20

If a soul walked west into the wasteland of the Mojave, and kept walking until all hope of finding civilization had been lost, dehydration had turned the brain to a mushy paste, and fear had given way to slow acceptance and welcoming of death, ten steps past this point of utter despair they would find the cabin of Boots.

It was not so much a cabin as it was a trailer with an add-on not designed by any skilled architect. A porch graced the front of the shack, and its exterior was patched together with an odd assortment of material. The tin roof was beaten with age and shimmered in the desert sun.

The yard, if rocks and sand could be called such, sprouted a few resilient weeds that clawed for life between the stone and eked out a meager existence. The property line was undefined and could have stretched for miles toward the western mountains, which offered a spectacular view.

Around back, there was a small pen and horse stable suitable for its lone inhabitant, a brown-and-white pinto of questionable disposition. Clouds of dust fell after each footfall as the mare sauntered back and forth between its water trough and the pen rail.

South of the pen and pushed a little farther out was a small cemetery plot with washed-out stones of memorial. A family plot it seemed, the names of which were now lost to time. Broken souls who may have given up hope of ever finding paradise now resting their bones among the sun-soaked stones.

The cabin itself offered little comfort of modern life. It contained a single bedroom with a small nightstand. There was no plumbing out here in the wasteland, so the decrepit bathroom off the hallway only served to mock an anxious bladder. A homemade lean-to outside provided a primitive solution.

Through the front door was the open living space that served as a kitchen, dining area, and living room, all in Spartan fashion. The owner of the place never bothered to clean, as the desert winds just blew more dust in through the open windows before a broom could make a dent. The only decoration apart from the candle sconces was a framed picture next to the door. The sketch inside was similar to what a young Ansel Adams would have hung on his mother’s refrigerator.

There was no power out here, no television, no reception on any radio if Boots had bothered owning one. The kitchen had a hand pump that brought cool water up from a deep well and made the residency of the cabin even possible. Though the sun beat down with a vengeance, the air in the hut was cool, as if the sun dared not cross the threshold. This was the place that Boots brought the couple he had saved from death on the deserted road.

He was a small man, old and weathered by the sun. His beard was long and hung to the middle of his chest, and though not white, the gray mixed with the black of its natural color to form a mop that hung from his chin. His teeth were not holding well against the years of neglect but still supported him fully in chewing whatever he may need to chew, especially when it came to his pouch of tobacco.

His western shirt sported the timeless fashion of the discount thrift store, and the only point of pride in his dress were his ranch hand Nocona boots. A philosopher once said that “a man’s feet must be planted in his country, but his eyes should survey the world,” and Boots was sure that his shoes planted him firmly on his piece of earth, and his view of the Mojave was splendid.

He looked at the two people who now occupied his cabin. The woman was resting on the couch. The man was back on the bed. Boots began spreading his backwater healing on them with patience and purpose. The woman had seemed in dire straits when she first arrived, but she was recovering quickly. The man, however, continued to thrash in a fevered state. Cold compresses from the water pump were refreshed every half hour or so, and the only break Boots took was to enjoy a dip on the front porch. He refused to chew in his house. “Man’s gotta have standards,” he always said.

The woman began to stir out of delirium and opened her eyes. She was startled by the desert nomad staring back at her.

“What . . . who are you?” the woman whispered.

“I’m Boots, and you’re going to be all right. Just rest there. Ain’t no use trying to get up.”

She nestled down and drifted between waking and sleep, unsettled as if haunted by a dream.

Boots walked to the back room and tried to pour some water into the man’s stomach, but he would have none of it. Again, with the same elderly patience, Boots worked to break the man’s fever, to cool his raging body temperature and bring him back to the land of the living.

Man is not made for the desert. The sun slowly begins to cook the organs inside the body. Cramps and exhaustion rack the muscles. Insanity creeps in as the body temperature rises. Corpses have been found along the border where illegal immigrants have tried to claw the skin off their bodies in a vain attempt at cooling their internal thermostats. It is not pleasant when the baked man gives up the ghost. Boots worked to make sure that Jack would not join their number.

Laura woke the next morning, and though she still felt nauseated and wiped out, she sat up and placed her feet on the floor. The rug below them spun and then settled down. She looked over to see an old man sitting at a small table just a few feet from her. She jumped back into the couch, clutching the blanket that had slipped down around her waist.

“Wh . . . where am I?”

“This is my place.”

“Where’s Jack?”

“Jack? That his name? He’s in the back bed. Don’t worry about him. He’s coming along. Not as quickly but just as surely.”

“Good.” Laura felt her muscles relax. Something in the old man’s voice soothed her anxiety, and though she didn’t think of herself as naïve, she felt as if she had little to fear from the stranger sitting across from her. “You’re . . . Boots, right?”

He nodded. “You’ve been through a lot, it looks like.”

The man got up and retrieved a fresh glass of water for her. She looked at the cool liquid floating in the aged Mason jar and sipped it slowly.

“You drink that slow now, no need throwing up on my rug.”

“All right.”

The old man sat back in his chair and eyed her, looking her over as if she was born from a different species than himself. Laura stared down into her glass, sensed his eyes probing. Her mind checked the myriad of feelings in her body, but she felt assured that she was unharmed. Waking up in a strange man’s trailer got her thoughts to racing, but she quickly reassured herself that she had not been messed with.

She looked over at Boots sitting in his chair and saw a sense of contentment in his eyes, empty of malice, but not entirely sure if madness didn’t creep in around the pupils.

Boots broke the silence. “So, what you two doing way out here?”

“Just driving. The car broke down. We didn’t see anyone.”

“Don’t see much out here”—he smiled—“that’s why it’s called out here.”

Boots chuckled at his own joke and Laura smiled with him, despite her pounding head. “Well, thank you. I thought we were goners.”

“Don’t mention it. You two were in a bad spot. Least I could do.”

Laura forced another mouthful of water down her throat. The coolness soothed the soreness for a moment. “So where’s here?”

“Here’s kinda between the cracks, about as far away as you can get from crazy folk. Don’t worry, I’ll get you where you need to be in a short while.”

“Do you have a phone?” she asked, looking around the room for any sign of technology.

“Ain’t got no phone out here. Naw, I don’t need all that stuff. Out here you gotta rely on yourself. Jack will be all right. Fever looks to be breaking. And you, well, you’re coming around just fine.”

“Shouldn’t we get a doctor?”

“Naw, y’all be fine. Seen it before. Yeah, you’ll be just fine.”

“My head hurts.”

“It will for a bit. Gotta get the water back in you is all.”

She set the glass on the table in front of her and her head swam. In the pit of her stomach, she felt the growl of hunger pains and tried to think about the last time she had food. It seemed like a different lifetime.

“Do you have anything to eat?” she asked.

“Sure do,” he said.

Boots got up and fixed a small plate of rations on the table for her. It was mystery food to be sure, but the aroma smelled fine and the fact that Laura’s taste buds felt burnt out of her mouth made the meal palatable. She was not about to complain.

After eating, she settled back on the couch and napped off and on. Sometimes she would open her eyes and see Boots busying himself about the kitchen, other times she would be alone in the room. She took water off and on and could feel her body begin to normalize. Nightfall came and she slept soundly.

By the next morning, Laura felt like a new woman.