Blood Orange

by Karen Keskinen

  “Damn radiation. If the cancer don’t kill ya, they make sure the treatment does.” Bill stopped for a moment to regain his breath, then motioned for Mike to open the heavy hand-carved front door.

  “Make yourselves at home, kids.” He waved his hand vaguely. “I’m not much of a hostess. That was Peggy’s department. With me, it’s mi casa es su casa. After that you’re pretty much on your own.”

  I looked around the large open living and dining room. The space was expansive, floored in rich dark oak, and lined floor to ceiling in what I guessed was western red cedar. “What a beautiful house.”

  “I’m glad you like it.” He glanced at me sideways. “Seeing as it might be yours one day.”

  Mike crossed the room carrying our duffel bags. “Stand up to Dad, Jaymie, or he’ll use his tactics on you all weekend.”

  “Hey now.” Bill Dawson grinned like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “All for a good cause.”

  “See what I mean?” Mike laughed. “Can’t help himself. I’ll just take these bags upstairs.”

  I noticed a family portrait displayed on an old walnut buffet, and bent to study it. The four Dawsons were on horseback. There was a young Bill, his back ramrod straight. Beside him was Peggy Dawson, a petite and pretty woman. Her Native American heritage showed in her eyelids, straight nose, and warm olive complexion. Mike and Trudy, aged around eleven and nine, looked like a mix of both parents. Both kids had inherited Bill Dawson’s height and Peggy’s looks and complexion.

  “Peggy was a beauty,” Bill said quietly. “She’s on Sugarfoot there, her favorite mare. Damned if that nag didn’t love her.”

  “I wish I’d met her.” I smiled up at him. “I mean Peggy, not the horse.”

  “Oh, you woulda liked Sugarfoot just fine. But you and Peggy—the two of you would have been thick as thieves. Peggy, she…” He shook his head roughly, as if to clear it. “’Nough of that. Let’s go rustle up some cold drinks.”

  In the kitchen, Bill opened the refrigerator door and studied its contents. “I shoulda told Mike to stop off at the market on the way up. Haven’t got much.”

  “We did stop, Bill. The food’s in the truck. Nobody’s going to go hungry.”

  “Good. So it’s soda or a beer, what’s your fancy?”

  “Soda for now. Once the sun goes down, my answer will be different.” I noticed a sign hanging over the kitchen sink: My house was just cleaned—I’m sorry you missed it. “Peggy had a sense of humor, didn’t she?”

  “You bet. She needed it, married to me all those years.” Bill set two Cokes down on the table, then rummaged in two different cupboards. “I don’t normally use a glass, but Peggy woulda offered you one. She had a place for everything. I try to keep it the way she had it, but … I don’t know.…” A silence gathered.

  “Don’t worry about a glass, Bill. The can’s fine.” I noticed a collection of yellowed and curling photos of grandbabies, Trudy’s kids, stuck to the fridge. One showed Grandma Peggy cradling a newborn in her arms. A lump formed in my throat. “You must miss her a lot.”

  “Hell yes. Peggy’s been gone six years this fall, but I still catch myself listening for her to pull in through the gate. Guess I’m nothing but a lonely old man.” He looked out the kitchen window. “Mike told you all about the cancer, Jaymie? Stage four.”

  “Yes.” I rested my hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry you’re having to deal with this, Bill.”

  “I’ll be joining her pretty quick now,” he said quietly. Bill covered my hand with his own. “Then I won’t be lonely no more. It’ll be about time.”

  * * *

  Rough and ready though it was, the big cattle ranch cast a kind of spell. That evening, under a nearly full moon and a sky bristling with stars, I followed Mike along a beaten foot trail. Shep, Bill’s old border collie, was on point. We’d only been walking for a few minutes when, without warning, a great horned owl screamed and lifted up out of the tall dry grass, clutching a limp dark creature in its claws.

  “We disturbed her,” I said when my heart rate dropped back into normal.

  “It’s her world at night,” Mike said softly. “We’re the intruders.”

  We walked on for another five minutes, our flashlight beams flitting through the coyote brush. When Mike finally halted, I nearly bumped into him.

  “This is it, Perlina Point. There’s quite a view in the daytime—you can see all the way over to the San Joaquin Valley.”

  We stood on flat rocky ground, near the edge of a cliff. Beyond gaped a great yaw of blackness. “If you and Shep weren’t here, Mike, I might have gone right on over the edge.”

  “I know. That’s why it was named after my grandmother, Perlina Sepulveda.” We switched off our flashlights, and Mike shook open the bedspread and let it float down. Straightaway, Shep flopped in the center.

  “One time when Grandma was little, she was playing hide-and-seek with her brother and sister when she ran up here. This ridge used to be covered in even denser scrub, and she never saw the edge. But a fawn was curled up right here in the bushes, where the doe must have hidden it. Grandma stopped running to look at it.”

  “So the fawn saved her life.” I sat down next to Shep. The stubbly grass and sharp gravel jabbed through the blanket and my jeans.

  “Sure did. And made mine possible, I guess you could say.” Mike dropped to his knees. “Shove over, Shep.”

  I laughed when the collie, refusing to move, snuggled up tight to my hip.

  Mike stretched out on his back. “That dog always did have to be in the center of things.”

  “Look at those stars,” I admired. “Hey, did you see—are those—”

  “Bats. We’re serving them dinner, attracting the bugs.”

  “You, not me.”

  “If you say so. But mosquitoes prefer clean people, didn’t you know?”

  Mike rolled to his side and reached over the dog to grab my arm. As he pulled me down, Shep finally got the message and moved to a corner of the bedspread.

  “Mm. Jaymie, your smell’s driving me crazy.”

  “You and Bill. Full of sweet talk.”

  “Enough about my dad. You’ll make me jealous.” Mike propped himself up on an elbow and began to unbutton my shirt. “It’s been a long time, Jaymie. And I don’t really know why.”

  I laced my fingers behind his neck and pulled him close. “Because it’s so good it hurts.”

  We stood under the stars and undressed one another. Mike drew me to him, and my breathing grew deep and fast.

  “Shep, get the hell outta here,” Mike growled.

  * * *

  Afterward, we lay close beside each other, gazing up at the stars. Mike cradled my head in the crook of his arm. “I want to tell you a family secret. But you have to promise not to turn it into a joke.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  He kissed my cheek. “Hey, there’s the Big Dipper.”

  “Yeah,” I said in a drowsy voice. “What’s the secret?”

  “It has to do with this ridge. Something my mom told me, a week before she died.” He sounded hesitant.

  “Mike? You can trust me.”

  “OK, here it is. She told me this is where I was conceived.”

  A cold breeze rose up from below, bearing the sharp scent of the chaparral. In the silence, a coyote called from the next ridge.

  Can’t you see what he wants? a voice reasoned in my ear. You don’t belong with this man and you know it. I rolled out of Mike’s embrace and drew my knees up to my chin.

  “Hey. Is something wrong?”

  “Mike … that’s a wonderful story. But maybe there are some things I’m just not … ready to know about.” Coming here, making love on this spot—he’d planned it, whether he was conscious of it or not. All part of the Dawson family saga, of which I was apparently going to be the next chapter.

  “Jaymie, don’t pull away like that.” He turned me back to him, and I didn’t resist.

  “I’m
sorry, Mike.” My voice caught in my throat. “Honestly, it’s my problem. It’s not about you.”

  “Shh. Let it go.”

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close. We began all over again.

  * * *

  The truth was, I was fighting not to fall in love with everything and everyone connected with Little Panoche: Mike, Bill, Peggy’s memory, even Shep and every square inch of the rolling landscape. In spite of my misgivings, every hour I spent on the ranch brought me closer to Mike.

  Sunday morning, the two of us packed a lunch and climbed on fat-tired motor trikes. We planned to spend the day exploring the far reaches of the old rancho.

  Early on we surprised a small herd of deer, all standing statue-still and staring at us with dark liquid eyes. Then, through Mike’s binocs, we watched a pair of coyote pups playing rough-and-tumble on a rocky hillside. But later, as the scorching sun seared a trail up the sky, only hawks and slow-moving cattle were evident. The red-tails glided lazily on drafts of hot air rising above the chaparral-blanketed ridges.

  In the middle of the afternoon we bounced up a grass-slick hill. Mike signaled to stop. Below, curling through a small valley, was a ribbon of vivid yellow-green.

  “There’s the creek, Little Panoche. In the winter that dribble of algae can widen to fifty feet.” He dismounted and pointed. “Can you see over there, partway up the far side of that hill?”

  I raised the binoculars to my eyes. “It’s a little shack, isn’t it? No … looks like an adobe.”

  “The Sepulveda Adobe. My great-great-grandfather built it in 1863. Dad built an iron roof over it a couple years back, to keep it from melting away. I’d take you over there, but it’s getting late—it’s further than it looks.”

  “Has it ever been restored?”

  “Back in the 1950s my grandma had some things done to it. She had the good sense not to change much.” Mike shrugged. “Dad’s not all that interested. He makes sure it doesn’t deteriorate, but that’s about it. Course, it was Mom’s family that built it, not his.”

  He kicked at a dry mound of clump grass. “That was Mom’s goal, before she got sick. She wanted to restore the adobe to the way it originally was.”

  “That’s something you want to do for her, don’t you?”

  “Sure. And I will.” A gentleness filled his eyes and he looked away. The sweet smoky odor of sage, crushed by our tires, welled up around us.

  “To hell with the time,” Mike said abruptly. “What does it matter if we get back late? Let’s go take a look.”

  Twenty minutes later, when I pressed my hand to the old mud and straw wall, the spell of Little Panoche was complete. Unbidden words popped out of my mouth. “Someday I’d like to help you restore this. If you want me to, that is.”

  Mike leveled his dark brown eyes on me. “Kinda contradicting yourself, wouldn’t you say?”

  Chapter Eleven

  On our way home, we stopped in Pismo for a fish dinner and snagged a table looking out over the harbor. Mike’s good mood had returned, and we lingered over a relaxed meal. It was nearly eleven by the time he dropped me off at the bottom of El Balcón.

  “I wish you’d let me drive you up to the house.”

  I pecked him on the cheek. “It’s late. I don’t want the truck to wake up the Armentas.”

  “OK. Now, remember what I told you: keep your eyes open. And don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself,” I answered drowsily.

  Half-asleep, I wandered up the steep road, breathing in the cool, skunk-perfumed air. The big lopsided moon reflected a wavering path on the water.

  Dexter was probably inside, curled up on Chuy’s bed. I was used to the mutt charging down El Balcón at full tilt to challenge and greet me. But ever since Deirdre’s unannounced visit, Chuy had wanted Dexter close, especially at night. The dog loved the attention and was more than willing to oblige.

  It was good the moon was near full, because the light at the top of the drive was off. Either Alma had forgotten to switch it on when she went to bed, or the bulb had burned out.

  But as I passed under the light standard, my shoes crunched on glass. I bent down to look: the bulb had shattered. Something was wrong.

  I looked over at the house, and was reassured to see that the front hall light was on. The window set in the top of the door glowed welcomingly, a warm yellow hemisphere in the dark.

  I stepped onto the path of crushed shells that lead around to the kitchen steps at the back. When I rounded the corner of the house, I halted.

  Something dark had been flung down on the steps. Perhaps it was a shrugged-off jacket—or a pelt. A pelt? Now my heart stopped cold. I took three more steps. The object moved slightly, and whimpered.

  Dexter, Dex! I couldn’t cry out—the children mustn’t see or hear any of this.

  I whispered, “Easy, boy. Easy, Dex.”

  The dog’s muzzle was bound in plastic packing tape. His black nose poked out, sucking hard for air. I lifted him up, and the pathetic whimper slid up the scale to a thin high scream. I felt something wet and sticky on his back and side—then I saw his leg, dangling at a crazy angle—there was blood, lots of it.

  I ran to the garage with Dex in my arms, stumbling twice in the dark. Thank God the sagging doors never quite closed. I edged in sideways and, gently as I was able, laid the little fellow on the floor of the passenger seat. The sounds he made nearly broke me.

  I lifted and dragged the double doors all the way open, fumbled for the key on my ring, jumped in, and backed out.

  I didn’t look down until I reached the street lights on Cliff Drive. Then in a glance I saw it all: the dog’s leg was snapped, the white bone sticking up at a sharp angle. He’d been butchered.

  Dexter lay still. I jerked to a stop, leaned down, and held my fingertips close to his muzzle. Thank God, I felt the faint breeze of his breath. I tried to unwrap the tape, but my fingers were numb, useless sticks of dough.

  I stepped on the gas. Ignoring stop signs and lights, I raced through the empty streets of the town.

  The emergency vet was young, just out of vet school. “Dogs are tough. That’s why medical researchers use them for experimentation.” She looked upset.

  “So he’s going to make it.” I spoke firmly, as if my voice would make it so.

  “Dogs are tough,” she repeated. “He’s stabilized, and unless he develops a raging infection, he’s got a fighting chance. Call the office in the morning.”

  “You put him on antibiotics, right?”

  “Of course I did.” She frowned.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t mean to tell you how to do your job.”

  “Speaking of jobs, aren’t you a detective? I think I read your name in the paper.”

  “Investigator.”

  “Then investigate and find out who did this.” She dragged off her bloodstained gloves. “Somebody wanted your dog to die a slow and tortured death.”

  * * *

  I drove home and let myself in through the front door. I listened carefully: all I could hear was Chuy, snoring softly. I headed to the kitchen for a scrub brush.

  “Jaymie?” It was Aricela, blinking her eyes and tugging her old T-shirt down over her shorts.

  “Sorry, Aricela. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “It’s OK. But Jaymie, we couldn’t find Dexter when we went to bed. We think maybe he ran away.”

  I’m no actress. But for her sake and mine, I needed to pull off an Oscar-winning performance. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Sometimes Dexter just wanders off. Go back to bed, OK? He’ll turn up in the morning.”

  “OK.” The girl smiled shyly. “Jaymie? I really like staying with you.”

  “I really like having you here too, Aricela.” I turned away so she wouldn’t see the tears in my eyes. “Now you better get some sleep, OK?”

  I waited until Aricela had returned to bed. Then I took the brush from und
er the kitchen sink, switched on my flashlight, and went out to find a hose nozzle in the garage. The last thing I wanted was for the kids to discover the blood in the morning.

  I washed off the steps and the path, diluting the blood and flushing it into the dirt. Then I bent down and scrubbed, the brush in one hand and the flashlight in the other. I scrubbed until my arm ached, then rinsed and scrubbed some more.

  It was after one in the morning by the time I finished, but I noticed the lights were on in Danny’s studio. Before I went to bed, I needed to make sure he was OK.

  I walked over and tapped on the door. “Danny, it’s me, Jaymie. Can I talk to you for a minute?” I’d made it a point to say a few words to him every day. Little by little, he was starting to trust me.

  I’d installed a dead bolt for him, so he’d feel safe. I heard it slide back, and the door opened a foot. “Hi, Danny.”

  “Hi.” He opened it further. His dark red hair hadn’t been combed in days.

  My heart went out to him. Danny had been taking meds for nearly two weeks now, and he was no longer psychotic. But I could see in his eyes that he was frightened and confused.

  “I got home late and thought I’d check in with you. Did your weekend go OK?” I could see, over his shoulder, that the TV was tuned to a nature show.

  Danny nodded, once. “Yeah.… I guess so.”

  Back on meds, he was remembering. No doubt he was beginning to recall Lili now, and the terror he’d witnessed. I knew this was a dangerous time, the point where mentally ill people can be vulnerable to suicide.

  “Where’s Dexter?” He looked past me into the night. “My sister said she—she couldn’t find him.”

  “Probably out hunting for gophers and rats. He’ll come home soon.”

  “When—when—Dexter comes back, he can stay with me if he wants.” A faint flicker of pleasure lighted his face. “He likes it in my room.”

  “That’s a good idea, Danny.” A lump formed in my throat. “I’m sure Dexter would love to stay with you.”

  * * *

  “It was meant as a message to me. What happened to Dex was my fault.”

  “Your fault?” Gabi, who had a job to go to later in the day, tugged her French-maid outfit over her hips. “No, Miss Jaymie. That’s bad negative self-talk.”