What We Find

  Cal was impressed—this responsibility to each other people around the crossing shared. His own family was barely capable of that. They checked on each other and one would think, given the unbalanced lifestyle in which they’d grown up, they would cling to each other for survival, but it seemed to go the other way. Once they broke free, their contact was steady but minimal. It was every man for himself. He liked his brother-in-law, Sedona’s husband, and his niece and nephew were great, but they didn’t see each other often. Dakota, being a military man, wasn’t easy to keep up with; he had deployed three times in the past ten years. If they didn’t all have cell phones, they would hardly be in touch at all. They didn’t exactly have family reunions.

  “Family reunion?” Sedona had once said. “Doesn’t that sound like a day in hell?”

  “Nah,” Cal had replied. “Just a day at the loony bin.”

  Summer brought Sullivan’s Crossing to life—vacationers abounded. The camps across the lake were full; there were fishing boats and Jet Skis all over the water. The occasional Boy Scout or teen camp counselor escaped to Sully’s to get away from their kids.

  Hikers passed through in a steady stream—some who had made the trek south from Boulder, some who had been out for a short time, some who had come all the way from the Mexican border and had already logged close to a thousand miles. They usually straggled in at the end of the day. They had a variety of reasons for taking to the trail—a cancer survivor who had a lot of living to do, a professor who was documenting his hike, a divorcée getting her confidence back, a couple of ministers who wanted to experience the CDT for the spiritual messages, married teachers doing as much of the hike as they could over summer and hoping to get across three states. They sometimes recognized each other from the trail or from names in trail logs they’d read along the way. They gathered around picnic tables, on the porch or the dock. Remembering all too well coming off the trail, Cal began grilling burgers for hikers. He kept ground beef and buns on hand just for that purpose—burgers and chips. No charge.

  “You’re gonna go broke that way,” Sully groused.

  “I can spend my money any way I like,” Cal said.

  Later that night Maggie told him that Sully had been doing the same thing for years. Most hikers weren’t destitute at all and traveled with their credit cards. They’d leave a nice tip behind, more than covering the cost. Cal and Maggie both loved talking to them, watching them open the packages they sent themselves, hearing them describe the almost religious experience they had from taking a hot shower.

  Cal particularly enjoyed watching families together, couples with two or three kids who camped in big family-sized tents and stayed for anywhere from a few days to more than a week. Sometimes they were on the move, seeing as many of Colorado’s national parks as possible. They usually staked out a picnic table and grill for their meals and played cards or games at night and went hiking, rock climbing, boating or fishing by day. Cal had always expected to have a family like one of these, a boy and girl, a family having fun together in the healthy outdoors.

  Cal was at peace with the place. Since he’d grown up with no security or schedule, always some new agenda or scheme, he fell in love with the routine. Mornings he used Sully’s kitchen for breakfast, though Sully rose at dawn and headed for the store. Then he’d have coffee on the porch with Frank, Sully, and often Tom who would come by on his way to some job—usually a handyman project for a local home owner. Sully would let Cal know what he wanted done that day, Frank would head to his ranch to give his sons advice, everyone got to work. The end of the day found him back on the same porch, talking with hikers, having a cold drink.

  He hated to go inside at the end of the day unless it was raining, which was seldom this time of year. He would sit outside with Sully and Maggie until the sun was well set. When he retired with Maggie to the rumpus room, he took at least an hour in that old leather chair, feet up, nose in a book. There was a bookstore in Leadville he’d visited a couple of times and he had a nice library forming on that bookcase of Maggie’s.

  “What are you reading?” she asked.

  “I’m doing a lot more rereading than reading these days. Isn’t that what you do on vacation?”

  “As hard as you work all day, this is hardly a vacation. What are you rereading?”

  “Great Expectations.”

  “You’re the only theme park employee I’ve ever known who reads classics.”

  “Literature major,” he reminded her.

  “Why reread now?”

  He closed his book. “Sometimes it takes me back in time, remembering who I was the first time I experienced a great book. It reminds me where I thought I was headed and how life changed and changed me. When I first read this I was a kid—it was one of my mother’s favorites. I thought I might be a famous playwright. Or at least a rich novelist. I changed my mind and direction a few times. At least.”

  Cal didn’t explain how much he liked the language of exceptional storytelling because in a way he was a storyteller, but he’d done it in court. He never made things up or lied, but he offered possibilities. Enough to cloud a jury’s decision. Enough to confuse human nature. Sometimes he’d complicate an already complex process—that was plotting. That was what the greats of literature did—they got their characters up a tree and threw rocks at them.

  He thought again about explaining things to her, who he was, what baggage he was bringing to the relationship. After all, they were playing house in Sully’s basement. Every time he thought about it, it felt a little bit heavier. Eventually he’d unload it. But tonight was not the best night. Maggie was getting ready for bed and other things came to his mind.

  He didn’t explain himself but he did ask her if she wanted to talk about the lawsuit, the case against her. “Eventually,” she said. “Not yet. Frankly, I get tired of thinking about it and talking about it is even worse. Thanks for offering.”

  Wednesday brought Tom for grounds keeping. Cal stocked shelves before getting out the rake and edger to help. Maggie, he noticed, was in the garden, which was beginning to flourish. They were already getting their salads from the backyard and the first tomatoes were coming in. At lunchtime he was headed with Tom back to the store. Maggie was on the porch with a bottled water and a lot of mud on her shoes and knees. She wore a ball cap with a short ponytail pulled through the back and just a look at her, all a mess from gardening, created carnal thoughts he looked forward to acting out later.

  “You’ve been farming,” he said.

  “How could you tell? Hey, Tom,” she added.

  “We’re going to get some lunch,” Cal said. “You want anything?”

  “Yes, exactly. Anything. And a green tea?”

  “Coming up.”

  Tom and Cal returned immediately cradling wrapped sandwiches, a bag of chips, pickles, hard-boiled eggs, drinks. They put everything on the table and Cal pulled napkins and a packet of salt from his pocket. A couple of campers with a small ice chest passed by the porch and yelled out, “Hi, Cal. Hi, Tom. Hi, Maggie.”

  Maggie unwrapped her sandwich and froze. She was staring at the drive. “Oh God,” she said.

  Pulling up to the store was a shiny BMW convertible, the top down. Inside the car was a woman with dark glasses and an elaborate scarf covering her head.

  “What?” Cal asked, his mouth full.

  “Phoebe,” she said dismally. “My mother.”

  “Really,” Cal said slowly, smiling.

  “Oops, I just remembered something,” Tom said, gathering up all his food in his big arms and fleeing the porch, into the store.

  “Would you like me to leave you two alone?” Cal asked.

  “It really doesn’t matter. But if you stay, I’ll introduce you as my boyfriend.”

  “This could surpass interesting. After all you’ve told me about—”

/>   Maggie stood. “Mother, what are you doing here?”

  Cal also stood and although he’d just given his hands a good washing in the kitchen, he wiped them on his khaki shorts.

  Phoebe proceeded up the steps to the porch. “Is it enough that I’ve hardly seen you in three months?”

  “I saw you a couple of weeks ago and called you almost every day. I’m not in Denver. It’s quite a drive.”

  “I managed quite nicely, except that last bit. Messy, rotten road. Slow.” Then she looked pointedly at Cal, waiting. She was probably five foot two and slight. She was attractive; her scarf, pushed back, revealed red hair and a beautiful, youthful face. Fifty-nine, Maggie had said. Dressed pretty well for a road trip, designer slacks and jacket, pumps... Pumps? To a campground? She was spit-shined, polished, her jewelry tasteful and expensive. Just her watch was worth a month’s salary. A month of his old salary.

  He lost his nerve. She scared him to death. He couldn’t help with this.

  “How do you do, Mrs...?”

  “Lancaster,” she supplied. “And you are?”

  “I’m Cal Jones. I work here. I work for Sully. I’d, ah... I’ll leave you and Maggie. Can I get you anything? How about lunch?”

  “Thank you, that would be fine. Is there something like a salad? Undressed, of course. If it’s dressed, skip it and get me fruit. And a San Pellegrino? Glass glass, if you please.”

  “I’ll check,” he said, gathering up his food.

  “Oh, and, boy? A rag to wipe the table?”

  Cal kept his eyes downcast. He couldn’t meet her gaze. His lips twitched. She called a thirty-seven-year-old criminal defense attorney of some moderate fame and sterling reputation boy.

  He disappeared as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  Maggie sat and left Phoebe to choose a chair. “Very nice, Mother. His name is Cal, not boy. Where were you raised? And the table is perfectly clean, I wiped it myself before I sat down. Now, what is it that brings you here, given you haven’t been here in, how long? Thirty years?”

  “I kept hoping you’d visit soon because I have something to ask you that I didn’t want to ask over the phone, but you don’t seem to have the time to— Oh my dear God, your hands!”

  Maggie splayed her fingers and examined her hands. Kind of a mess. Chipped nails, calluses, damaged cuticles. “Garden hands,” she explained.

  “And what have you done with your hair?”

  “Actually, nothing at all.”

  “In three months?” Phoebe asked, clearly astonished.

  “A little more when you get down to it.” She picked up her sandwich and took a bite. “I’m so amazed you’re here.”

  “Well, Walter said it was quite a nice place and that you were doing very well.”

  “So, he told you he was here?”

  “Of course. Really, Maggie, not exactly the lap of luxury, now, is it? How can you relax in a place like this?”

  Maggie laughed and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “This may be difficult for you to understand, Mother, but this is slightly more relaxing than standing in surgery for seven hours, up to my elbows in brains. Now, ask what you came to ask.”

  Phoebe sighed. “It’s that time again, Maggie. Missy Stanhope is having her summer luncheon gala. This year she’s raising money for cancer research. I had hoped you’d be back in Denver by now but never mind that. You’ll go with me, of course. After you’ve had a decent color and cut and a manicure.”

  “I don’t know, Mother. I might have to bow out this year. Too many complications.”

  “There are always complications, Maggie! Many more complications when you were working and on call all the time! I don’t ask much.”

  “Yes, but what you do ask is always hefty.” She took another bite and swallowed. “Have you ever asked yourself why a seventy-year-old woman goes by the name Missy? Come on.”

  “She’s a lovely person and I didn’t pick her silly name!”

  Missy was a wonderful person, but Maggie knew that wasn’t why Phoebe had chosen her for a friend. Her friends all had tons of money, all belonged to the same club, all played bridge and golf and had luncheons and participated in fund-raisers—an exact replica of Phoebe’s life back in Chicago. Only now Walter had more time to participate. And most of the women in Phoebe’s circle skied, which Phoebe did not. Phoebe also did not do volunteer work. She found it depressed her.

  “You’re looking good, Mother. Is that a new color?” Maggie asked, touching her own head to indicate Phoebe’s hair.

  “A little darker on the red. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s very attractive. Listen, I’m going to have to think about this luncheon. I like some of your friends, but right now it’s awkward—I don’t want to talk about my ex-partners, the lawsuit, my leave from work.”

  “I think it’s better to be seen,” Phoebe advised. “Be seen looking perfectly fine and then say you’re not allowed to discuss any of that on advice of counsel, but you’re confident it’s going to work out just fine.”

  “I’m not confident of that, as a matter of fact,” Maggie said.

  “Say so, anyway, and if you’re worried, you should talk to Walter.”

  “Mother, I have talked to Walter. He’s given me all the advice he can and helped me choose an excellent lawyer, but it’s very messy. I’d rather not.”

  “Please, Maggie! My friends are starting to miss you, too! I look forward to these events you attend with me. You’re my best friend.”

  Phoebe should raise her standards for best friends, Maggie thought. She’d attended about a half dozen of these mucky-muck affairs with her mother because it was so important to Phoebe, but she didn’t enjoy them much. There were some nice women involved in these events and fund-raisers, but none Maggie would choose as friends. Phoebe was only involved because she thought these women were elite and important and she wanted to be a part of a group like that. She had a hard time being around the baseborn, though she came from nothing. Maggie sighed.

  Sully came onto the porch with a small tray bearing a salad in a plastic container, a packet of ranch dressing, a bottled water, glass glass and a beer. He put the tray down in front of his ex-wife. “This will have to do,” he said, completely ignoring any greeting. Then he took a seat across from her. “How have you been, Phoebe?” he asked, taking the beer from the tray for himself.

  “I’m well,” she said. “Thank you for asking.”

  “Did you want to ask Sully how he’s doing since heart surgery, Mother?” Maggie needled.

  “I believe I’m up to date on everything, Maggie, since you and I talk regularly.” She looked at Sully as she struggled to open her plastic salad. “I hope you’re well, Harry.”

  She was the only person on earth who called him by his given name.

  Phoebe managed to get the container open after a brief struggle and a few chunks of lettuce and the fork popped out onto the table. Out of habit, Maggie just scooped it away and arranged the meal for Phoebe, putting the fork beside the container and shaking out the densely folded napkin and snaking it onto her lap.

  “Well,” Phoebe said, moving the clumps of lettuce around a bit. “Walter said he enjoyed his visit to your camp.”

  “He told you?” Sully asked, surprised.

  “Of course he told me! Why would you think otherwise? Do you think we have secrets from each other?”

  “I meant no offense,” Sully said, taking a long pull on his beer. “He said you thought he was playing golf,” he added. “I thought that meant...”

  “He’s always playing golf!” Phoebe said.

  “New hair color?” Sully asked her.

  “My hair has always been red,” she said.

  “Was it red?” he asked. “I can’t remember.”

&n
bsp; “Well, at your age, that’s to be expected, isn’t it?” Phoebe said. “Maybe if you weren’t always headlong into the bottle—”

  “Oh, Jesus,” Maggie muttered, rubbing her temples.

  “I haven’t had a beer before five in the afternoon in at least twenty years,” he said. “Hadn’t felt the need until now.”

  “At least I don’t have to point out where your sore spots are,” Maggie said. “Be nice to each other or you’ll be sent to your rooms.”

  “When will you be done with this hiatus?” Phoebe asked. “When will you be back in Denver?”

  “I don’t know. Not much longer.”

  “Leave her be, Phoebe. She hasn’t had a proper vacation in years and she’s burnt out. She can stay here as long as she likes. Don’t bully her.”

  “I’ve been more relaxed since I’ve been here than I have been in years and that should make you happy, Mother.”

  “Of course your health and happiness are paramount. And I don’t bully.”

  “Course not,” Maggie said. She took a big bite of her pickle.

  There was a loud burst of laughter somewhere in the campground and Maggie looked around. A man wearing a backpack but no clothes was coming down the trail. He had excellent hiking boots on his feet, a straw hat on his head and that was all. His thing was swaying in the breeze.

  Maggie hadn’t seen something like this in a long time. She covered her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “Oh my hell,” Sully swore, slamming down the beer and jumping to his feet. “I should shoot his pecker off! Doesn’t that idiot know this is a family place?” And he charged down the steps toward the naked man.

  Maggie started to laugh and slid down in her chair.

  “Dear God,” Phoebe said. “Maggie, you can’t stay here! This is why I took you away. This is the bowels of hell!”

  Just be what you are and speak from your guts

  and heart—it’s all a man has.

  —Hubert Humphrey

  Chapter 11

  “You’re a coward, that’s what you are,” Maggie told Cal.