Wear & Tear
fiction by Ned Mudd
Reylene
eased one eye open, then the other. A beam of light had found its way
through a side window, was illuminating a ragged cotton doll beside a
chest of drawers. The doll had belonged to her granddaughter all those
years ago.
She
took a deep breath, acknowledged that her body was still up to the task
of getting on with another day. She slid out of bed, ambled into the
kitchen for coffee. Her gut had a natural aversion to coffee, but it
was her birthday and she’d picked up a special blend as a present to
herself. It wasn’t everyday a person turned 82 years old.
The
image of the doll carried with her into the kitchen. She had bought the
toy from a wrinkled Pueblo woman at the Plaza in Santa Fe. She couldn’t
recall the occasion, just
“It’s
82, son,” she said. “And tell your secretary thanks for me.” She walked
to a fish bowl, smiled at the pair of goldfish swimming eternal circles
inside. The voice on the other side of the phone began a long sentence,
the words little more than digital artifacts.
She
wondered if goldfsh had feelings about familial matters. The thought
passed as she dropped the phone into the bowl. There was a moment when
she worried that the thing’s battery might electrocute her pets; but
the fsh seemed more concerned about the spacial intrusion than anything
else.
The sun had moved across the sky, sending splatters of light into the casita’s front
that the young granddaughter had giggled at seeing the doll’s bright red headband, leather moccasins.
That
her granddaughter was now a television executive in Los Angeles seemed
preposterous. Reylene couldn’t understand why anyone would spend their
life on something as silly as television. The real conundrum was that
the child had grown into a woman who professed being a “fundamentalist
lesbian.” Reylene wasn’t sure what a fundamentalist lesbian was, but
had decided to let sleeping dogs lie.
When
the coffee was ready she sat at the kitchen table and watched steam
rise from her cup. The acrid aroma taunted her nose, brought back
memories that seemed a world away.
She
noticed a crack running along the plaster beside the back door. The
crack was a sign that the earth beneath the adobe casita was
windows.
Reylene liked the way the fbers in her Navajo rug radiated. She
wondered if anybody still made rugs as good as hers. From what she’d
heard, most folks bought Chinese imitations these days, unaware that
real craftsmanship was about celebrating the art of living.
She
decided to make another cup of coffee, throw caution to the wind. The
morning was still young, even if she wasn’t. There was plenty of time
to settle down before the Women’s Auxiliary Cacti Club convened its
weekly taco luncheon. That the Auxiliary was down to three members
didn’t seem to bother anybody, least of all Reylene.
The
afternoon drifted past without making a fuss. She sat in her favorite
rocking chair, watching a big cloud gather itself atop the
in
transition. She had read an article about how this part of New Mexico
was once a tropical paradise populated with giant ferns, abundant
water, and behemoth lizards.
The
high desert of today was the latest in a long series of theatrical set
changes, having broken off from an ancient super continent via a shift
in the tectonic plates. As far as Raylene was concerned, a crack in the
plaster was nothing compared to what the tectonic plates were up to.
She had discovered that the key to getting old was to quit worrying
about wear and tear. Fighting the law of gravity was a fruitless
pastime.
Ortiz
range. She liked the way clouds appeared out of nowhere. The act of
suddenly becoming visible was her idea of the ultimate artistic
expression. Monsoons were another matter; but in the dry months, the
desert conspired to keep every molecule of water under strict control.
That a dark cloud could manifest despite the low humidity was an
indication that the Universe possessed an inherent rebellious streak.
A
coyote yipped somewhere outside. The sound reminded Reylene that she’d
forgotten to feed the critters last night. Her neighbors might despise
coyotes, but she felt a nagging empathy for the canines. Life was hard
enough out there; a little dog food ameliorated the onslaught of what
passed for progress these days.
The
Village had been her home for 68 years, long before folks started
calling it a “destination.” The appearance of spiritual seekers had
transformed much of the basin into a tableau of commerce. What was once
a community-operated hot springs for soaking tired muscles now served
as a walled compound that required reservations and a fat credit card.
She had seen her frst $50,000 car outside the spa, remembered feeling
deprived of air at being told that the thing’s tires cost more than her
old Toyota.
The
main thing was to remember to pay attention to what was happening. It
had taken her decades to fgure out that one simple axiom.
As
dusk narrowed the horizon, she got up and fetched the coyote’s metal
bowl. A lizard scuttled across the path in front of her, its bulging
eye protruding above its knobby skin. She noticed an edge to the light,
looked out across the basin, saw a thin line of purple teasing the
mountains.
When
she’d flled the bowl with dog food and leftovers, she carried it back
to the juniper tree that doubled as a coyote feeding station. She set
it down, stood silently and waited for the coyote to show itself. The
ritual was a lifeline to something beyond herself, like the ubiquitous
statues of saints standing guard in homes for hundreds of miles in
every direction. She couldn’t remember exactly why she’d begun feeding
the sneaky canines, but had discovered in the act a sense of
connectivity that was becoming harder to fnd among her own kind.
A
few minutes before dark, a shape appeared. Reylene remained as still as
her wobbly legs allowed while the coyote sniffed the air, dialing in
her scent. It moved in halting steps to the bowl, made a fnal
reconnaissance and began eating. The light was a soft diffusion, little
more than a shadow. By the time the animal was fed, there would be
nothing left of the sun behind the western range.
She
enjoyed this time of day, the way a hush settled in behind the fading
light. One of the advantages of old age was being off the clock. It was
either night or day, and it often didn’t matter which. The main thing
was to remember to pay attention to what was happening. It had taken
her decades to fgure out that one simple axiom.
When
it was fnished eating, the coyote licked its lips and slunk into the
shadows. Rey-lene smiled, wandered back to her casita. A lone lamp
inside the kitchen cast a warm sliver of photons across the hard earth.
She had witnessed the same scene thousands of times, had never grown
tired of it. Life was a swath of light in an inky void. That there
might not be a fnality to the blackness of space seemed exciting at
this late hour in her trajectory.
She took a deep breath, acknowledged that her body
was still up to the task of getting on with another day.
She slid out of bed, ambled into the kitchen for coffee.
Her gut had a natural aversion to coffee,
but it was her birthday
and she’d picked up a special blend as a present to herself.
It wasn’t everyday a person turned 82 years old.
After
all her years here, she had never understood why so many of her
neighbors spent countless hours ensconced in Ernesto’s Bar. Even in the
worst of times, when a dollar actually meant something, the tiny
cantina was second home to a sizable percentage of the local
population. What did people do in there that was worth jumping off the
planet? Life was too short to spend it drowning whatever brain cells
were left standing.
When
something beeped, she looked around the room, saw the hands on the
clock had moved half an hour. She got up, walked into the living room,
found the cell phone under a cushion on the couch. The contraption was
a gift from her son, a reminder that she might need emergency help one
day and could dial 911 to start the wheels rolling.
“I’ve only been up a few minutes, so don’t tax my neurons. Life’s hard enough already,” she said into the phone.
“It’s Stephen,” a voice said. “My secretary says it’s your birthday, so I’m calling to wish you a happy 81st.”
Reylene
heard the coyote again, followed by another. It was the edge of spring,
maybe the desert dogs were singing a mating song.
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