“Stop worrying about that. Yesterday we wanted some money, today we need it. There’s just what happens, then what you do next. Ain’t no good or evil. That’s all made up.”
Lonnie stood and looked around. He and his brother grew up in this trailer. He stayed on when Byron quit high school and ran off. He didn’t move when his mother died, or when his father disappeared one night. Drove off for groceries and didn’t come back. Never turned up. He stayed through it all, working jobs until Byron showed up a year ago, just out of prison, saying he needed a place to stay.
“It means something to me,” Lonnie said.
“That’s a mistake.” Byron climbed up the wood steps, went inside, and came out with the maps rolled up under his arm. He pulled the door shut and put the maps into the gun rack above the deer rifle. “If it don’t mean anything to you, nobody will try to take it away.”
Byron got in and started the truck. Lonnie buckled himself in. They crawled down the rutted drive and turned onto the dirt road that took them to the gravel county road that turned onto the state highway. As they continued into town, the sky grew brighter.
“You hungry?” Byron asked.
Lonnie nodded.
“What for?”
“Breakfast,” Lonnie said.
“I meant what kind of breakfast?”
“V8. Donut. Banana.”
“No protein?”
After a minute Lonnie said, “V8. Donut. Banana. Cheese stick.” Lonnie looked in the side mirror and saw the rolling blue, white, red. “Oh crap. Cops. What do we do? When I get nervous, I say things.”
“There is no we. I will do the talking.” They came to a stop, and the sheriff’s car pulled in behind them.
“I don’t mean to say anything, but I get a hook in me that doesn’t come out.”
“Then don’t start.”
“But what if I can’t?”
The cop walked up behind them, on the passenger’s side. His name tag said DALTON.
“Just don’t start.”
“But I already did.”
“Quiet.”
“I can’t.”
“Quiet!” Byron yelled. There was a knock on the window. Lonnie rolled it down.
“Your sticker says February,” Dalton said.
“Oh, man. That’s right. I did it online. I guess I forgot about it.”
“For three months? You have the paper?”
“You mean the one from the website?”
Dalton nodded.
“No, I don’t have that. I mean I did it, but I don’t have it now.”
He handed Byron the ticket.
“Will this violate my parole?” Byron asked.
“It might.”
“No, it won’t!” Lonnie said. “A ticket is a petty offense.”
“Shut it!”
“Your lawyer is right, but if that rifle is loaded,” the sheriff said, sliding his pen back into his breast pocket, “then you could be headed back to the big house.”
Lonnie began rocking back and forth, muttering to himself. Dalton took note and directed Byron and Lonnie to both get out of the truck and move to the front and place their hands on the hood. He cuffed Byron and said, “You are not under arrest, but I’m detaining you while I check that rifle.” He opened the bolt and checked inside. When he saw that it was empty, he replaced the weapon, knocking the maps out of the rack so they bounced from the seat to the floor. Byron went rigid, then stamped one foot on the ground. Dalton replaced the maps and returned to the front of the vehicle. “Mr. Ashdown, you’re clear on the gun, but a little advice. A person in your legal situation is going to want to cross his t’s.”
“Sure,” Byron said.
“‘Yes, sir’ is good enough,” Dalton said, then he removed the cuffs and walked back to his car, got in, and switched off the lights.
___
Dalton waited for the turquoise pickup truck to drive off, then he followed it to the light, where it turned north, then turned again into the grocery store parking lot. There were only seven thousand people in the county, so Dalton recognized the brothers, but he only knew bits and pieces of their story. They were Ashdowns. The short one was a prodigal and a cipher. The taller one was more familiar but still mostly someone who kept to the sidelines.
Dalton turned south and drove to the public safety building, turning his thoughts to the moving parts of the Bruce Cluff suicide. He knew Bruce was always fighting with the Bureau of Land Management and the Park Service about something, and he knew Bruce had a reputation with collectors. He was retired and set for money after he sold his dental practice, so he didn’t do anything he didn’t want to. If Bruce took his own life, it came from a secret he wouldn’t want to face in a town that knew everything about everybody.
When Dalton pulled into the public safety building, Stan Forsythe, the editor of the Red Rock Times, was leaning against the wall next to the front doors in running shoes, with a purple golf shirt tight across his belly. There was one pair of glasses on his head, another on his face, and a third hanging from a cord around his neck. Stan straightened up when he saw Dalton pull in, which made Dalton want to back out and leave, but as he put the car in gear, another car drove in slowly behind him and tried to park in the spot alongside his. The car stopped and adjusted and started again and adjusted, then started again, boxing Dalton in.
He got out and walked toward Forsythe, who moved into his path.
“Sheriff?” Forsythe said. “There was some pretty interesting chatter on the shortwaves last night. I’ve got questions.”
“About?”
“Don’t play coy with me.”
“I don’t even know what that means, Stan. Some kind of goldfish, right?”
“You’re a riot. But why don’t you ask yourself why a man Cluff’s age would off himself?”
“Been asking that question for the last twenty-four hours.”
“So, you’re confirming it’s a suicide?” Forsythe said, lowering his head so he could see over his glasses. He pulled a small notepad from his pocket.
Dalton massaged both of his eyes and said, “You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Yoo-hoo!” a voice called out from behind them. “Sheriff Dalton, yoo-hoo!” It was Janey Gladstone. He turned around and saw her coming toward him in a large-brimmed straw hat and gigantic round sunglasses. She was wrapped in a flowing paisley gown that settled around her when she stopped moving.
“If you don’t give me something, people will just make up whatever they want and send it out on social media. You won’t be able to get that genie back in the bottle. The internet is dry grass and people are setting off fireworks,” Forsythe said.
“Sheriff?” Mrs. Gladstone said. “What are we going to do? It’s all so horrible.”
Dalton spun around. “What are we going to do about what?” Dalton said, turning again to make sure he knew where Forsythe was.
“About Bruce and Raylene. Mostly Raylene. I mean Bruce is, well . . . there’s nothing to be done.”
Forsythe raised his eyebrows to say, that’s what I’m talking about.
Dalton tried to get to the door, but Forsythe stepped in front of him like a defensive end. He sort of wished he could handcuff the guy to the flagpole.
Mrs. Gladstone said, “I could go to the house and help clean up.”
“No, Janey. You can’t do that.”
“It wouldn’t be any trouble, Sheriff. I know where Raylene keeps the—”
“It’s a crime scene, Janey. The investigators will be there all day.”
“That’s good. They need to be thorough. But eventually she’ll need some things.”
“I think she’s covered for today. Please don’t go to the house.”
“Janey, the sheriff doesn’t think we should know what’s going on,” Forsythe said.
“That’s not it.”
“Oh, Sheriff, everybody knows,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “It doesn’t take long.”
“
Look, both of you. Somebody is going to give a statement, but it’s not going to be right now, and it’s not going to be me who does it.”
“Oh, this is all too much,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “Our little town. What makes a person so sad?”
“People are thinking this suicide might be connected to the Feds coming back to shake people down for the artifacts they’ve collected fair and square. Once bitten, twice shy, Sheriff,” Forsythe said.
“Look, don’t print that, okay? People are amped up enough already. Last thing we need is one of your don’t-tread-on-me rallies. This has nothing to do with federal overreach. And it would be a great idea if you wouldn’t stir the pot.”
“A free press keeps the windows of democracy from getting fogged up,” Forsythe said.
Dalton’s shoulders drooped. “I’m not going down that road with you.”
“It’s a shame when people are so scared of their own government. Cluff didn’t do anything wrong. He just collected arrowheads and pots and whatnot. He didn’t steal anything, but I’ll bet he was getting heat over it.”
“Nobody is investigating Bruce Cluff for stealing artifacts, Stan. I need you to be the kind of person who won’t say that.”
“But it’s happened before. That guy in Page. He had a collection just like Bruce’s. And when the system got through with him, he was dead. It’s still an open wound. Last time I checked, the Constitution still has the Fourth and Fifth Amendments.”
“Nobody’s getting investigated for pot hunting,” Dalton said.
“Stanton, which one is the Fourth?” Mrs. Gladstone asked.
“Illegal search and seizure,” Forsythe said, pushing up his glasses with a middle finger.
“Oh well, people shouldn’t search and seize if it’s illegal,” she said.
“Very true, Janey,” Forsythe said. “Who watches the watchmen?”
Dalton pulled himself out of a slouch and adjusted his belt and holster. “Would it be okay if I went in and got to work?”
“It’s a free country,” Forsythe said.
“I would just like to help with the effort,” Mrs. Gladstone said. “Nobody will tell me where I can find Raylene. Maybe LaRae will.” She pushed past Dalton and headed inside the building. He considered chasing after her but didn’t.
Dalton leaned into Forsythe’s space. He could see the beads of sweat on Stan’s brow. “So help me, Stan, this is not a puppet show.”
Dalton pushed past Forsythe and went into the building. When he came to the reception area, he found Mrs. Gladstone with her bracelets draped across the high desk. LaRae was on the phone with her free hand resting lightly on Mrs. Gladstone’s wrist. As he passed, he heard LaRae tell her that she would ask when they would allow Raylene to have visitors.
As Dalton opened his office door, his phone buzzed. He dug it out of his pocket and saw that it was a text from his ex-wife, Karen: I DON’T SEE THAT YOU’VE LISTED THE HOUSE YET. Three bouncing dots followed. He sat in his chair and waited. The only thing that remained of their marriage was the final paperwork. Her text balloon appeared: THE GIRLS AND I ARE STUCK AT MY PARENTS’ HOUSE UNTIL YOU GET THIS DONE.
She moved out right after Christmas, and a month later she came back for the kids. These ongoing conversations seemed like pathetic cartoons. He thought about the right response. What he wanted to say was that he didn’t want to sell the house, and since she’d taken everything else, maybe she could leave him something. Maybe it would be enough to remind her that he was a person with responsibilities and his work schedule didn’t leave much time for real estate.
His feelings swarmed around the situation. After he came home, the VA doctor gave him some meds for anxiety, but they threw him the wrong direction, sent him into a hellscape, where it felt like somebody else was driving him around with a remote control. He’d bolt awake in the night, babbling, thinking through all the possible scenarios. Waking up dead didn’t seem like the worst problem. Somebody might see suicide as a solution, but he didn’t see how you’d follow through. Plenty of vets did. Guys he knew. You’d have to be determined to do it, and in a way, you’d also have to believe in something on the other side.
He picked up the phone and typed: BRUCE CLUFF KILLED HIMSELF ON SUNDAY. He watched the message change from “delivered” to “read,” then he flipped the phone over and opened the email app on his computer. As his inbox number ascended, he had the feeling that before too long his office wall would be covered with photos, and he’d be connecting them with a ridiculous piece of red string.
___
Sophia stretched awake like a house cat, with a block of sunlight painted across her face and the thin plastic blinds clacking against the interior of the trailer. Birdsong filled the trees. She enjoyed the moment, then her eyes flew open. She grabbed her phone and knocked her UNESCO book to the floor. It was seven thirty. Should have been gone two hours ago.
She tore through the trailer like a cyclone, gathering her sunglasses, multi-tool, water bottle, first aid kit, sunscreen, hat, bandanna, notebook, and camera bag. When she burst through the trailer door, she nearly crushed a small brown paper sack sitting on the rubber mat in front of the folding steps. She stopped and looked across the way to Mrs. Gladstone’s trailer and saw that her car was gone. She picked up the bag and opened it. Inside was a tuna salad sandwich on square wheat bread wrapped in plastic, a soft red apple with a brown gouge near the bottom, and a little bag of four Fig Newtons. There was also a note, written on an old card with a drawing of two wispy-haired babies hugging under an umbrella. Across the top it read FRIENDSHIP IS FOR KEEPS. She opened it.
Sophia, here is a lunch for you, honey. I’m sorry I wasn’t around, but I had to leave early today to see after my friend, Raylene, who lost her husband. Wake me up when you get home, so I know you’re okay. ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ Janey
Sophia lifted her eyes and saw Mikros pacing back and forth in one of the windows of Mrs. Gladstone’s trailer and could faintly hear her yap-growling.
She took the lunch and her backpack and placed them in the bed of the government-issued pickup she had been given for the duration of the grant. It was the plainest kind of vehicle possible. She got in and drove to the BLM depot and fueled up, then she continued to the grocery store. On the way into the parking lot, a turquoise F-250 cut in front of her, the driver flipping her off. She slammed on the brakes and honked, but he gunned the engine and shot in front of her, throwing a cloud of black smoke into the air, half of the truck rolling over the curb as it hit the street.
When her fury passed, she thought about how she’d have to cut corners today to get to the sites she had to measure. It was too far to make two trips, so she’d have to work late, cover everything, and drive back in the dark.
She thought about how she was all by herself in Utah, while her friends from school were doing high-profile fieldwork in Angkor Wat, Cyprus, Peru, and the Gambia. Of course, they hadn’t sparred in public with a visiting scholar over cultural nationalism and UNESCO’s World Heritage Site designations. During the seminar, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal. Her friends cheered her on. But when her advisor, Dr. Songetay, pulled her aside after the seminar to ask if she really had to call the visitor’s work McHeritage, her heart sank.
“Was that an incorrect assessment?” Sophia defended herself.
“No, but it was unwise,” he said. “You can’t just hand people the tools they’ll use to take you apart.”
“Truth to power,” she quipped.
“Well, okay,” he sighed, “I’m an Ojibwe anthropologist, so trust me when I say I’ve seen how this plays out. You spoke truth to a guy who sits on the UNESCO executive board. Nobody is going to back your Jordan site impact proposal now. I don’t like it any better than you do, but now you’re a loose cannon. People won’t risk that kind of trouble.”
“Not even you?” she asked.
Dr. Songetay looked away and shook his head. “Maybe there’s something you can do domestically, for the Park Service or BLM or
something. I know some people working in Utah. I’ll do what I can.”
Mrs. Gladstone was so caught up in the idea of getting into the right kind of trouble, but Sophia was starting to believe there was only one kind. She parked and grabbed the lunch Mrs. Gladstone had given her and tossed the tuna sandwich into the garbage can outside the store. She thought about keeping the apple, but it was soft, so she tossed it, too. She might have saved a little time skipping this side trip, but she wasn’t going to make a bad day worse by having crummy food.
She moved quickly through the tiny market, picking up a bag of beef jerky, an unblemished Fuji apple, two cans of iced tea, a box of granola bars in green wrappers, and a bag of ice. For breakfast she grabbed a sleeve of powdered sugar donuts, then traded it for a sleeve of chocolate ones, then traded back again. She paid and transferred the ice, tea, and apple into a cooler that already held three jugs of water. She drove south, out of town, past the public safety building and the BLM offices. A few minutes later, she crossed from Utah into Arizona, then a few miles later, she turned onto the Antelope Valley road, the red rock bluffs in her rearview mirror and the unfenced long-grass plains ahead. Forty miles beyond that, at the horizon, a dark stone terrace separated the high hollow sky from the planet’s curve.
She had maps and a GPS, but after weeks crisscrossing a million acres, never going to the same site twice, she felt herself growing more and more comfortable navigating on her own. The distances were vast, but she was learning how to measure them by feeling the increments. She would meditate on the high school math of it: distance, rate, and time. The miles she’d already driven this morning would have taken her from Princeton to Baltimore, but she’d only cleared a few small desert towns and only just left the pavement behind. The land here was as wide and open as every cowboy song said it was, the sky immense and impossibly still. The singularity of the colors overwhelmed her, though she thought she might actually be starting to understand it.
Shortly after she had arrived in the spring, she switched from listening to music to audiobooks. The distances were too great to be measured in three-minute pop songs. Books, especially the very longest ones, put time and space into their proper proportions. She began with a memoir about women and wilderness but soon found she wanted something with a patina, so she tried Willa Cather, which was perfect for a time, but when the narration and the landscape and her work all blended together, she quit that book and decided to stay in the past but move across the Atlantic. At this point in the summer, she drove with Thomas Hardy. She was the most comfortable with a story that did not duplicate her day.
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