Zen had released his hold on her hand, but wanted desperately to offer it again. She seemed very independent, he considered, but his heart ached to just touch her soft skin once more.
As they stepped along in awkward silence, he finally overcame his reserve and reached for her hand. Surprisingly, Gracie reciprocated. It felt natural somehow, as if she had done it a thousand times before. And although, outwardly, she appeared completely indifferent, on the inside, Gracie felt an overwhelming sense of safety, and a nostalgic peace she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She glanced sidewise at her desert-escort, and smiled. She was glad he had taken her hand again.
They headed out together toward this strange fissure in the desert floor. Zen with his hopes and aspirations for a personal miracle, and Gracie in her curiosity and sense for adventure. Strange how both individuals felt this would not be their last escapade together.
Chapter 8:
When it comes to climate, Utah is as indecisive as a bee in a flower garden. Unsatisfied with accommodating just one season at a time, the adaptable state often hosts all four at once—spring, summer, fall, and winter. In June, for example, a resident might start their day with a perplexing decision: whether to enjoy snow-skiing at a local mountain resort, or a brisk water-ski at a popular lake, all within an hour’s drive from the city.
Fred Smith had wanted to go fishing, but his job at the Utah Bureau of Land Management was busy these days, and he couldn’t manage getting it off. It seemed that since the end of the war, things had really picked up in real-estate and development. And to add insult to injury, he had forgotten that today was work-share day for Clark, his nine-year old son, a school initiative that he, as well as other parents, were none too thrilled about.
The local elementary school had allowed for each child to spend one morning, or afternoon, with a parent in their work environment. For those who could participate, this was a rare opportunity to visit mom or dad right in the meat of their job responsibilities. A written report of the day’s events was to follow, with each child being graded on how much they learned about their parent’s vocation.
Good idea, bad timing, thought Fred. It could be worse, though, he mused. His boss was still out of town, which meant that he was in charge of running the office . . . thankfully, alone. Clark could sit at the vacant desk and observe his dad all he wanted. It would work out okay, and it was only for the morning. Fred could handle that.
The Land Management building was part of an old retail structure which sat quietly on the east side of the city, just off Main Street. The redbrick, single story building had been remodeled and shined up on the outside like a pair of old polished shoes. The grounds were bucolic, with several tall aspen trees placed purposefully on the lot to throw shade on the building’s west windows—the old awnings had long since been removed. Numerous clusters of shrub and oak paralleled the concrete walkway and provided foliage for a family of bobwhite quail.
The sun had already begun its relentless assault on the newly repaired tar roof. In the hasty remodeling, a new swamp cooler had been installed, but the wiring had not yet been connected, and it was going to be a hot day. Luckily for the two occupants, the old ceiling fan still worked.
The office smelled mostly of carpet glue and paint. A touch of mold—where the odor clung stubbornly to stagnant areas of the workplace—occasionally wafted up on hot days. It would be noticeable today.
“You can sit at this desk opposite mine,” said Clark’s dad. He moved from the front waiting area behind the main counter, and indicated one of the two large oak desks snugged against the back wall. On each desk sat a typewriter, some stacked trays, and a phone. They were surrounded by two intersecting rows of filing cabinets—each piled high with clumps of papers, folders, and overfilled boxes bulging at the corners.
Opposite the desk, a wide worktable held stacks of maps, charts and blueprints. “I’ve got to get this place organized,” Fred mumbled.
Clark gawked at the clutter. His room—even on a bad day—wasn’t this bad, but he suppressed the urge to verbally express this opinion. The blond-haired, freckled-nosed kid nodded enthusiastically and moved to a chair twice his size. He sat his heavy school books down with a bang and sighed. “This is a big desk.” He reached out with both arms and stretched them across the top.
“Careful, son,” his dad cautioned. “Remember that nothing on that desk belongs to you. Don’t touch anything.”
“Okay, Dad. I brought some homework to work on while you’re helping customers. You won’t even know I’m here.”
Fred returned a doubtful grin. “Good kid,” he winked. “Always remember that when away from home, you are a guest.”
“You bet, Dad. Don’t worry.”
They hadn’t been situated ten minutes when the deep thrum of an automobile caught their attention. It grew louder and louder until all at once, the vehicle suddenly rolled right into the front parking lot. A brand new, red Cadillac de Ville!
It slid diplomatically into an open slot just outside the main entrance. The front office windows rattled slightly as the motor revved one last time before choking off to silence.
Fred dropped his pencil and gawked out the front window in astonishment. “Well, I’ll be.” He stammered. “Would you look at that! That’s a new ’52 Coupe de Ville! I’ve never seen one around here.”
He moved hypnotically from behind the counter and stood at the window. His eyes tracked from the automobile to its front license plate. “Utah?” he questioned. “Hmm. Local folk. I’d have bet my last pay check they were from California.” He turned to Clark and motioned at the boy. “You need to get a good look at this, son. You might not see one of these babies again in a long time.”
Clark jumped eagerly from his chair and hurried to join his father at the window. “Wow!” he exclaimed. “That’s some car!”
“That’s not just a car, son. That’s a Cadillac.”
The passenger door suddenly flew open and a tall gentleman stepped out. He gazed around for a moment like a sponge in water, as if mentally taking in everything around him. He was a handsome man with strong features. His face was bright and intelligent and appeared unusually pale-skinned under such a thick head of black hair. His large, wide eyes glistened with enthusiasm, punctuated above by thick, well-trimmed eyebrows. He sported a stylish, black suit; a wrinkleless white long-sleeved shirt; and shoes polished to the texture of a mirror; his tie, a practical blue. His stubble beard was trimmed to a fine line which emphasized a strong, chiseled chin. His wavy hair hung loosely over his ears and down around his collar. He walked briskly to the driver’s side door and opened it.
A slender, white-gloved arm protruded out first, followed by a lovely slim leg. An equally stunning young woman stepped from the automobile with the finesse of a cat, and stood at his side. She was absolutely exquisite. She donned a sleek, sports-dress which clung to her figure like new paint on sanded metal. Her high, black stiletto heels accentuated a pair of fabulous legs, which now stepped with the confidence of a dignitary. Her long blond hair sparkled a brilliant gold in the morning sun, and her eyes were a perfect match for the gentleman’s tie.
Fred followed her every movement in an entrancing, speechless stupor. She was more than charming, he thought. Perhaps even the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. As the couple approached, an air of charisma permeated from them in a perceptual aura as vivid as a burning torch.
“Dad! They’re coming in!” Clark shouted. His voice shattered his father’s visual lock.
The man gasped! His eyes suddenly went wide and his heart-rate soared. “Quick! Back to your seat! Don’t stare! Don’t stare! Remember it’s rude to stare!”
Clark bolted to his chair.
His dad followed at his heals, clumsily darting back behind the counter. He tripped over the trashcan, hip-butted the corner shelf, then fell into his chair like a sack of wheat.
The two scarcely had time to gather their composure before the door swung open.
They looked around, then seeing Fred first, they both proffered a friendly smile. The woman opened her mouth to speak, but her eyes suddenly spotted the young occupant sitting at the desk behind the counter, and she hesitated, making a point to toss an even kinder gaze at the boy.
“Hello,” she started again. “Am I correct in assuming that this is the office building for the Utah Bureau of Land Management?”
“Why yes. Yes it is,” replied Fred, jumping to his feet and speaking in an overdone affectation. He felt the sweat gather at his forehead.
“Very good. My name is Gracie Reitman, and this is my husband, Zen.” She nodded and indicated at the gentleman now standing strangely silent and aloof. Her husband ginned back at the gesture and cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Nice to meet you both. My name is Fred,” Fred replied, in a light handshake to the delicate-laced glove. “And this is my boy, Clark.” He gestured.
Clark blinked happily and grinned between gapped teeth. “I’m a guest today,” he spluttered. “Nice to meet you,” he quickly added, bouncing a glance of approval toward his dad.
“It is work-share day today and Clark is observing me for his school project.” Fred explained, a little awkwardly.
“What a charming idea,” Gracie replied. “Just charming. A great way to learn about real life outside the classroom.” She nodded her approval at the boy enthusiastically, then back to Zen. “Don’t you think, Hun?”
“Yes. The empirical experience far exceeds the speculative.”
Gracie blinked back at his response, and her eyes widened slightly.
Zen caught the tacit signal. He flushed, visibly. Stupid, stupid response! he felt himself mentally shout. You can do better!
Fred nodded, then moved on. “That’s an incredible automobile you have,” he complimented, indicating out the window at the red wheeled beauty.
Gracie turned and gave the vehicle a cursory glance then shrugged it off with a hand. “Yes, that. It’s so . . . red. We just picked it up a few days ago. It’s a little fancy for our needs, but it will do.” She paused, smiled then began her business matter-of-factly, carefully directing focus back to the subject at hand. “We want to be brief, Mr. Smith. We know your time is important.”
Fred didn’t give a hoot about his time. He was dying of curiosity and was only too eager to move on with the conversation.
“We would like to purchase land,” she continued, concisely.
“Land?” he repeated back, sounding not just surprised, but almost disappointed. “Oh. Well. Yes. Since the end of the war,” he snorted facetiously, “there is no shortage of that.” He grew puzzled. “But I’m afraid this office manages government land. You might want to check in the local paper for—”
“Yes. I know. We want government land, Mr. Smith,” she put in confidently. “Lots of it.”
“I see.” His helpful attitude wavered, then went somewhat stale. His large, toothy smile became a pursed line, and a sense of the mundane fell across his countenance.
“I have done my research,” Gracie continued. “And I understand that this fine state is,”—she paused briefly—“well, is financially stressed, should we say. The war was especially hard on Utah’s industry. We both know this. Your local government, in cooperation with the Federal Land Agency, has offered an exceptional proposal aimed at increasing the State’s assets. Cash assets. I understand that we might negotiate a deal in federal land?”
Fred’s expression deepened. His brow furrowed, and an eyebrow rose inquisitively. He had been aware of this new policy—this legislative addendum to the Federal Land Policy—but he had only been superficially briefed, and had not yet dealt with any specific prospects. How on earth did this woman find out about it? he thought. “Very well. Mrs. Reitman. If you’ll give me just a few moments. I need to pull several maps, and the files set aside on this new policy.” He started to move toward a bank of drawers and cabinets when her voice caught him.
“I have all the documentation here, sir. All the paperwork, maps, forms . . . all of it delineating the area we are interested in, if that will help?”
Another lifted eyebrow.
“It is a five-thousand square acre spread, located about fifty miles west of The Great Salt Lake,” she stated, glancing up at her husband only occasionally, as if for visual confirmation. He had remained remarkably quiet. Strangely disinterested in the conversation, yet amazingly attentive of every detail in the room.
“Is that correct, Dear?” Gracie asked, turning to Zen.
He startled slightly. “Oh . . . um, yes. That is correct. Does Mr. Smith require the longitude, latitude and elevation of the area? Will that be helpful?”
“No,” Gracie replied, tossing him another strangling glance. “I don’t think we’ll need that, dear.”
Zen flushed once more, then acknowledged her with an awkward nod. Concentrate! And just talk normal! He clenched his teeth.
Fred’s focus jumped from his trailing forefinger on the map to Gracie’s pleasant gaze. He made a few odd intakes of breath, then locking a dumfounded expression on her and nearly laughed. “You . . . you don’t mean the desert west of the Great Salt Lake?”
“Precisely.” Gracie smiled, firmly.
“But, but—” he stammered on—“that land is a salt desert? There’s nothing out there but salt and sand. Nothing. Not even cactus or sagebrush will grow there. It’s dead land! Worthless!”
“Worthless to some, Mr. Smith. Not to us.” She pulled one of her own maps from a large envelop just produced from her bag and carefully unfolded it on the counter.
A highlighted red-inked square stood out on the map in a visible line which plainly defined an area marked West Desert.
“This is the area we are interested in.” Her hand smoothed over the spot.
Fred’s eyes widened. “Mrs. Reitman. You can’t be serious. Really? All that”—he paused, clearing his throat—“sand,” he emphasized the word. He forced an affable grin, then sighed.
“We like . . . sand,” she blinked back, smiling wide.
“Well,” he continued, exhaling like a whale through its blow-hole, his hand tracing along the red line as if counting off the miles. “I’ll need to see if this area is listed as viable under the new amendment.”
“You’ll find that it is,” she declared, as she tapped her own painted fingernail in the center of the map.
Fred glanced up through thick plastic-framed glasses, and for the first time, actually appeared annoyed. The peculiarity of this entire request was starting to grate on him. “Yes, well I still have to make a confirmation for myself. I’m sure you understand, Mrs. Reitman.” He feigned a toothy grin.
“Of course,” she winked, carefully returning her map to its envelop. “I’m a by-the-book person myself.”
“Yes . . . no doubt you are.” Fred turned and moved to an already open drawer protruding from a large cabinet.
Gracie waited patiently, turning only occasionally to toss a confident wink at her husband.
Zen remained detached. He was just enough disappointed in his disastrous few sentences, as to silence him any further. He had made so much progress over the last few years. Gracie had taken up where Ruthanne left off and worked relentlessly with him on the natural flow of conversation. And he had improved. Zen was much better than he had been in that first awkward year after they were married. But today’s performance . . . oh, it was disastrous! Proof that he still had a long way to go.
Try as he might, Zen simply found the typical process of dialog cumbersome. Not in the actual exchange of words—his English was flawless, grammatically and in pronunciation, but rather in the sociable aspect: the portion of the dialect which has nothing to do with the actual verbal interchange. Chit-chat, to Zen, was an odd bandy of visual prompts,
responses and inflections in the tone that he found difficult. When to laugh? When to raise an inquisitive eyebrow? When to nod? When to express sympathy or concern (or at least pretend to do so)? When to look excited or happy? These were the strange characteristics in the dance of the English language. It was all a conglomerate of mixed emotions and gestures. It was a nightmarish interaction he just preferred to avoid. If people would just state what they mean, he often said. Without all the melodramatic interjection and verbal parities!
True, Gracie had given him a wide girth. She wanted him to feel confident, but more importantly, she wanted him to be comfortable in his dialog. She would much rather have him do the talking, the negotiations of day-to-day business. But for now, Zen was content in their mutual understanding: Gracie would remain the primary negotiator, the delegate. She knew what to say and when to say it, and he was happy to remain detached and observe his wife in action. It enthralled him to see just how exquisite a correspondent she was.
While Gracie and Mr. Smith finalized the last few details of their business, Zen, having moved beyond his self-deprecation and into the realm of boredom, began another, even more detailed mental sweep of the interior office. His mind, incapable of being sedentary for any length of time, had systematically began an analyzing and calculating stage. His deep brown eyes widened with alert intensity as they scanned, absorbed and recorded every facet of the office annex.
During this surveying routine, the boy, Clark, had repeatedly peered up from behind his open math book to make eye-contact with the strange man—who had countered each glance with a smile and a simple nod. The boy’s attempt to remain focused on his lessons was in obvious peril—it was, after all, far more interesting to watch this curious individual than to memorize his multiplication tables.
Zen didn’t mean to interfere in Clark’s studies, but he found the young boy’s expressions pleasantly amusing and just couldn’t help encouraging the visual banter along.
Soon, however, Clark’s father tossed him a scrutinizing eye. The glare quickly ended his humorous exchange with the nice gentleman. Clark attempted a brief refocus on the stack of material sitting on his desk, but with the tedious transactions echoing in the background, he just couldn’t quite bring himself to focus . . . especially on math! The material seemed to blur on the pages and fade into black splotchy patches. It didn’t take long then—and not at all surprising—for the boy’s attention to wane yet again. This time, he started to bounce and fidget in his chair, sliding from one side to another. The wooden chair squeaked and groaned with each shift of his weight.
Of Salt and Sand Page 12