Biting the Moon (6 page)

Less than an hour later, she saw way across the road what looked like a gas station and possibly a store, judging from the cars parked there. She repositioned the backpack and bedroll, felt the weight of the gun to be heavier, and headed west.

It was a filling station and a fairly large store: groceries, a deli counter, odds and ends of household goods, and even some T-shirts and baseball caps. Liquor, too. She closed her eyes for a moment, just to let the comfort of the cool, dark interior wash over her.

She plucked a blue cap from the stack on the shelf. It was made of stiff material with mesh on the sides and an elastic at the back. She tried it on and snapped the bill. It was a little big, but it would still do the job. She liked the bright blue. On the front of the cap above the bill was a red rooster, and she wondered what that meant.

After this, she went to the deli counter and ordered a sandwich of lunch meat and cheese and another of ham. The first was a submarine, and she could see it would be enough for two meals. She asked the fellow who made it to cut it in thirds. He smiled and did this and handed her the package, the paper already damp with oil. From the cooler she took a six-pack of orange juice cartons and from the freezer a can of frozen lemonade. Then she went back to the cooler for a pint of milk. She could wedge these items into the bedroll, and the frozen lemonade would keep the rest cool, at least for a while. She considered the packs of Coke but knew she couldn't take anything so weighty. She got one can from the cold drink dispenser.

The store had obligingly set out three tables with chairs, and she set down her purchases and then herself. It felt so good, the chair. It was a simple wooden straight-backed and straight-seated chair, but it seemed to fit her body better than any chair ever had.

The chair faced the deli, so that she could see the fellow who worked there making sandwiches. She had watched him doing hers, carefully constructing the layers and judging just how much lettuce and cutting the tomato so that she wouldn't get the whole slice in one bite. On his hands he wore clear plastic gloves, but she could see the hands were graceful, like an artist's or a surgeon's. Her eyes had riveted on the fingers making the sandwich, not (she realized now) because she was hungry but because she wanted to keep her eyes off his face. He
was just too handsome. She felt that strongly. He was
too
handsome. She did not know for what. Probably too handsome for a girl to see once and then never again.

Welling up in her, she felt a longing so overwhelming, so severely constricting, that her throat closed in the middle of swallowing and she thought she'd choke. Then it eased up and she could go on eating the sandwich—except her appetite was gone. Closing her eyes, she thought,
This is the way it's going to be from now on.
There would be nothing to stand between herself and her feelings; self-deception would be difficult because there wasn't much of her left to deceive.

But again, this might be a good thing. It didn't have to bother her, the craziness of falling in love with the sandwich maker. She would not have to explain it to her friends or defend it. She looked over at the counter where he was helping another customer, smiling. Yes, he was too handsome for her, for a girl who would never see him again. For a girl who was going to the mountains. He was part of a world she'd be leaving behind, and she felt a terrible stab of regret. She sat for a few moments looking at nothing and then gathered up her packages.

She took the things to where a woman with heavy black hair was ringing up purchases for the other customer on an old metal cash register. The woman turned to her and said, “That'll be it?” When she nodded, the woman pulled a used bag from a jumble of used bags—they really conserved things here—but then decided she didn't want that one and yanked out another. Then she said, with a little incline of her dark head toward the backpack, “Looks like you got your life on your back, there,
caro
.”

Her face was wide and flat and friendly, and she probably owned the place, or was perhaps the manager, for there was that extra little bit of authority in her words and movements. She watched the woman pack up her sandwiches and drinks into this new bag, a smaller glossy-white one decorated with zigzags of turquoise and a huge yellow smiley face. “Yes, it's a lot of stuff to carry,” she said, looking at the smiley face, smiling herself.

“Where you bound for?”

“Just sightseeing. You know, camping, hiking, mostly,” she said smoothly, as she held up the guidebook by way of proof that she was a
genuine tourist. The woman nodded and took the money. “I thought I'd see the Sandias.”

“That's miles and miles.” The owner frowned, shook her head.

“Yes, of course, you need a car. They're picking me up out front.” She said this so smoothly and with such authority the woman didn't question who “they” might be. “They told me to try and get information. You know, maps and stuff.” Again she held up the book. “But this doesn't tell much. You wouldn't know the best way up into the mountains, would you?”

“Sandias? Well, there's that tram you can take that goes up to Sandia Peak, but”—she frowned—“I dunno if it's open. Hey, Andy!” she called. “Andrew! Hey!”

The owner was calling over to the deli counter. He called back, “What?”

“You know if that tram's running?” The woman was motioning with her arm, waving him over to the cash register. And then he was there. Andy. She kept her head bent, pretending to be looking through the guidebook.

“No, I don't think so, but there's the ski lift.”

He was standing so close to her, she could feel his breath. It was warm and soft.

“Are you going up there to ski?”

She dragged her hair back from her face, for she felt she might be hiding behind it. Because she was determined to see and feel things as they were, she forced herself to look at him. “Yes.”

He smiled. He
beamed.
“Lucky you. I hardly ever get to.”

She knew she was blushing furiously and tried to counteract that with what she hoped was a casual tone. And a shrug. “Me either. I'm not very good.”

He kept looking at her in that clear and direct way as if he had never spent a self-conscious moment in his life. The eyes that she had thought were simply gray had shards, splinters of green and gold in the iris.

“But there is a trail?”

“Oh, yes, plenty of trails. You going to do some hiking? It's dead winter.”

“Yes, I know. We'll see, I guess, when we get there.”

“It's really popular with hikers. You know the trails? No, stupid of me”—and he actually blushed, which made her feel her own blushes were less noticeable—“you've never been there before. The most popular trail's La Luz, if you're trying to get up to Sandia Crest.” He thought a bit. “South Crest Trail is good. The trailhead's in Canyon Estates; that's a sort of residential district.”

“Trailhead? You mean the beginning of it? How do you get there?”

Andrew inclined his head backward a little, squinting up at the ceiling as if he could pick out the starry trails through it. “You'd have to take the Tijeras exit off I-Forty—you're driving, aren't you?”

“My family's picking me up.” She had never known she could be so glib.

He nodded, frowning slightly, looking down at her shoes. “Those look pretty sturdy, all right, good ankle support. You should see the people trying to do it in Reeboks. Even sandals, I've seen them wear.”

They laughed and so did the owner, before she turned her attention to another customer, a woman with a little baby.

“What kind of maps have you got?”

She shrugged, reached into her backpack that was hanging by one strap from her shoulder. “Just these.” She handed him the maps.

He studied them, shook his head. “You need a topo of the mountains. Wait a minute.”

The woman with the baby had walked out, and she took the opportunity of not being overheard to say to the owner, “He's really kind, isn't he?”

“Andrew? A real nice kid, nicest I've ever hired. I own the place, and it's hard to get kids to come out this far.”

“Does he work here all year round?”

“No, because he goes to school. Up at St. John's, you know it? He's smart.” Here she tapped her head, nodded. “He works in his time off.”

“Is he—” But she cut off her question because he was coming back toward her, with a map half outspread.

“This is what you need, a topographical map that shows you all this stuff. See, here's La Luz Trail and here's the Faulty Trail, which might
be the best one for you; it starts right at Canyon Estates—or behind them, I mean. You can get off it after a while and take one of the lesser trails to Sandia Peak. One of the peaks. There's two of them, North and South. Some of the springs along the Faulty are marked. The shelters, other stuff. If you take the tram, of course, that's a different direction and you'd want to drive along Tramway Road. Have you got a poncho and stuff?” He looked worried. “I hope you're not thinking of going all the way up, not in winter; weather's always chancy, but especially in winter.”

Andi was touched to the point of tears by his concern for her preparedness. She did not have a poncho or any rain gear, but she didn't tell him that. “I think I've got everything I'll need.”

He was still frowning. “There aren't any campsites in the Sandias, you know. It's a wildlife refuge.”

She nodded. “We're not going to be gone long. But, look, I can't take your map away—”

“Sure you can. You can always bring it back when you come this way again.” There was that smile again, that beaming smile.

She wanted to return the smile, but the corners of her mouth tugged downward, and all of her effort was going into holding back tears. She had to look down, fumble the maps into the backpack. Reluctantly, now, she turned to the counter for her groceries in the smiley-face bag.

“You want me to help you?” He reached for the bag.

But she dragged it off the counter before he could take it. “Thanks, but I've only got a little way to go.”

“Her life on her back, I told her,” said the owner, seemingly pleased with the phrase.

“I guess,” she said. She turned to go, having no excuse now not to.

“Was that sandwich I made okay?” he asked.

She looked at him and surprised herself by saying, “You should own a place called Sandwich Heaven.” She looked away. “Good-bye.”

Then she was out the door and across the wide dirt area where the pumps stood before she let out her breath. Their drivers were pumping gas into a couple of pickup trucks. She swept a glance toward the two men, both of whom were looking her way. One smiled; one nodded and
kind of raised a finger to the brim of his big-brimmed hat. One looked to be probably in his thirties; one was old. The one in the hat, the old one, looked like an Indian with the black braid down his back, the brown and solid face. The younger one had very dark hair and was almost as handsome as Andrew inside. He was leaning against the side of his truck, whose bed was empty, letting the pump do the fill-up for him. The Indian was bending over his pump, eyes squinting to see the amount registering.

She took in all this at a glance as she passed by them, both trucks headed in opposite directions, both with New Mexico plates. She smiled vaguely in her turn.

Then she started down the highway, forgetting that the highway, even this lesser one, might be dangerous. The road was empty and she crossed it, crying. This, she had to remind herself, was the way it would be.

For solace, she tried to keep her eyes on the mountains, dark blue and gray and violet like a Japanese print in the distance. As she walked, she wiped away tears.

She'd been walking for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes when a pickup truck slowed down to a crawl and the driver asked her if she'd like a lift.

Earlier, she wouldn't have. But now, though, she was horribly tired, on top of being depressed. “Thanks,” she said, and when he reached over and opened the passenger door she saw it was the man from back at the store: the younger one, the good-looking one. His eyes—he had been too far off before to tell this—were incredibly blue.

“What should I do with these? Put them in back there?” She'd removed the bedroll and was shrugging out of the backpack. Seeing he was going to get out, she said, “No, it's okay, I can do it.” Carefully, she stacked the gear in the truck bed, together with the smiley-face bag. Inside, with the door closed, she thanked him again and he smiled. God, but wasn't she seeing her share of handsome men today?

“Where you headed?”

She was tired of the question but nodded toward the distance. “Up there.”

He squinted through the windshield. “The mountains, you mean?”

“That's right. Sandias. Sandia Peak.” She was beginning to feel knowledgeable about her little part of the Southwest. “To ski.” Looking at him to see if he was going to question this and seeing he wasn't—he just smiled again—she relaxed.

“I like to ski,” he said. “Don't get much of a chance. Ever been to Telluride? Great skiing.” When she shook her head no, he went on. “Beautiful place. Me, I'm headed for Albuquerque, Silver City.”

Out of his washed-blue shirt he drew a pack of cigarettes, Merits, and offered her one. Andi was tempted—she'd never smoked, as far as she knew; if she'd been a smoker, she'd have been hankering after a cigarette. Now, because she was nervous and sad (which must be reasons for people smoking), she said, “Thanks.”

He lit it with a slim gold lighter, then lit his own. Holding the cigarette awkwardly, carefully, she inhaled. Not much, just a little, but still. . . . She coughed and coughed, the acrid taste, the burning in her throat and nose pulling her head toward her lap.