The Way We Bared Our Souls (8 page)

“Oh my gosh,” I said, suddenly breaking out of my anxious thoughts. “Kaya, I’m so sorry. I just realized that I never unrolled the painting you gave me. I’ve been so distracted by”—I gestured at the Davis mansion—“all this.”

“It’s okay. Not a big deal. Maybe I shouldn’t have. . . .”

But I had already reached into my glove compartment and withdrawn the small scroll that Kaya had given me the night before. It was a beautiful watercolor painting of a girl who looked like me, hula-hooping in a yard that looked like mine, being watched over by a woman who looked a lot like my aunt. And it took me right back to the April afternoon four years ago when Karine was visiting from California. She’d taken me thrift-store shopping and had bought me some of her favorite records, as well as two butterfly-emblazoned hula-hoops.

“But I don’t know how to hula-hoop,” I’d said in protest.

“Then you must learn immediately.”

Our first lesson began promptly after we returned to my parents’ house. Karine tossed a hoop over my head like a lasso, and eventually I got the hang of spinning it around my waist without looking like I was having a seizure.

“This isn’t so hard,” I said.

“Next I’m going to light them on fire.”

“No you are
not
!”

“Don’t worry,” said Karine, laughing. “I’m not going to do it. That’s for pros only. But listen, Consuelo: Fire can’t burn you as long as you keep moving.”

We stayed out there for hours, just playing at keeping those hoops alive. Whenever I got frustrated or tried to move my body too much, not letting the hoop’s spiral do most of the work, Karine would say, “Find your gravity,
mija
. Just let it all float around you. Circle home.”

“Kaya,” I said, wiping my tears away from the unexpected memory. “Thank you. I love it.”

“I remembered you telling me the story once,” she said, “and I wanted to paint it. Long before I knew. . . .”

Just then the Davises’ magisterial red front door was flung open with a bang. Thomas and Kit emerged, holding Ellen’s kicking, screaming body between them. She was more animated than she’d been earlier in the parking lot, when she could barely lift her head from her chest.
Far
more animated. Like, Roadrunner animated. Whatever edge the Oxy had taken off was apparently back on.

I hastily rolled up the painting and placed it back in the glove compartment.

“No offense to your plan,” Kaya said, “but that does
not
look like a person who wants to be helped.”

As the two abductors and Ellen neared my car, I saw the cold look in Thomas’s eyes as he wrestled with his prey. It was like he was on autopilot: no emotion whatsoever. Then I started making out the verbal content of Ellen’s screams.

“Put me down, you bastards! There’s nothing wrong with me! You might all be messed up and in need of magical wizard therapy or whatever, but I’m just fine!”

Kaya and I got out of the car to help. Ellen wore a long-sleeved shirt even though it was eighty degrees outside. When the boys put her down, she began to scratch vigorously at her arm over the cotton fabric. I grabbed her wrist and pulled up her sleeve. Red welts and deep scratches climbed her forearm.

“Then it’s true?” I said, as Ellen shook me off. I’d read that meth addicts sometimes felt insatiable itches on their skin. “Do those marks mean what I think they mean?” For a moment I was indignant. What I wouldn’t give to be in perfect health like her, and here she was sabotaging it with poison that some amateur chemist had concocted in a trailer park.

“Buzz off, Lo,” she said.

“We’re trying to save your life,” Thomas said mechanically. Though the words might have been sincere, he looked totally apathetic, as if it didn’t matter to him if Ellen was dead or alive. It distressed me to see him looking so blank under such dramatic circumstances, but I couldn’t think about that now. With a full car, the ritual had a chance of succeeding. Thomas threw Ellen in the middle of the backseat and climbed in next to her.

“No way,” she said. “You kidnap me
and
I have to ride bitch? Let me out immediately. Lo, he didn’t even let me get my . . . bag.”

“You don’t need to bring anything,” I said. I knew that she wanted her stash of whatever it was she was doing on a daily basis. But she had her tiny designer purse, and that would have to be enough for now. Ellen reached across Thomas’s lap for the door handle, but I’d already hit the child locks.

“Great,” Kit said. “Now there’s no escape, and I have very little confidence in Lo’s driving abilities. Everybody buckle up.”

“You’re all insane,” Ellen said. “You trust Lo to whisk us away to happiness?”

“Ellen, shut your mouth. For once,” Kaya said. I was shocked—Kaya never spoke a harsh word to anyone. Even Ellen was momentarily stupefied. “Some of us need to have hope in this quote unquote insane ritual. Keep in mind that Consuelo is trying to help you.”

Ellen retrieved something from her purse, popped it into her mouth, and washed it down with a half-empty bottle of Gatorade she’d found on my car floor. I decided not to make an issue of it considering we’d just forcibly removed her from her home. Plus, her drugging days might soon be over. After she swallowed the pill, she crossed her arms over her chest and stared out the window in a huff. I was finally free to think about where we were headed.

THE SUN-FADED HIGHWAY LED STRAIGHT
through our suburban deserts to the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountain range. Sunsets are always something of a miracle in New Mexico, and this evening’s was no exception. The soft pink of the sky seemed to soften and tame the barren landscape, turning the parched terrain into an oasis. We were on our way out of town at last.

As I drove, my head started to throb. I rubbed the pressure points on my right temple, trying to soothe the ache. Kaya leaned forward to put her hand on my shoulder.

“Are you okay, Lo?” she said. It was remarkable that even though she’d never felt physical pain in her life, she was still attuned to mine.

“Thanks, Kaya. It’s just a headache. I’ll be fine.”

All of my passengers seemed melancholy. Especially Thomas. He hadn’t said a word since downtown Santa Fe had fallen from view behind us. He just stared out the window at the desert. I caught his eye in the rearview mirror, and he nodded at me. Or did he wink slightly? I immediately felt calmer. Maybe we were still connected after all.

Ellen had managed to trade seats with Kaya in the back and was now chain-smoking out the window.

“Must you do that?” Kit said. He was seated beside me, not through any great desire to be close to me but because his legs were the longest and he was tyrannical about the music selections. “You’re giving lung cancer to everyone in the car.” Ellen responded by blowing smoke into the front seat.

“Gross,” Kit said. “Not to mention homicidal.” He struggled to find something other than static on my crappy stereo. “How much further?”

Kit had already asked me to slow down and watch the road several times, even though I was concentrating fiercely. Okay,
once
I’d turned around to check on Thomas, but Kit had immediately barked at me, “If you do that one more time, I’m getting out of the car.”

“Cheesus Christ,” I said. “Sorry.” It was like Kit really thought we were all on the verge of death. But I guess it made sense. After all, if the love of his life could die out of nowhere for no apparent reason, we were all vulnerable, at any time.

When I finally satisfied him with my ten-and-two grip on the steering wheel, Kit loosened up a bit. “Lo,” he said. “Let’s be real. What’s the story with this so-called sacred ritual? I study the Native Americans. I don’t get mixed up in fake Anglo wannabe shit. And I’m not giving this charlatan any money.”

“Who is this
hombre
anyway?” Ellen said, lighting up another cigarette in the backseat. “How do you know he’s not just luring us into the desert so he can rape and kill us?”

“He’s authentic,” I said. “He gave me a good vibe.”

“Good vibes,” Ellen said. “Great. Surf’s up. Let’s nobody harsh Lo’s mellow by talking about rape and murder.”

“That’s right,” Kit said, biting the tip of one of his fingernails and spitting it out the window. “If we don’t die in a car crash on the way to this park—which no one has ever heard of, by the way—we’ll most likely get slaughtered upon arrival.”

“This man won’t hurt you,” said Thomas, who seemed to have awoken from his daydream behind me. His voice was severe, somehow laden with consequence.

“Oh yeah?” Ellen said. “What, like you’re going to put the jungle moves on Jay Shaman?”

“Christ, Ellen,” Kit said. “Have some respect. Thomas has been through hell and back. You and your spoiled-rich-girl routine are way out of your depth here.”

“I’m just saying that you guys are being too trusting of Consuelo’s freaky stranger.”

“Okay, well, I agree with you there,” Kit said.

“So what if we’re trusting?” Kaya said. “It’s cool to trust people sometimes. Consuelo has good judgment. If she doesn’t think this guy is dangerous, I believe her.” I reached around and squeezed her knee.

“Two hands on the wheel,” growled Kit. “Anyway, Kaya, that’s easy for someone who can’t feel pain to say. The torture won’t register.
You’ll
be in la-la land.
We’ll
be the ones screaming.”

“You guys all have extremely dark imaginations,” I said. “Just relax. Try to get into a spiritual mindset.”

Ellen scoffed. “He’s probably sharpening his machete as we speak,” she said.

“In Liberia,” Thomas said, “we made our victims dig their own graves before we shot them, so we could conserve our energy for more killing.”

We spent the next few miles in silence.

• • •

We weren’t exactly sure what we were looking for.

Jay had said that our destination of Pecos Park contained Pueblo ruins. I’d visited a handful of Pueblo Indian villages—both the kind that were actively inhabited and those that had been abandoned for ages—in the Santa Fe region, mostly on field trips in elementary and middle school. The dwellings reminded me of vast urban apartment complexes, with multiple stories and dozens of rooms. They were intricate communities, like beehives or anthills or the island of Manhattan.

“Are you sure this place exists?” Kit said. “Kaya is half Pueblo, and even she’s never heard of Pecos Park.”

“Well, in all fairness, I don’t get out much,” said Kaya.

“How’d you convince your mom to let you leave the house anyway?” I asked.

Kaya giggled shyly. “I told her you were taking me to watch a badminton tournament.”

“You did not,” said Ellen, with respect.

“I did. I figured she couldn’t argue with shuttlecocks,” said Kaya. “They’re pretty harmless.”

“Yeah,” said Kit. “Badminton is only second to the NFL in causing traumatic brain injuries.”

“Shut up, Kit,” said Ellen. “Score one for Kaya. I should try that one out on my mom, not that she ever asks me where I’m going.”

I was starting to feel as if we’d driven too far. The only landmarks along the road were cacti and scrub trees. Every once in a while we passed a larger tree that looked too thirsty even to cast shade.

Then we rounded a curve in the road, and I saw a cluster of green ahead.

“That must be it,” I said, relieved.

The park entrance was next to a scrap metal yard that had seen better days. Totaled pickup trucks with missing tires sat on concrete blocks, waiting to be crushed and re-born as cutlery. The setting sun reflected off what little glass remained on the cars, casting an almost blinding glow in places. The vast, leveling uniformity of the sunset drew long, shapely shadows from the junked cars, evoking an organic landscape.

After I turned onto the dirt road, a black cat with one eye gouged out crossed our path. “An auspicious beginning,” Ellen said. Then she took a swig from a small purple flask. I smelled whiskey.

“Where did that come from?” I said. “Are you supposed to be drinking that on those pills you took?”

“Is it any of your business?” she said.

Thomas glared at her.

“Just . . . please, Ellen. If you have any love—or even any respect—left for me at all, at least try to take this seriously.”

“Fine,” she said, and stuffed the flask back in her purse.

I couldn’t tell if we were still on the dirt road, or if the dirt road had simply blossomed into a dirt parking lot, so I just stopped the car, and we all climbed out. Though we’d moved away from the scrap metal, there was no real indication that we’d made it to a recreational zone. Eventually Ellen discovered a playground, but even that was in ruins. In some corners fescue grass seemed to be trying halfheartedly to grow through the sandy dirt, but the green plants had mostly given up. Everything was tangled roots and boulders that seemed to have been shaken loose from some distant, prehistoric cliff. There was no question that this “park” had been abandoned for years.

“It’s starting to get dark,” Kit said nervously as we strolled around the grounds, unsure what to do. “I don’t like this. We should go.” He crept closer to Thomas, who seemed on high alert.

“Jay said he’d be here at sundown,” I said. “Give him a few more minutes.”

“Sundown,” Ellen said. “Of course. The witching hour for mass murderers.”

“Forget this,” Kit said. “I’ll be in the car.” He leaned his weight from sneaker to sneaker as if he could shuffle away his anxiety.

“Hold your horses, Kit,” Thomas said gravely, and I smiled despite myself. He sounded like a cowboy in a Western movie. My very own Clint Eastwood, by way of Liberia. All he needed was a cowboy hat and badge.

I was still entertaining the image of Sheriff Thomas when I heard a low growl and saw a torch appear from the brush behind the collapsing jungle gym.

“Consuelo,” Jay said as he stepped onto the crumbling playground surface across from us. “Hello, dear. I knew you’d make it.”

Dakota trotted ahead of him and circled my feet, staying just beyond arm’s length.

“Oh shit,” said Kit, backing up. “That’s . . . not a dog, Lo. That’s a coyote. No sudden movements. Everybody, stay still.”

Thomas slowly began inserting himself between me and Dakota.

“It’s okay, guys,” I said. “Hi, Jay. Hi, Dakota.” Dakota whined in what I interpreted as a friendly fashion. I rubbed her between her ears and thought I heard Kit gasp. Jay smiled at the posse I’d assembled.

“Lordie,” murmured Ellen, gazing at our strange, laid-back leader in his faded Fleetwood Mac T-shirt and cutoff cargo shorts. She seemed slightly dazzled by his general appearance.

“This guy’s a total stoner,” Kit whispered behind me. That wasn’t exactly a compliment, but at least Kit wasn’t accusing Jay of trying to take advantage of us by attempting to appear “authentic.”

“Ha,” I whispered back, amused by Kit’s stubborn cynicism. “You probably thought he’d put on one of those cheap woven ponchos, stick a feather in his hair, do a war whoop, and call himself an Indian chief.”

“Whatever,” said Kit.

“And who are your friends, Lo?” Jay said, drawing closer to our group.

I nudged Kaya forward first, careful not to bruise her. “This is. . . .”

“Wait,” Jay said kindly. “I changed my mind. Not here.” He closed his eyes and licked his finger, then held it in the air as though gauging the wind, which was nonexistent. “There are fretful spirits here,” he said. “Follow me.”

We trailed behind him in a tight mass through the juniper bushes, as if we were kindergartners in some five-part buddy system. Now that it was dark, we could barely see ahead of us, but no one wanted to follow Jay too closely since the coyote at his side kept turning her head to stare at us with suspicion.

“Feel free to pet Dakota,” Jay said cheerfully.

“No thanks,” Ellen said. “I’m really more of a cat person.” Jay turned to smile at her, and, to my surprise, Ellen smiled back. Maybe our guru had been a lion tamer in another life.

Only Thomas seemed sure of his footing in the dark. A branch cracked. Suddenly Thomas grabbed me, pushing me away from the noise, almost throwing me to the ground. Kaya shrieked and crouched defensively at the side of the trail. Kit and Ellen whirled around in alarm. Thomas’s chest heaved, and the torch’s flames shone on his sweating forehead, even though it was a cool night.

“Thomas,” I said, unhurt but breathing hard against his torso. “Are you okay?”

“I. . . . Sorry, Lo,” he said. “I don’t know what happened. I just . . . reacted.”

Kaya’s lanky body had gone totally stiff. Ellen looked at her warily.

“Jesus, Thomas,” she said. “Chill out.” She offered Kaya her hand.

“It’s all right,” I said. Thomas’s reaction was unexpected, but I knew it was instinctive. And protective of me.

“He’ll be fine,” Jay said authoritatively from up ahead. “It’s just phantoms.” For some reason, this explanation sounded like the most rational thing in the world.

Thomas slowly released me from his arms, but as we proceeded, he kept reaching around to brush my hand, as if he needed to reassure himself that I was still behind him.

We walked until we came to a thick stone disk on the ground. Jay led us to the middle of the circular slab and removed a smaller metal disk, about the size of a manhole cover, which looked as if it had been smelted by hand. A blast of cold, dank air emanated from the depths of the crypt.

Jay deftly lowered his body into the hole, and then dropped out of sight completely. We heard the echo when his feet hit the bottom of the chamber.

A wooden ladder appeared through the hole its top two rungs visible above ground. This was it. Time to decide. To ritual, or not to ritual. Jay was either luring us into a torture chamber, or we were on the verge of a momentous spiritual experience. I looked around for Dakota, but she had apparently wandered off.

“Hell no. I’m not going down there,” Ellen said, as contrary and defiant as ever.

Ignoring her, I pulled away from Thomas’s hand and then situated myself above the ladder.

“No,” Thomas said. “Let me go first. I’m not afraid.”

I’d wanted to set a good example for the others, but I was still nervous, and I let him lead the way. Kit reached down for Thomas’s shoulder, but Thomas shook him off.

“It’s cool, man,” he said.

I was next. Down the rabbit hole I went.

As my eyes adjusted to the torch-lit darkness, I realized that we were in a Pueblo kiva. We hadn’t been allowed to descend into these chambers on school trips because they were sacred, but I’d seen drawings of them. I hadn’t noticed ruins of apartments above, and kivas were usually sunken hollows beneath housing. This kiva must be the only remaining structure of a razed, ancient village, perhaps overlooked for decades.

Okay, maybe not entirely overlooked. The Pueblo Indian artifacts that belonged here had clearly been picked clean from the floor long ago. Arrowheads and shards of ceramics had likely disappeared inside greedy coat pockets. Now the sacred space was littered only with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles that kids—most likely from Santa Fe High—had probably discarded over the years. Someone had sprayed
DO
THE
COSMOS
on the adobe wall in green paint, obscuring the petroglyphs engraved by native worshippers. Perhaps we were on consecrated ground, but it sort of felt as if we were squatting in some high schooler’s basement drug den.

“Guys?” Ellen called from above. “Are you okay?”

“Everything cool down there?” Kit hollered after her through the hole.