Mary stepped back, feeling shy, almost dumbstruck. This girl had thought these rescues so important she had been willing to commit a crime to get medicine. Who was she? Where had she come from?
“I loved this bread. Could I have another piece?”
“Sure. There’s butter, if you want it.” When Andi nodded, Mary got out butter and cut off a thick wedge of bread. “It’s from Cloud Cliff.”
“Cloud Cliff?” Andi smiled. “Yes, it should come from somewhere with that sort of name.”
“It’s a bakery.” She slid the bread onto a plate and put it on the counter. “Did you drive into town?”
Andi chewed the bread, shook her head. “I don’t have a car.”
“How old are you? You look seventeen, at least.”
Andi hesitated, then said, “Seventeen, yes.”
“I’m—fourteen,” said Mary. Well, she would be in a couple of weeks.
“Good. Then we’re practically the same age.”
Mary thought that was one of the most generous things she could imagine, to be granted another year or two by an older girl. She was a little stunned. No older girl she had ever known would have given her a three-year gift of age. To the contrary, the sixteen-year-olds loved to lord it over anyone a day younger. She said, “I was thinking: when you’re young, being older is so great; when you’re older, being taken for young is. It’s weird, age.”
“Then it must not be very important; it must not really mean anything. Fudge sauce!”
“Hot fudge sauce!” Mary ladled the sauce onto the ice cream. “I thought maybe we could have sundaes instead of sodas.” She set one dish in front of Andi.
Andi smoothed the fudge sauce over the ice cream. “I haven’t had a hot fudge sundae since—I can’t remember.”
Mary wondered why Andi’s skin, light to the point of luminescence anyway, went so much paler when she said this. It couldn’t be the hot fudge sundae that upset her. Mary said nothing, and they ate in silence.
Then Mary asked, “Where’d you start your camping trip? Where’re you going after here? I mean, I guess you’re going different places. Who’s with you?”
Andi appeared to be thinking. “I’m mostly on my own, you could say. It’s just sort of something I wanted to do. Every once in a while I find an empty cabin. You wouldn’t believe how many empty cabins there are!” As if this were the most surprising thing about her appearance here. “Or”—she shrugged—“caves.”
Mary didn’t say it, but such a trip sounded like sheer heaven to her. Imagine being allowed to do it on your own. But the flush that spread over her neck and face made Mary think that Andi seemed ashamed of it—that it was her fault she had to sleep in caves or empty cabins. Mary knew the feeling. It was that if you didn’t have what most people took for granted—the material things—there was something wrong with you: you were lazy, a bum or a tramp. You weren’t even an object of sympathy, but of scorn. There had to be something shameful about a person who lacked even the most rudimentary necessities. A home. Parents.
“Did you get them out, these coyotes?”
Andi nodded. “The first one I nearly didn’t, and I was afraid I’d have to shoot it.”
Mary’s spoon stopped, suspended in air. “Shoot it? Are you saying you’ve got a gun?”
Andi flushed again, nodded. “I . . . uh . . . found it.”
“Where?”
“It was left behind by somebody. Left in an empty cabin.”
She said it too smoothly, so it had to be a lie. She wondered if Andi told more lies than she herself did. Hard to believe. But she would not intrude upon the lie—lies were too close to the bone—as much as she’d like to know the real source of the gun. Instead, she asked, “Did you really come into town to get this medicine?”
Andi licked fudge from the back of her spoon and nodded. Then she turned to look anxiously at Mary. “Do I have to put it back? I’ll pay you for it—pay the drugstore, I mean. The pharmacist.”
Quickly, Mary reassured her. “No. You can have it. If he says anything I’ll make up some story.”
“But I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“You won’t. What I’d like to know is, how do you get the medicine into the coyote?”
“With a hypodermic.”
“You poke one with a needle? But . . . don’t they go for you? I mean snarl and lunge and so forth?”
Andi was silent for some moments. Then she let her spoon clatter into her empty dish and said, “No.”
Again, she got that queer look on her face, as if she were ashamed of something. After some careful thought, Mary said, “Listen, if you don’t have to go back right away tonight, maybe you could come home with me. Sleep over. Rosella wouldn’t mind. She’s the housekeeper. There’s only the two of us.”
Andi turned to look at her; it was as if she was searching Mary’s face for the joke in all this. “Really?”
“Sure. I live outside of Tesuque, it’s maybe eight miles, and Rosella’s going to pick me up as soon as I call her.”
Andi looked incredibly relieved, as if Mary had just lifted a weight from her shoulders. She said she would, she certainly would like to stay in a real house for the night.
• • •
Rosella was Rosella Koya, a Zuni Indian who had taken care of Mary ever since they’d been in New Mexico, and even more so after her sister, Angela, had died. Mary’s parents were dead too; the Hopes had been killed when their Cessna went down over the Rockies. Rosella, of course, asked Andi a lot of questions, though not unfriendly ones. The questions were not really answered and yet gave the impression of having been. Mary saw that Andi was even more adept at this than she herself. At any rate, Rosella was happy that Mary had found herself “a little friend.”
“Good. It’s good you have a little friend.”
When Rosella turned away, Mary and Andi exchanged a look. A little friend.
In her bedroom, Mary shook her head. “Can you believe it? You’d think we were dolls, or maybe kittens. Here’s some pj’s. The bathroom’s right down there.” Mary pointed down the hall.
Andi went to the bathroom; Mary got undressed and stood looking out of the window. She had turned off the light because she wanted to see as far as she could out there. She was looking for Sunny. He’d gone off before, sometimes for weeks, but he always came back, so she wasn’t terribly worried. The moonlight was a bright lake across the desert. She was glad they lived in Tesuque instead of in the city. Out here she felt less crowded by the unreasonable demands of adults.
She thought about Andi. She had decided that Andi had run away from home; she was pretty sure of it. Of course, she was curious, but she would not ask.
As she was standing before the window, thinking about this, Andi came back from the bathroom. She kept smoothing down the pajamas, looking at herself, as delighted as if she were wearing coronation robes. “I haven’t had pajamas on in such a long time. Or it seems like a long time.”
Mary didn’t ask her what she’d been sleeping in. Probably her underwear.
They got into the queen-sized bed, big enough for both of them without crowding. Contentedly, Mary sighed. The room was faintly lighted by the moon.
Andi said, “It never really gets dark. It’s amazing. Dead of night sometimes is almost like dusk. It’s sure not like that in . . .” She frowned into the dusky light. In where? She cleared her throat. What license plate was on that Camaro? Idaho. “. . . in Boise.”
Oh, sure, thought Mary, Boise. That sure rang no bells. “I’ve never been in any states between here and New York.”
“You’re not missing anything.” Andi yawned.
“Do you know where you’re going after you leave here? I don’t mean you’ve got to leave, but you do seem to be traveling.” Mary tried to state this in a way that wouldn’t seem pushy, pressing for an explanation.
For some time there was a silence, heavy, as if weighted with unspoken conflicts. Andi said, “I am. I’m looking for someone.”
Mary’s head turned on the pillow. That surprised her. “You are? Who?”
Again, there was silence, into which Andi dropped the answer. “I don’t know his name.”
Mary waited for more. But there wasn’t any more. She rolled over on her side but didn’t close her eyes.
Andi lay on her back, staring at the pattern of leaves the moon had printed on the ceiling. After a long silence, she said, “You know that question you asked about the coyotes snarling and lunging?” When Mary nodded, she went on: “That’s what’s really terrible. They’re in this terrible pain, agonizing, but they just . . . well . . . look at you, sort of hopeful that maybe you’ll help them. They hardly make a sound. It’s as if they know they’re going to die. They just accept it.”
Both of them were silent for a few moments, both looking up at the ceiling.
“I’ve got a kind of mixed-breed dog and coyote. Sunny. But he’s off somewhere. Actually, to tell the truth . . . well, he’s really more coyote than dog.” Mary frowned, turned her head to look at Andi, to see how she’d take it. “Gospel truth is, he’s really a coyote. I don’t tell people that, though. You know the way people are about coyotes. Think they’re trash.”
“Somewhere I read how ranchers call them cowards, yellow-belly cowards. Because they’re submissive when they’re trapped.”
“You sound like you’ve been around them a lot.”
In the dark, Andi nodded. “I’ve found maybe two dozen in the last three months.”
Mary sat up, leaning on her elbow to peer down at Andi’s face. “Are you saying you’ve been traveling around for three months on your own?” She felt a surge of envy. Mary prized independence above all else, except, perhaps, loyalty.
But Andi didn’t appear to find her adventure so unusual. “Four months, actually. I started the end of January. Not exactly traveling, though. More staying in one place. So I got to know where the traps were. Other things get caught in them too, you know.” She said it as if this last bit were the only part of her story that needed explaining.
“But where’d you live all by yourself for four months?”
“In a cabin in the mountains. The Sandias.”
Mary was even more dazzled by this than she’d been about the traveling. “Is it your family’s cabin?”
Andi was silent for a moment. “No.” She grew thoughtful. “I could tell you what happened, only it’s such a long story.”
Mary could think of nothing she’d rather hear. She nodded and rolled on her side to listen to Andi’s long story.
• DADDY •
3
What she remembered—and it was all she remembered—was waking up on top of a bed in a house she didn’t know, in a room she couldn’t recall entering. And she remembered lying there with the sweat pearling on her skin in icy beads.
The room was empty now, except for her. But she knew someone must have been here—a man, to judge from the jacket draped over the back of a turquoise-painted chair, a watch with a thick strap, and a silver bracelet with heavy links, a man’s bracelet. These were lying on the bedside table, together with some coins. She observed what she could without moving her body, only her head. She was afraid to move her body, for she felt as if she were made of glass, brittle and transparent. She held her palm out toward the window light to see if it was solid, then brought it back to rest atop the other one on her stomach.
She thought if she could keep her movements even and measured she might be able to rise from the bed. Nothing felt broken but everything ached, as if she’d been farming, plowing a field from sunup to sundown, guiding an old plow pulled by a horse.
She rose from the bed, slowly. At least she was dressed; that gave her some comfort. She started moving about the room, looking for clues. The room was attractive—warm and homelike. Whoever owned this place took good care of it. In the corner was an adobe fireplace and there were several wall hangings, brightly colored scenes taken, it looked, from the land out there. On the pine dresser she saw a little card that read WE WOULD BE GRATEFUL IF YOU COULD VACATE YOUR ROOM BY 11 A.M., AS WE NEED TO GET IT READY FOR THE NEXT GUEST.
She was a “guest,” then. For some reason, that suited her. She did not belong here as anyone other than a guest. But then, she did not belong anywhere that she could remember. She could not remember anything before this morning. She could not remember her name. For a moment, she stared out of the window at the distant dark mountains. She felt an affinity with the empty land, the far mountains.
She looked the room over carefully: its pale adobe walls, its old black bureau, its baskets of potpourri, and, in the gaudily tiled bathroom, its tiny soaps and miniature bottles of shampoo and bath oil. She picked up two that had been used and sniffed, hoping a fragrance would ambush her memory.
What she saved for last was the item that might give out the most information: a backpack that was probably hers, since it had an embroidery of flowers in one corner. Initials on the flap: A.O. She shut her eyes and ran A-names through her mind, thinking it would snag on one of them as the right one: Alice, Ann, Angela, Amy, Alison. Nothing registered. The O of course was hopeless; there were too many possibilities for a last name.
What was inside the backpack was reassuring: jeans, a couple of white T-shirts, socks, panties, bra. Some toiletries: sunscreen, lipstick, shampoo, Band-Aids. A pair of sandals. Her feet were bare; she must have had other shoes. She poked under the bed and found the sneakers.
Anita, Annette, Alexis, Abigail. Her legs drawn up, she rested her chin on her knees and tried not to cry. If she was a “guest” there would have to be a “host.” She would have to go in search of him or her.
• • •
“Good morning! Did you get enough sleep? Are you hungry? You must be if you didn’t even eat dinner last night. Your daddy had to go into town on business and said he’d be back in a couple of hours, and I was to see that you ate something.”
There was so much information to process from this morning greeting that she had played for time by rubbing at her forehead. Daddy? She doubted that. A couple of hours? From when? “Sorry. I have kind of a headache.” They were standing outside of the kitchen and the owner-cook was wearing one of those mitts for taking pans out of the oven. She was plump and probably in her forties, and rather pretty.
“Would you like some aspirin, dear? Oh, I’m Mrs. Orr, Patsy Orr. My husband and I own the place. This is our first real season.”
She smiled. It was good that this woman was both motherly and the sort who talked a lot. Yes, Mrs. Orr had not spoken her name, but why would any name given this woman when she and “Daddy” had arrived be authentic anyway? “Thanks.” She followed Patsy Orr into the kitchen. The breakfast smells were tantalizing. And it was true that she was hungry. Famished was a better word. Patsy Orr handed her a glass of juice and two aspirins, which she downed gratefully, wondering where the guest book was. There must be a registration book of some kind.
She drank the orange juice slowly, eyes closed, thinking hard. How much was left of that “couple of hours” before he’d be back? Whoever “Daddy” was, he would have told this pleasant lady a pack of lies, possibly interwoven with a few innocent truths, but hard to separate one from the other. That delicious smell was coming from the oven when Mrs. Orr opened the oven door and peered in. . . .
“What time did he leave? Uh, my dad, I mean.” It astonished her that she could say it so easily, could dissemble so well. How was she so sure that, whoever this man was, he wasn’t her father? It was simple: had he been, she doubted she would have amnesia. Had he been, she would have woken in a hospital bed.
“Oh, not long ago. Nine-thirty, about.”
Andi looked at her watch, glad she had one. “It’s after ten now . . . and he said two hours?”
Patsy Orr had pulled out a pan of corn bread and was testing its doneness by pressing in the center with her finger. “That’s right. Had appointments, he said, at ten and eleven. This is done now. It’s blue-corn bre
ad and I have my special recipe. My guests do seem to like my breakfasts; well, I say if you’re running a B-and-B that’s the least you can do, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like some? And I’ve still got some of the frijatas and the huevos rancheros, if you’d rather. Or both.” Patsy Orr smiled broadly, a picture of welcome.
She returned the smile, wondering, Why didn’t she simply tell this nice woman . . . but tell her what, exactly? Well, why didn’t she go to the police? Even if her story sounded too queer to believe, they would at least put out some kind of tracer on her. There must be parents or relatives she was gone from.
She didn’t because something told her he would talk his way out of it. Even though she couldn’t remember what he looked like, who he was, she knew this. Look at how he’d convinced Mrs. Orr that for him to share a room with his daughter (a daughter in her teens?) was perfectly all right. Yes, she would like to know just what lies he’d told Mrs. Orr.
“—don’t look like him. You’re so blond, your coloring is so light.” Patsy Orr was talkative. “Well, maybe you take after your mother.”
“People are always saying that. People think Dad”—she cleared her throat—“is sort of handsome.”
“Sort of? Well, I’m sure I’d grant him more than that.” Patsy Orr laughed and blushed. “Mind if I sit and have a cup of coffee with you while you’re eating?”
“Please do.” She wanted to find out whatever she could. However, she was careful to keep an eye on the clock: ten-twelve. “Did he say what his appointment was for?”
“No. Just that he’d be back before noon. Checkout time’s eleven, but don’t you worry about that.”
“Breakfast really smells good.” She breathed in, appreciatively. “Did he take the car?” she asked.
Patsy Orr was cutting the bread into squares. “No, I don’t think he did. It needed some part or other that he said he could get from one of the garages in town. I told him it was easy walking distance to the center of town. He’d got a street map.”
Biting the Moon Page 3