Crosscut

by Meg Gardiner

  I tugged on Valerie’s arm. “Come on.”

  I ran. After a few seconds I heard her running behind me.

  We pummeled back down the trail. The wind funneled between the rocks, blowing smoke over us. I breathed through my mouth to shut out the smell. The light smeared red, and I glanced up to see smoke dimming the sun. And then I saw something worse. Cruising overhead was a military helicopter.

  I was so dead. Ms. Shepard was going to haul me away by the ear. And she’d call my parents. I streaked down the trail into the canyon, and stopped cold.

  The helicopter sat on the ground, rotors blowing sand. Ms. Shepard was herding my classmates onto the bus. Soldiers in camouflage had pulled Abbie and Tommy off to one side. Abbie looked ashamed.

  Busted.

  Valerie pounded into me from behind. She gasped at the sight of the helo. A soldier walked toward us.

  We were totally busted. Unless I could talk us out of trouble. And man, was I good at talking.

  “I can explain. I . . .”

  I felt blood running down my nose and over my top lip. I wiped it off and my hand came away bright red. Valerie gulped, looked at Ms. Shepard herding kids onto the bus, and pointed at me.

  “Nosebleed said we’d see the best drawings if we followed her.”

  My mouth fell open.

  Heads turned. The soldier, Ms. Shepard, and my entire class stared at me. The rock in my stomach began to burn. Valerie hugged herself and started to cry.

  “It’s not my fault.” She turned to me, lips quivering. “Why did you make me do it?”

  My fist went into her face.

  I swirled the wine in my glass. “Valerie blamed me for the face she grew into.” The one that ended up carrying so much weight. “Did I tell you she threatened to get a nose job and sue me to pay for it?”

  Jesse looked wry. “You could have claimed sovereign immunity.”

  A wolf whistle cut through the music. Across the room, a man stood with his hands in his pockets, grinning at me.

  “Here we go,” Jesse said.

  I laughed and waved. “Tommy.”

  He was still a whippet. He was wearing a bowling shirt, the first time since graduation I had seen him in something besides motocross leathers. His brown eyes gleamed from beneath a ridiculous porkpie hat. He tipped it back, cool as ever.

  He sauntered over, chewing gum, and slapped my hand into a soul shake. “Hey, Rocky.”

  “You’re looking smooth,” I said.

  He pulled up his sleeve, revealing a nicotine patch. “Dawning of a new era.”

  “The tobacco companies are going to go bankrupt.” Smiling, I introduced Jesse. “Freedom fighter or my boyfriend, depending on your point of view.”

  Tommy shook his hand. “Cool. What is it you do, exactly?”

  “Take on the Man, mostly. You?”

  “I am the Man.” He chewed his gum. “Detective with the China Lake Police Department.”

  Jesse’s face was worth the drive.

  At the far end of the club Ceci Lezak climbed up on the bandstand, shushed the band, and stepped to the mike. “All righty. Before the festivities get too lively, we have a few awards.”

  Lively meant the football team was drinking Cuervo shots and we had less than an hour before chairs started flying. Ceci smoothed her ruffles into submission.

  “We want to mark some milestones in our lives. All this is in the Dog Days Update, but I want to make special mention of a few people.”

  Tommy leaned toward me. “You punched anybody out tonight?”

  I laughed. Jesse watched, his face enigmatic. He had nothing to be jealous of. Tommy had always been my crush, not vice versa. Homecoming was one of three dates we went on. He never stuck with a girl for more than a few weeks.

  Ceci read from a note card. “Four couples have been married for thirteen years, so we had to get down to anniversary dates.” Her voice sounded tight. “Congratulations to the longest-married graduates, Wally and Abbie Hankins.”

  In the center of the room Abbie whooped and thrust her arms in the air.

  Ceci flipped to the next card. “The award for the grad with the most children goes to Tommy Chang, with five.”

  The football team stomped on the floor and slapped their hands on tables, hooting, “Yeah!” I turned to him in surprise.

  He popped another stick of gum in his mouth. “Two sets of twins. And two ex-wives. You see why I can’t afford to smoke anymore.”

  “The grad who still lives closest to campus is . . . me.” Awkward laughter from the crowd. “And the award for the classmate who’s come the farthest to the reunion?”

  Beside me, I heard, “Oh, shit.”

  “Let’s have a round of applause. All the way from Canada, Jesse Blackburn.”

  By ten p.m. the pineapple weenies had given way to a cake the size of a sofa, topped with a plastic basset hound and Gone huntin’ written in green icing. Up on the bandstand a quartet of classmates had slung on electric guitars, and Stace Wilkins and Bo Krause were playing increasingly drunken guitar solos. When they launched into “Pissing in the Wind,” Abbie jumped up and pulled Wally onto the dance floor.

  Near the door, Ceci was wrestling a display into place on an easel. My gaze slid past her, but an odd tic of emotion drew my eye back to a woman who had just come in.

  She was by herself, and she was sick. She seemed as frail as paper and carried herself with care, as though the slightest touch would bruise her. Under the disco ball her hair shone brassy brown. It was a wig. Her eyes were hot in an alabaster face. She gazed around the room expectantly, but nobody said hello to her.

  People sometimes treated Jesse the same way, and few things made me angrier. I headed across the club. I might fumble for words, but that was better than ignoring her.

  I extended my hand. “Evan Delaney. You’ll have to forgive me for not recognizing you.”

  She was so pale that her skin was nearly translucent. I could see blue veins in her temples. Her hand was chilly.

  “Hey, Nosebleed.”

  My lips parted, but something had nailed my tongue to the floor of my mouth. I read her name tag. Valerie Skinner.

  Her voice was a rasp, slurred at the edges. She pointed to her head. “Brain thing. Messes up my speech.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” I said. “Really sorry.”

  “Sure you are. You like my new look?” Turning her head, she showed me her profile. “I’ll send you the bill for the nose job. The weight loss has a downside, but at least I’ll die thin.”

  “You look . . .”

  “Don’t sweat it. Close your mouth; flies are getting stuck in your teeth.”

  Luckily, I had laminated a smile to my face before coming over. Otherwise I would have looked like The Scream.

  She gazed around. “Time to get a drink and hold court. This is my last chance to get these rubes bowing at my feet.” Her smile was self-aware. “Once a diva, always a diva.”

  She walked off with the cautious gait of an octogenarian. I wanted to run straight to a Catholic church and confess my sins to a priest.

  Ceci sidled up. At length she said, “Is it a tumor?”

  I frowned, galled that she would put it so baldly. “I didn’t see the X-rays.”

  She twisted her hands together. “I just thought . . . you’ve been talking to him all night; maybe he told you what’s wrong.”

  “Say again?”

  She nodded across the room at Jesse. “The wheelchair—does he have cancer?”

  “Broken back. A car ran him down. Why would you think—”

  “Good.” She relaxed. “We don’t need to add any more names to the list.”

  But she continued twisting her hands, gazing at the display she had just set up. It was labeled, Hound Heaven.

  “Excuse me, Ceci.”

  I walked over to it. Under the caption, “In Fond Memory,” Ceci had tacked up photos, remembrances, and newspaper obituaries. I gazed at them, feeling a tingling in my fingers.<
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  Jesse rolled up beside me. “Ev?”

  I continued gazing at the display. After a moment he leaned back.

  “Jesus,” he said. “What happened, a sniper in the clock tower?”

  Billy D’Amato. Car crash.

  Shannon Gruber. Pneumonia.

  Teddy Horowitz. Aircraft accident aboard the USS Nimitz.

  Linda Garcia. Long illness.

  Sharlayne Jackson. Complications of childbirth.

  I put a hand to my head.

  Marcy Yakulski. Auto accident. Pinned next to Marcy’s photo was an article from the Cincinnati Enquirer: Four Die in Fiery Crash.

  Cancer.

  Long illness.

  Exposure.

  Jesse shot me a look. “You may want to think about carrying a good-luck charm.”

  Light caromed off the disco ball, flickering over the names on the board. I read the last name and felt a sick headache spiraling up.

  Dana West, RN. Surgical nurse. Died in a hospital fire.

  “I have to get out of here.” I rushed for the door, queasy and desperate for fresh air.

  The Mustang roared up Highway 395 heading north out of town, headlights swallowing the road. I kept the pedal down.

  “I knew Dana West. The nurse who died,” I said.

  I knew all the other names on the memorial board, but Dana West’s face stayed with me. She had a warm smile, a laugh that cut through the lunch line in the cafeteria, and an ease about comforting anybody who was in pain. She’d lived three houses down from me. Jesse put his hand on the back of my neck.

  “A hospital fire. She died on duty. This bitch universe, sometimes I . . .”

  I ran the back of my hand across my eyes. Twelve classmates were gone. And Valerie Skinner was going to be next.

  The desert night was radically still, the sky a black sail scooped full of stars. The road climbed over open country and, though it had been fifteen years, the rise and the twist in the road presented themselves to me as gifts. I pushed it up to the summit and found the turnout.

  We were at the top of a natural amphitheater, looking west toward the Sierras. Far in the distance, the lights of Lone Pine clung to the flat. The silence was complete. I got out and walked around to Jesse’s side.

  He opened his door. “Give me a hand? I left my hiking gear at home.”

  He could walk a bit, but hadn’t brought his crutches. I faced him, and when he stood up in the doorway we locked forearms. Even bracing him, I savored the moment; I loved having him tall. He still had the lithe swimmer’s frame that had brought him a couple of national titles and a spot on the U.S. world championship team. He made it the two feet to the back of the car and pulled himself up to sit on the trunk.

  The sky was spread with white fire. The dark wall of the Sierras soared above us. I leaned back against him.

  “Dad brought me out here the day after I punched Valerie in the nose.”

  I’d thought my life was ruined. I was suspended from school and my parents had grounded me. All I wanted to do was cringe in my room with the covers over my head. Instead, my father ordered me into the car, drove me up to this empty rise, and taught me how to shoot a gun.

  Dad was a lean man with an Oklahoma drawl and cropped hair gone the color of ice, and he talked while he set up a row of tin cans and loaded Grandpa’s old shotgun.

  “There’s anger, and then there’s defending yourself. Yesterday was about anger, which is why you’re suffering consequences.”

  He showed me how to nestle the stock against my shoulder and to sight the target down the barrel.

  “But don’t ever kowtow to bullies. I’m proud that you stood up for yourself. You just went about it the wrong way. Both eyes open, Kit. And watch out for the kick.”

  I aimed at the cans and fired. The sound rattled through my skull. We looked.

  “You killed that cactus. Dead.” He took the shotgun and reloaded. “When you go back to school, don’t be ashamed. Take your licks and move on.”

  “Can’t I just be invisible? I’d settle for that.”

  He stopped loading shells. “Never settle. Not you, Kit. Not ever.”

  Now I stared across the night. Jesse wrapped his arms around my waist.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “Everything turned around. When my suspension was up I went back to school and nobody messed with me.” I laughed weakly. “Except for Valerie. But I knew I could stand up to her, and I had friends who stood with me. I didn’t settle for staying out of her way.”

  “Settle isn’t a word I connect with you. Surrender, give up—none of those words either.”

  I wrapped my hands around his. Behind us the moon rose, shimmering and huge. Its light ghosted down the slope across the valley and hit the granite wall of the mountains. On the summits, snowcaps luminesced.

  His voice went quiet. “I know it’s a blow, seeing how many of your classmates have died.”

  “Chance makes me angry.”

  “Nothing can grant you certainty. But I’ll fight to make sure your life never becomes a compromise.”

  It was more than reassurance. It was a promise and a dare. And it was closer to a proposal than I was ready to hear. I turned around and laid my hands across his shoulders. His eyes were deep blue in the moonlight.

  I gave him a nonanswer. I pressed my mouth to his and gave him a kiss.

  3

  Ceci Lezak loaded posters and the Hound Heaven display into her CR-V. It was hot and the wind was blowing. She was beyond tired. Beyond pissed off. Her nylons had run, and she wasn’t nearly drunk enough. Abbie Hankins had clung to Wally all night like a limpet. He hadn’t even complimented Ceci’s dress, and now the idiotic sequins had chafed her underarms.

  And on top of it all, she’d had to do twice the work at the party, thanks to Kelly Colfax.

  The wind blew sand across her face. This shitty little town.

  She was supposed to get out of here. For Christ’s sake, she’d been student council president. She wasn’t supposed to spend fifteen years scraping dried food off people’s teeth, feeling her life become as arid as China Lake with each passing year.

  She shoved the last of the posters into the car and slammed the hatchback. She knew what to do with all this shit. Give it to Kelly.

  It was one a.m. when she screeched into Kelly’s driveway. The garage door was up, and her headlights shone on the blue Miata parked inside. The lights were on in the living room, behind closed blinds. The stereo too. Having her own private party. Well, piss on Kelly Let-It-Slide Colfax. Ceci hauled the posters out of her CR-V, dumped them on the front porch, and rang the bell.

  Nobody answered. Her anger soured. She rang the bell again. Bitch, ignoring her. She walked to the front window.

  Kelly was in there, secretly laughing at her. Stumbling around drunk and disoriented, she bet, like at those last few reunion committee meetings. The blinds were clattering in the wind, and she could see slices of the inside of the house. Past the living room a corner of the kitchen was visible. A sack of groceries was spilled on the floor.

  Wind chimes rattled and the bushes scritched. She had the eerie feeling that something was not right. She knocked again and opened the door.

  “Kelly?”

  A gallon bottle of milk had broken and run across the floor. It was mixed with something else, red wine probably.

  This definitely wasn’t right. She crept inside, heading for the kitchen. “Kelly?”

  Beyond the spilled milk, something was heaped on the kitchen floor. It looked like a coil of sausages but was too messy and too huge to have come from the butcher’s. She smelled lye, and something worse. She took another step, peering around the end of the kitchen counter.

  After that, she was screaming.

  The moon was high when we drove back into town. Just past two a.m. we pulled into Hobo Joe’s, where the neon sign of the tramp is always lit and truckers, cops, and shift workers from the base can get hot coffee twenty-four hours a da
y. I grabbed my purse.

  “Want coffee?”

  Jesse spun the radio dial across long swaths of static. “Please. Large.”

  I was paying for two coffees when a police officer came through the door. His eyes were wary. He grabbed a coffee and stood behind me at the counter, sorting change in his palm. I nodded to him.

  “You on your own this morning?” His mouth was tense, his tone astringent.

  “No, my boyfriend’s in the car.”

  He glanced out at the Mustang. Slapping coins on the counter, he said, “You take care.”

  I followed him out, watching him walk to his patrol car. Jesse stuck an arm out the window and called to me, waving urgently. He looked back at the radio. I heard the news report.

  At eleven that morning we pulled into the class picnic at the recreation center on the base. The place was packed, the mood restless and gossipy. In a small town, bad news travels faster than an explosion.

  Jesse’s voice was chill. “My graduating class was twice as big as yours, and only two people have died since graduation. Now you’re up to thirteen. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  A covered patio overlooked a playground and baseball fields. On one of the picnic tables Jesse found a copy of the Dog Days Update, which contained What-I’ve-been-up-to entries from a number of people, plus class notes and obituaries. After reading for a minute he ran a hand through his hair.

  “It’s random. Car accident. Long illness. Another long illness.” He looked up. “What’s that a euphemism for these days? Not cancer, probably not even AIDS. Alcoholism?”

  “Within a few years of graduating high school? That would take intense effort.”

  Too late, I shut my mouth. Jesse’s younger brother had gone through detox at twenty-one.

  “Ain’t that the truth. Drugs?” he said.

  “Plausible.”

  “Exposure.” He looked at me, perplexed.

  “Definitely drugs. Chad Reynolds went out in the desert and OD’ed on downers. They found his body a month later.”

  “Childbirth.” He frowned. “That’s odd. I mean in this age, in the west.”