Trips

By Earl Griffin

When the ghosts met, there was much confusion.
Stacey watched them come down the wide concourse,
coming generally in his direction but without intention
or purpose, appearing from the mist of months
and birthdays and years and Christmases missed, a
thousand greetings forsaken, ten thousand moments
lost.&hellip

• Language: English
• Publisher: LitFire Publishing
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643988603

Earl Griffin

"Earl Griffin was born in Childress County, Texas on February 20, 1953. He graduated from Texas Christian University and Texas Tech University School of Law. In 1992 he returned to Childress County to ranch with his brother. He has written The Escadara, The Last Orphan Maker and Trips."

Book preview

epub_cov.jpg

TRIPS

Copyright @ 2019 by Earl Griffin

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dear, is entirely coincidental.

Cover. Original artwork by Norene Cline.

ISBN-13: 978-1-64398-860-3

Printed in the United States of America

LitFire LLC

1-800-511-9787

www.litfirepublishing.com

[e-mail]

To

CCB & GDB

"I asked questions forbidden… from great pain.

All loners understand the difference between loneliness

and aloneness.

That is why we are lonely

even when we are not alone."

TRIPS

…for Stacey traveling was much like his life, the ambiguity of excitement and doldrum, of a newness found and a past lost, seized his mind at some moment on each trip. And that was the hell of it: each trip made him happy, each trip made him sad. It was close as to whether the trips brought him greater happiness or sadness. But he kept making the trips…’sans memoire’ of a life almost lived, mostly lost and always longed for.

9/05/2017

She was always there, in his mind, waiting.

TRIPS

The young woman was pretty, and aggressive. She could see the strain in the old man’s brown eyes increasing toward panic. He was faltering, breathing harder and harder, his stride slackening, weakening. She turned and laid her hand on one of the elderly woman’s shoulder. Mam! Mam!

The two older ladies stopped and turned and looked at her.

She pointed at the old man who stood three steps from them with his hands on his hips, leaning to his right, giving to the battered hip he had refused to have replaced so he could make this trip.

The young woman said. I think he’s following you.

Young lady. The old man said between deep breaths. I’ve been chasing behind these two girls for over fifty years.

The young woman smiled at his reference to the two older ladies as girls. Have you ever caught them?

Occasionally. He gasped one more deep breath, steadied his breathing and said. Usually. Eventually.

2.

Where have you been? The younger of the two older women asked.

Driving. The old man answered.

Driving! The older of the two women cried.

Driving what? The younger one asked.

A car.

You were supposed to fly from Amarillo to Albuquerque and meet us at the airport. The older one said.

Couldn’t get a flight until tomorrow. So, I rented a car and drove.

Two heart attacks, a bum hip and eye surgery and he rents a car and drives alone for almost three hundred miles. The younger old woman said to the young woman.

He must really want to be with you. The young woman said.

Yep. The old man said. I do. He smiled. Rented a ’66 Mustang convertible from Exotic Cars. He said. Blue.

I had a blue ’66 Mustang. The older of the two women said.

I remembered. The old man said. I had to think about it, but I remembered. He laughed. Now if I can just remember where I parked it.

They all laughed.

3.

Lunch? The old man asked. We can eat on the balcony of the San Francisco. It’s right above us.

We may as well. The younger of the two older women said. We can’t get into the house for two more hours.

Join us? The old man asked the young woman. My treat.

She smiled. I don’t wish to interfere.

No way! The old man said. Other sisters will be on my butt unless I have an ally.

Thank you. I accept.

4.

I’m Stacey. The old man said. He sat across the square table from the young woman. This. He grasped the hand of the younger of the two older women who laced her fingers into his scarred fingers. This is The Kat.

Kathey. The younger of the two women introduced herself. That’s my sister. Mary. She introduced her sister.

My other sisters. The old man said. And you? He asked.

The young woman blushed and murmured. Loydale.

Loy…

Loy…dale. The girl said. My dad wanted twin boys. He got me. So, I got Lloyd’s and Dale’s names. Loydale. She explained.

Since you seem to be alone, are you here to visit someone, Loydale? Kathey asked.

I am alone. But no, no I don’t know anyone here. Loydale answered. She hesitated, swallowed and said. I’m writing an article.

A writer! Mary said. That’s why we are here. Our brother has just published another book. She patted Stacey on the shoulder.

We came here twenty years ago when he had published a book. Each book, a trip to Santa Fe. Kathey explained. Would be a good deal if he would get off his ass and write one every couple of years instead of every four to five years.

Have you read this one? Stacey asked.

Not yet. Kathey said. I brought it with me to read.

He looked at Mary and asked. You?

She shook her head.

There you are. Stacey said to Loydale. One’s a critic who hasn’t read the book. The other hasn’t even bought a copy.

Loydale laughed.

What are you writing? Stacey asked.

About the liberal culture among Southwestern women.

Ugh! More women’s lib.

You are a sexist chauvinistic male pig. Kathey said.

Loydale laughed, again. Maybe I have found some sources.

Victims you mean. Stacey said.

Behave! Kathey said.

Freelance? Stacey asked.

No. An assignment. Loydale answered.

Wow! Paid and everything? Stacey asked.

Loydale nodded.

May I ask for whom? Stacey asked.

Cosmopolitan.

Ladies, this is the real deal. Stacey said. A real writer.

Loydale blushed and said. Connections. She asked. Who is your publisher?

A very small house. Stacey said. Me.

Mary glanced at her Tag Hauer wrist watch. We can get in the house now. She said.

They pushed their chairs back and stood up. Stacey seized the check. Loydale opened her purse. Kathey smiled and shook her head. Don’t bother arguing with him. We have for years. It doesn’t work.

Well. Thank you. I enjoyed the lunch. Loydale said. She started to leave, stopped and said. I’m staying at the Anazassi. Maybe we will meet again.

Tonight. Dinner at the Bull Ring. Steaks. Stacey said and winked. Six o’clock. We’re old. We eat early.

Who’s old? Mary retorted.

You. Us. Stacey said. Save a chair for you.

5.

Save a chair for you! Kathey said. She looked between the bucket seats of the mustang at Stacey as he slid across the back seat as Mary steered the car around the ninety-degree turn on Old Santa Fe Road and aimed it east northeast. That was the worst pickup line ever. You are an old reprobate. She’s not twenty-five.

She said she was alone. And I’m not trying to pick her up. Stacey said.

Mary laughed.

Watch it. Stacey said. And slow down! We’re not going to a fire.

And she is very attractive. Kathey said. If she was sixty-five and wrinkled, would you save a chair for her? Kathey teased.

I’ve got two in the car with me who are over sixty-five and may have a few wrinkles. Stacey said.

And you are very lucky to have us. Mary said. Besides, she is much too young for you to be flirting with.

I just got a visual that was not pretty. Kathey said.

They laughed.

6.

Mary slowed, still exceeding the 25MPH posted speed limit. Three pairs of old eyes surveyed the western side of Old Santa Fe Road.

There it is. Kathey said. She pointed at the tall chain link fence.

Yep. Stacey agreed. We turn left at the end of that fence.

Kathey frowned at him between the bucket seats. I don’t know if we would have found it without you. She said.

In the rear-view mirror Mary smiled at him.

We’ve driven by it before. Stacey replied.

That was because you were driving. Kathey said.

True. Stacey agreed. But we still drove passed it.

Mary slowed and turned onto the narrow asphalt drive before she reached the thin street sign which read: Lower Mountain Slough.

Fourth turn to the left. Stacey said.

And what is the number in the red arrow? Kathey asked.

17. Stacey said and nodded.

Kathey and Mary exchanged smiles.

He is right. Kathey said. This time.

7.

The house was an umber stucco stuck onto the side of the mountain and surrounded by scrub cedar and pinion trees. It had two bathrooms and two bedrooms on three levels. Off the kitchen was a stucco walled garden with a small round iron bric-a-brac table with two iron chairs and against the outside wall leaned a heavy wooden bench. The sun rose above the mountain before it illuminated the cacti and flowers and grasses in the garden and the wooden bench stayed in shadow almost always. Outside of the living area, passed sliding glass doors, the wooden patio was bathed by the afternoon and evening sun and was filled with cushioned seating and a plank table surrounded by six wooden folding chairs and beneath a twining bougainvillea vine which wrapped itself and its fragrant flowers around a corner post sat two Adirondack lounge chairs. A wooden box sat beside them and held the cushions used to comfort the lounge chairs users. Humming birds hissed around the bougainvillea. Inside, the house was eclectic, filled with books and posters of Santa Fe festivals and pottery and deep cushioned leather chairs and one large leather couch.

They entered through a heavy sunken sunset door.

8.

Stacey felt for the key in his pocket. It was not there. He frowned.

Lose something? Kathey asked.

The key. Stacey said.

Kathey laughed. You just pulled it out of your pocket and laid it on that table. She pointed at the gold key lying on the near end of the long garden door which formed the table’s top.

Stacey shook his head. He had begun to forget what he removed first from his pockets. He would fret for minutes, searching through his pockets for something he remembered putting there but could not remember removing. Even grammar had begun to elude him. He troubled over when to use I or me and simple Strunk & White rules that had been natural to him long as he could remember. Stacey saw these as signals of a fading light. It troubled him.

Kathey saw the doubt in Stacey’s eyes. She put her hand against his face and said. I love you.

I love you. Stacey said. He paused, looked at her. Her left eye, the lazy eye, twitched, as it did when she was happy. His frown faded. The muscles around his lips flinched into his almost smile. His brown eyes glittered. He added. Much.

Kathey caught her breath. They stared at each other, each seeing the thing between them only they could see, the beauty, the strength, the savage struggle against time to hold on to that love.

This was the evil of his old mind. Stacey struggled to conquer the details. The details had to be conquered to give a face, a body to the spirit he knew. This was the curse of his passion, not sex but memory.

For Stacey, an old man now, sex truly existed only in his mind and his memory. What he strove for with Kathey, with the women he wished to be with, was a closeness, a special closeness, a closeness of spirit, of psyche, of shared experience born from a common past, a common ancestor even. A closeness