Burned (9 page)

Halfway

Across the wide State of Nevada, the country changed from sage flats to pifion- and juniper-covered mountains.

Some two hundred north-south ranges

dissect this arid land, making Nevada the most mountainous State in the Union.

One after one, they rose and fell, and as I watched, the horizon

seemed to breathe. It was eerie.

And beautiful. A perfect backdrop for silence.

We stopped for lunch in Ely (Ee-lee, not Ee-lie--better pronounce

things right in eastern Nevada).

Ely isn't a whole lot different than in the cowboy days except for fast food, faster cars, and espresso bars.

178

Dad had grown up on a ranch, some fifteen miles south of town.

"Do you ever miss it?" I asked.

Around bites of Burger King, he admitted,
I miss the quiet.

I miss seeingfrom here to forever.

I miss how people mind their own

business, but still can be counted on.

179

T
hat Was the Closest to Human

I'd seen Dad in a real long time.

A bolt of pain seared my heart.

Why couldn't I know my dad as this almost vulnerable man?

Was this the person Mom feil for?

We Turned south out of Ely, drove parallel to the most gorgeous

mountain ränge east of the Sierra.

I pictured Dad, as a boy, bouncing along in a pickup on his way to school.

Grandma Jane had to drive him into town. Grandpa Paul couldn't

work a clutch with only one leg.

I remembered these stories from that distant time when Dad still spoke.

He didn't speak much on the two-hour

drive to Caliente. I wondered

if he was lost in some childhood

reverie, or had simply closed up again, like an oyster around its pearl.

180

W
e Hit Caliente Around Four

As towns went, it wasn't much-- a trailer park, a couple of motels, a restaurant or two, a tavern, and a hardware störe, which carried

shoes and a few stitches of clothing.

Smallish houses sat in neat little rows, defending a little park, two churches, and the Mormon stake house-- the fandest building in town.

On the outskirts was a roping arena.

Dad made me sit in the car

while he ran into a little market.

He bought flowers for Aunt Jeanette, a soda for me and, I'm pretty

sure, a bottle of Johnnie WB.

As I waited, a Union Pacific roared

by. The tracks in Caliente are a major

thoroughfare for freight trains, moving goods north to south

and, of course, back again.

181

The Windows rattled tili I thought

they just might shatter. I considered

catching a lapful of glass, as a shiny blue pickup parked in the adjoining space.

A guy climbed out, and he was to die

for. Who knew they made them so killer cute, out there in the sticks?

He noticed me noticing him and flashed a smile that could melt lead.

Furnace Lips strutted toward the störe,

Turned at the door, and gave me another

olid once-over. It was my first hint

that life out there in Nowhereville

might not be so bad after all.

182

A
unt Jeanette Lived

Several miles

out of town, way back up a wide ravine.

We paralleled the train

tracks past lush

pastureland, verdant meadows, shady ranches, and the most

awesome rock

formations

I'd ever seen.

The farther

we drove, the more

I feil in love with rural Nevadas

raw beauty.

No neon.

No walls.

No traffic.

No row after row

183

of identical cracker-

box houses.

This wasn't punishment.

It was freedom.

184

I'
m Not Sure Why

I knew that then.

Call it intuition.

Whatever it was, my mind

swayed from fear and uncertainty; my heart

veered from hurt and bitterness toward the unlikely idea

that, away from home, my

future

might

blossom with hope.

185

Aunt Teanette's Ranch

Was 160 water-fed acres--lush, untamed.

We pulled into her cottonwood-shaded

driveway. A mule brayed and two tricolored d

ogs came to greet us, tail stumps wagging.

Next came a parade of cats, all colors, all sizes. Strangers demanded investigation.

Even fhe geese had to check us out.

A nasty gander approached, hissing.

Aunt Jeanette appeared suddenly.

You scat on outta here, Grady Goose!

The gander scrambled out of sight, protesting loudly the entire way.

Aunt Jeanette gave me a once-over.

Dänin, girl, you have grown.

W
^r
e'd last seen each other six

Christmases ago, at Grandpa Pauls.

It's about time you came for a visit.

This oV place can get pretty lonely.

No doubt, with no company but animals.

"How have you been, Aunt Jeanette?"

Call me Aunt J. Keep saying "Aunt

Jeanette," we'll be here all day.

186

I smiled. "Okay, then, Aunt J."

Dad grunted something like hello.

Welcome, Stephen. Lets all go inside.

Supper will he ready 'fore you know it.

I really can't stay,
Dad tried to say.
Janice is expecting me.

Too late to start hack now. Call your wife,
tell her you'll he home tomorrow.

A woman who took no erap from Dad?

She and I would get along just fine.

187

W
e Followed Her Inside

Dad carried my Single suitcase, stuffed to the brirn with homemade clothes.

I carried my backpack, stuffed to the brim with begged and borrowed books.

Aunt J kept a clipped, measured

pace. I watched the hitch of her narrow

hips, the swish of her Single, long braid, bronze shot through with silver.

In her day, she must have been very

beautiful. She had married once, but I'd never heard details, only

that her husband, Stan, had died.

The outside of the long, low house

wore a fresh coat of white, with a pale

blue colonnade and shutters to add a bit of color to the tidy porch.

Inside, simple antique furniture graced

polished hardwood floors. Wreaths and quilts and afghans brightened every room.

I saw no photographs at all.

188

One wall of the Irving room housed a gun cabinet, filled with deadly treasures.

Aunt Jeanette was a cross between

Annie Oakley and Martha Stewart!

189

A
t Dinner

Dad was outnumbered

gender-wise, and hurting for a snort. It was easy to see Aunt J made him

uncomfortable but I had no clear idea why.

I only knew some past upset

had kept them from speaking for a good long while.

Insane,

I thought, not talking to your

sibling for decades. So, crazy

me, I asked, "Are you two

still mad at each other?"

Incensed,

Dad answered,
Who said we were mad at each other?

Incredulous,

Aunt J contradicted,

Best let water passed under the bridge keep on trickling downstream.

190

J
ournal Entry, May 27

I'm supposed to be asleep, but

Dad and Aunt J are talking, and I'm eavesdropping big-

time. Dad's slurring, so he must have stepped outside for a good ol' dose of Johnnie.

Wonder what Aunt J thinks about his un-Mormon breath.

He keeps telling her not to cut

me slack and she keeps telling

him it's her place, she'll do as she pleases, and he can just

take me on home if that's how he feels. Funny, but 1 don't

think I want to go home.

Unlike yesterday.

1 don't know what life here

will be like, but Dad made it clear life back home would

be hell, and I sure believe that.

He won't even miss me.

1 doubt anyone will miss me.

191

Except maybe Jackie, when she gets back from camp.

The creepy thing is, I won't

miss them, either. How can

you go through sixteen years with your family and not miss

them when you leave?

What's wrong with my family?

What's wrong with me?

192

D
ad Motored Off

Very early the next morning.

I was sawing major ZZZZs.

He didn't bother with good-byes, which only hurt a little.

Aunt J let me sleep in. I woke all

alone in a stränge room with chintz

curtains and dried flower wreaths on bright turquoise walls.

The only sound was the
tick-tick
of an iris-shaped clock and, somewhere outside, Aunt J's pleasant

song as she puttered around the yard.

I didn't move for several minutes, just lay there, contemplating.

What was expected of me here?

No one had mentioned a thing.

Sacrament Services were obviously

not high on the list. At home,

I'd
be sweating and suffering

Bishop Crandall's evil stare.

193

No diapers here. No kids to tend.

Dishes for two were nothing.

Was I supposed to plant a garden?

Feed the livestock? Count cats?

I got up and went to the window.

Outside, a small breeze toyed with a wind chime and ruffled

Aunt J's small patch of grass.

I remembered Dad's words:

No trouble there but rattlesnakes and deserted mine shafts.

I was beginning to believe it.

194

T
he First Week or So

Aunt J and I sort of poked at each other, testing the water, as they say.

She talked about life in the sticks.

I talked about life in the suburbs.

She talked about solitary Irving.

I talked about overcrowding.

She talked about the joy-- and pain--of physical labor.

I talked about diapers and dishpan hands.

She talked about hot

summers and hard winters.

I talked about jackrabbits and pesky little sisters.

She talked about hot

summers and hard winters.

I talked about school--up until the last few months.

Which finally led her to ask,

Do you want to talk about why you're here?

195

I Did--and I Didn't

I liked Aunt J--her soft-spoken

way, her honesty. But I didn't

feel secure with her yet.

How far could I trust her?

How much did she know?

How much did she want to know?

So I probed, "Why

do you think I'm here?

What did Dad tell you?"

She sat quietly for a minute.