by T. F. Torrey
Macy’s smile went away. “Oh,” he said. Suddenly he perked up again. “Hey,” he said. “Let’s do some fishing.”
That seemed like a good idea to everyone but me. I felt like drawing again. While they were readying their gear, Erica put the knife away. First she tucked it into her front hip pocket. Then she bent over to pick up her fishing rod and stood up in a rush, as if snapping to attention. I stepped back quickly, paranoid, afraid of a snake or something. Then I saw her, clearly blushing this time, take the knife from her front pocket and put it into her back pocket.
I pretended not to notice. I got out my sketchbook and pencils and figured to put down some details of Desert Sunset Panorama in the light of the gas lantern.
That didn’t work. Macy claimed the lantern and toted it away as he and Sharon headed upriver, where they had been earlier. John and Erica made their way through the underbrush downriver in darkness, leaving me alone at the fire with three lawn chairs. I wondered why they’d bothered to dig the lawn chairs out in the first place, but not for long. Right away I kicked back in one of the chairs, sketchbook comfortably in my lap.
***
For a while in the flickering firelight, I sketched some notes for painting my Desert Sunset Panorama. Because I was drawing only in pencil, I had to denote the colors with words, but I got the memory down all right anyway.
Turning then to my previous drawing of John fishing and Erica watching, I noted again that it was more Erica than anything else. I worked on it for a while, filling in details. But when I was done it was still mostly Erica. Erica was a fine subject, and maybe good for another time, but I wanted this drawing to be about the master fisherman. Even in the firelight, though, I could see it was quite far off. I’d fix it later.
By then I was lonely. I really felt like talking to somebody, anybody. I started to walk upriver, toward Macy and Sharon. Within a few steps, however, I spotted the glow of the lantern reflecting off the bluff. It was at least a hundred yards upriver, and I didn’t want to walk that far in the dark. I suspected that John and Erica hadn’t gone too far without a light, so I turned and walked downriver toward them.
After I’d walked only a few cautious steps in the darkness, I found a kind of rocky path through the underbrush and decided to follow it.
I thought about calling out to them, but thought better of it. The hot breeze whispered in my ears, mingling with the bubbling of the river over the rocks. The night was peacefully quiet, and I didn’t want to ruin the ambiance with a bunch of mindless yelling.
Above me the stars blazed through the clear night, and the moon was just edging over the rim of the bluff. The moon, approaching full, looked so crisp and large that it seemed I could have reached out and touched it, perhaps from the top of Chalk Mountain.
I walked on. Now I was beginning to think that they might have followed this path quite a ways. Suddenly I heard something soft as a kitten’s purr, and somehow strangely familiar, drifting faintly through the desert air.
Looking quickly around for scorpions or snakes, I sat down on the rocks where I was.
Recognizing the noise, I felt memories washing over my mind like waves over a sandy beach on a summer night. Memories of a nuzzle, a caress, hot breath on my neck, teeth hard and soft in the flesh of my shoulder. I remembered hair in my palm, tangled through my fingers. The taste of her mouth, her fingertips. The smell of the sweat when I kissed under her breasts.
That music on the breeze was Erica, softly moaning. And that sound, with the hot breeze on my face and the moon bright above me, brought back the intimate memories of the sweet music she had made when I held her.
***
It was just one night, a long time ago, and afterward we’d felt too awkward and foolish to try to see each other again.
That one night, she’d stopped into Gridlock with her boyfriend and some female friend of hers. I noticed when her boyfriend left with her friend. And after a while I noticed that they weren’t coming back.
She stayed there drinking and thinking until I closed up the place. She wanted me to call her a taxi. I offered to give her a lift myself. On the way to her place she told me about her boyfriend, how he was an intern at the VA hospital where she was a nurse, and how he had dumped her for her friend.
I lent a sympathetic ear as I drove her home, and we wound up talking late into the night about love and life. When silence finally fell over us, we felt like old friends sitting side-by-side on her couch. I was thinking about leaving when I felt her hand on top of mine. I looked into her eyes, and she didn’t have to say a thing. I knew what she was thinking.
I didn’t even find out her name until just before I left her place that night. I felt kind of bad. She’d been dumped and had enough to drink to let her guard down. And I’d let her make that mistake. Just like friends don’t.
I could have conned myself and said she was lucky that she’d hooked up with me and not someone who would use her and not let her forget it, but some part of me wouldn’t let me forget that I’d played the wolf. I’d started out my association with her by taking advantage of her. Though I’d found myself attracted to her, how could I turn that into something that would last?
I had never expected to see her again, though now and then I’d thought about her. She hadn’t stopped into Gridlock anymore after that. I’d always hoped that she’d wind up with someone who was really good for her. I wasn’t sure why. Probably guilt.
Seeing her now with John Lupo made me glad for her. Something about that—seeing her with someone who was good for her, and good to her—something about that gave me back some ability to feel hopeful about the world. There was some kind of simple justice in seeing this beautiful girl get something special in return.
Seeing them together, hearing them now over the bubbling river and the whispering wind, gave me a peaceful easy feeling about life and the world.
I just hoped that my one night with Erica wouldn’t ruin their chances for happiness. And I really hoped that John would never find out, or if he did, that he would be sympathetic, not suspicious.
But I’ll never forget the way she moaned. Good or bad, right or wrong, I’ll never forget it.
Part 3
Chapter 13
“Jack, get up.”
“Huh, what?” Bright light. Rocks. Grit. Dry mouth. Cold.
“Jack, get up. We have to talk.”
“Mmm,” I said, rousing a bit, shaking my head. It was the desert. It was cold. It was bright. I was sleeping on the ground. I’d forgotten.
I squinted at the figure standing between me and the sun. The figure with the hat and the cold steel eyes. “John?” I asked.
“Get up, Jack,” he said. Of course it was John Lupo. His voice was calm, firm, low, controlled, and entirely unfriendly. Even as the cobwebs of sleep fell away from my brain, I could tell what his problem was. It could only be one thing.
Erica had narked.
I stood up slowly, stretching. I was stiff and cramped all over. Rocks make bad bedmates. I had slept next to the fire, but it had died down, and the night had been chilly. The sun was up in the east, lifting over the bluff as the moon had done the night before, but the day wasn’t old enough to be warm yet. I shivered and stretched as the tendrils of a dream left my mind.
Looking around, I first noticed that everyone else was already awake. Sharon scrounged through the coolers for some breakfast. Macy, wasting no time, had his line in the water, his pole angled over a notched stick on the rocks.
Then I noticed that John held my sketchbook in his left hand. With my stomach turning cold, I remembered that I’d fallen asleep while working on my drawing of John fishing.
“This is a nice drawing of my girlfriend, Jack,” he said.
“Actually,” I explained, “it’s supposed to be you, fishing.”
“Uh, huh,” he said, sarcasm thick in his voice. “I guess I am in the picture a bit.”
Macy looked back at us, concerned about what might be going on. As I
met his gaze, he wisely turned back to the water, deliberately studying his line. Sharon ignored us from the truck.
“Let’s go talk, Jack,” John said. He turned and walked away, still carrying my sketchbook, going down the rocky path I’d followed downstream the night before. I followed him. I expected him to move just out of earshot of the others, but John surprised me. He’d already surprised me by being so cool and calm in the knowledge of what had happened with Erica and me. Now he surprised me by leading me more than a hundred yards downstream.
Through the dense growth of mesquite and other bushes, even along the rocky trail, it took us several minutes to navigate that hundred yards along the riverbank. As we walked I gathered my composure. He walked quietly, not saying anything and not making any noise on the rocks, either. My own feet clattered over the rocks as I staggered along trying to keep up. I wondered what he planned on doing. He could have been leading me to my death. And I was following him, trying hard to keep up.
I couldn’t believe Erica had told him. I couldn’t believe she had had to tell him here, in the desert. Sometime later would have been a thousand times better. A million times. Here in the desert I felt so completely defenseless. And John was perfectly at home.
Then we were in sight of Erica. She sat with her back to us at a tiny bit of a clearing by the river, tossing pebbles into the water. For some reason—any reason—she didn’t look up as we approached, though I was sure she had heard my footsteps.
John stopped walking at the clearing and turned back to me, facing me squarely.
This was it. Time was now. Showdown.
***
Before he could begin, I decided to set the record straight. I could make it clear that I wasn’t interested so there was nothing to even talk about. “Look,” I said, “what happened with Erica and me was a long time ago.”
John was shocked and surprised. He’d opened his mouth to say something. Now it just hung open.
Erica’s head snapped around toward us, and her face went white.
I felt surprised, and suddenly alone, and very, very, very stupid. Erica hadn’t narked on me. I had just narked on myself.
“I was bringing you out here because I wanted you to see this sunrise scene,” John said. “I thought you might like to paint it.” He looked back and forth at Erica and me, disbelief all over his face. “What’s going on here?”
“John,” Erica began, getting to her feet, “it really was a long time ago.”
“Wait!” I said. “I was only joking. Nothing happened. Nothing. It was supposed to be funny.” I forced a laugh.
John’s fishing vest had fallen away from his left shoulder. He wore no shirt underneath. A double row of pink dashes showed clearly on his flesh. The teeth hard and soft on his shoulder. With effort, I denied myself the urge to reminisce.
John closed his mouth and stared at me. I knew he’d seen me looking at the bite marks. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look upset. He stared at me with his face a calm mask of accusation, lips tight together, only the faintest traces of hurt and recollection glowing in his eyes, shining in the shadow of the brim of his hat, slung low against the morning sun. He was so calm he scared me.
I didn’t know what to say. Erica, too, was quiet. A thousand words raced through my head. A thousand ideas. But it seemed I’d said too much already, and nothing I could say was I going to change the past. Nothing.
“I never meant for this to happen,” I said. Of course I hadn’t. I kept remembering how easily he’d handled the dog, the drunks, the snake. The dog in one hand easily by the throat, feet kicking, claws catching nothing, eyes wild.
John turned away from me like I was insignificant. He stared at Erica, silently questioning her actions and motives.
“Please don’t be angry, John,” she said. She looked into my eyes. “It was nothing special, really.”
Ouch.
She moved toward John, ready to embrace. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand.”
“Oh, I think I understand perfectly,” John said, dodging her arms. “The drawing, the looks.” He paced away a bit and turned back to her. “You must think I’m a fool.”
“No, John, really—” Erica said, stepping toward him again.
“No,” he said, interrupting her and stepping away. He shook his head and looked off at the beautiful sunrise, fathoms of disappointment in his eyes. The pause was only brief, but with my heart stopped it seemed much longer. Finally he looked at me again. “You can have her,” he said calmly.
Erica and I could only look at each other. John walked out of the clearing, away from the river, out toward the open desert. In a flash I had visions of John walking back to the truck and taking Macy and Sharon and leaving us. We were a long, long way from civilization.
And, just for a moment, I thought it would be nice for Erica to be mine.
That passed.
Erica went after John. She was right on his heels as he walked away. I thought I might leave them alone, then I thought better of it. Beautiful as she was, she was right. We had to straighten this one out.
“John, please let me explain,” she was saying. He ignored her and kept walking. I followed them at a distance. “It’s not what you think,” she said.
“It’s not?” he asked, still walking.
“No, it’s not. What happened was a long time ago. I haven’t seen him since then. I had no idea he would be here this weekend.”
He kept walking, but more slowly. She’d gotten through. Or started to, anyway.
“It was only one night,” she said, sensing progress. “It was long before I ever met you.”
Bingo. He stopped walking away and turned back toward her.
“Okay,” he said. “Tell me about it.”
She stopped in front of him and took a deep breath. “Remember the guy I was seeing last year?” she asked.
“Jeff what’s-his-name?”
“Yeah, that’s him. Well, the night he dumped me we were out having a drink with my friend Cindy.”
“The one you said he took off with.”
“Right. After they left the bar that night, I stayed there and had quite a few more drinks.” She paused for words, and for strength. I could tell it wasn’t easy for her to talk about this kind of thing. This wasn’t her style. John waited patiently for her to continue. “I got pretty tipsy,” she said. “At closing time I asked the bartender to call me a cab, but he said he’d give me a ride home.”
John flashed me an icy glance, chilly in the morning sun. “He’d save you a few dollars?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“So then what?” he asked, looking back at her.
“So he took me back to my apartment, and we were talking for a while, and …” her voice trailed off.
“One thing leads to another,” John said.
“Yeah,” Erica said, looking down at the ground. “When I woke up the next morning, I wanted to die.”
There followed an uncomfortable pause. I really had never meant to become the heel. But I sure was one now. I felt very small.
“I didn’t see him again until yesterday. I didn’t even know his last name.”
Very small indeed.
“After that I met you,” Erica continued, looking back up at John again. “Everything was so perfect. I didn’t want to ruin it. I didn’t want you to think … I was a tramp.”
“I don’t,” he said, his face softening, reaching out to take her hands in his. “I think you’re a princess.”
They embraced, quickly. Then John turned his attention to me. “That explains the looks,” he said, “but what about the drawing?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Why are you using this trip to draw my girl, Jack? Do you still want her?”
At least she was “his girl” again. I shook my head. “I just like to draw beautiful things,” I said. “She deserves the best, John. She deserves you.”
That worked.
Lots of pe
ople will tell you that flattery will get you nowhere. Don’t believe them. I think they’re just trying to keep it to themselves. In my experience, flattery is like a Visa card: it will get you everywhere you want to be.
John and Erica embraced again. This time it dragged on and on, and then they were kissing and I was entirely too close at ten feet away. I decided that the big Q&A was over, and before things got too intense, I’d better leave. I was hungry. I would go join Macy and Sharon for breakfast gruel.
As I was turning away, movement behind John and Erica caught my attention. A hundred feet or so on the other side of them, a man stepped into sight. He was followed quickly by another. The vegetation grew thin away from the river, but they were too obscured to see very clearly. I could see that both men carried rifles slung over their shoulders. I doubted they were fishing. Were they poachers? Were they the poachers?
The first one spotted John and Erica, who were still swapping spit in front of me. He elbowed his buddy and pointed in our direction. They both stopped walking and looked at us.
I hadn’t seen the poachers clearly the day before, but these guys looked much bigger. These guys were huge. Goliath and Goliath. Their skin was dark, tanned golden by the sun. They wore hats, brown like John’s outback, but with wide brims and rounded tops. In the shadows under their hats they wore dark sunglasses, further protection against the desert sun, and against identification.
They spoke quickly back and forth, but they were too far away for me to even catch a murmur of what they said. John and Erica were still kissing, unaware of them and apparently of me. I didn’t want to be the one to stop the reunion, but I just might have to.
Then the maybe-poachers were moving again. They took their rifles off their shoulders and took a couple steps forward, toward us.
“Um,” I said.
For a second I thought they were going to continue on their way, that they’d unslung their rifles for better balance on fragile footing. For just a second, I thought everything would be fine.
Then one of the hunters dropped to one knee. And they both raised their rifles to their shoulders.