Alibi Creek
Authors: Bev Magennis
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.
First Torrey House Press Edition, March 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Bev Magennis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or retransmitted in any form or by any means without the written consent of the publisher.
Published by Torrey House Press
Salt Lake City, Utah
E-book ISBN: 978-1-937226-56-5
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015930136
Author photo by Erin Magennis
Cover design by Rick Whipple, Sky Island Studio
Interior design by Russel Davis, Gray Dog Press
For my daughter, Erin
      Â
“You take what you're given, whether it's the cornfields of the Midwest or the coal mines of West Virginia, and you make your fiction out of it. It's all you have. And somehow, wherever you are, it always seems to be enough.”
âLarry Brown
Contents
WEDNESDAY SEPTEMBER 12, 2007
T
HE TWINGE CAUSED BY A
drop in barometric pressure shot from Lee Ann's shoulder up her neck into her left eye. Rain, the most cherished commodity in the southwest, made her sick. She turned from the bedroom window, fell back against her pillow, and shut her eyes against black-bottomed clouds stalled over the east mesa, multiplying, hanging there, heavy and close. Of course, she would not curse such benevolence, for across the range wildflowers, grasses, and trees had extended their delicate arms, embracing the recent moisture after cringing in defense of a hot, dry summer. But enough rain had soaked the land, and the plains, mesas, and mountains were plump and green from downpours that passed through quickly, dumping inches all at once.
She sat up and hugged her legs and lowered her head between her knees. Eugene laid his hand on the base of her spine and they breathed in unison. She needn't remind him that even gently rubbing her back increased her suffering. His hand rested where it was, its weight and warmth a comfort, if not a cure, and when he removed his hand the place he'd touched cooled as if a hot compress had been lifted.
At the courthouse, she struggled through work on migraine pills that had little effect, gathered her untouched lunch and sweater an hour early, and stumbled to the
Blazer, parked between the sheriff's cruiser and county treasurer's Subaru, her spot for over twenty years. Shielding her eyes, she reached inside her purse for the key (always in the outside compartment with comb, nail clippers, and yet-to-be-filed receipts) and drove past Walt's Mercantile and Art's bar, across the San Carlos River onto Highway 14, the smell of co-workers' perfume on her clothes and the sum of $346,000.00 wedged next to her eye, hovered over by three over-fed county commissioners. Her index finger found a hangnail on her thumb and she worried the thing the entire thirty miles to the family ranchâhills dark under low clouds, cattle facing west, no birds in flight. A shaft of light escaped through a crack in the gray ceiling and struck Solitaire Peak. Clouds bunched together patching the gap, and as if the lights went out, the land fell under shadow.
At the junction of Highways 34 and 14, she stopped to pick up the mail from one of fourteen battered mailboxes nailed to a rotting pine plank in front of the Alibi Creek Store. Normally, the contents of 477-C could be retrieved from the Blazer's window, but a Budweiser truck with its motor running blocked access to the boxes. She massaged her temples and forehead, twenty paces through the exhaust an impossible distance. Holding her breath, she leaned her shoulder against the door and pushed her way out.
Phone bill, electric bill, Vermont Country Store catalog, junk mail, and a letter in a regular white envelope with the stamp stuck on crooked. Return address:
Central New Mexico Correctional Facility, Los Lunas, NM.
Two
W
's had been scribbled together, like a child's drawing of mountains, creating a jagged line under
Adult Prison Division.
Wind twisted her skirt around her knees and one by one, fat raindrops pelted her head, becoming a deluge in seconds. She ran for the car. Inside, the windows fogged as
great sheets of rain lashed at the hood and pummeled the roof.
Peace. In the last two years, she'd obtained some in good measure. And for that, gratitude, for contentment depended on a predictable routine with an attentive, capable husband who managed the ranch, and two grown sons, one a cattleman, the other college boundâa trio that for the most part worked in harmony, as if each member had mastered a specific instrument, their combined effort producing a light tune played at a steady tempo.
Trembling fingers tore at the envelope. Large, loose script paid no attention to lines or margins, climbed hills and descended into valleys without punctuation, one long scrawl that ran out when the page ended, the last crunched sentence ending with
Sept 29th.
Already an inch of water had accumulated on the gravel lot, pooling under the mailboxes and filling the bar ditches. Directly overhead lightning cracked a cloud and thunder shook loose its contents, blurring everything beyond fifteen feet. More lightning zapped the northern sky, the east, and west. The Budweiser truck flickered through the glittering haze, flashing for a moment as the great ark packed with creatures, she a dove with her mate among them, to be swept away to nameless and unchartered land.
In half an hour Alibi Creek, which ran through the Walker Ranch, would flood, leaving her stranded on the highway for hours until the water receded and she could cross to her house. Dinner needed fixing. Mother needed tending. The ranch's entrance was two miles north of the store, a familiar route driven as easily through sleet, dust, and rain as on clear days. She could make it.
The letter fell on her lap like an anchor, preventing her from driving on. Lee Ann clasped her hands under her chin.
“Lord, he'll be home in just over two weeks. Make this time different.”
Could Jesus make out her words above the screaming wind and beating rain? Surely.
Five-thirtyâtime for Mother's medication. She inched the Blazer up the highway, windshield wipers swatting on high speed, and slid onto the turnoff, skidding down the dirt incline to the ranch. At the crossing she got out. The lazy creek had swollen into a fast-moving, muddy river with tree limbs and branches rolling in the current. Headlights beamed from the other side and Eugene's white diesel pickup moved steadily through the water.
She grabbed the handle above the door and pulled her body into the cab, dripping letter in hand. He touched her thigh, stretched his arm across the seat and looked over his shoulder, backing the truck a quarter-mile up the slick road.
Two houses stood an acre apart.
“Drop me at Mother's,” she said.
“Get into some dry clothes first.”
“Walker's coming back on the 29th.”
He maneuvered out of a rut.
“A letter came today,” she said, louder.
He stopped outside the mudroom. “I'll wait here while you change.”
She opened the door. He didn't want to hear. No one in the family would want to hear, except Mother.