The Soul as Strange Attractor

By Gregory S Trachta

“The Soul as Strange Attractor,” is a collection of stories described by one reader as “literary fiction edged with magic realism elements,” in which, “early stories play out in the background and wings of later,” ones. As the characters speak, their intent is the truth, and they, mostly, take themselves seriously. We need not, but if we share their sincerity, something cardinal, beyond their control, may arise like gravity waves from the edgeless outermost.
The stories are set in the decades after WW II, with a few echoes from earlier times. The anchoring geography is the Sierra Fangoso Mountains, west of Las Cruces, New Mexico, where aeons of adventurers have left trails and marks. The little mountain village of Mudgap, founded on gold fever and lately sustained by military and tourist energy, is prominent. If some readers doubt the existence of places not found on a map, they might consider that neither maps nor dictionaries were passed out with the Ten Commandments. “The Soul as Strange Attractor” doesn’t pretend otherwise.
The stories come from the typical interests of Mudgap residents: blood on the White Sands, childhood pranks, the rending of reality, the tedium of infidelity and self-inspection, tall tales, taller tales, the Viet Nam war, Dr. Reich’s Orgone Accumulator, Buddy Bolden’s lost recordings, space aliens, the true meaning of Christmas, the Crown of Aleppo, suspected ghosts, and, of course, coming of age (or ages). Time is a silent character in all the stories, miming and mugging his way through the scenes, and not in the background either, but largely unnoticed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gregory S Trachta
• Release date: Mar 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310529382

Gregory S Trachta

Gregory S Trachta is a long time resident of Mudgap, New Mexico. The locals know him by another name but they accept his affectations and are even good-natured about his indiscretions with their privacy, although a few are oppugnant to his meddling and hostile to perceived corruptions of their stories. “That’s not the way it happened at all,” is sometimes asserted. Still, they tolerate him, and, most days, he can be seen poking around the area, looking for a good anecdote.Prior to taking up residence in Mudgap, he was a frequent visitor from the various locations his research in theoretical pragmatism took him: California, Missouri, Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Massachusetts, and so on and so on. He can be seen, in his profile picture, heading confidently into, one supposes, the future.

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THE SOUL AS STRANGE ATTRACTOR

Gregory S. Trachta

Copyright © 2015 Gregory S. Trachta

Distributed by Smashwords

Published by Gregory S Trachta through Rockman Canyon Press, USA

Cover by Vera Blue Raven Studio, VeraBlueRaven.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

The Soul as Strange Attractor is a collection of fictional stories. All characters and incidents are fictional. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Hyperspace addresses pertinent to this book are:

Mudgapnm.com

TheSoulasStrangeAttractor.blogspot.com

[e-mail]

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

A Foreword From the Chorus

Little Henry

Dog Days

Goodbye For Now

Crawfish Trails

The Divine Cavallard

Panic Of '37

Out There, Orgone

Christmas Wrap

Dry Leaves Scattered

Line Of Sight

Big Henry

An Afterword From the Bear Hill Players

This book is dedicated to Rita, who makes it possible.

A Foreword From the Chorus

Most of the characters in these stories find that title pretentious.

They don’t even know what it means.

Pretentious? Everyone knows that. Maybe not Parker Harvey.

Not ‘pretentious,’ you fraud. ‘Strange attractor.’ They’re clueless.

Well, so are you.

Oh, stop it, you two! So tiresome. ‘Strange attractor’ isn’t the problem. Where is the soul anyway: heart, brain, lymphatic glands or what? Gallbladder?

Everyone misses the point. Where is the soul? That’s the point exactly.

You said he missed the point.

Look between the dimensions.

That means nothing. What does that mean?

Look at a hologram. Do you see a picture? Where is the picture in a hologram?

Oh, bother. It’s everywhere.

Everywhere, and you can’t see it anywhere.

You need the right light, you idiot!

Okay, people. You’re losing the audience.

They used to have a strange tractor out at Lownde’s Salvage Yard.

Attractor you fool, not tractor.

It used to start up all by itself.

That’s ridiculous. Was it haunted?

It would start up all by itself and head toward the river.

That does sound like a strange tractor, all right.

Attractor! Strange attractor!

Can we get beyond the title? Okay?

It’s like a sand painting. A few grains here. A few there.

Would someone please turn the page?

Little Henry

When Pete walked down from Bohannon’s grave, the icy dusk of early February locked his seventy-year-old knees like rusty hinges. He grabbed the crank under the driver’s seat. The ancient, patchwork Ford confessed the derelictions of his estate: passenger door locked with a few neat twists of baling wire, crumbling steering wheel re-covered in binder twine, and the new-fangled, but broken, automatic spark advance now controlled through a hole in the dash by a push rod fashioned from a hay-rake tine. The engine spluttered. Pete crawled into the cab and tuned the spark and choke. His broken tire chains jingled through the snow from Mudgap’s Old Settlers Cemetery, past the statue of Colonel Bujeanne and around to the Paige Hotel, where he killed the engine and coasted into a snow bank for a bouncing stop.

In the lobby a red glow marked the bowl of a blistering potbelly stove; a black pipe ran across the ceiling to the flue. Young soldiers crowded around, celebrating their imminent freedom from the military. Someone had rigged a shortwave radio, and the serious-minded listened to news from Nuremburg, spellbound by the horror of testimony about Auschwitz and Dr. Josef Mengele. Pete dropped four dollars on the registration desk and picked up a room key. Scorched beef and buttered potatoes beckoned from the dining room. The Andrews Sisters were singing Rum and Coca-Cola from the jukebox in the Colonel Bujeanne Bar. Pete headed toward the music.

Pete hadn’t visited Mudgap for a decade. The bar looked different. Fluorescent lights dangled from the tin ceiling like bumper lights on a giant pinball machine. A mixed guild of drinkers in uniforms, suits, bibbed overalls and, Pete’s choice, boots and hats, populated a mahogany bar with a wooden footrest. Some settled on leather-topped stools; others stood among friends or hoping to be noticed. A dozen tables were overfilled. Crowd noise bounced from the metal ceiling into Pete’s dimming ears like the drone of tires on pavement. He took a stool near the door and greeted the bartender.

Howdy, Partner. Name’s Pete. Lived around here, ‘while back. Happy crowd tonight.

Happy time, Pete. War’s over. Been a long row to hoe. I’m Billy Bob. What can I get you?

What I’d give for a Jim Beam, Pete laughed. He shoved his hat up and leaned back, palming the bar’s shiny surface for balance. You got any whisky at all?

Dream on, Pete, Billy Bob told him. Haven’t had Jim Beam since 1943, and if I had it, could you afford it? Got some Schenley’s. Not cheap either.

Cowboy cocktail, Pete nodded. Polecat piss. Oh well, give me some rum and coke. That’s what the ladies on the record box are selling. Got Bacardi?

Coming up, Billy Bob said, but Pete had another thought.

Got anything in here to eat?

Billy Bob leaned over the bar, his disgusted eyes on the door. Waitress is late, Pete. We’re waiting on her, tonight. You and everyone else. He waved his arm at the table patrons serving themselves from the bar.

Ramona’s car hadn’t started for days. Her papa said it was the battery. She didn’t even try it anymore, but hadn’t adjusted to walking the mile from her parents’ apartment in the Rocas Gordo. She gripped her wool coat and listened to the brittle crunch of snow beneath her peep-toe wedges. The bleak day vanished behind darkened peaks, sucking the last warmth from the little mountain village. Billy Bob would be mad again, but so what? What did he expect? He was barely paying her anything at all. She’d told him she had a son to support, and he kept giving her those accusing looks when she tried to earn a little extra. She hurried through the boisterous, toasty lobby, encouraged by the attention of several young men without dates.

Well, well, well, folks. Her highness has arrived. Billy Bob curtsied, holding out the edges of his apron and bowing his head. Thank you, your majesty, for honoring us this evening. Your public awaits without. Without drinks. Without food. Without service.

Yeah, yeah, okay, Billy Bob. You’re funny. My car wouldn’t start.

Your car never starts, Ramona. Hell, my car doesn’t start either, in this weather. You need to start, Ramona. Earlier.

Yeah, yeah. She grabbed a tray and cloth and pushed around the bar.

Oh, and the old gentleman at the end needs a menu.

Yeah, yeah. Ramona reached her first table and spotted the old-timer at the end of the bar. He looked familiar. Eventually everyone looks familiar. Billy Bob calls the regulars by name, so he must not be a regular.

The first table was about half and half, festive soldiers and adventurous girls, everyone paired off except for one guy with stripes on his arm at the end of the table. Coors and Cuba Libres were popular, which was good, since beer and rum were almost all they had in the joint. How about some of the good stuff? the aloof sergeant asked. You can’t afford the good stuff, Glen, his friends laughed.

So, Glen, looking for the good stuff, you say? Ramona asked.

Yeah. What ya got?

Champagne? Ramona poked her hip toward the veteran, probably a couple of years younger than she was, and raised an eyebrow as if suggesting there could be more than champagne in play.

Champagne! Glen! You buying bubbly for the table? one of the girls laughed. A tall brunette gave Ramona an obvious hard look and hollered, Look out, Glen! That champagne might be more than you bargained for. This got a laugh. Glen blushed and settled for a beer. Ramona sashayed to the next table, where the mix was better. Three of the soldiers competed for her attention.

I’m Charlie, senorita. What’s your name?

I’m Ramona, Charlie. What’s your pleasure?

Hey, Ramona. I’ll tell you my pleasure. Come over here first.

Jerry, stop it. You’re embarrassing her, a girl scolded.

He doesn’t embarrass me, sweetie, Ramona smiled. Children get embarrassed. I’m a big girl. This raised a rousing cheer and Ramona continued around the room, collecting orders and potential friends. When she got back to the bar, Billy Bob was disapproving.

What’s wrong? she challenged. You don’t like happy customers?

We’ve talked about this, Ramona. Mr. Paige doesn’t like the girls being too friendly with the customers.

Oh, yeah? Ramona challenged. Maybe Warren doesn’t like it so much anymore, but I think Tindal likes it just swell.

Now, Ramona! She swept her hips and shoulders around and pranced toward Pete, who was eyeing her with that unabashed lust of an old man working mostly from memory. Tindal Corker flirted with Billy Bob’s waitresses. Ramona knew Billy Bob wanted to say something about it to Warren Paige, hotel owner, but was afraid it would get back to Tindal himself, whose wife was Warren Paige’s daughter, and hotel heir. It was awkward.

As she approached Pete with his menu, he was addressing an audience of soldiers, and a salesman in silver-flecked coat and two-tone shoes. Pete’s eyes, the eyes of Methuselah, tracked her below the shoulders. Ramona didn’t mind. She was accustomed to close inspection from men. But when all of them turned to look, she knew he’d said something about her, and she blushed. No one laughed, so evidently it hadn’t been funny, but they stared as if she were a prize heifer walking across the sale barn floor. That was okay. She liked the attention.

Hey, old-timer, she greeted, setting some parameters for the others and awarding them some free points of eligibility, since they were obviously younger than Pete. You want a menu?

Ramona? Is that you, honey? Pete’s ancient eyes cleared enough, and she got close enough, and his memory clicked soundly enough to make the connection he’d been working on since she’d waltzed in the door. Ramona Ovante? Is that really you?

She stopped dead still about five feet away, waving the menu as if she’d gotten close enough to hand it to him—but she hadn’t. While she worked out if she knew the old coot, and if she did then how, she privately lamented being called by her maiden name. She didn’t like explaining to customers that she was married, but not really. As she wondered how to handle that delicate matter his name came to her. Pete? Pete Newland? Is that you? Where you been the last ten years?

Ramona Ovante! It is you! Thought so. He turned to his newly minted companions, who awaited an introduction. Ten years ago this little lady was the prettiest cheerleader ever went to Bohannon High School. I swear. I swear she was. And look at you! You still are. Haven’t changed a bit. He twirled his skinny finger in the air and Ramona complied with a full pirouette giving Pete’s friends a perspective-in-the-round. What are you doing in here, Ramona?

Pete Newland. Bohannon High janitor. Sweetie, you were always my favorite janitor. You still working over there?

Pete shook his head. Left when you did, honey. Couldn’t go on without you. How about you? Been working here since?

"You crazy? In here? This is just temporary for me, Pete. Or should I call you Otis?"

Now, Ramona, honey.

I got married, had a kid, and got divorced already, Pete. That’s my life story, but I got plans. Worked at Camp Rockman during the war making big money when they needed us girls to fill in. But now it’s won they don’t need us, so I’m just marking time here until I can get out to Hollywood. Got some contacts out there. They’re very interested in my potential, they said.

Well, now, our little Ramona in the movies. That’s the big time, honey.

"Yeah, yeah. So you don’t want me to call you Otis Newland. I remember you eyeing the cheerleaders, Otis Newland."

Now, don’t start that Otis stuff.

It’s your name isn’t it?

That’s what my ma made it, but Pa never went for it. Always called me Pete, and it finally stuck to where she finally called me that too. Bless his cussed old heart. That’s about the only good thing he ever done for me.

I guess he clothed and fed you didn’t he? Ramona insisted, defensive about criticism of anyone’s parenting.

Ha! I earned every stitch and mouthful. Pitching hay when I was four, milking at five and walking the plow at six. Had to tie on big rocks to keep it in the ground. Nope, little gal. Pete’s about it for my old man.

The salesman barged in with a lit cigarette bobbing from his lips, ashes sprinkling his coat. Pitching hay at four? Not likely, unless you were Superboy.

Pete tried to face the sudden expert, but his spine rebelled and he squinted into the mirror. Listen here, city shoes. When I say pitched hay I’m talking about stuffing the manger and shoving bedding out of the loft. Had a cut-down pitchfork. And I can tell you, I was tromping the hay wagon by the time I could walk. The salesman grunted and scattered more ashes down his glitzy front.

Ramona eased the moment. What are you doing now?

Working Prather’s place in the Jarillas, down near Oro Grande.

Oro Grande? Other side of the mountain? Are you lost, Pete?

Not this cowhand. Not lost. Not me. I always know where I’m at and what I want, honey. Got time for a drink? Dinner? He patted Ramona on the hip in a gesture marginally tolerated from a seventy-year-old man, but beyond the social powers of his much younger companions.

Pete! Stop that. I’m a working girl now.

I got money, girl, if that’s what you’re thinking? Just sold some cows down to Fort Bliss.

I figured you had money, Pete, or you wouldn’t be in here drinking and cutting up. Can’t stop right now. You wanting a menu?

Pete took the menu and unconsciously slipped a pouch of Bull Durham out of his shirt pocket. He groped around the bar. Where’s my Bible, he wanted to know. He finally found a light blue packet of Zig-Zag rolling papers and, with one hand, slipped one out, sifted in some tobacco, cinched the pouch with his teeth, licked the edge and rolled it shut. What you recommend, honey? Maybe a steak?

You think it over, Pete, back in a minute. She smiled at the other gentlemen. Anyone else need anything at all?

Ramona worked efficiently among tables, bar, and kitchen, making friends and marking prospects. It was a good crowd and she expected a good payday. She needed one. Her papa said she needed a new battery. Little Henry needed some clothes. She would get her parents to chip in but she needed more money in the bank for that California get away. She was twenty-seven, and even with the wartime earnings her nest egg wasn’t growing fast enough.

Little Henry complicated things. He was a nice kid, but he really crimped her plans. To think she’d once believed having him would hold her life together. When Carlos started getting restless, she’d convinced him they needed a kid. Maybe she shouldn’t have demanded they name him Henry. Maybe if she’d named him Carlos that would have made a difference. But how could she disregard her family history about little Henry? Her papa and grandpapa had talked about it since she was a little girl. It was almost one of the sacraments. Her son had to be named Henry, after her father and his long-dead distant cousin, a tragic murder victim. Still, it was a burden having to include an eight-year-old kid in all her plans. And Carlos had left anyway. The whole thing seemed like a big mistake.

Prospects evolved through the night. Half a dozen young men, two of them soldiers so they probably had money, and one of them a traveling salesman so he might also, lingered at the bar after their friends left, competing for her attention. She already had over three dollars in tips, and she knew the losers sometimes tipped best of all. Old Pete was also paying a lot of attention, which was kind of cute. He’d scooted twenty cents at her when she brought his dinner, a piece of steer flank so charred it curled up on the edges and some black-roasted potatoes smothered in brown gravy. He’d winked sloppily and sloshed beer down his front. Going to the john he’d staggered into chairs and doors and nearly fallen off his stool once. But he was entertaining an audience every time she walked by.

"Now, we was real wranglers back in them days. Not none of this picture-show business. Seen that Cheyenne Harry after the first war, down at the El Paso Airdrome. He was the real stuff, but now they got these slickers packing guitars and singing between shoot ups.

Hell, no one called me a cowboy, and if they’d did I’d a shot him right through the gizzard. Yes, sir. Cowpuncher, okay; cowman, yeah; line rider, you bet—even rustler, that’d be okay and probably true. I wasn’t never no cowboy, but I knowed a few.

Pete waved an empty bottle. A gentleman in brown, pointy shoes and steel-creased pants, making a show for Ramona, dropped money on the bar and ordered a round. Pete nodded his thanks and rolled another smoke. A match grew magically between his fingers and exploded with a flick of his thumb. "This here Bohannon you got buried here in Mudgap? Just seen his grave little bit ago. Schools named for him and like that? I knowed Bohannon myself. Knowed him good. Nobody never called him Doc Bohannon, like they say nowadays. Some shyster did them books you’ve heard of. If you’d called him Doc he’d’ve put a bullet in you. He was as tough as they say. But sneaky. A dead shot, but carried his gun in his coat pocket.

"I was in the old McAllister, which was up Main Street, which they call Front Street nowadays. Bohannon choked on something I said about old Colonel Fountain, what got hisself disappeared. Murdered, they say, but the body’s never found, so who knows. Out there near them white sands somewheres. Fountain was a busybody. No one much liked him. But maybe I shouldn’t have been shooting my mouth like I am now. I said he come up from Texas in a chicken coop and been prying up Hell ever since. Bohannon reared back and said, ‘Don’t speak ill of the dead!’ I was young and reckless and said something back, and next thing I knowed I’m looking down the barrel of that old Dance.44, like the Rebs carried in the war? And Holy Ned where’d that come from? ‘Truth is fragile but enduring,’ Bohannon says. He was full of crap like that, whatever it meant. Schoolteacher talk. Sounded like accusing me of something. I got out of there. Never come back to Mudgap ‘til Bohannon kicked the bucket before the Great War—first one.

"But we was real charros in them days. I could set that saddle all day, get a horse-hair lariat over a Texas steer, or Hereford, or what have you, get the iron on it before it got its wind back and be back mounted for the next. And let me tell you boys, there’s a real art to a running iron. Not every man can burn a brand and make it look good no matter what, but they used to say, ‘Let Newland handle the irons,’ because they knowed I’d make it look good. Didn’t matter who’d branded them first, old Pete could turn it to whatever outfit I was working for. I was a real dally man. That’s what I was."

***

The four riders moved together in silence. They saw someone coming toward them from San Augustin pass, the postrider out of Las Cruces. They turned off the highway until he passed over the rise. The brisk air circulated across the Tularosa, fresh, sharp, and cold. Snow flurries circled out of the gunmetal gray sky. When they regained the road, they could see the buckboard following well behind, coming back from the Lincoln courthouse. The great white dunes of gypsum rolled off to the north: white-splotched, brown galleta scattered to the south, and the San Augustin Mountains squatted straight ahead. At Chalk Hill they took their positions, business-like and silent. Each knew what to do. Later, afterward, ever afterward, came the truly hard part.

***

Doris Day finished Sentimental Journey on the jukebox, and a competition developed between tables of soldiers and civilians. The soldiers favored lively jazz numbers and the civilians were countering with popular songs. Cootie Williams set a growling, plunger-muted tone, and several young people started dancing between the tables. Billy Bob banged on a tin pan with a skillet and gave a two-fingered whistle, pointing to a sign over the bar, Absolutely No Jitterbugging! The dancers laughed and sat down, and the civilians seemed pacified.

One table gave Ramona a handful of nickels for the jukebox, and she was punching buttons on the grandly flashing Wurlitzer when Doc Littlefield walked in. She’d spotted him and his wife earlier in the dining room and gotten away unseen. She turned her back as the needle engaged Cattle Call. Littlefield stopped near Pete, where Billy Bob was delivering drinks to the old-timer’s cohort.

Mr. Morgan himself, I believe, Littlefield greeted the bartender. How’s the Morgan Freight business, Billy Bob?

Doc Littlefield. Thought that was you and Delila in the dining room. Freight business is hanging on. How’s the Army business?

Booming. Booming and then some.

What can I get you, Doc?

Nothing, thanks. Delila’s waiting for me in the lobby. She doesn’t like coming into bars, she says.

Well, I can cotton to that, Billy Bob agreed. Wouldn’t do it myself if I didn’t have to.

Yeah, me too, Doc agreed. The two men maintained a mock seriousness before breaking into smothered snickers which brought confirming laughter from Pete’s huddled group.

You’re Doc Littlefield? Pete asked.

That’s what they call me, Littlefield confirmed.

Was a Doc Littlefield worked at the Mudgap mines back in the old days. Heard he was the one called when Bohannon shot the leg off one of them Tarbuckle boys, down in front of McAllister’s.

"I heard that story from my granddad. He carried the saw down to the saloon where his dad sawed off Tarbuckle’s leg. Granddad had lots of stories."

You a Doc, too, huh?

They call me Doc, but I’m not really a doctor. Work for the Army.

Got anything to do with that business down at the white sands? The rocket place?

Some.

Heard they was holding Germans down there?

Our boys captured some German scientists overseas. Got some of them down there. Sounds like a meeting of the Reichstag sometimes.

Hope they got them bastards held good and tight. Heard they’re using them to light off some of those London blitz bombs they found. That right?

You can hear lots of things, old-timer. Say, Billy Bob, I needed to talk to Ramona. She around?

Pete twisted to put a suspicious eye on the newcomer, up and down. Thought you said you was with your wife. You sure you got time for Ramona? You must be pretty fast.

Doc puffed at his pipe and ignored the old man, staring obviously over his head and talking to Billy Bob. Need to talk to her about a job opening up out at Camp Rockman. You know, Billy Bob. We’ve talked about it before?

Right. She’s on duty. I’ll get her over here.

I see her. But I need to ask you about the old Littlefield homestead, now that I’m moving back to Mudgap. You the one I need to see about that?

Guess I am. Your great granddad’s place has been empty a while and it’s pretty run down. You serious?

Sure am. Family history. Good location. By the park.

Pretty well run down.

That’s what elbow grease is for. Oh, here comes Ramona. Littlefield could see Ramona was avoiding him, but he caught her at the bar.

Ramona, got a minute? Got a proposition for you.

We don’t say that word in here, Doc. Makes Billy Bob nervous.

I’ve got a job for you out at Camp Rockman, Ramona. Really wish you’d consider it.

A job? I got fired out there. Said I was taking a job from a man who needed it for his family. As if I don’t have a family too.

I know, but this isn’t the grass-cutting thing. This is working for me again.

Doing that computer business? That was temporary. Besides, can’t you find a man to do it?

No, this is real. You were really good at it when you filled in before. We’re starting a new section. Should grow into something. You’d be on the ground floor.

Yeah? How much’s it paying?

It’d be same as before at first, but the prospects are good. You could be a supervisor.

I’m making more here, with tips and extras. You know what I mean?

I do know what you mean, Ramona and that’s why I’m talking to you. Someone with your special talents shouldn’t be making a go of it like this. I could get you some overtime and make the difference.

Overtime?

Yeah. Much as you want, almost.

I’m not looking for long-term, Doc. You know that. I’m going to Hollywood like I told you before. Just need to get some money together.

Ramona, at least think about little Henry. Think what this could mean for him. What happens to him if you go off to California?

Doc, if it’s any of your business, Mama will take care of him until I get my break. The boys coming home won’t be taking that job away from me.

Ramona, don’t be bitter about that. It won’t do you or Henry any good. Little tyke like that needs his mother. Think about this. I can hold it for a while, but not forever. Really like to get you into this thing. You’re a natural.

Thanks, Doc. You’ve been real good to me, but no thanks. I’ve got bigger plans than that. And I gotta go. She grabbed her orders and slipped back into the crowd.

Doc Littlefield returned to Billy Bob. Any luck, Doc? the bartender asked. Doc shook his head.

Pete reared around and saluted Doc with his beer bottle. Don’t take it to heart, Doc. She’s giving everyone the cold treatment tonight.

Ramona took a break at eleven o’clock for coffee and a burger. Four of her hopefuls were still lingering, and to get some jealousy going she ate her supper on the stool beside Pete. Pete rambled on as he’d been doing all night, and the four potential suitors crowded into his audience.

Her memories of old Pete had sharpened throughout the evening. He was always nearby when the cheerleaders practiced. He’d be busy with pipes or windows or electric lines. When a girl somersaulted or twirled, there was Pete taking the view. It was a joke with them and their boyfriends. Carlos teased Ramona on game nights, running off the field to the sidelines and hollering, You’ve got a fan on the forty-five! There would be Pete, eating a hot dog and tinkering with something on a light pole.

So, Pete, where you been the last ten years? In the Army? Ramona elbowed the old cowboy janitor in the arm.

Army couldn’t use likes of me, gal, he told her, playing along. I’m too mean for the Japs or Germans.

What are you doing at that place down at Oro Grande? Growing weeds?

Cows, little girl. Same as the old days for this saddle honcho.

You’re on the wrong side of the Rio Grande. You drive some cows over here to sell to the Army? More laughter from the small knot of old Pete’s aficionados.

Just sold me some cows, girl, down to Fort Bliss. Money burning a hole in my pocket, I reckon.

Doris Day was taking the slow chorus of Sentimental Journey for maybe the twentieth time that night. Pete nodded toward the huge Wurlitzer speakers that sometimes vibrated the bar mirror, scattering sprinkles of light through the glassware onto the polished mahogany countertop. That’s me, gal. A sentimental journey.

You? Sentimental? About Mudgap? Pete, did you come back to see me? Ramona put her burger back on the plate and slapped her olive hand down on the old man’s bony shoulder, brushing into his arm and flashing her big brown eyes seductively.

Might have, Ramona. Might have been you all along. Didn’t know it until I got here. Thought I was taking a last roundup in the Tularosa before the Army fences it off for that new rocket place they’re building.

The heavy man in gray suit and white-saddled shoes interrupted. You mean White Sands Proving Ground, or where they blew off the A-bomb? Ramona knew him as a periodic regular, a salesman from Albuquerque who sometimes had money and was always anxious to be an authority on everything.

That’s it, Pete acknowledged, apparently thinking it was a yes or no question. They been threatening to fence it. Wanted to see it one last time.

I think I’d make a trip like that in better weather, a young GI laughed. He edged closer to Ramona and