F I C T I O N He settled on this outfit because it gives nothing away, a neutral look that will allow him to go in any direction if conversation ensues. Also, his neutral, noncommittal clothing will allow her that same privilege, any direction, non-confrontational. She can say what she wants, and so can Dale. Yesterday Dale got a haircut at one of those chop-chop places that’s part of a strip mall, fifteen dollars plus a tip, and this morning he shaved carefully so as not to nick his fleshy face, no aftershave, no cologne, no scent. As with his clothing, he doesn’t want to encourage assumption. Of course she might not be walking all the way to the highway. There are other three-acre lots with singlewides or doublewides between Dale’s place and the highway. She might be stopping at one of them. On two occasions Dale’s hopped into his pickup truck and driven down the graded road in the direction of the highway to see her still walking toward the highway, so he knows that she goes at least that far, a couple of healthy lots past Dale’s place. He didn’t stop to offer her a ride. He wasn’t prepared for that. He was wary and he was cautious. After all, she might be a nut case; that’s a strong possibility. Dale didn’t want that in the cab of his truck. So, playing it safe, he simply drove by while keeping her in the side mirror for as long as he could. He should have stopped. He knows that. It would have been the neighborly thing to do, but—one can’t be too careful these days. Instead of risking that, her in the cab of his truck, he’s settled on this. On his way to the mailbox Dale tries to assume a brisk step, but that’s a tricky deal because if he hurries too much he might trip over his own feet and fall, and falling could mean anything from embarrassment to hospitalization. Dale’s got a potbelly and brittle bones. He’s got to be careful. It’s a cloudless day and there’s no wind. Dale plans to say Howdy Doody, and if possible find out what this is all about. No one walks on the graded dirt road or anywhere else in the vicinity for that matter. Coyotes and pickup trucks can be seen on the graded road, crows too, and of course lizards and snakes, but no people, no people at all, except her. What the hell is she doing out there?
smell, the incense smoke. Today it was especially wonderful—the incense, the flowers, the sunshine, and everybody dressed up.” She smiles, but there’s hesitancy. Her teeth aren’t bright, but they are in good shape, lips thin, little or no cosmetics. Her voice is dry and scratchy, but that’s not uncommon in Southern Nevada, weather accounting for this, although in some cases alcohol and/or tobacco play a part. Her skin has a sun-brown look. Not surprising considering that she’s outdoors every day. From his breakfast nook, though, Dale hadn’t noticed her weathered complexion, nor had he noticed how her face runs vertically. But now, up close, he can see these things and he can hear her voice. An oat-colored canvas bag hangs from her hand. Dale has seen the bag, seen it every day, a functional bag, a bag that suggests utility. “Everyone dressed up?” “Yes, what with today being Easter Sunday and all.” Oh, no. Dale hadn’t stopped to think that it was Sunday, Easter Sunday no less—no mail on Sunday. He notices now how she is more dressed up than usual, not that she is super-duper dressed up. She is never really dressed up, but she is never sloppy either. Today there is a nice pastel brown dress with pleats and a sprig of something green, perhaps rosemary, pinned to her dress below her left shoulder. In her bag maybe there’s a small hat and a pair of black pumps, Dale thinks. Right now, Nikes are on her feet. Also in the canvas bag Dale suspects a plastic bottle containing water or sports drink. He’s seen her stop a couple of times to drink from a plastic bottle. “Easter?” “Yes.” She renews her hesitant smile. “But why walk? Don’t you have a car?” “Yes, I have a car. I have a pickup truck like everyone else around here.” It’s true. All the residents along the graded road have pickup trucks, not that anyone really needs one, for what Dale has seen are retirees, older people donning a western flair, cowboy hats and so forth. In the cabs of pickups he’s glimpsed wrinkled faces beneath broad-brimmed hats, and when there isn’t a hat there’s splayed hair, people looking like they just woke up. Some of the pickups have a camper shell. That’s the way Dale’s truck is, a low camper shell that’s no higher than the cab so that the wind won’t bother his vehicle out on the highway. But Dale, and everyone else, could get along just fine with a compact car, or any other kind of car, because the graded road possess no challenge even when there’s rain. As far as hauling things, the only hauling Dale does are a couple of plastic bags from the supermarket. It’s probably the same with his neighbors. Of course some people might use their pickups to go camping, but Dale doubts that, because frequent urination would make camping difficult unless there was a potty inside the camper, but camper shells don’t have toilet facilities.
“I’m coming from church.” “Church?” “Yes. At the end of the road, on the highway, to the left. Haven’t you seen it?” “No.” “A Catholic church, but that doesn’t matter so much, at least for me. A Protestant church would do just fine. Any house of worship would do, as long as I could walk to it from my trailer and go inside and sit down freely. But I’m kind of glad it’s a Catholic church because I like the smell. Even when there’s no Mass, the smell of the incense lingers. I think it’s part of the wood, part of the wooden pews, soaking up the
146
WEBER
THE CONTEMPORARY WEST
FA L L 2 0 1 3
147