ONE
West Texas — Friday,
December 21
We were
both mega-cranky by the end of the first week.
Vacationing with my twin sister before I moved back in with
her, after six years of being estranged, had seemed like a great idea.
As psychologists, both of us saw the benefits: time spent together,
getting reacquainted before having to decide how we'd split up household
chores and expenses. Time spent away from any geography, person, or
object that either of us could label "territory." No work, no deadlines,
no responsibilities other than keeping the car gassed up and finding our
pre-reserved motels each night. The perfect therapy for a dysfunctional
relationship, especially since, after our last visit two months earlier,
we both needed a vacation.
Suffice to say that our October encounter began with Sara
finding a corpse in the Psychology Lab of Landis College where she
taught, and didn't end until both of us had at least one near-death
experience. At age twenty-seven, neither of us yet had the life skills
to handle that kind of stress gracefully.
What we needed was your basic restful winter vacation: sea,
sand, buff guys in Speedos. That was out of the budget, with
both of us still paying off car and school loans.
Instead, Sara had flown out to Tucson and helped me pack my
few possessions (mostly books) into a small U-Haul trailer. We were now
towing it cross-country back to Pennsylvania, sightseeing en route. In
the first four days, we'd clocked over a thousand miles, stopping at
more than a dozen attractions, hiking miles of National Park and Forest
trails.
At this pace, we'd probably collapse before crossing the
Mississippi, yet every time the possibility arose of skipping a
site—like the Space Center in Alamogordo, New Mexico after we'd spent
more time than expected in White Sands—we talked each other out of it.
Who knew when we'd get out West again?
Still, I'd been mindful of Sara's health. Her aforementioned
brush with death had involved carbon monoxide. She'd assured me her
lungs were totally recovered, but I figured she couldn't be back in top
form yet, so I picked fairly level trails, discouraged her yen to climb
every mesa in sight, and paused to rest often.
Not that I ever let on we were resting. "Get a photo of that
view," I'd say, or "Look at this cactus." If I was too obvious, Sara
would stubbornly overexert herself to prove she was all right. Even if
she'd just come from Olympic marathon training, I'd have gone easy. I
knew firsthand the pitfalls desert hiking held for the novice.
So physical exhaustion could account for some of our ill
temper that morning. Another chunk I chalked up to the sheer strain of
trying to be nice to each other. Sara and I kept tiptoeing around
disagreements, each of us politely yielding travel decisions to the
other. I thought I'd scream if I heard either of us say some version of
"Whatever you want is fine" one more time.
The bulk of our crankiness, I was certain, came from a lack
of uninterrupted sleep. During our first night sharing a motel room, I
found out about my sister's nightmares.
She had at least one a night, more often two. Sometimes she'd
cry out, but mostly she pleaded "no" or "please" or "don't" over and
over, pathetic enough that my gut would tie up in knots simply from
feeling helpless. Twice I came close to waking her out of the dreams,
but I didn't. Didn't even tell her I'd heard them. I could spare her
that embarrassment. So when the terrors at last woke her, which they
always did, I'd pretend to be sleeping.
"Hey, look at the windmills," Sara said, startling me out of
my thoughts. I got the feeling she meant to.
We were two hours east of El Paso. She was driving—good
thing, because my mind sure wasn't on the road. "Delaware Mountain Wind
Farm," I said, having read up on our destinations and other stuff along
the way before we left. "Thirty-eight turbines."
"They look like giant seagulls. How could anyone object to
anything that graceful?"
I agreed, but stated the other side of the argument. "People don't like
the noise."
"So? No one lives near them out here," Sara argued back at
me. "Or is that what these empty buildings are? Did everyone leave
because of the windmills?"
"Town of Salt Flat." As we passed the stone and adobe ruins,
I absently recited what I knew about the place. "Boom town when mining
mineral salts was big. Most of the residents left in the 1980s or 90s.
Cafe's the only thing open, I think."
"You won't be quizzed on it." Her tone was definitely grumpy
as she breezed by said cafe. Too late, I found myself wishing for a cup
of tea.
We were crossing the stark white plain that gave the town its
name when Sara snarled,
"You've been staring at me for the last ten miles. Could you
please stop?"
I hadn't realized I was doing it. I'd been mulling over my sister's
nightmares, wondering what kind of inner conflict made her subconscious
generate them. Leftover trauma from October? That was the easy answer.
Yet here I was, moving back home after five years of total silence
between us. Before that, during our last semester of college and the
summer that followed, we'd made life absolute hell for each other. At
the end of this road trip, we'd live under the same roof again and teach
in the same college psych department. If Sara was half as apprehensive
about the future as I was, no wonder she was having nightmares.
Time for a non-threatening subject. "I was noticing how much you like
driving my car."
A noncommittal shrug on one shoulder. "Never drove a Jeep
before. New experience."
"You can have it. The MPG stinks." Used Wrangler hardtop, not
the worst of the SUVs, but I'd never gotten over eighteen miles per
gallon.
Sara's tight brow relaxed. "Now you sound like Genuveffa
Ziegler, the environmental fanatic I grew up with. I thought you'd be
driving a hybrid. Or an old VW with a solar panel on top."
I felt my stomach muscles unwind. Her use of my full first
name (which she knew I loathed) meant she was teasing. Conflict averted.
"I intend to buy a hybrid or an electric car as soon as I pay off my
grad school loan. This was the cheapest thing I could find in a
four-wheel-drive, which I needed for backpacking. Some of the access
roads are all dirt."
She sped up to pass a panel truck. "That's another thing I
can't picture: you backpacking. The camping part, I mean. You used to be
a total wuss about the dark. Who'd you go with? A group from the
university?"
"No. Just by myself."
"Alone? Out in the desert?" Sara sounded horrified.
I felt my face redden as I recalled my naivete in taking up
the hobby. Like I said, I learned the pitfalls of desert hiking
firsthand. But I'd worked out a lot of demons on those weekends under
the stars. To my sister, I said, "Don't be silly. You're never alone in
the desert, what with rattlesnakes, lizards, mountain lions—"
"This feels weird, you being such a stranger. Two months
back, I find out you're a forensic psychologist, of all things—"
I didn't want to be reminded of that at the moment. Until
eight days ago, I'd been a part time criminal profiler with the Tucson
Police, a job I loved. I'd only helped them with a handful of cases so
far, but with each case I felt more sure of myself.
Now I was headed for Mount Ebal, Pennsylvania, in rural Ekron
Township, with a full staff of ten on their police payroll. Consultants
weren't in the budget. Career suicide.
You're going home, I told myself. As much as I'd loved that job, I'd
hated Tucson, simply because it wasn't home. I'd made the right choice.
Right?
"—then you tell me you're an avid backpacker," Sara was
saying. "What's next? Do you practice witchcraft? Sell car insurance?"
"You've come up with a few surprises yourself, sis. Like your
research. You must be one of the only psychologists in the world still
trying to make sense of dream content—"
"So you think it's a waste of time, like everyone else?" she
snapped.
"I didn't say that." Truth was, I thought it took guts to go
against the scientific establishment. Maybe I should have voiced the
opinion, but her grumps brought out my own and, as usual, made me clam
up.
After a long, awkward silence, Sara changed the subject. "Are
they the Guadalupe Mountains up ahead? Look how white they are."
"That's them. The big promontory is called El Capitan. The
tallest one is Guadalupe Peak." Because of her earlier snide remark
about not being quizzed, I said no more aloud, but from my pre-trip
reading, I knew these mountains were part of an ancient tropical reef.
The skeletons of teensy marine animals made up its straight white
cliffs. A contrasting layer of black limestone at their base was created
by organic matter sinking through the ocean that covered Texas hundreds
of millions of years ago.
Yet none of what I'd read explained what chance of nature had
set this ridge just so, to create such beauty, that the sight of them
now could make me feel...What? Not analytic, that was for sure. But here
and on my backpacking trips, that undefinable feeling was something
spiritual I'd never found elsewhere.
"Sara, you believe in God, don't you? I mean, you still go to
church, so....I guess what I'm asking is, how do you believe in God?
What do you think God is?"
She was quiet so long, I turned toward her. Her frown was
back and now her reply was downright irritable. "Can we talk about
something else?"
"What's wrong now?"
"I just don't feel like having my most private thoughts
doused with cold logic today."
"But that's not—"
"How much farther do we go on this road?"
I made a mental note to avoid conversations about religion
for the rest of the trip. Maybe for the rest of our lives. Though, she
probably simply resented having to spend Christmas with me on the road,
instead of back home, with a tree and decorations, holiday movies every
night on TV, and caroling at the local hospital with folks from church.
The map was open on my lap. I did a quick estimate. "Fifteen,
twenty miles, I think. Want me to drive for awhile?"
"No."
More silent minutes ticked by as the mountains grew before
us. Then, miraculously, I spied a "Food and Fuel" sign. Next right, two
miles in. She needed a break, whether she'd admit it or not. "Mind if we
stop, Sara? I could use some caffeine."
"If you want." Back to polite surrender.
The turnoff road, which had been paved at one time, was now a
convincing argument for obstacle courses on driver training tests. Sara
did her best to dodge the potholes, though the trailer caught two of
them, jerking the Jeep each time. She negotiated the grid of a cattle
gate and crossed a rickety-looking bridge over a gully.
"Looks like a little hamlet up there." I pointed to the mesa
of red rock ahead. The roof and belfry of a Spanish style church was
visible on top of the plateau. Houses were nestled into the hillside.
"If this road's any indication," Sara said, "it must be
another ghost town."
We came to a weather-worn sign sporting a dozen bullet holes.
"'Espera'," I read aloud.
""Population: 53. Speed Limit: 25.'"
"Twenty-five? They must be joking. I've been going fifteen."
She stopped the car. "Get a picture of the sign."
The camera bag was open at my feet for just such a photo-op.
Sara got off the plane last Saturday with the bag on her shoulder. I
figured a gadget-guru like her would own the latest in high-tech
cameras. Instead, she'd brought along our father's old Canon single lens
reflex. Something about it made me feel like he was on this trip with
us. As I lifted his camera, my foul mood melted.
Lowering the window, a stiff gust of cold, brisk air blew
right in my face. "Ooh. Chilly up here in the mountains."
My twin agreed. "We were spoiled by that seventy degree high
in El Paso yesterday."
I clicked the shutter and rolled the window back up. "Can't be more than
fifty here."
"Get used to it. Back home we had a high of forty-two the day
I left."
I put the camera back in the bag. "Want to get it on your cell, too? You
could post it on Facebook."
She shook her head. "I'm on vacation. No email or social
networks 'til I get home."
This wasn't the Sara I knew. Back in college, she was the life of the
online party. She could text three, four people at a time, sending
photos in between. Yet, so far on this trip, I'd only seen her take her
phone out to look up directions or check the weather forecast.
My sister drove on, repeating, "Espera," this time rolling the "R" in
reckless enjoyment. "I like the way it feels on my tongue."
"Your accent's not bad for someone who took French in high
school and German in college."
"You had Spanish. What's it mean?"
"Espera? It's a verb. 'To hope' or 'expect,' I think."
We passed a campground on our right, separated from the road
by a four-foot-high adobe wall, with a backdrop of steep terra cotta
hills behind it. Sara read the hand painted sign at the entrance.
"'Campground closed until December 26th.'"
"Maybe all fifty-three residents leave town for Christmas."
"No, I saw people in there."
The road curved around towards the mountains, until it ran
parallel to the cliff, now perhaps forty yards away. A gas station with
two antique pumps and a modern Coke machine was cradled in the curve and
beyond that was a larger building. The only car in the dirt lot was a
white SUV, the biggest model GMC makes. On its door a circular emblem
with a picture of El Capitan in the middle. In front of the building was
a sign boasting the same emblem and
ESPERA POLICE
Public Restrooms in Rear
Obtain Key Inside
Sara pulled in beside the GMC. "Another photo. Center El
Capitan behind the sign."
I laughed as I got out, then snapped the picture. "That
picture will make a statement. I'm just not sure what it is."
The restrooms sounded like a good idea, so we went inside. A
modern Formica counter ran almost the whole width of the room in front
of us, but everything beyond that counter could easily have been a
Hollywood set for a John Wayne movie. An empty jail cell took up one
corner and, in the other, a gun cabinet on the wall made a backdrop for
an old wooden desk. Only two things seemed out of place: a rusty file
cabinet and a bulletin board which, though it did exhibit two wanted
posters, held mostly lost-and-found notices and warnings to tourists
about snakes.
Instead of John Wayne sitting behind the desk, lazily
polishing a pearl-handled six-shooter, a single uniformed cop was
tapping a pen against her chin while she diligently read some kind of
report. Of course, windows on all four sides of the room meant she would
have seen our Jeep coming up the road. I wondered if she hadn't been
working a crossword puzzle a moment earlier.
The nameplate in front of her said, "H. Veleta, Chief of
Police." She was intent on looking busy, probably fully prepared to ask
us to wait until she finished what she was doing. One glance at us was
too much for her, though, because she leaned back in her chair and
gawked.
"You're not seeing double," Sara said, irritated again.
The woman pushed back her chair and stood. She was only an inch or two
taller than my own five-foot-two. Short dark hair framed a face clear of
makeup. The face had character, etched not from prettiness, but from
resolve. I put her in her mid-thirties. As she walked over to the
counter, I detected a hint of a swagger.
"I'm Chief Veleta. Howdy."
Of course, I thought, biting back a laugh. What else would a Texas law
officer say?
Chief Veleta returned my grin, looking from Sara to me and back again.
"Sorry I stared, but I never saw two people look so much alike before."
Sara and I are identical, mirror-image twins. Even given that
set of genetics, we've always looked more like clones than most twins.
The eerie thing is, after six years apart, we've come to resemble each
other all the more. Same haircut, for instance. And when I met Sara at
the Tucson airport last week, we were wearing matching faux leather
bomber jackets.
Our main difference has to do with our hands. Sara's a
southpaw, I'm a rightie. She has ten fingers, I have nine, the result of
us sharing a pinkie finger and some soft tissue up to the elbow at
birth. Most people don't pick up on those details until they've known us
a while.
The chief rocked back on her heels. "Betcha hear that a lot."
"Doesn't mean we're used to it," Sara said flatly.
I quickly broke in. "We'd like the key to the restroom."
"Figured as much." The chief reached under the counter.
"Hardly anybody comes in to report a crime. Anyone does come in, they're
usually lost."
"We saw the food and fuel sign out on the highway," I
continued. "I saw 'fuel' next door, but—"
"Cafe's up on the hill. If you want breakfast, they'll only
be serving it another quarter hour. Go left out here, then follow the
paved road uphill to the right and around the first switchback. Isn't as
tight as it looks, but feel free to leave your trailer down here if you
want." Chief Veleta handed me a key attached to a long block of wood.
We were barely outside and around the building when Sara
said, "Don't you hate it when people treat us like mutants?"
"Never bothered me."
"You like being stared at?"
"There are worse ways to get attention." I unlocked the
restroom door. "Wonder why she keeps it locked. It's such a small town."
"So she can check out strangers." A "duh" was implied in her
tone. No doubt she was right.
Less than fifteen minutes later, we were back in the car,
sans U-Haul. I drove this time. The village was built on levels
connected by a series of switchbacks, the road resembling a snake as it
wound its way up the mountainside. A footpath of stone steps and gravel
went straight up the center, but was so steep, I couldn't believe anyone
used it.
The second level was the business district. A large log
structure came first, Espera Trading Post in faded letters on a sign
perched on the porch roof. Smaller letters below it read: "Grocery,
Pharmacy, Pawn Shop." The next building was a stainless steel diner
called The El Capitan Cafe. I pulled into a space out front between two
pickup trucks. Up the road, I spied a hardware store, leather shop, a
store with outdoor clothes and equipment called Camper's Cavern, and a
bar named The Empty Canteen.
The police department and gas station had faced in toward the
cliff, but all the structures on this level faced the valley to the
northwest. All had a perfect view of El Capitan and the Guadalupe
Mountains beyond. Maybe the view was the incentive for living in such a
dry, inhospitable place.
Sara slung the camera bag onto her shoulder and shut the car
door. "Can't get much business way out here."
I agreed. "That's why they only serve breakfast 'til ten."
We were wrong. Only two booths were vacant, the rest filled by mostly
older men. Locals, I decided, because they all seemed to know each
other. One very harried waitress served the lot of them and everyone
called her Kate. She mumbled a hasty "Be right with you," as she flew by
our table.
As usual, Sara and I attracted interest. Removing my
sunglasses, I met the stares with a candid grin. Most of the faces broke
into warm smiles. I glanced back at my sister. Eyes closed, she was
rubbing her forehead, looking so much in pain, I was alarmed.
"Headache?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
Sara opened her eyes and lowered her hand. "I'm okay. Cold
air on my sinuses, I guess."
I picked up her sunglasses from the table where she'd set
them, holding them up toward the window. "Maybe it's from the glare.
Your shades aren't as dark as mine."
"Whatever." Her gaze roamed around the diner as if trying to
escape the conversation. She focused on something behind my back, above
the counter. "Look at that clock."
I swung around. A metal clock on the wall read two minutes to eleven.
The waitress abruptly appeared at our table. Now that she was
standing still, I could see she was fortyish. Her straight black hair
was tied back in a bun with a silver and turquoise clasp, but one lock
had worked free. She brushed it away from her black eyes and flipped to
a new page of her tablet. "What can I get you? The pancake batter's all
gone, but we've still got eggs."
"Coffee," Sara replied tersely.
"Hot tea," I said, "and one of those chocolate muffins under
the cover on the counter. Are you on Central Time here?"
The woman scribbled our order as she spoke, "Line's just
outside of town. If you're taking Route 54 south, reset your watches.
Otherwise, heading west to El Paso or north toward New Mexico, you'll
stay on Mountain Time." She hurried back behind the counter.
The door opened and a boyish-looking young man with a thick
crop of brown hair entered. "So this is where you're all hiding." He
unzipped his jacket, revealing a clerical collar that seemed out of
place with his black jeans and work boots.
"Keep your shirt on, Padre," said an older man seated at the
next booth. "If you work us today like you did last year, we'll need all
the strength we can get."
"Yeah," another agreed good-naturedly. "We're building up our
reserves so we'll have energy left for the procession."
The priest chuckled. "I haven't come to bully you, just to
get refreshments for those of us who've been hard at work all morning.
Eight coffees, Kate, and a large root beer for Eddie."
"Let's go, Fred," the first man said to his companion. "The
padre's shamed me into repentance again." They stood up, tossed some
money on the counter by the cash register and left. A few of the other
patrons followed suit.
"Coming to give us a hand this year, Ted?" the priest asked a
fit-looking, middle-aged blond man in a Park Service uniform who was
sitting at the counter. "We could use your strong back."
"Maybe later this afternoon, Father. Need to put in a few
hours at the park first."
The waitress spilled the coffee she was pouring, crying out as the hot
liquid splashed on her fingers.
"Here, Kate, let me do that." The priest went behind the
counter and took the coffee pot.
"Take care of your other customers."
Kate brought our order, apologizing for the delay. "It's not
usually like this." She quickly tallied our bill and returned to the
counter.
I pushed my plate to mid-table, cut the muffin in half, and
gestured to Sara to help herself. She ignored me, opting to watch the
people at the counter as she sipped her coffee. In the time it took us
to finish, all the remaining customers except the man called Ted left,
the last two helping the clergyman carry his drinks outside.
"I'll save the other half muffin for you for later," I said
after downing my final mouthful of tea.
"Save it for yourself." She took out her wallet, reaching for
the bill.
"You didn't finish your coffee. That bad?"
"No...I'm anxious to get going. We have a lot to see today."
I wrapped the half muffin in my napkin and shoved it into my
jacket pocket. "Let's check that camping store first. Get you a hat
that'll keep your head warm and shade your eyes." I threw some bills on
the table as we stood.
"That's a pretty big tip."
"The waitress is having a bad day."
We walked to Camper's Cavern from the diner. The store had a
limited selection, warm knit caps and big cowboy hats. The woman behind
the counter suggested the trading post.
The trading post had almost everything anyone could want. While
primarily a grocery store, it obviously catered to tourists. The shelves
and displays at the front of the store were covered with postcards,
T-shirts, and camping necessities like sunblock and batteries. Three
piles of hats were stacked by the front counter. An older woman sat
behind it, engrossed in a tattered Barbara Michaels paperback. She
looked up from the book long enough to smile and say "Good morning."
Two boys had entered the store behind us. One was very small
and dark, the other a husky adolescent with blond hair. The tot ran off
to explore as the older boy sauntered up to the counter.
"Hi, Craig." The woman replaced her bookmark. "No school?"
"I have off so I can help with the fiesta," said the boy
sullenly, "except I have to babysit Felipe instead. Mom told me to pick
up her order."
"I put some lean pork loins aside for her. Come on." The
woman slid off her stool and made her way toward the back of the store,
the boy in her wake.
I surveyed the mounds of hats. "What do you think, Sara?"
"I hate hats," she said obstinately.
"At least try on a few. Here." I plopped a white denim model
on her head. "Now you look like a riverboat gambler."
Sara adjusted it indifferently with two fingers, gazing into
the low mirror on the counter. "No. Pass me that brown one." She
set the camera bag on the floor to free both her hands.
She tried on three more, her impatience growing, seeming out of
proportion to the task.
"Do you still have a headache?" I asked.
"I'm fine." She snatched a tan straw hat from the counter.
"I'll get this one."
"No, the straw's too loose a weave to block the sun." I took
it from her head. "Tell me what's wrong."
The woman returned, the boy behind her, carrying a shopping
bag with "Burton" written in bold letters on the side. I knew, with them
there, Sara wouldn't tell me anything.
She selected a navy baseball cap, saying "This'll do," reaching into her
jeans pocket for her wallet.
The blond-haired boy finished paying for his order. "Felipe,"
he called loudly. "Get your backside up here in the next five seconds or
I'm leaving without you."
"Gen," Sara said, looking around her feet, puzzled. "Dad's
camera...it's gone."
I looked at the empty spot on the floor where the camera bag had rested
a moment before, my gut constricting, feeling a little like I'd lost my
father all over again.
"Felipe!" the boy called angrily.
My brain registered what my subconscious had seen two minutes
earlier—the tot coming up the aisle toward us before I turned to take
the straw hat from Sara's head. And now his brother couldn't find him. I
bolted out of the store.
Outside I saw no sign of the little boy. I glanced up at the
stone stairs. Sure enough, Felipe had almost reached the next level,
dragging the camera bag behind him as he used his other hand to help
climb. I ran between the buildings, vaulting up the steep, uneven steps
two at a time.
"Gen!" I heard Sara calling from below, followed almost
immediately by a "Felipe!" closer at hand. Behind me, Craig had also
started up the stairs.
I was winded when I reached the next level, knowing I
couldn't do another flight like that. Felipe was now a mere thirty yards
ahead, across the road. He led me between two houses, but I caught him
around his waist as he reached the fifth step in the next flight. As I
lifted him down, he kicked wildly, connecting with my thighs more than
once.
"Let go of him!" Craig yelled, grabbing me by the arm. "Don't
hurt him!"
"I'm not—" I froze, another voice startling me—the voice of
Sara calling my name, inside my head. In my mind, I suddenly, clearly,
saw my sister on her knees, clutching her chest.
"Let go of him!" Craig repeated, trying to pry my arms off
the boy.
I spun around, still holding Felipe, oblivious to his kicks. Sara's head
appeared above the stairs, then the rest of her. But before she reached
the road, she stumbled, desperately trying to get her breath. Sinking to
her knees, her left hand rose to her chest, and her face contorted in
bewilderment and fear.
