The Other Mr. Bax (11 page)

They eventually arrived at the cactus, a massive thing growing from a narrow shelf about fifteen feet above the bed of the ravine, and began climbing up the sloping wall.

“Joyce.”

She turned. Brenda’s eyes were focused on something higher up, ahead of them—someone crouched near a boulder, their face hidden in the shadow of a cowboy hat. She could feel eyes on her as a stocky, male figure raised his head, then a hand, his other gripping a bowed stick.

A deep masculine voice greeted them. “Howdy.”

Joyce waved—“Hi”—but stayed put.

“Y’all from up the way?” The man—he had a Native American accent—pointed north.

“Yeah. I’m Joyce, and this is my sister, Brenda.” She threw a thumb over her shoulder. “We… I live off of Olberg Road.” She continued climbing up toward the ring of rocks, with Brenda close behind her.

“Oh, the other side of the butte?” the man said, rising to his feet.

“Exactly. It’s right out our backdoor.”

“I reckon we’re neighbors then.” He tipped his hat back, revealing the deeply etched face of an old Pima Indian—his long, gray hair pulled back in a braid.

“I hope we’re not disturbing you.” Joyce stepped up to the edge of the circle and stopped.

He shrugged. “Oh, I’m not disturbed.”

“My husband and I were here a few days ago, on our way back from twin peaks.” She looked off in the direction of the two mounds in the east. She and Roland had stood almost precisely in the spot she was now standing. “I wanted to show my sister the…” She wagged a finger toward the ground. “The circle here. A medicine ring, right?”

“Circle,” the old man said. “Medicine circle.”

“Is it old?” Brenda said.

“My father first brought me here when I was a boy. Same circle… same rocks.”

Brenda stepped inside the ring. “Wow.”

The old man grunted. “It was here long before my father. That’s what I’ve been told. This is where my people secretly used to come to pray and seek visions.”

“Why secretly?” Brenda asked.

“Since before my father was born, and up to Jimmy Carter, it was illegal for Indians to practice their religions, The Danes Act of 1887. They probably didn’t mention that in history class, did they?”

“I don’t remember that. But I wasn’t really paying attention either.” Joyce grinned.

“Is that why it’s out here in the middle of nowhere?” Brenda said. “To keep it hidden?”

“Not really. This area here”—he swept a hand out before him—“where we’re standing, is what they now call an energy center… a power point. They’re scattered all over the earth, and were at one time considered sacred places. I’m not really sure how long it’s been here, and I’m not even sure it still is. I think they shift over time.”

“Sacred?” Brenda scanned the ground as if snakes might be slithering about her feet. “Should we not be here?” She took a step back, outside of the circle.

The man looked off to his left, then his right. “Too late. The damage is already done.” He swung his arm in a wide arch. “It’ll take years to smudge ‘em out.”

Brenda’s jaw dropped.

The old man’s eyes held the glint of a smile, though there was no trace of one on his lips. “Cooties,” he said.

“What?” Brenda said.

He snickered. “Just pullin’ your foot.”

“Oh.” Brenda sighed. “You mean my leg.”

“Your leg?”

“It hardly matters.” Joyce gave the old man a wink. “I don’t think my sister got it, either way.”

“It’s leg, huh?” He reached up and scratched his neck.

“I didn’t get your name,” Joyce said.

“Fred.”

“Do they still hold ceremonies here?” Joyce said.

“Occasionally.” He gazed toward the circle as though reminiscing. “I mostly come here just to think. Though it doesn’t always work out.”

“Because of pesky neighbors?” Brenda said.

He chuckled. “Much as I’d like to, I can’t blame them for everything.”

Joyce and Brenda explored the perimeter of the circle, about fifteen feet in diameter—twelve large boulders with smaller rocks filling in the gaps between them.

Brenda stepped into the center and stared down at the ground. “P R S?”

“You know what that means?” Fred said.

“No.”

Joyce stepped up beside her and peered down at the three letters scratched into the loose sandy soil hear her feet.

“P R S.” Fred slowly enunciated each letter. “Me neither.”

Joyce glanced at her sister and got a shrug in return. Cocking her head to the side, she looked at Fred. “You wrote that?”

“Yeah.” He brought a hand to his chin and rubbed it. “Usually when I write, it means something, like a grocery list. This though…” He pointed at the letters he’d scratched in the dirt.

Joyce regarded Fred with another quick study. His irises were dark and glossy like polished mahogany. His manner seemed somehow familiar, though she couldn’t place where she’d seen him before.

“The letters just came to you?” Brenda said.

The old man reached up and shoved his hat a little farther back on his head. “Answers come when you let go of your need for them.”

“I know what you mean,” Joyce said. “Like, sleep on it, right?”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

All three stood there gazing down toward Fred’s scratch marks.

“Answers to what?” Brenda said.

The old man shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Well…” Joyce looked at her sister.

“Pork roast sandwiches?” Brenda said.

“What?”

“Pasta with red sauce?” Brenda put on a sheepish smile. “PRS. I didn’t have enough for breakfast, I guess.”

“Uh…” Joyce rolled her eyes. “Ready to head back, are we?”

Brenda nodded.

Joyce extended her hand toward the old man. “Sorry about the cooties.”

“Ah… they’re fine here.” He grinned, but then straightened as his smile was replaced with a more thoughtful expression. “I have something for you.” He dug down into the front pocket of his worn jeans, then held out his hand toward Joyce. A small, blue stone lay in his open palm. “I found this down by the road the other day.” He tipped his head toward the south.

Joyce took the rock and turned it over in her hand, examining it.

“Keep it,” he said.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, but I can’t.” She offered it back to him.

“It’s not mine. I just found it.”

“Yes… but—”

“Keep it,” he said.

Half of the rock was encased in a rough, gray material, with flecks of rusty brown, the other half was the color of a Caribbean lagoon.

Brenda leaned in for a look. “Turquoise?” she said.

After again thanking Fred, the two sisters started back toward the house, following the same path they’d come on. Once they were beyond sight of the cactus, Brenda said, “I think old Fred was trying to get in your pants.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. He’d never fit.”

“I saw the look in his eyes. Then he comes out with the bribe? A twenty-four carat love rock.”

“You’re awful.”

“PRS… Please return, Sweetie Pie,” Brenda said.

“PRS… Perverse recalcitrant shyster,” Joyce countered.

“Recalcitrant?” Her sister laughed. “Is that even a word?”

Upon arriving back at the house, Brenda headed for the bathroom while Joyce went upstairs to check the answering machine for messages. In the back of her mind was the belief that Roland would call and everything would quickly return to normal. The message counter indicated one message. Her pulse quickened. She pushed the playback button.

“Hi Joyce.” Brian’s voice. “Just called to let you know we made it home safely. I’ll try back later. Or call me if you want. Talk to you soon.”

She stared down at the phone. She imagined calling, imagined Roland answering, imagined his voice drenched in compassion, regretful, repentant, offering something heartfelt, something to smile about, and then maybe, “Everything’s okay. I’ll be home soon.” She picked up the handset and tapped in her brother-in-law’s number. A moment later, her niece’s voice came over the line.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Molly, is your dad nearby?”

“Uh huh. Just a minute.”

Joyce heard her yelling. “Dad! Phone. It’s Aunt Joyce.” She figured Roland was likely hearing it too.
Aunt Joyce
.
Is he making the connection
?

“Hey. How are you doing?”

She sighed. “At the moment, okay. Roland’s there?”

“Out on the deck.”

Where he wouldn’t have heard, she realized. “How’s he doing?”

He moaned. “I’m not so sure now that we made the right decision. He may have been better off with you, actually.”

“With me…” Joyce tried to imagine it, the seemingly insurmountable confusion and painful distance that wedged itself between them there in Buffalo, magically dissolving over the course of the plane ride home. What she wanted, and what her pragmatism allowed, however, were at opposite ends of the spectrum.

“I don’t know what to tell him,” his brother said.

“Don’t you think being with family makes more sense, for now anyway?”

“No one has the first clue here, do they? I don’t. Roland certainly doesn’t.”

“Right.” She drew in a breath. “I hate this too, not knowing.” Joyce waited for a response, but none came. “Has he said anything more… about Dana?”

“No, he’s been quiet. And I’m not going to push it.”

“You believe him, don’t you?” She stepped up to a small painting hanging near the door—one of Roland’s—a delicate looking work, which made her think of a bouquet of New England asters, though it was fragmented and scattered: the leaves, the stems, the blossoms, the vase—either coming together, or blowing apart.

“No,” Brian said. “I don’t believe there is, or ever was another woman. Or that business about him living in New York.”

“He believes it.”

“I keep going back and forth. I mean, he has all these stories… strange enough to be true, but really, where’d they come from? It’s crazy.”

“He should see someone,” Joyce said. “A doctor.”

“Kate’s going to check into it.”

“You know what’s creepy? Not all of this can be explained away by him being delusional. His being there for one thing. Buffalo? That will
never
make sense to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, right.”

“I mean, he was here no more than an hour before. Absolutely impossible.”

“Joyce?” Brenda called, from the bottom of the stairs. “You up there?”

She cupped a hand over the phone. “I’ll be down in a minute!”

“I don’t think he’d ever cheat on you. After you’d bumped into each other in Florida, he told me the whole story. I’d never seen him so excited.”

“At least he remembers Selma.”

“Don’t give up on things working out.”

“As Roland would say. The perpetual optimist. I wonder if he’d say that now. I mean, at what point do you say things didn’t work out?” Her ex-boyfriend, Jeff, came to mind.
She’d long before categorized their relationship as “not working out,” but then she realized she’d gone to visit Brenda in Tampa because of him, and stumbled upon the art festival.

After lunch, Joyce and Brenda pulled chairs up before the computer. Joyce brought up a search engine, rested her palms at the bottom of the keyboard, and stared at the blank input field.

“Well?” Brenda said.

“Yeah, so give me an idea.”

“An idea. Okay… uh—”

“Psychological phenomenon.” Joyce typed the words, then clicked the search button.

Stock market volatility – a psychological phenomenon

Pain in the eye

Negativity affect and the emergence of ideologies

UCO Psych Faculty

Channeling and the presence of psychological phenomenon

Absolute pitch
…