DECODING DEMONS

From the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
Read companion poem, read original poem

Chapter 9: Decoding Demons

New Mexico moon has a habit of getting lost on its way to May mornings causing dawn to be dark, dank, and dangerously disconcerting. On such mornings, one wants to wait for the sainted topography of the Sangre’s to give their blessing, but once they do, the sun explodes over the mountains in a singular burst of awesome awakening so intense even laissez faire trust-funders take notice.

Jake mounts his well-traveled touring bike, it’s the one with worn handlebar tape and a large scrape down the left front fork from that incident in Las Cruces where he had to slide along the sidewalk to avoid a distracted driver. His bones brace in cold anticipation of the hard terrain ahead; his muscles, steeped in memories of similar rides, measures his mood weary of what’s to come. The Trek 420 is not his fastest bike, it’s the one he values most and is his go-to ride when worries need full attention. The long frame and melodic gear ratios allow him to slip into thought so smoothly he seldom realizes how hard he’s working or to what extent his endurance is being drained. As both feet lock into their pedals, he begins his descent down the packed-gravel driveway shifting his weight from side to side in an effort to loosen stiff shoulders.

“What’ll it be, what’ll it be,” he sings to the cold dry day pressing against his face. Jake never decides in advance where he’ll ride, that’s something best left to the moment. When the softness of cottonwoods beacon, he turns east along the High Road to Taos. If the glide down the driveway leaves him feeling rascally, he heads north toward Española to splash through cool morning air flowing down the Rio Grande valley. Some rides seek the solace of sun and for that, he vectors south toward Santa Fe. Today though, with so much on his mind, he puts del Sol on his back and shoulders west toward Los Alamos. Even in the predawn darkness, the magical Jemez Mountains carve out the westward horizon like a demure damsel not yet ready to reveal her charms.

What makes the ride to LA best for thinking, is seeing the rising sun chase night shadows down the eastern slope of Pajarito, it clears the head and settles the soul. The ride’s not the most serene, that would be the High Road to Taos, but the shoulders are paved, the terrain’s mostly flat through San Ildefonso Pueblo, and the climb up Pajarito doesn’t start until the other side of Ottowi Bridge. The ride doesn’t demand constant attention to traffic or the optimal use of gears leaving the mind free to wander.

Most days, the best part about cycling through the early morning desert is manipulating math equations; it’s either that or sing and even early rising roadrunners don’t want that. Jake measures progress toward a problem’s solution in mile marker units; it’s his gage to whether the inevitability of dementia has made inroads. Of course, as he logically concludes, “if I forget my math, I’ll forget I forgot.” Unfortunately, today’s not a day for indulging in mathematical frivolity. “Last night’s so freaking off the charts,” he groans between strained breaths. “I have to invent charts just to chart how freaking far off the charts I am.”

For the first nine mostly flat miles, Jake deconstructs last night; he’s so lost in thought he doesn’t register crossing Ottowi Bridge or starting the long climb up Totavi Hill. Dawn is still trapped in darkness, but commuting Labbies have started their daily caravan. “The first order parameters are fixed,” Jake lectures the road, “and it goes without saying you can’t own someone.” He subconsciously gears down as the grade abruptly rises. “Then there’s Miguel, that sociopath’s a rather random variable.” Jake instinctively holds his line just on the shoulder side of the highway providing one less thing to think about. “Pretty sure his demented crap’s coming back to bite me.”

“Shit!” Jake shouts, looking back in panic, “It’d be just like the rat bastard to run me down from behind.” In sudden manic mode, he spins up a cadence of its own until the grind of the gradient ratchets him back to the day’s pressing problem. “Dario’s little diddy’s gonna have ripples.” As Jake works through obvious aspects of his dilemma, he’s cognoscente of the coy way his mind pretends to meander in an effort to avoid converging toward the singular question, “what the hell do I do with the woman in my guest bed?”

As the intensity of his debate rages up Totavi Hill, solutions remain elusive. He’s passing the Indian gas station, the only commercial business on this otherwise desolate road, when he hits his eureka moment. “When you’re right, you’re right,” he rewards himself with a prideful boast. Braking hard then releasing just before the bike stops, he utilizes the remaining forward momentum to abruptly u-turn allowing the gravity of grade to take over. “Freaking can’t believe I forgot my phone!” he frantically vents while rising in the saddle to accelerate.

In what seems like the very next breath, Jake ramps up his driveway in the still cold, calm, barely light dawn. In an hour the sun will be busy providing the requisite energy for another round of fierce Santa Annas, but right now his body is awash in sweat, his hands numb from cold, his muscles achy from lack of proper road management during the hurried ride home, and his lungs strained at the edge of hyperventilation. “How the hell do you forget your freaking phone?” Jake glides toward the courtyard, unlocks his feet from their peddles, then discards his cherished touring bike against the rough stucco wall. He flies across the flagstone courtyard; his metal cleats crashing the quiet. Scurrying through the tasting room to the kitchen counter, he grabs the phone lying next to a large stack of mail he meant to read before his ride and anxiously speed-dials. “Come on damn it.”

“Hey, Doc,” Dario causally answers.

“Hey Dario, what’s up?” Jake’s never been on board with the Northern New Mexico custom of starting conversations with nonsensical chit-chat.

“Not a damn thing, how about you?”

“Just finished my ride.” Jake rifles through his mail quickly realizing it hasn’t gotten any more interesting. “You need to come over right now.”

“Sorry, Doc, I’m halfway to Alamosa.”

“What the hell you doing in Colorado?”

“Getting hay for my colt.”

“I need you to come get the woman.”

“Sorry, Doc, I gotta get hay.”

“She doesn’t speak English,” Jake argues.

“Ain’t much on Spanish either,” Dario casually replies.

Jake storms into the tasting room so he can quietly shout. “What the hell am I supposed to do with her?”

“She’s in shock, Doc, just make her comfortable till I get back, then I’ll run her up to my Abuela’s. No one’ll find her the in Pecos.”

Jake stares anxiously out the tasting room window. “Doesn’t do much for me now does it?” He looks past the kitchen down the hallway to where the bedrooms are.

“Ya just got to get her to eat and keep her moving.”

“How the hell do I do that?”

“You’ll figure something out.”

“You picked a crappy time for a road trip.”

“Stop fretting, Doc, you’ll do fine.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Look, Doc, I’m going around Antonito Peak and will lose my signal. Just get her up and keep her moving. “I’ll be there tonight.”

“You mean evening.”

“Might be later, Lonnie’s, got something to show me.”

“No stopping for beers!”

Dario laughs. “Okay, Doc, but listen, here’s how you get people in shock moving, you need to-”

Jake stares at his phone in utter dismay. “Shit!” He paces up and down the length of the tasting room. “SHIT, Shit, shit! There was a plan,” he mumbles. “A damn good plan.” He systematically eliminates all his preferred options until all that’s left is doing what Dario prescribed. Reluctantly he heads toward the hallway devising strategies as he goes. Stopping at the guest room door, he starts to knock but doesn’t, then restarts, only there’s no answer. “Hola,” he calls out. When no one responds, he knocks louder. “Hola? Dario says it’s time to get up.” Slowly he pushes the door open but as soon as it moves, a cascading chorus of empty cans and bottles crash on the hardwood floor and bounce about shattering the quiet. Jake pushes the door and debris enough to poke his head inside, noticing that the bed’s not been disturbed.

“You here?” he asks with both worry and potential relief. Pushing the door further causes cans and bottles to skid and tumble. While not happy about remnants of yesterday’s trash spewed across the floor, he’s impressed by her clever resolution to the need to feel safe in a room without locks. Slowly Jake steps inside allowing hallway light to follow. As his eyes adjust, he finds the woman sitting on the floor tucked between the closet and bed still wearing last night’s mud-crusted party dress and clutching one of his kitchen knives. Her legs are pulled tight against her chest with arms wrapped around her knees as she stares blankly at Jake offering no form of cognition.

“You hungry?” Jake slowly approaches uncertain who’s more scared. “Maybe you could whip something up for breakfast?” When she offers no response, he feels embarrassed. “It’s just that you’ve got a pretty good grip on my chef’s knife and I for one would like to think it’s for cooking.” He attempts to chuckle but prolonged silence on her part creates increased awkwardness on his. “You know, because knives are for cooking.” He strokes the undisturbed bed allowing himself to momentarily be distracted with better memories. “Did you sleep? I can’t remember if that’s good or bad.”

Jake studies the woman who continues to stare without expression. “Can you even hear me?” He sits on the edge of the bed recalling countless times he reassured his daughter things get better. He decides to try what always works with her. “Let’s do something. Doesn’t have to be breakfast.” He tries making eye contact but it’s not possible to connect with someone who’s comatose. “What do you like to do in the morning?”

The woman offers no reaction.

“How about we start with a shower?” Jake hops off the bed. “I usually shower after a ride, but you’re welcome to first dibs.” He squats down to her eye level careful to stay back a few feet. “Here’s the deal, we need to be moving. Let’s agree to clean up. My wife has clothes. Of course, you knew she would, right? You’re a little taller, a touch thinner. But they’ll fit.” Jake tilts his head in an attempt to make eye contact, which causes the woman to avert her stare. “Finally,” he sighs taking that as a victory. “I’m gonna get some clothes.”

The woman looks at Jake without expression but still, it’s something. “I’ll only be gone a sec.” He backs out of the room. “Don’t go anywhere.” Scurrying across the hallway, Jake quickly returns with several sets of cloths that he methodically spreads across the bed, gently arranging each piece. “These are Emelia’s-” His voice suddenly drops, as if he’s not allowed to speak her name, as the distance of memories collide with the harshness of right now. “She has very good taste,” he forces himself to say while stroking the white dress with bold splashes of tiny random colored flowers that Emelia often wore. “She’s beautiful, no matter what she wears.”

Jake knows from far too many difficult nights, thinking too much about what happened never ends well. Summoning well practiced determination, he wills himself around reflection. With anxious agility he pops into the bathroom. “I’ll start the shower. There’s soap and clean towels,” he shouts to his guest in the other room, “probably a hairbrush in the drawer.” He returns from the bathroom hoping to find her up; when she’s not, he mills around the bed unsure what to say. “Just- you know- take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen, whenever you’re ready.” He backs into the hallway gently closing the door and waits for some sort of confirmation she’s up. He’s just about to re-enter when the sound of cans and bottles being reassembled against the door provides validation.

Thirty-minutes later the woman from last night softly enters the kitchen where the table’s set with juice, milk, and flour tortillas. The enticing aroma of bacon-frying, green chili warming, and pinion coffee brewing, creates an invitation impossible to resist. Jake looks up from the stove in the kitchen’s island literally losing his breath. The woman’s long black hair is brushed smooth but still wet. Her face though far from normal, maximized the effectiveness of makeup even though makeup can’t conceal the sins of Cinco de Mayo. The white sun dress with tiny flowers boldly contrasts her dark skin and wet hair betraying a falsetto sense of life. “Wow!” he reacts, “you look so-, alive.”

He immediately realizes his insensitivity so rushes around the island to awkwardly escort her to a chair. He attempts to help settle but she recoils at his touch backing away from the table. “I made breakfast,” he proudly announces while hurriedly shuttling to the stove to prepare two plates. He quickly returns and sits down opposite of where she’s supposed to sit. “I made way too much, so you’ll need to help.” The woman simultaneously looks with lust at the food and with fear at Jake. Slowly she approaches the table, sits down, and greedily grabs a tortilla before chopping up her basted eggs. “I have salsa.” Jake says while dashing to the refrigerator. “Gotta have salsa on huevos.” She passes on the condiment but accepts his offer of milk and juice.

Able to finally relax, Jake settles in to enjoy breakfast. Halfway through though, he looks up forcing a smile. “It’s okay,” he tells her. “Not talking I mean. I’m quite good at quiet.” After only a few seconds, the silence becomes a distraction. “So, how about them Cubs?” The woman looks up without expression. “It’s what my Dad says to overcome silence, he’s a die-hard fan. You follow baseball?” Jake waits for a response that’s not forthcoming. “South Americans all follow baseball. You must know Sammy Sosa? Dominican, I believe. Sweet Swinging Sammy Sosa!” Jake smiles to no response. “Watched him play once, caught a matinée at Wriggly while in town for a conference. My Dad grew up a few blocks from Wriggly. He’d go to every game, but that was back when kids could afford to watch the Cubs.”

When baseball doesn’t get the response he needs, Jake falls back to the solace of silence analyzing the extent to which his attempt at conversation was massively lame. After a few bites, the emptiness of quiet gets the better of him. “Guess I’ve forgotten how to make reasonable conversation,” he offers, “but here’s the deal, you eating is the Ying. Next, we need to get you moving; that’s the Yang.” He starts brainstorming out loud, not caring if she participates. “We could go for a walk?”

“That’s lame,” he answers on her behalf.

“How about I show you around the distillery?”

“Doesn’t seem interesting,” he again answers for her.

“What about a drive? The high road to Taos is pretty this time of year?”

“Doesn’t really get us moving, does it?”

“We could run up to the Wind River and watch stupid people play slots?”

“Seriously?”

“Sorry, that was insensitive.”

Jake leans over his plate resting his chin on top of his hands. “What’s a guy like me supposed to do with a woman like you the morning after Cinco de Mayo?” The woman keeps her head down offering no response. Jake’s about to resume eating when suddenly he hits on the day’s second eureka moment. “I have it!” he proudly announces slapping both hands on the table in such jubilant satisfaction it startles his unexpected guest. “We’ll go to church!”

His new plan is so perfect that when the woman doesn’t respond, Jake decides it warrants translation. “Christo! Domingo Santuario. Guadalupe. Padre.” He makes the sign of the cross. “Mass? Comprehendo?” Jake doesn’t expect conversation; he’s just hoping for acknowledgment. He stares across the table like a loco gold miner discovering a vein at the moment desperation almost caused him to give up hope. Slowly, the woman looks up from her mostly mopped up plate.

Sunlight streaming through the window emphasizes her messed-up mixture of make-up and bruises. While one eye is swollen shut, the other struggles just to focus. Her lower lip is puffy and split in several places and cosmetics cannot conceal the scratches and cuts on her cheeks and neck. With a solemness devoid of emotion, empty of expectation, the woman softly whispers, “Si.”

“Yes!” Jake’s shouts. “Te quiero santuario?”

“Si,” she again whispers, careful to not to look up or make eye contact.

“Way cool!” Jake jubilantly shouts. “Padre’ll know what the hell to do.”