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1. BURNED
Jordan swapped the sheets, cleaned the blood, and stomped into the kitchen. Alone. This is not who I am. The sun barely lit the sky, but it was morning, finally. Time for coffee. Another rough night with Harold shaking and sweating and panting with chills and sweats and Jordan was exhausted. And angry. These night terrors were taking a toll on them both, and why? It wasn’t the surgery. Nope. It was the neighbors. The neighborhood. The echoes of their yells – Show us your tits – followed by dogs howling and all the men laughing. Harold denied there was a problem, but Jordan wanted to do something about it. And would.
“Oh, it’s fine,” muttered Harold, sitting up, awake finally now the sky was lightening and the wind had stopped howling across the mesa. Harold stared out the window, “It’s not their fault.”
It is, thought Jordan. It is.
The traffic began around noon. Jordan watched from the front porch as four, five, no seven trucks and cars drove in and out, staying for up to an hour but usually much less, ten minutes. It didn’t take long to pick up their speed.
Speed. Meth. Same thing.
Speed bumps, those oily skin eruptions that broke out over nose and chins. Jordan knew who came by to score, the signs were too clear. People from town, people from the city. Easily recognizable.
Speed bumps.
Yes. Jordan checked on Harold who was sipping yet more black coffee, reading the latest posts on Facebook, and sighing over the state of the world. Harold, once a professor of human geography at the local community college, took the broader view on life. Jordan was more focused on the micro level. Jordan was a poet.
Speed bumps.
With a glance toward the houses up the road, Jordan headed round the side of their adobe on Coyote Trail, grabbed a shovel and pickaxe, and opened the front gate. The traffic had eased up, the bad mood–not so much. Jordan checked to see if anyone was coming down the long dirt road towards their little neighborhood. Silence, no dust in the air, and therefore, probably safe.
With a grunt and thwack of the axe, Jordan set to work. Swing, chop, dig, trench, stack. Dirt in, dirt out. Jordan had a plan and worked doggedly at hefting the soil and sand around, adding rocks to the bump, smoothing out the surface of the road to hide the trap. One wheel-sized rut to slow the customers down. One four-inch-high mound to give them a lift if they didn’t notice. It took a while, 45 minutes perhaps, and then done. A hidden drop and bounce. Lovely work. That should do the trick.
Ten o’clock, the witching hour as Jordan called it, was the peak business time at Arnie’s and Fred’s. Trucks in and out. Breaking Bad come to town. Or was their place the inspiration for the series? It sure was true to the lifestyle, that Jordan knew. An ex-junkie, Jordan knew better than to blame anyone but the systems that held people down, kept them poor and without hope or healthcare or reason to consider anyone but themselves. Thieves, lost boys, skinny young women, teens bored and unfocused, handguns shot down the valley, late night parties, strangers dropping by–Is, er, Arnie here? –all of it was excusable, understandable even, but it was too much. Fred had gone too far. Their dog Maggie had paid for it and Harold suffered as a result. As did Jordan who could no longer relax, sleep, or let go of the idea of revenge. Friend, lover, family, student, mentor, and roommate. All of the above and more. Thirteen years together and now this, trashing any sense of safety at home. Harold would not admit how much it all affected him. He was still too attached to his family’s homestead, and he never talked of moving, loved the trees surrounding them, the peace of the Rio Grande, the adobe walls enclosed, and yes, the way they get to live without a mortgage. Yes, it was too easy in some ways. Jordan could barely think about losing Maggie like they did, these changes within their own relationship, how others saw the two of them, or that neither knew how to deal or heal. It hurt too deep. There was no easy answer and Jordan’s questions about their futures dried up unspoken.
A red Chevy one ton, lights bright and music blaring, headed down the empty lane, it was long time coming. Jordan sat out on the porch in the dark and waited to see what would happen. Scared and exhilarated, it felt like the split second after pitching a rock at a shop window. Jordan hoped Harold wouldn’t come out and turn on the light, or even worse, say they should go for a stroll, like they used to, when Maggie was still alive. The sweetest and gentlest dog ever. Gone.
Jordan couldn’t pretend.
An owl sat on the cottonwood near the porch and Jordan watched it take off, hunting in the dark of night with a hushed flight of white wings. Peaceful. Beautiful. The inevitable summer’s crop of red ants under foot crept towards Jordan’s bare feet just as the Chevy blasted past in a blur of noise and dust with a crack slam dunk. The weight of the truck took off over the new ridge in the road and landed with a crunch. A squeal of brakes. Radio off. Quiet. Jordan flew inside, terrified, and peaked out a darkened window. The man–scrawny, dark hair, ball cap and in a white-ish wife-beater–climbed down, kicking dirt, staring at the other three homes and then at Harold and Jordan’s. As if he could see the lone figure in the window frame. As if he knew. He did. Everyone knew about them. How could they not in a small town like this? Rural New Mexico. Elevation 6300. Population 587. They knew about Harold’s ‘roommate’, the one they all suspected as being odd, wrong somehow, unlabeled, unboxed, and they didn’t accept this relationship if nothing else because Jordan came from the city, San Francisco. An outsider, probably a liberal, probably anti-guns, a bit of an odd character for them to take in, even after living there for years–Jordan was not welcome and knew it. Tall, skinny, shoulders rounded, hair thin, skin pale, eyes constantly watering with allergies. Jordan did not look like one of the locals, obviously not robust enough to be a fruit farmer nor even a worker at the nearby Costco. Harold was tolerated, on behalf of having been a kid there even if he’d left for a few years. They knew him. Or rather, they’d known the awkward unformed adobe block of a kid in a girl’s body with the other name. Dead name. They didn’t know what Harold had done to become himself. They wouldn’t understand. Obviously as the man’s muttered fucking freaks carried across the silent arroyo as he climbed back up into the oversize truck, a monster with huge tires and a light bar to blind an eagle, he drove off. Jordan relaxed somewhat.
“Well, what are you up to now, Jay? Too many mosquitoes for you out there?” Harold stood in the hallway, clutching the scrabble board. “Can we?”
He looked so hopeful, so desperate for their old routine and Jordan was so shook up that a nod was all it took. “Yes. In the back? Kitchen or bedroom?”
“Not the front room like we used to? Alright. We can change it up although it is fine to continue with how things were, you do realize that, don’t you, Jay? I know it’s hard on us all –I have bad dreams I get it– but still, we can only do our best.” Harold tightened the robe around his belly and stared across the front yard. One of Maggie’s toys lay abandoned by the gate. He carried on talking to Jordan. “You should write about it, get it out on paper or screen, post it to your blog or submit it somewhere, you haven’t been writing, I see how it is. Don’t let the bastards wear us down.” The sound of another truck broke the silence outside. “It’s not their fault, they’re addicts, they can’t help themselves. You should know that better than me! And we know Maggie died trying to save us, protect the home. Best dog in the world, that’s for sure. She’s a good girl. Was a good girl…”
Jordan, too tired to point out how badly Harold was doing, just nodded again, followed him to the kitchen table, glancing backwards as another vehicle drove past with a bump and thump.
Clean sheets again, another night of sweats, another day of hearing the same old excuses from the doctors about not bringing Harold in. The pandemic, the high risks, the ongoing nature of his, well, issues, all meant, as far as the Dept of Health was concerned, that Harold was better off at home, letting the surgeries mend, and for his mental health to adjust. Oh, and sorry about the dog, they said.
This is not who I am, thought Jordan as the new morning routine clicked into gear. I’m a poet. A poet. A published poet! I didn’t sign on for this. Clean sheets. Laundry. Change the bandages, check the stitches, and yes, check the drain. All clear. The surgery was healing up fine. Although as far as Jordan was concerned there was too much sweat and fears and tears and shame and nightmares but since there was no fever, no trouble breathing, just bad timing, Covid-19 wasn’t the issue. Top surgery, remove the mothers, claim your gender, change your name legally, all the week before the virus shuts down the out-patient clinic, the city, the state, the country. The whole world. After all those years of binding though, Harold became himself. At a cost. For them both. For Maggie. Sweetest dog, gentle lab-mix, golden and black ears, and white socks. Oh Maggie. Why did I leave you at home alone? Jordan’s mind got stuck on that one detail, leaving the gate open, and then the rest of it, the crack house up the road, the lights off, the thieves, a shotgun, words in her blood on the window–FREAKS–and a dead dog. Coming home from the hospital with a doped-up Harold to find Maggie’s dead and bloody body on the steps. The house trashed, and the sheriffs who wouldn’t go next door to confront them, the fucking addicts, and all the while Jordan was trying to explain that no, Harriet is now Harold, please, Harold Amos, my, er, husband-wife. Masked up, they’d only laughed amongst themselves, written down the stolen items (laptops, wallets, camera, cash) and Jordan had shuffled a stunned Harold to bed upstairs. Alone. No pattering of paws nor the comfort of an old dog panting in her sleep.
Clean sheets every morning. Sweats, not just a reaction to the surgery, but fear, PTSD, night-terrors, they drenched Harold each night, throughout the day too. Not to mention, his body still had design flaws, the inner workings of an older model, a female one, and menopause was kicking in. It was messing him up on so many levels despite all the work he’d done to find and claim his own identity. Hormones weren’t on the list of options for him and so this was a new path, one few take, to transition without testosterone but finally the doctor had agreed. Night sweats were a small cost, said Harold, it’s worth it.
Clean sheets. No dog. New routines.
“It was worth it.”
Jordan hated the neighbors. That was one thing, one focus, one revenge too tempting. It was time to take care of the problem. Jordan had had enough, fuck them. Killed my fucking dog, I’ll kill you. Not that Jordan could say that out loud nor even admit to some inner conscience. Nope. Instead, cars came and went. Under the eyes of two ravens, Jordan added more ditches across the dirt lane, slowing the ‘customers’ down–in theory. They’d drive by, hoot and hollar at the joy ride of getting air and the bounce afterwards, a new game when high.
Something had to change. This couldn’t go on.
An old dark green SUV crunched, a crack of metal. Stopped. Voices swearing. Voices raised. Lights on. Lights off. Grunting and shuffling, the vehicle pushed off the road behind a juniper. Jordan stared from the bedroom window, Harold tossed and turned in bed. But those voices, swearing and bitching and laughing too, walked on past, under the wings of the owl hunting alone. Their chorus–FREAKS–lingered in the pinons.
Jordan quickly pulled on jeans, boots, a tee shirt and stepped out the bedroom, leaving the door open to hear if Harold called out. The sounds of a party next door whispered among the cottonwoods and Russian Olives, a slight breeze cooling tempers, Jordan’s at least. The monsoons should be there soon enough so that would help but summer was knocking everyone off kilter this year what with this quarantine, limited access, no social life, Zoom fucking Zoom for any group activities, that is, for anyone who doesn’t know Arnie and Fred. Parties there once or twice a week. Vehicles racing past to get there early and stay till morning. A huge bonfire out back, tips of flames and the popping of scrap furniture and who knows what burning up, plastic, newspapers, clothes? That night was no different. New people. Same bonfire. Same sounds of high chattering female voices, bitching about their men, carrying over the music, a local blues band, same old, same old.
Jordan rang the cops. There was a statewide fire ban, the risks too high of flying embers traveling up to a mile and starting wildland fires, taking out towns and ski resorts and second homes and communities just like they were in Colorado, in Cali, in Montana even. The dispatch said vehicles were on their way and thanks for calling with an unspoken Freak in the click of hanging up.
Jordan wore a bandana, loosely knotted, just in case the smoke got too much, or worse yet in case someone tried to talk, get too close, breathe Covid into a naked face, this infection that could kill anyone and everyone there. If only they’d just kill themselves. Natural selection in action. Jordan smiled at the thought but knew better. It was never that easy.
The quietness outside the party contact zone was stunning. A mouse scurried through the dried grass, a rustling and whispering, a reminder to mow the weeds down, a hazard this time of year. Another thing for the list that won’t be tackled, not for a while yet. Right under the note–Keep Writing! –one that Harold had added, ever the mentor, encouraging the poet within but Jordan was not writing. Blocked doesn’t even cover the sense of powerlessness, wordlessness, and the ensuing rage.
While waiting for the fire trucks, Jordan decided to check on the broken SUV pushed into the shrubs down a bit from their gate. A broken shaft, the wheel bent sideways, it was a miracle they’d been able to move the thing off the road. The passenger windows were open and so Jordan peeked inside. Trash, bottles, an old grey denim jacket, some tools too, or the boxes they’d been in once, ON SALE written across them. The truck was banged up outside, deep scratches, no plates, a roof rack, and a cool magnet; “Make Art in the Face of Fuck” whatever that meant, and Jordan slipped it into a pocket. A talisman perhaps.
Another vehicle headed up the road and Jordan was too far to run home and so hunkered down in the shrubs, near the dead truck, and pulled up the dark green bandana. Quiet and still, no words, just smells and sounds. An owl hooted, distant. A cat screeched. The owl flew overhead, empty claws. A mouse ran past, stunned to find a human, hiding together in the night sky of a waning moon. The vehicle drove carefully up towards the party, towards the reality of sharing the hot air of potential Covid carriers, all mixing and playing and dancing and sharing and drinking and laughing and shouting and singing and puking and sleeping and blasting and toking and nodding and yelling and smoking. This new car eased over the speed bumps, one two three, and edged towards Fred’s, lights off. Slow and steady.
A sheriff.
Shifting in place, peeking over the hood of the SUV, a Toyota, dead in the bushes, Jordan could see Fred’s run-down junkyard, full of RVs, singlewides, travel trailers, so many dead cars you couldn’t count, and then not forgetting all the ones from the ‘shoppers’ as Jordan thought of those scoring next door. Support your Neighborhood Dealers should be written on the man’s gate. Buy Local. Die Local.
A heavier crunch of tires and Jordan dropped back out of sight. A dusty red fire engine. Yellow and black helmets. Tension and laughter eked out their open windows, three men and two women dressed in their firefighters’ gear, chatting away, filling time and space before finding out what needed to be done. Jordan wanted to pop up, shoo them back to town, saying I’ve changed my mind, let it burn. It. The house? The trailers? The dealers? Oh, yes, please, let them all burn.
Through the broken branches and fading light, Jordan watched.
It was a raggedy piece of property, grandfathered in, full of life and history and family and the drinkers and tokers and sniffers and snorters. All in one easy-to-grab group. A net from a helicopter would work, scoop them up and take them away, drop them off, elsewhere. Where though? Jordan could hear Harold’s scolding, “Not in my backyard, is that it, Jay? Let them be someone else’s problem?”
Yes. No.
The sheriffs and firefighters chatted to Arnie, sharing a smoke with Fred, all pals and comradery. No masks. No social distancing. As if nothing had changed. And it hadn’t, not for some. The fire blazed. The party continued. The fire engine rumbled back to town, the sheriff loitered a tad too long for Jordan’s comfort, picturing the officer having a quick drink with his cousins, it was such a small town, they probably were related. Harold grew up locally and they’d both lived here for ten years now. Jordan was still considered a newcomer. A troublemaker. A tell-tale. There was no winning. The sheriffs had their favorites. Queers were not among them. Freaks.
Jordan slunk home.
After fixing the screen door the following weekend, Jordan stared at the extra screws in hand. The golden gleam, the sharp points, the thick head that made them stand on end. Yes. Screws. Did they have any old ones, rusted ones in the shed? They must do, everyone does, and so Jordan looked around for that can of random old nails and screws, finding a pile on the shelf under the worktable and grabbed a handful for another time.
Back inside, Jordan made a pot of tea for them both, that newish Throat Strength flavor given how smoky the air had been for days now and not just because of Arnie’s bonfires. Nope, wildfires in Colorado filled the horizon with an apocalyptic burnt orange glow. Harold was doing better though, he was chipper and bright, walking up and around without pain, without the stitches tearing or stinging. He wanted to dress up and head into town, a fancy dinner perhaps, but where could they go given the pandemic shut down? That stumped them both.
“What about on the patio at Gabriel’s?”
“Too loud with the highway.”
“Or howabout we drive to Taos and find somewhere near the plaza, get a room, wander round together, arm in arm?”
Jordan smiled at the thought, realizing that would be a perfect time to toss those rusty sharp nails on the road. A great excuse, alibi that is, they’d be out of town when the tires popped. Harold wandered off to the bedroom, looking for his reading glasses and phone, chatting about finding them a place within walking distance of everything. Yes, Harold needed this weekend away. A chance to stride around with this new body, this new beginning at age 53, he was excitedly talking about the Taos Inn versus Airbnb for comfort. It was left unsaid that now Maggie was dead, they had all these options for hotel rooms. A new start on life. A new sense of life’s possibilities. As if.
Jordan snuck out and carefully walked down the road to the open gate and driveway leading to Arnie’s. No one was up, a partly cloudy sky without the bright light to wake the nearly dead. With a lurch and instant regret, Jordan tossed five, only five, nails around the entrance, thinking the chances were low that any single tire would run over all of them, but that eventually one or two might puncture. With another look around at the cars and trailers and the remains of the fire glowing near one single wide, a glimmering of another idea for revenge slinked into mind. With that, Jordan strolled home, planning a small case of arson.
Taos was wonderful. The drive up though the Rio Grand Gorge was winding, empty, and lush with cottonwoods, fruit trees, farmland and small homesteads settled on the river. Gorgeous. After picking up some local peaches and a watermelon from the farm stand in Velarde, they stopped at the Embudo Station, for sale now, and they daydreamed about moving out there, living on the river, a studio looking upon the canyon to inspire Jordan’s next book of poetry, a follow up to the success from the year before. Harold talked about growing their food, especially now with the pandemic limiting what was available in the stores. At that price though ($750K), it was a Big Fat No. Jordan shrugged, not wanting to live in a narrow valley but somewhere open and bright, where you could see your enemies coming from miles away. Death Valley perhaps? Harold preferred the compact landscape, calling it safe, contained. How they still lived together was a wonder to them both but striding around hand in hand, they pretended to want the same things. They drove home playing with ideas, talking finally about the future even if it was all in vague terms that neither explained too carefully.
Later that afternoon, Jordan listened out for gossip at Donnie’s General Store, sitting on the porch with a paper cup of tepid bad coffee and eating an ice-cream. A few voices from inside talked conspiracy theories, still doubting the science, ignoring how their family and friends in other states were dying of Covid, no, they were anti-maskers all of them. It was a wonder no one had died in town yet, although rumor had it that there were two positive results in the zip code, but no one knew who it was exactly. Maybe it was friends of Arnie or Fred, would they pass it along to the local addict community? Or do decades of meth keep you alive, like having a body full of preservatives? Jordan listened in to the conversations going on within the store.
“Arnie’s sons are moving back, that’s what I heard, now that Billy is out again. They’ll need a place to crash, and Fred loves having them young boys around, nothing funny like, but you know, strong guys to cut the firewood and all that stuff,” Marge behind the counter was telling someone. “You remember Billy? Has that pure blue Pitbull that fathered all the other blue merle mixes? He’s a good boy as long as he takes the meds. It’s the brother I worry about, violent he is, not a nice boy but polite enough to me and the locals. It’s outsiders that his Jaime picks on. Not nice. Well, he’s family, grew up here so yes, I’ll be glad to see him back in the neighborhood, won’t you? Your girls will! Emily used to follow him all over the hills…and did you hear about Harriet? Double mastectomy, that’s what the Nelsons told me yesterday, you know, the twins who nurse at UNM? She did it voluntarily too! She always was an odd child…” and so Marge the Teller carried on.
Jordan cringed at them talking about Harold like this, waited for more of the usual murmur of gossip about the two of them. And what did Marge mean about the boy being violent? Damn.
With a bag of shopping–extra eggs, extra creamer, a roast chicken, and a six-pack of light beer– Jordan strolled home along the dirt roads across the mesa, worried. The junipers and pinons had dried browning tips, the ongoing drought stressing them to the tipping point, all were dying slowly.
Passing the broken-down SUV, Jordan stopped, it had become a symbol for everything fucked up with living there in the valley. A slight breeze. From twenty feet away, Jordan decided to throw their fresh organic brown eggs at the damn truck. With an aim not so great, the first ones completely missed the open windows and instead splattered all along the sides, crack, drip, pause and then crackdripcrackdrip, the frenzy and satisfaction, crackdripcrackdrip, and Jordan laughed out loud, a sense of potential so sudden and freeing. Alive again. Next up, half a carton of creamer got poured over the back leather seats. That should smell good in a few days. The chicken they’d eat that night with beer, quesadillas, and salad and then Jordan planned on tossing the carcass in the passenger window. And then burning it to the ground. Arson. Accident. Oops. Oh, sorry Officer, we didn’t hear a thing. We were gone.
After dinner, Harold leaned back in his wooden chair and looked around the room. It was full of his family’s belongings and not much to show of their life together or that’s how Jordan viewed it. There had been no space to settle in. Harold sat the chair firmly on four legs and smiled at Jordan, who blushed. It was if reading minds came easy to them both. “Would you like to move?”
Jordan was shocked, Harold had been so invested in keeping his family home that this had never been an option. “Yes. Absolutely. But…really? Where?”
“That’s the big question, isn’t it? Being in Taos made me think that perhaps it’s time to let go of this place and move along. Maggie would understand. We’d need to dig her up though, get her cremated. I can’t leave her here. My parents’ graves can stay. They’d not want to leave.”
Jordan finished chewing the chunk of tortilla and cheese, not sure what to say but thinking, yes, please, please, please, can we go now, tomorrow, put it on the market before I do something silly, something that gets us into trouble, locked away, because I might, I might, if I see Fred one more time walking across our meadow with a shotgun and pack of dogs, smiling as he does, humming Maggie by Rod Fuckin Stewart, I’ll kill him.
There had been total silence when they’d come back from the hospital. Jordan remembered too much, couldn’t go there, didn’t want to but the memories came in shards. The silence. No paws slapping on the tiles. A broken window. The door slightly open. A smell of cigarettes. Harold in pain, moving slowly. No lights. Silence. The kitchen table. Teacups broken. Flies on sugar. Fridge open. Broken glass. A smear of red on the mirror. Silence. Harold calling for Maggie. No dog. Calling Maggie again, louder. No paws on tiles. No wagging thump and thwack of tail on wood. Jordan’s breath short. The fear. Harsh bile in throat. Sandals on tiles. Kettle on for soothing tea. No dog. Silence. No dog. No dog. Study door open. Papers scattered. The poetry award broken. His books torn up. Silence. Harold waiting. Looking down. Maggie dead. Maggie’s throat cut. Blood on wood. Blood on the window. Blood on poetry. Words. Freaks. Jordan silent. No words left. Harold. In the Kitchen. Alone. And then Jordan there. Dogs blood on sandals. Maggie’s blood. Black. Eyes blank. Knees buckle. Screams bit back. Jordan’s mouth clenched. A trickle of vomit. Swallow. Walk back. Tell Harold. Call the sheriffs. Silence. A home dead silent.
The realtor came out the next morning, vibrating with excitement to represent this historic homestead. She wore heels, makeup heavily touched up around her eyes making them raccoon like, hair tipped up at the front and held in place with spray or glue or something. “Harriet Amos?” she’d asked seeing Jordan, a shy quiet presence at the door, and then Harold in the button-down shirt hovering in the background. She was confused and her blackened wide eyes, darted from one to the other, almost angry at the not-knowing. Funny how often that’s the reaction.
“It’s Harold, his home,” Jordan corrected, immediately pissed on his behalf, “I’ll be outside if you need me.”
Harold stood straight, happy to have been seen as anything but a Harriet. He ushered the realtor inside and lead her to the kitchen.
“Oh, sorry,” she glanced at her notes, swallowed back her questions, and walked into the old adobe with a calculating eye, head swiveling sideways, peeking into rooms, slowing down to appreciate the newly sanded and oiled wooden floor. It was truly a beautiful home. Jordan hated to but couldn’t held admire her focus. She adjusted to Harold’s name change in her need to make a commission. “I’ve heard all about your family, Harri– er, Harold, quite a history your grandparents had here, didn’t they? You’ve kept the place up nicely. The market is high right now. It’s a great time for sellers as everyone is trying to get out of the cities, all those crazy protestors stirring up troubles, and you know how it is in quiet towns like ours, so safe and accepting and I do love it here, don’t you, where will you go, do you have plans, is this the original sink and look, the fireplace, such lovely brick work, all very nice although we’ll have to address the dead truck on your road, not a good first impression is it, we should move it, I’ll ask Marge about it later on when I see her at the store…She probably knows what’s going on before any of us do!”
Haha, not funny, thought Jordan and left them to it.
The house dated back to 1896 supposedly. One of the first settlements in the Velarde valley on the way to Taos from Santa Fe. A great place to homestead, one of the few areas on the Rio Grande with enough flat land to farm, plant fruit trees, create a community and build something worth holding onto. Harold’s family was one of the first to build a home there, making the adobes themselves although they’d been wealthy enough to pay for help. The family legacy held on even as the homestead crumbled around them. Harold was too proud to ask for help but hadn’t a practical bone in him so the paint peeled, the floors needed replacing, there was dirt between the tiles and most of the wood in the hallway and two bedrooms needed resanding, and a good few of the doors should be rehung. It was free though, no mortgage, no water bills given the spring that fed their land, and only a few bills to pay each month. For that Jordan–and Harold– were thankful. Life with no financial stress. Creative. Gentle. Unchallenging.
Fred stood at the front door the next evening, no mask. “You’re selling? I heard from Marge at the store that you two are leaving the valley, is that right? Because your dog’s dead?” He deadened his cigarette butt on the dirt and picked it back up. “I might be interested in buying it, you know?”
“Business that good, eh?”
“Bumpy.” Fred, all five foot six, grinned, tooth missing, scars and speed bumps, hair tied back and bandana hanging low from his neck. Fred was an anti-masker. Anti-everything that didn’t fit his traditional macho mindset, that’s how Jordan saw him, as the ultimate single man holding onto a world long gone. Fred grinned again, chin up, eyes flashing. “Well? You want to tell Harriet for me?”
Jordan adjusted the N95 and stepped out of the door, closing it behind softly. “No.”
Fred took a step back instinctively but then chest out, hands hanging next to his pockets. “What?”
The hummingbirds fluttered off the porch, desperate to get to their feeder. Fred tossed his cigarette butt at one of them but missed it. Jordan noticed a flash of color near the front gate but looked back at the scrawny man on the steps. “No. You do not get to force us out of here and then buy Harold’s family home from us. We’d not leave it to you.”
Fred’s mouth opened, he spat and then chuckled. Jordan’s palms sweated. Nothing happened. Silently, they stood there, one tall, one not, and stared, eyes dark and heavy with the stand-off. Jordan’s voice shook but didn’t dare back down. “If you even try to buy the fucking place, I’ll torch it.”
Fred laughed then. He spat off to the side and stepped of the porch, “Yeah, right, sure you will, you fucking girl. Freak. Just get the fuck out of town. I’ll buy the old place out from under you, just wait. Harriet wants money. You both want to leave. Trust me. It’ll be easier if you sell it to me. No realtor needed. No commissions. Cash. $75K sound okay? Ask your friend. ‘Show-us-your-tits-Harriet’.”
“Fuck you! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!”
Fred laughed and then said, “I inspire great passion.”
Nothing changed. Everything changed. Jordan knew time was running out, the ground shifted underfoot on so many levels. Fred grinned again and walked away, fingers up in the peace sign yet muttering, Freak.
And then, less than five minutes later and in the old unused tool shed, Jordan gathered up odds and ends, working out how to really mess with Fred. Get revenge. Spray paint? More nails? A glass bottle and rag. Gasoline. It’s not like Maggie was the first victim, first death, down their road, no, there was Jordan’s cat, George, a right wanderer, a sweetheart, he had explored one too many times and Jordan had heard the screaming, the dogs fighting over the little boy’s furry body, tearing him to shreds and the worse part, when told about how horrible it was, Harold blamed coyotes not anyone’s dogs. Even with Jordan describing the pitbulls from next door. And when Arnie had dropped off the brown bag of fur and bones, Jordan had hidden it from Harold, burying the cat’s remains down by the arroyo. Alone. Sobbing alone.
A crowbar? Yes, a plan was forming but Jordan had the soul of a poet and to be realistic, wasn’t going to do anything. Never had. Never would. Probably.
Jordan felt exposed, scared on a whole new level. Harold was out, visiting old friends in Santa Fe, a few hours away. He’d be staying overnight with them, a happy queer couple in their sixties. Jordan was only 43 and had little to say to them so had opted to stay home. It used to be fun, being alone with Maggie, taking midnight walks down the sandy arroyo, listening for coyotes, taking notes for future poems, daydreaming on the porch with her slow steady snores the only sound in the neighborhood.
Another truck flew past, windows open, voices carrying as they paused outside the gate, Show us your tits, Harriet! and with more hollering, drove past, stayed an hour and did the same on their way back out of the canyon. Jordan sat on the porch, steaming, and grateful to be alone. Another vehicle, an old sedan with no plates, did the same on the way in, that yell, that insult, that reminder. Marge had told everyone in town, was that it? Or was it Arnie or Fred, spreading rumors, applying the pressure, forcing them out and away, back to a city where they’d be safer. In theory.
Show us your tits. Show us your tits.
I inspire great passion.
Show us your tits.
Maggie, oh Maggie, Wake up, Maggie, I think I got something to say to you, Oh, Maggie, I couldn’t have tried any more.
Show us your tits.
The third time it happened, Jordan flew out of the rocking chair, grabbed a bandana, the N95 mask, gloves, a lighter from the kitchen, a newspaper, an empty wine bottle, a hammer, a knife, more nails, a mini bottle of Jameson, and a pot of apricot jelly.
In the yard, Arnie stood over another campfire with two young men, each with the same hooked nose and chinless squared off face, chunky all three of them. The family resemblance was scary as fuck, and Jordan had second thoughts. Then third ones. Hearing their laughter, their yelled taunts, and then the resolve returned. It was time. Fred was nowhere to be seen. It was relatively quiet over there, among the pinon and junipers and rusted out sedans and pickup trucks with broken axles, flat tires, mounds of empties, cans rolling in the wind, and little else. The three men drank back beers, tossing them aside, grabbing more. Jordan waited. They drank enough to sit down finally, dozing and laughing about their neighbors’ weird ways, singing along to Rod Stewart, off tune but with a lingering over Maggie’s name. Jordan pulled up the mask, hid the cream color with a dark green bandana, slipped on the latex gloves.
The boys’ Ford Taurus blocked the gate so Jordan crept close and slid nails under each tire, front and back, making sure whichever direction they drove, the nails would drive in. With a knife to pry open the engine compartment, Jordan carefully cut any and all thin wires within reach, then slowly lowered the hood. The hammer, with a light tap, cracked the front windshield. Knowing the ants would be drawn closer, Jordan smeared the jelly over the steering wheels. Creeping closer to the single wide, Jordan stuffed the paper into the bottle, doused it with Irish whiskey, propped it under the front steps of the manufactured house and lit it.
Fire engines flew down the road, five of them. A sheriff followed with lights and sound waking the dead. Maggie’s ghost hovered at the gate, a whisper of a bark, as Jordan sat in the dark and watched, horrified. Done. Done. Done. Neighbors sped past, hitting the speed bumps with yells of frustration, voices raised, Where’s Fred? Anyone seen Fred? Where’s Fredrik? Inside?
Jordan knocked back the last of the whiskey and tossed the bottle into their recycling on the side of the house. With lights out, it looked like no one was home, their one and only Prius wasn’t filling the parking spot out front by the cottonwood, no dog barking except in Jordan’s head. Alone. Watching. Thrilled. Terrified.
More fire trucks arrived; this must have been the biggest house fire in the area for ages given how everyone showed up to help. Arnie and his boys ran from one to another, doing who knows what, it was impossible for Jordan to hear or see much. Cars were blocking the driveways to the other homes nearby, there were people everywhere, chatting, drinking and smoking with kids held close, grandparents reminiscing the fire of 1987, young men eager to help but kept back by the officers, random dogs running underfoot, lights flashing in the dark midnight of early summer. Where’s Fred? The echo, the refrain, and the fear carried across the gate and fence and Jordan heard, then felt the words, the reality of them, the threat of the inferno’s death trap, and threw up.
The next morning, Harold came back just as the sheriffs turned up to ask a few questions. They both stood at the gate as Jordan watched from the porch with a mug of coffee in hand. Gulping.
“Morning folks. I’d like to talk to Jordan if I may? I’m Lt Maria Martinez with CID.”
Harold hadn’t even unpacked their car and was still asking about the mess along the road and the smell of smoke. Jordan hadn’t even had a chance to explain about the fire but as Harold walked up the path together towards their home, the officer did. In rather explicit details. Harold sat down hard on the top step to the porch as the Lt stood there, listing the extensive damage, and only then mentioning the loss of life. Arson. Murder.
Harold muttered, “Oh sorry Officer, I was out of town. I didn’t hear a thing. Who was it?
Fredrik?”
Jordan flinched, stomach clenched in terror and guilt, thinking this is not who I am.
Martinez nodded and said, “I hear that there’s been some tension between the two households?” Harold nodded but Jordan said little as the office continued, “and that, according to Arnie, Jordan here threatened to torch the place?”
They both turned to look at Jordan who blurted, “No! It was this house I meant.”
Harold’s mouth sagged, the shock probably, and the Lt.’s eyes had brightened, flicking between the two of them, assessing. Her expression threw out a silent question and Jordan knew to shut up but couldn’t let Harold think the worst. “No, I mean, it had been a joke and I’d said that we’d not let him have our place, even though he killed our dog, or that he’d yelled horrid stuff at you, or how he’d told me that he’d mess me up if I stayed here any longer or sold it our of the family to make money and so rather than sell, I’d burn it, you know, that’s when I’d told him we wouldn’t sell to him–”
“He wanted to buy us out?”
“It was a joke. His offer, that is, and mine, well, I didn’t mean it, obviously. I don’t have it in me to do something like that! I’m a poet not an arsonist!”
Jordan tried to make a joke of it but the officer replied with, “And that’s what I’d like to talk to you about. We have evidence to negate that.” Jordan blanched, the pink flush drained to a pale gray. “Game cameras.”
Harold’s legs bounced in place, folding forward in his chair, button down shirt bright in comparison to his eyes, dark blackened holes that pierced Jordan’s soul. “No. Please tell me no. What did you do? Who are you? A killer?”
“That’s not who I am!”
“Jordan Swartz, I’d like to invite you to the station for a few questions.”
A blue and green hummingbird hovered in place, eyeing the bird feeder surrounded by humans, flickering in the morning heat and air tinged with smoke and burned trash. Jordan gulped back the last of the tepid coffee and as if unworried set the empty mug on the wooden deck.
“Are you arresting me?”
Martinez said nothing but she stepped closer and then the bird flew off, barely missing Harold’s shoulder and then Jordan’s words broke through the silence with a screech of fear. “You can’t! I didn’t, I didn’t mean it. Honest! Harold! Please, you know me, you do. That’s not who I am!”
Harold looked at the birds fluttering around the apricot trees, hands clenched but quiet.
Lt Martinez held out her own hands, open, no handcuffs, no gun, nothing but the camera on her lapel, recording every shake and sob. Another sheriff appeared from behind her, walking up the pathway, bland blue mask hiding any expressions. His hands rested on the utility belt but seeing the shake of Martinez’ head, stayed back, and waited patiently, gate open. A faded orange stuffed elephant lay near his polished boots, it was one of Maggie’s many toys still scattered throughout their home and yard. The sheriff kicked at it and Jordan’s heart broke open. Tears flowed unchecked and hands shook, and bare feet tapped on the deck and toes curled up as Jordan rocked down to bury face in hands, gulping for air, no words, no words, there was nothing left.
2. Photos Sleam’s Artwork with new offerings: After years of mostly doing cartoons or text, I’m getting into painting. I didn’t know that watercolors would convey the vibrant colors of Mexico so well. This winter, I focused on capturing the streets, homes, and beaches of Baja California Sur. They’re available as downloadable files to print as well as on various practical things like mugs, totes, wearables, mouse-pads and more! I’m having fun. I hope you like them.
3. Wanderlust Journal: SUBMISSIONS OPEN! We’re taking ideas through the website contact form, just give a sense of what you want to share with our international audience of over 179,000 so far! We focus on personal experiences, approx 1500 words, include a short synopsis and bio please. Thanks, Brianna and Sarah
4. Check out the travel poetry books available through Wild Dog Press
5. Writers: If you are looking for a developmental editor, check out how I can help your writing become what you aim for, building upon your skills and showing you patterns that might or might not like to continue using…I’m working with Tongass Mist Writers in Alaska. Have a look here: https://www.tongassmist.com/event-details/commit-to-the-page-a-10-month-manuscript-revision-and-publishing-quest
6. Donations really help. Wanderlust Journal is a free online resource for publishing and reading travel essays and photo-stories. Same for Substack. Pretty much for everything I do…! It’s lucky I live in a little caravan (Travel trailer to you) and enjoy nature more than shopping. Anyway, even if you can only give a little, it helps me do what I’m committed to doing, ever since a teenager, and that is documenting other lifestyles, cultures, experiences.
Think of these projects next time you are able to give a little, thank you.
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