Silently touching hands en-route, the aphotic road ahead of us is trafficless, just the illumination of the yellow stripe passing us by in a rhythm. Harriet’s office, four miles south of our home, and the revitalized ghost town she commands is small; most of the shops on Main Street have their Christmas lights up already, twinkling in the cold night air. “This is so charming.” I comment.
“Wow,” Remy adds, nodding his head towards the huge, bundled-up crowd spilling out of the brightly painted mining shack of Brewster Properties as we drive by. “That must be everyone in town.”
The slushy street is deserted after hours, only the glow of the holiday lights are glistening in the cold. Hoping out of the car, the hum of the party in the distance intensifies the immediate silence around us, that suddenly succumbs to a faint sound on my shoulder. “Oh my god!”
“What?” Remy moves quickly around the car.
“Look! Look at these snowflakes! They’re perfect. Look at that! Like they were cut out of paper. Each one . . . perfect.” I tip an intrinsically formed flake onto the palm of my hand.
“You didn’t have snow growing up?”
“Not like this! These are amazing! They’re magical. We just had mush! What a rip-off!”
Smiling, he takes my hand, “Come on, Jersey.”
The live band playing on the porch draws our attention as we walk up the street, a guitar player, a bass player, and a fiddler in the middle of a song. It’s simple and somber, but real. Their cowboy boots keeping time on the wooden porch, and the glow of a trash-barrel fire highlighting their confessions. I’m unable to determine their age cloaked behind an entourage of untamable facial hair, and a cowboy hat that could tell a serious story. To my right the fire is the focus of a crowd in the tiny front yard that looks welcoming. As we approach, everyone turns towards us, but no one says hello. Remy squeezes my hand shrugging it off, leading me into the warmly lit shack.
Walking through the doorway into the brightly-colored miner’s cabin, painted in shocking, primary colors, art covers every square inch of the walls behind the mass of bodies trying to stay warm . . . “This is verging on psychedelic,” I whisper in Remy’s ear, noticing immediately that there are all walks of life mingling together. The refreshments table, overrun by vodka, is undeniably the emulsifier.
“Labels, labels, who’s got the labels,” I mutter under my breath, passing a couple of cowboys who have obviously been sleeping outside, and several tough guys dressed in black, motorcycle jackets with the words, Los Muertos Esqueletos and Two Thousand Dead Cops across their backs who are mansplaining to a couple wrapped in insulated denim. There are an array of cowgirls donning Native American pawn jewelry, broom-stick skirts, and concha belts talking to a couple of hipsters dressed in fifties gear holding up a corner while a couple of mink adorned men and women laugh with a guy whose pants are layered in oil-paint splatters touting an eye patch, amongst a sea of Carhart jackets. Absolutely everyone is smoking something, the suffused haze hovers in the halogen, track lighting like a gateway to another realm. One thing’s for sure, they’re all having a good time.
Remy hands me a vodka tonic, but it's so crowded in this tiny space, I can barely unbutton my coat.
“So glad you two made it,” Harriet herself booms, her large mouth exhibiting unnaturally square, white teeth that accentuate her words. “Let me introduce you to a few people.” She parts the crowd to a back office that looks like a low-roofed, add-on porch. The period 1920s woodworking, walls, doors, and window trim have been decorated in a bombastic paint by numbers style that’s a bit disorienting. “We could be at a party in New York City. There’s so much diversity in here.” I comment to my spouse from behind.
It’s not hard to follow Harriet through the crowd as she towers over all of the women and most of the men, her dark-brown, Dutch-boy haircut glowing under a felt, straight-brimmed hat. But Remy stops dead in his tracks in front of me. I bump him with my drink managing not to douse him. Turning sideways, looking past his shoulders, a recognize a familiar woman standing next to Harriet. “Galax?” I question, after my initial shock.
“What are you doing here?” Remy asks her immediately.
“She’s your new neighbor. I just sold her the old Swinson building here on Main Street. Isn’t that wonderful? She said you’d be surprised,” Harriet beams, readjusting her tortoise Prada eyewear that speaks of another life somewhere else.
Although I’m not sure what I feel, it’s obvious to me, how Remy feels.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Oblivious, Harriet walks through to the next room, her fur-lined duster billowing through the doorway as she hijacks another unsuspecting, prospective client.
“It’s really good to see ya, both.” Galax’s clear, brown eyes always full of sincerity respond, as her Virginia upbringing rounds her words softly.
“Is this a coincidence?” Remy asks.
I nudge him with my elbow. “Galax, you look great. It’s nice to see you, too.” Embracing our unexpected friend, and new neighbor, I ask, “Should we call you . . .”
“No,” she interrupts my reference to her real name, “I prefer Galax now, it’s more . . . mysterious.”
There’s a pregnant silence as I recall how all of the abductees at the park were renamed after the town they lived in, a crude ploy of control by their oppressors. I find her request to prefer that name, odd at best.
“And, it’s sort’ a coincidence,” she commits with a haphazard smile. “Now’s not the time.” Dressed in jeans under a paisley skirt and thick vintage, sheered beaver coat that sets off her light brown hair tied up in the mother of all messy buns, she forces a smile, curiously looking as though she’s lived in this artsy town for years.
But after a glare from Remy, I’m sure this is based on well-honed but unsuspecting survival instincts.
Looking around discreetly, she adds, “I’m gonna open a shop here in town and live in the back.” Her delicate cheekbones add a childlike innocence, as she states, “I’ve always wanted to own a shop.” Her soft southern accent weighs in the air for a moment before she continues quietly, “After my mother died, I sold her house and figured it was a good time to reinvent."
“Yeah, sure. But why here?” Remy responds, swishing his glass around before emptying its contents in one gulp.
“Because of us,” I reply, nudging him, as Harriet reappears.
“I need some air.” Remy renegotiates the crowd with his teeth clenched.
“You simply must meet Montana,” Harriet interrupts our reunion, luring Galax and I over to an older man in a well-worn, black duster. “He’s the editor for the local paper. He likes to interview our newcomers.” The halogen lights above me are magically dimmed by his enormous, black, cowboy hat. I’m suddenly at a loss for words and down my drink. Montana’s gray beard and almost silver hair match the buttons on his jacket, while the spurs on his boots dramatize the mess on the floor left by a battalion of snowy shoes and barrage of plummeted cocktails.
“Well, hello there,” he responds, his affable demeanor, immediately disarming. I’m unable to decipher how old he is, as a hint of unrecognizable accents fade behind a beaming, charismatic smile. This is a handsome man. A cigar in one hand, is outweighed by a tumbler of vodka in the other, he’s broad, and well over six feet, dwarfing Galax in comparison. I immediately assess he would be threatening if not for his wonderful smile and matching crinkly eyes. I smile as Harriet completes introductions and disappears again. Our very own Puck and I’m feeling a bit like Titania.
“So, I hear you lovely ladies just moved in. What brought you to town?”
I turn to Galax, encouraging her to go first, out of sheer curiosity while registering this man’s silky voice. I’m not unhappy to see her, but the fact that she deliberately moved to a town of two hundred people within months of us buying a property here is disconcerting.
“Well, I’ve always dreamed of openin’ a shop. This town is just perfect,” she responds coyly, the tiniest twinge of her roots lapping through her impersonal statement.
Disappointed, I turn to Montana, “I’m not really sure what brought us here,” I laugh uncomfortably. “What about you?”
“Me? Well, I’ve been here since after the war. There was hardly anyone here in the seventies. Just a couple of us living in the buildings. We didn’t even have water. It was quiet, not like today. A bit touristy now, but it’s fine.” Shifting his stance, leaning against a bright, red wall that silhouettes his shoulders, he smiles contagiously, “Anyway, I started acting in a couple of westerns, and now the movie industry keeps me busy.”
“I’d love to see some of the movies you’ve been in.”
Montana rounds off an impressive list of films to me, before asking, “Would you ladies mind if I interview you for our local paper?”
“Sure, that would be great,” I reply, but Galax says nothing.
Familiar with the Swinson building, he’s curious as to what her plans are, as he presses her to concede.
Excusing myself for the bathroom after we settle on a time for tomorrow, I wind up in a small closet that doubles as the printing area for the office. Checking myself in the mirror, the fluorescent bulb overhead is unkind. “I hope Galax is a good sign.”
Maneuvering back through the mass of bodies, heading for the front door in search of Remy, the cold air pleasantly refreshes my senses. Crossing the threshold, I notice everyone at the fire barrel in front of me is looking seriously towards the porch on my right. Turning, I see Remy sitting on the railing, facing an older man in Carhart– who’s holding a gun to Remy’s head!
Their eyes locked. I stop in my tracks– mute. The stranger is now raging, his words slurring, completely unaware of the dumbstruck crowd surrounding them, “Fags and Lesbians! Fuckin’ Californians with your fuckin’ flashy smiles, and fancy Jap cars, and money! I didn’t risk my life so you could take over. You don’t belong here, boy!” his loud, angry voice erupts, piercing the night with its fury and hatred.
Remy sits in silence, the sound of the crackling fire as loud as a jet plane. Staring back into the bloodshot eyes in front of him, he inches his head towards the barrel of the gun and whispers, “You better be sure.”
I open my mouth, when a streak in all black with a shocking head of white hair plunges onto the porch, splitting the silence like a crack of lightning, “Goddamn it, Daryl!” the petite man growls. “Put that damn thing down before you shoot yourself!” his tone is unforgiving.
Confused, Daryl’s dead eyes shutter incoherently as he leans his head against the porch wall behind him, and cocks the colt pistol under his own scraggly chin.
Several people gasp. But the child-sized man moves in again unperceptively, and swipes the gun out of Daryl’s hand in one quick motion. “You’re such an asshole!”
Wincing, Daryl gets up grinding his square jaw and what’s left of a handful of teeth before stumbling off the porch without a word, the stricken crowd clears his path into the darkness.
Remy’s arm is around me before I can speak.
“Sorry ’bout that.” The small man turns towards us, “He’s a drunk. And stupid.” A crooked smile, followed by a mirthless laugh is unsettling, but Remy laughs too.
In shock, my tongue twists as they exchange greetings. “I’m Remy Beroe. This is my wife, Stephanie.” Remy shakes his hand. “Thanks for your help.”
“Terry, Terry Ford.” He nods his head. “You didn’t have much to worry ’bout.” Stowing the handgun next to his own gun in his waistband, he continues, “He’s a lousy shot.”
My husband smirks with so much calm, a light goes off. He wasn’t afraid.
Standing close to this petite man, I can see Terry is a lot older than he looks. He must be in his seventies and he couldn’t be more than five four. With a very slight build, this man maybe weighs a hundred pounds and must be wearing boys’ clothes and boots, but there is nothing innocent or childish about him. In fact, up close he’s absolutely terrifying.
“I heard about you guys.” He strikes a match off the bottom of his boot, lighting a grubby, hand-rolled cigarette stub from his pocket. “You’re from New York, right?” He grips the cigarette with his teeth. “You own that pot company.”
“Yeah, we own a cannabis company, but I’m from California. Stephanie’s from the East Coast. She lived in New York for a while.”
“Jesus, I’d rather have a sister in a whore house, than a brother in New York.”
I blink.
“But that shit saved my life in Nam.” Turning, he nods his head and dips his hat, “Ma’am,” then walks back into the office party, like nothing happened.