Metolius Blue

By E. J. Paria

John Harrington is dead - or not. Either way, Terri White, a middle-aged geologist and nature girl is suspicious about the phone call that informed her of her ex's demise. Even though she can see underground, into the deep past, and even across the barrier to the world of the dead, she feels oddly blind when it comes to facts about her ex.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Delta Works
• Release date: Jul 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736251119

E. J. Paria

Ellie Paria is a geologist who lives and writes near Salt Lake City Utah. Metolius Blue is her first novel.

Book preview

BOOK ONE

SIX STEPS TO SATORI

Dave

I

see the earth as a ball of mating snakes. The long tendrils of the living mesh with those of the dead and the in-between. This collection of mad, wriggling fields and energies is a reservoir for all things ancient and yet to be. Just below the surface, they press up, flowing toward the cracks and seeps. But even in Nevada’s desert, with its thin rock crust, I didn’t expect the dead to burst through, ready to populate my world. It took three days.

Dave O’Malley showed up on the third, somewhere on the patchwork pavement of 395 just out of Sparks, Nevada. There he was, the mason, with his oddly refined gestures and redneck mannerisms, next to me in the passenger seat. His dress was ordinary, jeans and a flannel shirt, and his presence was familiar. He popped his window an inch, looked at me with piercing blue eyes and said, Would it be okay if I smoke? His death two decades ago of lung cancer notwithstanding, he didn’t seem to be joking.

Go ahead, I said.

He plucked the iPod from its holder on the Jeep’s dash and held it up to examine it. What’s this?

Music, I said.

Do they still have country music?

Yeah, but you would hate it.

He replaced the device, pulled a bent matchbook from his jeans pocket, cupped his hand around the end of a cigarette, and sucked in the flame with pursed lips. From that little thing, huh? His voice sounded squeezed from holding in the smoke.

Yup. No more CDs.

He glanced sideways at me as he made a tube of the right side of his mouth, shooting the smoke out his open window. What’s a CD? We both laughed.

I guess it has been a long time, I said. He wore running shoes with soles that wrapped up over the toe, 1980s style. His legs were crossed at the ankles. His rotund beer belly contrasted sharply with his normal-sized ass and legs, and his dark brown hair was cut acutely, with blunt bangs. The edges curled up around the bottom of his hat. The fucker was still cute.

Dave was a union bricklayer when we met, full of energy and humor, and he didn’t seem sixteen years my senior. He lived and worked in Lincoln, Nebraska where brick was still used as structure in commercial buildings. I was in my early twenties, attending college. We were both freshly divorced. I was angry, volatile and unsuited for marriage. Dave recognized the drift in my position, and in that chaos he became my shelter, friend, and lover.

Now he threw his head back and blew a stream of smoke. So. I see you’ve gained a few pounds. He said this sweetly, without criticism.

I guess I have. Since my ex and I split.

Another ex?

Damn, Dave, last time you saw me I was, what, twenty-seven?

True. Hmm. Second husband. He shook his head in pretend disbelief. I’m still up by one.

You can have that win. I don’t foresee another.

Say, how is it you wound up married twice, but you wouldn’t marry me? he asked. Maybe my feelings are a little hurt.

Don’t take it the wrong way. Remember how you asked me? You’d just told me you had cancer.

I was trying to leave you some money, honey, he explained.

I couldn’t. I had a hard time with the whole dying thing.

I know. I’m sorry I did that to you. He took his cigarette in his right hand and tapped an ash on the edge of the window glass, letting it blow out in the shear envelope. Well. I remember husband number one. Are you going to tell me about the other?

It’s strange you should ask now.

Why strange?

I’m heading to the place where the last one unraveled.

Divorced?

Divorced a long time ago. But he just recently died. At least, that’s the official story.

What? You doubt it?

I have good reason to doubt it.

Dave nodded. He turned a quarter turn in the seat, attentive. He held his cigarette between his thumb and two fingers, delicately, at shoulder level in the classic dart-throwing pose. A signal of readiness for conversation. The gesture was incongruous for a two hundred pound bricklayer and, as always, it made me laugh.

What was his name?

John Harrington.

And you were Terri Harrington.

Not exactly. I didn’t take his name. There was a small pause while this information settled. Of course, he preferred to be called Little John. Dave swiveled back in his seat, directing another stream of smoke out the window. Some drifted my way, but it didn’t have the familiar biting odor.

Was he little? Outside, pinion pines swept by his head, charred and scraggly from a recent fire.

No. It was an ironic nickname, I answered.

So how come you’re alone now?

I don’t know. Isn’t twice enough? I’m beginning to doubt the utility of the institution.

Mmm, Dave tilted his head toward the slit of outdoors above the window glass, exhaled, considered. It’s not like you to be alone.

Yeah, I know. I’ve been a serial cohabitator.

What happened? Your pussy doesn’t work anymore?

It works fine. Maybe not with the same urgency you might remember.

Well. That could be a good thing.

We rode in silence awhile as the sun dropped behind the Sierras and cool shadows drifted across the highway. Dave turned to peer into the back seat at Darwin, my schnauzer. The usual gear of a field geologist was packed into the tight space behind the back seat: camping gear, an ice chest, a ten-gallon water jug, an assortment of tools.

Still doing geology I see.

Yes. Gas wells these days.

Was Harrington a geologist too?

No. He was more of a… Was there a word for what John did? Gigolo? Huckster? A laborer, I guess. And a badass.

Ah! The proverbial badass. It occurred to me that my story wouldn’t offer much in the way of redemption. But then, Dave was not the average listener. His twists of personality mirrored mine, and he would stay with me and go deeper, to the dirty heart of things, to the core delusions that are the hinges of my misadventures.

I met him a couple years after you died. I glanced over. Was he still listening?

Yes? His broom-like eyebrows, a weave of gray and black, twitched.

My sense of risk assessment was out of whack. I still had that invader mentality. See it, want it, take it. All appetite and no inhibition. Why wouldn’t I fall for him? He was like a shiny object lying by the side of the road, with a shape so foreign I couldn’t identify it. Godzilla by the railroad track the first time you smoke weed.

We were back in the live forest. The road curved gently through tall columns, slicing the sunlight in vertical slabs. How did this Godzilla die?

"Good question. I found out indirectly, maybe a month ago. We’d been out of touch since, well…the divorce was not friendly. I got this phone message. A woman claiming to represent Arrow Incorporated. Said she was trying to reach the family member attending to the final affairs of Mr. John Harrington. She left a number. I noticed he’d changed his name back to the one he used when I first met him.

Suspicious out of long habit, I thought it was a scam to get me to contact him. So, I Googled Arrow and found it was a collection agency. I laughed. Classic John. He left with someone else holding the bag. That is, if he really is dead."

Dave’s brow pinched inward slightly. I waited for him to ask, but he didn’t, so I continued.

That question began to work at me. A few days later, I called the collection agency from a pay phone in the Houston airport. I was waiting out a weather delay for my flight back to Denver. I said I was calling on behalf of a friend of Mr. Harrington, who asked me to verify the details. She gave me a date and a city where he died. I searched the Sacramento obituaries online and confirmed John’s death.

Say, Terri, do you have something I can I use for an ashtray? Dave squeezed the nub of his cigarette. I’d hate to burn down what’s left of these trees. I handed him a plastic water bottle with a half-inch of liquid in the bottom. What makes you think he’s still alive? he asked.

He had a knack for disappearing, then reappearing as someone else.

Are you afraid of him?

Yes! I said with some emphasis. I want proof. A headstone, a weeping sibling, a death certificate. Since I found out, it seems like John refuses to stay away. I’m dogged by this fear he’ll pop up. Not to mention the flashbacks.

Dave looked ahead, nodded.

Once we divorced, I moved. Tried to wipe him out of my life.

Hiding?

As a matter of fact, yeah.

How are you going to find him?

I still have a few things left that belong to him. A letter he wrote me after our split, a few photos, a social security number from a tax return, an ancient address and phone number for his brother in Oregon. At one time, his family had a farm there. And one other thing. I have a piece of notebook paper with a couple of addresses I scribbled. Stacey, an old girlfriend of John’s; Billy, a musician friend we both knew in Seattle. I copied Billy’s number from his guitar shop business card. John liked his guitars. The names were wedges I could drive in to crack the past. Keys, maybe.

So, you’re going to try to reach these people?

Stacey’s been a dead end so far, but I talked to Billy a couple days ago. He did manage to give me an idea.

And the brother?

I don’t know if he’s still around. He seems a likely source, if I can find him.

I’d spent the winter working wellsite out of Denver, with an intermittent schedule and time off between projects. The message about John came between two deep gas wells in the Frontier Formation. Out there in the field, things worked at me. I got to feeling rootless and subject to whim. When we reached the target depth on the second well, I decided to take a road trip to the coast, to convince myself John was really subject to the same mortality as the rest of us.

Susanville coming up. I glanced over at Dave. The passenger seat was empty. I suddenly felt foolish, and a little disappointed.

Okay! I said to Darwin, looking over my shoulder at the dog, my only witness. His tail wagged briefly. his brown eyes looked up without raising his chin from his paws. A cigarette butt sloshed gently in the water bottle lying in the floor well in front of the seat. That was some weird shit.

Today Minus Two: The Book

J

ohn’s purported death may have prompted my expedition, but it was Billy who shot me, as if from a gun, into the desert. Or rather, the crazy, evangelistic subject of Billy’s rapture. Billy was the musician friend―I tracked him to his new guitar shop in Salt Lake City.

Hey, Terri. Long time. He had a short, clipped way of speaking. You look good. I hugged him. In truth, he looked good too. Six foot four, chunky, with a week’s worth of black stubble that held the potential for a nice goatee. Younger than John or me, Billy was in his mid-thirties, now I guessed. He had a nervous girl flutter about him that didn’t used to be there.

We stood next to his old Toyota across the street from the bookstore, a long thin building with a white stucco storefront. The night was mild, with a full moon, and the sun pulled in its last colors.

That the same dog you and John had? he asked, glancing toward the gray head sticking out of my Jeep window.

No. That dog died a few years back. This one’s about three, I said. What’s all this? I nodded toward the bookstore, where a crowd milled on the sidewalk out front. He’d talked me into meeting him here, surprised me by saying he was at a book reading. Billy, at a reading? His specialty was music. I’d always known him as a blues musician and instrument builder. I didn’t know you were the literary type.

I’m not, really, Billy replied. I’ve heard this guy, though. Kind of makes me get religion.

I felt a twinge of suspicion. Had Salt Lake gotten to him? For all his hard edges, Billy could be kind of gullible. You haven’t gone down the Jesus trail, have you?

He laughed. Not that kinda religion.

What other kind is there? Is this a friend of yours, doing the reading?

A friend of some friends.

He famous, or what?

Not so much. He’s got the juice, though.

What’s he write? Poetry? Novels? New Age hippie-dippie? He shook his head at each. I strained to think of what other genres could inspire religious fervor. Porn? There was a pause, in which I saw a different aspect of Billy. It was blowing my mind. Ten years is long, I guess. People could rebuild themselves from scratch. He picked a joint from his shirt pocket and lit it, right there on the street, creating another dissonance. I was about to inquire about the legality of his smoke, but he continued.

It’s hard to explain. Here, I got something for you, Billy said on the exhale. He reached in the Toyota’s open window and took a book from the back seat. He handed me a gray-covered paperback.

You didn’t have to do that. Thanks though. I took the book and read the spine: Blues for Cannibals. Is it about music?

No.

Cannibalism?

Not really. He offered the joint.

No thanks. Not right now. You’re kind of amazing me right now, Billy. I took him by the arm. Is there someplace we can talk?

Sure, my house, my shop, is not far from here. Let’s go, he said. Maybe your dog wants a run out back. Can you follow me?

Billy was as surprised as I was to hear that John was dead. I haven’t heard from him in years, he informed me. I scanned his face for telltale signs of a fib, but saw none. We sat on a wood bench on the front porch of the old two-story frame residence that housed Billy’s Custom Guitars and Instruments. I didn’t want to deliver that news. Not after the reading. I didn’t want to snuff his religious ecstasy, but I didn’t have the luxury of hanging around Salt Lake seeking the right moment.

I can’t believe he’s dead, he said. Are you headed to a funeral?

No. It happened a few months ago. We’ve been out of touch. I found out by accident.

Where are you headed, then?

How to explain my mission? I wasn’t sure how much to tell. John was kind of a recreational liar. Maybe you knew that.

I noticed his tendency, yeah.

Even after being married to him, I have the feeling I didn’t really know him. At the end, when the lies started to come apart, it seemed useless to ask questions. When we split, it wasn’t friendly.

Sounds shitty.

There are some things I need to know.

Billy shifted on the bench seat. Like what?

I’d like to know how he died, exactly. You know if he had any other friends, from before we met?

He winced. I don’t know, Terri. We spent time, but he didn’t talk about old stuff. What can I tell you? He rubbed his hand through his black whorl of hair, fidgeting as if he wanted a cigarette. There’s a guy over on the coast he was pretty tight with at one time. Some little town in northern California, I think I’ve still got his name somewhere. Come on inside.

An ancient dog sprawled in an armchair in the corner. Darwin gave him a sniff. The old dog’s tail thumped once as he rolled his eyes, showing white. We walked through a beaded curtain. The workshop floor was covered with dozens of guitars on stands. Billy pulled open a drawer, riffled through a small plastic box and came up with a card. Troy Anderson. Weed, California. That’s over north of Redding, I think. John left Troy’s name as a contact in case I needed to find him. This was a long time ago, you know.

I know.

Here, I’ll write it for you. He scribbled on the back of one of his own business cards.

Thanks, Billy. Thanks for the book, too.

Sure. He hesitated. Want to send your hound out for a spin around the yard before you go?

That would be great. He threaded a winding path through guitars to the back of the shop, where a door led to the back yard. He opened it, and Darwin slipped out.

How’s it going for you? Are you playing any? I asked.

Little bit. Couple guys around here I play with. He stepped into another room. I’ve still got John’s old Gibson hollow-body, you know. I heard shuffling sounds as he moved some things. He emerged and held up a red-fading-to-orange wooden instrument, with cutouts shaped like the letter ‘f’ and white inlaid trim. A black strike plate angled out from the body. Seeing it again sent an electric shock through me. Billy scraped some papers from a couch pushed against one wall, plugged a lead into the guitar, sat, and began to play. The smooth notes bent, and his slide melted something in me. I sat on the couch next to him.

John asked me to hold this for him, Billy said.

Geez. It’s been years since I heard that.

I know. I promised him. A few licks of blue. Besides, I’ve been playin’ it. From time to time.

When did he bring it? I asked.

Twice. He lingered a long wandering scale. Last time, when we all lived in Seattle. Must have been before you two split. He stopped at my shop on his way somewhere. Trouble. Said he needed cash.

What kind of trouble?

Money, he bit off the word, his fingers slid up the neck. He owed someone.

Did he say who?

Billy looked uncomfortable. I didn’t ask. He didn’t say. You know how he was.

I know. Things you can’t tell the wife. The ex-wife. But it’s okay. He’s dead.

He shook his head. I can’t believe it.

Me neither. That’s why I’m here. He was speaking figuratively, but I wasn’t.

He put the Gibson on an empty stand and sat facing me. He let his arm fall across the back of the couch.

How’d you get to Salt Lake, anyway? I asked.

I’ve got family here. Two sisters.

Is there much blues?

Not the same as Seattle, but people come through. Darwin nosed through the back door, which Billy had left open a crack. Billy scratched his trimmed head. Are you around for a couple of days? You know you can stay here if you need a place. I have a spare room downstairs.

I told him I couldn’t, I was on a mission, but thanks, and stood to leave. He stood too. He picked up the guitar and handed it to me. You should take it. I’m sorry he’s gone.

No. You keep it. That’s not why I came. Anyway, I don’t have an amp.

He looked around. I’ll give you an amp. Go on, take it now. He placed my hand around the neck. You might need to hear this voice sometime. Good to keep in touch.

The Gibson rested on my shoe, the head in my hand. It was a nice guitar with a sweet voice. Does it have a case? We stood for a second looking at each other. I realized Billy’s experience with John was different from mine. It contained no threat, no fear. My need to confirm his death was too hard to explain.

What if he comes looking for it? I asked. A jet of fear surprised me as I said this. The last thing I needed as I tripped across the country looking for John, was John trailing after me looking for his Gibson.

Billy’s face locked for a confused second. How can he, if he’s dead? His expression said he thought I’d lost my mind, and maybe he was right. He shifted a few degrees away from me, then waved a hand, dismissive. Just think about it. Swing by on your way back through and pick it up. I’ll be here.

I looked around the place, then edged toward the bead curtain and the door, but turned and looked back. You think Troy knew John before coming to Seattle? Maybe when he was in Vietnam?

Yeah, I think so. They were buddies during the war. You want me to call him?

No. I’ll find him, I said. I hoped Billy wouldn’t get helpful and call anyway. I didn’t want Troy expecting me. I’d never met him―never even heard of him. The idea that one of John’s cronies might be waiting for me made me nervous.

I didn’t think about the book again until I flopped onto the rickety bed in a motel room about an hour south of Salt Lake. I was wired with stress hormones from driving at night. In search of an offramp for my streaming thoughts, I opened Blues for Cannibals to an early chapter, Entrance Wound. Come with me and we will sink into our pleasures. No, we won’t do a line or have a toke or open that bottle … This time we will take a harder drug, one denounced by the authorities.

Today Minus One: Nevada Blue

I

planned to look for John’s brother at the old address I had, a tiny town on the north Oregon coast. But first, I hoped to surprise Troy, if he still lived in Weed. I wanted to surprise him because I knew if John were alive, Troy would be his early warning on the subject of my arrival. Darwin and I began our traverse early in the morning, where the two-lane U.S. 50 veered west out of Nephi, Utah. I-80 was a more direct route to California, but I opted for the less-traveled way through southern Nevada.

One consequence of my years of geologic field work was an affinity for waste spaces, as my fellow humans would assess them. Places that yield no easy commodities, places they fear to tread, places they avoid for lack of convenience or lack of familiar amenities. In such places