The Other Mr. Bax (24 page)

Go
,
go
,
go
… with every ounce of strength—a violent will—she jerked awake.

She let out a huff, then relaxed into her pillow and stared at the ceiling, aware of her breathing, daring not to close her eyes. She had escaped the dream, but its chilly residue clung to her. Were she to go back to sleep, it would likely be there waiting for her.

A
white pickup truck was parked
at the far end of the trailer. Roland stood off to the side of the front steps, listening to the voices coming from inside: a woman’s occasional “uh huh” and “yeah,” and Fred’s low, indistinct murmur.
Fred’s daughter
… He had mentioned, earlier, that she’d probably be visiting that evening.

Once again, Roland’s eyes dropped to the tear in the knee of his pants. He brushed away a spot of dirt, then stepped up to the trailer door—just a screen in a hinged wooden frame. Warmth, sizzling, and the smell of onions, meat, and cigarette smoke drifted through the screen. Fred was seated at a table with tall-back bench seats to either side of it—a crude version of a diner-booth. Roland tapped on the doorframe, which slapped and rattled from looseness.

“Ahh… so you
do
have a sense of direction.” Fred gestured toward the other side of the table. “Have a seat.”

Stepping up into the trailer, Roland gently guided the complaining, spring-tense door shut behind him, then stood, just inside, pestered by self-consciousness. To his left, a woman stood over a sizzling skillet. She had a round face with humorless, burnt-umber eyes. Her gray-streaked black hair was pulled back into a long braid. She was short, five two or three, plump, fortyish, and dressed as though she was going out line dancing—a western style blouse, snug fitting jeans, and boots with an intricate, Native-American pattern of tiny, colored glass beads sewn up the sides. The woman briefly looked his way then returned to her cooking.

“My daughter, Anna,” Fred said.

Roland worked a smile onto his face. “Pleased to meet you.”

She turned, then glanced down at his knees before turning back to the stove top. “You’re Roland.”

“Yeah.”

The trailer, with the exception of details, appeared very much as he had imagined. Immediately to his right was a small living room with three windows, one in each of the paneled walls. No curtains. A portrait of Elvis Presley on black velvet hung near the corner. Against the end-wall, under the largest of the three windows, was a sofa—its arms tattered; an old, stained, tan-colored blanket covered the bulk of it. To the left of that sat a wooden end table. No TV. A waist high partition separated the living area from the dining area. In the corner opposite the sofa, vaguely resembling a TV, sat a gas stove. Roland had grown up with one like it. He remembered lying before it, enjoying its radiant heat on cold, winter days, mesmerized by the contrast between its blue flames and its hot, orange, glowing ceramic elements.

The floor in the living room was sub-flooring—simply raw plywood. The carpeting had apparently been removed, and a six-foot square, dirt-stained rug, featuring the image of a wolf, lay in its place. Linoleum covered the floor of the eat-in kitchen, similar to the kitchen floor of the farmhouse in Selma where Roland had spent his childhood—beige, speckled with salt and pepper, and dime-size, chocolate flecks.

“Take a load off.” Fred gestured toward the bench opposite him.

Roland slid in and folded his hands in his lap. The Formica tabletop showed evidence of years of use. The geometric pattern of red, quarter-sized circles, a black asterisk in each, was worn in spots to an off-white color, suggesting areas of habitual occupancy. A half-dozen cigarette burns marked Fred’s territory. A foot above the table, at the far end, the edge adjoining the wall, was a small, naked window, revealing a deep-azure sky through a filter of multi-year, smoky residue and dust.

“Thirsty? There’s beer in the fridge,” Fred said. “I’ll have one too, while you’re at it.”

Roland got back up and went to the refrigerator. It, like everything else in the trailer, was small and old, separated from the cooking stove by a two-foot-wide section of cabinetry. A couple of mayonnaise jars with the labels soaked off, sat on top, filled with what looked like dried herbs. An old, wooden cigar-box was tucked back behind the jars. He pulled the fridge door open and found a full six-pack of longneck bottles parked at the front edge of the top shelf.

“Want one, Anna?”

“Sure.” She reached over, grabbed a bottle opener, which was magnetically attached to the side of the fridge, and handed it to Roland. He pried the caps off while Anna scooped fried potatoes and pork chops onto three large plates. They scooted in at the table—Anna, alongside her father, and Roland, opposite them. The plate before him was piled high with food. Pork chops. He’d not had pork for many years, a decade or more, and couldn’t remember now why it was eliminated from his diet. He sliced off a chunk, shoved it into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, took a sip of beer, sampled the potatoes—a bit spicier than he was used to—then another sip of beer. “Very good.” He nodded.

Anna acknowledged him with a glance.

“We’ve met before,” Roland said, “in your store. My wife bought some pottery.” He found a picture in his mind: Joyce studying a clay vase, turning it over in her hands, and Anna walking up, offering information about the craftsman who’d made the vase.

“When was that?” she said.

“Around Christmas, I think… last Christmas.”

She turned back to her dinner and sawed at her pork with a knife and fork. “I see a lot of people. I don’t remember most of them.”

Roland’s eyes shifted from Anna to her father, who appeared concerned only with eating, then dropped down to the task waiting on his plate. As he shoved a fork loaded with potatoes into his mouth he caught a glance pass between his hosts.

Little more was said as they ate—small talk and news Anna had picked up while at her store, regarding people Roland had never heard of. But then, as they were finishing up, she said, “Dad tells me…” Her eyes skipped about as though seeking an escape. “Why don’t we go to my shop and get you a few things… some clothes.”

Roland turned to Fred.

The old man shrugged.

He imagined himself arriving home and being confronted by a worried, and justifiably angry, Joyce. Perhaps the condition of his clothes would lend credence to his story. But what exactly would that story be? He sighed. “I appreciate it, Anna, but I’ve got plenty of clothes at home.”

She cocked her head to the side. “You live nearby?”

“Olberg Road.”

“Well then, I could at least give you a lift home.”

As the night desert flew by the window on Roland’s right, the comforting assurances of familiarity began to arise in him. The moment seemed linked to the past by an endless network of road, connecting all the places he’d ever been or wanted to be—moving forward, progression, resolution, possibility.

West Olberg Road left the reservation about two miles north of The Trading Post, Anna’s place, then passed through a small, sparse, subdivision of newer homes. Roland watched as houses he’d seen a thousand times scrolled by on his right. After another two miles, the road dipped back into the reservation—no homes—then, about a mile before his house, it returned to his side of the border. “Next house on the right… about a quarter mile up.” Roland silently willed his house into existence, pushing it from the crazy dream he remembered, from the night before, back into reality.

The night was cloudless and moonless, leaving it exceptionally dark. Anna slowed the truck.

“You’ll see reflectors to either side of the driveway.” He squinted, expecting—wanting and hoping to catch the dim glow of lights from the windows, or the flood above the garage doors illuminating the driveway, welcoming him home. There were no such lights however—nothing but the desert and its darkness. Beyond the windows of the truck, the night appeared as impenetrable as the confusion, which, again, had begun to stir in his mind.

“Stop,” he said.

“Here?”

Roland wagged a finger toward the window on his right. “Yes, yes, please.”

Anna steered to the edge of the road. The muted crunch of tires on gravel filled the cab. She brought the truck to a stop, then forced the shifter into park. The engine idled low, just above a stall. The beams of the headlights fell half upon the sun baked asphalt and half upon the rocky shoulder where, about ten-yards ahead, a small metallic object, a piece of liter, reflected back with a glint. Roland stared out the side-window, then turned and peered back through the window behind him. He pushed the door open and stepped down to the invisible ground. The black silhouette of a tall ponderosa pine stood motionless in the distance, dull in contrast to the dark sky around it. As he gazed toward the empty lot before him, the fog of confusion began to lift; a memory of the house he and his wife had built took form. He walked up the road a few yards, entering the stark beams of light from Anna’s truck—his thick, black shadow swinging out before him, becoming nothing from the hip up, as it merged with the night.

With no sign of a driveway, Roland turned and looked again to the south. The road suddenly disappeared as the headlights of the truck went out. The engine stopped. The air fell silent except for the dull rumble of traffic coming from somewhere to the north—miles away. The driver’s door popped and creaked as Anna pushed it open. She stepped down, then came around to the front of the truck, her heels clopping against the hard asphalt. Roland’s eyes began to adjust to the yellow glow of the truck’s parking lights.

“Is that your house up the road?” She pointed toward a lit house, a half-mile east of where they stood.

“No… that’s my neighbor, the Browns.”

Faint snaps and pops from the truck’s cooling engine crept into the silence. “So where
is
it?” Anna said, standing several feet away. “Where’s yours?”

Roland pointed to his right, toward rocks, cactus, brush, and the pine silhouetted against the night sky.

“What are we doing here?” Anna said.

He shook a finger toward the pine in the distance. “This isn’t real, is it?” He could hear his own breath whispering in his nostrils. “I don’t want this. I want to go home.”

“Uh… I don’t… Are you saying you had a house here? What?” She pointed. “Was it on wheels?”

“Anna, you’ve lived here the past five years?”

“My whole life.”

“You really don’t remember a house being here?”

“There’s never been a house here.”

“Just two days ago, I woke in my bed… right there.” He pointed off into the darkness. A light breeze brushed across the road. They both stood there, staring toward the desert.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. There was never a house here.” Anna turned toward her truck as if she was about to leave, but then spun back around and threw her empty hands out in front of her, shaking them as though she were shaking a log. “You’re making me nervous. You have to know there was no house here, so why—”

“I know, I know, I know…” Roland pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Look.” He opened it. “See this? My driver’s license. See? My home address”—he held the wallet out toward her—“West Olberg Road.” He jabbed a finger at the card. “This is the place.” He turned toward Mineral Butte. “My house was… right there.”

As Anna peered off toward the butte, a faint rustling came from somewhere to their right. They both turned, but then it stopped. It was too dark to see anything.

“So, you know the people that live there?” She pointed up the road, toward the Browns’ home.

“Yes.”

“And they know you?”

“Of course they know me.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe
they
can help.”

Minutes later, Anna pulled up to the garage door at the side of a sand-colored, adobe-style home. “I’ll wait here,” she said.

Roland pushed the truck door open and climbed out. As he approached the corner of the house, he peeked back toward the truck. Anna was watching him.

He rang the doorbell and waited until a hefty, dark-complexioned face appeared in the small, diamond-shaped window of the door: Howard Brown. His short-cropped, military-style haircut gave him an intimidating look. A light, directly above Roland’s head, came on, engulfing him like an escaping convict caught in the beam of a searchlight. The door opened. The expression on Howard’s face was not one of welcome.

“Hey… Sorry about the unannounced visit.” Roland shifted from foot to foot as he struggled to ignore the growing sense of disconnect he sensed between himself and his long-time acquaintance. “Listen”—he sighed—“something seriously weird has happened.”