Frank switched off the truck’s lights. “On a bright night like this, you can see better without the glare.”
As they emerged from Salt Wash Canyon, the land lay bathed in moonlight. Searles Dry Lake stretched before them like a vast silver sea. The stark bareness of the Slate Range rose up from the east side of the valley floor, the moonlit ridges bright against the dark shadows of the canyons.
“More coffee?” Linda had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the tappet clatter of Frank’s truck. She held the thermos up, and Frank passed her his cup. He inhaled the aroma of the coffee and the faint smell of shampoo from her hair, still damp. He couldn’t see Linda’s face clearly. The soft light touched only her left cheek and the edge of an ear where it poked through dark hair.
“Dad buys Costa Rican beans and grinds them fresh every morning. He’s a fanatic about coffee, and now he’s ruined me for the regular stuff.”
“Lucky you, to have your own personal Juan Valdez in the morning.” Frank thought she was smiling, but he couldn’t tell.
“He doesn’t sleep the way he used to. Most of the time, he’s up early. I usually see his light on when I come home late. He reads everything in sight, then leaves little stacks of books on my porch with his own brief reviews. ‘Another Matthew Scudder, good read.’ Or ‘If you like Hiaasen, you’ll like Shames.’ ‘This one’s funny, great villain.’ Stuff like that. He’s been picking out books for me for years.”
Frank noticed her deliberate way of responding. Pauses in conversation didn’t seem to bother her. She turned to face him, a bit of her ear catching the light. “But yes, you’re right,” she told him. “It is nice to have someone to do things for you, have coffee for you in the morning. Can you make a decent cup of coffee, Frank, or do you settle for instant like most people who live alone?”
Somehow, the question was unsettling. He shifted around in his seat. “My coffee’s okay, but it’s not like this.” He imagined Linda wrapped in one of his old shirts, seated in one of his rickety folding chairs, drinking his coffee, her feet on the iron railing that rimmed the rear of the caboose. He swung the truck under the huge rolling mill that spanned the Trona road. They had reached what was called the West End Facility, part of the huge borax-processing operation that the Kerr-Magee Corporation had built on the edge of the dry lake bed.
The plant was the single reason for the existence of Trona. Frank loved the desert, but Trona was a place unto itself, a company town perched on the edge of Searles Dry Lake, an alkaline depression so inhospitable that it was nearly without life. The dry lake bed yielded up riches greater than the elusive gold and silver for which the prospectors wandered the desert. But not in rich pockets of quartz laced with spiderwebs of gold. Nothing all that exciting, just millions of dollars’ worth of borax spread across the lifeless bottom of an ancient lake bed, precious in the vastness of its quantity.
Frank explained the operation to Linda, telling her about the history of borax mining in the desert and the famous twenty-mule teams that had hauled the great wagons from below sea level up and over Wingate Pass to the railroad junction at Mojave. The mules were long gone, but the old road was still there. Marks on the land lasted a long time in the desert.
As they rounded the curve toward the scattered lights of Trona, Frank pointed out the skeletal structure of a mine head, the tailings scattered down the slope of the hill in conical piles. “The Mojave has its share of scars. There are mines and tailings scattered all across the desert. It seems that people either come here to dig the desert up or
get across it. Have you been up near Tecopa?” Frank turned the lights back on as they approached Trona.
Linda nodded. “Yes, Dad and I camped out near Dumont Dunes. He liked it out there until it became a popular place for dune buggies. The noise spoiled it.” She sipped coffee from the thermos cup, holding it with both hands.
“Well, from right there, where the Amargosa River turns to empty into Death Valley, to the next available water at Bitter Springs, it’s more than fifty miles. No big deal by car, but very tough on foot or by horseback.” Frank had this compulsion to tell her about the desert. It was like the guys in the army always talking about their hometown.
“Where the water reaches the surface along the Amargosa River, it’s so saline that it makes animals and people sick. Same story at Bitter Springs. The Spaniards ran pack trains from Santa Fe to Los Angeles. They called that stretch the Jornada de la Muerte.”
“The journey of death,” she murmured softly.
Frank stole a glance. She had a way of wrinkling her forehead and pursing out her lower lip when she was thinking about something. “That’s been the story. Not many people have come here to live. If it hadn’t been for mining, people would’ve just passed on through.”
Linda half-turned in her seat. “Dad came here to live. He used to kid around about coming out to live in the desert in an Airstream trailer with flat tires. It turned out he wasn’t kidding. When he told me he’d bought a bar and restaurant in the Mojave Desert, I couldn’t believe it. I almost stayed where we were living in Pasadena.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Linda stared out the window, watching the town of Trona go by. “Oh, I don’t know. I knew Dad would need help, especially with his drinking buddies for partners. Living in Red Mountain was a bit much.”
“Who are his drinking buddies?”
Turning toward Frank, she lifted her chin. “Ben and Bill. They’ve all been friends for more than thirty years. They quarrel and make
plans, mostly plans that don’t happen, but they’re inseparable. I know it sounds funny and old-fashioned, but they’re closer than blood relatives.”
He looked over at a wrecking yard north of town, where the rusting hulks of cars lay strewn across the desert floor. The Mojave Desert, graveyard of dead machines, their engines finally falling silent, ashes to ashes, rust to dust. Maybe her dad and his buddies were like that. Maybe they’d come to the desert to die. Frank liked the way she stuck up for them. She made no apologies for their peculiarities.
Linda breathed deeply and looked out at the desert. “Did you know the Joshua Tree Athletic Club was what the miners liked to call a ‘pleasure palace’?”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Some of the old-timers still talk about it.” He grinned. “With fond memories, I might add. To hear them tell it, the girls were all beautiful, warmhearted, and never took a dime from the guy telling the story.”
“Yeah, sometimes I hear Ben and Bill talking about Janey’s place over in Nevada. They make it sound like a social club. Maybe it is. Did you know about the tunnels leading from the bar to the crib houses where the girls worked?”
Frank downshifted as they approached a low pass. “I’ve heard about them.”
“Well, they’re real. When my dad and his buddies fixed up the old crib house where I live, they cleaned out the tunnel leading from the bar to the house. They even strung lights. I hardly ever use it, though. It’s full of spiderwebs, but it’s sort of fun to think of the girls leading their men through the tunnels to escape being caught by the sheriff.” Linda sighed, staring into the darkness of the hills sloping down to the steeply cut bank on her right.
“I love being with Dad, and I’ve known Bill and Ben since I was born. But when I first came to Red Mountain, I was kind of going crazy. Working at the bar, reading everything in sight, and playing hearts with Dad and his pals just wasn’t enough.” She turned to face Frank, giving him a soft smile. “You know how it is. You plan on doing this or that thing, just for a little while, and then the next thing you know, you’ve settled in.”
Frank nodded. “Um-hmm. Yeah.” He knew exactly how it was. “If you let it, life makes the decisions for you, and the next thing you know, you’re just sort of following along.”
They rounded a corner, and he could see her face in the moonlight, a frown creasing her forehead, her lip sticking out, ready to be nibbled. He needed to get a grip on this. She was doing a story. He was showing her where the bighorns were. This isn’t a social outing, he told himself.
“The job opened up at the Courier. That’s been great. I really like being a reporter, especially for a small paper.” She laughed quietly. “Hey, if it happens, I get to cover it, from bake sales to crime.”
They came to the top of the rise, and Frank slowed the truck. He stole a glance at Linda, who was sitting there in her khaki shorts and hiking boots, her hair blowing around from the open window. “You ever regret living out here? It’s sure not L.A.”
“Oh, now and then. Like when I want to go to a good restaurant that’s not a steak house, or see a play or go to a concert. But it’s so”—she paused, searching for the right word—“primeval here. It reminds me of the beginning of the world.”
Her response made him feel momentarily empty. She seemed to see the beginnings of things, where he saw life leaking out of everything. The cancer had come to his mother without warning and took away everything but her quiet patience. His foolish, drunken, loving father—God, how he missed the fun! As he wept by his mother’s bedside, she had blessed him, resting her brown hand on his head, slowly moving her fingers in his hair. She knew he had no belief in God, but she blessed him because she believed that she had enough faith for the three of them. Grief squatted in Frank’s stomach like a living weight, cutting him off from life. He used his love of solitude as a means of keeping passion at a safe distance. Dry as the desert.
The first hint of gray light softened the sharp lines of the land, washing away the stark contrast between canyon darkness and moonlit slope, blurring the distinction between ridge line and sky. Frank pulled the jeep into a dirt turnaround at the crest of the hill. Linda gave him a questioning look.
“This is a good spot.”
Frank got out of the truck and walked to the edge of the dirt, where the land sloped sharply away into the darkness of early morning.
“From here, you can see up Panamint Valley and, back there, Searles Dry Lake.” He pointed up at the mountains bathed in silver light and shadow. “That’s Telescope Peak. It’s the highest point in Death Valley, over eleven thousand feet. Pretty soon, we’ll be directly below it, but you can’t see it from down in the canyon.” They walked back to the truck in silence. Frank went to the right side of the vehicle to open the door, suddenly feeling awkward. Standing close to Linda he smelled her soap and shampoo again. There was a constriction in his chest. He opened the door and stepped back quickly, beating a clumsy retreat from his feelings. He couldn’t tell if she’d noticed his awkwardness or not.
She spoke without turning her head. “Sometimes, when I’m up early, working on something I’ve put off, I watch the sunrise on Red Mountain.” She turned to Frank, smiling now. “It always seems to put things in perspective.”
Frank winced at the irony. Right now, moonlight in the desert wasn’t doing much for his sense of perspective. If anything, the dry perfume of sage and creosote seemed to be fused with the smell of Linda’s shampoo. He concentrated on the pale edges of her ears. The rush of sensation wasn’t unfamiliar. Alone in the desert, he’d let himself merge with the surroundings, the land and sky seeping into him, but there had never been a woman in these moments.
The Panamint Road lay before them in a straight line that bisected the valley floor. Frank concentrated on driving now. He was pleased to find that neither of them found it necessary to fill the silence with the comfort of small talk. He needed the time to regain his composure. It had been almost three months since Mary Alice had departed for Los Angeles. This hermit thing had been going on too long, despite bruised egos and broken hearts. He liked women in his life. He was pretty sure he’d like this particular woman in his life. She hadn’t inquired into the incongruity of the Irish name and the brown skin. He smiled to himself. He had been wondering about the Reyes name and the oh-so-white skin.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Nothing at all, Linda Reyes. Just thinking the thoughts of an Irish cop.”
“Well, when you want to share, let me know.”
They bounced their way up the last three miles of the dirt track leading to Surprise Canyon, their stuff shifting around in the back of the truck. The glove compartment flew open, spilling maps and pencils on the floor and causing Frank to curse. Linda just grinned and held on to the wind-wing bar. Two things particularly set Frank’s teeth on edge, wind blowing everything every which way and being bounced around in the cab of a vehicle. By the time he pulled off the track, he was in a state of irritation.
Linda had brought a soft half-gallon canteen, good for hiking, and an aluminum camera case. She wore sturdy lightweight ankle boots, a light long-sleeve shirt, and a straw hat with a strap. He wondered about the advisability of shorts when they’d have to scramble up some of the steep slopes. He hoped she was in shape for the tough climbing ahead. He thought about her pale white legs catching the faint light.
“It’s about five miles from here to the end of Surprise Canyon. It’s a steady climb, and some of it’s damn steep. We have about nine hours to make the round-trip, which means we’ve gotta make pretty good time.” Frank looked at Linda inquiringly, giving her a chance to back out. Now that they were here, he wasn’t completely sure this was such a good idea. He’d made this hike many times, but walking was part of his life. It was part of his job, part of his Paiute heritage. Vehicles were a means of getting to a place where he had to go on foot. They were meant to be left behind. If a place could be reached by car, there would be people, cans, papers, trash. Walk a mile away from the road, it was a different world. Walk a couple miles into the desert, you could hear the silence.
Frank watched Linda, her foot resting on the bumper of the truck as she concentrated on tightening up the laces of her boots. She seemed to know what she was doing. She had put a small first-aid
kit in her day pack, along with the lunch stuff that she had brought for both of them. Frank strapped on two half-gallon soft canteens, shouldered his pack, and started up the trail that led toward the spring. In a couple of miles, he’d know whether she was up to doing this or not.