by Bev Magennis
“We’re not coming to any conclusions here,” Lyle said. “We’re asking for clues regarding Walker’s whereabouts and volunteers to search for him. The pair left the Hole in the Wall at closing time, driving a tan Pathfinder, an Avis rental. They weren’t fighting. No one noticed what direction they headed. If they went south, they didn’t make it to the border. If they went north, they didn’t come back to Brand. I’ve checked motels and gas stations east and west. So far, the vehicle hasn’t turned up, leading me to believe the car is still somewhere in the county.”
“I hate to be a pessimist,” Art said, “but you got a hell of a job covering seven thousand square miles of wilderness with deep canyons, rugged mountains, and unlimited places to hide a vehicle, and a body, or both.”
“I’ll fly over the region tomorrow, as many times as you want,” Henry said.
“Jeff and I will hike Saliz Pass and cover the ground from Brand to Los Olmos,” Terry said.
James Catlett, a member of Search and Rescue, said they were ready to help.
They talked as though Walker was dead. Lee Ann thought so too, although hadn’t known it until this moment, when it suddenly seemed as if she’d read Walker’s life story and his journey couldn’t end any other way. His antics danced before her eyes. Walker scrambling over the fence as a three-year-old, hiding in a tree watching the whole family wonder if he’d drowned, delighting in hearing his name screamed, snickering while they searched up and down the creek until way past dark; conning Edgar into driving to the store to buy him cigarettes and beer before he was twelve; using valuable pre-historic Indian pottery for target practice; selling grandmother’s precious wedding ring with the little diamond flanked by two sapphires and looking high and low for it, telling Mother it must have gotten lost. But the movie was a re-run and she lost interest. She remembered washing her hands in the Walmart bathroom after visiting Pat Merker, whose squinty eyes hinted at some dark aspect of his nature, perhaps more dangerous than what Walker could handle on the outside. Jimmy Zebrowski had said he’d shot a man in both legs. Walker might have not fully understood the depth of his dark side.
Caroline asked what, if anything, the commissioners’ office could do and Lyle suggested the clerk write a letter asking county residents to stay alert for signs of the men and report anything unusual to the sheriff’s department. He thanked everyone for attending, apologized for the lack of any new information, and closed the meeting.
Lee Ann joined Caroline on the way out.
“I’m so sorry about this,” Caroline said. “We miss you at the office. What a mess this audit has been—Gerald Murray has the entire courthouse turned upside down. The commissioners haven’t been around since he showed up. A hundred times a day I wish you were there.”
“I’ll be back.”
Outside, snow sugared the ground. Everyone had left except for the sheriff and deputies, who were locking the building. As Scott walked Lee Ann across the parking lot, a small pickup turned on its headlights and swerved in close. Danielle lowered her window.
“He signed the divorce papers,” she said. “But I’m not filing.” She lowered her voice. “If he never comes back, that property is mine.”
Lee Ann said, “That land is no longer of any interest to me. Good luck.”
56
SATURDAY JANUARY 5, 2008
ACALENDAR HUNG ABOVE A row of hats in the mudroom with Wednesday, January 16th circled in red. Dee’s shoulder had been pronounced healed at his last orthopedic appointment, with no follow-up required. He and Ginny were planning an engagement party to be held at Mother’s house on February 9th. Edgar wasn’t due at the optometrist until March. Lee Ann straightened the line of boots under the hat rack and took another look at the date. Must have been a mistake. She collected the bulkier jackets and carried them to the hall closet before Jo arrived, and there she was, right on time.
They took chairs next to each other at the kitchen table and divided the list of registered Republicans. Walt’s son, Terry McIntyre, would soon be instructing his wife and daughter to do the same in his taxidermy shop. Leo’s cousin, Nestor Rodriguez, had also thrown in his name for county commissioner and Harley’s nephew, Ralph Ellison, was hoping there’d be enough of Harley’s loyal-to-the-end cronies to ensure him enough votes. James Catlett, the sheriff’s son-in-law, was the only Democrat, but only twenty-seven percent of the county voted liberal, three percent Independent.
Registration was May 8th. Jo had insisted they start early, get folks used to the idea of a woman running for something other than county clerk or county treasurer. She suggested Lee Ann attend every friggin’ county event (she slapped her hand on the table) and get back to church! They laughed at that, since Jo was no churchgoer.
“And I have no intention of pretending,” Lee Ann said. “Look at us, presuming to elect a woman as county commissioner! Using a woman’s kitchen as campaign headquarters!”
They laughed at the odds, at the chance. They laughed until they cried, until they had no breath, until their sides ached.
Lee Ann handed out paper towels and they dabbed their eyes and noses.
“Can I confide in you?” Jo asked.
Lee Ann’s smile vanished. Friendships required trust. Throw up a roadblock, close that avenue. Or make a friend.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“I’m seeing Gerald Murray.”
A friend would express her feelings, comment, or add an opinion.
“I’m glad, Jo. He seems like a nice man.”
“About the nicest thing with three legs that’s ever come into my life,” Jo said.
They giggled at that.
Lee Ann divided the list in half and straightened the envelopes. She tapped the stacks and took one off the top and put the envelope down.
“Jo, do you think Walker is…”
Jo laid her pen down and fingered the roll of stamps.
“Dead? I’d hoped not. But yes, I do. And I’m so sorry.”
They lowered their eyes and gave Walker a moment of silence.
Lee Ann handed her half of the list.
“You start with the As and I’ll start with the Ms. Would you like something to drink?”
“Not unless it’s ninety-proof.”
“Sorry, I don’t have any hard liquor. But, there’s beer in the fridge.”
“Join me.”
Lee Ann eyes twinkled like a kid who just got permission to stay up late.
“All right.”
They addressed envelopes, telling tales and reminiscing about incidents associated with names that came up, Jo stopping from time to time to jot down points to include in Lee Ann’s introductory letter.
“We want to mention education.”
“I don’t think so, not yet,” Lee Ann said. “The topic makes people uncomfortable.”
Education. The circled date on the calendar. The final day for late registration at the University of New Mexico.
“Excuse me,” Lee Ann said, knocking her chair back.
She grabbed her jacket and ran to the pigpen. Scott wasn’t there. She called out. Louder. The barn was empty. She found him behind the workshop changing the oil in his pickup.
“There you are! I’ve been looking high and low. Scott, the deadline for late registration is a week from Wednesday. You must go.”
“We already talked about this, Mom.”
“I know. Look, Dee and I can manage.”
“I doubt it.”
“He thinks Derek might work out. He’s starting part-time next week. You can come home once a month, and for roundup and butchering.”
He closed the hood and she leaned both elbows on top.
“I expect to see you packing tomorrow.”
57
THURSDAY MARCH 20, 2008
LEE ANN AND JO ARRANGED meetings at community and senior centers where only a handful of folks showed up, most to complain. The winter had been wet, but mild, so that not one session had been canceled and by spring, word sprea
d and folks ventured out and began attending the rallies. With each opportunity, Lee Ann presented a new vision for county government and shared policies she’d long wished to see put in place. She proposed appointing a panel to review and record all federal and state funds awarded to the county. A check system would oversee all contract bids. An independent human resources department would be established to regulate hiring practices. Conciliatory meetings would be set up with the US Forest Service. The volunteer fire department would receive the money they needed to maintain and purchase new equipment.
Fat purple buds popped out on cottonwood limbs and baby cottontails bounced among the junipers. Robins poked the earth, elk started dropping antlers, and red-tailed hawks circled the field. The creek ran high and wide from snowmelt. On the equinox, she filled her pockets with roasted almonds and led the dogs up an elk trail on the west mesa to the rim rock. By noon, she’d worked up a sweat and she unzipped her jacket and loosened her scarf. The view encompassed all of the Walker Ranch and six miles of the valley from the northern plains at the base of Big Mountain, down the cliffs and along the creek to the store, a mere speck of the county. If six miles comprised a speck, a human body would amount to little more than an atom. Walker might be anywhere, inside or outside Dax County, inside or outside the US, but wherever he was the planet seemed minus his vibration. Even a windy day felt calm.
She hiked through pines and came to flat ledge and sat down, a dog on either side, and wrapped her arms around their necks until they broke free and shot off pursuing imaginary prey, leaving her with the opportunity to dream and plan. She’d resisted expressing excitement over running for office. The odds of winning were slim and even if she succeeded, skepticism and long-held attitudes towards women would test her resolve. Now she got on her knees and spread her arms, perched for flight. Of course, dream! Of course, plan!
The dogs returned and she took two nuts from her pocket and closed one nut in each fist. Their cold noses sniffed her knuckles until she opened her palms. Silly things, they ate them! She took Patch’s head in her hands and touched her nose to his, did the same with Blue.
“Okay, have another nut.”
Instead of returning along the elk trail, she forged her way straight down, carefully picking her way through juniper, prickly pear, and scrub oak, squeezing between boulders and scrambling over broken tree limbs, descending diagonally across a steep, sandy arroyo. Fine rock rolled underfoot and halfway down the slope she fell hard on her behind and slid before coming to a stop.
She caught her breath and leaned to push herself up. As if raising a hand, a weed not three inches tall cried wait. All alone, supporting one yellow flower the size of a baby fingernail, it claimed its right to thrive where no other plant survived. She reached to pluck it, to carry it home and identify it in one of Scott’s record books, but stopped. A seed had sprouted from ground dry and rough as sandpaper, softened by just the right amount of rain seeping between perfectly spaced grains of sand at exactly the right moment. She retreated to a place far beyond the sky and saw herself so small—a complex organism with its own destiny, containing a fate separate from her desires, to be nurtured or not by the intention of the universe. She touched the leaves and stem and stood, leaving the flower to its fate.
Below, a vehicle appeared, a dot at first, approaching from the southwest. A white truck slowed down and turned north at the store. She quickened her step, not so careful now, thinking she heard, did hear, the faint, distinct growl of the diesel.
EPILOGUE
ON JUNE 27TH, 2010, A memorial service and potluck dinner was held for Gaylan Walker at the Alibi Creek Community Campgrounds, two and a half years after his disappearance. The sum of $20,216.00 has not been withdrawn from the Dax County State Bank.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I WISH TO EXPRESS MY gratitude to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop Summer Graduate Class, PEN Center USA, the UCLA Writers’ Extension Program, the Norman Mailer Center, and the following mentors from these institutions and fellowships who offered crucial and constructive criticism that has stayed with me: Lan Samantha Chang, Steve Heller, Ellen Slezak, Ian Randall Wilson, and Jeffery Renard Allen.
Thank you to my agent, Susan Schulman, who read my work without insisting on the usual professional platform, and for believing in a story set in a remote area of the southwest.
At Torrey House Press, thanks to Mark Bailey and Kirsten Allen, co-publishers with a mission for preserving western lands and honoring the literary works of authors who live there; and Anne Terashima, enthusiastic public relations and marketing whiz. Special thanks to Kirsten Allen for her attention, editing skills, and suggestions during the revision process.
And a deep bow to friends and readers for their ongoing encouragement: Anne Cooper, Lorene Garrett, Sheila Blake, Audrie Clifford, Patsy Catlett, and Two Moons.
ABOUT BEV MAGENNIS
BEV MAGENNIS WAS BORN IN Toronto, Canada, and immigrated to the United States in 1964. She received her MA in Art from the Claremont Graduate School, Claremont, California. After a thirty-five-year career as an artist, she started writing, inspired by the land and people in the New Mexico wilderness where she lived for seventeen years. In 2009 she was accepted to the Iowa Writers’ Workshop Summer Graduate Class and in 2010 was awarded an eight-month Pen USA Emerging Voices Fellowship. In 2011 she received a Norman Mailer Writers Colony Fiction Fellowship. She lives in New Mexico.
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