Fixation (2 page)

Patrick and Nagual showed up in Patrick’s truck around seven. Jeri and I met them in the back quarter of the compound by quarantine along with the two full-time keepers, Meg and Farrell. Both Meg and Farrell are short, dark, and wiry, with mellow temperaments. They look and act so similar they were often asked if they’re twins, which they weren’t. They were just one of those couples that start to morph into one another as the years go by.

I’ll spare you the gory details of all the swearing, sweating, and straining that went on while we got Nagual situated. PG
Reader’s Digest
version, I only got a brief glance at Nagual through the grate of a wood and metal crate before we muscled the thing from the truck bed to the quarantine airlock (picture a cage with in inner and outer doors, the inner door with a guillotine gate, which can be opened and closed from the outside of the structure via a pole-and-pulley system), but I could feel his stress and fury at being caged up all too sharply.

Patrick unlatched and opened the crate door as Farrell slid the guillotine gate open. A low grunting noise reverberated from the crate. A brief pause, then a truly magnificent jaguar exploded from the crate into the quarantine area. The guillotine gate slammed back down the minute Nagual’s tail cleared the opening.

He gave a low rumbling growl and bared his teeth at us, his eyes glowing lambent gold in the lights. Jaguars are built like bulldogs on steroids, with sturdy chests, strong stocky legs, and shoulders. Nagual was no exception.

I stared at him as he sprang from one side of the cage to the other, up onto the den box and back down again, muscles coiled steel beneath his glossy coat, classic brownish-yellow with black rosettes, smaller markings inside each rosette. He was simply one of the most beautiful things I’d ever seen.

“Oh, you beauty,” I said under my breath, trying to project waves of soothing calm towards him.

Nagual stopped dead in his tracks, landing from mid-leap to the cement floor where he hunkered down and stared straight at me.

Whoa. This was a first. I mean, yes, I was capable of projecting feelings and images to both animals and some people, but I’d never had either react this way before.

I moved to the side.

Nagual’s eyes tracked my every movement.

Patrick waved a hand in front of the cage.

Nagual ignored him.

“Guess we know what
he
wants for dinner,” joked Farrell.

You okay, fella?
I reached out cautiously, trying to put the words into images. Jaguars didn’t speak English, after all.

Nagual continued to stare at me as if I were the only person or thing in the area, totally fixating on me. Kind of flattering, and definitely a bit spooky.

What’s up with you?
I wondered.

Suddenly my head filled with images and feelings not mine, as if someone had shoved out my mind and replaced it with theirs. The images flickered like a PowerPoint slide show on hyperdrive.

Damp heat. Moving through the jungle at night, low to the ground, afraid of nothing. A dark clearing lit only by torches. A woman, fierce and beautiful as a jungle cat. The smell of piñon or some other fragrant wood-based incense. Flesh against flesh. Fur and flesh mingling. Darkness. Trapped in a small space.

And rage, unforgiving and implacable.

The images and feelings vanished as suddenly as they’d come, leaving me dizzy and confused.”

“Maya, you okay?” Meg put hand on my shoulder.

I shook my head to clear it. “Yeah...just a little dizzy. Should’ve had a bigger lunch.”

“Let’s finish up here and go to El Puerco.” Meg grinned at me. “I could use a plate of those carnitas. How ‘bout you?”

“I think I’d better head home,” I said regretfully. I did love El Puerco’s carnitas, but knew that anything that rich would put me into a food coma. Not a good idea when I had the hour-and-change drive from FPC’s isolated location in the Santa Cruz mountains to home in San Francisco.

I stared at Nagual, who continued to stare back at me as if I was the only other thing in existence. What the hell were some of those thoughts doing in a jaguar brain?

“Maya, get your butt in gear and help Farrell pull the crate.” Patrick barked orders like a drill sergeant, breaking the moods. “Meg, get him some food and water.” He paused, staring at the jaguar, now pacing back and forth in the front of the cage, making the coughing noise that constitutes a jaguar’s roar. “Damn, he’s one fine cat.”

No one argued.

Farrell and I pulled the crate out and loaded it back in the truck. As I got in the cab and shut the passenger door, Nagual started up a series of urgent bellowing coughs, long and throaty. These were followed by a succession of shorter, more rapid grunts. Some of the bottle-fed jaguars did this when Jeri was around and they wanted her attention.

Farrell gave me a sideways glance as he started the truck. “I know you’re good with the cats and all, but that bad boy definitely has a thing for you.”

I shrugged and grinned. “Don’t they all?”

We drove to the supply shack where Farrell helped me take the crate off the truck, then left me to clean it out in the dim light of the three-walled structure. This means checking to see if the former occupant left any little surprises, take out water dishes or any toys, et cetera. Nagual had indeed left some tokens of his esteem, which was not surprising after a plane ride from Belize. I grabbed a small rake and retrieved the stinky prize, then gave the box a quick hose-down before poking my head and shoulders in, rake in hand, to get the metal water dish and anything else possibly hidden in the shadows in the back.

I wasn’t expecting to find anything beyond a stray piece of poop, so when the rake hit something with a dull
thunk
, it surprised me. Leaning in a little further, I hooked the tines around whatever the object was and rolled it out.

Roughly oval in shape, kind of like a bumpy egg with one side partially flattened, it looked to be made of reddish clay. I picked it up, holding it closer to the single light bulb on the ceiling. About three or four inches tall and about three quarters that in width, it was roughly in the shape of a seated figure, arms clasped around bent knees, head resting on the forearms. The face was odd, blunt features that could be human or feline—or both. It looked old, the clay pockmarked and weathered.

How the hell it got into Nagual’s crate was beyond me. Anyone with any knowledge of jaguar physiology and behavior would know better than to put anything so fragile in with the cat. Teeth that can take chunks out of bowling balls could make short work of hardened clay, especially during a long and no doubt boring plane journey. The fact Nagual
hadn’t
trashed it was a bit of a miracle. It had to have been a mistake, an oversight on someone’s part.

Now the question was what to do with it. I mean, should I play finders keepers? No one else knew it’d been in the crate. It
was
awfully cool. Or would that be unethical?

Too physically wiped to think this one through, I decided to table my decision until later. Tucking the little idol in my hoodie pocket, I forgot about it for the time being. Time to get on the road so I could get home before I fell asleep behind the wheel of Agnes, my ancient Nissan pickup.

But first..

I went back to the quarantine area for one more look at Nagual, who was still pacing back and forth the length of the cage. Everyone else had left for the time being, leaving Nagual alone to get used to his new surroundings.

“Hello, you beauty,” I said softly.

At the sound of my voice Nagual stopped mid-stride, wheeled around, and stared at me with such intensity that I almost took a step backwards.

“O-kay, fella...” My voice sounded just a little shaky. “This is really kind of weird, you know?”

Nagual grunted.

“I just wanted to say goodnight.”

Immediately Nagual jumped up on his hindquarters, front paws slamming against the steel mesh of the enclosure. This time I
did
stumble backwards, nearly falling on my butt as I backed into the low cement wall lining the walkway around the quarantine. I managed to regain my balance, but scraped the palm of one hand on the wall.

Nagual never took his eyes off me during all of this, watching as I shook my scraped hand and blew on it in an attempt to dull the sting of the abrasion. “This is your fault, you know,” I told him. “You startled me.”

He gave another grunt and rubbed his cheek against the mesh, marking territory with his scent glands.

I took a step towards him, very slowly, to see what he’d do. He continued rubbing his check on the wire mesh, not bothered in the least by my proximity, which in itself was unusual especially given the extreme upheaval to his life in the last forty-eight hours.

“You really are an odd one, aren’t you?”

He stopped rubbing and resumed pacing. I shook my head, bemused.

I took another step, holding my uninjured hand palm first up a few inches away from the mesh. He immediately stopped pacing and pressed his nose against the wire. I very slowly held my hand closer so that he could smell it. Immediately a rough jaguar tongue licked my flesh.

I stood frozen, amazed and honored that this gorgeous animal would show me this kind of affection right off the bat. I didn’t remember him as being hand-raised, but maybe I was wrong. That was the only explanation I could come up with for this instant love-fest.

Reluctantly I took my hand away and stepped back. I needed to get home. “I’ll see you next week, okay?”

As I walked away, bellowing coughs filled the twilight as Nagual called out, although whether for me or for his lost home there was no way of telling. The sound of his loss followed me all the way to the parking lot, into my truck and down the winding dirt road that led out of the compound to Highway 1 and home.

I managed to stay awake for the drive home by stopping at a little market in Half Moon Bay for a much-needed cup of coffee before navigating the Devil’s Slide, a tricky bit of coastal highway known for rockslides after heavy rains. Agnes hugged the rocky cliff to my right as I did my best not to think about the sharp, steep, and potentially deadly drop-off to the Pacific Ocean on the other side of the road. The thought of plunging off into space made the back of my legs crawl. Heights are definitely not my friend. Still, I preferred this route to 17, the narrow two-lane artery that went in and out of Santa Cruz from the Peninsula. Too crowded with lots of lousy and overly aggressive drivers.

Once past the Devil’s Slide—I love that name—the hairpin turns mellowed out and the road went inland into woods before emerging south near Rockaway Beach and Pacifica. Pacifica was just a short ten minutes from San Francisco proper and soon I left 1 for Skyline Boulevard. This took me by the San Francisco Zoo by way of the Great Highway, which ran the length of Ocean Beach. It was too dark to appreciate the view of the Pacific Ocean, along with other SF landmarks such as the Cliff House and Sutro Baths. Funny how I ignored them during the day, but noticed their absence when I couldn’t see them. I’m sure there was a life lesson in there somewhere, but I was too tired to appreciate it as I followed curve of Great Highway to the right where it turned into Geary Boulevard and entered the Richmond District.

I lived in an in-law cottage in the back lot of a shabby Spanish mission-style house on 42nd, between Anza and Balboa. The paint on both the cottage and the main house was cream with a faded blue trim that had once been a vibrant aqua before the sands and winds from the Pacific Ocean scoured the color from it. It took a dedicated effort of time and money to keep houses freshly painted out near the beach and Jack, my landlord, had neither to spend on exteriors. Luckily he had no problem maintaining things like plumbing and heating. Sure, the worn hardwood floors had long since lost their luster, and the cream-colored paint on the walls could use a touch-up. Overall, though, the interior of the cottage was comfortably shabby and my mismatched secondhand furnishings, if not quite shabby chic, made for a cozy little home.

I pulled into the driveway next to Jack’s motorcycle and let myself into the garage via the connecting pedestrian door adjacent the front door. There was a side gate as well, but that was for deliveries. Normally I’d knock on Jack’s door and stop by for a drink and conversation, but tonight I was just too wiped out from the extra-long day at FPC and the weird encounters with Nagual.

The garage smelled like a carpenter’s workshop: turpentine, freshly cut wood, and paint. Surfboards, pieces of furniture in various stages of having the wood stripped, sanded, and repainted were everywhere, along with bins of shells, sea glass, doll heads, driftwood, old toys, bottle caps. You name it, Jack had it.

An expert Dumpster diver, as well as thrift store/yard and garage sale junkie, Jack had a gift of looking at a piece of junk and seeing its potential. His offbeat artistic sensibility combined with the practical skills necessary to turn each piece into a functional and funky work of art (think furniture by Tim Burton by way of Clive Barker with a touch of seaside shabby chic thrown in) had enabled him to give up his day job. Since I took public transport to work, I let him use my truck weekdays to pick up his purchases and in return he gave me a break on rent and the occasional gift of one of his pieces.

I wove my way carefully through the maze of Jack’s workshop without knocking anything over or banging an elbow on a random corner and emerged back out into the tiny brick courtyard lined with pots and planters of flowers, herbs, and vegetables that separated the main house from my cottage. Major Fudge, Jack’s very fat black cat, sprawled on the little porch below my front door. He rolled on his back as I approached, angling for a tummy rub. I obliged before going inside, leaving Major Fudge to loll happily on my doormat until Jack called him in for the night.

The interior of my house was basically a box divided into four unequally portioned sections: living room and bedroom on one side, small kitchen and tiny bathroom on the other, and a narrow hallway in between the two sides. Not a lot of room, but roomy enough for one woman and a cat.

Turning on the front light, I took off my hoodie and tossed it, my purse and bag full o’ crap onto the battered chocolate brown leather loveseat under the bay window in the living room. Mismatched bookcases lined the available wall space, breaking for a small fireplace. A coffee table made of tortuously twisted driftwood sat in front of the loveseat. Seaglass studded the driftwood; the whole thing had a definite Cthulhu vibe going for it. The tabletop consisted of several randomly shaped platforms of wood, glass, and bronze metal. Jack called the piece “The Little Mermaid’s Nightmare.” It fit.

I plugged in the fairy lights interspersed with amber colored crystal strands I’d strung along the top of the window and was immediately rewarded with the soft glow of light and amber reflected in the glass. I’d also coiled smaller strands of the fairy lights in mosaic crackle-glass jars in various jewel-tones;, so I plugged those in as well and sighed with contentment at the instant transformation of the room from something slightly shabby to almost magically exotic. Amazing what a little creative lighting can do.

A plaintive meow from the kitchen caught my attention as Luna, my fragile seventeen-year-old tabby cat, poked her head out to welcome me home and remind me it was way past her dinnertime. I’d had Luna since I was thirteen, taking her with me when I moved out of my parents’ house in Marin. She had major kidney issues and needed subcutaneous fluids every other day, but was hanging in there, I think mainly because I couldn’t imagine life without her and she was afraid to leave me alone.

Luna meowed again and padded back the kitchen, swaying unsteadily on her feet.

“Hey, baby,” I cooed, and hurried after her.

My kitchen was tiny, just enough room for a small sky blue end table and matching chair which sat next to another bay window, a smaller one than the window in the living room. It was also decorated with fairy lights and crystal strands.

The counter space was negligible, as was storage, but I didn’t have a lot of dishes or cookware and tended to shop in the European style (daily or as needed) so I managed. I grabbed a can of food from the cupboard above the ancient gas stove, dumped it in a ceramic bowl, added hot water and stirred it into cat food soup. Setting it down next to the table, I poured myself a glass of some inexpensive chardonnay from Trader Joe’s and made myself a quick dinner of water crackers, goat cheese, and pear slices. I sat at the table so Luna and I could eat our respective dinners together.

Finishing my snack, I poured myself another glass of wine. Luna hadn’t eaten much of her food, so I covered it with foil and put it in the fridge. Her appetite seemed to decrease daily, although her insistence on regular meal times was as strict as ever. Guilt washed over me as I watched her make her way into the living room with an unsteady gait, as if each step was an effort. Sooner or later I’d have to find the strength to let her know it was okay to move on. Just not tonight.

I took my wine into the living room and flopped on the couch. I needed to shower, but somehow the thought of taking off clothes and turning on the water was way too much effort about now.

Honesty, it was just as well that Jesse was out of town this weekend. He was definitely an “I want my woman perfumed and pretty” type of guy, even on casual dates.

I mean, it wasn’t that I needed a lot of work. My short honey-blond hair required approximately thirty seconds of attention, most of it involving a brisk towel dry before I left it to its own devices. I have regular features, neither homely nor beautiful, but my eyes are a rich, dark brown rimmed with long, thick lashes visible without mascara. I used to use a lot of makeup to emphasize them, but makeup makes me look like a TV evangelist’s wife and I wised up. Now I just used a little bit of eyeliner on the inner lash line. That and a bit of blush-colored lip gloss pretty much completed my makeup regime these days.

When we first started dating, Jesse made a big fuss over my “natural beauty.” But lately he’d been dropping hints about wanting to see what I’d look like if I went for a more “glamorous” look. I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, although I suspected it had something to do with glam eye shadow and a wardrobe consisting of more than jeans and Gap T-shirts.

I’d “read” Jesse just enough to know that he was attracted to me and found my personality refreshing. I hadn’t gone beyond that because a) it was an invasion of privacy akin to reading someone’s diary (which I’d done) and b) it hadn’t worked out well in the past.

Speaking of Jesse, he’d promised to call me from Dallas around eight so I probably had a message from him. Peeling myself off the couch, I went into my bedroom to check the answering machine. It lived on my bedside table, another little driftwood piece by Jack, this one less Lovecraftian and more
Coastal Living
. The light was blinking so I hit play and took advantage of my victory over inertia to drink some more wine while listening to the messages. I had a robo call from some marketing company; my best friend and co-worker Sharon telling me about her latest blind date; and Jesse, calling from his convention. I could barely hear him over the noise in the background so I rewound the message, turned up the volume, and replayed it.

“Hey, Maya. So, calling you from Dallas.” He sounded half drunk. Loud laughter in the background. That was some convention. Sounded more like a bar. “Sorry to cancel our date at the last minute, but you know this is just business—”

“Jesse? You coming?” Okay, definitely a feminine voice there. My spider senses started tingling big time.

“Yeah, baby, just wait a sec.”

It sounded like Jesse made a half-assed attempt to cover the phone, but I still heard every word. How much booze had he consumed at—what, 6 p.m.?

A petulant whine in the background. “Jesse, you promised me more champagne in your room...” Spider senses were pretty much throbbing by now.

“It’s just business, baby, hang on a sec!” A brief pause as Jesse collected himself. “Sorry about that, Maya...just one of the LPs. She’s had a few too many, you know? Just business.”

I let the rest of the message drift over me, a profession of affection and promises as empty as my wine glass, which I had drained while listening to Jesse’s bullshit. Then I deleted the message, refilled my wine glass, and stuck in a DVD of
Zorro the Gay Blade
, my cinematic version of comfort food. Luna curled up next to me on the couch while I sipped chardonnay and watched George Hamilton swing his hips and flap his wrists “like a sissy boy”, and tried not to think about the fact that my boyfriend was more than likely a lying, cheating, son of a bitch. I really didn’t even need my psychic talent to figure that one out.