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+Janine moved through the crowded living room with a naively aloof glide, an innocently off-putting quality that Sil had seen in other brides-to-be on the night before their wedding. It was, he reasoned, a quality born out of the improbable superimposition of the very public upon the very private. As if a herd of unicorns has just desended upon your village and everyone must pretend that a herd of unicorns descending on your village is somehow extremely extrodinary, but expected nonetheless. Sil was unsure what to do with a heard of unicorns and so he retreated outside past the smiling relatives on the patio to the back wall of the yard where he was afforded a distance from what he considered a collective insanity.

From this vantage point he could snoop about the formica structures of the nuptials' personal life without having to actually participate. The smooth, ill-chosen color schemes that make up the palor of our daily life, that slick looking ship, whale-sitting, something else lurking below, or at least Sil liked to think there was something below, that it was not afterall real marble, but only a veneer. It is, however, possible that we are in a nautical tale after all, and that the whales have been hunted down, disgorged of oil and discarded in a heap of newspaper graveyards that we drive by thinking privately, good god, did you see that? Though this seemed unlikely to Sil, standing, as he was, in the middle of a vast desert. And so he smoked drolly and watched. Trying hard to not look aloof, though realizing that everyone thought he was being aloof.

If fact he was not being aloof. He was simply without a protective formica coating which led him to kind of shyness that came off as aloof and made him even more nervous than he already was. In situations like this smoking was kind of defense or perhaps warning since he was only one who thought he might not look nervous. Janine had already told him 'try and relax, you're making me feel calm,' which of course just made him more self conscious.

Janine seemed to flit between conversations somehow managing to not ever really have one. Sil admired her from a distance and continued to lean against the rough cement wall, glancing around occasionally to watch the sun sink down behind the Catalina Mountains. Distant clouds were beginning to turn a pinkish cast. He was unable to flit. He had never flitted in his entire life. Flitting seemed to him something only tiny grayish birds were capable of, darting between branches that wouldn't have supported the weight of Sil's clumsy hands. And yet, every time he turned away from the mountains, Janine was flitting.

He huffed the last few drags of nicoteen and resolving to, if not flit, at least mingle with his relations, he propelled himself off the cement wall and was headed toward the sliding door when dark a hand brushed his shoulder. He turned half expecting some dark skinned unicorn that the Norse myths had failed to account for, but was greeted simply by eyes he did not recognize.

"You don't know how much it means to Janine that you came to the wedding," he said. "And it means alot to me too," he added.

Sil mumbled something about it being no problem and slowly settled into the realization that this was the boyfriend he had never paid attention to. The boyfriend had darkish skin and seemed indistinct to Sil, He was quite confident that we would not recognize the face when it stepped to the alter tomorrow. He did have a distant recollection of story Janine told slowly and with a lot of emphasis on a parking garage, though he couldn't say for sure if this were that boyfried or another. Nor for that matter could he say for sure that the story involved a boyfriend but he was sure about the parking garage.

[more]



There is pause at a liquor store for a couple packs of his own brand of cigarettes and another similar pause at the front desk, exchanges of money, silent elevator and he sets his bag in the corner of the room, turns out the overhead light and flops down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, smoking several cigarettes in succession, watching the smoke explode in beams of moonlight leaking from the edges of the curtain.

The invitation was addressed to Maine and that bothered him more than he wanted to admit. A somple mistake, but a slick looking ship, whale-sitting, something ominous lurking beneath it. It made Sil feel old and tired. He stood and went the the window pulling back the curtain the reveal the dialated nightscape below. He stared out the window wanting another cigarette. He wanted to keep smoking cigarettes until the whole city was one great smoke filled room and he was younger and everyone knew he didn't live in Maine. To smoke until the city became a blurred and spark-shooting array of stoplights, flickering neon signs, sodium streetlamps, fake adobe strip malls and black empty expances of desert devoid of people. An enormous empty smoke filled room with no one in it, and he could look back at it as the door slowly closed leaving him outside in an even bigger room with a domed sky that stretched from zero to horizon, nothing above but stars, Betelgeuse and reddish Rigel, but mainly Betelgeuse, burning dead center and nowhere near Maine.



Clint was munching fries and talking about "Miracle Mile" or some such nonsense. Conner wasn't paying much attention, he wasn't interested in a mile long miracle, in fact he was pretty sure the miracle mile wasn't a miracle and probably wasn't a mile either. Dr. Roberts had already described it as the only paved road to speak of, which hardly seemed a miracle if you happen to have grown up in California.
	And so Conner continued to run his fingers over the strange bump in the formica counter. He was thinking about bird calls. Canyon Wrens to be exact. There had to be some method of using the parabolic mic without picking up too much of the echo as they had been this morning. Conner was pretty sure that what they lacked was some sort of dampening device, but his electronics experience was limited to ham radios and tube circuits, niether of which was any help with these new solid state electronics.
	"I say we stay here at Bob's all day," Clint remarked, "too damn hot out there."
	His words irritated Conner and suddenly he was pretty sure anything would be better than sitting in this booth for another second.
	"You can stay," he said sliding out of the booth, "I think I'll walk back to the motel and see if I can work out something to cut the echo in the recordings"
	They both shrugged, but said nothing and so Conner ducked out of Bob's Big Boy into the shimmering summer heat. Less than a block later he was regretting his decision. The soles of his shoes were noticably softer and could well have melted on the sidewalk if he stood still for too long. Back at the motel he went inside and flopped on the bed for minute, but inside there was just the heat, not chance of a breeze so he dragged a chair outside and sat on the shaded porch squinting at the moutains. 
	"Whatcha doin'?"
	A girl of ten or so stepped around the corner and into the shadow.
	"nothing"
	"Wanna come in the store and buy me some candy?"
	Conner studied her for a moment and, unable the think of a response he simply stood and followed her through the cactus garden toward the store.

"He gonna buy me candy Jenny"

"Pacey, for the love of god, speak in proper english"

Jenny sat behind the counter fanning herself with a magazine, her legs propped up on a stool.

"She's really not the moron she pretends to be..."

"Oh. Well I didn't.."

"Yes you did. You're one of those college boys aren't you? Doing research? Staying in rooms 4 and 5?"

"Yes."

"Well see you think Pacey is some hick kid, right?"

She dropped her legs to the floor and stood up. She was chewing gum between sentences. She slouched forward leaning on the counter.

"You college boys are always coming round here thinking you're so damn smart and little Pacey there suckers every one of you into buying her candy. She got your friend this morning, the real skinny one..."

"Clint"

"I guess so. Anyway, if ya'll had any sense at all you'd smack her upside the head, but no, you buy her candy. Why is that exactly?"


In order to lay Formica you need a reasonably smooth surface, too much chipping of the base material and--alchemist's horror--there is no adherence, or, alternately, the base can be filled in with some sort of patching material. But the best Formica is laid atop the most level of surfaces. Then comes the glue. Pasty, thick and sometimes non-toxic. Sometimes not. It depends on how well you want the veneer to stick.
	Conner's finger was drawn back to the bubble on the counter. Was it a bump under the surface, or a bit of glue that didn't quite spread out right? "
********
	

"Perhaps tomorrow you or Mr. Munson can point us in the direction of the V.A. hospital?"
	"Oh yeah it's easy, just make a left up their on Oracle and follow it..."
	"We'll be back by tomorrow I'm sure."
	"Oh, well, if you're not, I live at the Vida Court, so you could always knock on my door."
	The woman seemed not to have heard him and continued in a determined manner, still making half circles in the gravel with her left foot.
	"We will be settling here for some time Ambrose. I believe we will need to sell this truck and probably look into some sort of more permanent lodging..."
	"Oh well, you're welcome to stay at the Vida Court long as you need ma'am. My folks are the owners so I can make sure they give you an efficiency, and you can buy food at the store and there's firewood in the lot out back of my bungalow..."
	"That's very kind of you Ambrose, my entire family thanks you."
	Ambrose glanced up and the truck and noticed that all three girls were smiling at him and two new boys heads had appeared near the end of the truck bed, who were also smiling at him though in a less friendly manner.
	
	
	
	
	
"We need some petrol and a place to stay."
	"Okay. Well I'll fill it up for you. You can stay down to street at the Vida Court. I'm sure there's some rooms."
	"Are you Munson?"
	"No ma'am, I'm Ambrose. I just work here. Mr. Munson went down to the V.A. hospital to have his head examined."
	"Oh my..."
	"Oh, no, not like that. I mean he was working on Chrysler this morning and the muffler fell off and knocked him out cold. Well, he heads down to the V.A hospital about any time he can, some nurse there..."
	"I see."
"Perhaps tomorrow you or Mr. Munson can point us in the direction of the V.A. hospital?"
	"Oh yeah it's easy, just make a left up their on Oracle and follow it..."
	"We'll be back by tomorrow I'm sure."
	"Oh, well, if you're not, I live at the Vida Court, so you could always knock on my door."
	The woman seemed not to have heard him and continued in a determined manner, still making half circles in the gravel with her left foot.
	"We will be settling here for some time Ambrose. I believe we will need to sell this truck and probably look into some sort of more permanent lodging..."
	"Oh well, you're welcome to stay at the Vida Court long as you need ma'am. My folks are the owners so I can make sure they give you an efficiency, and you can buy food at the store and there's firewood in the lot out back of my bungalow..."
	"That's very kind of you Ambrose, my entire family thanks you."
	Ambrose glanced up and the truck and noticed that all three girls were smiling at him and two new boys heads had appeared near the end of the truck bed, who were also smiling at him though in a less friendly manner.
	
	
	Before they left the river and walked home he would point out stars he had memorized from the chart the Munson had pinned on the wall of the garage. Exotic names wormed into her head, Betelgeuse, Orion, Regal. Later they would blend with names like Panama, Manila, Kyoto, Tokyo. Words that rose from letters seemed to float and always she would see his eyes floating like the novel Jack told her about. She tried to picture him when John Wayne would storm the beach, but it never worked and newsreels always talked of bravery and pride and Emma saw the words floating loneliness, longing, sorrow, homesick and did not bother to be brave weeping on her bed as the baby slept without having seen her father. She leaned into the crib and listened to the babyÕs heartbeat like the hummingbird wings she saw when he blinked.

But maybe the mountains weren't really keeping watch. Maybe they were laughing green and crumbling, discarding their unneeded water into the desert river along with boulders and trees and other baggage they could get along with out. Just dumping it down here like so much sewage. My thoughts always end this way she realized, always with death and debris. But then so does life doesnÕt it. She turned that over a while waiting to see if the notion would become enjoyable or scare her so profoundly she ran away and disappeared into the desert forever. But it did neither. It merely repeated over and over with the same numb indifference each time.
********
	The long metal tunnel out of the plane is lined with hollow florescent lights and reverberates with the muffled echo of shuffling feet headed up the incline in front of them. Airplanes are improbable. And yet it is ending again in cheap metal and sheet rock. An ordinary ending to every improbability better suited than a continuation of improbabilities and not unlike the stale florescent absence of similarly textured hospital walls. The shuffling feet moving out of rooms like last quiet sighs of breath. She drags her hand absently across the textured wall to the memory of woven grass wallpaper on the living room walls of the house she grew up in. 
	Memory is unlikely. Unlikely enough to have become necessary, to have become a marker on the passage of time, which is equally unlikely and necessary--the passage of time marked by memories of the spaces we once inhabited--improbable at best. The ramp distends and delivers Claire, Daniel and their fellow passengers into the stale air of the Tucson International Airport. They continued through the gate area and onto a people mover. The florescent lights give way to a velveteen darkness lit only with soft orange glow of backlit posters of distant nebula and globular clusters. Advertisements for a new exhibit at the observatory. Claire glides, head tipped back, staring up at the arched glass ceilings and faint glimpse of stars above. Memory is less a recalling of events than a reconstruction. A strung together recollection of events colored by later recounting, collectively created, framed and repeated until solidified. Always with the implication that they might well have come from nowhere else. There is a roaring sound and blinking lights through the window to her left. She feels evacuated and desperate for nicotine.
	Around her men and women pass, most walking the hallway, but some closer, passing Claire along the motorized rubber floor, bags thrown over their shoulders, several soldiers headed for Davis Montham, a businessman with black leather shoulder bag more expensive than his suit, a woman near ClaireÕs age balancing too many bags and two children. Claire watches as she removes the child from her arms, setting him to floor and putting his hand in his sister's hands. She straightens and heaves a large quilted bag back over her shoulder and grabs the young girl's free hand and sets off again, boy in tow. This is less disentanglement than a knotting into, a return to, a memory of some kind. Everything I learn is really a process of remembering. Daniel takes her hand in his and watches the woman with the children slide back down the hall. He looks down at her and smiles in a way that makes Claire uncomfortable, as when she would eat to much candy on Halloween. They pass out of the glass-domed walkway and back into florescent light, baggage claim, sliding doors and finally the cool sodium glow of the desert.
	Daniel walks down to the Avis counter leaving Claire to seek out a hurried cigarette before he returns. She settles for an Old Gold from a surly construction worker laboring under the terminus of a great, arched steel girder, which Claire is pretty sure holds up the domed skylight tunnel she has recently admired. The worker is just crushing out his cigarette when Claire asks for one. She thanks the worker profusely and turns slowly, trying to look absent minded, not wanting to be rude, but not wanting a conversation.  
	Claire starts to walk in the direction of the Avis bus stop but turns back to watch the construction worker sand, or rather grind, something near the bottom of a steel girder. Sparks fly off at odd intervals and look a bit like luminous shards of glass from a collapsing ceiling. The sparks have an undetectable pattern, a randomness that is notÑthey arc off and fade to nothing mimicking the smoke from the glowing tip of her cigarette. She drops the last half-inch to the ground and leaves it burning.
	Later in the hotel room after Daniel has fallen asleep Claire sits up in bed and turns on the light. She draws her knees up under her chin and stares out the window. She wants another cigarette, but has promised him she would stop. It isnÕt good for you Claire. Lots of things arenÕt, but I enjoy them. YouÕre killing yourself and worse youÕre paying to do it. So are you, just not with cigarettes. Even later after their argument had escalated, crested and settled down in a trough of kisses and sleepy mews she could feel the topic sitting on her like a ship, but a slick looking ship, whale-sitting, something ominous lurking beneath it. It made Claire feel old and tired. And so she continued to stare out the window wanting another cigarette. She wanted to keep smoking cigarettes until the whole city was one great smoke filled room and she was younger and felt confident in her ability to live full if not long. To smoke until the city became a blurred and spark-shooting array of stoplights, flickering neon signs, sodium streetlamps, fake adobe strip malls and black empty expanses of desert devoid of people. An enormous empty smoke filled room with no one in it, and she could look back at it as the door slowly closed leaving her outside in an even bigger room with a domed sky that stretched from zero to horizon, nothing above but stars, OrionÕs belt and raised arm burning dead center and nowhere near Tucson.
	
	

Even up on the mountain it was hot. At least itÕs not as stifling as New Geneai he reasoned. Whenever the dish rotated the glare was unbelievable. They said if you looked right at it it would burn the color out of your eyes like what happened to Jack with the arc welding. He was unsettling to look at even now. Though the doctors said it could get better. 
	Ambrose still thought hugging the road would have been the smarter move. He tried to tell the engineers but they dismissed him because he was just an installer. They seemed to think a college education made you smarter. It irritated Ambrose, but he said nothing. He was thankful for the work. Emma had just gotten home with the baby when Bell called and offered the job. The baby would need diapers and Janine was starting school next year, he reminded himself that he should be thankful, but whit the heat it was hard to be thankful for more than a simple breeze.
	By the time he made the drive back from the observatory it was well past dark. He generally ate his supper at the table with Emma and went straight to bed. The crew truck would be honking outside at 6 AM.
	Emma sat alone on the porch late into the night smoking the cigarettes she had given up for the babyÕs sake. She missed the blankets. The smell of the river full of debris and swollen with desert placenta. They had talked. They had talked all night and then he would walk six miles home to get up and go to work a few hours later. They met every night after Father ran off and there was no one to holler and slap when she disappeared at night. Jack had tried of course, but he didnÕt have the heart. He wanted to run off to the river too, but didnÕt have anyone to run with. Nor could he run. 
	But Ambrose had been different after he got back from the war. Not that he had seen action or was shell-shocked. He never talked about it. Emma wished he would. She could feel the barrier of the war rise up between them. Something had sent him to the other bank of the river. He claimed he hadnÕt seen much action and she believed him, but he would say no more. She would rather have heard intimate details of the men he had killed than hear nothing at all. She did not think she would think less of him. He hadnÕt started the war. He was just a man sent to kill. Or rather to save since he had been a medic. Whatever the case she merely longed to feel that closeness again. To stare in his eyes and play at Eskimo kisses or Butterfly kisses or just watch the lightening bugs floating in the Mesquite trees. 


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