They pass a group of eclipsers manning tents at a turnout. Gerry honks and they wave.
“Can I call you honey, too?” asks Augie.
“Of course. Darlin’.”
Augie smiles and lets her hand travel to Gerry’s thigh. Apparently, he is just a plaything for the female gender. And that’s fine. It doesn’t hurt that Augie’s cuteness has been amplified by a denim dress with brown boots and a white cowgirl hat.
A half hour later, they pull into Mitchell, pop. 130, pocketed between two hardscrabble ridges and featuring the sort of sunbaked Old West storefronts that you just can’t fake. Currently, the population has blossomed to a thousand, thanks to a spontaneous eclipse festival. Or perhaps not so spontaneous – the town merchants have strung the streets with lights and banners. Gerry turns left and finds a curbside parking spot. When they get out, the air is still impressively warm.
Their first stop is an open-ended barn piled with crates of polished rocks. Karen quizzes an old dude with rawhide skin regarding the authenticity of his petrified wood. She buys a chunk of tumbled red jasper and gives it to Gerry. Augie stops at a jewelry stand for a silver bracelet, and Gerry finds a trio of housewives selling eclipse T-shirts. The design is particularly fetching, a stylized portrait of the sun and moon embracing. The ten-dollar price is more than reasonable, so they buy a few extras for friends.
“Are you the sun or moon?” asks Karen.
“Well I’m bigger, so I’ll be the sun.”
“Oh I may be small,” says Karen, “but I will eclipse you, pal.”
Augie laughs, says “Totally!” and laughs some more.
Midway down the block they find, of all things, a microbrewery called Tiger Town. They enter a cozy little building that looks like a former auto shop and head for the bar.
“Come on,” says Karen. “This can’t be their actual home base, right?”
“Check it out,” says Gerry. He waves toward the back, where a large brass vat is hooked up to pipes and tubes.
A young redbeard named Todd pours them each a flight of samples while explaining their odd location.
“It was all in the building. Low rent, perfect for the job, just off the highway. Eventual success is all in distribution, anyway, so it doesn’t matter where you’re headquartered. And you’d be surprised at how many people use this as a break from their road trips.”
The flight includes a black cream ale, an IPA, blood orange cider and a porter. Once they’re done sampling, they each order a pint of their favorite and wander outside. The brewery has outfitted a dirt lot with a stage, a criss-cross of lights and a trio of picnic tables. They commandeer one of them and listen to a trio of guitar, mandolin and bass. The band wraps up a version of Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door and the mandolinist dons a pair of dark glasses.
“Our next song requires a bit of costumery.”
They embark on a moody stroll that turns into Cryin’ by Roy Orbison. Gerry feels fingers in his and turns to find Karen making a request with her eyes. She leads him to the open floor and they sway together. He steps away to lead her into a spin but she pulls him back. They circle in the lowering twilight. The singer fades it out on his mandolin, and Karen looks up at Gerry with wet eyes.
“You okay?”
She tries to speak but can’t. He kisses her on the cheek.
“Later.”
Somehow the band proceeds into Play That Funky Music. Gerry dances with Augie as Karen hides behind her cider.
A couple hours later, they make the drive home. Karen is silent, holding Gerry’s hand, occasionally squeezing it. Seeing her so sad makes him realize how much he loves her.
Late in the night, she wakes in their tent to give him her answer.
“Harry had a thing about Roy Orbison. And Cryin’ of course, is about the saddest song ever written. You never know, Gerry. You never know when it’s going to hit you.”
He runs a finger along the side of her face and gives her a kiss.
Karen wakes at first light – the curse of camping – and sits for a while, watching Gerry sleep. She is still resonating from his tender calm the night before, when the grief monster ambushed her, and she feels like an unstable woman. It’s only fair that she should let him sleep. Because he can.
She walks the dusty road, the sun stashed behind the eastern ridge, and arrives at the porta-potties. She’s pleased to find that no one’s there. She’s not a camping girl, and would rather not share her bodily functions. While she’s sitting, she sends a text to Gerry – not quite so romantic as a note on one’s pillow.
Augie and her troops have set up a rather amusing temporary shower, a plywood stall with a garden hose hanging from a hole. Still, she’s not one to pass up a chance at cleanliness, so she pulls the curtain, strips, soaps up and rinses down, suppressing the urge to scream at the cold shock. Gazing at a bristlecone pine, clinging to the eastern ridge like a mountain climber, she spies the tip of the full moon peering over the edge. Oh, the things you’ll do! she Dr. Seusses. The sun appears soon after, lofting a flare. Karen slips into her bathing suit and heads to the swimming hole, taking in the rough chatter of early risers and a whiff of frying bacon. She tiptoes the rocks, sets her clothes on a table and treads ever so slowly into the water. She has just achieved a shoulders’ depth when a man in a total eclipse T-shirt appears on the shore.
“Pumpkin!” she calls.
“Dollface!” he replies.
“Stud muffin.”
She finds the slippery bottom and steps from the water.
“No muffins. But I brought you blueberries.”
She kisses him and smiles, and feels an urge to kiss him some more but thinks of Kerry. And there it is, a large basket of blueberries.
“Where the hell did you get these?”
“Some camper with a blueberry farm.”
“Nice!”
They sit and chew. The berries are the perfect ratio of sweet and tart.
“I was thinking, later on,” he says, “we could go to the school. They’re having a lecture by an astronomy professor.”
“Very good.”
They sit in silence as the sunrise phases from orange to yellow. The chatter – human and avian – rises over the campground.
Gerry slaps his hands. “Well! I’m going to partake of this cold-ass water.”
He strips off his shirt, shoes and shorts, smiles at Karen and walks toward the swimming hole. She watches.
The lecture is much more entertaining than expected, especially all the mathematical synchronicities, the moon being the perfect size and distance to precisely cover up the sun. The professor warns them that a totality is a near-religious experience, that they might get addicted. He shows them a map of upcoming eclipses, including one in Texas six years hence. When he urges them to witness the event sans camera, Karen looks at Gerry and tries not to crack up. The professor shows images of the various stages, including one called the wedding ring, in which the sun flares at a single point of the dark disc like a diamond on a ring.
Heading out from the assembly hall, they find that a couple of high-level amateurs have set up an enormous telescope on the playground and trained it on the sun. The solar surface is a stew of flares and flows, pictured in a reddish-orange hue.
The sun is having a more direct effect on Karen, who adjourns to a shady lawn to cool off. Gerry stands there another twenty minutes, roasting as he asks his new friends question after question.
They cross to the general store, filled with customers, and get a couple of ice-cold beers. The first swallow is heaven; the rest helps them get back to the campground. The day-drinking has its effect on Gerry, who falls into a nap on the floor of the tent. Karen tries to read a book – about eclipses, naturally – but soon drowses over as well, laying a hand on Gerry’s forearm.
She wakes an hour later when her phone buzzes. It’s Augie, who reports that she will invade their campsite at seven with a fabulous dinner. Karen is more than happy to accept the offer.
“Is that a Karen on my back, or are the campers here really friendly?”
She laughs. “Ger? Sweetums?”
“Yes? Sugarpuss?”
“Kerry tells me you’re a real good kisser.”
“Good to hear.”
“So what defines a good kisser?”
“I suppose you could say it’s all compatibilities, so there’s no need to treat it like a competition. But…”
He turns to face her, taking her hands.
“Maybe it’s like dancing, in that a good partner can read the motions and adjust. Of course, some of it is literal chemistry. I could kiss Kerry for hours and not tire of her taste.”
Karen slips closer, gazing over Gerry’s shoulder at the orange-yellow pyramid of mountain to the south. She wonders about limits.
“Do you, Gerry… honeybuns…”
“Dimpledoll.”
“Do you think it’s possible that you could kiss me in a purely physical… mechanical manner? So I could get an idea?”
She stays silent for a long time. She can feel the math in his head, lunar distances, angles from the horizon, solar flares.
“Okay. Close your eyes.”
She does. She feels an air bubble traveling up her calf. She senses Gerry’s face nearing hers.
“One of the best things ever,” says Gerry, “is simply talking to someone with your faces nearly touching.”
“Undoubtedly,” she says.
He moves forward as slowly as he can bear, and angles sideways, feeling for the match. A soft pressure. An opening up. A back and forth, a taste of tongue and a sudden deep wrestling, backing off to tender, a light touch, a separation. She opens her eyes to Gerry’s smile, his two-day beard.
“Well, I…”
She slips on the muddy bottom. He holds her steady, his hands at her waist. She feels drunk.
“Kerry was right.”
“Good to know.”
“Now give me a hug.”
He pulls her in. She feels the slide of his skin on hers. She’s beginning to get a real sense of things.
They walk back to the tent in their flip-flops, the dusty road making a mess of their feet. She takes his hand.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“Yes?”
“For the rest of the trip, let’s just kiss and… hold hands. Not all the time. Just, as if we were a couple.”
He doesn’t know what to say.
“Just… for me,” she adds. “I need a little help, Gerry. Just help me.”
He says nothing but kisses her, a moderate couple’s kiss.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Thanks to the hillside just across the river, the campground experiences sunset a little early, followed by an extended twilight. Augie arrives precisely at seven with quite an entourage: a short, boisterous man toting a classic red wagon whose contents are covered by a blanket. Augie is in full huntress mode, wearing a see-through shirt over a lacy black bra.
“Your friend,” whispers Gerry, “is a sex fiend.”
“What,” she whispers, “was your first clue? Augie! Dahling. You are dressed to kill.”
“No, just to maim. Karen, this is Dauber. He’s a friend from Burning Man.”
“Enchanté.” He shakes their hands and removes his derby, revealing a thick shock of red hair.
“Dauber is known as a master of the grill.”
“I am a Burner,” he responds, “but not a burner.”
“And he has abandoned his campmates…”
“All male…”
“…to make dinner for us.”
“I would follow this one to the zombie apocalypse. And, I would make her some brains flambé.”
“Isn’t he sweet?”
“Doesn’t she have a tremendous rack?”
Gerry and Karen are beginning to feel like they’re involved in some elaborate improv sketch.
“I asked a simple question!” Dauber complains.
“Yes!” says Gerry.
Augie aims her chest this way and that, judging all the angles. She swings a couple of camp chairs from under her arms and pops them open. Dauber parks his wagon and removes the cover, revealing a small grill, a cooler and seven bottles of wine.
“Tonight,” he says, “we will have rosemary lamb chops, grilled asparagus and rotellini salad, plus enough wine to bathe a cat.”
“Holy crap!” says Karen. “What must you think of us?”
Dauber smiles. “Well who said any of the wine was for you?” He uncorks a merlot and drinks straight from the bottle. “For the lady?”
“Any zinfandel?” asks Karen.
“You’re in luck.”
The three sit with their respective bottles and watch as Dauber works, painting the chops with a mysterious sauteé. The smell is magnificent, and the eating is even better. They feast, and are soon onto the bonus wines. Dauber throws a few sticks on the coals, raising a reasonable facsimile of a campfire. It turns out he’s a world traveler, and he spins one tale after another: an outback excursion in Australia, escaping a coup in Turkey, finding a nest of pythons in the Amazon. Darkness falls, and with it any remaining inhibitions. Dauber deploys an extensive repertoire of dirty jokes.
“But doctor, I’ll nivver be able t’show me face in that Starbucks again!”
His toasted audience rolls into laughter, but Augie comes out of it wearing an oddly serious expression.
“Karen, sisterhoney, I thought your friend here was spoken for. Why do you two kiss and hold hands like a couple?”
Karen responds at a high volume. “Oh! We’re conducting an experiment. It doesn’t count, so long as we’re in Spray.”
“So, as long as we’re in Spray, no one would care if I did something like this?”
She undoes her bra, leaving her ta-tas perfectly visible under her blouse.
“And that,” says Dauber, “is why I make dinners for this woman. I never know what she’s gonna do next.”
Gerry looks to Karen. “Those are impressive.”
“Don’t I know it,” says Karen. “Back in college, you couldn’t get the woman to keep her top on. And it was rare that either one of us had to pay for a drink.”
Gerry takes a swig of Gewürtztraminer and kisses Karen while passing some into her mouth. She swallows and grins.
“Honey darlin’, your kisses are sweeter than wine.”
“Or, exactly as sweet as wine.”
“Wine does not move like that.”
“Well thank you.”
They indulge in several more, finishing with a Gewürtz-sirrah swap that bursts all over their clothing.
“Blah!” says Karen, wiping her mouth. “That’s what we get for mixing our liquor. Wouldn’t you say, Aug… Oh.”
The camp chairs are empty.
“They vanished!” says Gerry. “Not that I blame them.”
A sound floats in, a fugue of rhythmic slapping and grunting.
“I believe it’s coming from the tent,” says Gerry. They get on their hands and knees and dogwalk to the tentflap. Through the screen, they can see their chef giving Augie a solid pounding from the rear. Augie’s cheeks ripple with each impact.
“Well,” whispers Karen. “That’s why they call him Dauber. He’s a master of the girls. Come on.”
She pulls Gerry to his feet and down the road to the swimming hole. She takes off her clothes. Gerry follows suit.
“Is this kosher?” he asks.
“As long as we’re in Spray. As long as we refer to it as ‘skinnydipping.’”
“Oh. Sure.”
The water is shockingly cold, but Gerry is soon distracted by the astral carpet of the Milky Way. Rods and cones. He smiles foolishly. Karen gives him one of those anaconda hugs, followe
d by another kiss that doesn’t count. She sets her chin on his collarbone.
“I don’t want to go home. If we go home, I have to stop pretending to be your girlfriend.”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “In many cultures, an eclipse portends the end of the world.”
“Cool.”
He pulls her face back to see the crescents of light at the tops of her eyes. Rods and cones. He returns for another pretend kiss. He’s got to make these last.
By the time they return, their well-fucked friends are gone. They wake to the remains, paper plates, lamb bones and wine bottles gathered together in a hangover bouquet.
The campground is infused with a sense of purpose. Telescopes and tripods sprout from campsites. Campers try out their eclipse sunglasses, cardboard visors with squares of dark plastic.
Karen and Gerry have double duty. They’ve decided to strike camp so they can hit the road directly post-eclipse. Gerry sweeps out the tent. Karen sorts their possessions into the Explorer.
It must have been good wine, because their hangovers are not half as bad as they should be. Karen leaves to make the porta-potty/shower circuit and returns with coffee.
“What the hell?”
“Good Samaritans. They brewed up a shitload of coffee for anyone who’s prepping for the eclipse.”
“Which would be everyone,” says Gerry. “I love you. I love them.” He takes a sip. It’s fresh ground. “Humans can be pretty terrific. Would you stay here while I pursue my personal hygiene?”
“Sure.”
He thinks of kissing her, per their agreement, but he’s too distracted by the impending event. He slips behind the door of the Explorer to swap his shorts and swimsuit.
“I saw that,” says Karen.
“It’s Eclipse Day, baby. All bets are off.”
After the porta-potty, he heads to the swimming hole, which is pretty much abandoned. Immersed in the cold water, scanning the now-familiar ridgelines, he knows that this will be one of those places that sticks in his memory. He hates to leave.
The rest of the morning, it’s as if they have returned to their previous state, the oddly intimate friends. They emerge onto the rolling flats of the Rick Paul Ranch, and Karen notes her now-favorite spot, a towering boulder next to a gentle dip in the ridge.
The Girl in the Flaming Dress Page 15