Crosses

Ken Eber leans against his car, parked at a scenic lookout on the mesa west of Las Cruces.  He likes how the trees that line the Rio Grande form a green ribbon of life in the parched desert.  Beyond the river, the land swells into foothills that end abruptly at the mountains–massive rock columns that look like organ pipes against a turquoise sky.  A single cloud hovers over the spires, a cloud whose profile resembles Rita, the family dog.

Ken smiles across the valley–the Mesilla Valley.  In a few short months this will be his new home, his and his family’s–Jan and the two girls.  Seven hours ago–though it seems like days now–he kissed each of them goodbye before driving over to look at houses.  He promised Jan not to buy anything unless he found a steal, the place of their dreams.  Next month, when his in-laws are in Tucson and can watch the kids, Jan and Ken will come here again, this time more serious about house hunting.

He’s already seen two homes, the last a gray monstrosity that looked like a misplaced ski chalet.  Across the street from it a stack of pastel condos blotted out much of the desert view.  He liked the first place better, a three-bedroom yellow brick ranch in a university neighborhood, within walking distance of his new campus job.  But the price seemed high.

 Back in the car, Ken picks up the classified section of the paper and finds the third ad he had circled: BY OWNER.  MESILLA.  3 BR 2 BA RESTORED HISTORIC ADOBE ON 1 ACRE.  MUST SACRIFICE.  The low price means something’s wrong with the place, but he decides to drive by and have a look anyway.  Mesilla is the enchanting, sunbaked adobe village just west of town that Jan has fallen in love with.

He wants the house on sight.  It’s taller than he imagined, and white like an old adobe church.  Four huge mesquite trees frame the front yard, and on the north side are two elderly pecan trees.  A white wall wraps around the backyard.  He can picture the look of surprise on Jan’s face when she sees this place.  He imagines the four of them here on a summer day, laughing, tossing the Frisbee to Rita.  The image excites him.  Ken has to struggle against the feeling, reminding himself that something must be wrong with the house–the price is too low.  He decides to knock on the door anyway.

A small blue car sits in the driveway, a compact with a rent-a-car sticker on the rear bumper.  When he stands at the door, he makes a cursory inspection of the windows.  None of the paint is peeling, and the caulking appears in good shape.  The knocker on the door is an old brass woodpecker, and he raps the beak twice against the percussion plate.  The girls will love this knocker.  He can see them scrambling to be the first to use it.

The woman who opens the door is about Ken’s age, attractive, with auburn hair and chestnut eyes.  She wears a white t-shirt and jeans.  Obviously, she’s not a student, but she has that coed look he always finds appealing.

“I’m Ken Eber,” he says.  “I saw your ad in the paper.”

“Lenore Alma.”

 They shake hands.  Ken apologizes for showing up announced, but she says simply, “Which do you want to see first–outside or inside?”

“Whichever.”

“Come in, then.”

The house is completely furnished, and he wonders if the woman is living here now.  The furniture seems old world, and there are religious icons scattered about–crucifixes on the walls, small pictures of the Virgin Mary, votive cups on the fireplace mantel.  The interior is beautiful.  The hardwood floor in the living room is immaculate, buffed to a lustrous gloss that captures the window glow.  Heavy wooden beams span the high ceiling.

As they walk from room to room, and he searches for some sign of structural damage–though, truthfully, he’s not sure he’d recognize a serious problem if he saw one–Ken finds himself growing enchanted with the place.  Everything seems perfect.  It’s like going to buy an old used car and discovering a classic automobile.  The master bedroom is just what he and Jan have talked about.  The smaller bedrooms are the right size, too, one each for Stephie and Lynn, who share a room back home.  The bathrooms, whose fixtures are charmingly outdated, are both spotless.  The kitchen has much more space than theirs in Tucson.

When he follows the woman out the back door, he’s pleasantly surprised.  The adobe wall completely embraces the abundant yard.  In the center of the wall at the rear is an arch with a black wrought iron gate.  She points to some trees beyond the wall that mark the perimeter of the property.  While he’s looking at them, he notices the cross in the far corner of the yard.  It’s a small wooden cross that once was painted white, but has faded to ashen gray.  When the woman sees him looking at it, she says, “A beloved family pet.”

 As they walk back toward the house, he decides to take a direct approach to the question that troubles him.  “It’s a beautiful home,” he says, “but the price is low.  Is there something wrong with the place?”

She says, “What you see is what you get.  There are no surprises here.”

“How long have you had it on the market?”

“The ad appeared today for the first time.”

“Has anybody else been out to look at it?”

“Believe it or not–counting you–four altogether.”

“Am I the only suspicious one, then?” he says, laughing to mask embarrassment.

“Everybody wanted to know about the price.  It’s no mystery, really.  My mother died recently and left the place to me, her only living relative.  This house is where I grew up.  But I live in Hawaii now, and I can’t afford to stay here long.  I’m due back in a little over a week to teach summer school at the university where I work.  Although I hate to part with the place, I have no use for it.  I’d like to ask a higher price, but I can’t have it languish on the market.”

“Why not get a realtor to handle it?”

“I don’t want to deal with a middleman,” she says.  “I have a sentimental attachment to this place, and I want to oversee the sale myself, make sure it goes to the right people.”

There’s no reason not to believe her story, but Ken feels uneasy.  He prays, though, that this is one of those miracles come true.  He wants the house, and he’s willing to talk his way into her good graces.  He says, “I’m a university professor, too.  I just got hired by the astronomy department here.”

“You’re trying to find a place before the school year starts.”

“Yes, for me and my family–my wife and two little girls.”

“You have two girls?” she says, unusually interested.  “Do you have a picture of them?”

He takes out his wallet and shows the woman a recent photo of Stephie and Lynn.  He’s prejudiced, of course, but they’re the cutest girls in the world, dark like their mother, with curly brown hair and serious brown eyes.  He can tell from the way the woman looks at the picture that she finds the kids adorable.  But there’s something more in her expression.

“Which is the youngest?”

“Lynn is a year younger than Stephie,” he says, pointing.

An unmistakable look of sadness appears on the woman’s face, but before Ken has time to wonder about it, she says, “They’d love living here.  Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

Later, back in the living room, Ken fights powerful emotions.  He feels like a teenager again, wanting the house as badly as he wanted his first car, the old Ford Mustang he bought with money saved from caddying at the country club.  His impulse is to try to buy the house right off, but he knows he’d better be careful.  For one thing, he’s promised Jan not to buy without her consent–unless he finds their dream house.  Which is exactly what he’s done.  But can he get the house even if he wants it?  There are three people ahead of him.

When they reach the front door, Ken says, “I’m pretty sure I’d like to have this place, Ms. Alma, but I’d better telephone my wife, talk to her about it.”

 “Call me Lenore,” she says.  “And feel free to use the living room phone.  I have some watering to do outside.”

The thought of telephoning Jan from the house appeals to him.  As soon as Lenore has gone, he calls, using his phone card.  One of the girls answers.  “Stephie?  It’s Daddy, honey.  Get Mommy, please.”  When Jan comes on the line, he says, “I’m calling from the house of our dreams.”

“Uh oh,” she says.

He pictures her shaking her head, smiling her tolerant smile.

He describes the place, the price Lenore is asking, and the circumstances that dictate the quick sale.  Jan is understandably nervous, though noticeably swayed by his exuberance.  She advises caution, but says she’ll ultimately go along with whatever he decides.  Then she says, “So–what does this Lenore look like, anyway?”

“A young Sophia Loren,” he says, laughing, quickly steering the conversation back to the subject of the house.  Both Jan and Ken agree that a snap decision is undesirable, even though they might lose it.  He’ll stay in town a few more days, see if there are other good homes on the market.  Maybe he’ll find something else.  At least the extra time will allow him to make a more rational decision.

When he hangs up, he goes to the front window and peers out through the narrow slats of the wooden shutters.  Lenore is bending down in the yard, coiling a green garden hose.  When he goes out and stands face to face with her, he realizes that, regardless of what Jan and he have agreed, he has to have this place.  Everything about it is perfect.  Even the owner.

* * *

They sit at a table in the Mexican restaurant on the plaza.  It’s dusk, and the lampposts outside have flickered to life.  Ken was surprised earlier at the house when Lenore invited him to dinner.  “I know a little place that serves the best tamales in the entire Southwest,” she said.  “What do you say?”

She took a minute to change, and had emerged from a bedroom wearing a new pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeve, white gauze blouse.  Her eyes were slightly made-up, and a pale red sheen glossed her lips.  He has to admit to himself that he’s attracted to her, and if he wasn’t a married man . . .  She’s given no sign, though, that this dinner is anything but a courtesy.  Still, sitting across from her at the table like this, the lights in her hair, her voice mildly hypnotic, he feels drawn to her beyond time and place.

Through dinner she talks about growing up in the Southwest, how all during her youth she yearned to move out of the desert, to live in some tropical paradise.  She went to college in San Diego, but even there, despite the ocean, she found the landscape too desert-like.  After graduate school she took a job at a small college in Florida, and taught there for a few years.  That’s where she met her future ex-husband, a professor of agricultural engineering.  Later, when the position opened up at the university in Hilo, she applied for and got the job.  He went with her, eventually becoming the owner of a macadamia nut farm.  Over time, though, she and her husband grew apart, and they had been divorced several years now.  He moved back to the mainland a year ago.

 She says, “All the time I lived here I wanted nothing more than to go someplace like Hawaii.  I spent the last year over there longing for the desert.  Now that I’m back, I want to be there again.  How’s that for indecision?”

“I’ve dreamed of living in Hawaii,” he says.  “I was on the Big Island once for an astronomy conference.  It’s gorgeous.”

That gets her started reminiscing about her island home, and she talks lovingly about the jade ocean, the black sand beaches, the volcanoes that give a dangerous edge to living in paradise.  While she talks he pictures himself there with her, sharing drinks on the lanai at her cliff-top house.  He imagines himself working on the Big Island, home to one of the best observatories in the world.  When he catches himself at the fantasy, a terrible sadness overwhelms him.  Even though he knows it’s not real, he feels awful for fantasizing.  He pictures Jan and the kids, and feels a stab of guilt.

When they finish dinner, he insists on paying.  She leaves a tip.  As they climb into the car to go, she says, “Where are you staying in town?”

“I haven’t found a place yet.  I was hoping you might recommend a good motel.”

“Why pay for a motel?” she says.  “Stay at the house.  I’m spending a few nights with an old friend in town, so you wouldn’t put me out.  This way you can get a feel for the place, see if you really like it.”

It’s a fantastic offer, one that puts him in the catbird seat.  He says, “If you’re sure it’s okay.”

“Why not?”

 On the drive back to the house, though, he finds himself worrying about Lenore’s intentions.  Perhaps she’s coming on to him, and he can’t read the signals.  He’s not a suave man–certainly no womanizer.  He’s never cheated on Jan, even promising himself he’d leave her if he ever did.

Lenore is silent in the seat beside him.  Thinking what, he wonders.  By the time they reach the house he has almost decided to decline the offer to spend the night, but when he turns his car off in the driveway, he can’t find the words to explain his change of mind.

He carries his suitcase inside, following her to the middle bedroom.  When she switches on the light, she says, “This was my sister’s old bedroom.  Some of her girlhood belongings are still here.  You might find the bed a little small, but it has a firm mattress.”

He thinks, ‘Some of her girlhood belongings?’–the room is practically a shrine to Lenore’s sister.  Dolls and teddy bears line a shelf along one wall, and high school souvenirs crowd the top of a small desk.  Several pictures of a girl hang on a wall–presumably photos of the sister, but they might as well be of Lenore, the resemblance is so great.

“I’m sure the bed will be fine,” he says.

“After you’ve settled in, come out to the living room.  We can talk some more.”

When she goes, he shuts the door.  He puts his suitcase on the foot of the bed and opens it.  Inside is a small yellow Post-It note stuck to his black leather travel kit.  This is something he and Jan do whenever they’re apart.  “Darling,” the note reads, “We love you.  Jan, Stephie and Lynn.”  He left a yellow note, too, stuck to her pillow so she’ll find it when she goes to sleep.  He looks at his watch.  Still too early.  She won’t have found it yet.  What would Jan think, he wonders, if she could see him now.

He’s afraid of what he’ll find when he goes out to the living room a moment later.  He pictures Lenore sitting on the couch, patting the cushion next to herself when he looks for a place to sit.  But he finds her standing near a bookcase reading a blue, hardbound notebook.  When she sees him, she sets the notebook down, still open, on a shelf.  “One of the many diaries I kept as a girl,” she says.  Gesturing to a bottle of beer on an end table next to a solitary chair, she says, “I took the liberty of getting you one.  Feel free to decline.”

“No–I’d like a beer,” he says, sitting.

She sits on the couch and raises her beer in a toast.  “To change,” she says.

“To change.”

“It feels funny being back here like this–an adult in the house where I grew up.  Everything is strange, yet familiar.  You know what I mean.”

“Yes.  I once went home to Pittsburgh, to the neighborhood where I grew up.  The field where we used to play baseball–the one that seemed too big for me ever to hit a home run in–was the size of a postage stamp.”

She laughs.  “Pittsburgh?–is that where your love of astronomy began?”

“I had a science teacher–Mr. Little–who took our class on field trips to the planetarium twice a year.  That’s how I discovered what I wanted to be.”

“And have you been happy as an astronomer?”

“It’s like everything else, I guess.  The dream isn’t quite the same as the reality.  Everybody’s a specialist these days.  You have to fight for time on the telescopes.  It’s nothing like when I was a kid, spending hours looking at the nighttime sky through my small reflector.”

 “I wanted to be a writer,” she says.  “Now I teach composition to students who never read or write.”

They sit in silence for a long while.  When she finishes the last of her beer, she stands up directly in front of the lamp.  The light through her blouse silhouettes her upper torso.  He looks away, letting his gaze rest on one of the framed photographs on the fireplace mantel.  It’s a portrait of a family: mother, father, and two girls.

“Is that your family?” he says.

“Yes,” she says, staring vacantly at the picture for a moment.  “That’s my mother, father, and my sister, Mia.”  Then she says, “I’d better get over to Helen’s.  We’re getting up early tomorrow to do a hike in the Organ Mountains.  Do you hike?”

“Yes.”

“You’re welcome to come along.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all,” she says.  “I’ll pick you up around eight, if you’re interested.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Before leaving, she says, “Make yourself at home.  Watch TV.  Find a book to read.  I think there’s some cereal in the cupboard for breakfast.”

 After he locks the door behind her, he switches the old color TV on to one of his favorite programs, but it’s a repeat of a show he’s seen.  He leaves it on anyway.  His eyes roam the room, finally coming to rest on the bookshelf where Lenore’s open diary sits.  He immediately puts the idea out of his head, but a few minutes later his eyes again are drawn to the blue notebook.  He battles against the notion for a full minute before walking to the bookcase.

He pretends to look at the books around the diary.  But a moment later, he picks up the notebook and reads these words, written in a large loopy script: “Fernando and I did it again and God punished me for it.  Last week Mia killed herself.  She took a whole bottle of Mama’s sleeping pills and never woke up.  Yesterday when Father Villa told us we couldn’t have Mia’s funeral at the church Mama fainted and had to go to the hospital.”

What had Lenore and Fernando done, Ken wonders.  Made love?  What else would God punish a young girl for?

He wants to read more, but carefully sets the diary down.  He has never done such a thing before, invaded somebody’s privacy like that.   He feels terrible.  What’s come over him?  Unconsciously, he turns toward the fireplace and, spotting the family photograph, walks over to examine it.  Lenore is easily identifiable.  She’s the taller of the two.  Mia stands beside her, a few years younger, dark brooding eyes, a carbon copy of her older sister.  A chill runs the length of his spine as he inspects other photos on the mantel, aged black-and-white shots of the family on various vacations: a photo of the mother and father standing before the majestic splendor of the Grand Canyon.  The entire family beneath an archway that leads to an old adobe church.  One color photograph, whose tint faded years ago, of the two girls playing in the backyard of their house.  This house.

He walks to the corner window, parts the curtain, and looks out into the backyard.  A three-quarter moon lights the entire space, and he notices the faded cross near the rear wall.  Simultaneously, he remembers hearing once that the Catholic Church considers suicide a sin, and a person who commits suicide cannot be buried in consecrated ground.  As soon as he thinks this, a chill grips him, raising goose bumps all over his body.  His scalp crawls, as if icy fingers are gripping his head.  He hasn’t felt this spooked since he was a kid watching horror movies with his brother.

Something moving near the cross attracts his eye, making him catch his breath.  But he can discern nothing.  He shifts slightly to his left, altering the angle of his vision.  Still, he can see nothing.  Is it the wind stirring the weeds?  He looks to the leaves of the pecan trees, but they’re dead still in the night.  Perhaps the moonlight has created an illusion.  But no–there it is again.  And now he sees the cat, hunting near the cross.  It moves ever so slowly, slower than slow-motion, ghostly white in the eerie light.  A chill runs his spine to the base of his skull.

He’s really spooked now.  And to think he has to sleep in Mia’s old bed.  He can sleep elsewhere, of course, but he doesn’t feel like exploring.  With false bravado, he gives a little laugh.  Maybe this is why the place is so cheap, he thinks.  It’s haunted.  Suddenly, he feels like packing his things and leaving.  It’s still early–he can probably find a motel.  Better yet, he can drive all the way home, spend the night with Jan and the girls.  But he chides himself for the feeling.  After all, he’s a man of science.  He repeats this to himself several times before going to the bedroom.

Later, while showering, the shower scene from Psycho comes to mind, and he gets himself worked up all over again.  But suddenly he’s tired, unable to succumb to fear.  He decides to sleep in Mia’s bed, after all.  Before he lies down, he pictures Jan and the kids, and he draws comfort from the image.  When his head hits the pillow, he falls fast asleep.

* * *

In the morning he feels good about the house all over again.  He eats cereal and drinks instant coffee in the kitchen, the morning sun’s rays bending through a curtain to make oblong squares on the tile floor.  He’s just emerged from the bathroom when a horn honks.  He looks outside through a front window.  It’s Lenore, alone in her blue rental car.  When he climbs into the passenger seat, she says, “My friend, Helen, decided not to come.”

In the mountains east of town they first hike on a trail the size of a small dirt road, but at a monolithic boulder that resembles the head of a woman, Lenore leads him off into the desert, where they bushwhack over ridges and through dry washes in the foothills.  She’s looking, she says, for a stone arch she visited often when she was a kid.  When she finally finds it, neatly hidden in the upper reaches of a narrow draw, she acts as if she has rediscovered the most important thing from her past.  Together they scramble halfway to the formation, which sweeps out of a building-sized rock, like a handle at the side of an earthenware pitcher.  They rest at the base of a rugged lava chute that’s covered with lime-green lichen.  Smiling up at the arch, she says, “In high school I used to come here with my boyfriend.  It looks like a Shinto shrine to me now.”

After catching their breath, they climb straight up to the opening, pausing momentarily before passing beneath the formation.  On the other side, she points to a rock platform where they can sit and eat a snack.  Getting up to the platform is tricky, and Ken leads the way, offering his hand to Lenore at the very end because she’s winded.  When he pulls her up, she stumbles slightly.  The misstep puts them face to face.  He feels she wants him to kiss her, but he’s not sure.  He thinks he sees it in her eyes.  For only a brief moment–but what seems like an eternity–they stand like that.  Then Ken backs away.

They eat a mix of raisins and pecans–the latter picked from a local orchard, she says–washing the snack down with coffee from her silver thermos.  Then they sit looking through the arch at the valley beyond, already hazy from the wind that rakes the chili fields.  West of the valley is the line of blue hills that mark the ridge Ken crossed just yesterday morning, a psychological lifetime ago.  He can even see the highway, and in his mind he follows it back home, back to Jan and the kids.

When the morning begins to heat up, the hikers return to the car.  On the drive back to the small town, they come upon an old cemetery, and when he asks about it, she turns into the narrow entrance.  Before they’ve driven far along the dusty dirt road, she stops.  When she steps out, he follows.  Near the edge of a rusty fence, beneath a gigantic cottonwood, are two graves, each marked by a small white wooden cross.  It’s obvious from the color and texture of the earth that one of the graves has been dug recently.  She walks to the foot of that grave and stands with her head down.  Ken hangs back, confused by his emotions.  He feels as if he’s becoming part of her life.

After a short while she turns and crosses back to him.  “My parents,” she says.

On the ride to the house, she says, “Do you plan to spend more time in town?”

“I thought I might.  I’d like to look around, see what other houses are on the market.”

“Are you no longer interested in my place?”

“I am–but so are three other people.”

 “Well, I think I’ve narrowed it down to two–and you’re still in the running.”

“Really?”

“If you’re going to stay in town, spend another night at the house.  See if you think your family will be comfortable there.”

She says nothing about whether she’ll be spending the night at her friend Helen’s, and that makes breathing difficult for Ken.  It was apparent from the groceries in the refrigerator that she’d been staying at the house, and he worries again about her motives.  But he says, “All right.  Yes–I’ll stay another night.”

When she drops him off a few minutes later, she says, “I’d invite you to dinner again, but I’m afraid I have an engagement.”

“You’ve been more than kind already.  I’ll be able to fend for myself.”

“See you later, then.”

He watches her drive away, experiencing a sudden panic, not wanting to admit to himself that he almost hoped something would happen.

In the early afternoon, he drives to the university and walks around campus for a little over an hour.  He loves the spacious grounds, the grass-lined walks, the grove of trees surrounding the student union.  Later, he gets a burger and coffee at the Dairy Queen across the street, lingering long over the tiny meal.  In the late afternoon he returns reluctantly to Mesilla, making a lengthy detour through the quaint downtown where he finds a liquor store and buys a bottle of wine.  Later, when he parks his car in Lenore’s driveway, he feels better about the place.  The first thing he’ll do when he gets inside is call home.

When Jan answers, he explains to her that he spent last night in the house, and that he’s going to spend another night here, too.  She says, “Where’s the owner staying?”

“At a friend’s place in town.”

There’s a note of concern in Jan’s voice when she says, “You must really be impressed with the house.”

“I am.  And Lenore says she’s narrowed the field to two: me and somebody else.”

Jan hesitates a moment before saying, “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong with it, Ken?”

“Not absolutely, but we’ll have an inspector look it over before we sign anything.”

“As long as you know what you’re doing,” she says.

Before he rings off, he talks briefly to each of the girls, telling them how much he loves them, how happy he’ll be to get home again.  After he hangs up he thinks about what he hasn’t told Jan.  And since he shares everything with her, it’s a notable omission.  He’d promised himself, after his first brief marriage ended in failure, that he’d keep no secrets from Jan.  And, until this moment, he had kept that promise.  He meant to tell her about his transgression– reading Lenore’s diary–but didn’t.  Why?  Was he too embarrassed by his behavior, or did he not want Jan to know about the suicide?

Later, he sits watching television, drinking a glass of wine from the inexpensive bottle he bought.  He figures the wine will help him sleep.  After his second glass he begins to think again about Lenore’s diary, and he looks to where it still lies open on the bookshelf.  The alcohol has loosened his inhibitions, and he has to fight hard to keep from further eavesdropping.  He stands and walks to the fireplace mantel, taking the family portrait in hand and carefully inspecting the faces of each family member.  He especially examines Mia’s face, trying to see in her dark eyes the source of such overwhelming pain.  The eyes tell nothing.  The only way he might find out about her suicide is to read more of Lenore’s diary.  But he’s absolutely furious at the devious part of his nature that goads him to it, and he refuses to give in.  Instead, he pours himself another glass of wine and walks across to Mia’s bedroom, where he stares at the two photos of her on the wall.  They say nothing.

He finishes the wine in the living room, drunk enough now not to be embarrassed by his compulsion to snoop.  He picks up the diary, scanning forward and back for mention of Lenore’s sister.  Finding nothing, he begins skimming randomly through other notebooks until he discovers this entry in an older one: “Fernando and Mia are together all the time.  Always talking about getting married.  How many children they want.  He doesn’t even know I exist.”  Stunned by this passage, Ken quickly replaces the notebook and returns to the bedroom, where he undresses and crawls into bed.

What has he stumbled upon here?  Has he discovered the cause of Mia’s pain, the one thing that could make her take her own life?  Or has he jumped to a conclusion based on too little evidence?  What does he have to go on, after all, except two small passages in a young girl’s diary?  Still, despite the sedative effect of the alcohol, he’s unable to sleep.  Lying in Mia’s bed makes it all seem so real, and he can almost feel her presence.  How did the parents cope with her tragic death, he wonders.  How would he and Jan deal with such tragedy?  He puts this latter thought out of his mind.

The other thing that keeps him from sleep is the first diary entry he read.  It’s etched into his mind.  “Fernando and I did it again and God punished me for it.”  Why had Lenore called the diary to his attention, he wonders, leaving it open to that specific page.  Had she wanted him to read it?  And what about the scene in the mountains this morning?  He could easily have kissed her.  In his mind he imagines himself doing just that.  Where would it have led?–back here to one of the bedrooms?  A sexual fever immediately flushes through him, and he lays fantasizing about Lenore coming back tonight.

In Mia’s bed he tosses and turns, knowing sleep will never come if he continues with the fantasy.  But he can’t stop thinking about Lenore.  In his mind he fashions a fantasy in which she informs him bluntly that the only way he’ll get the house is to make love to her.  God knows he wants the place badly enough.

In this sexual delirium sleep seems a distant prospect, so he’s surprised when he wakes up in the middle of the night.  He gets out of bed and walks through the living room to look out the window at the backyard.  There, in the moonlight, near the cross, a young girl stands.  Ken is paralyzed with fear.  He wants to run, but his legs are heavy, leaden.  The girl–as if feeling his gaze–turns to look his way.

He hurries back to the bedroom and climbs into the bed.  As he does, he realizes that somebody is in the house.  He can hear the near-silent padding of bare feet on the wooden floor in the hallway outside the bedroom.  His heart beats so hard it hurts in his chest.  He struggles to breathe.  For a moment he imagines that what he’s hearing is only the cat he’d seen in the backyard last night, but a moment later a ghostly figure appears in the bedroom doorway.  She wears a white evening dress.  A simple string of black pearls hangs around her neck.  The pearls are huge, like eyeballs, dark and sensitive.  Before Ken can speak, she puts an index finger to her lips, commanding silence, as if she doesn’t want the girl outside to hear.  Walking forward she unfastens the pearl necklace as if it’s a piece of clothing, revealing her naked throat.  Beneath the pearls is a purple scar encircling her neck, the kind of scar a noose might make.  Like a stripper in a nightclub she unzips her dress and steps out of it.  He’s ashamed at the desire that courses through him, and he thinks to cover his groin, but can’t.

“Fernando,” she says, whispering his name.  “Fernando.”

He has a revelation.  This isn’t Lenore–it’s Mia.  Mia has come back.  As she approaches, he tries to mouth her name.  But no sound comes.  He tries harder, forcing himself to scream–but still no sound will come, as if the name is somehow breached in his throat.

He yells at the top of his lungs, suddenly sitting up in bed, a strange guttural moan emanating from his mouth.  He realizes now that he’s been dreaming all along, and he sits for a while trying to calm himself.  As a boy he occasionally suffered from night terrors, but the last had happened so many years ago he had nearly forgotten about them.

For a moment he considers getting out of bed and going to the living room window to look out at the backyard.  But he lies back down instead, wondering if he’ll sleep tonight.  Never again will he drink cheap wine.

* * *

 Before he’s fully awake the next morning, he feels guilty, trying to recall if he really had sex with Lenore last night.  But as he wakes to full consciousness, he remembers that it was all a dream: the image of the young girl by the cross, the woman in the house.  The body he feels pressed against his side is only the spare pillow.  A sense of relief floods through him.

When Lenore shows up after breakfast Ken is already packed and ready to go.  She looks especially fetching in a white silk shell and black walking shorts.  He admires her figure without guilt.

“Did you sleep well last night?” she says.

“I’m afraid not.  I guess I’m anxious to get home to my family.”

“I can understand that.”

“Speaking of family,” he says, forcing the topic, “I looked at the photograph of your family last night.  I can’t get over how much you and your sister look alike.  Does she still live in town?”

Without emotion, Lenore says, “No.  She died years ago.”

“That’s right—you did say you were your mother’s only living relative.  Is your sister also buried in the cemetery we visited yesterday?”

“No.  She’s buried someplace else.”

Ken glances over to the bookshelf to Lenore’s diary, but he’s astonished to find it’s not there.  Wasn’t it there last night when he went to bed, or did he accidentally shelve it when he put the others away?  He’s positive Lenore didn’t do it.  She hasn’t been out of his sight since she arrived.

She says, “What would you say if I offer you the house?”

 Until now he has prayed for this chance, hoped for this outcome, always afraid to let himself want the house too badly.  But he’s had a change of heart, and he says, “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.  After talking it over with my wife, we’ve decided to wait.  I think she really wants a newer house.”

“Oh–I’m sorry to hear that,” Lenore says.  But she doesn’t seem surprised.  In fact, Ken has the feeling that somehow she expected it.

He says, “I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you.  I’m sure you’ll find another buyer.”

“Yes–the other party will be pleased to hear the news,” she says.  “It’s just that the house seemed so perfect for your two girls.”

He excuses himself then, shaking her hand, thanking her again for her hospitality.  Outside, she waves to him once as he backs away from the house.  In the rearview mirror he sees her uncoiling the green water hose.  It’s a four-hour trip to Tucson, but he looks forward to the drive home.

* * *

As soon as the cooler days of autumn have settled in, Ken and his family begin to take weekend hikes in the mountains east of town.  One day, by accident, he leads Jan and the girls to the stone arch where he and Lenore shared a snack.  Stephie and Lynn are fascinated by the rock formation, and want to climb up to it, but Ken explains it’s a dangerous scramble.  In the afternoon they visit Mesilla, entering town on the cemetery road.  When the girls see the old cemetery, they want to drive through.  As he maneuvers the car slowly along the dirt road, they play a game, calling out the dates printed on the headstones, seeing who can find the oldest.  Jan smiles at Ken when he turns her way, a smile that’s meant to convey her pleasure at the day’s events–the hike, the ride, their daughters’ game.  But he’s looking beyond her, through the passenger window at the two white crosses beneath the towering cottonwood tree.

The shortest route to their Las Cruces home is down the road where Lenore’s house stands, and Ken sees no reason to take the long way back.  But as he accelerates past the old adobe, fighting the urge to glance over, Jan says, “Slow down.  Look at that.”  She’s smiling at Lenore’s old house in obvious admiration.  “Now there’s a place I could really call home.”

From the back seat Lynn says, “Could we live in a house like that someday, Daddy?”

Stephie says, “Could we, Daddy?”

Ken looks into the rearview mirror, at the excitement on the faces of his two beautiful girls.  “Maybe someday,” he says.