him down. I keep thinking that maybe if he’d started out at a desk, he’d have turned out different. But he wouldn’t have. That was his choice in life. He didn’t have to wear down. He didn’t have to work constru
ction. But knowing Pa, he would have worn down doing anything. He just chose construction to do it to him.

  “This attitude has given me a lot of freedom in life, but freedom is its own disappointment sometimes. I’ve never really settled down, never really committed to anything—until Angelina, that is. And when she came into my life, I said, Boyd, this is the vehicle for your energies, this is the thing for you to do.

  “Selling shoes, ranching, being a cop—it’s all the same stuff. So, I figure, if it doesn’t matter what you do, then how do you choose what to do?

  “The choice is the message. All the time I was hunting alone in the mountains, I’d pray for a real hunt. When I’d bring down a deer, I’d be grateful for it, but disappointed, too. Deer were no longer a hunt for me, but I didn’t know what was. I’d just pray for a real hunt.

  “So you see, I’d asked for this hunt. The choice of career, or hobby, or both, is your only shot at making a statement in life. To me, it’s the hunt.

  “The hunt is the message.”

  27

  The car that stopped was a Volkswagen bug. The driver was a thirtyish woman, wearing an imitation fur coat and garish sparkles on her hideously long fingernails. Her name was Winnie, she said, and she flattened me to the seat with acceleration before I had an opportunity to settle in and buckle my seat belt.

  “What the hellya doing out on a night like this?”

  “Traveling to Red Creek,” I replied. I was grate­ful for the ride, and I knew if I could endure Rose­mary for as long as I had, I could endure Winnie for a couple of hours. I could do anything as long as it led to Sarah.

  “What happened to your leg?”

  “Legs,” I said, realizing too late that it was the wrong response to discourage conversation.

  “Legs, then. What happened?”

  “They froze.”

  “Ooooh, Gawd, you froze your legs? How awful. How didya manage to do that?”

  I sighed. Winnie was going to extract her fee from me. “I was outside in the snow, and my legs froze.”

  “Gawd, I can’t imagine anything worse than freezing. I hate it when it’s cold. Hawaii. I oughtta live in Hawaii, ya know? I mean I’m just not built for this kind of weather. Brrr.” She pulled her coat closer around her and stepped on the accelerator, as if that would help. Then she reached between the seats and pulled up a lever with a red plastic knob. Heat flooded the little interior. It smelled faintly of exhaust, and it blew bits of debris around the inside of the car, but it was warm.

  “I just love the heaters in these V-­Dubs. That’s why I’ve got one, you know? They’re great, these cars. Don’t worry. You’ll be gasping for breath soon. These heaters are great. So why’re ya going to Red Creek?”

  “To see a friend. I have a friend there.”

  “Good. Good.” She snapped on the radio and rudely ran the knob back and forth, looking for some music to suit her mood. When she found none, she snapped it off again, looked down at my cane, and scratched around in her orangey-­ratted hair.

  “Nice cane. How is it to walk with a cane? I mean, do lots of people stare at you?”

  “No.”

  “I think of old people with canes, you know? I always think of young people with crutches, or wheel­chairs, but never a cane. Actually, a cane has class. Especially one like that. Wow. Look at that lizard.” She reached a hand over and touched it, then lifted it closer to her eyes. With brief flicks of attention paid to the road before us, she examined the brass end of my cane, then handed it back to me with a searching look at my face. “Wow,” she said. “That’s quite a cane.”

  I settled my cane between my knees, feeling more and more proud of it, more protective of it by the minute. The cane had become a symbol of my commitment. I had been to the gates of Hell for this cane. No. I had endured Rosemary as my price to get well. I had paid my price, and received the cane as a bonus. The cane would help me reach my destination.

  Of course I had a cane. Of course. One such as I ought to have a symbol of achievement, and having come from where I did, what could possibly be more fitting? . . . I rubbed my fingers lightly over the cast-brass scales . . .

  “I’ve got a job waitin’ down at Carlsbad. My brother works down there, and he said they needed a little help, so he called me up. Pretty good, eh? I don’t even know what kind of job it is, but I trust him. My brother’s all right. He and I kind of look out for each other, know what I mean? At least it will be warmer than Colorado, I mean, Gawd, I wish he’d get me a job in Hawaii.”

  I settled back, listening with a small slice of my consciousness while Winnie entertained herself talking of Hawaii, and I concentrated on the ache in my legs. The blowing heat felt like it was searing right into the meat of my calves. I felt the heat with my hand; it wasn’t very hot, or blowing very strong, so I knew it could be doing no damage. I closed my eyes and relaxed, then delved into the feeling of the pain to try to separate the different sensations.

  The pain was almost like a musical chord, strumming in a universal key. The ache, which ebbed and flowed with each breath, strummed the same chord over and over. I could define each string, see the vibration of each separate sensation; I could see, in my mind’s eye, the strumming of the chord, but I could not see the hand that stroked the strings. I wondered if, by the very use of my will, I could snip the strings and thus be rid of the pain. Actually, the pain wasn’t really pain anymore—it was more like intense pressure. I had dissected the pain until it no longer hurt; much like saying the word “darkness” over and over and over again until it loses its meaning and becomes merely an absurd sound.

  So. Pain could be controlled by the mind. Sarah would know about that, about yoga and mind control and all that. I would be her disciple.

  Winnie droned on, obviously not caring whether I responded or not—as I never did—and the two of us in the little Volks­wagen drove through the cold New Mexican night toward Red Creek. Eventually, in the heat and the sound of her voice, I slept.

  I awakened with a start at the first chug of the engine. My legs fired to life with a blast of agony, and I rubbed them, hard, and tried to bring myself into focus again in the situation. We slowed down.

  The Volkswagen chugged again, stalled, then started, as Winnie cussed it and ground the gears, popped the clutch, and finally coasted off to the side of the road. The lights dimmed as she ground the starter, until there was just a terrible clicking as the battery died.

  She punched the light button in with a slap of her hand and a curse, and we sat in the darkness, in the quiet, for a long moment.

  Finally a long sigh escaped her lips and she yanked on the door handle, threw the door open, jumped out, and slammed it so hard my ears popped. I saw her stomp up and down the shoulder of the road behind the car, her coat flapping around her legs in the backwash of the cars that whizzed past without slowing down. I huddled down into my coat, feeling the slight rocking of the Volkswagen with each passing car. I tried to think, to figure what to do. I had no knowledge of cars; I could do nothing to help this situation.

  I could only begin a new situation.

  The cold was beginning to seep in, riding the darkness, riding the wind.

  Winnie got back in the car, bringing with her a rush of frozen darkness, popping my ears once again as she slammed us all inside together.

  “Fuck,” she said.

  “What is it?”

  “How the hell do I know? Do I look like a mechanic to you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re all sorry here. But what do we do now, shoot ourselves?”

  “I’ve got to get—”

  “To Red Creek. Yeah, I know. And I’ve got to get to Carlsbad. Any great ideas?” She turned and looked at me, her shiny eye shadow glowing in the harsh illumination of the oncoming traffic. Her lined face was thickly made up, cracking around the edges, he
r crooked teeth suddenly menacing behind the curve of her snarling orange-colored lips.

  I shook my head, my eyes unable to meet hers. They fell, instead, on the lovely expanse of her neck, softly wrinkled, powdered. I saw a faint thrumming under the skin as her heart beat in agitated double time, and it brought such feelings up from the depths . . .

  She pulled back from me and flipped up the collar on her coat, bringing me harshly back to the present. I noticed with embarrassment that saliva had slipped out the corners of my mouth. I swiped it with my coat sleeve, but the damage had been done.

  Winnie’s eyes were round and wide, her orange lips stretched over her teeth as she clutched the door handle in fear.

  “I’ll get us a ride,” I said, and I opened the door and swung my legs out. Leaning heavily on my cane, I tried to stomp a little life back into the ache that had replaced my bones. Winnie reached over and slammed the door. I heard the lock click.

  I walked away from the front of the car; far enough so oncoming traffic could see me, and within minutes, a car had stopped. It was a young couple, huddled together on the front seat. I opened the back door and threw in my pack, my cane, then followed, painfully.

  “Car trouble, huh?” the boy asked.

  I looked back at the Volkswagen, could barely make out the puffed outline of Winnie’s hair in the dark.

  “Yes,” I said, almost blind with the ache. I shut the door behind me. “I’ll send someone for it in the morning.”

  “We’re going to Texas,” the girl said, then disengaged herself from under her boyfriend’s arm and turned around on the seat to face me. Her wispy blonde hair seemed to float about her head; her features blurred in the pulsing, reddening madness of my pain. I had moved too fast—too far too fast. For a moment, I looked at her through the veil of the pain and thought . . . thought . . . “Where are you going?” she asked, and it reverberated in my mind: Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going? And then it was Her face, and it was Her voice, and the car was speeding away and I was trapped—trapped in the car with the woman who would do anything to have me, the woman who would never leave me alone—not as long as I refused Her advances.