Only Flesh and Bones

by Sarah Andrews

  Right, fat chance. Heaven knows, I’ve tried and tried to let go of that hurt, tried to rationalize it away a hundred thousand ways, but it still just plain hurts. Maybe like my therapist says, everyone has one or two needs that can’t be met, but they’re legitimate needs just the same.

  It’s hard to stay conscious of the hurt—much easier to rage about it or hide out in a depression—but I’m learning to hold on to the hurt. I ram it like a thorn through my hand to keep me conscious, honoring it as the uncontrollable force that it is. It humbles me, and humble feels good and sturdy and sane. So here it is: I offer my pain as a daily act of contrition. I offer it to God, or to the great whatever that gives me enough heart even to wonder if there is a God. And as I stop asking Joe to be God for me, I find I love him more and more for being just a man.

  Perhaps I’m finally growing up.

  On the morning of Tuesday, August 3, Miriam began her last entry.

  August 3

  It’s another beautiful day in paradise. I’m sitting out here on the front porch writing in you, my old pal journal, and enjoying the way the breeze plays through the tall grasses, nothing more.

  It’s almost noon, time to try to get Cecelia to go for a ride with me. If I can even get her out of bed! How that girl can sleep!

  Later—

  Joe just called. He says he wants to come up this evening. He says he needs to discuss something with me but that he can’t talk about it over the phone. How unlike him.

  Cecelia wouldn’t get up. Cursed at me. I’ll just sit here and write.

  All right, I’m worried. What if after all this, Joe found out about good old you know who?

  I’ll just think about something else.

  There’s somebody coming. I’m getting to be a real ranch woman, sitting here watching the dust kick up on the road as someone approaches. I wonder who it could be? The mailman? Po, with another one of his pretty nosegays? His snarling wife? I’m getting good at judging whether it’s a pickup truck or a sedan, even before the dust clears enough to see. This one’s a sedan, a noisy gold BMW, just like

  And that was all. A harsh line of ink stretched away from the last word, an uncontrolled mark left by a woman afraid.

  FORTY

  I ran up through the trees toward the telephones I had seen by the gate to the campground. It took two calls to find Sergeant Ortega. The operator at the police switchboard directed me to his mother’s home, where I found him having a second breakfast.

  “Em,” he said tiredly.

  “I’m okay, Carlos.”

  “Okay? Just okay?”

  “Yeah. ‘Just okay’ will have to do for now. I’ve got the last volume of the journal. Get J. C. and Cecelia in a car, and meet me in Douglas.”

  He snorted. “Just like that?”

  “Please, Carlos. I’m on the way to the airport.” Yes, I was going to drive to the airport, pull myself together, climb into that plane, fire its engine, and fly the hell back down that canyon. “It’ll take you four hours’ road time to Douglas, plus whatever to round up the Menkens. I’ve got to dump my rental car, get some provisions, and find a man named John. Lay out a flight plan—carefully. Talk to the guys that fly out of here all the time.” I stopped myself, realizing that I was babbling. “So what I’m saying is, I have to fly from here to there, so I’m guessing about the travel time, you see, give or take an hour. I’ll make sure the radio is working, trust me on this, and stay in touch with Flight Following and Casper Flight Service. Please just meet me at the Douglas Airport as soon as you can.”

  I heard the sound of chewing from Carlos’s end of the line.

  “Please,” I urged. And then realized what I had forgotten to say. “I have it narrowed down to just a few people who could have killed Miriam, but I need your help to narrow it to one. And to protect me from Po Bradley.” I explained, finally, and with great contrition, that he had been right.

  I heard lips smacking, fingers being licked. “I’ll have you know Mama made fritters. And the boys in suits have been digging through Mr. Howard’s books for hours now while Mr. Howard and his friends enjoy the Fed’s very finest hospitality. A regular fiesta. You leave Mr. Bradley to me.”

  Laughing almost giddily, I replaced the phone in its cradle, knowing that my friend would come through for me once again.

  FORTY-ONE

  SIX hours of instruction, preparation, prayer, and intense concentration later, I touched down smoothly at Douglas, again scattering the small herd of pronghorn antelope and a few jackrabbits away from the end of the strip. The little plane’s engine hummed smoothly as I taxied around the near side of the blue hangar, and as I shut down the engine and climbed wearily from the door over the wing, Carlos Ortega climbed out of his sedan. The grease spots of his morning meal were still evident on his pressed white broadcloth shirt. A second door of his car opened, and J. C. Menken swung a foot free, levered out his greater height, and stood up. He appeared anxious but he smiled, ever optimistic. In the backseat of the car I could see a dark tangle of hair: Cecelia.

  I gave Carlos an affectionate half hug and shook J. C.’s hand stiffly. His face was tight, and his usually shallow eyes had gone deep with anxiety. “Good flight?” Carlos asked.

  “Uneventful, I’m glad to tell you. I waited to take off until I was damned sure I could make it without—” I stopped short, embarrassed.

  He nodded. “We been here only a little while.”

  Making sure we were not overheard, I asked, “What about the flights to Casper?”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “That wasn’t how it was done.”

  I set my lips in frustration. “Damn. Well, we’ll have to pry it out of her, then.”

  After locking and tying down the Piper and ordering its tanks topped up, I checked to make certain my rental car was still in the hangar. When we were done with our errand, I would fetch it and drive into Douglas, check into the LaBonte, and sleep until I could sleep no more.

  But first things first. I followed Carlos over to his sedan, and climbed in next to Cecelia. “Nice to see you,” I told her soberly.

  She made brief, gloomy eye contact, but then quickly looked away. Taking her hands in both of mine, I murmured, “We’ll have this all cleared up in just awhile now, Cecelia. You just stick with me.”

  Carlos started the engine of the sedan and pulled away from the apron. “Where to?” he asked.

  “Head back out like you’re returning to the interstate, but just past the McDonald’s turn left on Riverbend and then right on the Cold Springs Road. I’m sure J. C. knows the way.”

  Menken turned around in his seat to look at me. “Are you sure this is a good idea, Emily? I mean, I’m all for anything that can help Cecelia, but …”

  All I could say was an uncertain, “Don’t worry, J. C.”

  The air was soft and warm and dry. I watched the back of Sergeant Ortega’s head as he drove along the now-familiar stretch of the Cold Springs Road as it wound along through lengthening afternoon shadows past this ranch and that, past the reservoir, and along La Prele Creek. “Turn in there,” I said when I spied the approach to the old homestead.

  Po Bradley and Sheriff Duluth were waiting for us at the ranch house, Po standing on the front porch with his arms folded nervously across his chest, and Sheriff Duluth sitting insolently in his prowl car, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The two men studiously ignored each other. “You called Duluth?” I asked Ortega.

  He nodded. “Professional courtesy,” he said. “And suggested that Mr. Bradley join us also. I figured it would save Sheriff Duluth some driving around after you finish swearing out your complaints.”

  I thought delicately of foolish old Po cooling his heels in jail, and smiled even as I wanted to cry. This was not how old ranch families were supposed to wind up. He seemed righteously nervous, and when he saw me there, he avoided meeting my eyes.

  Duluth heaved himself out of his car as we drove up. He fixed a look of irritation on me,
as if he’d finally found the source of his rash, but he addressed himself to Sergeant Ortega. “A bit out of your jurisdiction, ain’t it, Sergeant?”

  Ortega gave him his patent cheery “Who, me?” smile and climbed up out of his sedan. “I’m here as a friend of the Menkens’, Sheriff. I appreciate your turning out to assist us.” Then he turned to Po. “You Mr. Bradley? I’m Carlos Ortega. Nice ranch you have here. My family comes from the San Luis Valley in southern Colorado, and we had a place like this once. Only it was adobe. But very open.” He held out a hand, palm up, and surveyed the scene as if we had gathered for a picnic.

  Po extended a quizzical hand. “You a cop?” he asked.

  “De-tec-tive,” Carlos sang.

  “Well, let’s get on with it,” Duluth said, stomping up onto the wooden boards of the porch.

  “Hold it!” We all turned. J. C. Menken stood next to Cecelia’s door in Ortega’s sedan, holding it closed. “Gentlemen, Emily, we need to get something straight right now. I will not put Cecelia through any more trauma. I’ve watched her all the way up here, and I can tell you this is not good. I agreed to come, but now we need a little explanation.”

  Duluth opened his mouth to say something sour, but I spoke first. “You’re right, J. C., we need to take this by increments. Po, could you please unlock the door, and all the rest of you, I’d like you to stay outside for a while so we can ease Cecelia along.”

  Menken wasn’t going to be led that easily. “Are you absolutely certain she even needs to go inside?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps just you and I should go first, make sure there’s no sign of—”

  “I’ve already checked, Joe.” I reached out a hand to urge him toward me. “Please. I’ve thought this through carefully. This may hurt worse at first, but she needs to face it if she’s ever going to heal.”

  Menken set his jaw, looked each person in the eye, and at last opened the door for his daughter. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently. “We’ve come this far. Let’s do this now, and then we can go home.”

  Cecelia stood in the middle of the living room with her back to the door. Menken stood behind her, his hands extended around her but not touching her, as if guarding a porcelain vase that might at any moment fall. After checking to make certain that the door was latched shut against the prying ears and eyes of the three men who waited on the porch, I walked around toward the fireplace and looked into her face. It was as blank as uncut stone. I stepped closer and took her hand in mine. It’s palm was damp and cool.

  Menken shot me an anxious look.

  I addressed myself to Cecelia. “Let’s go into your mother’s room,” I said, attempting to draw her toward the passageway.

  Cecelia stood frozen to the floor.

  Menken spoke quickly. “This isn’t good, Em. I think we’d better take her back outside.”

  “No, J. C., there’s something we can discover here.”

  “But Em—”

  “Be quiet, please, J. C. I think Cecelia needs to speak for herself.”

  Cecelia’s eyes grew glassy. Her hand went stiff in mine. Impulsively, I shifted my grip to her wrist, held the back of her hand to my cheek. Her pulse was fast and faint.

  “Now, Cecelia,” I began again, “let’s start earlier in the day, back before the part you forget.”

  Cecelia’s gaze moved toward me and back, a quick flick.

  “You had slept late,” I continued. “Your mother had tried to waken you, but you went back to sleep, or pretended you had. But certainly you heard the phone ring when your father here called from Denver.”

  Joe’s eyes widened.

  “Yes, Cecelia,” I said softly. “You heard the phone ring, and not long after that, you heard a car coming in from the road—a familiar-sounding car. It was Chandler’s car, wasn’t it?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Menken stiffen, but my gaze was intent on Cecelia, watching for even the slightest change in her bearing. At the mention of Chandler’s name, a dark cloud swept across her face, crimping the softness of her cheeks and jaw first into pain and then into the stiffness of hatred. I could see her teeth now, but no words slipped between them.

  “Yes, that angers you, doesn’t it, Cecelia?”

  Joe said, “Em, I can’t see what—”

  “Yes,” I pressed, “you heard his car, and your heart leapt. But then he got to where your mother stood, and he stopped. You thought he’d come to see you. But no, it was your mother he wanted to see; you didn’t know that. Until then, you had thought it was only Heather’s mother that he visited, that it was some other man your mother had gone away with. How could he?”

  Cecelia’s eyes boiled with feeling.

  Menken put his hands on his daughter’s shoulders and leaned his forehead down to rest on the back of her head. “You don’t have to say anything, Cecelia,” he whispered anxiously. “I can take you home now. Em, that’s enough. She’s too young.”

  Ignoring his words, I said, “All those times he came to see you at the stables, you thought it was for you. And now here he was, right out there on the porch, wasn’t he? But she was there. She stopped him. He stopped for her. Yes, he came at least that close; I know that, Cecelia, because he took your mother’s journal with him when he left. Think about it, Cecelia: was he just in the neighborhood to exchange a little powder for information? To ask more of his questions? Questions about the oil business, about test holes and the exchange of money, very large amounts of money.” I turned my eyes toward Menken. Were my words finding their mark? “Or maybe he really just came to see Miriam.”

  Menken’s hands slackened their grip on Cecelia’s shoulders.

  Cecelia’s chest began to move, breath rising and falling in her with the return of feeling. But still she said nothing.

  “What did she do, Cecelia? Did she run in here and lock the door, closing him out of your life? And what happened then? Did he knock on that door? Pound on it? Call out to her? To her, Cecelia? But then he left. Left without seeing you. Turned and drove back down that driveway like you didn’t even exist.”

  Cecelia’s eyes had grown enormous, whether with fear or anger, I could not discern.

  I said, “You and your mother fought about it, didn’t you? It must have been terrible, because she had a temper, didn’t she? Or perhaps you ran away outside somewhere. Did you go see Po? Or did you see him out by the willows, watching your mother dance? Did she dance that day? I bet she didn’t. I bet she was afraid. Afraid for you, Cecelia. Afraid of what he might do. Afraid of what he might have done already. She loved you so much that she was afraid.”

  Cecelia’s eyes slid shut. Far beyond her shoulder, I could see Po Bradley’s face pressed anxiously to the window, his hands cupped to either side to cut the glare from the glass, his eyes hot with worry. To the other side of the door, I could see the sheriff and, ever faithful, Sergeant Ortega.

  Menken’s eyes flew open with understanding. His mouth began to open.

  I leaned forward and grabbed Cecelia’s face in both my hands. “Then what, Cecelia? What happened then? What happened after it got dark?”

  Cecelia began to shake, her hands balled into fists.

  Menken’s voice came as a whisper first. “Em, you are a clever girl, as always.” He straightened, looked into my eyes, commanding my attention. I saw a J. C. Menken I’d never seen before: cold and hard as ice. He tipped his head toward the men who waited outside the door. “But did you have to bring all of them? How are- we going to get past them?” He let go of his daughter and smiled, stepped around in front of her so I’d have to look at him and not her. He shifted his weight onto one hip, a parody of the old jaunty J. C. returning, but with eyes as dark and wild as the storm I’d almost died in. “No problem, we can manage this. We’ll just say you were wrong about a supposition, or better, we’ll say your shock treatment didn’t work.”

  I met his gaze. “Tell me more.”

  “What more is there to tell? Darling Em, you did
your job well, as always, except for one thing: you weren’t supposed to bring the law into this.”

  “Oh, no?”

  He patted Cecelia’s shoulders. “I had something gentler in mind when I asked your help with this. Yes, we need to help her out of her melancholy, but your methods are entirely too brash. Cecelia, dear, why don’t you wait outside on the porch?”

  Cecelia promptly turned and started for the door.

  “No,” I said firmly, trying to keep my voice down so the men with their faces to the glass wouldn’t hear me. “Cecelia stays here, or I call them in right now.”

  She froze.

  Menken bunched his lips in frustration. “This wasn’t what I had in mind,” he repeated.

  “Oh? Just what did you have in mind?”

  Menken advanced toward me. “Emily, silly girl, how else was I going to make certain you could marry me?”

  “Do what?”

  He was talking very quickly now. “I’ll admit that I was a bit hasty the other night after that dinner with the Howards, but you can’t blame a fellow. You see, I know you, Em. I know you need everything settled, each detail tucked in where it belongs, and—”

  “You cut this shit right now!” I said.

  “You see?” he said to Cecelia, taking her in his fatherly grasp once again, “Em understands. I couldn’t have her marrying me without knowing. She’s a person who must know the truth about things. Has been as long as I’ve known her.” Then, almost plaintively, he added, “It’s what draws me to her, actually. Strange, isn’t it?”

  “Joe, you can’t—”

  Words continued to tumble from his mouth. “But Cecelia, darling, Em also knows that truth is one thing, and justice another. She understands that I had to do what I did to your mother, and, knowing that I was only protecting you, she’ll be content now, and marry me, and then we’ll be a complete family again. Isn’t that right, Em?”

  Cecelia opened her eyes. She began to reel, as one drunk.