I am gazing up at the plywood structure nestled high between two branches of the enormous pepper tree, in the backyard of Daniel’s house, The Gables. Mike and Julie aren’t home. Inside the house, at the kitchen table, my mother is talking with Frank about the moon problem, and about political stuff. Mom, a speaker on women’s issues with the League of Women Voters of San Diego, has a big meeting coming up next week.
“It’s no longer my hiding place,” Daniel says. “My brother built it years ago, when I was a kid like you.” He laughs gently.
“Real funny, Daniel.” I smile thinly.
We’re standing in the shade of the diffuse evergreen. Save for a few wispy clouds, the skies are clear. Rattlesnake Mountain stands out black and harsh against the pale blue heavens.
I’m wearing a green cotton blouse, sleeveless, with my denim shorts and white sneakers. Daniel has on a tee shirt and blue jeans. I adore his brown moccasins.
An old car tire, fastened with rope to the lowermost branch of the tree, hangs motionless two feet above the graveled earth. A metal bucket filled with baseballs topped by a tan baseball glove stands near the tree. Daniel’s dog, Wags, on a long leash tied to the back porch, is yapping and moving about friskily. It’s uncanny how Wags looks just like the dog in those old black and white reruns on TV,
The Little Rascals
.
“Would you like to see my secret hiding place?” asks Daniel. “It’s batshit wonderful.”
“Sure, but please don’t curse. It’s not a nice way of expressing yourself.”
“Oh, hell. C’mon, let’s go.”
Daniel takes off, sprinting towards Rattlesnake Mountain. I dash after him. The dog’s insistent barking is in my ear as I run, and then the noise dwindles, replaced by “Catch Us If You Can,” a classic rock song by The Dave Clark Five that my dad used to love.
I race as fast as I can, through the low weeds at the base of the mountain, my eyes fixed on Daniel thirty yards ahead. He’s moving so fast he seems whisked forward like a sail on the wind. I feel my lungs crying out for a great mouthful of oxygen. I am losing ground, until somehow I manage a burst of speed, taking longer strides and flailing the air with my arms.
Finally, Daniel slows his pace, and then halts abruptly. I pull up quickly. Daniel almost touches my bare shoulder with his hand, but draws back when I stop. Without a word, he begins to ascend the mountain on a narrow footpath. I fall into step with him, keeping close. The sun is hot on my body, the wind so still I can smell my own skin. My attention is focused on a winding rocky pathway that runs up a low hillside to our right, towards the top of the mountain.
I climb with strong sure steps. Daniel walks very near to me, and at times his arm touches mine. Clods of dried earth crunch under my feet. After a while we reach the crest of the hill, about halfway up the mountain. We travel down a narrow path on the other side of the hill, and suddenly there’s a ledge before us, a deadfall, which overlooks a deep and somewhat narrow canyon or ravine.
We turn north, stepping carefully along the path as we move up the mountain, parallel to the ravine. I can see, below, the desiccated creek bottom with cracks and dry sticks and stones where once there had probably been clear running water, cool and pleasing, the creek bottom smooth and full of life.
“I’m thirsty,” I call out. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. We’ve climbed for more than a half-hour, it seems.
Daniel stops, letting me catch up. The path opens up into a level tract of dirt and weeds, framed on the north and west by a low escarpment of huge boulders and thickly grown sage bushes, and on the east by the ravine.
Daniel walks to the end of the promontory, quite near the cliff’s edge. “I have a canteen full of water in my hiding place,” he says. “But first, there’s something I want to show you.”
I step carefully forward until I’m standing beside Daniel. He takes my hand. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
The canyon is spread out below our feet, the drop precipitate. A falling stone would likely come to rest at the creek bottom. In the middle distance The Valley lies before us like a huge greenish carpet peppered with buildings and etched with roads.
I look at Daniel and smile, gathering my hair, which has begun to blow in my face. All the words I can think of in this moment seem artificial and useless. The wind flutters Daniel’s shirt and the wisps of black hair on top of his head. I’m not afraid, with him.
“Look down there,” he says, pointing to a grassy ledge, outcropping from the face of the cliff, on which stands an enormous granite boulder and a tall cypress tree. A red-tailed hawk is perched majestically on a branch of the tree. Suddenly the great bird takes off and sails freely into the purity of the wide blue sky.
I notice a narrow footpath that leads down to the grassy shelf. “Is that the place you want to show me?”
“I want to tell you about the Kumeyaay Indian fertility stones.”
“You’re talking about the Indians who helped Father Serra build the San Diego Mission, in 1769.” I feel proud of myself. “I have a heritage of missionaries, you know. My father’s folk. My great grandmother Hartford had the second sight. She would predict that something was going to occur, like a death or whatever, then, unbelievably, it would happen.”
“I hope your ancestors didn’t trick any Indians, like the Spaniards did,” Daniel says. “Instead of baptizing them, the soldiers enslaved them and raped their women.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know. That’s terrible.” I fondle my hair and bite it with a saddened smile.
Daniel goes on, “The Indians lived in what is now called Mission Valley, until the Spanish arrived. Some of them fled to the El Cajon Valley. When a young girl acquired a man and she didn’t have any children right away, they would bring her here, to the mountain, and show her the magic stones.”
“What’s so magic about them?”
“Check out the sky.”
I look up and see the pale crescent moon that hangs low in the sky.
“The Kumeyaay believed that the eighth day of the moon, one day a month, is the interval of adolescence, of puberty. That’s when light dominates over darkness, and so the attitude of dependency has to be transformed into one of maturity and independence.”
I catch a slight lump of nervousness in my throat. “That’s ... well ... romantic, I guess.”
“They used the stones in fertility rituals. See that one down there?”
All I see is a great big rock, a boulder.
“That’s called a yoni stone, by anthropologists. If you look closely, you’ll notice, like the Indians did, that its natural features resemble a woman’s ... uh ... private parts, and the Kumeyaay thought the rock was imbued with special powers.”
I lean over and look more closely at the rock, which hugs the cliff-face. It doesn’t take long to figure out exactly what Daniel is talking about, because on the side of the rock there’s an almost perfect representation of female genitalia.
“That’s interesting,” I say, knowing my face has flushed tomato red. I laugh self-consciously.
Daniel smiles. “Let’s go.”
I follow him as we walk to the north end of the terrace and climb a short trail, which grows steeper as it ascends between boulders. Daniel turns and helps me scale the thorny path. The air smells of sage. Wild grape vines are plentiful.
Several yards up the path, Daniel stops. “If I ever have to hide, this is where I’ll come. I want to die here.”
“Where?” I ask.
“In my cave. Wait, while I check for rattlesnakes.” He pushes aside the undergrowth, crouches to his knees and disappears between the rocks.
A moment later he reappears and extends his hand. “C’mon in.”
I bend down and shuffle into the cave, a semi-dark, low-ceilinged, circular rock enclosure about fifteen by twenty by five feet, I estimate, width, length and height respectively. A narrow shaft of sunshine at the far end of the cave provides some light. The floor consists of packed brown earth. There’s a kerosene lantern in one corner, and red designs cover the walls, geometric paintings with mostly diamond-shaped elements.
Daniel sits on the dirt floor and I sit beside him. Without speaking, he hands me the canteen and I take a long drink of warm water. I make a sour face. I’m sitting with my legs extended, leaning on one elbow and looking at Daniel.
“I feel close enough to you, Daniel, that I can divulge a secret about my mom and your dad.” I sit away on my knees, contemplating him.
“What’s bothering you?” he says.
“I found an old photograph in my mom’s bedroom (accidentally of course) with the date written on the back ... Oh, all right, I was nosing around where I shouldn’t have been, and on the back of the photograph was written August 21, 1998.” I shake my head thoughtfully. “My mom and your dad were in the picture together, like they were in love or something, and that was the day before my mom married my dad.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, silly. That’s why I’m upset about it.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Daniel says. “Can I see the picture?”
“I’ll bring it next time I see you.” I smile. “Assuming of course there will be a next time.”
“You know, I like you a lot, Sarah.” Daniel stretches out next to me. For a moment our giggles create a muffled echo inside the cave. “And I want to share with you a secret of my own.”
“I’d like that.”
“My mother kept a diary,” he says.
“Did you ever read it?”
“No, but if I can locate the diary it might help me to get what I want more than anything in the world right now.”
“What would that be?” I ask.
“To know what happened on the night my mother ... did what she did.”
“If you want something a lot,” I say, “you have to pray or do something you’re really afraid to do, and God will see you deserve it.”
“That’s awesome. You know, I sure do enjoy hanging out with you.”
“Yes, I
love
hanging out with you. I think we get along really well.” Did that sound too desperate?
Daniel turns his head and looks at me. “I just want you to know that I’m sort of trying to find myself right now.”
Oh God, is Daniel saying he never wants me as his girlfriend, he wants only to be friends? I figure I should play it cool. I must be coming on too strong. “Oh yes, we’re definitely on the same page. I mean, I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now, either. I’m not the same as other girls. I’m not like, ‘Be my boyfriend,’ unless you were thinking, ‘Yeah!’ Then I’d be like, ‘Maybe.’”
He smiles, dips his head and looks at me as if he wore glasses and was looking over them.
Now I don’t know if I should read my poem, but I
am
desperate, so I reach into the back pocket of my shorts and pull out the folded sheet of paper. “I composed a poem for you, but there’s not enough light in here.”
Daniel grabs the lantern and takes a book of matches from his pants pocket. He torches a twig and uses it to ignite the lantern, which purrs faintly, shedding a calm, creamy light that casts a shadowy brightness throughout the cave. Daniel’s face in the flickering light seems to reflect the immanence of a nervous smile. We both start when a tiny lizard rustles across the floor between us.
I recite my poem:
“Daniel is courageous and swift
With a heart of gold.
He has the eyes of a hawk
And a body made of stone.
His hands are gentle and true
His lips soft as silk.
In every way Daniel is lovable
And I hope he’ll be my Prince.”
“It’s nice,” says Daniel, blushing, as he turns down the lantern until the cave is nearly dark again.
“I’ll sell it to you.”
“You miser. How much?”
“As it’s for you, just one kiss. I want you to be the first boy to kiss me, and the last as well.”
I lean over to meet Daniel’s lips, praying to God that he’ll kiss me, but before I can even close my eyes there appears in the space between us a tiny yellow-green creature, a strange-looking butterfly with luminescent wings that seem to twinkle in the semi-darkness like an erratic light bulb. The little butterfly flits about annoyingly, first in Daniel’s face and then in mine, almost as if it were purposely intervening to prevent us from kissing. Then it disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
We both laugh. I don’t know what to do now, so I lie back and close my eyes, holding my breath and hoping that Daniel will kiss me.
In the next moment I feel his lips upon mine, surprisingly warm. I yield to him and he gives me a long kiss, chaste, yet clinging.
When Daniel pulls away, I say, with my eyes still closed, “Kiss me again.” My voice seems to come out of a great void. I know our first kiss will never happen again in exactly the same way no matter how long we live.
Daniel kisses me again, delicately, endlessly, and I feel a glowing excitement that I cannot localize, but I know it feels good. He’s a great kisser, by any stretch of the adjective. I don’t even have to pretend that I’m a lover seized by passion. I’m going to have to explain to my mom right away that I don’t really want a new father, that it’s okay if my mom doesn’t marry Frank because Daniel could never become just my clunky brother.
I open my eyes. My thin arms encircle Daniel’s neck. The liquid shadows of our movements play on the walls of the cave. I kiss his skin through his shirt then bury my forehead against his chest. He holds me tightly.
Our hips touch, and with the contact I feel a sudden rush of desire, a vast, shapeless desire that I can’t get at. There’s a sensation of downward-pulling wetness between my legs that seems odd, mysterious. I feel outdistanced by my own hunger, yet I find myself guiding Daniel’s hand up to fondle the tiny protuberance of my breast. So
this
is how it is, I’m thinking, like a dreamy dance, with its nuanced movements through mind and body enacted in the midst of wave after wave of exhilarating warmth.
Daniel draws his hand back. “Let’s just kiss,” he says softly, with an apologetic smile.
I make an awkward sound as my face reddens. Just kissing is fine with me, I suppose. After all, I’m only fifteen. “Kiss me, kiss me,” I whisper. My satiny voice seems to make an aural tent only big enough for the two of us.