The Weight of Gravity (15 page)

             
Tears clouded her vision. 
Damn it!  Damn it!
  Soon it was hard to drive.  She pulled into a bank parking lot just north of Tenth Street when she began to shake uncontrollably.  Something inside her opened a floodgate and Erika wasn’t sure she’d ever stop crying.  An eternity passed before she was able to bring her emotions under control. 

Before she
pulled back into traffic a joyful memory with a special boy only made her even sadder.

             
“Max, that’s wonderful!  I’m so proud of you.”  She stuffed her sweater into the locker.

             
Max was breathless as he spoke.  “Not just
any
magazine either, E.  Eight pages in the
Atlantic Weekly,
that’s what it is.  Okay, it was a new writers’ contest, but it’s still the
Atlantic Weekly. 
Just wait, you’ll see.  Next it’ll be the
New Yorker
.”

             
“What will your father say?”

             
“Who cares?  He’s never shown any interest in my writing.  This is for you, E.  The next short story will be dedicated to Erika Morgan.  It’ll say in the credits, ‘Inspired by …’ he wrote the words in the air with his finger, “… and then have your name.”

             
Erika closed her locker, hugged her books to her chest and stared at her shoes.  “Will I lose you now that you’re becoming a famous writer, Max?”

             
He was speechless at first, not having even imagined such an idea.  “Of course not.  How could you think that?  But I’m going to lose myself … from this crappy little town.  First substantial royalty check and we’re outta here!”

             
Erika turned away from him and leaned against the lockers.

             
“What?  What did I say?”

             
Her words were a whisper.  “Max, I can’t leave Cottonwood.”

             
He stepped in front of her.  “Why?  I thought this is what we always planned … dreamed about.”

             
“My father is not well enough to travel.”

             
“I’m not asking your father to go with us, anymore than I’d ask mine.”

             
“Max, my father was there … raising me, alone … when my mother left.  Now, he’s not well.  I have to take care of him.”

             
“We’ll hire a full time nurse with the proceeds from my first big novel.”

             
“I’m not hiring a nurse to look after my father.”

             
Max stomped a few feet away, then turned to face her.  “And what happened to your plans to play piano for the great orchestras of the world?  Tell me that!”

             
“Please don’t be angry.”  She walked up to him and grabbed his coat lapel.  “I’m not like you … I wouldn’t make it out there.  I can’t leave my father.  Not as long as he needs me.  I couldn’t do that to him.  Not after all he’s done for me.”

             
“So, you’d never leave Cottonwood … even if your old man croaked.”

             
“Max, that’s cruel.  I can’t think about that.  I don’t really know what I want to do, where I want to raise our family someday.”

             
“What family?”  Max walked away, taking the first steps toward the end of their relationship.  It was Spring and they would both graduate in another three months.              

              When she pulled out of the parking lot, headed for the cleaners, her eyes were swollen, her complexion blotchy.  What did Darrell mean she’d
regret it
?  And why’d she say
Max
when she meant to say
Garner
?  Did it mean anything?  “Damn it all, Max Rosen.  Why in hell did you come to Cottonwood?  My life was shitty enough without you walking back into it!”

“Their crime is compounded by the fact that when they steal the land they rape it by destroying some of the most beautiful, centuries-old haciendas.  It’s been going on for several years, Max.  They slipped up on us.  Locals didn’t see it coming until they already had the state legislature and Cottonwood legal-eagles on their side.”

They were sitting on the sun porch sharing lunch. 
Max told her that he’d enjoyed a large breakfast, but Doris threw together tuna sandwiches anyway.  He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he ate tuna.  He’d often looked at the large bowls of it through the glass in the serving counter at his favorite deli, but it never crossed his mind to try it, preferring instead to have the pastrami or corned beef.  Doris’ tuna included celery bits in the mayo, a dash of hot sauce, relish and lemon pepper.  She put fresh slices of tomato and romaine lettuce in the sandwich.  There was homemade mustard and onion potato salad, too.  He ate everything she put on his plate, and it was delicious, and he was certain it wouldn’t be as good back in the City.

He
wiped his mouth with the paper napkin, picked up his beer and rocked back in his seat.  “Why are they doing this, Doris?”

“You’re kidding, right?  It’s g
reed, boy.  Garner and his cronies are getting filthy rich. 

Imagine how much the corporate clowns are making.  It’s slow going, but the income potential for them is almost limitless.”

“And we can’t stop it?”

“Max, if the corporations pulled out, others would take their place.  People will keep coming, regardless of who builds the communiti
es.  It’s not just Cottonwood, son.  This is happening in Santa Fe and Galisteo and Portales.  Moving to the Southwest is very trendy, particularly to the neuvo-rich and Midwesterners.”

He rose and walked to the large windows facing the open desert. 
There were dark clouds forming in the Sacramento Mountains twenty plus miles to the east.  He remembered when he and his father would be putting in a long day around the ranch and Pop would look up into the mountains, see the same dark clouds, and declare that the rains would hit the ground before dark.  He was never wrong.  “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you selling out?”

“Don’t plan to.”

“Then why were Garner and his goons here?”

“They already have the Martinez spread to the west, and the Godoy property to the east.”

“What about north and south?”

“South is the military range.  They can’t touch that … not yet, anyway.  To the north is the highway.  Your daddy never bought on the other side.”

He turned to face her.  “Are you having problems with taxes, Doris?”

“Not yet.”

Max sat, then reached across the table and took her hand.  “And you never will.  Not as long as you keep feeding me these great meals.”  He winked.  “Thanks for the clothes, too.”  He was wearing tan cargo pants, a blue denim work shirt and a new pair of Dickie leather boots that she’d bought for him at Bealls Millinery in the middle of town.  “I left some cash on your dresser.”

“You didn’t have to do that, Max.”

“Yes, I did.  Pop would have tanned my butt cheeks if I let you buy me a lot of fancy clothes.”

T
hey heard Mel’s truck horn outside.  Doris seemed giddy about Max going with Mel to Winberg Wells.  He watched as she bagged chicken leftovers from dinner the night before.  She also wrapped apple and orange slices, and two pieces of cherry pie, then packed ice around four sodas in a mini-cooler.

             
“I already ate, remember, twice?  And it’s barely past noon.”

             
“Maybe she hasn’t.  Get going.  And behave yourself.”

Max gave her a “give-me-a-break” look before grabbing the lunch box and walking out the door.  He put the box in the bed of Mel’s truck.

“Nice clothes,” she said when he climbed into the cab.  “Much more functional around here then what you rode into town with.”  She smiled.  “Never know when you’re going to step in it around here.”  She turned the truck down the long drive.  “You and Doris talk?”

“Yes.”

              “Feeling better after hurling your insides on the railroad tracks last night?”

             
“Lots better,” he said.

             
“Do you remember Winberg Wells?”

             
“Yes, but it’s been an eternity since I’ve been there.  I went there often when I was in high school.”

             
“Well, it ain’t a whole lot different.”

             
They drove for nearly an hour; past Medoff Farms with their endless fields of chili and cotton, down along the Tulie River where her older brother used to fish on sweltering summer days.  In a forty acre clearing on the far side of Pecos Bridge Max saw two
KC
trucks parked beneath a stand of ancient aspen.  A crew of three congregated in the middle of the field around their surveying tripods.  Mel drove the truck to within a few feet of the men. 

“How’s it going, Brian?”

              “Not bad, Ms. K.  We got most of the place mapped out.  Should finish by today.  We’ll plug the numbers into the computer in the morning and be good to go on submitting the whole thing to the county by next week.”

             
“Good.  Appreciate you guys doing a rush job on this one.  We’re headed over to the Wells, but we’ll come by again before heading back to town.  Let me know if you can’t finish the job today, will ya?”

             
“You got it, Ms. K.”

             
Max saw the men in the side mirror staring as the truck pulled away. 
Yeah, she’s with me, fellas,
he thought.
  We’re gonna have a little lunch together, the boss lady and me.

Mel accelerated across the field and onto a road hidden among the trees.  He thought at first that she was going to drive into the brush, but she obvio
usly knew where she was going. Ten minutes later, the trees opened onto a meadow, generously blanketed in wildflowers—buttercups and poppies.  At the far end of the field were a windmill and a thousand-gallon cow tank.  Mel drove to where the earth was beaten down by hoofs and dotted with manure chips.  

             
“Come on,” she instructed, stepping down from the truck.  “Let’s walk back in a ways to the springs.”

             
Max knew where she was going.  He’d been here before, many times -- many years ago.  He followed as Mel stepped over a downtrodden barbed wire fence beneath a clutter of trees, forty yards beyond the cow tank.  Another fifty feet and they came upon the true
wells
of Winberg Wells.  Max recalled local lore that sometime in the thirties, Cletus Winberg, a renowned hermit, built several concrete troughs into which the natural waters from the springs flowed.  The wire was meant to fence out the cows, but for generations local kids had been sneaking onto Cletus’ property to skinny dip in the pure, clear waters of the pools.

             
Max placed the lunch box on a stump and sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree.  Ankle-deep wild grass blanketed the ground around his feet.  He placed the food on paper plates in a row along the log.  When he looked up, Mel had disappeared.

             
“Hey, I have a snack here,” he called, his voice echoing against the towering trees. Waves of shadow danced around him as sunlight squeezed a path between the branches.  It was quiet and incredibly peaceful, and reminded him of the solitude he enjoyed in the archival catacombs of the New York Public Library.

             
“What’re we having, Max?” Mel came walking out from behind a broad tree trunk, buttoning her jeans as she approached.  “Sorry, had to pee.”

             
“No problem.” 
She’s crude, but sexy.
  Max had never met anyone like Mel.  She was refreshingly honest and uninhibited.  All of his female acquaintances in the City were stuffy and pretentious to some degree.  He couldn’t imagine any of them racing behind a giant Northern Red Oak in Central Park and relieving themselves.  Yes, Mel was a different breed, fresh and rich with genuine personality, beauty and brains.  “There’s cold chicken, fruit and soda.  I hope it’s enough.”

             
“Much to grandma’s dismay I don’t care for large meals.  This is perfect.” Mel sat on the opposite end of the line of paper plates.  He watched her nibble on a piece of chicken before throwing half of it into the brush.  She ate more fruit than anything else and was on her second can of soda before he’d finished his chicken.

             
“There’s a piece of cherry pie in the box.”