Hot Springs Eternal

by John M. Daniel

  Courtney turned to her husband with a lusty, adoring grin he hadn’t seen for months. “J.G., you did that for me, didn’t you?” she said.

  “Yeah, well,” he answered.

  “You’re such a sweetheart,” she said, her hand leaving her lap and finding his. “Such a teddy bear. I love you, J.G.”

  “Yeah, well.”

  “Yeah, well c’mere.”

  13. Goodbye Party

  “You didn’t come yesterday,” Nqong said, after a long silence that said much more.

  “Well, pet, it’s a beastly climb up the mountain, you must admit that,” Liv answered. “Especially for an old battle-axe like me. And yesterday was quite a busy day. It appears we’ve won the war, Nqong. The hotel will open, a few months late, but nothing can stop it now.”

  Nqong didn’t answer. The forest was softly throbbing with mid-afternoon insects. The two native Australians sat in Nqong’s warm pool, avoiding each other’s eyes. When Liv could abide Nqong’s silent pout no longer, she said, “You could have come visit me for a change. They have hot water down in the bathhouse, you know.”

  “I know that very well,” Nqong said, his voice soft and surly. “I monitor and maintain the water temperature. Every day. I’ve been doing it for fifty years now. Every day.”

  Liv took Nqong’s foot in hand and squeezed his toes, one after another, slowly. “The community appreciates all you do for them, my friend. All those yellow people, I mean.”

  “I don’t do it for the yellow people. I do it for the yellow beetles. The beetles need to have their water just so.”

  “Yes, Nqong, and you do a marvelous job. The beetles have never been happier, I’m sure. Even in Mathilda Springs, there was never such a summer profusion of happy yellow bugs. You should be proud.”

  Nqong lowered his eyes. Were those tears on his tired black face, or was that just sweat dripping across his cheeks and into his white beard? His jaw was trembling. “They take me for granted,” he mumbled.

  “Of course they take you for granted, you silly old sod. They’re just beetles.”

  “Not the beetles. The people. Those yellow people.”

  “Oh pish!” Libby said. “Those people bloody worship you. You’d know that if you weren’t such a hermit. Don’t you ever get lonely all alone up here on this mountainside?”

  “Not anymore. Now that you’re here. But I missed you yesterday.”

  “Nqong, love, I won’t be here forever. Oh, now don’t be like that. You knew this wasn’t permanent.”

  “I hoped.” Nqong took his foot back from her kneading fingers. “I thought you were coming here to be with me.”

  “I leave tomorrow, dear heart. I’m flying back to Hobart tomorrow. It’ll be beastly cold there. I’ll miss California, and I’ll miss you to the moon, but I must go home, Nqong. I must. You understand, don’t you?”

  “You came here today just to tell me that, didn’t you? Just to say goodbye. Well goodbye, then.”

  “Not just to say goodbye, dear heart.” Liv reached for Nqong’s foot again. “I also thought you might like to have it off again, one last time for old time’s sake. I would, wouldn’t you?”

  Nqong nodded his head and said, “No, thank you,” in the Wanqong language.

  Liv let go of his hand and said, “Don’t you nod your head at me, you pollywog brat. I know what that means.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry, Libby.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a moper. Very well, then, we won’t have a last go at it. But at least come down to the hotel this evening. They’re having sort of a goodbye dinner for me and a victory party for Mathilda the beetle. Please do join us, Nqong.”

  Nqong answered, “Perhaps,” and covered his aged face with both hands.

  ———

  It took Nqong all afternoon to make up his mind about going down to the hotel for the party. As he stretched in all the thirty-six ways, he kept deciding, then undeciding, then redeciding. As for dinner, he had trapped a weasel that morning, and was looking forward to grilling and eating it that evening. He had never been especially fond of the yellow people’s diet of brown rice and tofu, despite Diana’s talent with herbs and spices. The party? What kind of party? Nqong didn’t like parties, nor did he feel the least bit festive, even though his magnificent beetles had won the day and saved the hotel and the yellow people.

  But in the end, as the sun dropped low out over the western sea, Nqong donned his only pair of trousers and a clean yellow tee shirt, laced up his walking shoes, and began slowly down the trail to the valley and the hotel. Too late for dinner, but early enough to say goodbye properly to his childhood sister. He did not want their lifelong friendship to end in anger. Also, maybe it wasn’t too late to change his mind about having it off one last time. Perhaps he’d even spend the night in the hotel. A last night with Libby. To remember forever.

  By the time he reached the hotel, the sky was a dark indigo, sparsely speckled with silver stars, and lanterns cast their yellow light in and around the bathhouse. Nqong walked up the steps of the hotel, took a deep breath, and held it as long as he could. He exhaled, then took another breath and entered the lamp-lit lobby. Forcing himself to let go of his breath, he walked slowly down the hall to the lounge, and on into the dining room in time to join the community at the table.

  “These brownies contain all that’s left of the last Hope Springs marijuana crop,” Diana was announcing. “So eat with caution. One each, people. Oh look! It’s our Nqong! Nqong, welcome! Sit down. You’re too late for supper, but you’re in time for dessert.”

  Nqong sat on the only vacant chair, which was next to Karen, who reached into his lap and squeezed his hand. He looked around the table and smiled back at all the welcoming faces: Arthur and Beatrice sat together, Diana was next to Casey, Emily sat with Nels, Theresa next to Larry, then Herbert and Will, and then there was Baxter, with the biggest grin of all, sitting where Nqong wanted to be, next to Liv Pomeroy.

  “Greetings, Nqong, our friend and teacher,” Casey said, lifting his wine glass.

  “Hear, hear!” called Karen, and the entire community toasted the outsider, the hermit, who felt very much like a foreigner, a wog.

  When the clinks and the chorus of hellos died down, Nqong exchanged a wink of affection with Liv, who sat across the table and down near the far corner. Then Liv turned back to Baxter, who was whispering a question that made her giggle.

  Nqong turned to Karen and asked, “Where’s your sister? Where’s Nellie?”

  Karen said, “My sister has returned to Malibu. It seems she got pissed off at Baxter a few weeks back for fucking Emily, and she’s been nursing a nervous snit ever since. She told me this afternoon she couldn’t take it anymore, and she packed up and took off. She promised to promote the hotel to her jet-set crowd. She’ll be our PR person for the L.A. market, but she doesn’t want to live here. Frankly, I won’t miss her. Dear Nellie is a drunk and a prima donna. I’m glad she’s gone, if you must know, because it’s like she left this last chair for you.”

  Nqong chewed his lower lip. “So, Baxter and Emily are now a couple again? They were a couple once before, I believe.”

  “More than once, honey. But no. Baxter and Emily are not a couple. Eat your brownie.”

  “I’m not fond of marijuana,” Nqong reminded her.

  “But you’ll love the brownie. Eat it. Chocolate is good for the soul.”

  ———

  The after-dinner party started off in the kitchen, with the whole community singing fifties rock ’n’ roll songs while they did the dishes.

  “Yakity Yak.”

  “Who Wrote the Book of Love?”

  “Duke of Earl.”

  Then they all moved into the lounge, where Casey sat down at the Steinway and accompanied Diana as she sang a medley of goodbye songs to Livingston Pomeroy, Jr.

  “After You’ve Gone.”

  “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.”

  “There Will Never Be Another You.”
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  Then they all filed past the towel closet, where they picked up towels one by one. Nqong, the last in line, did not stop for a towel, but he followed behind the crowd, and proceeded outside into the warm night air. The sky was inky black and sprinkled with silver glitter. The yellows sang “Splish Splash” as they marched across the driveway and filed into the bathhouse.

  Nqong caught up with Liv just as she started up the steps to the bathhouse. “Libby?”

  Liv stopped and let go of Baxter’s hand. Baxter’s hand? Baxter’s hand?

  “Yes, Nqong?”

  “Would you take a walk with me?”

  Liv turned to Baxter and said, “Will you excuse us for a bit?”

  Baxter bowed deeply, smiled broadly, and said, “But of course. A bit of what?”

  Liv patted him on the cheek and told him, “We won’t be long.”

  ———

  The night began to hum and the road seemed to tilt side-to-side like a canoe on a fast stream. Nqong did his best to hold onto his balance and his brain and his tongue. He found himself saying something and listened to himself so he could hear what he was thinking. “We walked along this road before, when we were children, and we walked on this road once, that time, that springtime night, the night you took me to the bathhouse, and you showed me how to fly on top of you, lie on top of you, I mean, you taught me that I smelled delicious, while you were the one who smelled delicious, and that was only the first time, because we did it in the forest and in the carriage house, but mostly in the bathhouse. Don’t go, Libby.”

  “Dear Nqong,” said Liv. “How many brownies did you eat?”

  “Two. Don’t go away again, Libby! Don’t leave me.”

  “I must. You know that. I have work to do. I must go back to my work. I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Take me with you!”

  “No, I can’t do that. You need to stay here, my dear. For the sake of the yellow beetles. They would die without you, and that would be the end of the Wanqong. We can’t have that now, can we?”

  “Libby?”

  “What? We should turn back now, Nqong.”

  “Let me sleep in your room tonight. Let’s have it off one last time, as you said, for old time’s sake. At least do that for me, my sister. Yes?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Baxter. No. I mean I’m sorry Nqong. That was a strong brownie, I must say.”

  “Baxter?”

  “Yes, Nqong. Baxter. I’m sleeping with Baxter tonight. And I might as well tell you: I’m taking Baxter home with me. Goodness knows what the Australians will think of him. But I might as well have some fun as long as I’m still alive, which may not last forever. Now I’m turning around and going back to the bathhouse. I could use a hot bath. How about you?”

  Nqong answered, “No, thank you,” in the Wanqong tongue.

  ———

  The next morning Nqong stood naked on the granite ledge in front of the water house, his binoculars trained on the the hotel. He had been watching the hotel steps for more than an hour, and his body ached from the strain of standing still so long, and from the long and difficult two-mile hike up the hill the night before. His mind still buzzed with the gnats, a combination of marijuana and grief.

  Then he saw Karen’s truck come around the side of the building and stop in front of the hotel steps. She stepped down from the truck and went inside the hotel for a bit, then came back out with Liv and Baxter. Liv was dressed in slacks and a jacket, and Baxter wore a formal three-piece suit and a top hat. He carried two suitcases, which he placed in the bed of the pickup truck.

  Nqong watched the three of them climb into the cab of the truck, and watched the truck move slowly forward, then pick up speed on its way to someplace Nqong had never been.

  He went back inside the water house and put on his trousers, a fairly clean striped work shirt, and his walking shoes, which he wore without socks. Then he pulled out of a musty closet a canvas valise that had once belonged to old Livingston Pomeroy, batty old man who might have been Nqong’s father. He opened the valise for the first time ever. Inside the bag he found a pair of tweezers, a small magnifying glass, compass, a wad of United States currency, a hunting knife, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, a ring of seven keys that opened seven unknown locks, and fourteen mint-condition copies of a pamphlet titled Organism of My Delight. On top of these treasures Nqong stuffed all the civilized clothing he owned, only some of which did not stink of sulfur or sweat or both.

  Then he turned his attention to the water house valves. He opened them all as far as they would go. The cold water pipes, the hot water pipes. He shut off the drip system that altered the mineral contents of the hot water. He made all the water simply flow as it had before Joel Hope, the original Joel Hope, had tampered with it eighty years before. The people in the valley would miss their hot baths, but so what?

  Yes, and then there were the bugs, those sacred little yellow sulfur beetles that had meant so much to the crazy little Wanqong people, all of whom were now dead and forgotten; which had meant so much to the old man, that strange, lanky, loping dreamer, also dead and forgotten, who might have been Nqong’s father if only the Wanqong had believed in the concept of patrimony; that bug which also continued to matter to the quaint and goofy yellow people of Tecolote Valley. According to rules invented by the Wanqong and perpetuated by the professor, this infuriating little bug required a steady flow of water, just exactly so hot, just so precisely sulfuric, just so, just so, just so.… Nqong had tended to the supposed needs of Mathilda, that silly, stupid, useless, yellow beetle for nearly fifty years now. Did any of them ever really need the sulfur beetle to survive? Well, no. The beetle had done its one good deed: it had saved the valley from being paved over and developed into the future. Did it now really need to live on, year after year, beyond that? Nqong felt near the end of his own life, and then what would happen to the needy little creatures, without some slave to monitor their water temperature and chemistry? They would die off. They would certainly die off. Or perhaps not. But die off or live on, did it really matter? Either way, farewell, you charming little tyrants. Nqong is finished with you, and with the yellow people, and with the man who was or was not his father, and with the Wanqong of Mathilda Springs. Farewell.

  Nqong ate a lunch consisting of half a package of fig newtons and drank all the water in his canteen. He filled the canteen from a faucet on the side of the cold-water pipe. He put the canteen into the valise, along with the rest of the fig newtons. He buckled up the valise, lifted it, and left the water house, closing the door behind him.

  ———

  At the end of the longest Sunday of the year, Nqong stood on the saddle of the Matilija Mountain Range, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. He wore his long trousers and his striped work shirt, which was now damp with sweat. He could not see the community of people whom he planned never to see again. The sun flattened out and split into a stack of orange lines, which disappeared behind the horizon, one by one. A cool breeze tickled the soggy shirt and made him shiver. Then, turning his back on the past, he picked up the old man’s valise and stepped down into the dark, burned-out side of the forest. He shuffled through the ashes, bound for whatever might await him on the hot, murky inland side of the mountain.

  14. The Oil Business

  Nqong awoke to the racket of traffic overhead—big trucks, they sounded like, traveling fast. His back hurt from sleeping on the floor of the culvert underneath the highway. He had no idea how long he had slept, but when he’d crawled into the culvert it had been night dark outside and pitch black inside. Now it was bright outside the culvert, and inside it was light enough to see that he’d been sleeping on a mat of dry, hard dirt. He tried standing up, bumped his head on the metal corrugated ceiling, and felt a spider drop onto the back of his neck. He crouched back down and crawled like a crab out into the sunlight, dragging his valise. He had eaten all the food he’d brought with him, and he was hungry and thirsty as well as dirty and sore.


  He stood up in the ravine beside the highway and climbed up the bank to a field of sand, rocks, dirt, and trash. He took time to stretch in all the thirty-six ways, then crossed the field until he reached a rusty barbed-wire fence. Out beyond the fence a herd of mechanical monsters lifted and lowered their heads, as if they were drinking from the earth, with a grunt of hard work and screeching pain. Scattered over the landscape, towers of metal scaffolding reached up and pointed at the cloudless sky. Men in hard hats moved about like ants at work.

  Nqong lifted his valise and walked beside the fence until he reached a road, a gate, a cattle-guard, a large sign that said Maricopa Wells and a smaller sign that said Private Property Keep Out. The gate was wide open, so Nqong passed carefully over the cattle guard and walked in along the road in the direction of the men working with their machines. Nqong had never been much of a reader, but he knew what “Keep Out” meant. Still, he was hungry, and the least any of these men could do would be to tell him to look elsewhere for a hand-out or someplace he could buy food. He had money in his valise; he didn’t know how much.

  When he reached a parking lot full of dusty pickup trucks and banged-up autos, he was stopped by a tall man in jeans, work shirt, and baseball cap, who said, “What do you want?”

  Nqong smiled and replied, “I want something to eat.”

  The man nodded. “We got a lunch counter. Right now she’s got doughnuts and coffee.”

  “Anything. I can pay.”

  “It’s free.”

  “Okay.”

  “But it’s for employees only.”

  “Oh. Well, can you tell me—”

  “You want a job? I’m hiring. You look kind of old. Can you work?”

  “I can work.”

  “Okay. Go see my foreman, that heavy-set guy over there, in the red shirt. Name’s Bevis. Over there by that derrick. He’ll put you to work, and he’ll keep an eye on you to be sure I’m getting my money’s worth. Come see me in my office at the end of the day and we’ll do the paperwork.” He pointed to a mobile home at the far end of the parking lot. “I’m paying twenty dollars a day. Any questions?”