by Carol Snow
“Sounds like we’re going hiking.” I tried to sound enthusiastic. Hiking: terrific! Snakes, blisters, heat exhaustion—what could be better?
“Wear thick socks,” he advised.
He showed up at eleven o’clock, as planned. I was wearing the green blouse but had traded the white skirt for a pair of white jean shorts.
“You look nice,” he said, after kissing me hello.
“Thanks.”
“You might want to change into long pants, though.” I looked at his clothes. He was wearing tan cargo pants, bulky green and brown hiking boots, and a blue polo shirt.
“I don’t like to be hot,” I said as matter-of-factly and non-whiny as possible.
“Being hot is better than scraping your legs.”
That did it. I’d been stuck with cactus prickers before. Everyone in Arizona had. You didn’t have to rub up next to a jumping cholla to get poked; prickers blew onto pool decks, just waiting to skewer a soft, bare foot. They snuck into the house on pool towels, the better to stab an exposed back. To make it worse, they weren’t simple needles; they were little barbed spears that hurt at least as much coming out as they did going in, leaving behind a spot that remained tender and furiously itchy for hours.
Upstairs in my room, I retrieved a storage box from under my bed and rifled through the trousers that I hadn’t worn or thought about since last winter. My work pants were too dressy; my casual pants were too worn. Still determined to stick with my original look, I tried a pair of white pants only to remember why I never wore them: they were so thin that my underpants showed through. I thought I’d hit the jackpot with a comfortable old pair of khakis. Then I looked in the mirror and realized just how unflattering high-waisted, pleated-front pants really are.
I finally settled on jeans. I might drop dead from the heat, but at least I’d make a reasonably fashionable corpse.
As I checked myself one last time in the mirror, I grimaced with annoyance at the change in plans, and then I felt oddly freed. I’d been lying to Jonathan for so long for fear of losing him. But maybe he wasn’t so great, after all. What kind of nut would go hiking in this heat? Had living in the desert all his life permanently messed up his internal thermostat? Or was he simply too cheap to buy me lunch?
Fine, I thought. If the heat gets too bad and I just can’t stand it anymore, I’ll tell him the truth. If he says, just one more hill, just another half hour till the next water break, let’s see what’s up around the next bend, I will stop dead in my tracks, cross my arms over my chest and say, “Jonathan, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
There was a lightness in my step as I traipsed down the stairs. But then the weirdest thing happened. I looked at Jonathan sitting on the couch, one booted foot resting on the opposite knee, his head bent over one of my mother’s Sunset magazines. When he heard me on the stairs, he looked up and smiled, and it was like the bottom fell out of my stomach, like suddenly my feet couldn’t move fast enough and I couldn’t hold him soon enough.
He dropped the magazine on the coffee table and strode over to the foot of the stairs. I stopped on the bottom step, which left me at eye level with him. I put my arms around his neck, and he pulled me gently toward him.
He tasted like peppermint toothpaste and smelled of Copper-tone. I buried my face in his neck and breathed deeply before returning to his lips. Our bodies relaxed into each other. After a minute or so, we stopped kissing and held each other tight. “We should get going,” he murmured.
“If you say so.” I looked into his eyes, and the bottom dropped out of my stomach again, as much from fear as desire. I would do anything for this man, I suddenly realized. Even climb a mountain in a hundred degrees. Even wear uncomfortable clothes. Even pretend to be someone else.
We headed north to Cave Creek. It was a bit cooler there, maybe ninety-five degrees to Scottsdale’s one hundred. Then Jonathan turned his car west, and I brightened further: maybe we were going to the outlets?
We were heading away from civilization, but civilization had a way of hanging on. Just as the houses grew farther apart, the open stretches more plentiful, bam! We’d come across another crowded cluster of red-roofed houses, another stucco strip mall under construction. How many Targets does a population need? How many Linens ’n Things, how many Best Buys? Well, a lot, I realized. All the brand-new Spanish houses were filled with brand-new beds in need of sheets and multiple bathrooms in need of towels. Their sitting rooms had fireplaces topped with entertainment nooks just waiting for televisions, stereos, DVD players and TiVo boxes.
“I bet you’ve driven this route a few times,” Jonathan said.
“More than I should,” I laughed, thinking he was referring to the outlets. Not that shopping was much fun these days: all those flat shoes and modest skirts. Just then, I spied the infamous DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS sign. We were approaching the prison.
“I mean, sometimes it feels like all I do is work,” I continued, lamely.
“Do you ever get nervous?” Jonathan asked. “I mean, in your job.”
I considered carefully. Would it frighten me to enter a prison every day? To spend my hours locked inside with drug addicts, child abusers, thieves and murderers? Heck, yeah.
“The population I deal with is generally nonviolent,” I said carefully. “There are some substance abuse issues, a few chronic liars, but I’ve never worried that anyone would hurt me. What really gets me is that I’m not sure that I’m making a difference.” I swallowed hard. “I don’t think I’m a very good teacher.”
“You can’t believe that.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
His eyes still on the road, he reached over and took my hand. I closed my eyes and relaxed so much that I didn’t even notice when we passed the outlets.
For most of my life, I’ve been an insomniac. To get any sleep at all, conditions had to be perfect: cool air, complete darkness, a fluffy pillow. Even then, I often had to resort to relaxation exercises, warm baths, some Benadryl. I tried herbal teas, herbal supplements—anything to ease me into unconsciousness.
Then I started teaching, and the cure for insomnia presented itself like a bat to the head: sleep deprivation. I bring work home every night. Should I weaken enough to go out on a school night—or even spend too long at the grocery store or flip on the TV—I’ll be working until eleven or sometimes midnight. I’m due at the school at 7 A.M. (not that I typically make it); my alarm goes off at 5:45. I am running a constant sleep deficit. I no longer need a soft-yet-supportive bed to fall asleep. I have stopped popping melatonin (which never worked, anyway). Give me one uninterrupted minute with my eyes closed, and I will drop off like a narcoleptic.
When I opened my eyes again, the landscape startled me: the craggy mountains had given way to a seemingly endless progression of plateaus. “How long was I asleep?”
Jonathan shot me a sideways grin. “It’s been days.”
I checked the clock: I’d been out for almost an hour. “Is this where we’re going hiking?” If we got lost out here, no one would ever find us, I thought.
“Let’s see.” Jonathan squinted at his dashboard. “Eighty-three degrees. How about if we shoot for under eighty?”
“Are we going to Flagstaff?”
“Sedona.”
“Sedona! I’ve been wanting to go there since I moved here!”
“You’ve never been?” he asked incredulously.
It was kind of surprising, I guess. Sedona was only two hours away, and everyone gushed about its beauty. “I’ve just never found the right person to go with,” I said truthfully.
A short time later, Sedona loomed in the distance, its red rocks rising from the desert floor like something from a Hollywood western. As we drove toward them, the red cliffs got bigger and bigger until they engulfed us, towering in unreal shades of brick and red and orange. As we entered the town, Jonathan
began naming the rock formations: Coffee Pot Rock, Bell Rock, Snoopy Rock, Thunder Mountain. “Isn’t that a ride at Disneyland?” I asked. And, indeed, the outcroppings did seem Disney-esque, popping up against the bright blue sky.
“Are you hungry?” Jonathan asked as we neared the end of the main drag.
“Starving,” I admitted. I brought my eyes down to ground level and was disappointed. What nature had made, man had ruined—or tried to, anyway, with fast food joints, strip malls and shop after shop hawking Kokopelli T-shirts, gecko magnets and bottles filled with colored sand. “I’ve seen a Taco Bell, a Taco Maker and a Del Taco. Perhaps that’s a sign.”
“I think we can do a little better than that.”
Ten minutes later, we were still driving. My stomach grumbled. A seven-layer burrito was actually starting to sound pretty good.
Civilization dwindled, then disappeared. Along the road, hikers parked their cars and strapped water bottles to their waists. The beauty was overwhelming, the red cliffs so close they seemed to embrace us, but I was so hungry I’d swap it all for a Burger King. “Uh, are you sure there’s a restaurant out this way?”
“I thought we’d just keep driving until we came across something nice.”
Just then, a gate house came into sight. Jonathan stopped the car and opened his window. I felt a hint of cool air.
“We have lunch reservations,” Jonathan told the gate house guard. “Last name is Pomeroy.”
The guard scanned a clipboard and then smiled warmly at Jonathan. “Of course, Mr. Pomeroy. Enjoy your lunch.” With that, the iron gates in front of us swung magically open.
A resort lay ahead of us. For once, man had gotten it right. The clusters of pueblo-like stucco casitas were the same red as the mountains. The landscaping was lush without looking artificial. “I think I’m underdressed,” I said.
“You look perfect.” Jonathan put a hand on my knee. “So, what do you think?”
“I think this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
Boynton Canyon rose around us, with layers of red and orange rock. Evergreen trees that dotted the landscape saved the canyon from the look of barren desolation that I’d grown to associate with the desert. This wasn’t stark beauty or an acquired taste. It was awe-inspiring, what would have once been called awesome before the word was hijacked by sixteen-year-olds in low-rise jeans.
We ate lunch outside on a deck overlooking the canyon. The sun felt warm and soothing on my face and arms.
“I thought we were going hiking in Phoenix,” I admitted as the waitress brought us fruity iced teas.
“I only do that to the girls I don’t like,” he said.
“Easier than just breaking up with them?”
“Quicker.”
“I’ll remember that.” I forced a smile.
“I can’t imagine you’ll have to.” He reached across the table and took my hand. He grinned. “I mean, unless you have some deep, dark secret I don’t know about.”
I must have looked startled (I was startled) because Jonathan stopped smiling. “What’s wrong?”
Here it was: the perfect lead-in to my long-overdue confession. And ruin the most perfect day of my life? Not a chance.
“I was just thinking,” I said. “About work. But it doesn’t seem to matter so much now. Here.”
“Did something happen?”
I picked up my iced tea glass and took a long drink, stalling for time. “Remember that play production I told you about?”
“Romeo and Juliet?”
“Well, Romeo and Jules. It’s basically the love story Shakespeare would have written if he were alive today. Well, if he were alive and he had no talent and he spent all of his time at the mall. But, anyway, my student, Robert . . . I thought I was making progress with him, I thought acting would be a great experience for him. But when he got up to read, well, it turns out he can’t read.”
Jonathan nodded. “Is that really surprising, though? I mean, maybe that’s why he turned for crime in the first place. It’s not your fault.”
“But I should have recognized it earlier. I should have been working with him.”
“Have you talked to him since then?”
“I haven’t been able to get ahold of him,” I said before catching myself. “I mean, he ran away—to his cell block.”
Jonathan squinted. “Don’t the men live in a different building?” “Oh, right. Yes, of course they do.” I hoped they did. “What I mean is, he didn’t run away literally so much as metaphorically. He buzzed the guard, and the guard took him back to the men’s prison, and then he told the guard to tell me that he didn’t want to do the play anymore. And he hasn’t been showing up for class, either.”
“What’s he in for, anyway?”
There was condensation on my glass. I stroked it with my index finger and left a trail. “Identity theft,” I said.
For lunch, I ate a southwestern chicken salad. Jonathan warned me not to order anything too heavy. “The hiking line wasn’t just a trick to get you to have lunch with me.”
One look at Jonathan’s boots, and I knew he could scale some serious mountains. Out of consideration for me and my Nikes, however, he stuck to a tame route. First we hiked up to a rock that Jonathan told me was called Kachina Woman. “See? It looks like an old woman huddled under a blanket.”
“It looks like a chimney or a—what do you call it—chiminea. They should have called it Chimney Rock.”
“There’s already a Chimney Rock.”
“So they should have called this ‘The Other Chimney Rock.’”
As we approached the formation, we saw a woman—a real one—sitting cross-legged underneath it, her eyes closed, her hands resting on her thighs. “This is a vortex,” Jonathan whispered.
“What’s a vortex?” I whispered back.
“A spiritual, magnetic energy center. Or something.”
“But something good.”
“Something very good.”
We worked our way back down and then walked for a while on a flat wooded path before Jonathan started heading up another rock face. It was fairly steep but surprisingly easy to climb. The rock was flaky in spots, reminding me incongruously of a Napolean pastry.
“How high are we going?” I asked.
“Just over there.”
I looked up and blinked. In the rock face I could see . . . windows? Yes, windows. And doorways and walls. “Is this . . .”
“Indian ruins. Anasazi.”
“Wow.” I gazed in wonder. Something tugged at my brain. “Didn’t the Anasazi, you know. Eat people?”
Jonathan chewed on his lip for a moment. “Only when they were very, very hungry.”
We climbed as high as we could but stopped when the slope became too steep. We sat on the warm rocks and gazed at the ruins. Finally, Jonathan looked at his watch. “We should get going.”
“Right.” I tried to keep the disappointment from my voice. Having gotten a taste of Sedona, I was greedy for more.
Jonathan climbed down just ahead of me and held out his hand to keep me from slipping. Back on flat ground, we didn’t talk much as we walked along the trail back to the resort, but the silence felt soothing.
When we reached the resort, I expected Jonathan to turn off toward the parking lot, but he kept walking until we reached a low building.
“Now I’m confused,” I said.
He smiled sheepishly. “I’ve booked us a couple’s massage. I hope that’s okay.”
Thirty minutes later, I was facedown on a massage table, clad only in fluffy white towels and a pair of panties (which a less inhibited person would have removed). A twenty-two-year-old named Marcus rubbed rosemary and lavender oils down my spine, coming just a little too close to my crack for comfort.
On the table next to me, similarly prone and clad (or un-clad, as the case may be) lay Jonathan. His masseuse was named Rona. Rona was one of those post-menopausal women who refuses to go down without a fight. Her gray hair hung
down her back in a heavy, steely braid. Her forearms were so sinewy, she could probably break bricks with her bare hands. I wouldn’t want to piss Rona off.
Jonathan’s face was relaxed, his eyes closed. He looked utterly at ease under Rona’s hands, at one with the eastern-influenced New Age music that plinked in the background. On the counter, a tabletop fountain tinkled over rocks and bamboo.
All that tinkling made me have to—well, you know. I cursed myself for drinking so much cucumber water while waiting in the pre-treatment lounge and tried to focus on the scent of sandalwood that drifted through the room.
Marcus repositioned my towel and started kneading my upper thigh. Together, his muscular hands, the oil, and my not-so-muscular thighs created an embarrassing squishing noise. I tensed a bit.
“Is that too hard?” Marcus asked, truly concerned.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I said neutrally, as if a waiter had just asked if my coffee was too hot. I shifted my weight in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure on my bladder.
After squishing away at my other thigh for a bit, Marcus murmured, “Would it be okay if I rubbed your abdomen?”
“Um, sure, that would be fine,” I said—because, really, how are you supposed to answer such a question?
Marcus held my towels in place while I hauled myself over. I caught Jonathan’s eye as I settled down onto my back. He smiled slyly, clearly hoping my towel would slip. I checked the wall clock: only twenty-five more minutes left in our hour-long massage. That wasn’t so long. I could hold it.
Marcus adjusted the towels around my chest and hips and poured some more warm oil onto his hands. Behind me, the fountain tinkled relentlessly.
Marcus placed a slippery warm hand on my stomach and pressed. I yelped.
“Does something hurt?” he asked, a note of fear creeping into his normally placid voice.
“I just—I, um, I have to use the restroom.” I swallowed.
“Oh, of course! I wish you had said something. We’d never want you to be uncomfortable.” Was he kidding? I’d never been more uncomfortable in my life. My bladder was the least of it.