Graphic the Valley (22 page)

• • •

“Here’s part of that story for you,” he says. “They buried the treasure in the lake.”

I say, “The lake?”

“Yes,” he says. “In a basket thatch. They lowered it down with ropes.”

“You mean the river?” I say.

“No.” He looks at me. “Why?”

“Because you said it was in the river when I was younger.”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t say the river. You have to listen better than that.”

“I did listen. You said the treasure was in the river. You said that they buried it in the bank on the side of the river.”

“No, no,” he says, “the treasure was always in the lake.”

• • •

I went back to the Ahwahnee bar.

Cheeseburgers, French fries, and four pints of reddish beer were already on the table. Two pints next to each plate.

McKenzie pointed to the cheeseburger she’d ordered for me. “I hope that’s okay. You were taking so long that I went ahead. And they cook things right away here.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “I was looking around.”

She said, “I thought you might’ve snuck out. Stood me up.”

“No, no. Thank you for the food.”

The smudge was gone from her forehead. She took a bite of her cheeseburger and looked at me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. I took a sip of the nearest pint. Strong and cold and bitter.

McKenzie chewed with her mouth slightly open. Wiped her lips with her napkin.

I took a bigger drink and picked up my cheeseburger. I was hungry and the cheeseburger was fresh and hot, with crisp lettuce and tomatoes underneath the bun. The cheese dripped out onto my finger and I slurped it off.

I hadn’t had good food or a cold beer in a long, long time.

“I hope you like it,” McKenzie said, and took a big bite of her burger.

I took a bite and said, “This is so good.”

We ate, both hands on our burgers, not talking. The food was greasy and the beer was cold, and I forgot about the Great Room and the native photographs on the wall. With each gulp of beer, my father drifted.

I said, “Thank you again. This is too good.” I took a few French fries and dipped them in ketchup.

“You’re welcome,” McKenzie said. “It’s the least I could do. Thanks for the climbing lesson today.”

She pushed the last bite of her hamburger into her mouth. It barely fit and she chewed slowly. She smiled and her cheeks bulged.

I started my second pint of beer. The beer was rushing my brain.

McKenzie said, “Are you going to leave those fries?” She reached for them.

“Go for it,” I said. “I like people who enjoy eating.”

She took a few of my fries, and I dumped ketchup on the remaining pile. Mustard after.

McKenzie said, “Climbing was just so fun.”

“Good,” I said. “I’m glad you liked it.”

We were finishing our food. Drinking our second beers in gulps now. McKenzie flicked two fingers and a waiter brought us each another beer.

I said, “Maybe I should get going.”

“Really? Why?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe let you get back to your own stuff.”

She said, “This is ‘my stuff’ right now. This is it.” She pointed at the table.

I took another drink, finished my second beer.

She said, “Where are you staying right now?”

I said, “I’m camping near here.”

I was a little buzzed. Drinking strong beer fast. I’d started my third.

She said, “Why don’t you come up to my room and hang out.” Her foot touched my ankle underneath the table. She said, “If you don’t have anything else to do right now.”

I picked up my last few French fries and ate them. “Okay,” I said, “we could do that.”

I was sitting on the end of the bed in her room. McKenzie pulled new bottles of beer out of the mini-fridge by the television. She handed me one and I took a sip.

She said, “I need to use the bathroom for a moment. Be right out.” She closed the door and I heard the sink running.

I looked around her room. She had one suitcase and a small bag. Everything put away. The bed made. The room smelled like store cleaner and soap bins.

When she came out of the bathroom, her hair was down, wavy and thick brown, just below her shoulders, the ends at the top of her tank top. She sat next to me, her elbow touching mine. She said, “I’ve never taken a climbing lesson before.”

“Yeah?” I said. “Well, you couldn’t tell.”

“Thanks,” she said.

I said, “It’s true. I’ve never seen a beginner climb better.”

She tapped the top of her beer against mine. “Cheers, then.”

“Cheers.” I swigged my beer and wagged my index finger back and forth. “And I’ve never been in a room at the Ahwahnee.”

“Really?” she said. “Cheers to firsts then.”

“Yep.” I was feeling good and buzzed now. On my fourth beer.

We both drank.

She said, “So that means you’ve never ended up on an Ahwahnee bed with a woman before?”

I looked at her.

She smiled.

I said, “Not even close.”

She leaned over and kissed my neck, her lips staying on the skin for a moment as if she was drinking there too.

I turned and kissed her. She tasted like toothpaste and beer.

We kissed for a minute on the end of the bed, still holding our drinks. Then she took my beer out of my hand and set both of our bottles down on the table. She stood and leaned over me. I was sitting, and we kissed harder now, McKenzie pressing down into me. I put my hands on her hips, feeling the skin just above her waistband with my thumbs. Her hipbones. I ran my hands along the tops of her legs, felt her long, thin muscles flexing against my hands.

She said, “You smell like pine needles and dirt.” She laughed. “I like that.”

I pulled her into me. We kissed harder. Her tongue. Her breath faster.

She pushed me down onto the bed. Kneeling above me.

I was hard underneath her, on the bed, and she pressed down. Pressed and moved.

I ran my hands up her tank top. She stopped kissing me and peeled off that shirt, showing a crisscrossed white bra.

I put my hands there, on her high breasts. And we were kissing again.

• • •

When I awoke, she was turned away from me. Late evening, light coming through the window. I looked at the straight line of her spine and the curve of her hip. The covers had slipped down to the bottom of her back. It was warm in the room and she didn’t move in her sleep. I wanted to be inside her again, but I didn’t want to wake her.

My head felt like tree pollen. Floating. I knew I should leave. I considered waking her and saying goodbye but I didn’t know what she would say. What I would say.

I slid out of bed and put on my clothes. Tried not to make any noise.

She’d left $200 on the nightstand, and a paper note that said my name. I stared at the money. Then I looked at her sleeping. I didn’t take the money.

I wrote on the bottom of her note: Thanks for lunch.

The door clicked as I closed it, so I jogged to the stairs and down the bottom hallway. I walked through the boulders behind the hotel, toward the caves. I saw no one near the trail. No one at the caves either, camp quiet. I’d stashed the borrowed climbing gear in the bear box at the parking lot and I went back to get it. I returned the gear to the group bins, then went to my cave.

I lay down on my sleeping bag and tried to read. But I stayed on the same page, staring off as it got dark.

The seventh year. Plenty and famine. Seven a holy number. The cycle
.

The rule of the seventh year: the acorns will not fall heavy and berries fruit a short season. Animals wander in search of food. Bears eat thin meat in the fall, not fattening before hibernation
.

The people ration stores. Count the days to a new season. Mark the door pole
.

At the end of the seventh year, there is a year of plenty. You must look for this. Berries on the ground in piles like ready jam, fermenting before they can be eaten. Acorns scattered at light green, the squirrels heavy-bellied. The fish in the river come fat in spring as if mayflies hatched through the winter
.

Your people store in preparation for long snows, years when the white drifts crest the banks of the Merced in April, when creeks run off to drown
.

Wovoka knows all of this. He whispers truths in his dreams, men bending their ears to his lips. And Nevada, 1889. Wovoka speaks in the mountains on New Year’s Day, during a full eclipse of the sun. He says, “When the sun died, I went up to heaven and saw God.”

I held my thumb up for an hour as I walked down the Merced toward El Portal. I was near the 120 Junction when an old car pulled over in front of me. The driver leaned across and popped the passenger-side door open. He said, “Get in, man. Get in.” He had a blunt between his front teeth.

“Thanks,” I said. I sat down and closed the door. The car filled with smoke.

“Where are we going?” he said.

“Merced. But any ride in that direction’s great.”

“Cool, cool. I’ll see what I can do. This old baby’s been dying all afternoon though.” He patted the dash, then he puffed on his blunt. He said, “Something wrong with her alternator.”

We didn’t make it to the park boundary. We made it a mile, maybe. The dash lights turned on and the man jerked the car onto the gravel shoulder. He said, “Got to get her off the road quick ’cause that power steering holds her straight like a motherfucker.”

We got out of the car and the man popped the hood. “Maybe we can get another jump,” he said. “What did you need to do in Merced?”

I said, “See somebody in the hospital there.”

“Oh, damn. That’s not good. Sorry about this car, man. She really is a piece of shit.” He puffed on his blunt and waved his arms at a passing car. It didn’t slow down.

We waved at cars for half an hour until someone stopped to give us a jump. Then we drove another mile before the car died again. This time, it got dark without anyone pulling over to jump the vehicle. The man said, “Want some of this splif?” He’d started a new one, his second.

“No thanks,” I said. I sat next to him on the embankment while he smoked.

“Yeah, sorry about my car, man. She really doesn’t care about what a man needs, you know?”

“Right,” I said. I stood up and stretched. “I think I’m going to walk.”

“A hundred miles to Merced?” The man laughed.

“No,” I said. “I’ll walk back to the Valley.”

The man held in a deep breath, then exhaled smoke. “That makes more sense,” he said. “Hell of a lot more sense.”

I was reading about the debate in the
Chronicle
. Protesters in the city, on Market Street in San Francisco, as a symbolic gesture. I wondered that there weren’t any protesters demonstrating here in the Valley.

The insects scrabbled, and the cars shuffled like pinacate beetles through the lot, edging forward into parking spaces. Putting their back hatches up. Easing their scents.

I was standing at the T of the North Loop and Ahwahnee Drive, watching hundreds of cars pass by. The infestation growing toward July 4th.

• • •

I hadn’t seen McKenzie for a week when I ran into her at the ranger booth in Camp 4. Late morning.

She hugged me. Said, “Hi, Tenaya.”

I felt her body against me. Remembered the swell of her breasts, her nipples in my mouth. The smell of coconut lotion on her shoulder blades.

She said, “How are you?”

“Good,” I said. I wanted to taste her. Put my hand on her throat. I crossed my arms.

She said, “Thanks for leaving a note. And you forgot to keep your money.”

“We agreed to climb for fun,” I said, “remember? But I’m sorry I had to leave so quickly.”

“No, really, it’s fine.” She touched my forearm. “Although I was pretty sure I’d have to buy another climbing lesson just to see you again.”

“Yeah, well, you wouldn’t need to.”

She said, “I’m kidding. You didn’t even take the money the first time.” She laughed.

I said, “What are you doing in Camp 4?”

She pointed to the booth behind me. “I was just leaving a note for you on the message board.” She read it aloud to me. “A girl named McKenzie seeks a climbing instructor. He must be roughly six-feet-two inches tall with wide shoulders, dirty hands, long black hair, a scar next to his eye, smelling like pine needles, and preferably named Tenaya. If interested, call this number.” She handed the note to me.

I said, “You want another climbing lesson?”

“Absolutely,” she said.

“Okay. But we’ll just climb again for fun. No lesson this time either.”

“Unless you need the money,” she said, and pointed at my T-shirt. It was dirty and had one sleeve torn off.

“No,” I said, “I think I’m good.”

• • •

We bouldered in Swan Slabs for three hours. I showed her my favorite moderate problems on the Bridwell Boulder and the short cracks, and she climbed well. I didn’t teach her many techniques because I could tell she liked to figure things out for herself.

In the late afternoon, she said, “Want to get some food?”

I shook my head.

She said, “Let me just buy us a little food. Please. It’s a lot cheaper than a $200 climbing lesson.”

“No,” I said. “I’m fine. You don’t have to buy food.”

She was tying the laces of her climbing shoes together. “Look,” she said. “I’m going to buy extra food, and I’d like you to hang out with me while that extra food is just lying around.” She squinted and wrinkled her nose. Waited.

“Okay,” I said, and we walked back to the parking lot.

McKenzie said, “I know climbers don’t eat at the Ahwahnee Hotel. So where do they get their food?”

I didn’t want to explain scrounging at Curry, how dirtbags ate unfinished food at the Lodge, or out of dumpsters, so I said, “All different places. All around. Housekeeping?”

“Housekeeping?” she said.

“There’s a cheap store there.”

We drove in her rental car over to Housekeeping, across from the LeConte Memorial. Inside the store, I showed her the 99-cent microwave burritos. Free hot sauce.

“I know I’m not paying for the climbing lesson,” she said, “but I can at least pay for this fancy meal, right?”