The Weight of Gravity (9 page)

             
Stepping outside, he marveled at the contrast between the warm haze inside the club and the clear, cold night air.  He’d forgotten how extreme temperatures could be in the desert; blistering hot at midday, near freezing at midnight.  He was suddenly aware of extreme fatigue in his shoulders and legs.  He arched his back, straightening his posture to relieve the cramped muscles.  It was then that it dawned on him that finding a taxi in Cottonwood was as likely as finding barrel cactus growing wild in lower Manhattan. 
What was I thinking?
  “You’re not in New York anymore, Toto,” he whispered. 

He pulled his collar up and began walking.  At the end of the block, Max saw Erika and her friends.  They were gathered around several black SUVs.  He crossed to the opposite side of the street.  Max decided this wasn’t the place to walk back into Erika’s life.  As he passed, only a few yards away, he pulled his collar higher.

“So tell me?” Max heard one of the men in the group shout.  “What’s the difference between a Texas A&M cowboy and a New Mexico cowboy?”

“Hell!  Everyone knows that, Drew!” one of the women shouted, but Max was sure it wasn’t Erika’s voice.  “A Texas aggie wears the cow manure on the
inside
of his boots.”

             
Max could still hear their laughter when he turned the corner.

Chapter 10
-- Erika

              "Cow manure on the outside of his boots!  Shit, that's a good one, Brandon."

             
"Where to now, gang?  Hightower's for drinks?"

             
"Not a good idea, Mason," Erika told him.

             
"Ah, come on, Erika.  G.'s out of town, isn't he?"  It was Alana, and she'd already had too much to drink.

             
"Yes, but he's due back early tomorrow."

             
"He never minds us gathering at your place."

             
"That's not the point, Janet.  I don't have time to clean up before he gets home."

             
Her attitude had nothing to do with Garner.  It was how
she
felt.  Erika had no intention of taking the party home.  She also didn't plan to go anywhere else this evening.  They'd all gathered -- Brandon, his wife Alana, Mason, his wife Janet, Kathy, her mousy husband Drew, and Erika -- for dessert at the country club after dinner, and then dropped into
the Fox and Hound
.  She was ready to call it an evening.

             
"You know, Erika.  I haven't seen you drink all night.  What's up?  You're usually setting the pace for everyone else.  What happened to the party girl?" Alana asked, and then nearly fell off the curb.

             
"Long day, that's all," Erika said. 
This isn't me … at least it’s not going to be anymore.  How'd I get into this group?  When did I lose myself in this phony crowd?  I was never a happy party girl -- not really.  Just didn’t like being alone.

             
"Let's take the party to your place, Brandon."  Alana suggested.

             
"Sure.  It’s a bit farther out to drive, but no problem.  You in, Erika?"

             
"No thanks.  I'm heading home.  Be careful guys.  See you all tomorrow."

             
Turning her SUV onto Pennsylvania Avenue, Erika's headlights caught a well-dressed man walking along the road, arms folded across his chest and his collar raised against the chill.  She felt sorry for him, but wasn't about to pick up a stranger.  He was probably trying to walk off the few-too-many he'd had at the bar, she reasoned
.  Regardless, you're on your own, Cowboy.
  She accelerated past him.

             
She was proud of herself.  She’d only had two glasses of wine all evening, and that was when she grilled salmon on the patio bar-b-cue -- the one they never used. 
Okay, let's take score.  You finally closed the door on Darrell.  You outdid yourself at the gym.  You cooked a healthy dinner.  And you avoided drinking all night with friends.
  The party girl had turned a new corner and she felt exhilarated.  She drove with the windows down, letting the cool air toss her hair wildly over her face and shoulders. 

The lights along the street sparkled and bounced around the dark interior of her car, then melded into the flames of a dozen candles and a raging fireplace.

             
"What's this?"

             
Erika and Max arranged to use his father's cabin for a private celebration.  She was standing in the middle of the room -- dressed only in balloons.

             
"Your present.  Happy birthday, Max."

             
"I told you I didn't want a party," he said.

             
"Don't worry.  We're the only ones who'll be partying tonight."  She smiled and held out her hand.  "Here, this is the key to open your present."

             
Max took the long pin from her fingers.

             
"Careful, young man.  Your present is fragile and you don't want to damage it before you get it open and start playing."

Erika pulled the SUV into the garage and closed the door behind her. 
Damn it, Max Rosen.  I haven't seen or thought of you in ages, and now I can't get you out of my head.  It'd be a perfect day if you weren't haunting me.  If you're going to call, CALL, already!  Let's get it over with, so I can go on with my life.

“
Bye, bye love.  Bye, bye sweet caress.  Hello emptiness.  I think I’m a gonna cry.  Bye, bye, my love, goodbye.”

Max heard the truck radio as it approached.  The roadway was desolate and dark. 
He could barely see five feet in any direction, often stumbling in the rock and gravel that edged the highway.  His shadow stretched to grotesque proportions as the headlights hit him from behind.

             
“Need a ride?”              a voice asked, as the truck rolled up.

Max turned toward the open window and saw a thirty-something woman in a plaid shirt and cloth cap.

“Sorry?” he asked.  He’d heard her question, but wasn’t sure how to respond.

“A ride.  Would you like a ride?  You’re a long way from home,” she said.

“You have no idea,” Max told her, then walked up to the window.  “How do you know where I live?”

             
“I don’t.  But you’re a good two miles outside city limits, and you’re walking away from Cottonwood.  So, I figure you live somewhere out here in the desert, or you’re taking your time getting to Tularosa, twelve miles further down the highway.  Ride or not.  Doesn’t matter to me.”

             
“Ride!  Thanks.”  Max felt silly and exposed when he walked in front of the headlights and was blinded before he found his way into the truck. “You’re not afraid that I might be a psycho killer?” he asked, then closed the door.

             
“Do you always underestimate women you meet?  Besides, I think I can take a citified dude like you.”

Max thought she smiled, but it might have been a smirk.  He wasn’t sure if she was joking, or if he’d insulted her.  “How do you know I live in the city?” he asked.  “My name’s Max.”

The pale amber light from the dashboard, the dials and radio, was enough for Max to see her face.  Tendrils of honey blond hair framed her sculpted cheeks, delicate nose and chin.  She was probably younger than he was, but not by much.  She was also very attractive.  Her clothes were practical, jeans and work shirt.  He was fairly certain she wasn’t coming from the bar.

             
“I’m Melody ... Mel,” she said, turning the truck back onto the highway.  “Nobody wears clothes like that around here.  You live in a metro, for sure.  A bit of advice, lose the puka shells.  You’re a long way from the ocean and your Fioravanti slacks make you stick out enough around here.”  There was that half smile again, he thought.

             
“Her name was like a melody,” Max whispered.  “I think I hear a..."

             
“Old jokes, Max.  Careful, or I’ll put you back on the highway."

             
He couldn’t stifle a laugh.  It had to be fatigue that made the remark so funny, he thought.  “Please don’t.  I was getting tired and cold out there.”

             
“So, where we going?” she asked.

             
“Access highway, pass the tracks, half mile back to Danley Ranch Road.”

             
“Sounds like the Rosen spread,” Mel said.

             
“Yeah, you got it.  You know this place pretty well.”

             
“Born and raised.”

             
“I think that’s sad,” Max whispered.

             
“Not really.  What’s sad is that you’re bitter enough about something to make you hate it.  And arrogant enough to think I care about what you think, and with enough gall to share your negative opinion with a local who’s doing you a favor.”

             
Damn, nothing wrong with her hearing, or intellect, or familiarity with expensive men’s clothing.
  “I don’t hate it.”

             
“Do you honestly know how you feel about it, Max?”

             
Max was surprised by her candor.  Her attitude of familiarity was disarming.  He watched her take a mountain-sized fountain drink from the cup holder in the center console and put the straw between her lips.  She drank for several seconds, and then returned the cup to its holder.  Mel smiled at him –
or was it another smirk?
  She was more attractive than Max first noticed, when he was standing on the side of the roadway.  Even in an slightly oversized shirt and worn jeans, Max could see enough of her to know she was ... well, nice.

             
They turned onto the gravel road, two miles from the ranch.  “Nice ride, for a pickup truck,” Max told her. 

             
“Better be.  I paid an arm and a leg for this monster.”

             
How could a writer suddenly be at a loss for anything better to say than
“Nice ride for a pickup truck?”  And why was he interested in extended conversation with her, anyway?  Mel was a local, “born and raised,” she’d said.  It wasn’t an attribute Max found easy to like, and yet, he wanted to know more about her.  She was old enough that they must have lived in Cottonwood at the same time.  Granted, she might have been six years old when he left.

             
“Next driveway,” he instructed. 

“I know.  I’ve been here before, long time ago.”

              “Me, too,” he said, but Mel wasn’t challenged to question his humor.

             
Tiny squares of yellow light – windows -- guided them the final hundred yards.  Mel slid to an abrupt stop in the gravel driveway close to the house, dimmed the lights, and waited for Max to get out.  For a moment, he watched the dust catch up with them and swirl past in the headlights.

             
“Thanks.”  Max grabbed the door handle.

             
“No problem, Mr. Rosen.”

             
“How do you know who I am?”

             
“First, this is the Rosen ranch.  Second, and more importantly, you look like Nathan.”

             
“You knew my father?”

             
“Very well.  Our company rented his porta-johns for decades.”

             
“You’re married?”

             
“I didn’t say that, Max.  There you go insinuating things again.  Is that what writers do for a living, make educated guesses about strangers they meet?”

             
“Sometimes.  I was just wondering.”

             
“Does it matter, Max?”

             
Damn, she’s right!  Why should I care whether or not Mel is married?
He was asking personal questions of a total stranger and didn’t know why he cared.  And worse, she was calling him on it.  It was pissing him off. 

             
“No, I guess not,” he said.

             
“Well, there you go.”