The Days of Anna Madrigal (22 page)

Chapter 27

IN HER MIND'S EYE

T
he road was so rutted that Anna was jostled awake several times in the course of the hundred-mile drive. There was very little to be seen outside the window beyond the powdery emptiness in the headlights of Brian's motor home. She had asked to be wakened when they passed through Jungo, but that moment never came, since Brian said there had been no evidence of the town's existence. Not a train track, nor a station, nor a skeleton of planks that might have passed for Mrs. Austin's general store.
Time
magazine (and the gold lust of President Hoover) had made Jungo a new El Dorado, but the town had long since vanished, its bones picked clean by the other time, the lowercased time, whose truth was more reliable in the end.

Wren was sitting on the floor the last time Anna awoke.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you okay? It's awfully bumpy.”

She agreed that the road was a bit of a washboard. “The bed is comfy, though. It almost absorbs the shock.”

“Frankly,” said Wren, “I'm a little nauseous. Just hoping you aren't.”

Anna explained that her stomach was ironclad and always had been.

“Lucky you,” said Wren.

“I hope I'm not being a nuisance.”

“No—no . . . I'm curious about Burning Man myself. And Brian promises a nice flat road on the way back.”

It would serve no purpose, Anna realized, to explain her real motivation for requesting this side trip. Her gift for premonition—whether morbid or pleasant—had often fallen short of the mark, so she knew it was best to keep her mouth shut. Even if—heaven forbid—there proved to be a reason for her growing dread, there was nothing they could do about it now. She would only cause them early anguish.

Still, it was hard to forget the times she'd been right.

Lasko, for instance, had been leaving the world just when she had decided to ask for his forgiveness. And forty years later, on a Christmas Eve at Barbary Lane, she would know the very moment that life left Edgar Halcyon, her one great love. She would not be with him at the time, but she would feel it—a warm breeze of bay rum and Harris tweed that swept through every pore of her body.

This time, though, she was seeing a tent. A big tent scattered with bright pillows, like something out of the Arabian Nights. And people she didn't recognize were scrambling around frantically and shouting the word
doctor
.

“Where are you right now?” asked Wren.

“Nowhere I should be, apparently.”

“I hear you. The mind wanders when you're on the moon. This has to be the most desolate place I've ever seen. There hasn't been another vehicle since we left Winnemucca. I just tried calling a friend and—nada. We're fine, though. We have more than enough Kombucha to survive the trip.”

Anna smiled at her. This woman was such a generous, uncomplicated spirit. How perfectly suited she was for leading Brian out of his vagrant gloom.

“Anyway,” Wren added, “Brian says we'll be in Gerlach in a half an hour. That's the town at the entrance.”

This moment of consolation was punctuated by another walloping bounce from the motor home—and the sound of Brian hollering “Whoa, Nellie!”

Wren rolled her eyes. “I have no idea where that came from.”

“I think,” said Anna, “from Michael.”

“Really?”

“An old cowboy show on television. Someone said it to a Jeep.”

Wren grinned. “I'm sure the Nellie part was what amused Michael.”

There had been plenty of talk about butch and nellie in those days. Anna in fact had worried that Michael would embrace one or the other to such a degree that the natural blend could not occur. She need not have fretted. In no time at all an entire orchestra of gender traits were at Michael's command, and he took joy in the mix. He had once been fond of referring to himself as the Butchinelli Brothers.

Anna managed a smile. “He brought you into the family, really.”

Wren shrugged. “Does meeting me in a bar count?”

“It better . . . or nothing will.”

Wren laughed. “You're right, though. I would never have met Brian without Michael. He was one of those people you take to instantly. So full of life and mischief you could just eat him with a spoon.”

Anna looked away, afraid that her face would betray her feelings.

“I hope we can find him,” said Wren, “in the midst of that madhouse.”

“Do we know it's going to be a madhouse?” asked Anna.

“Well—Brian says it's going to be festive and very busy. But Michael's staying with Shawna, and we know where
she's
staying. Once we park with Jake and Amos, we can put out the word. Word has a way of spreading there, apparently.”

I can feel it, thought Anna. I can feel the word spreading out from that tent like bright red syrup in a cone of shaved ice.

How awful it was to eavesdrop without being there, without being able to act. She asked Wren to help her sit up in the bed.

“We can move you to a chair if you like.”

“No, this is fine. I just need to look out at something.”

Wren plumped a pillow behind her and gazed out at the gray blur beyond the window. “Even if it's nothing, huh?”

Anna nodded.
Even if it's nothing.

Wren, sensing something wrong, stayed with Anna for a period of silence, broken only by another “Whoa, Nellie!” from Brian as the vehicle hit another rut.

“For God's sake,” Wren hollered, “don't break an axle.”

“I'm workin' on it,” her husband hollered back.

The tent seemed more subdued now. Fewer players in the scene. The cause for the commotion had apparently been removed.

This might have been calming to Anna, but somehow it wasn't.

Chapter 28

SOMETHING ELSE AFOOT

M
ary Ann's shift at Arctica had left her bone-tired and aching. Who knew ice could be so fricking heavy? She had tried to push through to the end, but one of her coworkers had noticed her exhaustion and insisted that she go home and rest. If he had known that “home” was this air-conditioned Hollywood-style trailer with a comfy king bed and a wafer-thin television, he might not have been so sympathetic, but she accepted his compassion without protest. There was no way she could face the medical tent tonight without a little down time. And possibly a filet mignon.

It was good to be tired this way. She remembered the old tired, the tired that had dogged her before her cancer was diagnosed, and the tired that had drained her after her surgery. But she had been cancer-free for four years now, so she had reason to savor her ordinary old-person weariness. There were worse things in life than the usual aches, and she had known them, thank you very much.

She stretched out on the bed with her flute of prosecco and congratulated herself on having accepted DeDe Halcyon-Wilson's invitation to occupy this pleasure craft. DeDe's and D'or's RV was next door, so there was plenty of opportunity for fellowship whenever she wanted it. She just didn't want it right now. She wanted to sip her prosecco, and meditate for a while, and maybe have a modest shower and a nap. As she lay sorting out the order in which these events would occur, she noticed the ever-deepening drifts of playa dust on the floor. You could not get away from the stuff, however elegant your quarters. It walked right in the door and sat down.

She knew how plenty of Burners felt about plug and play. She had seen the barely concealed contempt on the face of Jake's new boyfriend, Amos. To this young hipster, she was just one of those decadent trustafarians who let other people shop for their costumes, or
make
them even, who let other people cook for them and build their art cars. All of which might be true to an extent, but it was still hurtful. In the end, everybody faced the whiteouts. It was a very democratizing thing, the dust.

Besides, it was not like they were sponsored by Halliburton or something. This camp had been organized by dinky little
Western Gentry
magazine, or more accurately, westerngentrymag.com, the online presence of the society publication. It was hardly the evil empire. The magazine had not been especially intrusive either, beyond photographing the inaugural organic barbecue, when Mary Ann's Steampunk Duchess costume had been looking (if she did say so herself) pretty darn rad.

No, she had not made it herself. So the fuck what.

The next time she spoke to Amos, she would try to give him a better idea of who she really was. She wanted him to know that. She wanted him to like her.

She had a feeling he'd be around for a while.

S
he was in the midst of meditation when someone rapped energetically on the side of the RV. She considered ignoring it, then finally rose and opened the door.

It was Shawna with another young woman.

“Hola, Mary Ann.”

“Omigod. What are you doing here?”

Shawna rolled her eyes just the way she had when she was six—toward someone else. “She's been saying that to me my whole life.”

Mary Ann smiled and extended her soiled candy-striped arms. “You know what I mean. Come in. Give me a fucking hug.”

They embraced with an audible double sigh, much to Mary Ann's relief.

“Mary Ann—Juliette. Juliette—Mary Ann.”

“I'm the friend formerly known as mother,” said Mary Ann, shaking Juliette's hand. “I adopted her at birth, but I left her with her dad when she was little.”

“Wait till she gets through the door, Mary Ann.”

“Oh—sorry.”

“She overshares,” Shawna told Juliette.

“Like you don't,” said Mary Ann, grinning. “Seriously—how did you know I was here?”

“Jake and Amos.”

“Of course. I gave them ice at Arctica.” She closed the door and led them into the lounge, which, with its rounded corners and buried purple lights, reminded her vaguely of Virgin First Class. “Okay, no cracks about bourgeois decadence.”

“Not a peep out of me,” said Shawna.

“By the way,” said Mary Ann, gesturing for them to sit down. “I don't think Amos likes me very much.”

Shawna shrugged. “Nobody does at first.”

Juliette gaped at Shawna. “Dude.”

“It's all right,” said Mary Ann. “We understand each other.”

“I like you already,” said Juliette.

Shawna, Mary Ann noted, seemed unduly pleased to hear that.

T
hey gabbed and laughed and drank prosecco, and Mary Ann broke out the prosciutto-wrapped melon the nice
Western Gentry
staff member had left in her fridge that morning. Shawna's pretty friend seemed to be a fairly recent one, maybe even a hookup, but Juliette was bright as a button and obviously smitten with Shawna. Who could blame her? Shawna had always been a charmer, and now, of course, she was sort of a celebrity. Certainly much more of a celebrity than Mary Ann had ever been during her run on
Mary Ann in the Morning
. Shawna had already been on
Letterman
several times; Mary Ann's fame had never crossed the Central Valley.

Mary Ann knew she had no right to be proud of Shawna, but she was. She was proud of the spunky seven-year-old she could still see in this woman. She was proud of the woman who had survived abandonment so many years ago. Better yet, she
liked
this woman who had faced her trials and written about them so bravely, who picked her lovers as adventurously as she picked her clothes.

She knew that Shawna liked her as well. That had happened precisely because they had both scrapped any effort at reconciliation. There had been nothing to reconcile after all these years, only a new foundation to be built. It helped that they loved people in common: Michael, Ben, Jake, Brian (yes, Brian), and, of course, Anna.

Still, she was puzzled as to why Shawna had pulled this surprise visit today, especially in the company of someone Mary Ann had never met. It could have been merely a matter of air-conditioning and comfortable seating—Mary Ann would not have blamed her for that—but there was something else afoot that eluded her.

Shawna and Juliette left after a two-hour visit. Shawna lagged behind for a few extra words.

“Thanks for this.”

“Hey,” said Mary Ann. “It was fun. She's a nice girl.”

“It may not be anything,” said Shawna. “But I wanted you to meet them.”

“Them?”

Shawna blushed—a rare occurrence. “Her, I mean, of course.” She looked away, flustered. “Come join us down at Dusty Dames tonight, if you feel like it.”

This was Mary Ann's first invitation to the funkier world beyond
Western Gentry
. She was profoundly touched that it had come from Shawna.

“Oh, thanks,” she said. “That would be wonderful, but I've got night duty over at the medical tent.”

Chapter 29

THE MARVELOUS PRESENT

F
or Brian, Black Rock City was the same, only different. The same bursts of color and whimsy, but noticeably bigger and slicker, like the leap between the old Vegas and the new Vegas. Wren and Anna, on the other hand, found everything fresh and captivating. They kept their faces pressed to the windows like toddlers at a Macy's Christmas display. Brian was relieved to see Anna looking more cheerful; something had been clouding her spirit on the hard road from Winnemucca.

He might have been more cheerful himself if he hadn't been absorbed by his search for Trans Bay, the camp where Jake and Amos were staying, where there was supposedly a parking spot waiting for them. If he could find the fucking camp. As usual, the signs were hard to read out here, and some of the camps blurred into each other like stalls at a crowded flea market. You would think, he told himself, that a camp run by transgender activists from San Francisco would announce itself with a little more aplomb, but maybe he was just stereotyping under duress.

“I'm sorry,” he told the ladies in back. “It's around here somewhere. I know you're ready for a decent night's sleep.”

“We're fine,” said Wren. “This is just mind-boggling.”

“Oh my goodness, look at that!” Anna was pointing to an art car crossing an intersection ahead of them. It was an enormous pedal-driven tricycle, a butterfly with orange-and-black wings that flapped as it moved. The wings were lighted in such a way that they glowed like amber glass. Brian laughed with joy.

“It's a monarch,” said Anna. “Do you know about monarchs?”

“Just what they look like,” said Brian.

“I'm clueless,” said Wren.

“They migrate like birds,” Anna explained. “They're the only butterflies that do. But the distance of their migration is so enormous—thousands of miles—that they can't make the journey on their own. They only live for two months.”

“So—how do they do it?”

“They don't. Their children do it. Their grandchildren. Somehow they know exactly where to go and specifically where to land. Somehow—it's in them. The new generation winters in the same tree every year without ever having seen the tree.” Anna paused as the butterfly tricycle rounded the corner and disappeared into the swirl of traffic. “They don't need their elders at all. It's a miraculous thing.”

Brian knew she was talking to him, but he didn't say a word. He didn't trust his voice not to crack.

“They're poisonous,” Anna added, “so they're tough little bastards. Nobody would dare eat them. They're flying caution signs—look at them, orange and black, pure Halloween. But they survive, and their pattern is so familiar it's imprinted on our brains like something generic—like plaid. Am I making any sense?”

Wren murmured her understanding.

“They have two months,” said Anna. “That's it. But some part of them must know that they're part of this endless continuum, this . . . community after death. And even if they
don't
know,
we
know, and that itself takes your breath away.”

“It does,” said Wren, a little too fervently. “I believe in that.”

“It's not a metaphor for heaven,” said Anna.

“Well, why not?”

“Because I'm too old for that shit.”

“Oh, now—”

“Tell her, Brian.”

“She's too old for that shit.”

Wren laughed. “You two!”

“I'm not too old for
this
.” Anna gestured to the carnival sparkling outside the window. “Thank you, Brian, for the marvelous present.”

He wasn't sure if she meant present as in gift—this side trip into Black Rock City—or present as in now, this moment, the marvelous present.

Either way, he was glad to be thanked.

H
e found Trans Bay a few minutes later. Someone named Lisa directed him curtly to a space at the back of the camp, where she barked orders as he angled the Winnie into its assigned spot. She was friendlier, though, when he was finally in place. She clamped her hands on the door and congratulated him on his expertise.

“I've been moving this barge around for a while,” he told her.

“Amos said you might be coming,” said Lisa. “We were beginning to think he was bullshitting us.”

Brian smiled at her. “We had a few other errands to run.”

Lisa seemed to hesitate. “Look—do you mind if I ask—” She cut herself off.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You're entitled, whatever it is. We're grateful for the hospitality.”

Lisa placed her wide, sturdy hand on her heart, as if to keep it from escaping, then lowered her voice. “Is Anna Madrigal in there?”

Brian smiled at her. “The one and only.”

“Oh my Jesus fucking God.” The words were uttered reverently, like a prayer of adoration. “She saved my life in Eye Rack.”

Brian's first thought was about Lisa's grotesque pronunciation, one of his major irritants these days.
We invade a country, bomb the shit out of it, kill hundreds of thousands of people, and we still don't have the decency to say its name right.

“You must be thinking of someone else,” he said. “Anna's never been to—”

“No, man, she was right there on my iPad in Eye Rack.”

My iPad in Eye Rack.

“There was an article about her on this transgender blog, and—she made me see how I could be old and happy. She made me want to live and come home to Sunnyvale and . . . be myself. Oh shit!”

The “Oh shit!” had come in response to the tears plopping down Lisa's coarse, pockmarked cheeks. Brian yanked a couple of Kleenexes from the box Wren had installed on the dashboard and handed them to Lisa. “Here ya go, soldier.”

“Sergeant,” said Lisa, mopping up before blowing her nose noisily. “Don't let her see me like this. I need to pretty up first.”

“Roger Wilco,” said Brian. (He wasn't sure if that was the proper army lingo, but Lisa didn't correct him.) “In the meantime, can you help us find Jake and Amos?”

“Oh, sure. They're right over—oh shit, they left on the art car.”

“Do you know when they'll be back?”

“Well . . . you know how
that
is. Or do you?”

“Yep. I do. I'm an old Burner.”

Lisa left, and Brian joined the ladies in back. It felt good to kick back, to enjoy the sensation of having landed somewhere after sixty miles of rutted moonscape. The terrain here was virtually the same as Jungo Road, but there was life at least, and its throbbing expectant rhythms could be heard just outside. He sank into the armchair and pried the cap off an Anchor Steam. “Jake is away for a while,” he said.

“Ah,” said Anna, looking disappointed.

Wren tried to be helpful. “Does he have his cell on him?”

“Nobody has a cell,” Brian told her. “There's very little reception, and the dust would destroy them.”

Wren smirked as she gazed out the window at a knot of revelers heading into the night. “And even if you had one, there'd be damn few places to stick it.”

Brian smiled at her, feeling an enormous surge of love. Home, for better or worse, would always be next to this woman. “Want a beer, honey?”

Wren puckered her lips at him—her technique for silently conveying love. “I'm fine, pumpkin.” She glanced over at Anna with tender, nanny-eyed sympathy. “This one, though, could probably use a good night's sleep.”

Anna shook her head decisively. “No . . . not yet.”

“Don't make me get bossy,” said Brian. “Jake and Amos will get back eventually, but there's nothing we can do until then but get lost out there.” He had already tried, and failed, to remember the name of Shawna's camp, if he had ever known it in the first place. It was just common sense to stay put. If your car broke down in Death Valley, you stayed with the car and waited for someone to find you. Without exception. Especially if your car had a frail old lady inside.

“You don't understand,” said Anna. “He's alone.”

“Who?” asked Brian.

“Michael.”

“
Our
Michael?”

“
Yes
.” There was both urgency and impatience in her tone, as if Brian were deliberately misunderstanding her.

“Are you being spooky?” he asked.

“Yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. Listen to me, dear. He's leaving, and he needs someone with him.”