“I’ll be there next weekend, Dad, just like I promised. I can’t miss any more work. I’m overdrawn on personal leave. I could get fired.”
“Henry, you’re not listening to me.”
The silence emanating from the hallway was more than Hank could bear. “Listen, Dad, I have to go. I’ll see you in a week. If you get into trouble, call the phone numbers on the list I left you. Give Mom my love. Good-bye.”
Chloe lay facedown on their bed, clean, unfolded laundry all around her. When Hank came into the room she sat up and began pairing socks. He pulled a pair of red Woolriches out of her grasp and tossed them back into the pile. Hands in her lap, she stared somewhere over his shoulder, her expression stony, only the tears glittering at the corners of her eyes giving her away.
“Just because I have an asshole for a father doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
She lifted one shoulder, shrugged.
“Wow. I must really be in the doghouse if I don’t even rate both shoulders.”
One corner of her mouth lifted slightly.
He cleared his throat. “Not a great day for anyone. Want to throw a couple of beers at it?”
“One of us has to stay sober. The baby.”
“Okay, then. We can flip a coin.”
“Heads I win, Hank. Tails I win too.”
She reached into his pocket and without really thinking, Hank clasped her hand there, so near his penis he immediately became hard. He couldn’t let go. He pulled Chloe closer and closer until there was no question at all this was not about beer or winning a toss of the coin. He sat down on the bed and kissed her neck, pulled her shirt out of her jeans, ran his hands up her breasts and breathed her scent in so deeply that his head went dizzy. The word “please” went unspoken, resonating in the silence.
She bent her head forward, and her hair fell into her face. Hank waited for her to look up at him. “You really think rolling around on the bed will change anything?”
“It might make us remember better times. Come on, let’s at least try.”
He pulled her down to the floor. Among sweet-smelling clothes and abandoned boots, Hank felt absurdly thankful that she was willing to take him to this place. He didn’t care to hear her reasons; mutual use was all right by him. After several awkward attempts at finding a compatible rhythm, Chloe settled astride him, moving in those long, slow postings that reduced him to her animal half, a style of making love that was both sensible and pure Chloe and left him shaking. Being inside her again made his eyes wash over with a kind of startling blindness. He took hold of her hipbones, which, as pregnancy fat disappeared, emerged sharper, more obvious. The eager equestrian muscles ached for a task to tone them. She tilted her body forward so that her breasts grazed his chest and he felt her determination to feel good begin to overtake her anger. That was the moment he nearly always lost his control, when he felt her reach out and grab onto her own pleasure. She came so easily the sensations slid out of her, loose and lubricating, and tipped him over into his own brief remedy. Out of breath, Chloe laid her face down on his chest and twirled a finger around the hairs circling his left nipple. The small gesture of tenderness made his groin spasm once more and he couldn’t help but cry out.
She laughed. “Not bad for a guy who’s lost his voice.”
He whispered, “Chili medicine.”
Chloe sat up and stretched, twisting her torso toward the bed, looking for something. Hank studied her back, the terrible scar from her accident, the pale, smooth skin he loved to touch. She had strong, muscled shoulders, yet an elegant neck. Her skin was milky white from being covered up all winter. Nowhere could he detect any evidence of sunburn. Christ.
She groped around the floor into their discarded clothing, coming out of his pockets with a quarter, which she pressed into his hand. “This is your tip. You made me so happy just now I might even pour your beer in a glass,” she said merrily. “Would you like that?”
“Baby, I’ll take it any way you serve it up.”
Somehow the governor had wrangled the deal without the environmentalists going into apoplexy. On Monday the flooding of the Grand Canyon would commence. The upshot of the reasoning was that floods were natural occurrences in rivers, and prior to the Glen Canyon Dam, the annual “scour-and-fill” of snowmelt had accomplished just that. A regulated deluge would, in effect, redistribute sand above the waterline, improve habitats for animals by flushing out the non-native fish, and, perhaps the only apparent monetary incentive, better the camping sites for river rafters. The scientific community was for it, and Secretary Babbitt was holding a press conference along his travel route from the dam, where he’d open the hollow-jet tube on down to Lees Ferry. In between, someone from the geological services would inject dye into the river to study flow velocity. It was a good thing, an ecological thing; hosanna, it was almost natural. For all Hank cared, they could flood the damn state. He’d come across a scrap of a letter written in Chloe’s hand. What he’d read gutted him, like one of those fish that as a result of the flood path would enjoy a brief, improved habitat. In the end he’d still end up some larger prey’s dinner.
I try to imagine being held by you, feeling that feeling of instant belonging. My whole childhood, and even now, I guess I never stopped wishing something like this would happen. But then I think of Hank….
They were discarded words on a half page of notebook paper, scribbled through, a fragment of some larger whole. To confront Chloe was to make real that which he feared the most, yet to do nothing meant the slow disintegration of all he trusted. All he could do was tuck the paper away into his wallet, rock the baby, teach his class, and wait to see what happened. If all went as planned, the water would rinse the canyon clean of the destructive sediment.
On the morning of the flooding, he drove to the Trading Post to help Walter set up the display for the rocks. News vans and onlookers nearly filled the parking lot. Every table in the restaurant was full, and a long line of those waiting for seats perused the store aisles. Whatever its long-term effects, this flooding was good for business. Hank nodded hello to Corrine, who was showing a squash-blossom necklace to a pair of women wearing cameras sporting huge lenses. They wore press passes, badges that allowed them past the cordoned-off areas. One of the women was plain, in blue jeans and a navy blazer; the other was stylishly dressed, wearing one of those decorated black cowboy chapeaus Oscar called a “Santa Fe bitch hat.” Hank approached the empty shelf cleared for the rocks, but didn’t see Walter anywhere. He didn’t have all day, so he began setting up the display without him.
The children had fashioned a poster and decorated it with Polaroids. The pictures had come out a little dark, but they communicated the basic idea of a pathetic school library and how the process of selling rocks might serendipitously come to fill it with books. Hank had his doubts, but the children were so eager he had to try. Louise Begay had typed out a history of the project on her home computer. The cardboard box holding the rocks bore a sign, too, penned in Walter’s unmistakably artistic script:
PETROGLYPHS FOR SALE!
Handmade by Mr. Henry Oliver’s third grade class at Ganado Elem. Only $3-$7 for a one-of-a-kind, mysterious and keepsake rock.
Louise’s history, composed entirely by the children, read:
There isn’t much to do here in the summer, and we kids like to read! So we need to earn money and buy books for our library which doesn’t have a lot. Every time you buy one of our rocks, we earn $$$ toward a book or a magazine subscription, all our own! Mr. Oliver says we get to choose every book and Off the Beaten Path in Flagstaff will give us a discount. All of the profits go for the books, not candy or anything else. Please buy a rock if you can, and help a kid read a book. Thank you!
It was signed by all twenty of his students:
Ivana Yellowhair
Robynn Cameron
Tanya Blackwater
Gary Yazzie
Benjamin Begay
Clyde Lopez
Anna O
rtiz
Mickey Spottedhorse
Rainy Desbar
Tuck Manygoats
Malinda Pasqual
Brian Martinez
Chuey (the great!) Alberto
Nelbert Begay, Jr.
Philberta Hobson
Gilbert Bellymule
Belva Small
Juanita Littlebird
Jolene Kee
Walter Johnson
Their names, their names. Signed so proudly, so hopefully. Hank sat down in the aisle, holding on to two of his favorite rocks. One was Tanya’s, thicker than most, a chunk none of the kids had chosen. Shaking it near her ear like a seashell, Tanya said, “I hear a story in this rock,” and proceeded to draw her own version of the humpbacked Kokopelli, a cadre of four bearing curly Cootie-game feelers beneath a sun that was a simple spiral. The other rock was Robby’s, a small boulder, really, a true boy’s rock. It was loaded up with suns, moons, stars, and a parade of animals.
“You’d have better luck with sales if your sign had clearer photographs,” a voice informed him.
Hank looked up to see one of the woman reporters studying the poster. It was the one he’d dismissed as plain, but up close he could easily recognize the error of his judgment. She was about his age, with honey-colored hair reaching halfway down her back. Her Leica looked old and expensive. “One of the kids’ moms had a Polaroid. In education you learn to accept freebies.” He extended his hand to shake hers, then noticed he was still holding the rock. He set it in the box. “Sorry. Hank Oliver.”
“Sara. Sara Donaldson. New York Times.”
“New York? I’m impressed.”
“Well, you’re the first one to be. The guy behind the counter just asked me if that meant I got to watch Seinfeld two hours earlier than he did.”
Hank looked over to see Oscar watching them. He waved and turned back to Sara. “Is that the guy?”
“The very one. Here I call myself a career journalist, and all it takes is one question to make me doubt my worth.”
It felt so good to laugh with a woman. “Are you here to do a story on the canyon?”
“Yep. After I eat some breakfast. That is, if I can ever land a table. I’ve been waiting forty minutes. I think I’m ninetieth on the list.”
“I have some pull with the restaurant people. It’s a perk when you’re a local. Let’s go see if we can cut in line.”
“Nice talk for a teacher. Don’t you practice what you preach?”
“On the important stuff. Come on, they make great coffee here. All you reporters live on coffee, don’t you? Pardon me if that’s a cliché.”
“It’s not. But thanks for being sensitive enough to ask.”
“You’re welcome, Sara.”
They drank coffee and, at Hank’s suggestion, ordered Navajo tacos. The puffy frybread tortillas were hanging off the edges of the plates, and the spicy bean topping was bubbly with cheese, chopped tomatoes, and onion. The reporter found them intriguing enough to take notes between bites. She quizzed Hank about his class, about life in the slow lane, and insisted on picking up the bill. “I can write this off. Let me pay you back for sneaking me in.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” At the cash register, she turned to him and said, “You know, Hank, I can fly out tomorrow as planned, or I could fly out the next day.”
Hank twisted the toothpick dispenser, which was fully stocked with mint-flavored picks. The cool feel of the wood against the corner of his mouth was bracing. He wanted to tell Sara about Reed and about Chloe, to ask somebody objective what he should do regarding the note in his wallet. He wanted to take her back to her hotel room, lose himself in what for an hour might feel simple and refreshingly uncomplicated, and even better, had no future. It sounded like maybe she wanted that, too. “Take the later plane.”
She smiled. “Just so we have no misunderstanding, can you explain the subtext of what you just said?”
He grinned stupidly and touched her arm. “I’m not sure I know.”
She sighed, and her brown eyes regarded him wisely. “Yes, you do. You’d love for me to meet your class. But tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“With a few phone calls, I could round them up, arrange for them to come here.”
She pocketed her change. “I don’t know, Hank. I have a lot of writing to do. This piece has to be modemed over for Monday’s edition.”
“These kids will break your heart, Sara. They have mine. They’ll spend their entire lives here, and they’ll be happy enough not knowing a bona-fide reporter from one of the biggest newspapers in America. But if they do get to meet you—”
“Stop it,” she said, holding up her hand. “I’ve already survived one Jewish mother. What the hell, maybe I’ll take some decent pictures for you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
It felt wonderful. He looked down at the floor. “Thanks. This means a lot. I don’t know, meeting you, this nice thing happening, it feels like maybe my shitty luck might be turning.”
“You have shitty luck?”
“Lately.”
“Hank, that’s hard to imagine. Someone as decent as you should be smiled upon by the gods.” They walked into the Trading Post and stopped at the pawn case. Oscar came over to open the lock so Sara could try on rings. He nodded to Hank and stood there while the conversation continued. Sara said, “I don’t suppose you have a twin brother who’s single?”
“Sorry, I’m an only child.”
She laughed. “Now that’s bad luck, and it’s all mine. Maybe you’ve hit a bad patch with your life. Just remember: If things don’t improve, well, you have my card. I bet I could come up with a few ways to make you feel better.” She motioned to Oscar, pointing to three of the rings. “I’ve got a tab at the front register. The squash blossom’s mine, too. Can you add these in for me?”
“We’ll get someone to wrap ’em right up.”
Hank noticed how bare the case looked. He also noticed that Chloe’s favorite ring was missing. “Oscar, what became of that ring with the dark blue stone?”
“Somebody bought it. Don’t pay to wait when you see something you like. You should buy it or marry it, enit?” He dropped Sara’s rings on the counter and hurried away.
Sara touched Hank’s sleeve. “Tomorrow then?”
“Yes.” Hank said good-bye to the reporter and braved his way through the crowds of curious onlokkers. All this fuss over what would have happened on its own, had nobody built a dam in the first place.
20
Junior’s current state of mind—which he felt bordered on insanity—came about innocently enough, starting with a call from Sami Gee, who was enjoying a golfing holiday down in Scottsdale and wanted Junior to meet him at the Biltmore. Come now, doesn’t a wee sojourn in warm weather sound refreshing? Wind blowing down his neck as he inspected the pup’s latest damage to Aaron’s yard—a den large enough to seat three adults—and Junior’d had to agree. A respite from the chilly north might just provide everyone with perspective.
When he was certain Hank was at work, Junior telephoned Chloe. She answered the phone, and he said, “Hoping for a miracle.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Everyone should hold on to hope. What’s going on?”
“Not too much. I have to head down to Phoenix. Come with me.”
“Not a good idea.”
“Then meet me halfway, in Sedona. A late-afternoon picnic. You always get hungry around four o’clock.”
“So does Reed.”
“Bring that sweet baby along. I don’t get to see her as often as I’d like.”
“Junior, you know I can’t be gone that long.”
“Meet me at three, then. Schnebly Hill Road near the lookout. Just show up if you can. If not, well, I’ll enjoy the view without you.” He hung up glumly, cursing himself for asking.
The valet boys at the Biltmore dressed like safari hunters, in tan Bermudas, short-sleeved jackets, and pith helmets with the little ventilation grommets. Th
ey were immaculate young men, probably college students, in the job for the tips. All this unremitting sun and not a single Skin in the bunch, Junior noticed. If they lacked the sense to sunscreen up, twenty years down the line this job would come back to haunt them. One motored the grimy Cherokee out of sight, and toting the wolf-hybrid pup, Junior made his way through the lobby, admiring the Frank Lloyd Wright designs present in murals, stained glass, every stick of furniture—indeed, the very columns that made up the building’s structure. He kept his sunglasses and fancy jacket on, and as he walked past the guests and staff, heads turned in that subtle way of gawking only people with manners can pull off. Taking any kind of animal besides a stuffed jackalope into a regular hotel never would have flown, but here attitude coupled with skin color seemed to work a kind of magic. Only the rich and famous could afford the Biltmore during high season, and experience had proved that eccentricity was condoned, even encouraged, among the wealthy.
Sami Gee waited in the bar. When he caught sight of the wild dog in its beaded harness, he began chuckling and shaking his head. Pulling out a barstool for Junior, he gestured with one elegantly manicured hand around the cool, dark, expansive room. Junior tried to make out what the old man was pointing at. The Biltmore was not your typical luxury hotel. The design elements alone placed it in its own category. He passed a harpist dressed in a black velvet gown who plucked a moody Pachelbel canon from her strings. On a Mission-style banquet table sat a massive silver urn beaded with sweat, and alongside waited countless crystal goblets. Little trays of lemon wedges and sugar cubes were available to tart or sweeten up drinks, and an overflowing tray of baby vegetables so precious they could not be ignored would temporarily sate any heat-dulled appetite. With such choreographed ambience, who cared what time it was? An hour after lunch? Midnight? This was how southern Arizona laid out its high tea: constant, iced, soothed by music, an antidote to the glorious, endless sun.
Loving Chloe Page 26