A sign reads:
NO TRESPASSING.
PROPERTY OF THE TOWN OF CLAY ALLISON, NEW MEXICO.
“Well, that’s progress for you,” Lupita says. “God put my water up there, and gravity pulls it to me. Been that way since the dawn of time, or at least since the last ice age. Until the town council decided to play God and dam my creek.”
“Goddamn town council,” Dad grumbles.
Dad and the Orphan County Gazette fought building the dam.
“Tell me again,” I say. “Why did they do it?”
“For the so-called greater good,” Dad says. “The needs of the community exceeded the needs of the individual. It’s called eminent domain.”
“Nah, it’s called stealing,” I say.
Lupita pats my knee. “Slim, I’ve never heard it summed up so neatly.”
I point to a ridge above the dam. “Hey, didn’t we used to go up there a long time ago?”
“Yes, we did, Slim,” Lupita says. “Picnicked right up there, where the water gushes out of the ground, a natural aquifer. Your mom was pregnant with Siouxsie. Speaking of whom . . .” She looks at Dad. “Siouxsie should stay with us for now.”
Dad sets his face like stone. “Not gonna happen.”
“You got a lot on your plate, Hec.”
“I don’t have a damn thing on my plate, Lupita. It’s licked clean.”
“You’re in mourning,” Lupita says. “Mourning goes on for a long time. It can be a full-time job.”
“Is that what I’m in?” Dad ducks an eye and starts tracking a hawk. “I don’t know anymore.”
Lupita leans across me and grabs his arm. “Yes, Hec, that’s what you’re in.” She lets go and sits back. “The girls get along.They have something in common, if you count the fact that Lee’s mother is absent too. The main thing is, Siouxsie wants to be with us now. She doesn’t want to be at home. Probably too much of a reminder. And, Hec, she needs regular medical care.”
Dad scoffs. “Hell, I know that.”
“Obviously, you don’t,” Lupita says. “Since she hasn’t seen a doctor in two months.”
“It hasn’t been two months,” Dad says.
“Yeah, it has,” I say.
Dad keeps tracking that hawk.
“She’ll need a wheelchair,” Lupita says.
“Not yet, she won’t,” Dad says.
Lupita leans on the wheel. “Look at me, Hec.”
Dad turns and looks at her.
“Your daughter needs your full attention. And until you’re ready to give it to her, she’s staying with me.”
“Like hell,” Dad says.
“You heard me,” Lupita says. “And I’m taking her up to Colorado Springs in the morning to see that neurologist, Dr. Navarro, like you should’ve done.”
Dad shakes his head. “I owe him. Plenty.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Lupita says. “I’ll cover you for now.”
Dad jerks open the door, gets out, and slams it. We watch him kick through the grass.
“Way too proud,” I say.
“Don’t you know it,” Lupita says. “Well, there’s nothing we can do but let him ride that bull.”
We watch Dad cross the creek, stepping from rock to rock to avoid the muck. He stops at the No Trespassing sign and stares at the wall of concrete.
Lupita slides an arm around me. “The good part is, I got you all to myself now.” She gives me a long look. “I hear Uncle Sal’s enlisted you in one of his schemes. You really going to jump your motorcycle at the homecoming game?”
“Got to,” I say. “Scooper’s gonna stick if I don’t.”
“Nothin’ wrong with a nickname,” Lupita says.
“Lot wrong with Scooper,” I say.
She nods. “So you plan on cleaning your boots with one little jump?”
“One or two,” I say.
We watch Dad walk along the pipeline. He picks up a rock and raps it against the copper. We hear a puny thunk-thunk.
“Still the journalist, isn’t he.”
“Yeah, sure is,” I say.
Dad ducks under the trestle where the ground dips and begins to climb the slope above the pipe.
“That niece of mine,” Lupita says. “Is she showing you all the respect you deserve?”
“Not hardly,” I say.
Lupita smiles, slyly. “But you gotta admit, she’s easy to look at.”
“Totally,” I say. “She’s extremely easy to look at.”
Lupita laughs. “Too bad she’s so vegetarian, antiwar, and all. I have nothing against any of her positions, but it’s not necessary to plant your flag every half mile. Must be all that liberal rain up in Seattle. I’ll tell you what she needs, Slim. A strong cowboy type. Somebody to pull her off that high horse and loosen her up. You know anybody like that?”
“Nah,” I say. “But I’ll tell you what she really needs—to get on a dirt bike and ride some high country. That’ll loosen her up. Maybe she won’t plant that flag so often.”
Lupita ruffles my hair. “Let’s call it a plan,” she says.
We watch Dad scramble onto a flat rock above the dam. He gazes downhill, toward the pipeline, all six miles of it, linking canyon and town.
“He’s taking some kind of measure,” Lupita says. “He misses that old newspaper. And he misses her.”
“You got that right,” I say.
Lupita slides a hand behind my back, finds a knot, and goes to work kneading it out. “Catch me up on those brood mares.”
“Gettin’ fatter by the day,” I say. “We’re looking at mid- to late January. Or possibly early February.”
“Winter babies,” Lupita says. “You going to birth them all by yourself?”
“No way. Mr. Wasserman’s got Charlie Ferguson lined up.”
“Charlie Ferguson!” Lupita stops rubbing. “Hell, I taught that man everything he knows.”
“I wanna be there, though,” I say. “I wanna help.”
“You should be there, baby,” Lupita says. “Just remember, a horse is like you or anybody else, sturdy and delicate at the same time. Respect both parts of that equation. Tell you what, when the time comes, leave Charlie Ferguson out of it. Call me instead. We’ll birth ’em together.”
“Hey, thanks.”
Lupita gives me a peck on the cheek.
When you’re not supposed to think a thought, maybe that’s the best time to think it. Right now, I think about kissing Lupita. Damn, what’s wrong with me? Twenty minutes ago, it was Lee. Now I want to kiss her aunt, my mom’s best friend. A beautiful woman—but still . . .
My heart’s a traitor. Hell, it’s not my heart. “A man’s kickstand has no conscience,” Dad likes to say.
My kickstand sure doesn’t. Because all I can think about now is being alone with Lupita in some faraway place, like a cabin on the Colorado, where she could teach me everything—everything!
I’d a million times rather get my wisdom from her than from some professor or scoutmaster.
It’s a sinful thought. A joyride. I hold on for about eight seconds, then let go.
Lupita points up the canyon. “Hey, Slim, let me share a little secret with you. See way up there, that sandstone slab up in the rim rocks, the one with the vertical fissure?”
I spot the rock, cold pink in the sinking sun.
“Yeah, I see it.”
“Your mother was always getting me to go places I didn’t think wise to go and then later was glad I went.”
“Makes two of us,” I say.
She smiles. “Bet it does. Well, one day when we were about your age, we came up here on horseback. Your mom kept staring at that rock. God knows why. We’d ridden up the canyon a thousand times, and never once had she mentioned it. You can’t tell from here, but that slab stands more than a hundred feet tall. And the fissure’s gotta be ten feet wide. Trouble is, to get there you got to climb the hill, and then scramble up that steep talus slope.”
“Or go around back up the
ridgeline,” I say.
Lupita nods. “Anyway, that rock was just calling to her. I thought it was a reckless idea but agreed because—”
“Because you always agreed,” I say.
“That’s right, Slim. With your mom you always agreed. We tied up our horses and clawed our way up, pretty sure we were the first humans ever to set foot up there.”
“You probably were,” I say.
Lupita shakes her head. “That’s just it. That slab of rock—the outer wall, but mostly the inside walls—was just covered with art.”
“Art?” I say.
“That’s right,” Lupita says. “Very old art.”
“You mean, like petroglyphs and stuff?”
“Exactly, like petroglyphs and stuff. Images of bear, deer, wolves, lizards—you name it. A whole mural of running buffalo. Scratched or carved right into the rock. Pictures of humans, too. A man playing a flute. A woman large with child. We guessed they were Navajo, maybe a couple of hundred years old. Then we did our research. They’re Anasazi. They date back a thousand years or more.”
“So what did you do?” I ask.
“Next day, we brought my father up for a look. ‘Don’t breathe a word,’ he said. ‘As soon as you start talking, people get stupid. We’re gonna let this stay lost.’ So that’s what we did. We let it stay lost. I don’t want to broadcast this, Slim. Don’t want curiosity seekers coming up. And sure as hell don’t want a TV crew. This is my land. My water. But that art up there, I can’t claim it. Someday, somebody will find it and make a circus of it. But not in my lifetime.”
“So who knows about it now?”
“Hmm,” Lupita says. “Let me count. One . . . two . . .” She bumps me. “Guess just you and me.”
“Not even Lee?”
“Not even Lee.”
“So how come you’re telling me?”
She searches my eyes. “Because you’re your mother’s son.”
Dad crosses the dry bed and ambles back to the truck. He looks more like himself now. Like he’s done riding that bull.
He gets into the Dodge. Eases the door closed. Lowers his head. We wait for him to speak.
“It’s been a helluva year,” he says finally.
“Yes, it sure has,” Lupita says.
“Rock bottom.”
“Rock bottom’s a good place to build on,” Lupita says.
Dad meets her eye. “Lupita, if you’re going to cover me on this doctor visit, I want you to know something. Arlo and I have embarked on a little enterprise. If it pans out, we can pay you back pretty quick.”
I give Dad a jab. He’s not supposed to talk about my job at White Sands, and he knows it.
“You robbin’ banks?” Lupita asks.
“Not quite,” Dad says. “It’s government work.”
“What kind of government work?”
“Contracts,” Dad says.
“What kind of contracts?”
“Quiet ones,” Dad says.
“Well, then,” Lupita whispers. “We better keep it quiet.”
She fires up the Dodge, and we lurch down the canyon. At the water tank, she hits the brakes. “Look there,” she says, pointing at the herd. “How did that sheep get in with my cows?”
“That’s not a sheep,” I say.
“It sure the hell isn’t,” Dad says. “That’s a pure junkyard poodle.”
We roll closer and watch El Guapo stalk a calf. He tries to mount her, but the calf skitters away.
Lupita says, “He’s not much for long courtships, is he?”
“No,” Dad says. “Guapo’s all about direct action. His gear has never been in reverse.”
“There’s nothin’ wrong with that,” Lupita says.
Chapter 28
WE’RE SEATED AT THE LONG table in Lupita’s dining room—the only room left of the original log and adobe hacienda. The rest of the house is about five generations newer.
Lee’s tofu tastes like lard encased in teriyaki-flavored axle grease. I shove it around my plate and hide it under my salad. Dad munches hungrily.
“Only one thing could improve this meal,” Dad says. “A good pinot or Chardonnay. Wish I’d brought a bottle.”
“I don’t drink anymore, ” Lupita says.
Dad looks up. “Oh? When did this happen?”
“Nine years ago,” Lupita says.
“Nine years!”
Siouxsie snorts. “Your head’s been stuck in the sand, Dad.”
“A mile deep,” I mumble.
“You ought to give it a try,” Lupita says.
Dad shudders. “Me, give up the juice of the grape, the harvest of the grain? Think what might happen. My sweat might start tasting like Evian water.”
Lupita laughs. “Best thing I ever did.”
“Well, good for you, Lupita. I truly mean it.”
Dad’s eyes wander about the room—to the smoke-blackened pothooks in the fireplace, the Spanish beams in the ceiling, the muzzleloader hanging over the mantel.
“You can hear whispers of old Mexico in here,” Dad says. “You’ve had governors at this table, have you not?”
“Yes, and a hundred sweaty cowhands,” Lupita says.
I nod toward the west wall. “What happened to all your stuffed animal heads—the bobcat, antelope, all those guys?”
“I’ll let Lee answer that,” Lupita says.
“I took them down,” Lee says.
“How come?” I say. “They were the best part of the room.”
“The symbolism,” Lee says.
“That’s right,” Lupita says. “Lee wouldn’t eat a morsel in here until those critters were out of sight.”
“Lee’s antimeat and antiwar,” Siouxsie says. “Nobody else I know is both of those. Just her. She actually thinks about all this.”
“If you really want to see those stuffed animal heads,” Lee says, “they’re out in the barn.”
Lupita’s corn pudding and green salad are good, but Siouxsie’s apple pie—from Mom’s old recipe—is the high point of the meal. The atoms of sugar and cinnamon levitate to the underside of my skull, then drift down and illuminate my toes. I eat two massive slices. What’s left of the pie, about an eighth, gets covered in tinfoil and set aside for me to take home.
Dad volunteers us for dish duty. He stations Siouxsie at the kitchen table to dry, and me at the sink to rinse. He stands beside me scraping and scrubbing.
“It would please my ears greatly, Lupita,” he says over his shoulder, “if you would tickle the ivories while we work the suds.”
“Happy to,” Lupita says.
She goes into the living room and starts to mess around on the piano. Then she plays “On the Bayou.” Dad hums along, mumbling about gumbo, crawfish pie, and “Me oh my oh!”
“Hey, Dad,” Siouxsie says when “On the Bayou” ends. “What’re you gonna do when I die?”
Dad stops scrubbing and stares into the soapy water. “Not tonight, Siouxsie,” he says.
“I just wanna be sure you get it,” Siouxsie says, polishing a plate. “Because not everybody lives to be old.”
“We get it,” I say.
“Yes, we get it,” Dad says.
“Okay, so what’re you gonna do with the rest of your life after I’m gone? Be like you are now?”
Dad flicks the water off his hands and faces her. “What’s wrong with the way I am now?”
“You’re miserable,” Siouxsie says, stacking a plate.
Dad looks puzzled. “How can you say that? I’m with my kids. Surrounded by friends. I just had a great meal. I’m a happy man.”
Siouxsie grabs another plate and goes to work. “Hate to break it to you, Dad, but you’re not.”
I aim the spray hose at her and let her see my finger twitch. We all go back to work—especially Dad, who muscles into a frying pan with the scraper.
“So I was just thinking,” Siouxsie says, interrupting again. “Maybe that’s your way of crying.”
Dad’s hands freeze in
the soapy water. “What are you talking about, Siouxsie?”
“I mean, sticking your head in the sand. Maybe that’s how you cry. So maybe it’s okay.”
He thinks about this, then nods. “Good theory. We’ll go with it.”
We finish the dishes, dry our hands, and wander into the living room. Now Lupita’s playing some blues tune with a country-western tinge. Lee’s stretched out on the couch reading a National Geographic.
“Lupita,” Dad says in a big voice, “may I please request my all-time favorite, ‘Wichita Lineman’?”
“Only if you’ll sing along.”
“Me, sing? I haven’t sung in years.”
“What key?”
“Key! Are you kidding?”
Lupita finds Dad’s key, and he sings the entire song, even the second verse, reaching up to cradle that final phrase, “Still on the lliiiiiiiiiiiiiinnne.”
“My God!” he says when the last chord fades. “I felt like I was there. High up on that power pole in the middle of the Kansas grasslands, pining for my baby.”
Lupita smiles. “You were.”
We grab our coats and the leftover pie and go out onto the porch.
“Just inhale this cricket night,” Dad says. “This Milky Way bright, this magnificent splatter of stars. Look at the Big Dipper. Doesn’t that make you thirsty for good well water? And check out Orion the Hunter—dressed in all his finery—belt, sword, boots ’n’ spurs.”
Lupita chuckles. “Hec, you shovel a fine grade.”
Dad grabs Siouxsie by the shoulders. Pecks her on the forehead. “This is just for now, young lady.”
“Everything’s just for now, Dad,” Siouxsie says.
“Hold up,” I say.
I go down to the pickup, pop the tailgate, and roll out my YZ 125. Plant it at the bottom of the porch steps. Toe the kickstand. “It’s all yours, Siouxsie.”
Everybody stares at me like I just told a bad joke.
“I can’t drive that, and you know it,” Siouxsie says.
“I want you to have it,” I say. “And when you’re ready for it, it’ll be ready for you.”
“Ready for it! I’ll never be ready for it.”
Lupita wraps an arm around her. “I think it’s a beautiful gesture,” she says.
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 15