After a beer, Troy returned to the central Plaza lined with colonnades: Indians and blankets of jewelry, ropes of red chiles, ojos de dios, clothing boutiques, trinkets shops, galleries, Mexican restaurants, and tourists.
With Kate’s financial donation, her post office box in Zamora, and a letter from the VA he found in her trash, he opened a checking account at Bank of the West as Edwin Ryan. A few blocks from the bank, he purchased camping supplies and hiked up the Old Pecos Trail past the maze of winding roads, dusty alleys, high adobe walls. He kept walking until he spotted a narrow ungraded driveway with an unused feeling. No security signs, no gates, no well-tended gardens. At the end of the drive were a few downy tamarisks and a half-finished house that looked deserted. He moved swiftly to an arroyo behind the house on the backside of a hill where he climbed, bushwhacked, and climbed.
Troy was hot. The day had taken its toll. He cursed the usual list of malefactors, which began with his father and terminated with the U.S. government. Cursing was not a cure but it provided relief. He scarfed a tin of sardines, a bag of salted peanuts, quaffed his thirst with water and a Coke, stashed his duffle and supplies, leveled a sleeping place, strung up a tarp, and waited for dark.
At nine o’clock, there were still no inhabitants. He jiggled a couple of lopsided windows. The bathroom window was easiest to open. He took a hot shower, shampooed and conditioned his hair, shaved and sprinkled on drops of Chaps, courtesy of his host. He hung his wet towels over the door, borrowed a few items of fresh clothing, and hiked back to town to Jackson’s.
It was Ladies’ Night. Troy liked women nearby. Their company reassured him. They enabled him to think, better yet to scheme. They proved that whatever his other deficiencies, he succeeded as a man.
“Watch out for the dykes,” the bartender grumbled, pushing a beer in his direction.
The bartender was a large flabby man with pomaded gray hair tied neatly in a knot behind his rubbery head, a goatee, silver hoop earrings, and turquoise rings on many fingers.
Troy didn’t like his looks. He looked gay himself.
“A mean man can turn a good fucking woman queer,” the bartender said. “Or you think they born queer?”
Troy gave a noncommittal nod. He wasn’t interested in chitchat. He wanted to relax, nurse his beer, tap his foot to country-and-western classics, and watch couples swing around the center of the floor.
“If you born queer, it makes what ain’t natural into natural,” the bartender said. “That goes against my beliefs, partner.”
When the jukebox burst into a polka, the bar erupted in festivity. Troy was almost overwhelmed by an urge to run up to a thick blond heifer, clamp his hands over her hindquarters, and rodeo her to the ground. He liked the stockiness of her build.
“Built to last,” he mumbled happily.
Troy stared but didn’t move. From experience he knew women liked to take their time. They liked to work things out for themselves which in the end saved him a lot of trouble. That strategy had worked magic with Kate. If it weren’t for her mongrel daughter, he might still be shacked up in Zamora.
“Hi!” the smokey voice said. Her voice was fantastic, breathy and low.
“Hi!” Troy smiled on one side of his mouth.
“Charlene,” she said.
“E.R.,” he responded. His strong white teeth from Deaf Smith County, Texas, worked their charm.
The two shook hands. Troy thought it peculiar he’d shaken hands twice in one day with women.
“E.R. as in emergency room?” Charlene’s thin lips stretched into her cheeks.
Troy smiled with reserve. “As in Edwin Edward Ryan III,” he said.
“Who dat?” She grinned with wonderment.
“E.R. blah blah,” he laughed.
Confused and impressed, Charlene leaned against the bar and dipped her finger into her vodka tonic. “OK, Mr. Blah Blah,” she said, patting her sprayed helmet of blond hair.
“Charlene, you’re something.” E.R. got right to the point.
In deference, her grin contracted.
“Drinks and dinner, don’t that sound like some fun?” He winked at her deep-set animal eyes.
“We’re drinking already,” she said.
Steady boy, Troy told himself, setting his beer on the bar and sweeping his fingers through his hair. “I guess the flight is catching up with me. Might have to postpone dinner until I settle in this time zone.”
“You just got here?” Charlene looped her fingers around his wrist.
“Off the plane a couple of hours ago.” Troy consulted his watch. “Had to wait for the limo to drive me up from the Duke. At least, it’s not Florida. Takes hours to crawl from the airport.”
“You from Florida?”
Troy shrugged. He tilted his chin so the light caught the line of his jaw.
“Daddy needed me to check on the winter palace. It’s stinking hot there in summer, but winter’s good. Hey, winter is perfect. Golf, fishing, dog races, Gulfstream. Too fucking hot in summer, excuse my French!”
“Like here,” Charlene said. “I’m used to living by the ocean. Maybe it gets hot but you can always jump in the water.”
“Daddy and his houses,” Troy said, echoing the complaints that men of the world always have. Homes here and there, a ski cabin in the mountains, a cottage at the beach, wives and ex-wives, child support, alimony. Besides pleasure, money bought complications.
“I kinda know what you mean,” Charlene said. “My problem is my cousin’s cats. They keep me going pillar to post.”
Charlene didn’t look as dumb as she sounded, which made it hard for Troy to know the right play. He never really knew. He usually went with his gut.
“I’m staying with my friends, Eagle and Sarah Elderman,” he said. “You know them?” He double-checked as if she might.
“I don’t know many people,” Charlene apologized.
“They had a concert at their kid’s school so they dropped me here. They trying like hell to get me to move to Santa Fe. I figure by the end of the week, I’ll make up my mind whether to buy a place and order a bed. Or move to Hawaii.”
Troy let the sound of his future sink in. He smiled and checked his watch again. “What a pain in the ass airlines are. They wear me out. No direct flights from Palm Beach. I guess I’m saying either I got to high-tail it back to Eagle’s hacienda or fall down somewhere. I’m on EST.”
“EST?” Charlene gaped. She thought it was a drug.
Troy rubbed his forehead. “You know how jetlag does you,” he said.
“I’ll give you my phone number and you can call me once you rest up.”
“Hey, Charlene! Don’t write me off here and now,” he said, his eye-lids flapping. “Seize the day, that’s the principle that guided my entire life. Guided my daddy’s life too. He could say it in Roman. ‘E.R., go out and carpus diem.’ You know what I mean?”
She had no idea. She retrieved a gum wrapper from her purse and scribbled out her number.
“It means you got to take hold of it when it jumps on your face. If not, it’s a life of snooze and lose. Let’s say I take your number tonight. Let’s say the gum wrapper falls out of my jeans tomorrow. Or the maid doesn’t empty my pockets when she does the wash. Then what?”
Charlene knew how tenuous life could be. Of the men who’d taken her number, very few ever called.
“I just moved over here myself,” she said, delighted to demonstrate she too could seize the day. “If you want, you can come to my place. It’s nothing fancy but it’s restful and quiet.”
Troy’s shoulders relaxed. His head drooped with relief. It hadn’t been so hard after all.