Jeanne Stein - Crossroads

“I’m sorry about Layla. I’m sorry I didn’t cal to check in with you sooner. I’m sorry if my life keeps screwing up yours. If I could change any of it, I would. Maybe that’s what this trip is about. Maybe if things work out, I wil be out of your life forever and you can go back to Layla. She won’t have me to blame anymore for your problems and you can go back to your safe, stupid, boring existence.”

When the tirade passes, I swivel away from him on the seat and wait for Frey to unload on me. He should. He has every right to. My body tenses, every muscle steeling itself to receive the verbal blow I deserve.

Nothing happens.

I steal a sideways glance. Frey is staring straight ahead, his knuckles stil stiff on the steering wheel, his face pale.

Another moment passes. Then, slowly, he brings his seat to an upright position. He looks over at me. At first, his mouth is drawn in a tight line, his brow furrowed into deep, angry grooves. As I watch, though, his expression shifts. Like ice cream melting, the lines smooth, the mouth turns up instead of down. His shoulders start to shake.

Frey begins to laugh.

A laugh so hard it doubles him over.

A laugh so hard, tears run down his cheek.

A laugh so hard it casts a net that catches me up and before I realize it, I’m laughing like an idiot right along with him. I can’t say why. I don’t real y care why. Letting go is such a fucking relief.

Our laughter echoes across the stil night air and bounces off the rock citadels around us. We’re howling like moon-crazed wolves, lifting our faces to the sky. For the first time in weeks, I feel something loosening deep within me. A knot final y cut. A fist suddenly open.

I feel hopeful.

I recover my wits first. Wipe tears from my face. Slump on the seat, blinking in disbelief. “What just happened?”

Frey draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly, shaking h head. “I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“Why did you start laughing?”

His face in profile, I see an eyebrow arch. “Wel, my first impulse was to smack you. Then I started to think what would happen if I did. I got this image of the two of us wrestling in the dirt like something from Monday Night Raw . But you’d kick my butt and I’d be humiliated, and knowing you, I’d never hear the end of it.”

“And that made you laugh?”

“I didn’t say it made sense.”

“I guess I should say thanks for not smacking me.”

“And I should say thanks for not kicking my butt.”

It’s grown quiet al around us, the echoes of our manic laughter final y fading away. Frey and I retreat into our thoughts. I’ve spent more of the past year, my first as a vampire, in the company of this man. Yet I know so little about him.

I lower my head and look at him out of the corner of my eye so he won’t catch me studying him. His eyes are stil on the stars, his expression relaxed and unperturbed. He’s a good guy. I wish he’d let me in even if I don’t deserve it.

I make a vow to myself. I’l keep my friends closer from now on. Not just Frey, but Culebra, too.

I’l be the kind of good friend they’ve been to me — not just a friend when I need one, but a friend for al days.

And I make that vow to the bright glow of the morning star.

FREY PUTS THE JEEP IN GEAR AND WE’RE BACK ON the road just as the sun makes its first appearance over the desert. Shafts of light flood the val ey, painting inky silhouettes with shades of red. So far, I haven’t seen any sign of human habitation. Or much of any habitation at al. A few ground squirrels and rodents. A hawk circling against an ever-brightening sky. Low-to-the-ground scrub brush and spindly yucca. A desolate but remarkable landscape.

After traveling for another thirty minutes, I ask Frey, “Where the hel does your son live?”

“Patience. We’re almost there. The area we’re traveling through is cal ed Wildcat Trail. Not many people venture back here because this is private land. There are hogans and houses al around us, just so far off the trail, you won’t see them unless you know where to look.”

“Hogans?”

“Some Navajo stil live as their ancestors did — in smal, mud dwel ings. They’re cal ed hogans.”

A concept hard for me to grasp. I think of my own cottage.

Could I give it up to live in a mud house? Even in this beautiful place? Could Frey? I think not. “Does your son live in a hogan?”

Frey laughs. “No. His mother is much too modern. She likes her creature comforts. She lived in Boston for a while.

It’s where we met.”

His words trigger a memory. Frey lived in Boston before moving to San Diego. He was tracking a pedophile — the same one who abused my niece, Trish. It was how he and I met. How we learned to trust each other. Seems like a lifetime ago.

“You thinking about Trish?”

I blink over at him. “Can you read my mind again?”

“Not your mind. Your expression. You get a certain look when you’re thinking of your family.”

“Hmmmm.” I refocus. “What was your ex doing in Boston?”

“She was spending the summer with a mutual friend. She went to Massachusetts to study at Amherst. Native American Studies. She’s ful — blood Navajo.”

“Why did she move back to the reservation?”

Frey shifts in the seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. His reaction prompts me to ask, “Did she leave because she got pregnant?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The answer shows on his face. Guilt. Regret. Longing.

“Why didn’t you go after her?” I ask softly.

“I did. She sent me away. Only after our son was born did she let me back into her life. And then only for visits. Brief visits. I was an outsider in her world. She made it plain that I was unwelcome.”

I want to keep Frey talking. This is the most information I’ve ever gotten from him about his past. But we’re turning off the dirt road and heading for an outcropping of rocks in the distance. I don’t know how Frey knew where to turn. There’s not even a rutted trail to fol ow. He scans the terrain, searching for landmarks indistinguishable to me, but obviously as clear as street signs to him. He drives straight onward through hardscrabble dirt. I grab the sissy bar to keep from being bounced out of the Jeep. Clouds of dust bil ow in our wake like ragged coattails.

I don’t disturb his concentration. For two reasons. I don’t want to distract his driving and end up upside down in a heap. And secondly, I’m lost in my own head, fil ed with speculation about this woman who bore Frey’s child. This woman. . I can’t believe I haven’t thought to ask her name.

No. If I’m honest, I know exactly why I haven’t asked her name. A name takes her out of the realm of conjecture and makes her real.

The Jeep hits a deep rut, and I’m jerked back out of the fuzzy world of conjecture. Frey is pointing to the left. I fol ow his direction, and there in the distance, a trail of smoke like a white ribbon rises to the sky. It issues from what looks like a smal, round dome. I feel an inexplicable thril of anticipation.

“A hogan?”

He nods.

“It’s so smal.”

“It doesn’t need to be big. It’s used mainly for shelter when the weather’s bad and certain ceremonies. The Navajo spend most of their time outdoors.”

“Where are the others?”

“Others?”

“Don’t the Navajo live in vil ages?”

He shakes his head. “No vil ages. No towns.”

“A lonely existence.”

“Not if you’re used to it. The Navajo have a special connection to the land.”

He turns his attention back to driving and I turn mine back to the scenery. It’s as if we are the only two people on earth and for the first time in my life, I feel the force of nature. The wind, the sky, the sun on my face. The contrast of red sand and tal rock formations bathed in the newly minted gold of daybreak swamps my senses, and yet, I fight to take it al in.