China Lake

by Meg Gardiner

  Jesse said, ‘‘Yeah, you have to watch it or the chair drags you to the bottom.’’ He waited a beat, ensuring that Brian was disconcerted. ‘‘And you would not believe how rough things get in the wheelchair diving competition.’’

  There was a stuffed alligator on the wall. I wanted to stick my head inside its jaws and tell the waiter to snap them shut.

  Afterward, Brian was riled with me for being riled with him. ‘‘It was a legitimate assumption.’’

  ‘‘It was stereotyping. Jesus, wheelchair basketball? Get a clue.’’

  ‘‘The guy has a chip on his shoulder the size of Nebraska.’’

  ‘‘Maybe you just bring out the worst in him.’’

  ‘‘Right. Leaving the restaurant he says, ‘Stick with me; you’ll get the best parking spots.’ ’’ I stifled a laugh. He said, ‘‘He’s a riot. Human napalm. Just watch that he doesn’t start turning his grudges on you.’’

  Now Brian stood at the sink, scrubbing a pan that was already clean, hot water turning his hands pink.

  I said, ‘‘Brian, nobody is trying to take your place in Luke’s life. Nobody ever could.’’

  The skin on his face was tight. ‘‘I know you mean it. But you have no idea how hard it is, no idea at all, what it’s been like to spend this year ten time zones away from my little boy.’’ He dried his hands, threw the towel on the counter. ‘‘No idea.’’

  Luke hung up the phone and bounced into the kitchen. ‘‘You know the dead whale? Jesse told me they pulled it off the beach with a boat, only these two guys on Jet Skis wanted to see it up close, and crashed into it.’’ His eyes were popping. ‘‘Blubber all over them.’’

  Clearly it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Brian said, ‘‘That’s great.’’ He shooed Luke out, telling him to go get ready for the movie.

  He said, ‘‘Ev, I can never repay you for taking care of him this year. If it hadn’t been for you, I would have been totally lost. But I’m here now, and I have to deal with this situation. So we’re going to do things my way.’’

  He checked that Luke was out of sight, and went out to the Mustang. He came back with a brown paper package in his hand. ‘‘This is for you.’’

  He unwrapped it. It was a pistol.

  ‘‘Where’d you get that?’’

  ‘‘Go on, take it.’’

  ‘‘Forget it. That thing’s not legal.’’

  He pushed it toward me. ‘‘You want protection? This is it.’’

  I raised my hands to ward it off, shook my head, and turned on my heel. He said, ‘‘Evan, don’t be stupid, ’’ and that did it. I headed for the door.

  ‘‘Forget the movie. I’m not going.’’ I went out, slamming the door behind me. He yanked it open and followed me outside.

  ‘‘No, Brian. I’m not taking it.’’

  ‘‘Evan!’’

  That was when I felt my car keys in my pocket. Without another word to him I hopped in the Explorer and gunned backward out of the driveway.

  I can only wonder what would have happened if I had stayed.

  I headed for the boulevard, radio blaring, head pounding. Don’t be stupid. I accelerated. Above me arched the night sky, gravid with stars. They were numberless, shockingly bright, with that diamond clarity you can see only in the desert. How dared he? How dared Brian try to bend my life to suit his views? His own life was swirling around the rim of the toilet.

  Before I knew it I found myself outside the Lobo, the bar Abbie Hankins had told me about. The gravel parking lot was filled with pickup trucks. The marquee promised, GOOD STEAKS LIVE MUSIC. Sharply amplified rock ’n’ roll boomed through the door. I had twenty bucks in my back pocket. I parked and headed in.

  The place was packed, the dance floor hopping. The room smelled like eau de Budweiser. The color scheme was neon beer sign and cigarette smoke, the dress code Harley-Davidson T-shirts or Western wear, with silver belt buckles the size of land mines. In the back, cue balls cracked at the pool tables. The band was hammering through ‘‘Brown Sugar’’ with rough, seductive energy.

  The ‘‘good steaks’’ claim was false advertising. What the Lobo offered was that Friday night small-town thrill: ninety-nine-cent pitchers and an insistent back-beat.

  Just what I needed.

  From the pool tables came a call. ‘‘Hey, woman!’’

  Through the smoke I saw Abbie, vivid in a hot-pink T-shirt, waving a pool cue in the air like a battle standard. I worked my way toward her. Bent over the table next to her was a big man with chestnut hair and thick glasses. He fired off a shot, banging a ball into a side pocket.

  Over the music Abbie shouted, ‘‘My husband, Wally.’’

  He shook my hand. He had a kindly face, with proportions that reminded me of a Saint Bernard, and I could picture him in his dentist’s office, soothing anxious kids, revving his drill.

  Abbie said, ‘‘Let me finish this game.’’ Pushing her glasses up her nose, she strode around analyzing the configuration of balls in front of her, chalked her cue, and proceeded to run the table. When she stretched across the green felt to slam home her final shot, Wally said, ‘‘Shit!’’ and walked away.

  She threw back her head and laughed. ‘‘He’s always the same, a total two-year-old unless he wins.’’ She waved me toward a table. ‘‘But he’s a maniac in bed, and I get free dental.’’

  Back in school she had been wild, willing to try anything, usually when she was slick with chemical lubrication. This was how she had settled down.

  Dropping onto a chair, she said, ‘‘So, what’s your story? What did you do after I got you into trouble senior year? You a drag racer, or hairstylist, a nun, what?’’

  The music thumped through the bar, the band now into ‘‘Sweet Child o’ Mine.’’ I said, ‘‘I’m a writer.’’

  She slapped the table. ‘‘How cool is that! Anything famous?’’

  Wally came over holding three beers. ‘‘Good game, killer.’’

  ‘‘Honeybear, Evan’s a writer.’’

  ‘‘No kidding,’’ he said. ‘‘Have I heard of you?’’

  This question is inevitably a prelude to my embarrassment. Still, when he asked what I’d written I told him Lithium Sunset.

  ‘‘No. Really?’’ I nodded. He leaned back and called to a man at the bar, ‘‘Chet! This is the gal who wrote Lithium Sunset.’’

  Chet was a chemical engineer in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, and he had friends, rocket scientists. They crowded around the table. They had questions.

  ‘‘The mutants. When they hunt underground, do they use echolocation?’’

  ‘‘Why doesn’t the rebel girl use her psychokinesis to blow up the armory?’’

  ‘‘The girl, Rowan?’’ said Chet. ‘‘She’s hot.’’

  Well, what do you know? I had a following in high-desert cowboy bars. I drank my beer and started feeling better.

  Wally said, ‘‘Where’d you come up with the title?’’

  ‘‘It’s a reference to nuclear detonation.’’

  ‘‘Right,’’ Chet said. ‘‘From the fuel used to ignite the thermonuclear burn.’’

  ‘‘Ah.’’ ‘‘Of course.’’ The rocket men nodded to one another.

  I said, ‘‘It’s a metaphor for endings, and—’’

  ‘‘But your description’s inaccurate. Modern fusion devices don’t use pure lithium in the secondary.’’

  Rocket One pointed at me with the neck of his beer bottle. ‘‘And the explosion isn’t a sunset, more a big puking dawn, spewing thermal radiation and gamma rays.’’

  ‘‘To be precise,’’ said Chet, ‘‘you should call it Lithium-deuteride Sunrise.’’

  ‘‘Oh, right.’’

  ‘‘Definitely.’’

  ‘‘You writing any more stories where Rowan gets it on with a guy?’’

  ‘‘Boys!’’ Abbie said. ‘‘Scram!’’

  They left two beers later. By then I had taken turns dancing with them, and with Wally, and with
Abbie, jostling around the dance floor while the band raged through ‘‘Livin’ La Vida Loca.’’ By the time I left the bar Abbie’s cheeks were bright from alcohol and laughter. She gave me a hard hug, telling me good-bye with a wistful look, as though we’d left something unfinished.

  Halfway across the parking lot I heard her calling my name. She was trotting toward me, running stiffly on her battered knee. The marquee lights illuminated her blond hair. She screwed up her face.

  ‘‘Shoot, I didn’t say this earlier because I’m too ornery to admit my mistakes. I want to apologize for getting you arrested that time. I shouldn’t have made light of it.’’

  ‘‘Accepted. Thanks, Abbie.’’

  She hugged me. ‘‘Don’t wait fifteen years to visit China Lake again.’’

  So, nostalgia can not only be exhumed, but exorcised. I watched her head back toward the bar, glad that I had come tonight. Two women stumbled out the door, laughing wildly. They waylaid her with effusive greetings. Turning, I walked toward my car, flicking off the alarm with the remote control.

  I stopped. The Explorer was scrawled bumper-to-bumper with spray paint. Runny red letters, two feet tall. Bitch. Whore. Liar. Snitch.

  Bile rose up my throat. A rear door screamed, Blow job. The tailgate said, Doggy sty— That one trailed off with a smear, suggesting that the vandal had been interrupted before spraying -le. Either that, or we were talking about an obscure insult that I didn’t understand.

  In the darkness, muffled beneath the music, I heard an engine start. I turned and kicked a spray can. Across the road a vehicle pulled away fast, its taillights receding to hot red pinpricks. I picked up the can. It reeked of paint fumes, and I put it inside the back of the car. Evidence, as if the police would care. I looked around the parking lot, hoping someone had seen what happened. The only other people out here were Abbie and the two women, walking back to the bar along the far side of a row of trucks, deep in giddy conversation.

  Abruptly they stopped. I heard, ‘‘Oh, my hell.’’

  ‘‘Abbie, hold still. Don’t move.’’

  ‘‘Look at it; something’s wrong with it.’’

  I heard growling.

  ‘‘Abbie, it can sense fear. Hold still.’’

  After that it happened quickly. Abbie turned, ran, and flew off her feet, struck from behind. She fell from sight and started screaming.

  I ran toward her, through the row of vehicles, and pulled up with a gasp. She was down, balled up with her hands over her face, and a coyote was tearing at the sleeve of her shirt.

  One of the women screamed, ‘‘It’s killing her!’’

  And I had left the damned gun at Brian’s house.

  I yelled, ‘‘Run into the bar. Get help.’’

  I picked up a rock and threw it. Missed. The coyote sawed its head back and forth on Abbie’s arm. She kept on screaming. I found another rock, took aim this time, and hit the coyote in the face. It flinched and released Abbie’s arm. It looked up at me, its head low and tilted to one side, its eyes psychedelic gold in the light of the marquee. I thought I was going to wet my pants. Its muzzle was lathered with foam.

  Abbie tried to inch away, but it crouched and snarled at her. She froze.

  Dry-mouthed, I willed my arms to wave at the animal. ‘‘That’s it, look at me. Look over here. This way.’’ I glanced toward the bar. The band was blaring ‘‘Hollywood Nights.’’ Where the hell was help? I said, ‘‘That’s right, you stupid dog. Look at me.’’

  It did. It raised its head and started padding toward me. I took a step back.

  ‘‘No. Stay. Stay.’’

  The sound of gunfire cracked the night air, and I jumped. The coyote dropped to the ground. A man walked past me toward it, pointing a pistol at it. People began rushing out of the bar. Abbie stood up, holding her arm, grimacing.

  Wally broke through the crowd. ‘‘Oh, Abs . . .’’

  Blood seeped from between her fingers. She looked at me in shock, and then Wally led her inside, saying, ‘‘Watch out. She’s hurt.’’

  People crowded around the fallen coyote. The shooter stepped back, and I recognized him—the square jaw and supreme self-possession. It was the pilot who had flirted with me at the gas station in Mojave, Garrett.

  I said, ‘‘Is it dead?’’

  He nodded distractedly. ‘‘That’s no regular coyote.’’ He looked at me. ‘‘I saw the way you drew it off of her. That was righteous.’’

  ‘‘It was rabid,’’ I said.

  Men were meddling with the carcass, muttering comments. ‘‘Look at the size of that thing.’’ ‘‘What is it, part wolf?’’ They rolled the animal over to see where the shot had landed, grabbing paws and turning.

  I said, ‘‘Don’t touch it.’’

  Laughter. One man said, ‘‘Honey, dogs don’t bite once they’re dead.’’ To prove it, he lifted the head by the scruff. When he saw the lather around the mouth he dropped the coyote and jumped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. They all did.

  9

  When I returned to Brian’s house the wind was rattling through the trees, and shadows jousted on his lawn under the sickly yellow glow of a sodium street-light. Wally had taken Abbie to the emergency room. I had come straight home, deciding to report the vandalism to my Explorer in the morning, when sunlight would dispel the fear that was greasing the recesses of my mind.

  The lights in the house were off. Brian and Luke must have gone for ice cream after the movie. I exhaled, knowing I needed to declare a truce with Brian, cool things down.

  The front door was wide open. I stopped in the center of the lawn. ‘‘Hello?’’

  No response. The interior of the house was an inky void. I got out my cell phone, about to call the police, but I didn’t want to put out a false alarm. My pulse was pinging in my ears.

  From the depths of the ink, light flickered. Flashlights? I dialed 911.

  ‘‘I have a prowler.’’ What was that light? Not flashlights—their beams would have been white and directional, and this flickered yellow.

  ‘‘It’s a fire.’’ I started toward the door. ‘‘Send a truck, the house is on fire.’’ I broke into a run. ‘‘Brian! Luke!’’

  At the darkened doorway I stopped. Gut check. Every self-defense lecture I’d ever heard said Do Not Enter. I held my breath and reached inside, groping for the light switch.

  ‘‘Is anybody in here?’’ My hand hit the switch. The hallway and living room lit up, the walls seeming to leap at me. They were covered with red spray paint. The living room had been devastated. Everything was flipped, strewn, trashed. Words on the walls picked up the themes scrawled on my car. Faggot. Fascist. Devil. And something new: scriptural references. Mt. 4:8-9. Rev. 13:1, 4. Rev. 13:18.

  My breath came harshly. My muscles felt rigid. An orange reflection jittered across the back wall. I kicked the door hard to check that no one was hiding behind it. It cracked against the wall. I ran inside.

  ‘‘Brian!’’

  I ran down the hall, into the kitchen, and hit the lights. Nobody there. No fire. The flames were outside, in the back. I grabbed the fire extinguisher, ran to the sliding glass door that opened onto the back patio, and fumbled with the lock. The flames flickered brighter. Damn, how did this stupid door unlock? Through the curtain sheers I could see orange light reflecting off the back fence, and now I could hear a crackling sound. The door, the door! With a hard jerk it opened and I rushed outside, fire extinguisher up and aimed.

  The smoke hit me right away, and the heat. And the smell—garbage, plastics, old food. The trash can sat on the corner of the patio, flames jutting above its rim. The smoke roiled the darkness. Leaves spun and jerked into the air, yellow dimming to red. The trash can had been stuffed to overflowing with branches that stuck out above the top. The flames licked upward along two tree limbs, and for the life of me it looked like a burning bush. I sprayed it with the fire extinguisher. Powder shot out in a cold white cloud.

  The flames fell ba
ck and the heat broke in groping waves. The smell worsened—hot leather, rancid meat. Holding my breath, I inched forward. The extinguisher shoved away the smoke and revealed the fuel for the fire. My mind did a backflip, telling me, Uh-uh, that’s not what I’m seeing, not a chance in hell, bub.

  What I had taken for branches were cowboy boots, protruding upside down from the trash can. Scorched and smoldering, they were attached to legs, and I knew why the overwhelming smell was beef barbecued in Levi’s.

  Dropping the extinguisher, I stumbled backward, my hand covering my mouth, feeling that if I didn’t run, my skin and muscle would slough right off. I fled back through the house and crashed out the front door, knocking into the woman standing on the porch. She shouted, ‘‘Police!’’ but I couldn’t stop, kept going, and fell into the bushes, vomiting until I thought I’d choke.

  It was a long time before they brought out the black body bag on a stretcher. The police cars had turned off their flashing lights, and the drone from the fire department’s pumper truck had died. Firefighters were reeling in the hose that ran from the truck through the front door and out to the patio. Even the neighbors had begun to wander back to their homes. Only small groups of them remained, huddled in their pajamas and jackets, watching and pointing and speculating, along the edges of the light.

  I sat in the back of a China Lake police cruiser with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I felt cold, and very alone.

  Brian and Luke had not returned home.

  An officer approached, the woman I had careened into at the front door. It was the rangy China Lake cop with the big legs. Her name tag read, LAURA YELTOW. With her was Detective McCracken. His massive torso filled my field of vision.

  Yeltow said, ‘‘Do you know who the deceased is, Ms. Delaney?’’

  I felt as if something were ripping open inside, letting a cold wind blow through me. ‘‘No. I didn’t look.’’ I was too terrified to say that it might be my brother.

  The paramedics rolled the stretcher down the driveway, toward an ambulance waiting at the curb. I said, ‘‘Wait. I have to see who it is.’’

  I climbed out of the patrol car. Hesitated. ‘‘Is it . . . I mean, the fire . . .’’