Shutter(43)

The front of Grandma’s house appeared before me just as easily as the swing had suspended itself from the nothingness of the sky. Snow and frost covered every leaf and rock as I ran into the garage door. Grandma stood in the open doorway of her kitchen, the hot liquid of her coffee sending clouds of steam out of the backdoor screen. She looked out into the vast white and cried. Her face did not turn to me.

I pushed her front door open and walked into the winter nothing, where the sky and ground were indistinguishable. There was no horizon for me to find my way. I panicked and turned to follow the path I had made, but my own tracks had vanished, covered by the blowing snow at my back. It was then that I noticed the light in the distance. It moved quickly. I had to shield my eyes against its yellow glare. As it came closer, I realized it was the red truck; it was moving again, the evil ghost of a horrible memory. It slowed and the window rolled down.

“Get in,” Gloria barked.

“I’m not waiting for you, you know,” her boyfriend offered.

I looked through the window, trying to see his face, but he was only a shadow in the darkness, a voice coming from nowhere. No matter how hard I tried, I could never remember what that man looked like. The dream did not want to help me remember either. I used the door to pull myself into the truck.

“Where are we, Gloria?” I asked. It was dark outside, but I could see the lights of traffic passing by. We were moving.

“Shhhhh.” Gloria put her finger over her mouth.

“Rita. Rita. Take my picture.” Erma put her hand over Gloria’s mouth and laughed.

The voices echoed between dream and reality. My eyes opened, sticky and tortured. There Gloria sat, her head wound fresh as the day she died, her gaze strong and intense. I could smell her, like sweet corn and the exhaust of the road. Gloria, here in my bedroom with Erma’s ghost. Gloria seemed unable to speak.

“Rita? Take my picture!” Erma’s anger boiled.

This time her voice was deep and sinister. The force of it shook me awake. I looked over at Chris, who was still in a deep sleep. I couldn’t stay in that bed, no matter how much I wanted to.

“Rita!” Erma yelled, then pushed Gloria out of her way.

She lunged at me, trying to reach for my hand, but I turned and ran into my bathroom, slamming the door behind me. I pushed my face against the linoleum of the bathroom floor and peered beneath the door. Nothing. Maybe it was the booze. Or the lack of sleep. I was seeing things. Then, Erma knocked. Hard.

“Rita!”

The knocking was constant until its beat matched the pulsing of my heart. I feared that the wood in the door might splinter. I watched four spots of blood from my nose appear on the bathroom floor as the walls of my vision closed in. I lay down in a panic and went to sleep.





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Plaubel Makina I—Folding Bellows Plate Film Camera

GRANDMA SAT BESIDE me in the truck, her head moving back and forth with the shifting traffic. As Grandma’s truck jetted toward Gallup, I felt the weightlessness of home and smiled at the landmarks that still stood. Nothing had changed.

As I drove us toward the sun, Grandma’s chin touched her chest, her snores moving in and out. I couldn’t believe that I had spent so much time away from home. That haunting connection I had to this land had become weak in my time away. Phone calls replaced visits.

“I don’t want you coming to see me out here,” Grandma would say. “There is nothing for you.” This was her mantra.

Grandma enjoyed some of the comforts of the city. She never denied that. She loved to go to the grocery store most of all because there were so many more good vegetables in the markets, beautiful bunches of lettuce and brightly colored fruit. But when I offered to bring them out to her, she always claimed she had plenty and insisted on coming to visit me instead, sometimes bringing Mr. Bitsilly along for the ride.

“It’s too hot out there,” Grandma explained. Or, “It’s too cold and the roads are bad.” I knew she was just keeping me away.

There was only one Christmas that we spent at Grandma’s house—the Christmas when I was twelve years old. Grandma knew it was going to snow for Christmas, knew how much I loved the snow, and made sure that I was there. On Christmas Eve, the snow began to fall at about six o’clock in the evening and didn’t let up. When I woke on Christmas morning, the snow came up to my hips and was packed all the way to the screen door. I made a path for Grandma out to her truck with the ash shovel from the fireplace and brought in six or seven armfuls of wood from the garage. We were stuck in the house for two days, stoking the fire until the sun came out and made the land as bright as eternity.

“The devil is whipping his wife,” Grandma said, and looked into the sky. I ran out to play in the snow and saw the ghost of my cousin Gloria in the haze of white. I called out to her. I saw her head turn to look, then she disappeared into nothing. Maybe it was just me wishing that I saw her. Unfortunately, Grandma heard me. I still remember what she said.

“You talking to ghosts is going to come back and bite you like a snake. Do you hear me? Like a snake.” She turned and went back inside. I felt the sting of sun and snow on my cheeks and followed Grandma into the house. All these years later, I realized she was right.

When I pulled into the driveway, Grandma was still fast asleep, head against the window, her purse in her lap with her hands perfectly folded over the leather. Grandma’s grizzled dog Zoe greeted us with a faint bark, her fur matted with reservation dust. When I got out of the car, she jumped and barked at my feet until I paid attention.