The Blue Hour

by Laura Pritchett

  I’m going to go back to Santa Fe. I’ll leave today. It’s warm there. I’ll feel better there. I like it there better anyway. I even asked her to dig deep and find some empathy. This piece of shit trailer smells bad and I’m glad to be leaving it. I got rid of all my drug equipment, threw it into the woods, where I dumped most everything else too. Surprising how little you need. Rent is paid for the next month. By the time the landlord comes. Yes, by the time he comes.

  There’s fewer crazy people in Santa Fe. BW wouldn’t fit in the car anyway. All my stuff is boxed and bagged up. Got BW in his crate. Lots of fluids will leak. Goodbye, BW. It is, in a way, BW’s fault that I no longer have a girlfriend. So lovable, him staring out of his crate at me like that as I shut the door, giving me a good-bye friendly bark.

  Chapter Eleven

  County Road

  “Tate, life is unfair but not unworkable. I am ready to commit. I want your daughter.” This from my brother-in-law, Joe, the lucky bastard who has it all, including, and most importantly, time. He’s yakking, like he always does, into my old answering machine. For a guy who doesn’t talk much past a fragment, he leaves the longest damn messages; it’s almost like he’s relieved no real person is on the receiving end, which gives him permission to go on and on. “I want Honey. I want to adopt her. I will raise her, and I will do a good job. I’m sitting home alone, because I feel lousy, although I’m sure you feel worse.

  “Listen, man, I’m sorry I didn’t get this straight before. Let me pick up Honey. I’m sorry about the fight. I’m sorry I’m talking fast but I just realized your machine is going to hang up on me. Listen. Sorry about all that last week. Gretchen. When I told her, she ended things. And I wasn’t thinking right. But listen. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t. And do it right. Which maybe sounds like a half-ass reason to you, but for now, it’s the reason I’ve got.

  “She can move up here with me permanently when you both are ready. Or I can move there. But here is good, because here I can make a living. There are other kids on this mountain, she won’t be alone. I hope you’re feeling good, feeling better, that the new chemo drug is working. But if it’s not, I am ready. I am ready when you are ready. I am. I want to sign those papers. I want—”

  Beep.

  I should try to get up and answer the phone when he calls back, but I can’t, or, I won’t. I can only finger the strings on my Martin D-45. I may well die with my finger muscles being the strongest thing about me. I need to change the strings, but of course it’s not worth it. I’ve been writing one last song for Honey, which is how I’ve always talked with her, through song. Stroke victims; they can’t talk but sometimes they can sing, because both sides of the brain are used for music. My love for Honey crosses every part of my brain and heart. ’Course, she’s a pain in the ass to raise. All kids are. But I tell you one thing: This dying business would be a lot harder to take if I didn’t have her to look at. Perhaps it’s uncool to say such a thing, but it’s easier going when a little piece of your DNA is left behind in a beautiful young creature singing over there in her bedroom. It’s easier to die knowing you loved like you did. That you gave it all for someone else.

  Honey is a little tired of my singing and playing already. I play too often and every musician should know how to limit the playtime so that the other person can really hear. Limits, edges. That’s what death is good for, I suppose.

  I wrote one song on the day she was born. Another for the day she turned two. I didn’t write or play for a year after her mother died, but then I wrote one about that, too, and I sang as a way of getting Honey to talk about her and remember.

  This last one, which she hasn’t heard yet, is a simple tune. About me simply hoping she leads a good life. Not a happy life, because that’s a dumb wish that’s bound to become untrue. But a good life. A life full of family, even though she’s technically about out. There are different sorts of family, though, such as Joe’s community on the mountain. There’s also an admission that her childhood was rough—both her parents dying—but a hope that better times are on the way and that she shouldn’t go feeling too sorry for herself, because being too sorry wastes valuable time. In the song, she’s a grown girl, a teenager, and she’s walking down a county road, County Road 46, which is the road Joe lives on, on top of a mountain called Blue Moon. The song is a bit of a tearjerker, a sad bastard song if ever there was one. I won’t play it for her in person, but I recorded it, burned it onto a CD with a photo of us together on the cover.

  I called it “County Road.”

  I knew Joe would call. I knew he’d adopt her. I knew she’d grow up there, on County Road 46.

  Today is not a good day. Today the steroid has worn off. Constipation, bloating, ache, weariness, I could go on and on. Hair gone. Teeth gone. Life-force gone. By the next full moon, I’ll be full gone.

  The phone rings again. Joe, Joe, Joe. Selfish coward. Brave fragile man. I wouldn’t want to be him. On the other hand, I wouldn’t want to be me, either.

  Message machine picks up, and I swear I can almost hear Joe’s initial silence and how it is brewed and thickened and seasoned with guilt and shame. “I mean it, I really do,” he says. “I want to adopt Honey.” Then, “Gretchen and I broke up. That’s okay. She wasn’t up for kids. Or a kid. Which means, you know, she wasn’t the right person for me. I was hoping it was a temporary thing, a fight of sorts, that she would come around, but kids scare her.

  “Our town vet committed suicide. One month ago. With my gun. Which he stole from my truck.

  “I never told you that because you had your own problems. But I need to talk more, now, don’t I? That is the lesson I have learned.

  “He killed himself while I was over at Gretchen’s. He had stolen my key in advance. I keep the gun locked up, I’m smart about that. Thanksgiving has come and gone and I’m glad you were here for one more. That Honey got to spend it with you. I thought maybe Gretchen was the one. I’m going to keep talking, Tate—”

  Beep.

  “—Did you know, when the sun drops, the world turns blue. The snow is blue, the air itself is blue, and above it all are the blue stones of Blue Moon Mountain. I can’t wait to show that to Honey.

  “I’ll admit that Sy’s death is doing a real number on me. So is yours. You mind me saying such a thing? I had my first panic attack the day after he died. And another at his ceremony. And another just now. I wouldn’t have known what it was, even, except that my friend Ruben told me about them. Apparently, it’s something he’s been dealing with most of his life. Since teenage years. I had no idea. He’s a tough vet tech that carries himself like he knows himself and you wouldn’t think he was capable of having a weak moment.

  “Anyway, I would have assumed I was dying right then. In fact, it worried me. What if I die? Then where will Honey go? This is ridiculous.

  “When it happened, my lungs cascaded down into my feet, I literally had no lungs in my chest. I know that sounds impossible, and of course it is, but if you would have asked me to point to my lungs, right then, I would have been clawing at my kneecaps or thereabouts. Plus I couldn’t breathe. And not being able to breathe made my heart beat like it was in its last sprint. What I should have done is call Gretchen, of course. That is what relationship is for. Or Ruben. I could have called Lillie, because I know she struggles with anxiety too.

  “But frankly, I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to ask. I have never had an honest, long-term, real relationship, Tate. I never saw them modeled to me, nor have I figured out how to do it on my own. I mean this literally. Honey will be my first. That scares the crap out of me.

  “It’s not something they teach in school. How to build community. Foster friendships. Care and be cared about. Perhaps there are books about it? The one called How to have Unfucked-Up Relationships. I just like to shoe horses, man. I’m known as the quiet one on the mountain.

  “Anyway, I just had another one. Panic attack. I stayed on the
floor, counting. One. Two. Three. I felt like I could sense a piece of good in me, but just then it was not available to me. I think it’s in there, though. I do—”

  Beep

  “—See, I didn’t realize that a kid might add to my life. In beautiful and unpredictable ways. She’ll detract, too, but she’ll also add. I’m capable of love. I know that I am. I’m going to grow up now. I just haven’t . . . needed to until now. I could float around, doing my own thing. That time is over. I get that now. I’m coming now, to get her. I’m leaving the mountain now. See you in a few hours.”

  Two days later, the phone rings. “Tate,” says Joe. “I don’t know what hay bales are. Why does she want hay bales for breakfast? She’s crying. Please call.”

  I call him back. “Shredded frosted mini-wheats,” I say. “We call them snowed-on-hay-bales.”

  “Motherfucker,” he whispers. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”

  “Tate,” says Joe. “Honey is in time-out right now. She threw her orange juice across the room because I made pancakes the wrong way, and she wanted to go home, and she said I was an evil warlock holding her captive in the mountain, and she was a princess, and she was going to fight me, and that I better watch out because she was going to make her gecko grow big and huge and it would bite my head off, which is what I deserve. She’s got a terrible throw, man. Good stories, terrible throw. You haven’t taught her to get her arm back. I’ll fix that. Or you will, when you’re better. Although I realize I need to quit staying stuff like that. You’re in hospice care, for godssakes. It’s just hard to accept, that you’re dying. I’m sure it’s hard for you too.

  “Anyway, what I want to know is: Would you put her in time-out? You want to talk to her, or would that make things worse? What constitutes a good pancake?”

  I don’t pick up on that one, but that’s one I’d answer if I could. Couldn’t get out of bed anyway. Hospice nurse due in ten minutes. Lawyer preparing papers. Don’t have the energy to talk, even to Honey. I saved what I could for her, as long as I could, I hope she knows that.

  “Tate,” says Joe. “When Gretchen said good-bye like that, it took the air out of me like a horse kick, exactly the same. She said: ‘We’d pretended more than we felt.’ Do you think humans do that? Pretend to feel more than we feel?

  “I don’t even remember what we talked about, all those times we curled together. Gretchen and I. Isn’t that odd? It seemed like so much. It seemed big, bigger than anything. I hope it doesn’t take long to forget her. Not that you forget people, I guess. As in, Honey won’t forget you. Sorry if that came out wrong. I’m always saying the stupidest shit. Also, I’m cutting down on the cussing.

  “I read the articles you gave me. Taking care of a traumatized child. That book. Adopting the Hurt Child. Who writes these titles? Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder: Clinical Child Psychology and the Adopted Child. The Emotional Tasks of Adoption: Transition, Attachment, Separation. Okay, holy cow, they’ve been helpful. I got her some frosted mini-wheats. Honey is outside now. She wants to talk to you. When you’re up for it. That cereal is lousy. Too sweet. I just didn’t know what she wanted, before. I just don’t know what Gretchen wanted. I wish you weren’t dying. There should be better words.”

  “So, Tate,” says Joe. “Honey says to me this morning: ‘Uncle Joe, you’re fussing me.’ She was curled in her pink blanket on my couch, which has turned into her permanent bed. She likes it better than the other options. It’s near my room, near the fire, near the window, she loves staring at the Big Dipper. Next to the couch is now a pink dresser, and lined up in front of her dresser are her pairs of pink shoes. To the side of the couch is a line of stuffed animals, largest to smallest. She lines things up. I guess you know that. Okay, I just wanted to describe it. I sent pictures, did you get them?

  “So, anyway, I said, ‘I’m fussing you? What does that mean?’

  “And she says, ‘You’re fussing over me.’

  “I said, ‘I just asked if you wanted hot cocoa. If you wanted me to add some snow to it.’

  “She says, ‘That’s fussing and that means you love me. My dad loves me.’

  “I said, ‘I know, I know, he’s always loved you like crazy, and always will.’ I thought that was, you know, something you should hear, Tate. She misses you, but I try not to talk about it too much. To you, I mean. I let her talk and talk, because that’s all she does. What a talker. I never get a word in edgewise.

  “Her eyes remind me of Cara’s. We were talking about her, and Honey said, ‘She died in a car, and that’s no fair, and life is no fair. My dad says it’s the worst lesson of all to learn.’

  “Then she told me she loved me. I hope it doesn’t hurt, hearing all this. I just mean to convey that things are going . . . well. Better than expected. Not always great, you know, because this is reality. It’s been a week now. The community always has a solstice party. It’s coming up. She’ll get to know everyone then. I wanted to give her a quiet week first, but that will be the perfect time to introduce her around.”

  I call Joe. “Bring her back. For a visit. Doc says a few days now, but I feel like it might even be less. It’ll be the last time.”

  Honey hugs me hard and the pain feels like heaven. She hands me a pinecone that’s been spray-painted orange. In her face, I see the fear. See the tears well. Spill. I don’t look like her daddy at all. This is all going so fast. Much faster than I would have thought.

  I hand her a picture, one of the two of us when I looked normal and she looked untroubled, just to remind her it once was true, then I give her a stack of CDs. Listen to the songs someday, I tell her, especially “County Road 46,” about that family you now have. Soon you’ll have your first Christmas with your new family. Santa finds people up on that mountain, don’t worry. I’m so sorry this happened to you. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair and you should allow yourself to be sad. And angry. But don’t feel guilty if you feel happy too. In the end, I want you to be happy. Not all the time, but lots of the time. Okay? I gotta go now, honeybird.

  She’s crying hard now and so my mother leads her out.

  You, I say to Joe, You stay, you hold my hand.

  He sits down next to the bed, takes my hands in his. I would like to thank him for all his damn calls, for yakking nonstop, for trying to tell a story that made some sense. For trying to break that boundary that separates us all. Despite the beeps. But when I say thank you, he thinks I’m saying thanks for holding my hand, so I add, For the story, for the slightly happier ending. I breathe out, a little hum.

  Chapter Twelve

  Water out of Sunlight

  But I forgot to tell you of this meadow. Why Sy picked it, what his death did to it.

  There are large-scale reasons we all love this meadow. The fact it’s framed on all sides by mountains, butted against national forest lands on the west and north, state lands on the east, the county road on the south. There are shady parts to offer relief from the heat of summer, protected parts to offset the wind of spring. Ideal for cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, hunting, fishing, making love.

  Then there are the particulars.

  How, for example, in the mornings, sun takes up mist, light sucks up vapor, and how that process reminds you that there is great power in one particular moment, which an age of prudence can never retract. One such moment changes everything. But to refrain from waxing poetic, and to stick with the facts: the coyote, the bald eagles, the owls, the willow, which turn redder as winter goes on. There are plentiful wildflowers most springs—first the pasqueflowers up in the pines, then Indian paintbrush and blue flax and meadow rue splattered, and the meadow is also threaded by a fantastic trout stream, better than anything I have on the ranch, so that my grandfather and father brought me here from earliest memory.

  So you can now picture this meadow and realize it holds the memories of our community; more memories than many houses do. I am an old man and my relationship with the meadow has been a long o
ne. Certain memories stand out: The time Sy and I came upon a nest of swirling baby rattlers—a hibernaculum, he taught me that word then—and we wondered what to do, being that many of the other townsfolk went fishing there as well, including children, but neither of us being likely to kill a wild animal in its own habitat. The fishing trips I took with my own daughter, and how we would meet Sy, with his two, Zoë and Michael, and we’d spend all day getting their lines untangled. Sometimes Anya and Violet came along, spreading out blankets and fishing themselves. Gretchen joined us once, bringing her sketchbook and showing everyone how to make marks from the special pencils that turn into watercolors. Ruben would wander in too, his big boxy ruined fingers unable to tie on a fly, and so we’d do it for him. He’d keep most of the fish, freezing them for winter, he said, so that he could remember the sunlight in the meadow when the snow came.

  Suffice it to say that everyone on the mountain comes here for something. Most of us have made love somewhere on the edges of this meadow. It has that kind of pull. More people have sex outside than city people think, I suppose, and I’ve come across—or heard—more couples than ever I would have guessed. And if you don’t think two old codgers don’t sometimes get carried away while resting on a picnic blanket, well, I suggest you rethink what you’ll be doing in your old age.

  So what Sy did was astounding.

  What he did to our meadow.

  Which is why I’m here, standing at the edge of it, staring at the expanse of blue and white ice. Backpack on, duffel bag in one hand, sandwich and a whiskey tucked in my Carhartt jacket, corncob pipe in my mouth.