Calling Out (20 page)

“Hot damn,” he says as the dealer counts out stacks of
chips for both of us. We slide a few back in his direction
as a tip. “What do you say? Quit on this high note in all
our glory?” he asks me.

I'm still down $300 but I'm intrigued by Boyd's
youthful exuberance. He tips his hat back and rubs his
hands on his denim-sheathed thighs.

“Bets folks?” the dealer asks.

“I'm out,” I say.

“Me too.” Boyd says. “Where to?” he asks with an
eager smile.

“Maybe some air,” I say, sliding off the stool.

I pick up my coat from the floor and feeling unsteady
on my feet, I have to grab onto the edge of the table.
Boyd's hand and forearm—over-developed, I assume,
from hanging onto a bull for his life—guide me to an exit
I wouldn't begin to be able to find on my own.

It's late, the night before Christmas Eve, and outside
the carnival-like casino it's quiet and dry-cold as only the
high-desert winter can be. I can't see stars because of the
lights but I imagine that over the salt flats they are dense
and consoling, making the big sky seem less of an unfathomable abyss.

“Shit, it's nippy,” Boyd says.

“Yeah.” I lean against a wall to stop the spins. I want
to lie down with my face against the frozen sidewalk.

“I won two hundred bucks,” he says. “A Christmas
bonus.”

I don't want him to talk. I want him to pick me up
and carry me somewhere so I can sleep.

“I watched them filming
Touched by an Angel
yesterday over there in Salt Lake City. It was pretty neat. Saw
that Roma Downey and the other one, the black woman
with the white stripe in her hair. You watch that show?”

I shake my head with my eyes closed.

“I like it sometimes,” he says. “So what do you like to
watch?”

His attempt at small talk is endearing but I don't have
the energy.

“Where're you staying?” I ask.

He turns away and coughs.

“Uh, the Best Western. Down a ways.”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twenty-five.”

I know he's lying but I think it's to make me feel better.

“You're sweet,” I say.

“My dad's in the room. He's taking me back to
Wyoming tomorrow. He's there. He's asleep.” Boyd snaps
his fingers.

“Oh,” I say, stifling a laugh.

“What about you?”

“Salt Lake City,” I say, knowing a hundred miles is not
an option.

He takes off his hat, looks at it, and puts it back on.
“I have a good idea,” he says.

His large calloused hand takes mine and pulls me
back into Stateline, back into the jarring blur. I am so
relieved to be led. I watch my feet against the red carpet,
bump into people without looking up. Boyd steers us to
the motel end of the casino and pays for a room with his
winnings.

He's gentle, as if I am a wounded bird. He takes off my
coat and my sneakers, eases me down on the bed in the
dark room. I close my eyes and feel his fingers fumble
with the button fly of my jeans. He pulls down the covers
and lifts me up over them. I open my eyes and smile so he
doesn't think I've passed out and he touches my cheek. He
continues with the rest of my clothes, and I give myself
over to the kindness in his hands. It's the first time I have
been with someone since McCallister and I fight the
instinctive shift into a needing-to-please mode. After a
quick strip of his own clothes and the crinkle of a
retrieved condom, I feel his warm body beside me, his
rough hand softly running along my arm.

Boyd kisses me and I kiss him back without opening
my eyes and without words. I pull him close and rock him
so he rolls on top of me; I want his weight and his warmth
and his skin to press me through to the bottom of the bed.
His body is taut and new, and I feel his gratitude, as if he
can't believe his good fortune. I let him give. He moves his
hands lovingly over my breasts, where he lays his head for
a moment like a baby against his mother.

“I don't even know your name,” he whispers.

I open my eyes, jarred by the unfamiliar face in the
dark. “Jane,” I say.

“Jane,” he says. “I'm Boyd.”

I close my eyes again. “I know.”

Boyd moves down to kiss my stomach. I stay motionless and focus on the warm track his touch leaves on my
skin. I sense his hesitation in the face of my silent stillness—he is waiting, I know, for a sign. But I'm thankful he
doesn't say anything. I don't want to hear his voice or
decipher words. I float, moored only by the slippery body
of the young cowboy on top of me. I match my breathing
to his, faster, shallower, urgent. I imagine myself melting
slowly into the bed like hot, poured honey.

“Can I tell you something?” Boyd asks, after I have
settled in on my side of the bed, welcoming sleep.

“That's the first time I've done it in a bed,” he says.
“It's usually a car or something. This was real nice.”

I turn to his cherubic face.

“Thanks, Boyd,” I says. “It was real nice.”

“Yeah?” he asks brightly.

“Yeah,” I say.

“'Night,” he says, smiling.

At dawn, I wake to the sound of cowboy boots on the
landing outside the door as the other rodeo guests head
home for Christmas Eve. I sneak back into my clothes and
I'm out the door as Boyd slumbers in innocence. My head
thuds behind my eyes in the light and my mouth feels
sucked dry with a foul aftertaste. I burn it away with
industrial coffee from the gas station, but instead of going
to my car, I decide to try and win back what I lost.

Parrot Bay, near the end of the strip, is well past its
prime. The cocktail waitresses are middle-aged and the
local clientele burned-out. It's empty, save for a couple of
gray-haired women in white gloves, now coin-dirty,
feeding nickels into slot machines, and a few woolly sorts
slumped over the bar. I find the one blackjack table open
for business and get to work.

But I have no connection with the dealer, a brusque
older man without a name tag who rarely looks at me and
carries on a conversation with the bored-looking pit boss.
I lose fast. With careless bets and rotten luck, the two hundred I won back goes in ten minutes and I'm down five
hundred dollars. The thought of being short on rent
makes me feel nauseated, as does the cigarette I smoke
down on an empty stomach. I leave the table without a
good-bye to the uncharitable dealer and steel myself for
the blinding morning glare outside.

But then near the exit I spy a phone.

“Hello?” McCallister says quietly.

“Why are you talking so quietly?”

“Hold on a second.” There are fumbling sounds, then that of a door closing.
“Maria's asleep. What time is it out there?”

“I don't know. Morning sometime.”

“It's not even seven yet your time. You must be really excited for Christmas
Eve.”

“I can't wait.”

“So what's going on?”

“Remember that time we drove to Atlantic City?”

“A total disaster,” he says.

“Well, I'm in Wendover. I lost a bit,” I say.

“Jane, go home. Please? Just don't do anything until I get there.”

“No. Listen. Please, please don't come here. That's why I'm calling. I don't
want to see you. I want to live my life, everything, by myself.”

There is a pause. I'm not sure I've ever heard him so quiet.

“Merry Christmas,” I say, and hang up.

I speed through the limitless arid and empty salt flats toward home.

When I arrive home, my apartment is quiet, but then Ember
staggers into the living room in the same clothes she's been
wearing for days, her hair stringy around her face.

“Where have you been?” she asks. There is a twinge of
sharpness in her voice. “I waited up for you last night.”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says, slumping down into the couch. “I
just thought you'd be here.”

She wipes her nose on her sleeve and starts to wag her
bare foot—surprisingly small and girlish—with manic
speed.“I have to tell you something you're not going to like.”

“What is it?”

“I'm going to Moab.”

“But I thought—”

“Just for a few days. For Christmas.” Ember picks at a
scab on her hand with such irritation and hostility that
I'm guessing she must be out of drugs.

“Oh,” I say, trying not to show how let down I feel,
trying to play down the fact that Ember has chosen to be
with Ford over me. “I guess that'll be nice for you guys.”

“You can come if you want,” she says.

“I have to work,” I say, sounding more pouty than I
want to. “But thanks.”

“Okay. Well, I'm going to head out. You sure you don't
want to come?” she asks.

I nod, letting the feeling of abandonment settle in my
chest.

It's bright and unseasonably warm out, but on the day
before Christmas in Salt Lake City, everything is closed.
The broad streets are empty of traffic, and despite the
cheery sun, it feels deserted and lonely. Even Smith's is
closed, barring me from its aisles of refuge. The only place
I find open is the 7-Eleven, where I buy Diet Coke, two
bruised bananas, brownie mix, milk, corn flakes, and a
sorry-looking Golden Delicious apple for my Christmas
Eve feast.

“It looks like we're the only ones out and about today,”
I say to the clerk, a burly Samoan missing his front bottom
teeth.

“$11.60,” he says.

When I'm back at home, my mom calls but I let the
answering machine take it. I eat a bowl of cereal, make the
brownies, and eat half the batch while watching a biography of Jesus on TV. McCallister is at his parents' house
up the Hudson with Maria, Ember is on her way to be
with Ford, Boyd the young cowboy is home by now with
his family in Wyoming, and in Cleveland, I imagine my
mom is hanging the last of the antique ornaments while
my sister complains about how selfish I am for not
coming home and my dad tunes them out with his third
Scotch. I try to feel freedom in my invisibility. With
Christmas music on the radio I bathe, lying motionless in
the water until my fingers and toes are withered into
sunken crevices and I've begun to sweat. I can survive
alone. I just wish there were a way to dull the ache.

At seven o'clock I get a call from Marisa, who has a
date for me. It's the taxidermist. I laugh when she tells me.
I am relieved to have an assignment on Christmas Eve,
rescued from my brooding by a mission to make back the
rent money I lost in Wendover. From the look of what I
put on—long black velvet skirt, gray silk blouse, demure,
rose-colored lipstick—and my upswept hair, one might
assume I am on my way to Christmas mass, if not for the
stiletto pumps that look like two shiny black weapons in
the icy porch light.

State Street is all lit up with no one to see it but me.
Blinking Santas and snowmen adorn every car dealership
and fast-food restaurant. There's even a huge green plastic
wreath on the front door of American Bush. I belt out
“White Christmas” and “Jingle Bell Rock” and “Silent
Night.” I dance in my seat to the jaunty tempo of
Mannheim Steamroller's “Joy to the World” as I drive
south past West Jordan, trying to coerce my spirits into
staying aloft. I pass Lehi, Pleasant Grove, and the “happy
valley” of Provo. But the clusters of lights and buildings
begin to peter out after Payson and I have to work harder
at staying upbeat. Finally I reach Santaquin and I know I
can't be that far.

The weather-beaten Utah map I bought on my drive
west has a hole in its corner fold where Nephi should be,
so with Marisa's help I scratched out some directions to
Ephraim's on the edge of a Chinese take-out menu.
Although I've never been to Nephi, I'm not too worried
about getting lost in a town with the same population as
my high school.

Nephi, Ralf once told me, was founded by two LDS
leaders who were instructed by church higher-ups in the
mid-nineteenth century to lay out a town at the mouth of
Salt Creek Canyon. Like most of Juab County, it's rural
and almost entirely Mormon, rumored to be rife with
fundamentalist polygamists. A large percentage of the residents are direct descendents of the city's founders. I wish
it were daylight so I could get a glimpse of Mount Nebo
as I drive south into town, if only for some reassurance
that the world has not slid away.

Main Street is desolate and it looks like a Depressionera dust bowl holdout. There is one flickering streetlight
and the windows of the small shops are dark. I expect
tumbleweeds to roll by. My directions point me west,
straight through and out of town, up onto a snow-strewn
plateau lit only by the moon. My headlights find the shiny
globes of a doe's eyes just off the road. The radio has gone
to static, and I've turned it to low, unable to bring myself
to turn it off completely. A broken-down tractor marks
the county road onto which I'm supposed to turn.

Ephraim's compound looks to be a trailer with addon upon add-on cropping out from the original doublewide. A lone industrial light sends a shivery glow out from
the house across the ice-and-gravel-encrusted driveway.
It's not fear that greets me in the cold silence outside the
car, but an undertone of disbelief—I have chosen to
spend my Christmas Eve right here.

The taxidermist's picture taped up in the office all
these months has led me to expect a much more imposing
character than the man who opens the door. Ephraim is
my height, at best, and rather slight in build. He stands
before me in a tank top and jeans, his long, bleached hair
held in a red bandanna.