Crisscross Moon - 1. Chapter 1

1.

Cory stopped at the station to buy gas and food. Once inside, he started stacking things on our counter. "My taking up space?" he asked eventually.

There were no other customers. There'd been no one for at least an hour. I'd been scanning no-brainer magazines from the rack - amusing myself with pictures of good-looking guys. They were about all I could handle.

Cory was wearing sunglasses and gym shorts. It was the kind of hot out when you can barely stand sunglasses. I had it down to 80 inside, with the full AC blowing, and it wasn't even 10 AM. I was wearing an old tank top and cut-offs.

"You have vegetables?" he asked. He'd been piling up batteries and tuna.

"Canned," I said.

"Fruit?"

"Canned," I repeated.

He frowned.

"We're not a supermarket," I joked. He ignored me, so I went back to my magazine. But he was a good-looking guy, certainly the best-looking one who'd been in all morning. My early regulars mainly wanted cigarettes and coffee. The cutest guy was probably 10 years old, and he was getting his mom's decaf while she pumped 5 bucks of gas.

Cory looked around, as if staring hard enough would make fresh vegetables appear. "That's against the law," I told him.

He had no idea what I meant.

"Driving barefoot," I went on.

He glanced at his feet, then grinned. "People only think that."

"Bet you," I offered, surprised I was quietly flirting.

"You'd lose," he replied. "Besides, there's no way to prove it. 'Less you can check it on your phone."

My phone had lousy reception. I'd been bringing my laptop to work but was spending too much time reading online. So I left the damned thing home.

"Cheap phone," I excused.

"Then you'll have to trust me. You can drive barefoot in 49 states."

I wondered which was the exception but didn't ask.

"Where's that fruit?" he said.

I pointed at the shelves. It would have felt good to stand, but I didn't.

"And the veggies?"

"Full of salt," I warned.

"It's OK. I'll need it."

He took a half-dozen cans of peaches, read the label on some baked beans, put that can back, then pulled all the bottled water from our refrigerator case.

"There more out back?" he asked.

There is no "out back" I told him.

He checked the expiration dates. "Recent," he announced.

I nodded, not telling him I ate anything as soon as it got old. Instead, I asked, "Been driving long?"

"Couple hours." He seemed to be mentally adding his bill.

"Long trip ahead?" This was the longest conversation I'd had all morning, and I wasn't giving it up. "Looks like you're buying supplies."

He finished adding and popped a can opener onto his pile. "I'm almost there."

"Going backpacking?"

"With all this?"

"Camping?"

He looked at me. With his sunglasses on, I couldn't see his eyes.

"It's all park land," I warned. "You'll need a permit."

"Web site said I could buy one by the day." And he pulled out a credit card.

So I figured his bill. Even with his gas, it was under seventy bucks. After we bagged things, I helped carry them to his car. I wasn't exactly dressed to keep a guy talking. My cut-offs were old when I bought them, and my tank top was washed beyond color. Cory wasn't looking at me anyhow.

"How far's the park?" he asked.

"Gila?"

He nodded.

"You're in it."

He seemed surprised. "I thought it was another 40 miles... On the map..."

"You know where the road changes?" I interrupted.

He had no idea what I meant.

"It goes from smooth to slightly less smooth. That's where the national forest begins."

I could see him trying to remember.

"And it's slow driving from here. All switchbacks and passes. You go fast, you go right off an edge."

"No guard rails?"

"Some."

"You lose a lot of people?"

"No one we miss."

He absorbed this by scratching his chest. He had a nice chest. Then he closed the car trunk. His car was an old Camaro, its paint as faded as my clothes. The top was down and the seats were covered with unfolded maps, open books, wadded T-shirts, and empty water bottles.

"Where am I?" he asked. "Exactly."

I showed him on one of his maps. "Where you going?"

He didn't want to say. But from his books, I would've bet on the cliff dwellings and the mines. Though he looked like a student, he was probably another fortune hunter.

"You recycle?" he asked. He was pulling plastic bottles from his car.

I glanced at his books again. "You know about the bears?"

He didn't. I could tell by his look. He set down the bottles and took off his sunglasses.

"They get a couple of tourists every year," I went on, emphasizing "tourists" to make him feel out of place. But I didn't need to lie about the bears. There were several attacks every summer, the latest on a boy whose parents were too dumb to read signs. The kid got by with a slightly ruined face.

"Bears?" he asked.

"And bobcats. But you can usually scare those off."

He seemed to consider. "What kind of bears?"

"Black. Five or six feet tall. Though it's the babies that cause trouble."

I held my hand maybe three feet off the ground.

"They're only curious, but their mamas are fierce. Got to protect the li'l ones."

Cory crossed his arms on his chest.

"The thing to remember," I told him, "is to attack before they do. Shout. Throw things. Make yourself tall."

I stood on my toes. Waved my arms over my head. "That works... most of the time."

"And the rest?"

I shrugged, letting him think what he wanted.

"You been around bears?" he asked slowly.

I smiled. "I grew up around here."

The truth was I'd hardly been away.

"How active are the bears... this time of year? You'd think they'd be pretty well fed by now. You hear any new stories?"

"Nah, it's been a quiet week. Though this is when the bears are the worst - when they start getting fed. They depend on that. They've been awake and scavenging for a couple of months... taking care of themselves. But soon as the tourists arrive, the mamas know they can get lazy. They almost depend on that."

Cory glanced at his car, seeming ready to head back to California. That's where the plates were from. A parking decal said UCSF.

"'Course, if you're with someone who knows what he's doing..." I started.

"Can't afford that," he said immediately.

It wasn't news.

"Doesn't have to cost anything," I said. No point selling myself when there was no one to buy. "But things are slow now. Memorial Day's past, and nothing picks up till the Fourth. I could shake the weekend free."

He looked at me as if doubting everything I said. He was probably six-two. I was a slight five-eleven, and he looked like he could lift me. But I knew where he wanted to go, so I had the advantage.

"I've lived here all my life," I assured him. "24 years. I can get in and out of those cliff dwellings… the caves… any mines… without even looking at the maps."

"How'd you know about the cliff dwellings?" he asked.

I nodded at his books. He seemed impressed. But even without them, I could've guessed. Most people came to see the cliff dwellings.

"You really know about bears?" he asked.

"I know about guns. And how they protect you."

Again, he looked surprised. I guessed he'd never even used a pistol, let alone a rifle. I'd use tranquilizer darts first. But I could shoot bullets if I had to.

"I can't pay you," he insisted. "I'm just a grad student. I live on credit. And I've already spent too much on this trip."

"It doesn't matter. It'll be fun. Just let me close up."

(continued)