The Middle of Somewhere(103)

“Russ here. Tell me you’re not selling me something.”

“I’m not selling you anything. It’s Liz.”

“You don’t say! This time of day all I get are salespeople.”

“You’re a salesperson.”

“You got me there, kiddo.” He took a swig of something and smacked his lips. “You pick up my message?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I thought I’d give you a jingle. Sounds like one helluva camping trip.”

She couldn’t help but laugh.

“Read about those guys in the paper.” He whistled. “Blew up their dad with a rigged door, then ran off with the goods from the family pot farm, plus the other stuff. What’s it called?”

“Meth.”

“Yeah, meth. That’s it. Boosted a truck, too. With a gun in it, naturally. Maybe killed that actor. Bronson?”

“Matthew Brensen.”

“He’s the one. Anyhoo, that’s a considerable amount of wrongdoing. Lucky you didn’t get hurt.”

“Only a little.”

“What? Oh, right. Your arm. Your mother mentioned a fellow. A Mexican guy. He your boyfriend?”

“He’s more than that,” she said.

“You don’t say. Well, that’s nice. It’s not healthy to be alone.”

Relationship advice from her father. The world was officially upside down.

He cleared his throat. “Your mother and I went camping a lot, even a couple of backpacking trips. Had some great times.”

This was more information than she’d ever received about her parents. “Where did you go?”

“Bandelier, the Pecos, Sedona, around Flagstaff. All those places I took you. Used to go there to dry out from Seattle.”

And she had thought her camping trips with her father had been about economizing, not connecting her to his past.

He went on. “And it looks like you got the hiking bug. That’s nice.”

“I do love the mountains.”

“Remember that time in Bandelier? You aren’t still afraid of thunderstorms, are you?”

“I’m working on it.”

“That’s good. I wouldn’t like to think anything happened on my watch that scarred you for life.” He chuckled at the idea.

“I think you would have had to try harder. There weren’t many watches.”

“I suppose not.” His tone signaled increasing boredom. “Well, it’s bedtime out here, and the grandkids are coming over tomorrow.”

She wondered which one of the half siblings she’d never met had had children. She tried to conjure an image of Russ holding a baby, and failed. “I won’t keep you. Thanks for calling.”

“No problem. You take care. Maybe I’ll be out there one of these days.”

“Maybe you will.”

“If my back isn’t a mess, maybe we could even go for a little hike somewhere.”

“I’d like that, Russ.”

She rented a car in Albuquerque and drove north, arriving at Claire’s house in the late afternoon. Claire hugged her at the door and ushered her inside. Her mother had made unusual flourishes of hospitality: takeout from Enrico’s in the fridge, a jar of chrysanthemums on her nightstand and a pair of fuzzy slippers by the bed. When Liz thanked her, she shrugged. “It’s so little, really. And the tile floors do get chilly this time of year.” They drank tea and shared a scone at the chipped blue table. Her mother slurped her tea and chewed gracelessly, the inevitable consequence of too many solitary meals. She spoke of the recent death of a close friend, and of the stoicism of another battling cancer.

“She’s my age,” she said, squinting beyond the bare branches at the window, as if she might see what lay in store for her. Without looking down, she swept the crumbs to the floor.

The next day they walked along the river and across to the plaza. Liz slowed her pace to match her mother’s. She had never been conscious of Claire’s age before; her mother had always been colorful, inviolable and ageless. They approached the Romanesque cathedral, whose large, square towers, Corinthian columns and rose window contrasted dramatically with the ubiquitous adobe buildings.

Claire said, “I attend mass here from time to time. For the singing.”

She pictured her mother at the far end of a pew, but not at the rear—Claire wasn’t a lurker—humming and swaying to hymns that were to her only songs. Liz imagined if her mother returned for ten, fifteen years, she might absorb the church’s religion the way its stones absorbed the sun’s heat. A song could become an anthem.