Do the Weird Crime, Serve the Weird Time

THE DIVORCE

It was to be their last fiction together. They’d had five years of various fictions depending more on courtesy and self-image than passion. The first fiction—or at least the first formally agreed to—was the Open Marriage. (It was his idea, but authorship of ideas was never mentioned—they did everything together, the second fiction.) He had thought it was for him alone, a need based on misapprehended biology. She counted his infidelities as crimes, but quietly to herself. Her only remedy, as they say judicially, were her own infidelities. This last fiction, the Friendly Divorce, was also his idea, but came closer to collaboration than any of the others.

Everything would become “final” next Monday. Both had cars, incomes and apartments. Only money was left to be divided. In the spirit of a true rite of passage they decided to blow it all in Vegas. They went to the bank on Monday, the Monday a week before “Final” Monday, and turned everything into cash. They carefully and oh so scrupulously pushed it into two piles. On Wednesday they left. On the road they’d outdone each other in kindnesses—paying for gas, for picture postcards, for dinner and drinks. Both figured they’d lose their shares in Vegas. Going back to GO, starting a new game. They’d been penniless to start and a return to that status would somehow erase the intervening five years.

On Thursday morning they’d hit the desert and conversation had dried up. In the quiet air-conditioned hiss of “his” Wagoneer remarks of the last few months echoed. She was from the “shallow end of the gene-pool.” He was as “tenderhearted as a coprolite.” The mot juste being another example of their common artistry.

Midmorning she spotted a sign, “Roy’s Rockshop and Restaurant.” It promised slot machines, poisonous reptiles, rare desert rocks, cactus candy, and a bottomless coffee cup. The coffee sounded good. The other could provide conversational fodder until they reached Vegas. Five miles later she pulled in. The rockshop had two concrete teepees out front, no doubt the dwelling place of the tribe that makes the rubber tomahawks for souvenirs. It was further adorned with four cow skulls with outdoor Christmas lights for eyes.

When they went in the white-haired proprietor had snapped awake. The owner started the coffee, apologized for the lack of poisonous reptiles—some young kids stole all the cages last year—and discussed local politics.

He ordered the Eye Opener: two poached eggs (underdone), orange juice (frozen), whole wheat toast, jelly. She ordered the Rancho Deluxe: scrambled eggs with salsa, biscuits (stale), jelly, bottomless cup of coffee. They sat on green vinyl-covered revolving bar stools, which had they been of an earlier generation would have called up romantic visions of drugstore dating. The owner asked where they was from? Lubbock, Texas. This led to a discussion of his niece who’d went to Texas Tech. They didn’t teach at the University, did they? No. Well they probably wouldn’t know her? Afraid not. Where are you going? Vegas to gamble a little and have fun.

The proprietor reckoned that not many people go through the desert to see its natural beauty. This reckoning lasted three coffee cups. An ancient black Chevy pickup pulled up. An equally ancient-looking Navajo came in. The proprietor poured him a cup of coffee. The proprietor introduced the Indian as Tonky. During the next two cups of coffee the owner told Tonky all about them. She wanted the check. Tonky was silent. He had left his yolk-covered plate and wandered over to look at the dusty bins of geodes and quartz crystal clusters.

She finally got the check. When she paid, Tonky asked her if they was going to Vegas? She said yes.

Her husband walked up carrying an amethyst-filled geode from Brazil. Tonky explained a shortcut. She didn’t really understand it, but decided not to ask for clarification. For one thing, her soon-to-be-ex-husband had always thought her small-brained. For another his body language screamed impatience.

He bought the purple geode and gave it to her. She said it was treasure. The proprietor said it was sweet to see married people so much in love. Tonky walked around the counter to pour himself another cup of coffee. They left.

The short cut began—as best she understood—at a two-lane road leaving the highway after a mile and a half. When the two-lane did appear, she decided she had understood Tonky’s muddled directions after all. As she turned off the road she watched for his reaction, but he just stared into the violet depths of the geode.

Sixteen miles later she decided she was lost. Reluctantly she admitted it. He told her to turn around. There was a dirt road about two miles back that should intersect the highway. He’d been waiting for this. Preparing to show her up.

The dirt road was noisy and small. She hoped she wouldn’t meet any oncoming traffic. He smiled and said it didn’t look like there’d been any traffic at all for a long time.

A tiny wooden bridge over a fairly steep arroyo broke as the Wagoneer crossed it going sixty m.p.h. She remembered being airborne for a minute.

When she came to she was sitting upside down hanging by the seatbelt harness. The windshield was a spider web around a wall of sandstone and gypsum. Blood was running up her face through her hair and onto the ceiling below. He was moaning. He wasn’t in the car.

Getting down from the harness was easy after she realized that she could fall sideways against the half-open door. The door opened completely and she fell onto the hot red sand. It took a long time to stand up. Her bleeding seemed to have stopped.

He was lying about two car lengths away. His face was red. He was moaning quietly. She ran over. He reached up she caught his arm. He gasped.

Then he was quiet. Not moving. Not breathing.

She started to release his hand. Then stopped herself. What if she couldn’t let go? She’d been trying to let go for five years. What if she failed this time? What a crazy thought—the blood loss must be making her crazy. She laughed. Laughing hurt. She drug his body over to the shade of the overturned Wagoneer. She decided to hold on a while, it was only right. You couldn’t just leave someone so—suddenly.

She had to figure out what to do. She couldn’t carry him to the freeway. She didn’t know which way was quicker. She squeezed the dead hand as though he would wake up and tell her. Maybe he was right after all. After a long time, after the flies came, she decided what to do.

* * * * * * *

The Highway Patrol picked her up. It wasn’t just her bloody face or agitated manner. It was the severed hand she carried.