John Brandon - A Million Heavens

The gas station owner sidled over on his knees and lifted the rock he’d used as a pillow the night before. He rested the pistol underneath it, hiding the gun from view. No human would ever find it. It would remain where it was until the whole world was finally punished. Still on his knees, he edged toward the wolf, closing in on him. The gas station owner stopped at a few paces and held his hand out, his shoulder again quaking. He tried to soften his eyes, to let the wolf know that the fighting was over, that the gun was extinct. He was dizzy now with the effort of this peace offering, with the weight of his hand even without the gun, even in the lightest air in the world, and when the animal took a step toward him it startled him. The gas station owner felt energy, fear. The wolf closed the distance and the gas station owner gave no ground when his hand was hotly sniffed. The wolf seemed more intelligent than the gas station owner. The wolf had known from the start that an understanding was inevitable. He sniffed the gas station owner’s fingers greedily. The wolf was long-legged and long-necked and was reaching downward to get the scent he wanted, and the gas station owner resisted reaching out his other hand and petting the wolf on his bony head. He kept his hand raised to the animal, his arm no longer heavy. The wolf started licking the gas station owner then, wetting down the flesh of his hand and then the topside of his wrist, like a bumbling collie, and then the wolf pressed its dry muzzle against the gas station owner’s forearm and the gas station owner pushed back to keep his balance. The wolf balked, snorting, and the gas station owner felt the wolf’s teeth against his scorched forearm, saw that the wolf’s saliva was flowing openly, springing from some hidden source in the wolf’s desiccated body and slicking the filthy fur of his front. The lightning was still striking, an empty county away. The moment was changing and the gas station owner, trapped inside it, had no power to escape, no power to change course now after this much wandering, after arriving at this impasse. At the taste of the gas station owner’s blood the wolf’s tongue became animated and something changed in his eyes. The wolf seemed to remember that he was not afraid of anything. Night would not come at the end of this day. Forty days never mattered, but this did.

The whole meat of the gas station owner’s lower arm was in the wolf’s mouth and the gas station owner did not protest. The wolf sliced easily into the skin, never biting down all the way. He was merciful, the wolf. The gas station owner wanted an active part in the moment. He would not be victimized. He shoved his arm roughly at the wolf, encouraging him. He felt no pain. Though he felt removed in some necessary way, he could see it clearly when the wolf got hold of the piece of flesh he was after, the veined old muscle the gas station owner would’ve used to pull the trigger again, had he pulled the trigger again. The wolf paused and shuddered. The gas station owner watched him peel away a full strip of his flesh, watched the wolf retreat several paces and chew and swallow hard.

When the air hit the wound, he could feel it, but the gas station owner had felt worse pain many times. He’d probably had hangovers that hurt worse. He tucked his arm to his side, remaining on his knees and returning the wolf’s hollow stare. The wolf didn’t look desperate anymore, didn’t look special. The gas station owner waited, curious about his life, curious if this was how it was going to end or if there’d be more for him to deal with, and next he was watching the wolf turn away and trot toward the east, toward the coming night. It would arrive, the night. The gas station owner could see the wolf for a while and then could only see the dust the wolf disturbed as he returned to his life, part of the gas station owner inside him, fueling him.

The gas station owner’s blood was surging now. His arm was bleeding and his mind was buzzing. He stood and went to his pack, hoisted it off the ground. There’d been nothing in it but the pistol for days. The gun was gone and he was not afraid. He dropped the pack on the desert floor without ceremony and began walking, his mangled arm snug to his body. He wasn’t trying to conserve energy or trying to find anything. When his blood slowed, he would walk no more, and he wanted to cover some ground while he could. He would walk for another minute or he’d make it ten miles, to where the lightning was finally giving out, only a late weak flash now and then. There was a point on the horizon where in a couple hours the sun would set, and maybe the gas station owner could beat the sun to that spot.

He was visiting with his sister-in-law when the call came from the clinic. They told him Jay Fair had been brought in, worse for wear but stable now, severely dehydrated and torn up a little from a run-in with some coyotes. A young couple had come across him driving back from a remote hike, on a washboard road that sometimes went unused for days. Mayor Cabrera wasn’t sure if Fair had asked for him because they were friends, or if he’d been contacted because Fair had no family and Mayor Cabrera had long been the head of the town Fair hailed from. He hoped it was the former. He hoped he was about to drive to Albuquerque on purely personal business this Wednesday evening.

He excused himself from the living room, said goodbye to his sister-in-law with a lingering hug, and dumped the rest of his tea down the sink. He went up the hall toward the front door and stopped at Cecelia’s room. He knocked and heard Cecelia’s small, clear voice. Mayor Cabrera went in and Cecelia was making her bed, tucking the last corner in tight. Then she stepped over and gave Mayor Cabrera a hug that was stiff but nonetheless felt sweet to him. He asked her if she was still going to the vigils at the clinic, because he had to go there too tonight, to see about Mr. Fair, who’d turned up half-dead from the desert. He asked his niece, not whispering but not loud enough that his sister-in-law could’ve heard from the living room, if she wanted to ride over with him. He knew catching a ride with him wasn’t any more convenient for Cecelia, and probably she liked being alone with her thoughts when she went to the vigils. He had no idea how late she usually stayed, but he assured her that he’d be happy to sit with Mr. Fair all night if necessary, and was surprised when Cecelia rested her Rubik’s Cube in the center of her bed, glanced toward her window in the general direction of Albuquerque, and said, “Sure.” She asked if he was ready to go right then and Mayor Cabrera said he guessed so and stood by as Cecelia wriggled into a sweatshirt, her face emerging open and calm. She patted her pockets then told Mayor Cabrera to lead the way.

They got in his car and set off and Mayor Cabrera made sure not to act like it was a big deal that Cecelia was riding with him, not to act like it marked a success for him. They opened their windows and got clear of Lofte and onto a two-lane county road that wasn’t paved very well but didn’t have any stoplights. Mayor Cabrera didn’t want to be on the interstate, where you couldn’t converse over the whipping wind. The evening was almost warm, the air with weight to it and carrying a scent like grainy crackers.

Mayor Cabrera knew it didn’t matter what he talked about. He had to say something. He had to not say nothing.

“I had a dream last night where people kept smiling at me,” he offered.

Cecelia was lost in thought, but she abandoned whatever she’d been mulling. She considered Mayor Cabrera’s statement earnestly, as if he’d stated a philosophy.

“Like in a good way?” she said. “Or creepy, like in a Christian coffee shop or something?”