The Influence (6 page)

Maybe he
should
have gone to his parents’ house. 

No. That was the one thing he’d gotten right, and he spent the rest of the afternoon listening to tunes and reading the Steve Jobs biography that Lita and Dave had given to him for a present.  

It was unseasonably warm for December, and that night he sat outside, drinking beer and looking up at the stars. The chickens seemed unusually quiet, their background clucking lower in volume than usual and occasional rather than constant. Several times, he thought he saw something in the sky, something black and silent, gliding over the ranch, bigger than a bird, yet smaller and lower than an airplane. The temperature had dropped, but he remained outside, looking up, trying to figure out what the flying thing was, until he saw its strange shadowy form pass directly overhead and realized that he didn’t
want
to know what it was. Feeling uneasy, he went inside, pulled the shades over the windows and turned on the TV, watching the end of
The Sound of Music
as he tried not to think of what might be in the sky above. 

He dreamed of monsters. He was on a flat arid plain, hardpacked dirt with no rock or vegetation, that stretched endlessly in all directions. There were creatures in the air, creatures on the ground, abominations whose like had never before been seen or imagined, and they were all after him. He had come from nowhere, was going nowhere, and his only purpose was to avoid the monsters and survive. 

In the morning, Ross awoke to a bright, cloudless, unseasonably warm day. The concerns of last night seemed foolish and childish as he went out to feed the chickens, but he still could not help glancing up every once in awhile—just to make sure the sky was clear.  

SIX 

Lita didn’t want to go out on New Year’s Eve. She knew why Dave wanted to do it. Magdalena was a
small
town, and if they hoped to survive with their little business over the long haul, they had to not only cultivate relationships but be seen as part of the community. This year, though, Ross was here, and since he’d decided not to go, she thought it would be more fun to buy a big old tub of ice cream, stay in and order some movies on demand.  

Dave was adamant, however, and she put on her most western-looking skirt and blouse, dragged out the cowgirl boots she wore exactly once each year, and brought out the lemon pie she’d made earlier in the afternoon. She’d made an extra smaller one for Ross, and she brought it over to him in the shack. “You sure you don’t want to come?” she asked. “Last chance.” 

He shook his head, smiling. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.” 

Lita sighed. “I wish I didn’t have to go either.” 

“You could stay.” He gestured around the room. “I have an exciting evening planned. I intend to eat your pie, watch the
Curb Your Enthusiasm
marathon and be in bed by ten.” 

“That’s so sad!” She laughed. “You’re not even going to stay up until midnight?” 

“Nah. New Year’s has never been a real holiday to me anyway. There’s no gifts, no feast, just…bad TV.”  

“Well, I’ll be thinking about you.” 

“With envy?” 

“Actually, yes,” she admitted. “See you tomorrow.” 

“Have fun.” 

By the time Lita walked back up to the house, Dave was ready to leave. The party this year was at Cameron Holt’s—yet another reason she didn’t want to go—but a lot of friends would be there, some of whom she hadn’t seen in awhile, and as they drove down one dirt road and then another on their way to Cameron’s ranch, she gradually grew more enthusiastic about the evening. The desert was dark, and long before they arrived, a line of white headlights and red taillights could be seen winding like a snake toward their destination, which shone like a beacon in the blackness.  

The parking area in front of the house was full, so people had started pulling off the edge of the drive and parking in the weeds on the side. Dave pulled behind a dented white pickup that Lita recognized as Vern Hastings’ truck, and Vern and his wife Rose got out. Vern gave a short wave, and the two of them headed up the drive without waiting. 

“Typical,” Lita said disgustedly as she handed Dave the pie and held tightly to the doorframe before stepping out onto the uneven ground. 

The music was audible even from here, but she didn’t recognize the song and couldn’t tell if it was live or recorded until the tune changed to “American Farmer,” and it was clear that it was not Charlie Daniels singing. She turned to Dave. “Cameron hired a band?” 

“I think Jim Haack’s boys started a band with a couple of their friends. It’s probably them.” 

“They’re not bad,” Lita said.  

Holt’s foreman, Jorge, was standing on the front porch, directing guests around back, and Dave waved a greeting. “He’s making you work on New Year’s Eve?” 

Jorge shrugged and smiled, but Lita could see the resentment in his eyes. She felt sorry for Jorge. And for all of Cameron’s workers. The man was clueless, heartless and pretty much an all-around bastard. She was surprised he kept any workers at all. If she were Jorge, she would have defected to another employer a long time ago. 

They turned the corner. The Haack boys did indeed have a band—Tumbleweed Connection, according to the name written on the front of the bass drum—and they were set up in a corner of the back patio where a line of small speakers put out surprisingly loud and surprisingly clear sound. Quite a few couples, including several senior citizens, were dancing to their version of “Act Naturally.”  

Cameron and some of the other big ranchers were clustered around a keg that had been set up on the opposite side of the patio, laughing loudly at some private joke that was no doubt offensive to three-fourths of the other people there, and Dave immediately started toward them. 

Lita grabbed his hand. “No,” she said. “Uh-uh.” 

“We’ll just stop by and say hi. We’ll put in an appearance, then move on. It
is
his party.” 

“David…” 

“We have to. These are our customers.” He nodded toward Vern Hastings, backslapping people by the open pit barbecue. “And our competition.” 

“All right,” she reluctantly agreed. “We’ll put in an appearance.” 

But Cameron and his buddies, Jack Judd in particular, were already half-drunk and in a garrulous mood, and instead of the quick hello she’d expected, they got drawn into a discussion about the prospects of turning the valley into wine country, making Magdalena Arizona’s version of Napa. It was an endlessly looping debate, made even more interminable by the fact that the ranchers were downing beer like it was water.  

Lita escaped as quickly as she could, leaving Dave with Cameron’s crew (although he’d definitely hear from her about it later. What happened to the ‘moving on’ he’d promised?) and heading toward friendlier territory. Darla and JoAnn were hanging out with Lurlene from the laundromat, and Lita joined them next to a picnic table filled with various pretzels, crackers, chips, dips and salsas. Everyone asked where her cousin was—they’d all heard that Ross was staying with them—and Lita explained that he hadn’t wanted to come. 

“Is he cute?” JoAnn asked. “I heard he was cute.” 

“He is, actually. But why are
you
asking?” 

“Yeah.” Lurlene nodded toward JoAnn’s husband. “Ain’t your man keepin’ you satisfied?” 

“As a matter of fact, no, he isn’t.” They all laughed. “But I was asking for my sister.” 

“Becky’s back?” Lita asked, surprised. 

“She will be. Back and single. I’m just trying to keep her options open.”  

Lurlene put a hand on Lita’s arm. “Honey, don’t let your cousin anywhere
near
Becky.” 

“That’s not funny!” JoAnn objected, but the rest of them thought it was, and the wild Becky stories started flying.  

Lita paused to get a drink—the nonalcoholic punch, for now—and by the time she returned, Lurlene had wandered off. Since Darla had been sick in the weeks leading up to Christmas and they hadn’t seen each other in awhile, there was some catching up to do, and the three of them did so, staking out a corner where they could talk privately. 

Dave eventually extricated himself from Cameron’s circle and began to mingle, gradually working his way over to Lita. He gave her a quick kiss, and she was surprised to taste nothing stronger than beer on his lips. “Having fun?” he asked her. 

“Actually,” she said, “I am.” 

“See?” 

“What about you?” 

“Not so much,” he admitted. 

They both laughed. 

Father Ramos was there at the party, parked at the dessert table, but his presence wasn’t the deterrence to bacchanalia that Lita wished it had been. He was in his most jovial, convivial mood, gladhanding everyone, and while conversation in his immediate vicinity was cleaned up considerably and those nearby, the Mexican workers who formed the backbone of his congregation in particular, were on their best behavior, alcohol was still being consumed in copious amounts. She could tell that, instead of toning things down as the evening wore on, the faithful were going to end up reveling as hard as the heathens, although perhaps making up for it by being more contrite in their confessions the next day.  

As in previous years, things started to get rowdy by about ten. 

Somewhere by the barbecue, two men got into a shouting match loud and serious enough that others had to speed over and separate them before the argument escalated. Lita saw a woman bent over a corral fence, loudly vomiting. Behind her, one young man she didn’t recognize was thrusting his hips in her direction, pantomiming having sex with her, while a group of friends, including Lee, the stockboy from the grocery store, and Boo, the mechanic, laughed uproariously.  

It was all downhill from here. She knew what was going to happen. As midnight approached, the firearms would come out. To herald the arrival of the new year, redneck ranchers and Mexican cowhands, united for that one magical moment, all of their differences pushed aside, would shoot their guns into the air, whooping and hollering. It was pure luck that no one had been injured or killed yet by one of their bullets plummeting back to earth, but as far as she was concerned, it was only a matter of time, and she wanted to make sure that she and Dave were gone by the time this year’s idiotic ritual was enacted.  

Dave had gone off with a couple of other organic farmers who wanted to check out Cameron’s barn and see how the other half lived. She found the three of them chatting with Jorge in front of a narrow pen housing a milky-eyed and shockingly overweight veal calf. In broken English, the foreman was trying to defend Cameron’s indefensible cattle raising practices, but she could tell that he didn’t believe what he was saying. Neither did his audience, who kept asking him how livestock could be treated so inhumanely. 

“Tell to Senor Holt,” Jorge kept saying. “Tell to Senor Holt.” 

Lita grabbed the sleeve of Dave’s shirt, tugging on it. “I want to go home,” she told him. 

He looked at his watch. “It isn’t even eleven yet.” 

They’d talked about this before, and she looked straight in his eyes to make sure he understood. “I’m tired, I’m cold, I want to go.” 

He did understand. He nodded. “Okay.” 

It
was
getting cold, and Lita wasn’t sure why she hadn’t brought a jacket. Stupid. Dave bid his friends a happy new year, and the two of them walked out of the barn into the night air. A sharp breeze had sprung up in the last few minutes, and Dave put an arm around her shoulders to stave off some of the chill. A few other people—families with kids, mostly—were also starting to leave, getting out before the shooting started and things got out of control.  

By the corral, Cameron and one of his buddies had already cornered Doris Stiever, the part-time gas station cashier whose husband was deployed in Afghanistan. She let out a shriek that would have been a cry for help if she hadn’t been drunk, but was playful and flirty because she was. 

“Let’s go,” Lita said primly. 

Dave nodded, and they said goodbye to the people on their way as they headed back toward the front of the house. On the drive, a Jeep and a pickup were both attempting to turn around without hitting each other. Farther up the lane, green palo verde trees glowed red with the taillights of departing partiers.  

Vern Hastings’ truck was still parked in front of theirs, but whoever had pulled in behind them had left, so it was easy to back up and pivot about. Although everyone else who was leaving early had turned left, toward town, they turned right, into the desert, toward home. The land was dark but the sky was bright, filled with both a full moon and, incongruously, a visible field of stars.  

Something swooped low over the top of the pickup. 

Dave slammed on the brakes, nearly driving them into a ditch. “What the hell was that?” 

Lita didn’t know, but she had seen it too, a shadow that passed over the windshield, briefly blotting out the moon and stars, and she’d felt an instinctive terror, an inner recoiling that raised goose bumps on her arms and left her shivering. Like Dave, she twisted her neck sideways and ducked her head down in order to look up through the windshield, but it was gone, whatever it was, and there were no dark shapes moving across any portion of the sky. 

She straightened up, glancing over at Dave, who looked back at her with a confused expression. “That was weird,” he said. 

She nodded. 

“What do you think it was?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“A vulture?” 

Lita shook her head. She might not know what it was, but she knew what it wasn’t, and it was neither a bird nor a plane nor anything she had seen before. It was strange, and she didn’t like it, and though she’d been granted even less than a glimpse, just a suggestion of darkness more sensed than seen, she hoped she never saw it again. 

She shivered as Dave put the truck into gear and continued on toward home.  

They made it back without incident. Later, after showering together, they made love to see in the new year, and in the middle of it, from far away, she heard faint popping sounds.