Crisscross Moon - 2. Chapter 2

2.

It didn't take much to close. My folks being gone made it easier 'cause there was nothing to explain. Of course, if they'd been around, one of them could've worked. But they weren't there much lately. Dad's only 45, Mom's a year younger, and once my sister and I finished college, my folks wanted to sell the station. Only no one was interested. Still, that didn't keep them in town. They moved to Albuquerque, to - as Mom put it - "paying jobs." She trained as a geriatric nurse, and Dad went to fixing cars for other people.

So I stuck the "Closed" sign up, scribbled "Prob'ly 'til Monday" in dry marker under the laminated clock, then told Cory to follow my car. Closing the station wasn't a problem. We weren't some last oasis. There was a 7-11 a few miles ahead.

Cory followed me to the house. It took 6 minutes. I timed it, a lot. Tree-by-tree. I pulled into the driveway, signaled Cory to park, and led him inside.

Now other people might be screaming: "What are you doing! You don't even know the guy! And he's hardly wearing clothes!" Truth was, he pulled on a T-shirt and shoes before getting out of his car, and my neighbor kids were right across the way. I waved to them as I pulled in. Besides, I knew my sister had sent Cory. Sallie was always doing things like that. I wasn't going to say anything, and I knew Sallie told the guys to keep quiet as long as they could. But soon as I saw the UCSF sticker, I knew.

Of course, I could've been wrong. Cory could've been a serial killer, escaped from San Quentin, dreaming of nothing more than stuffing my chopped body parts into a plastic bag. But I had a rifle, and he knew it. And though that wasn't the only reason I told him, it was part.

The house wasn't so messy it was embarrassing. When my folks came for a weekend, I cleaned, and Dad probably thought the place always stayed that way. But Mom knew what clean plates in the dishwasher meant.

"You live alone?" Cory asked.

He didn't make it sound like he was stalking. But Sallie must've told him I wasn't seeing anyone.

"There are cats," I said. "But, yeah. My folks mainly turn up on weekends."

This weekend? I knew he wanted to ask that, but he didn't. And was he counting on sex? That wouldn't've been bad, either, though it could've been better timed. I was still kind of low-key depressed. Sallie never thought of those things. Still, I decided to lie.

"I never know when my folks're coming. It's their house, so they don't have to say. Same way it's their station."

"I figured it was family. That you could close so easily."

I laughed and asked if he wanted coffee. It would've been easier to give him some at the station, where there was a machine, but he said, "No." So I told him to take anything he wanted from the kitchen then went upstairs. I needed jeans and a sweatshirt, my hiking boots and socks, and a hat and a backpack.

I hadn't been in the park for a while, and it was longer since I'd been in the caves. I really didn't know the mines as well as I'd told him, though none were very complicated. Most were sealed off anyway, so the worst thing I usually had to handle was some guy with a treasure map. And it always was a guy. Women wanted to explore the cliff dwellings or needed someone to lead them on the trails. But they were rarely hunting gold.

I found what I needed, and when I came downstairs, Cory was sitting on the couch. He was studying a map. It was marked up, but it wasn't one of the park guides or something from Triple A. It was hand drawn.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked.

He shrugged. "A friend."

My sister, I was sure. I almost recognized the writing.

"Can I see?"

He grinned. "Well, I guess I gotta show you if you're gonna take me there."

I looked at the map more carefully and was surprised. It was one of the Mogollon caves. Usually, Sallie sent me on tourist trips.

"Been there?" Cory asked.

"Oh, yeah. Since I was a kid."

He seemed disappointed - like it was supposed to be a great secret - and I wondered what Sallie had told him. So I backed off a little, playing along.

"It's not a place a lot of people know," I admitted. "Outside family."

I waited for him to respond, but he didn't.

"That's the reason I've been there so often," I went on. "It's family."

He liked that, and it was clearly part of the reason he came. The gay brother was extra.

"What're you looking for?" I asked.

It was an easy question, but he still shrugged it off. I was beginning to think a shrug was part of his vocabulary, and I wondered what made Sallie think I'd be interested.

"Then let's see what we find," I said. "But if we're going to the caves, I'll need some extra supplies. You been in caves a lot?"

"A bit."

"You bought enough batteries. You knew to do that."

"I knew this wasn't Carlsbad."

I laughed at that. "Nope... no underground snack bar."

He laughed, too.

"You have a helmet?" I asked.

"No."

"Gloves?"

"No."

"Kneepads?"

"Uh-uh."

"You do have warm clothes?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Then you'd better change."

He hesitated. "I will when we get there. Let me enjoy the sun."

"Sure thing."

I gathered what we needed and loaded it into his car. We left mine in the driveway, not locking it or the house. As I waved to the neighbor kids, Cory pulled off his T-shirt.

"Better not do that in the caves," I joked. "You'll freeze."

"I know. But why waste a clean shirt?"

In the jumble of his back seat, I doubted anything was clean.

"How long have you been at State?" I asked as he drove. We had about 15 minutes, and it seemed like a good time to talk. He gave me another of those "How'd you know that?" looks, and I said, "The parking sticker."

"You notice a lot," he said, grinning.

"You don't keep a lot hidden."

He might actually have blushed at that, but the sun was too bright to tell.

"I'm always at the gym," he explained, "so I don't think about clothes. And I'm originally from St. Paul. People in San Francisco complain about the cold, with the fog and everything. But any time it's over 50, I lose my shirt."

"San Francisco's not cold," I said.

"You been there?"

"A couple times." I maintained the lie, saying nothing about Sallie.

"Maybe the wrong times," he said, laughing.

I didn't argue, and for maybe 10 miles, we didn't talk about anything important. "You ever gonna ask my name?" I finally prodded. Of course, he knew it - that's why he forgotten to ask. He looked at me, completely dumb, and I liked that.

"It's Terrell," I told him. "Terry."

"Cory."

"I knew that from your credit card."

(continued)