Walk In Naked
a short story by
Brock Taylor
The tracks ran parallel to the highway a couple hundred yards to the west but Henly didn’t notice them until a freight train came hurtling into sight doing about seventy. That’s just the thing, he thought. Perfect. His right hand slid from its customary place inside his shirt against his belly and moved to grip the steering wheel as he leaned forward, his shoulders tensing in concentration. The head of the train was already past him when he saw a dirt ranch road cutting across the desert from the highway to the tracks. Henly jumped on the brakes and his old Chevy pickup skidded onto the shoulder then crashed through a barbed-wire gate in a flurry of dust and gravel. No time to open the gate. That would look suspicious, but maybe they wouldn’t notice. The road was deeply rutted, not built for speed, but Henly pressed his foot to the floor. He loved his old truck, had been babying it since he’d bought it used off a lot twenty-two years before, but when he hit a boulder, slipping into the ruts and he heard the muffler scream and break away, he didn’t even flinch. Come on Old Rattler, he said, jerking at the wheel, hopping back out of the ruts, it doesn’t matter now. He glanced at the speedometer – just edging over forty. Ahead the train was a blur, brown boxcar Burlington Northern, then another, Santa Fe Railroad, a couple of matte black tank cars. Fifty. The back wheels spat gravel as they slid back into the ruts and he cranked to the right, hearing the underbelly screech along the middle hump. Back down to forty-five. He shifted down to third and pulled to the very edge of the track, mesquite and pinon whipped and scraped at the new thousand-dollar paint job. Six weeks ago – a lifetime now, a month before that kindly old man had tried to hold his eye as he announced the diagnosis, stomach cancer, inoperable, and the prognosis, four to six months.
The tracks ran parallel to the highway a couple hundred yards to the west but Henly didn’t notice them until a freight train came hurtling into sight doing about seventy. That’s just the thing, he thought. Perfect. His right hand slid from its customary place inside his shirt against his belly and moved to grip the steering wheel as he leaned forward, his shoulders tensing in concentration. The head of the train was already past him when he saw a dirt ranch road cutting across the desert from the highway to the tracks. Henly jumped on the brakes and his old Chevy pickup skidded onto the shoulder then crashed through a barbed-wire gate in a flurry of dust and gravel. No time to open the gate. That would look suspicious, but maybe they wouldn’t notice. The road was deeply rutted, not built for speed, but Henly pressed his foot to the floor. He loved his old truck, had been babying it since he’d bought it used off a lot twenty-two years before, but when he hit a boulder, slipping into the ruts and he heard the muffler scream and break away, he didn’t even flinch. Come on Old Rattler, he said, jerking at the wheel, hopping back out of the ruts, it doesn’t matter now. He glanced at the speedometer – just edging over forty. Ahead the train was a blur, brown boxcar Burlington Northern, then another, Santa Fe Railroad, a couple of matte black tank cars. Fifty. The back wheels spat gravel as they slid back into the ruts and he cranked to the right, hearing the underbelly screech along the middle hump. Back down to forty-five. He shifted down to third and pulled to the very edge of the track, mesquite and pinon whipped and scraped at the new thousand-dollar paint job. Six weeks ago – a lifetime now, a month before that kindly old man had tried to hold his eye as he announced the diagnosis, stomach cancer, inoperable, and the prognosis, four to six months.
Doing better now – sixty, sixty-five. Turquoise Korean containers stacked two high. HUNG DUCK. HUNG DUCK painted in two foot lettering. He could see the crossing. The track was raised a couple feet above the roadway with a sharp incline all torn up by runoff and cattle trucks. Five miles an hour would be too fast. Henly leaned forward, pulling at the wheel, pressing his foot to the floor with all his strength. Seventy, seventy-two. He squeezed his eyes tight.
He hit the incline in a ferocious grinding and splatter of gravel as the front bumper dug into the roadway and he felt his lungs collapse as his chest hit the steering wheel and his head hammered the windshield. The truck launched into the air. For an instant the deafening roar, the cacophony and tumult of the moment, was cut as if a breaker had been thrown, and a crystalline silence encased the world. Henly was flying through oblivion and hadn’t the brains or awareness to open his eyes. He was off the seat, his bruised chest floating back from the steering wheel. He was just becoming conscious, quizzically, of a sense of peace, paradisiacal, when a tremendous crash shook him from his reverie – if reverie is possible in a split second – and his head again slammed into the windshield, the steering wheel proved grotesquely immovable against his groin, and his eyes popped open to all the horrors of Hell. He was doing seventy across a trackless desert of boulders, scrubby trees and cactus. A ravine suddenly appeared at his right and he pulled hard to the left, fighting the temptation to brake, knowing instinctively that the heap would roll if he did. Skidding, slewing wildly through the mesquite and cactus, the truck finally came to rest just feet from a defile that led, in giant steps, down to the churning Rio Grande.
Henly collapsed across the seat nursing alternately his wracked testicles and bleeding skull. He’d missed! The damned train must have been a mile long and he’d missed the last car by a whisker!
Gingerly, knees spread, fingers back massaging his gut, he clambered out of the cab and circumambulated, circumlimped, the truck to survey the damage. Not too bad. Right side completely trashed, muffler gone, one headlight missing, and both front tires ripped to shreds, the rims beyond repair. Well, no problem. Being Henly, he had two spares bolted to the truck bed. He fished under the seat and found a liter of water and sat with it, his feet hanging into the gorge. Should have just kept on going, he said to himself. Funny, instinct taking over like that. Didn’t seem right to do it now.
Henly had been on his way to the Albuquerque airport to catch a flight to Tucson where his only remaining client had its offices. He drained the plastic water bottle, screwed the lid back on, and tossed it into the front seat before rising painfully to his feet. Probably still make it if he hustled. He undid his belt, let his pants fall to his knees, and delicately fingered his agony. This too will pass, he said. This too.
*
Three days later he was at the Tucson airport awaiting his return flight. It was mid-afternoon and lightning stalked across the runways. The announcement said that FAA regulations prohibited re-fueling during lightning storms, so the flight would be delayed. Henly didn’t care. The airport was as good a place as any. He watched the stir of annoyed passengers for a while then settled back into his book.
An hour later the storm had passed but they still weren’t boarding. The crowd was getting restless. Eight miles, the announcement said. The storm’s got to be at least eight miles away before they can bring out the fuel trucks. A fat, bald business suit beside Henly snorted, Eight miles, isn’t that ridiculous? Henly looked out at the blue skies and shrugged. The plane would leave when it would leave. Annoyance was ineffectual.
Henly wasn’t sure why he was there. Given that he had at best a half-year to live you’d think he’d be on some beach in the South Pacific. But the trip had been long planned and the little auto parts outfit needed him. Henly was an expert on a dead machine: a mid-range computer that IBM had stopped producing over a decade before. As far as he knew, this was the last one in operation, and it had only another few weeks before he was scheduled to return to switch it off for good and haul it out to the landfill. Not a single component was worth salvaging. If he was still among the living he’d be back. It seemed a fitting end for both machine and man. Almost reason to hang on.
A woman behind him was talking about missing her shuttle up to Taos. The last one left at three-thirty, and even if they boarded immediately, they’d not get there until four. She didn’t know what to do. Another woman was commiserating with her, but not being helpful. Henly had been wondering if he’d get another shot at the train on the return trip but he turned around, tapped the woman on the shoulder, and told her that he was driving up to Taos, and he’d give her a lift. She thanked him profusely, nodding and grinning, then stood and came around to shake his hand and to introduce herself. “Sara Dickson,” she said. “Henly,” Henly replied, “H E N L…” “I know how to spell it,” she interrupted him. “That was my husband’s name.”
An hour later they found seats together near the back of the plane. Sara said she wanted to get acquainted, but Henly understood that she mainly wanted to check him out before she got into his truck, make sure he wasn’t a pervert or something. She announced right off that she was seventy-seven years old, born in 1924, which made her a decade older than Henly had guessed. Pretty good looking broad for seventy-seven. Tall, slim, not too wrinkled. Short red-brown hair with some gray. Casually but expensively dressed. She was on her way up to Taos to a writer’s workshop. Travel writing. She was a traveler. Henly asked her where she’d traveled, and she launched into a seemingly endless list of countries. “Why don’t you just say you’ve been everywhere?” he asked as she was struggling to recall all the places in sub-Saharan Africa she’d visited in the late eighties. She laughed. “Oh, I certainly haven’t been everywhere.” He pointed out that she had mentioned every country in Central and South America, most of them several times, and she laughed again and told him he was funny. Henly was tired and had hoped to catch some shuteye on the flight, but Sara was telling him about Antarctica and Baffin Island, wanting to know if he’d ever been. He told her he’d done some traveling in his youth; Spain, France, Italy, Turkey, the last being his favorite. She hadn’t done Turkey yet. Was saving the easy countries for when she slowed down. It was Henly’s turn to laugh.
“Oh my God!” was what she said when he pulled up at Arrivals to pick her up. “I told you it wasn’t a limousine,” he said. “But what happened to it?” Henly thought she wasn’t going to get in. “Just a little accident on my way down here. Don’t worry about it. Old Rattler still drives okay.” He threw her suitcase into the back and held open the passenger door. She looked worriedly at her Samsonite wedged between two shredded tires and said she’d like it to ride up front with her, if that would be all right. She tittered as they pulled onto the freeway. “This will be an adventure,” she said, speaking loudly over the roar of the un-muffled engine. “I see why you call it ‘Old Rattler.’” He didn’t answer and she settled back into the seat as they plugged along through the Albuquerque rush hour.
When the traffic opened up north of town the noise inside the cab seemed to diminish, and Sara turned to him. “How old are you?” she asked. “Fifty-one.” “So I’m about your mother’s age.” He nodded. “She was born in ’23, so you’re a year younger.” “Is she in good health?” Again he nodded then described his mother’s life, golf, bridge, tai-chi. “I was married when I was twenty,” she announced, “and divorced when I was thirty-eight. My husband left me for an older woman.” “Why’d he do that?” “For love, he said.” She shrugged. “Suited me well enough. I was tired of him anyway. He died within a year. Was hard on the kids, though.” Henly nodded. “Are you married?” she asked. Henly shook his head. “Were you ever?” “Long time ago. It lasted six months.” “What happened?” “I don’t think she liked me very much.” Henly kept his eyes on the road. “What makes you think that?” “The last thing she said to me was, ‘You’re just too weird. And secretive.’” “You don’t seem weird to me.” “So I thought about it for a minute and told her that I wasn’t secretive. At least not about anything I was willing to talk about.” “Why did you say that?” asked Sara. “That was a dumb thing to say.” Henly shrugged. “That’s just how it came out. She left the same day.” “Where is she now?” “I’ve no idea. Haven’t heard from her in twenty-five years.” “That’s sad.” Henly shook his head. “No it’s not. Life isn’t sad. It’s just what it is. You can make it sad if you want to.”
Sara was silent for a few miles. The sun was setting to their left. They passed the ranch road that he’d driven down so wildly, but he didn’t say anything. No trains in sight. “You alright?” she asked, looking at his hand moving in small circles inside his shirt. “Gut ache,” he said. “Something I ate.” She nodded and returned her gaze to the sunset. “So you live alone?” she asked. “Just me and beasts.” “You’ve got animals?” “Couple horses, couple dogs.” “I love horses. Do you ride?” “Well, sure. That’s what they’re for. Every day I’m home.” “I love to ride,” she said. “When I was a kid we always had horses, and my two were brought up on them. I don’t have any now, I’m away too much, but my neighbors do, and I go out with them sometimes. That’s the nice thing about Tucson, everybody has horses.” “Cowboy country.” “Well, it used to be, that’s for sure. It’s getting pretty citified now.” Henly thought about offering to take her for a ride, but he didn’t feel like it. He was looking forward to the silence.
“My husband’s name was Henly.” “So you said.” “I guess I did. Well, it was his middle name, his mother’s maiden name. Not a common first name.” “I gave it to myself.” “What was it originally? What did your parents call you?” “No parents. Brother Dominic named me, named all of us. Mine was Henry Henry. Others were Richard Richards, David David, Nick Nixon, George George. He wasn’t big on last names.” “That’s terrible. What an awful thing to do!” “So when I grew up I changed one of the Henrys to Henly.” “Henly Henry’s not much of an improvement.” “It’s kind of a joke.” “Your name shouldn’t be a joke! Why didn’t you change it to something reasonable?” Henly laughed. “So, I just go by Henly now. Some folks think its my first name, some my last. Simple having just one name. Like Sting. Everyone knows who he is.” “I’ve never heard of anyone called Sting.” “He’s a Brit. Had a band call The Police. Now he’s on his own.” “Another awful name. The names they come up with for their bands! It’s amazing. I’d never go to a concert if the band were called The Police. I’d be afraid of being arrested.”
“So where have you published?” he asked. “Oh, I haven’t. Not yet.” “Where have you tried to publish?” “I haven’t done that either.” She tittered. “But you’re a travel writer, so you’ve got journals of all your trips, I suppose.” “Well, not really. My journals are mainly in my head. I’m just starting. This will be my first workshop.” “So you’ve done the traveling, but not the writing?” “That’s it.” “Sounds like false advertising to me.” “What?” “Calling yourself a travel writer.” She was trying not to be offended. “I do write, have written lots of stuff, but I just haven’t sent it out. I’m not sure it’s good enough.” “How will you ever know?” “What?” “If it’s good enough if you don’t send it out?” “The workshop. It will give me an idea.” “What are you scared of? It’s just a stamp.” “It’s more than a stamp! It’s fear of failure, rejection.” “No it’s not. It’s a stamp.” She went quiet. “Well then, what have you been doing all your seventy-seven years, besides traveling?” he asked. “I’m an educator.” “A teacher?” “And an administrator. Right now I’m teaching a couple of college classes.” “At U of A?” “No, private schools.” “What do you teach?” “Education classes. I’m semi-retired, so I just contract to teach now and then, classes I’ll enjoy.” She explained that she had moved to Tucson from Phoenix because of a house she’d seen there. Seen and bought. Sara described her house in great detail. When she found it, it had been empty and on the market for years. An architect had built it for himself, but had gone broke before it was quite completed. It was enormous with rough aggregate floors, not a single flat wall, the house spiraling up like a seashell. She’d got it for a song. “Sounds like a white elephant,” Henly said, but she denied it. Of course, that was what some people called it, but it was a wonderful place to live. She told Henly that she was sure he’d love the house and that he should come and visit her on his next trip. Henly nodded. That might be fun. “So, you rattle around in this place all by yourself?” he said. “Well, I do now. My boyfriend of twelve years died last year. Cancer.” “Sorry,” said Henly. Sara shook her head. “He was a smoker.”
Henly carried her bag into the hotel. “I like you,” she told him. “Is it okay to say that?” Henly shrugged. “Do you have a card?” she asked. He nodded and reached for his wallet. “I’d like to give you a call, invite you out for a drink sometime while I’m here. Could you stand it? I’d like to stay in touch, if that’s all right.” Henly smiled at her. “I’d like it,” he said.
*
By the time Henly got home it was too late to call in on his neighbor, ET. Henly paid Ernest Trujillo ten dollars a day to feed and water his animals when he was away. A good deal for both of them.
The dogs’ frenzy greeted him through the barn door, already locked in for the night. Mutts, both of them, he’d saved from the pound. They almost bowled him over when he opened the door. There’s no pedigree for love. He knelt to subdue their delight, scratching their ears and accepting the rough tongues across his face. “Nice to see you girls again, too,” he said. Henly stood and nuzzled each horse briefly, then took the dogs into the house.
Just a week before he’d drawn up a will, leaving the house and land as well as the animals to ET. It would please the old man. He’d move the animals into his own barn and probably turn the property over to his son, Benito. Seemed right to re-cycle it back into the Trujillo’s hands.
Henly hadn’t planned on dying young. Luck of the draw. He knew there was no God, no Heaven or Hell. Death was the end, a hole in the ground. His death was as inconsequential as that of a sparrow, a summer cricket, an aspen leaf turned yellow by the frost. He’d lived his whole life in the pleasure of that certainty. With every turn of the seasons he’d felt more secure in his role of earthly animal who was blessed with the eyes and mind to savor the ravishing miracle of existence. It was the acknowledgement, the certainty, of his absolute insignificance that had been the door to this realization, and once he’d had it, life had become completely simple. At least, so it seemed to him.
Suicide had never been part of his plan. He had no moral compunction against it, but he realized that it was unnatural, in a sense. Animals didn’t kill themselves when they were in pain or dying, they just died. Still, he didn’t see the reason to live through a few month’s of agony. The end was the same, one was just hurt less. Still, it bothered him a little. Of course, if he’d hit the train he’d not be worrying about it. His house was in order, his underwear clean. And of course, if he managed it to look like an accident, his sister Molly could collect on the life insurance.
The next day he packed a lunch and an ample supply of codeine and took a ride up into the national forest that backed onto his property. His bird gun, a twelve gauge, hung in its sleeve from the saddle. Maybe a hunting accident. Trouble was it wasn’t hunting season for another ten, eleven weeks, and he wasn’t a poacher. Maybe he’d get in some target practice. The dogs surged up the trail ahead of him, yelping with pleasure, and met him, panting, cutting circles in the dust, at the top of the ridge.
*
A couple of days later there was a message on his machine from Sara. Drinks at her hotel, The Sagebrush, at eight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been invited out for cocktails, and it somehow pleased him. He’d spent the day digging out the acequia, the irrigation ditch that watered his property on its way down to ET’s and beyond. A whole network of ditches dating from the early Spanish settlers still served the majority of the properties. They were dug out each spring in a community effort organized by the mayor-domo. Henly, being Henly, always dug his out in midsummer as well. He showered and shaved, had a quick dinner and rattled down into town.
Sara was perched regally on a barstool sipping a Chardonnay. Elegant, she was dressed in loose black silk pants with an ivory blouse and a knee-length light, multi-colored striped jacket. “Joseph’s coat,” he said, giving her his best smile. “Oh, do you think so? I hadn’t thought,” she replied slipping off her stool and giving a little spin before taking his hand. A country band had just cranked up so she led him to a table at the back to get away from the noise. When he ordered a Merlot Sara told the waitress to bring them a bottle. She liked red wine too. “Still have that stomach ache?” She nodded worriedly at his hand that had he’d slid unconsciously under his shirt. “Yeah,” he replied, resting his hands on the table, “It’s troublesome.” “You should see a doctor.” “If it persists I will. How’s your workshop going?”
Not long into the evening Sara proclaimed that she was a Buddhist, having twice met the Dalai Lama, and that she believed fervently in reincarnation. “Fervently?” She nodded, “With all my heart and understanding.” “How come?” “Why, I’ve seen it,” she said, then launched into a story about a good friend who had passed away and how she’d come across him a few years later as a young child. They had recognized each other immediately and the child had clung to her skirts and sat on her lap throughout her visit. “The kid liked you,” shrugged Henly. “It was much more than that! He knew me, and I could see him, feel his same presence, that same presence I’d known so well for all those years.” “He’d been your lover?” “Well, yes,” she said. “Actually, as a matter of fact, he had been. But that’s not the point.” “It’s just that I suppose you probably wouldn’t have recognized each other if you hadn’t been intimates.” “I suppose you’re right,” she said, giggling and filling both their glasses. “Intimates. I like that word.”
Henly told her he didn’t believe in reincarnation except in a very broad sense. Leaves fell to the ground and rotted, providing nourishment for next season’s leaves; trees, in turn, fell and rotted giving space and nutrients for the next generation; animal carcasses nurtured maggots, worms, blow-flies. “There are only a fixed number of particles in the universe,” he said, “so everything gets recycled. Even you and I.” “That’s interesting,” she said, “but it’s not reincarnation. Reincarnation is the rebirth of the soul, the spirit, the life force.” Henly shook his head. “I don’t believe those things exist.” “What!” she cried. She leaned forward and took his hand, squeezing it hard. “I don’t believe you. That’s impossible. You’re not a brute! You must have thought about these things!” She was staring at him with an intensity that bordered on violence. Henly tried to extricate his hand but she held it tight, painted nails digging into his palm. “I have thought about it,” he said, “and I conclude that I am a brute.” “Oh, now you’re being silly. Of course you’re not a brute. You’re a very sweet man. An old soul, if I may say. I can read these things.” “Well, it’s kind of you to say, but…” “But what?” “This kind of talk is just a metaphor for something… I don’t know what. I’m a fifty-one year old soul. That’s it.” “Nonsense! That’s utter nonsense, and I can prove it to you.” “How are you going to do that?” “You’re a skeptic is all. Healthy skepticism is good.” Henly shook his head. “I’m not a skeptic. I’m right, you’re wrong, and I’m sure of it.” Sara erupted in laughter. She let go of Henly’s hand to cover her mouth. Soon tears were coursing down her cheeks and people at the nearby tables turned to watch. Sara managed to subdue her shrieks, turning them into snorts and sighs interrupted by little bursts of chuckles. “Oh dear me, you are so funny. What a funny man you are!” She mimicked him, shaking her head for emphasis, “I’m right, you’re wrong, and I’m sure of it,” then collapsed back into a fit of laughter.
The waitress came and Sara daubed at her cheeks and ordered another bottle of wine. Henly turned to watch the dancers. The bar was packed, the dance floor a writhing tangle, and the band blaring. When the waitress arrived with the second bottle Sara had it added to her room tab then rose, picking up the bottle in one hand and both glasses in the other. “It’s too noisy to talk in here,” she declared, “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” and she wriggled through the crowd by the door and out into the hotel courtyard. Henly found her there looking impatiently over her shoulder. The moon was almost full, hanging high in the branches of the aspens, and the warm midnight air was heavy with honeysuckle. “Let’s go up to my room,” she said, “where we can talk in peace.” Henly kept his gaze on the moon. “Look, isn’t that wonderful,” he said. “We should sit out here,” he nodded towards the vacant tables along the courtyard wall. “It’s quiet and warm enough.” Sara shrugged and sat down at the nearest table and filled their glasses. “To warm summer evenings,” said Henly, and they clinked glasses, then Sara began to expound her theories about reincarnation.
Henly paid attention for a while, but then just let her words flow over him as he watched the sharp aspen leaves playing in the roundness of the moon and couples come and go from the dance floor, and goodnight kisses being exchanged, and doors open and close. He refilled their glasses. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Henly realized that he was drunk and he gave her a blurry smile. “It’s nice just hearing you talk,” he said. He felt her eyes narrow. “Are you getting tipsy?” “Well, sure. Aren’t you?” She giggled, “Maybe a bit.” Henly yawned and stretched. “It’s time for me to get out of here,” he said. She held up the bottle and splashed the last of the red into their glasses. “But we haven’t killed it yet.” “This is a lot for me. I’m pretty much of a lightweight,” he told her, and the conversation turned to their respective drinking habits, both claiming to be cheap drunks. “I love you, Henly,” she said, then she covered her face with her hands. “Is it okay for me to say that?” Henly drained his glass. “Whatever it means,” he mumbled. She dropped her hands to her lap and suddenly shook her head sharply, as if expecting to send water flying. “So,” all businesslike now, “You’ll be back in Tucson next week?” “Two weeks.” “When exactly?” He told her. “So, come to my place on Wednesday night, seven o’clock. I’ve got an excellent Cabernet and some eighteen-year-old Scotch. Fresh bottle. We’ll grill some steaks, and you’ll get a chance to see my wonderful house.” A card materialized in her hand and she leaned to put it into his shirt pocket. “My address and phone number. It’s easy to find, but you can call for directions.” “Okay,” said Henly. “I’ll call. If I can’t make it I’ll call.” He put his hand on her shoulder, “Now, I’ve got to go.” He leaned towards her to give her a peck on the cheek, but she slid her left hand around his neck and put her mouth on his. Her breath was slightly sour with wine, but he figured his was too. As they kissed he felt the tip of her tongue slip between his lips and against his teeth. He was so surprised he started back, but she held him firmly with her hand. He gave a mental shrug, suddenly feeling that he shouldn’t hurt her feelings, and he opened his mouth and engaged in a little tongue play. When he realized that her right hand, that had been resting on his knee, was working its way up his thigh, he twisted away and stood up. She was smiling at him, her eyes quite misty, hands folded primly on her lap. “Well, goodnight,” he said, “and thanks for all the wine.” “My pleasure,” she said. As he strode towards the gate he heard her call, “See you in a couple of weeks.” He raised his hand in reply, but did not turn or slow his retreat. As he passed the hotel entrance he pulled the card from his shirt pocket, shredded it, and let the pieces flutter into a large, earthenware ashtray.
“Jesus Christ!” He started the truck then slumped forward resting his forehead on the steering wheel. “She’s a great-grandmother, for Christ sake!” He tried to image her sagging breasts and wrinkled belly, but couldn’t quite manage. His head was spinning. Red wine. What a mistake! He got out and walked around the truck a couple of times then climbed onto the hood, leaned against the windshield and stared at the moon. His hand slid automatically into his shirt to massage his belly, but he realized that for the first time in a month it didn’t hurt.
*
The next couple of weeks were rough. Only a few days after his drinking bout with Sara he'd caved in and had his morphine prescription filled at Wal-Mart to help him sleep nights. He wasn’t up to riding or even much walking. Spent most of his time sitting on the front porch scratching the ears of his whining mutts. Anxious for him he guessed. The Tucson client had phoned him to confirm his return trip. They seemed anxious too. He’d promised to be there.
The day before the trip he took ET five hundred dollars, telling him he’d be away for a month, maybe more. Told him to take special care of the dogs, take them for a run, feed them well. ET looked at him funny but he ignored it and went home to pack. His house seemed small and mean, almost pathetic. Every piece of furniture worn or broken, the kitchen greasy, the windows yellow with it. It had been homey, he’d always felt comfortable here, but it was suddenly seedy and second-class. He could imagine ET and his wife Bonita standing in the doorway feeling depressed. Too late now. He didn’t know how many days to pack for. Three was probably enough, but he decided on seven. Another week of animal existence, sniffing the coming autumn that he’d not see. The week arched before him, a rainbow full of surprises with an indeterminate end.
The next morning he whistled the horses over and gave each an apple and a rub between their eyes with the heel of his hand. The dogs yipped at his ankles but he ignored them, climbed into his truck and rattled down to the highway. The bank of mailboxes was there beside the road at the stop sign and he looked at his box for several seconds before signaling his turn and pulling into the traffic. What mail could there be to concern him now? The sun was just peeking over the horizon in the east and he cranked open his thermos and gingerly poured out a half cup of black coffee. He was at least three miles south before he pulled onto the shoulder, turned around, and went back to collect his mail. Damned if he knew why. Just didn’t seem right not to.
Electric bill, doctor bill, bank statement, and a fat envelope with a Tucson return address. He threw all but the last onto the floor of the cab. Sara obviously hadn’t shredded his card. Back on the highway he tore the envelope open with his teeth and extricated a sheaf of about a dozen pages. She’d sent him a story, her first travel story, Tiger Eyes in Katmandu. He chuckled and tossed it onto the seat beside him. Something to read in the airport. A hand-written note fluttered to the floor between his feet and he slowed to retrieve it. Henly, it read, You’ll be pleased to see I’ve invested in a stamp. Two, in fact. A similar package is on its way to Asian Adventures. So my trip to Taos has had two positive outcomes. Thank you for the much needed push! Don’t forget our date, Wednesday at seven. I’ll draw you a map. Below was a carefully drawn diagram complete with instructions and her address and phone number. Then she continued, I’m so looking forward to it. Your friend, Sara. PS. Walk in naked! I dare you!
Henly dropped the note and he felt a smile spread across his face. His hand found its way back under his shirt and his belly was jiggling with laughter. That old tart! Old? She’s younger than you are, you stodgy stick-in-the-mud. Look at yourself! Henly laughed, laughed until he cried, laughed all the way down the canyon, half blinded by his tears. He could just see it!
Taos
December, 2001
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