Ariel Gore - Santa Fe Noir

I mentioned the voices to my dad.

He suggested I needed a ceremony before leaving the Four Sacred Mountains. “It’s something we do,” he said, “especially if we leave our lands.”

I laughed.

“Son,” he said, “those voices will follow you if you don’t take care of yourself.”

I shrugged.

“You laugh now, son, but what you don’t realize is that the pain of others will become a part of you. You need to see a medicine man.”

I neglected my dad’s advice and left for Massachusetts.

The voices followed.

I could hear them through my headphones even now. I could feel the pressure against my chest as the subway car began to sway. The woman next to me thought about her baby at home with the nanny. Was the nanny the right choice ? she thought. Was the iron left on? I sensed the fear in her. She gripped the railing tighter. She closed her eyes in thought. The man asking for change was ex-military. He was discharged dishonorably because of misconduct with an officer who lied for his own self-promotion. The ex-military man was relieved of his duties before he could rescind his story. I felt his embarrassment. I felt the blond, somewhere. He was thinking about me — “Anyone’s Ghost” played.

Jordan and I spent the rest of the monsoon season together, most nights at my apartment even though he lived just four miles away — off Governor Miles Road. On occasion, after one of my long runs, I’d find myself at his doorstep, dripping with sweat. I was a monsoon who trapped Jordan in my arms. We curled into his living room — sometimes near his bed, or in the hallway — never in the same place, and never in his bed because sweat dripped where it dripped, and we puddled upon one another and melted into our happiness.

As summer came to an end, our evenings began with Jordan and his bottle of wine. He knew I loved the reds — the dry ones because they echoed down my throat when I drank that dryness. We crumpled onto the floor before our evening light show. Each night, we awaited the Male Rain’s arrival. With the apartment darkened, we watched the evening light muffled by clouds. Sipping our wine on the floor, we watched the Male Rain begin his dance with a crash of the drum. Silver-lined clouds sparked, and the scent of dirt loomed at the balcony door, whispering to be let in.

The Male Rain performed for an hour or so before the clouds cleared and the roads glimmered. The arroyo roared with rainwater, creating a chocolate river that ran from the Sangre de Cristos. We sipped wine and spent the night stretched out on my apartment floor, drenched in our own wetness, drenched in wine, drenched in each other.

Two months went by before Jordan and I had our first fight. I accused him of cheating, and he pulled a knife from the kitchen drawer and held it to his own neck. Maybe it was the red wine accusing Jordan, but I cried for him to stop and he got more wild when I called him crazy — ayóó diigis — and he pressed the knife deeper. It dimpled his pale skin just below his beard line.

“I would die for you!” he screamed.

I screamed louder, and the neighbor banged on the wall in annoyance.

When Jordan removed the knife, his neck was dotted red.

I cried quietly.

“How can you blame me for something so stupid?” he said. The phone vibrated, again. “He’s only visiting,” he explained. “He’s my ex; he’s still my friend.”

The snow came early in November. We watched the night flutter with white butterflies as Jordan held me in his arms. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry I grabbed the knife,” he whispered. “I don’t know what came over me.”

I nodded, but I knew what had come over him.

His phone vibrated. The message box appeared: Are you home? The ex’s name popped up and Jordan grabbed his phone quickly. A dialogue of voices began speaking in my head. It was in a language I could not understand. I tried to make sense of the language — but the sight of the message kept reappearing in my head: Are you home? Are you home? Are you home?

Three weeks later, I went home to visit my family. I woke to texts from Jordan and went to bed with texts from Jordan. I’d planned to be gone for a week, and we spoke sparingly. In between family functions and trips to Farmington, I got texts with random time stamps. The voices spoke louder.

My phone jingled.

“Is that your girlfriend?” my mom whispered.

I smiled.

She seemed to understand my distance. My mind was elsewhere.

“Maybe you should leave early, son,” she said. “Maybe you need to go home sooner than you thought. You should go before the snow hits — surprise her.”

I left the next morning.

The snow was piled high in Cuba, but I pushed through and made it to San Ysidro. I could see the Sandias in the late-afternoon light — they were white and so was the land all around. The blanket thickened as the snow kept falling. The traffic snaked through the winding roads and what was supposed to be an hour’s drive turned into the longest journey — from Farmington, from Dinétah, my homeland.

It was the worst storm to hit New Mexico that winter, and the traffic inched forward as darkness fell. I pressed on.

The City Different was muffled with snow. Mounds of adobe homes were covered in white and glimmered with evening piñon.

I pulled off the interstate at the Cerrillos exit, turned onto Governor Miles Road. I drove slowly through Jordan’s neighborhood because the snow hid the roads. The houses gleamed with orange from the lampposts. The car parked in Jordan’s driveway was not his and I slid to a stop when I noticed a stranger in his kitchen. Jordan appeared from behind, arms wrapped around the smiling stranger. He perched his head on the guy’s shoulder and I drove away, crawling my way to my apartment.

I texted Jordan later that evening: I’m home .

The subway car veered right. I could feel its intense pull as it crawled uptown. I was used to the feeling of being tugged and knew pressing my body weight to the side would prevent me from faltering. I stumbled once, maybe twice, when I first made this trek up the island. I’ve watched many people stumble. I’ve watched it happen time and time again when people were jostled and pushed left, then right, by a ghost of the train who picked on those inexperienced.

The train neared my stopping point, 125th Street, where I would escape the jungle of bodies draped with scarves and gloves and the voices — “Everybody Gets High.”

It was nearly ten in the evening when I heard the knock at my door. Jordan stood wrapped in the scarf I’d given him before I left to visit my family. He smiled his wide grin. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home early?” He held a bottle of red wine and I smiled at the sight of it — the dryness in my throat needed to be quenched. We sat near the chaise longue and talked about my trip. We talked about the snowstorm, about my family.

“I would love to meet them one day,” he said.

The looming memory of Jordan’s face on the stranger’s shoulder irked me. The voices spoke in that language I couldn’t decipher. Bits and pieces were in English but remained blurred. The voices made no sense. There had been no shame in Jordan’s movements when I saw him with the stranger. The moment reeled on repeat in my head — Jordan’s smile planted on the stranger. Tears formed at the edge of my eyes.

“Baby, are you okay?” he asked.

I walked into the bathroom and ran the water in the tub. Water steamed hot. I added bath salts to soothe the stiff muscles of my back and thought about the ache in my knee from pressing the pedals on my drive from Dinétah to Santa Fe. I could hear Jordan in my head telling me it was nothing, it was my friend, he’s only visiting, but the voices got louder and muffled Jordan’s. The hammering, the memory, the splashing, the hurt all built up and pounded like monsoon thunder. The water bubbled as it filled the tub. Steam wafted against my skin and the mirrors fogged with moisture, fogging Jordan’s reflection.