Timothy took such delight in the idea of a barbecue that they stopped at the Atomic Café. Jean felt reckless with her money. The mood that shot through her was charged with a heightened purpose. Where this feeling came from she had no idea; it had visited before although always during times identifiably consequential. After eating they drove out of town to find a spot and Harry parked the car but kept the radio on (“Your battery, Harry!” she warned), and all the songs that came on were happy songs, “Shake Rattle and Roll,” “I Get a Kick Out of You,” “Hey There,” that nevertheless detoured her happy emotions toward tears. Everyone screamed in delight (well, Beth and Jo) when “Once I Had a Secret Love” came on not just once but as a double play (they must have nothing to do out here in the desert, Jean said, finding her own remark hysterically funny). But that wasn’t exactly true since the disc jockeys were from far away, not in Utah, and Harry said looky here and to prove his point dialed in to the Opry show with Old Judge Hay and Minnie Pearl. “That’s the desert for you,” he said. Jo took Charlie off to clap him, and if Timothy heard he made no note of it and Harry found countless ways to busy himself and play dumb. Timothy rolled cigarettes and gave them to her and Harry as presents.
When they pulled into the Stagecoach Oasis, she saw Miss Dazzle, Jimmy, and Mr. Flaherty gathered poolside. Evening getting on toward night, and they were still here.
“Find those anomaly maps?” Mr. Flaherty burst out laughing at his own unfunny remark, much as she had done listening to Harry’s radio.
On the poolside table were the scraps of their meal, chicken bones and mashed potatoes and melted ice cream with chocolate syrup on top. Looked like even the men had poured on syrup. The three of them were working on their drinks. The sky was clear and now with sundown the air was getting chilly.
“Does it ever rain here?” Jean asked.
“No.”
“Nope.”
Miss Dazzle said, “It floods but it doesn’t rain, not normal rain anyway. A nice normal shower, for example. Nothing happens here unless it can come as a catastrophe.” She got up and cleared the plates.
“Find those anomaly maps?” Mr. Flaherty asked again.
“That’s right,” Jimmy said. “Jump into my business. You’re good at jumping in.”
“The only anomaly you’re going to find went down in a plane crash.”
“He was a good flyer, sir,” Timothy told Mr. Flaherty. “He flew in the war.”
“You don’t go rimflying if you ain’t got a wide bowl to swim around in,” Mr. Flaherty said.
“He was a decorated war hero, sir.”
“Used to tight spots, I guess,” said Mr. Flaherty.
“You kids want ice cream?” Miss Dazzle asked.
“Yes please,” Beth said.
None of these people would ever discover themselves in another person’s photograph, Jean thought. Everything was empty as the desert, maybe because this was the desert, but regardless, a photo out here would include him, her, it, and the mountain range behind. No crowds, no karmic passersby, no strangers who would serendipitously surface as friends in a season or two. There were no secrets of fate you could ponder in such photographs, just the literal captured fact of what you were doing or who you were posing with. The only thing that could happen was that if you saved the photograph long enough, the person you were then might arrive as a stranger years later to visit the person you had become—but if you got old enough, it happened to everyone. The three old ladies, for example, and those three little girls in the newspaper photo. It wouldn’t bother Jean so much to see her young self when she was old, but it would kill her to see a young Charlie.
She left the pool for her room.
Jo came in as she lay on the bed. “Everything all right?” Jo asked.
“Just tired,” she said.
“I think they’ve been drinking all day.”
“Even Mr. Flaherty?”
“Well, not him, I don’t think.”
“I would hope not,” Jean said. “He looks like he’s going to keel over any second.”
Harry came into the room. “Everything all right?” he asked.
“Just lying down,” she said.
Harry sat on the other bed. Jean hadn’t realized how soft the mattresses were until Harry’s knees flew to his chin. He fell backward, then got himself steadied. “Well,” he said, “the whole world seems to know about it.”
“About what?”
“That’s my suspicion anyway,” Harry said.
“About what?”
“The petrified wood.”
“That little piece?”
“It’s hot,” Harry said.
“So?”
“Never mind,” Harry said. “But your children seem to understand what’s at stake.”
“Maybe you should let her rest,” Jo said.
“No, I’m getting up.” Jean went to the bathroom and she didn’t bother to shut the door because she knew it would drive Harry out and it did.
Jo came in and stood over the sink and looked in the mirror. She fingered her hair with obvious dissatisfaction. “Is this your lipstick?” Jo picked up a tube on the sink, twisted it open and frowned at the color.
“No. Isn’t it yours?”
“Where’d it come from?” Jean asked.
“Maybe Miss Dazzle is throwing us a hint.” Jean flushed the toilet and budged Jo aside so she could wash her face and hands. It felt good to wash her face. When she came out, Vincent Flaherty awaited her, sitting on the desk chair.
She tried to stammer something. Gave up.
“My wife died in my arms, my dear, not pleasantly either. Nothing in regard to our corporeal selves has fazed me since.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Flaherty?”
Mr. Flaherty said, “You know, my dear, when a Geiger counter starts ticking, it sends out a Morse code loud and clear to every person in the state of Utah and then some.”
“It didn’t tick that loudly.”
Mr. Flaherty reared back and ho-ho’d—Santa’s reaction to an outlandish request. “I needed to meet you a lot earlier in my life, you know that?”
“Your wife was alive a lot earlier, remember that?”
“You planning to register those claims?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Because you’ll need somebody like me involved.”
“We have Harry, and I’ll appreciate it if you don’t laugh when I say that.”
“Harry’s a good man,” Mr. Flaherty said. “But he’s not a businessman and I am. I know what to do and how to do it. You might want to sell stocks in that mine, for example.”
“What mine?”
“And my transportation services can’t be beat. Do you really want to suffer a roller-coaster truck ride back and forth? See? Makes you motionsick just thinking about it.”
Jean said, “I was about to take a nap. Maybe that’s why I’m a little confused. It was one piece of petrified wood.”
“Just talked to Harry, my dear. He thinks there’s a Chinle formation in there.”
“And that would hold a lot of meaning for me, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m only here to help you, my dear, secondarily of course. Primarily I would like to help myself.”
“Mr. Flaherty, I’m sure you’re hoping for me to be completely disarmed by your honesty.”
“Oh, my dear, this is why I needed to meet you earlier in my life. What a woman you are. As was my wife, I quickly add.”
“Who died in your arms.”
“Tragically so.”
“How can I say no to a man whose wife died in his arms? What would she think of you using her like that to get sympathy?”
“Her motto was ‘Whatever it takes.’”
“I doubt that.”
“Kept her alive two years longer than the doctors gave us. Two years. Seven hundred and fifty-some days. Whatever it takes. I’ve since adopted her motto as my own.”
Jean nodded.
“The only thing I ask,” Mr. Flaherty said, “is that we keep this among ourselves. No need to involve Jimmy with it.”
“Why is that?”
“Jimmy and I don’t get along.”
“Maybe that would be good for us. Checks and balances. For our sake.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“I’ll have to think about that, Mr. Flaherty.”
“It would be a wise decision not to involve him.” He pushed up from his chair, patted her knee, and lumbered out.
Miss Dazzle was having a good laugh, tipping back a glass, when Jean walked into the office to settle the bill. Jimmy was bent over the maps he had spread across the counter. Miss Dazzle was posed shoulder blades to counter, chest thrust out, elbow to opposite elbow with Jimmy.
In less than the time it took her vision to fill in the edges of this scene Jean decided not to involve Jimmy.
Miss Dazzle let her laugh die into a sleepy chuckle that was close enough to a romantic moan to redden Jean’s face.
“Hello,” Jimmy said, spinning around with a big smile. He began to roll up his maps.
“Anything good?” Jean asked.
“It’ll take a while to tell. Let me put these in the truck. I’ll be right back. I’ve been looking for you.”
“Looking for her?” Miss Dazzle asked suggestively. “Oh, Harry’s got her heart, didn’t you know?”
“That worries me.” Jimmy laughed. “Be right back.”
“Don’t forget to lock those maps up tight,” Miss Dazzle called giddily.
“You shouldn’t make such fun of Harry,” Jean said once they were alone.
“I’m not making fun of Harry.”
Jean shrugged. “I’m here to square the bill.”
“So it’s true. Big plans, huh.”
“I don’t have any big plans,” Jean said.
“You’re leaving. There’s rumors why.”
“My,” Jean said.
“With the ladies gone I’ll be all by myself.” Miss Dazzle squinted in her glass and tinkled the ice cubes, then sucked out another swallow.
“Maybe you should let some other people stay here. You’re the only motel not filled up.”
“I’m fussy. But I like you. And I like those kids.”
“They’ve had a fabulous time,” Jean said. She opened up her checkbook.
“You’re not coming back?”
“Of course we’re coming back. We have to get the car checked out, get a few things. We’ll be back.”
“Pay then,” Miss Dazzle said. Jittery, she marched in circles around the office. “No, I insist,” she said when she looked up and saw Jean writing. “That way I know I’ll see you again.”
“All right.” Jean closed her checkbook.
“Why do you think I make fun of Harry? I can’t think of anyone who’s nicer to Harry than I am. Do you think you treat him nicer?”
Jean didn’t answer. Finally: “I guess that’s why it surprised me to hear you say anything. You’re always the one to stand up for him.”
“Stand up for him? My God, he’s a man. I’m a woman. He’s a man. Since when does a woman stand up for a man? He’s a man!” Her redhead’s skin flamed at the throat.
“I think you’re very nice to Harry,” Jean said.
“Well, a man. Since when does a man . . .” Miss Dazzle collapsed on the sofa and buried her head in her hands.
After one moment of shock and another moment when she considered dashing from the office, Jean made a slow reluctant advance to the sofa, folded down beside Miss Dazzle and laid her hand on the thick mane of hair, pulling it back from Miss Dazzle’s abruptly blotched face. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, I couldn’t tell you, honey,” Miss Dazzle sobbed. “You have much bigger problems of your own. And I’m very sorry. I’m certainly very sorry about all of that. I’m sure you’ll let me know how selfish I’m being. I guess that’s why he left me. Why they all leave me. Because I’m so selfish.”
It had been a long time since Jean had sat down with somebody and tried to offer sympathy. It was definitely a skill and like all skills needed practice. People had practiced plenty on her, but not the other way around.
“What is this all about again?” she asked.
Miss Dazzle wept into her hands, and certainly, Jean thought, the drinks were involved in these tears, but they were real enough tears notwithstanding.
“Is it about you being selfish?”
Miss Dazzle nodded into her hands.
“That’s what you’re upset about?” Jean rubbed Miss Dazzle’s shoulder. She said, “Do you realize how much we love staying here with you? We would never stay anywhere else. Remember how you washed our clothes when we first came? That’s not being selfish. You’re one of the most giving people I know. Look how you wait on everyone. Those ladies worship you. They have a happy life because of you. They get to swim, which they love, they get to spy on all your interesting customers and gossip about what they see. . . .”
Miss Dazzle tearfully laughed.
“Remember those sandwiches you made for them with the secret ingredient?”
“And their whiskey sours,” Miss Dazzle sniffled. “I’m the only one who can make them the way they like.”
“That’s right.” For being so out of practice, Jean thought she was doing a credible job. “And what about those bathing suits you loaned Charlie and Beth? They adore you.”
“Don’t tell me about your son,” Miss Dazzle wept. “I don’t want to hear how I’ve brought a bit of sunshine into his last days. Please don’t do that. That’s not fair.”
“What are you saying? I wasn’t going to do that,” Jean said. “These aren’t his last days. Who told you that?”
“Told you what?” asked Jimmy, striding into the office. The air in the office shifted and the spaces between all their bodies shifted. Jimmy asked, “Why are you crying?” then drew eerily close to Miss Dazzle while still maintaining his distance. The air space between the two of them took on a shape—the two bodies of Jimmy’s and Miss Dazzle’s were curved into each other like dancers torn apart—and the intimacy Jean had instantly surmised then instantly dismissed upon Jimmy’s radiant smile at her entrance was now reconfirmed. “Why? Why are you crying?” Jimmy repeated, and finally Miss Dazzle started to cough out something about Charlie, and Jean hushed her.
“Charlie?” Jimmy seemed surprised. “I’ll go get him.”
“No. No, don’t do that,” Jean said.
“Don’t do that, I didn’t mean it that way,” Miss Dazzle entreated.
But Jimmy was already out the door.
When Miss Dazzle’s wet gulps started up again, Jean had had enough. “Maybe you should stop,” Jean said. The hand she kept on Miss Dazzle’s shoulder chilled to ice. She didn’t want to give sympathy to someone else about Charlie.
In the end she didn’t care about Miss Dazzle. She didn’t care about any of them. The way they decided to cast the truth was their own business. If they wanted to dream, let them. But Charlie was her business— and only her business. The truth of his dream had to be made to last. All dreams ended, but all these people would wake up to was no uranium. If that was the only nightmare they feared, she would trade places with them any day.