Yuma: a short story romance

  ***

  “You get the award for finding the most things that could have killed us.” Matthew grinned at me through the rear view mirror of the generic white van the archaeology agency had rented for the project. The night before had been quiet and everyone was very ready for this project to be over. Unfortunately, there had been a small parcel of land left to survey.

  We had begrudgingly dragged our tired bodies from lumpy hotel beds and arrived at the range just as the sun began to kiss the desert landscape. Four hours and two historic cowboy can scatters later we were on the road ready to take advantage of what was left of the day and see the local sites. Considering our location, the couple hours we had to spare would be more than enough.

  The van coasted into the Yuma Territorial Prison parking lot. As we climbed out of the vehicle the project director looked at her watch. “We need to be back here in an hour so we can grab some lunch before we head back to Phoenix.”

  Matthew and I looked at each other and then took off running toward the park entrance. One hour was hardly enough time to spend in the place that had once held the notorious Joe Boot and Pearl Heart, the last stage coach robbers in Arizona!

  I giggled, feeling a little silly running like a six year old would toward an ice cream truck. But, with Matthew running beside me, I wondered why anyone wouldn’t want to feel that way again.

  Built on the highest landform in the area, the main guard tower stood sentential over the deep blue Colorado River. As we trotted past I felt the gaze of the guards that had once stood looking in toward the prisoners. What did they think about as they strolled across those wooden floorboards? How many nights had their wives waited for them to come home for dinner? How many families in Yuma had territorial prison guards in their family tree?

  I turned to see Matthew waiting for me at the Sallyport entrance to the main prison buildings, its architecture a reminder that Spain had once been the main power in this land. One look in his eyes and I knew that he saw the same things here that I did. For once, I did not feel like the goofy kid barely restraining my enthusiasm in front of the more reserved.

  We slowed our pace so we could take in the surroundings. The Kerry green lawn between the buildings felt out of place after days spent tramping through the desert. “Have you been here before?” Matthew asked.

  “No.” I answered and looked up into his eyes. They were a warm cinnamon color sprinkled with ginger that invoked thoughts of cool winter nights with cider mulling on the kitchen counter and pies warming in the oven.

  “Me neither.” He replied as he held the door to the little museum.

  We were hushed as we meandered through the exhibits, casting discerning eyes over the artifacts. I recognized some from surveys I had done throughout the state. Others, like the nefarious ball and chain and Backstrap Darby handcuffs, I had never seen up close.

  Matthew stood a few feet away, peering down into the faces of some of the territorial prison’s more malcontented guests. It was terribly hard not to wander closer, to give into the pull I felt to share his space.

  The door opened and the rest of the team shuffled in. The tiny museum suddenly felt stuffy, as if they had walked into something personal, something I did not want to share. I looked eagerly toward the back door, then at Matthew. “Do you want to go look at the cells?”

  He seemed as earnest as I was to leave the museum. The funny thing was I loved the artifacts; the history made my soul feel free. But they never held my attention when they sat behind the glass accompanied by some uninspired description on a three by five card. I wanted to touch it, to smell it, to taste the dirt in the air when I pulled it from the ground.

  We crossed through the wrought iron gate that led to the main cell block. Now this was what I was talking about. Here I could feel the prisoners trudging through the heat after working a long day. I could hear the coughs from tuberculosis, and the groans of squeaky beds. When I peered into one of the cells I could see scribbles of graffiti on every inch of blank wall space. The majority left by drifters and bums that had stayed there during the Great Depression. This is where I felt the fabric of time grow thin, where I could feel our ancestors as they always have been, just people.

  It was an awesome feeling but I reveled in it. I felt an excitement and a giant smile breaking across my face. I have never done solemn well. I looked over at Matthew and he had that same stupid grin plastered on his face. My heart went double time, again. That poor organ of mine was exercising excessively this week.

  We continued on through the complex. Matthew waxed on and on about all the beautiful details he saw in what we passed and what fascinated him about it. I just walked, loving every moment of being with someone that understood.

  An unplastered adobe wall rose up in front of us. A wood frame protected the entrance from the disintegrating walls and a hand carved sign with bright white letters announced DARK CELL. This was the punishment cell, a cave of darkness that could make a person crazy in a matter of hours. Filled with a peculiar sense of dread, I slowed my approach.

  Matthew turned and raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”

  “No.” I replied.

  I was not scared. I was something, but not scared. Trepidatious was a much better word for it. But he would not be hearing that from me. I put on a smile, added a little skip to my walk, and we ducked through the door.

  Once past the light from the entrance it was the very definition of black; sucking in light into an envelope of destruction. The kind of black where your eyes never grow accustomed. Prisoners had gone insane after only a few days in this darkness. I doubted I would have lasted a few hours.

  Behind us I could see the faint light from the entrance and it gave me solace knowing I had a direction out. If it had been covered? I shivered. Matthew had disappeared. I stood still, listening for his breath, a scuff of a shoe, anything.

  Suddenly, a loud clang rang out and echoed painfully through my head. I was so frantic I couldn’t remember how I got out, but there I was, sitting in the hot desert sand, wide-eyed and hyperventilating.

  Matthew emerged just a moment later with a struggling boy gripped by the pant waist in each hand. They were spitting mad and so was Matthew. He strode right past me as he demanded the boys tell him where their parent were, and then was gone for a good five minutes. It was fortunate because at the moment I was embarrassed beyond the dirtiest of potty jokes.

  I scolded myself for being a dope. Stood and brushed the particles from by pants, took a deep breath, and begged my cheeks to stop burning. I was pretty sure I had a semblance of normalcy in my stature when he returned, but added a paparazzi smile just in case.

  “Are you ok?” He grinned at me again. I loved the creases in his eyes when he smiled. His heroic response to those little monsters sent images of southern belles fanning themselves through my mind. He was tall, and strong, and nice, and sexy, and oh, just plain perfect.

  “I wish I had known you before.”

  I did it. I inserted that foot right into my mouth. I groaned inwardly. So what if he was perfect. He was married. Married!

  “Before what?” He asked.

  “Never mind. Let’s go look at the New Yard.”