The Shasta Gate

by Dick Croy

  There on the floor were the two suitcases where she’d left them. Bill sure as hell wasn’t going to pack them for her—though he’d probably be more than willing to put everything away. She could tell him she was too tired and he’d do it for her in a minute.

  What would she do if I just started unpacking her bags? he found himself wondering. The idea produced an instant sinking feeling: it was too bold for him, too presumptuous, even though he knew how inspired a move it could turn out to be. He sat up, putting his hand on Catherine’s thigh as he rose, turning to give her a rueful smile and squeezing her knee affectionately, then walked into the bathroom to take a leak. As he washed his hands, the haggard expression in the mirror reflected his emotional exhaustion. He stopped to study it, leaning over the basin with his arms braced against it, his hands aware of the cold porcelain.

  Extremely sensitized, he felt that every nuance of what was happening here was within his grasp, that he could sense all the possible ramifications of his actions and hers, yet was powerless to act other than within the same rigid limits that always defined his behavior. Was his sense of foreboding an intuition of what was to come, or did it actually prescribe those fucking limits? He whirled away from the taunting mirror. His real adversary might reside there within it, but the one he could best deal with was in the next room.

  “Catherine, tell you what. I’ll call Steve about that summer job with the agency—the marketing studies thing. I’m sure you could have it. A good interview, with your qualifications…it’ll be a cinch.”

  She groaned inside. He had elected to do battle.

  “Bill, we talked about that before. I know I could get the job, and I don’t want it. I’m not interested in it anymore. That’s one of the reasons I want to get out of here for the summer—there’s nothing I want to do here.”

  “Well goddamnit, Katy, you’ve got to start figuring out what it is you do want to do with your life. That’s why I object to you going up there! It’s just an escape. You came back here after two and a half months up there last summer, all hyper about wasting so much time, and you jumped into too many things at once and ended up burning yourself out. Then you wondered what the problem was. You were hell to live with for a while.”

  “I’ve got two years—at least—to figure that out,” she said evenly, her frustration and anger suppressed but so close to the surface that there was a slight tremor in her voice. “Why is it you’re so determined to get me into some kind of career, Bill? That’s your trip, and it’s fine for you, but it doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Oh come on, Catherine, that’s unfair. I wasn’t the one who got you interested in marketing or the environment. You’re the one who said you wanted to learn to apply marketing techniques to environmental alternatives. Sounded like a pretty original approach too. I suggested you do your thesis work on it.”

  “We can all dream can’t we—without having to turn every dream into a commitment? I’ve got two years of college to finish first.”

  He changed his tone. “Listen, Katy, you do want to do something with your talents. God knows we’ve talked enough about that. But you’ve got to…that doesn’t just happen. You’ve got to find out what works for you. What’s the point of continuing to put it off? I’ll admit it’s not just your own interests I have in mind, wanting you to stay here. After all, what’s a relationship with two people 200 miles apart for a whole summer? But I’d never ask you to stay if I felt it was against your best interests. I think you do a disservice to both of us by going up there.”

  A whirlpool—that’s what their circular argument threatened to become. Catherine could feel it pulling her. She didn’t have time for that; she had to get packed. She swept up her clothes.

  That same piercing loss—like being stabbed in the heart with an icicle. Well, he’d known it was going to happen; he could have done nothing but prolong it. He sure wasn’t going to wait around for her this time. And let’s face it, her feelings were bound to change too. A summer was just too long at this point in their lives. “Why don’t you run the ranch when you graduate, Catherine?” he said sullenly. “Be a horse-woman—a Marlboro lady.”

  She said nothing. The packing had renewed her strength. She plunged into it as, again, the old movie, the ritualized drama of her father with its distortions and garish colors, clattered through the projector behind her eyes.

  Bill walked out of the room and down the steps to the street. It was a beautiful crisp morning. The tiered gingerbread townhouses, immaculately restored and painted, seemed etched on the blue sky. Even without her the summer held such promise…yet how much richer it could be if they were sharing it. He put his hand to his eyes, his throat suddenly swollen. They’d already done this hadn’t they? That’s what their cry had been about. They’d tried and now he had a whole summer to get over it—cry it all out if he had to and get on with his life. He’d survive. So would Katy. And like she said: she wasn’t doing this to him. He shouldn’t take it that way. She was all right. She was a fine, spirited, mixed-up fucking young lady.

  Catherine had every pair of pants she owned, mostly blue jeans, in one bag—along with several sweaters, bikini panties, a couple of bras, a windbreaker and a wool serape which she liked to wear for riding because of the freedom of movement it gave her. In another were her tailored shirts, blouses, a bathrobe, warm pajamas—otherwise she wore nothing—and a couple of swimsuits: one a brief bikini, the other a more modest two-piece. In the last were her sandals, tennis shoes, riding, hiking and two pairs of everyday boots, as well as a gorgeous pair of moccasins given to her three Christmases ago by Ram and still in splendid condition; also a pair of binoculars and some thermal underwear for camping and hiking. She’d already checked out her camping gear, which she made a mental note was still in the closet; she couldn’t let herself get emotionally distraught at the last minute and drive away without it. Her parka and down ski jacket were there too. It could get cold as hell up there even in the summer.

  With her packing all but complete, Catherine’s thoughts came around again to Bill. Actually, her getaway had been easier so far than she’d anticipated. He was right: their cry had done it. Whatever his mind was telling him, his heart had come together then with hers. Where was he now? Was he sulking, or was he letting his heart have its say?

  He was a decent man; for all she knew, their relationship was not really ending now, only changing. She might even be back here at the end of the summer, although that didn’t seem likely. But she couldn’t deny what she’d learned from Bill, or what they had shared. A vision of the weekend in the mountains at Idylwild came to her.

  They were still getting to know each other then. They’d gone through that initial sexual phase, which she’d learned from other lovers could be as much a barrier to be burst as a time of fascination and exploration. For her sex and a relationship comprised the game in life; she thrived on the butterflies, the apprehension, the anticipation, the unexpected. The getting-acquainted part was the overture, the exciting prelude to what was to come, though she knew by now that for others it could be a walk through a minefield.

  Bill had been a little uptight occasionally but always open to new developments. If he fell a little behind at times, he soon caught up—and he had initiated some of those developments himself. Six years her senior, he took a few things for granted that she was still learning.

  To the extent that he was honest with himself, he was honest with her. Unfortunately, he seemed to have a capacity for self-deception that kept pace with his growth, in her opinion. Then again, he would often go against his own feelings when Catherine voiced hers strongly enough. What the hell, it had all worked itself out, as long as the flow of events was in their favor. Now it wasn’t.

  She sighed and looked around the bedroom at what she’d be leaving. Their plants she could expect Bill to take reasonably good care of. In the late morning sun those by the window seemed to glow with an inner fire, and the large mirror on the other side of the
room—behind the shelves of books, polished rocks, Indian statuary and other plants, some in pots she had thrown herself—possessed this same power of apparent self-illumination. The beveled glass had the cool lambency of a shaded forest pool. The room’s dark blue walls enhanced the glade-like feeling, as did the walnut luster of her dressing table and the massive carved headboard of their king-size bed. She still hadn’t gotten around to refinishing the oak chests of drawers.

  Bill came into the room with a warm smile. “I’ll say one last thing, then I’ll quit bugging you. When you get up there—when you’re finally at the ranch and there’s no longer any pressure just to get there—ask yourself why you’ve come. That’s all. Ask yourself honestly whether or not it’s an escape from making some decisions about where your life is going. Okay? Fair enough?”

  There was such earnestness in his face. He was leaving so much unsaid, conceding so much. And though she was grateful, she sensed and had to acknowledge to herself an almost predatory feeling of wanting more. She wanted her own way completely now.

  But she put down that feeling, put it away. She had what she wanted, and as impatient as she was to get going now, she owed it to Bill to hear him out, to leave him with as much as she could, not to withdraw into her rising, private excitement as if it were some bright hard shell.

  They regarded each other with compassion, across a gulf not awesome in width but in fact of maddeningly human proportion. It looked as if one could jump it, but the mind knew otherwise. Actually, what he was asking she would do anyway, probably several times a day. “I can promise you I’ll do that,” she said, arching her eyebrows as if to add, “But what do you expect from it.”

  It was an honest response. “Things don’t always turn out the way we think they will, Catherine. The best we can do is to stay open.”

  “Right…do you have any idea what you’re going to do?”

  “Nah—well think for a while; do some good hard thinking. But I don’t have any plans. …Looks like you’re all ready.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ll help you with your bags.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He picked up the heavier of the two suitcases in the bedroom and the one in the living room. There was no doubt she planned to be gone for a while; she tended to travel light and these were both heavy.

  Catherine took her loaded backpack from the closet and slipped into the shoulder straps, then grabbed the parka and ski jacket. Bill would probably come back for the other suitcase. She followed him down the steps in silence. The heavy bags didn’t seem to faze him.

  He found himself getting angry again. Cunt! The unspoken word had no meaning, it was pure feeling. The way she had reacted to his peace offering—so fucking smug. Shit, it’s in you, man! he reminded himself. Sure, she could be a bitch, but he was the one who had to take it that way for it to hurt him. He made no attempt to hide anger but he wouldn’t allow himself to use it for a stage either.

  He set the bags down behind her car. Catherine opened it from inside and put the backpack and coats in back. Bill loaded the trunk, then they both turned without speaking and returned for the rest. Still following him, she noticed the brooding quality in his shoulders. Would he freak out before she got out of here? She felt a sudden surge of love for him, for those hulking shoulders. They were tightening up; they needed massaging, his neck too. She resisted the urge to hug him. They’d just break down again.

  Here was the overnight case she’d thought of adding a couple of things to. She took one last look around the apartment but knew that nothing was registering. No doubt she’d forgotten some things, but she could either do without or Bill would send them later. What was most important right now was just keeping it together until she got into that car and out on the freeway, out of the city.

  What could she say to him? Her mind searched for something real and found silence the most real. Silence or the hysterical laughter that threatened to come skidding out at any moment.

  Bill’s own sullen silence was making him angrier, as one’s fright is increased by giving into it and running. It tended to confirm that he was being victimized. He was tempted to heave the fucking suitcase down the steps. When he got to the car with it, he dumped it in with the other bags and slammed the trunk lid.

  The intensity of his anger was a crushing weight on Catherine’s chest, as if she were holding her breath. She hated to look up into those scalding eyes, but she would, she did. No expression on either of their faces, as if some force held them immobile. She looked down to put the key in the ignition and started the engine.

  What to do with her eyes? She wanted to take in the neighborhood, all of the city with one last look, but she was afraid if she looked up, Bill’s eyes would grab hers and sear her right to the soul through them. She sighed deeply and looked full into his face. She didn’t really see him. Just an image, devoid of…

  Catherine put the car in gear, glanced into the rearview mirror, and pulled away from the curb. She didn’t look back. Bill’s eyes annihilated the black BMW as it reached the top of the hill that in a second would put it beyond his view. He was simultaneously willing it out of existence and holding onto it in a mental death grip.

  “Your life sucks, Catherine!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  The people upstairs and in buildings on both sides of the street heard him, but Catherine, two blocks away, couldn’t have. Yet she nodded, in wrenching tearful assent.

  Chapter 7

  Ram brought the small herd of Arabians over the crest of a rise that was the ranch’s eastern horizon. The early morning sun on the barn and outbuildings lifted them from their surroundings, giving the familiar cluster of trees and wood structures a sense of heightened reality. The grain in the white pine barn siding shone through the paint covering it as if the opaque layer of red latex were no more than a clear varnish. Even at this distance the texture of the weathered lumber seemed to have been scuffed by the penetrating rays of the rising sun into a coarse rough nap.

  Ram could feel the wood against the palm of his hand. Dry and brittle though it was, it was not without life. This was the way he saw most of the time now, as if each moment cried out to be revealed to him so the next could take its place…as if the world recognized in him a point of least resistance, through which it surged with more force than through most.

  Around the corner of the barn, just risen from sleep by the look of him, strolled Douglas. His hand shielded his eyes from the sun as they sought beneath it for the Arabians, whose approach he could hear and feel in the ground. At first he could make out only a thin cloud of dust against the direct rays, then the smoky wavering silhouettes of the horses, and finally, in front, the vivid contrast of the appaloosa’s white and brown markings. Ram as always looked bigger than life to the boy. Douglas waved excitedly, lifting the hand shading his eyes, then loping over to the corral and paddock area where the horses were headed.

  With his remarkably loose-jointed stride he looked like an understudy for the Scarecrow in “The Wizard of Oz”—or for that matter, like many a gangly teenager not yet grown into his height. The various parts of his body had not yet learned to cooperate, and he looked always, when he took flight like this, as if he were running merely to stay upright somehow, until all the disjointed parts could be slowed down and persuaded to pay attention to one another long enough to be brought into some semblance of control again.

  As Ram led the Arabians into the large enclosure, he laughed in fond affection for the awkward, willing youth. Douglas jumped against the rail fence of the corral, seeming almost to cut himself in half at the impact, then closed the gate behind them.

  Their journey over, the mares snorted in approval and their foals looked around a little bewildered at the new surroundings. Some sidled up to their mothers for reassurance, while others began to check out the boundaries of the corral. They had forgotten about fences in the high pasture and this one puzzled them.

  “They’ve sure growed some, huh Ra
m?” Douglas had clambered onto the top rail where he eagerly sorted through the herd with a forefinger in front of his face, counting the foals several times to make sure they were all there, mouthing the numbers in concentration. “There’s ten of ‘em all right. Ole Jebel didn’t lose a one. Too bad ya had t’ bring ‘em all in just t’ get him ready for Cathrun. When ya gonna take ‘em back out?”

  Ram was sitting there enjoying the spectacle of the uncertain mares and foals assessing this new situation and adjusting to it, while the stallion snorted and stamped impatiently at the long tether still connecting him to the Indian. The horse knew that the move from the high meadow was incomplete as long as he stood here with this damn halter on, and he certainly didn’t appreciate the indignity of the rope.

  “Hah, winter mustang! You must get used to that now.” Ram put just the slightest pressure on the rope, just a quick flick of his wrist to command the animal’s attention. Then his eyes shifted to the northwest, to Shasta, white and glistening in the clear air. He could see the mountain’s streams as if he stood beside them. They were bank-to-bank with runoff from the snowfields: jubilant frigid water freed from the crystalline silence of winter, singing in praise of the mounting sun.

  “We’ll take them back out in a day or two, Douglas. But you, my friend,” he said, turning to Jebel Druze, “must learn to serve your mistress again. Not your hot-blooded mares or your wild fancies. The mountain wills it.”

  The stallion tossed his head and would have jerked the rope out of Ram’s hand had the Indian not felt the impulse the moment it took hold of the horse himself.

  “Now you did it—you made him mad!” yelled the boy, leaning forward in excitement on the railing.