Desert Chemistry

"... if I behave myself," she added a moment later.

"What does that mean?" I asked, a little knot of worry tightening in my stomach.

"I can't drink," she replied, looking me in the eye, "which is probably better for me anyway. I can't stay out late, and I can't bring anyone home overnight."

"But they're okay with you being gay?" I asked, worry easing a little.

"I think so," she said, "as long as I don't rub their faces in it."

I let out a breath. That wasn't as certain as I would have liked, but it was good enough.

She looked away again, up at the ceiling, and her voice got small. "My family wasn't the real problem anyway," she said. "I was."

I took her hand in mine. "You can tell me about it," I said gently. "You don't have to."

"My parents did freak out a little when I came out to them," she said, eyes fixed upward, "but I think it was more shock than anything else. Looking back, I don't really think they were angry; just sad and confused."

Her eyes gleamed with half-formed tears, and she took a few deep breaths before continuing. "I heard all these terrible things about gay people at church, and I believed them. I mean, I really believed them. If I was gay, that meant I had to be a terrible person too, so I started acting like one. I was a horrible bitch to my sister. I don't blame her for finally kicking me out. I blew off school, I went out drinking every night, and I fucked any girl who looked at me the right way."

The desperation in her voice turned to acid. I let her continue, folding her hand into both of mine. "Some boys too," she said. "I thought maybe if I fucked a few guys, I could fix myself, make myself straight and normal again."

The tears finally spilled out, her voice got lighter, and she laughed quietly. "It didn't work."

I laughed with her. "No, it didn't."

She turned to look at me, face suddenly tender and serious. "You knew the horrible stuff I'd done, a lot of it at least, and you took me in anyway. You didn't think I was a terrible person, and eventually I started to believe maybe you were right."

I kissed her hand.

"I'll always be ashamed about some of the things I did," she said, "but I think I can face my family again, mostly because of you. I think they can accept who I am and forgive the way I acted."

I hugged her tight and kissed the top of her head. "I told you everything would be okay," I said. We fell asleep holding each other.

Cate planned to go home the next weekend. I helped her pack on Saturday, and I took her to her favorite burger place for dinner. There was nothing good on TV that night, so we sat on the couch together and read. I don't know what Cate was reading, but the expression on her face while she sat there was the most contented I had ever seen.

We made love that night, slowly and softly, trying to make each second count. I don't know what Cate was thinking about, but I was remembering another night, seven years before. Cate wasn't Anne, and I didn't love her to aching the way I had loved Anne. But she was the first not-Anne who could make me feel even a pale echo of that all-encompassing glow I had with Anne, and now I was losing her too.

~~~

We got on the road early, wanting to get out of the valley before the worst of the midday sun. The first thirty or forty miles were all city - the Phoenix sprawl seems to go on forever, and it only gets worse with time. North of the Carefree Highway, though, it's still mostly empty desert, widely spaced sage and creosote in sandy gray soil, punctuated by the occasional ocotillo or saguaro.

We stopped for breakfast at the Rock Springs Café, an island of honest Old West kitsch in the modern world. We both got pancakes, and they were exactly what we expected - big, fluffy, and filling. The place is famous for pie, so I got a piece of pecan pie to take home with me. Pie and ice cream can't fill an empty apartment, but they can make it a little more bearable.

The big climb into the mountains starts a little ways north of the café, and I was glad to be in my little Honda. It doesn't have a lot of power, but it can get up the hill without overheating, even with the air conditioning going at full blast. The old clunker that I drove in college, an eighties Chrysler that my dad and I worked on together, would have given up after just a few miles.

Driving uphill, the desert scrub gradually gives way to chaparral, with dry grasses and small stands of piñon. Somewhere around the Bloody Basin exit, Cate pointed out the window to the top of a ridge on the right hand side of the road. "That's the last saguaro," she said, "the last one you can see from the freeway anyway. When I was a kid and we were driving back home from Phoenix, my sister and I would always look for that saguaro. Whoever spotted it first would win."

She laughed to herself. "Kids are easily amused, I guess."

Cordes Junction and the turnoff to Prescott came up soon after that, and forty minutes later we pulled into Cate's parents' driveway. It looked like a nice place, nestling into the hills southeast of town, with a corral and three or four horses out back. The air smelled different up there, cleaner. There was a touch of wood smoke from the wildfire outside town, but the dust and city pollution of the valley were gone.

Cate's father came out the front door, looking like an extra from an old western in leather boots, blue jeans, and a plaid shirt. I could see where Cate got that hair that I loved so much - he had the same dark, lustrous hair, almost black, though his was gray at the temples, cut short and parted on the left. His face was hard and set, weathered from years in the Arizona sun, but his eyes showed a kindness I hadn't expected.

Cate stood tentatively by my car, searching for some sign in her father's face. Apparently she found it, and she ran over to hug him.

"Go on inside, Cathy," he said after a short but genuine embrace. "Your mother's just putting lunch on the table, and she'll want to see you."

Cate dashed into the house, leaving me alone outside with her father. He walked up to me, smiled slightly and extended his right hand. I returned the gesture, with the firm grip I had learned from my own father.

"Thank you for bringing my Cathy home and keeping her safe," he said. "She's told me how much you've done for her. That was awfully Christian of you, and we all appreciate it."

"Cate is important to me," I replied, "and I want to make sure she's okay."

I smiled and kept my voice warm and friendly, but my tone was firm enough that there could be no mistaking what I said next. "If you can't accept her for who she is, I'll happily get in the car and take her back to Tempe."

"There'll be no need for that," he said, his smile turning warmer. "Cathy may still have some growing up to do, but she's my daughter, and she'll always be welcome in this house. So will whoever it is she loves."

We looked each other in the eye, each weighing the other's words and intentions. His expression was firm, a father protecting his daughter, but I could find no sign of disgust or hate. Cate would be safe there, and she would be loved.

"Alright, then," I said, smiling and releasing his hand. "Let's get her stuff inside."

He opened the garage door and we lugged Cate's duffels and crates into the house. After two more loads, I followed him into the kitchen, where Cate and her mother were talking. The house felt like a time warp. The appliances and fixtures were all modern, but the furniture was from an earlier age, when the state was nothing but cattle ranches and copper mines.

"... just got up and walked out, right in the middle of service," Cate's mother said, and Cate's eyes went wide in surprise.

"We're going to a different church now," her father added, "one where they don't preach love and hate in the same breath."

Cate may have gotten her hair and her coloration from her father, but the rest came from her mother, a small woman with a round hips, a kind, pretty face, and twinkling green eyes.

I stayed for lunch, a thick, meaty ham sandwich with stone-ground mustard and sharp white cheddar, and then got back on the road. Cate kissed me goodbye as I left, right on the lips. Her father averted his eyes, bashful but not disapproving. Her mother smiled.

~~~

I paid attention to the left side of the freeway after getting back on I-17 at Cordes Junction, and I saw that same saguaro, now the first on the return journey. The rest of the trip down to the valley was hot, the air conditioner just barely keeping up, but otherwise uneventful. Sunday afternoon traffic was heavy, and I got home about twenty minutes later than I expected.

I put my slice of pie in the fridge and then took a shower to wash off the travel. I was standing in the bedroom drying off when it hit me: the bed that I had shared with Cate was empty. The room was as small and cramped as always, bookcases and a dresser crowding each other along the walls and my grandmother's quilt folded at the foot of the bed, but it felt bigger, and just as empty as the bed. It was the first time I had come home with that familiar presence missing, and it felt strange, as if I had lost something important and knew I would never find it again.

Work held everything back for a while. I had a pile of calculations to get through, so I pulled out my laptop and got crunching. A few hours later, the pile was down to a few cases with weird or bad data that could wait until morning. The work hadn't produced any particularly useful results, but at least I knew that my current approach wasn't going to succeed. Negative results are still information, and they still move the research forward.

I decided it was time for dinner, but I couldn't figure out what I wanted to eat. I was vaguely hungry, and I could feel my body slowing down as it ran low on fuel, but nothing really appealed. I found a container of leftover vegetable curry and some rice in the fridge and decided that was good enough. Beyond that, all I had was fruit, pickles, drinks, and that piece of pie. I put the curry in the microwave to warm while I poured myself a cold glass of wine. It was a cheap white of some sort from Trader Joe's. I never drank wine growing up, and I still can't really tell the difference. I grabbed my tablet to read news while I ate, and I didn't taste the food.

After dinner, I went into the fridge for that piece of pie I had been looking forward to all day. It hadn't suffered from the trip, still a perfect wedge of sweet, gooey custard topped with pecans, but it suddenly looked like some alien thing, not fit to eat. I put it back in the fridge.

There was nothing much on TV, so I went into my DVD drawer looking for something easy to watch. I came out with Speed. It was as much fun as I remembered, and Sandra Bullock was adorable.

That night was one of the longest of my life. I laid awake for hours, often thrashing about, trying to find a comfortable position. Nothing felt right, and I didn't know why. My mind wasn't racing, like it sometimes did after a good day at work. I wasn't really upset about losing Cate. She was never mine to lose. I was happy that she had found some peace, and that she was going to get her life back on track. I missed the company a little, having someone to love and hold and take care of, but that wasn't enough to keep me awake and fill my belly with dread.

I looked up at the clock on the dresser, glowing 3:52 am, and I finally figured it out. The person I was missing wasn't Cate, but it was someone who looked a lot like her. I hadn't cried when Anne and I moved out of our college apartment, seven years before. There was too much to do, moving back home, starting a new summer job, and all the rest. Now that Cate was gone, it all came back, and this time I let it wash over me. I still remembered Anne the way she was on graduation night, as clearly as if it were yesterday, and I missed her. Her laugh, the way her hair smelled in the morning, the trickle of sweat between her breasts after working out, or after sex.

I did cry this time, for the three beautiful years we had together and for the seven we didn't. I ached all over by the time I finally fell asleep. I don't know what time that was.

~~~

"Dammit!" I muttered as I dumped out the second ruined sample. I had measured very carefully, but I had mixed up the numbers. This time, it was too much hydrochloric acid. David put his hand on my shoulder.

"That's it," he said firmly. "Out of the lab."

I stared at him blankly for a second, unable to focus my eyes, and then nodded. He headed back to our office and I followed.

"What's with you this morning?" he asked after we sat down.

"I didn't sleep much last night," I said.

"I can see that," he replied. The sternness in his expression melted a little. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Cate moved out yesterday," I said. I tried to elaborate, but I didn't have much else to say.

"I'm so sorry Allison," he said, his voice genuine. "Are you okay? Is there anything I can do?"

I just sat there and stared at him for a while. He sat patiently looking back at me, his blue-green eyes steady and reassuring. I should have felt vulnerable and exposed under his gaze. Instead, I felt safe.

"It's okay," I said. "Really. I just . . . Cate leaving stirred up some old memories, that's all. I'll be fine."

"Well, you're staying out of the lab for the rest of the day," he replied. "Safety first. You're still sleep-deprived, even if you've banished whatever ghosts were haunting you. Go home and take a nap."

"Nah," I replied. "If I sleep now, I won't sleep tonight."

I blinked a few times, trying to perk myself up. "I'll update the models with last week's data and do another run. I doubt anything will turn up, but we should know for sure."

"Whatever works," he said. "Just don't hurt yourself when your head hits the keyboard."

I stuck my tongue out at him and turned to my computer.

Classes and office hours kept David busy for most of the rest of the afternoon. I kept working, though not as efficiently as I would have liked. When the final student of the day finished asking him silly questions, David turned his chair toward me and put his feet up on a filing cabinet.

"So," he said, "is your friend Maggie taking you out tonight?"

"Why would she?" I asked, confused.

"Post-breakup consolation," he said. "After a breakup, you go out with a good friend, get a little drunk and complain about your ex." I looked at him strangely. This was not part of my experience.

"That's just what people do," he said in response to my look, and then smiled mischievously. "If it's a bad breakup, you get very drunk."

"Well," I replied, "Maggie has two kids and nobody else to help raise them, so she doesn't go out at night. We are having lunch tomorrow, though."

"Okay then," he said. "Do you have any other girlfriends ..." I cut him off with a look.

"Sorry, bad choice of words," he said in response to my glare. "Anyway, do you have any other platonic, non-romantic female friends who will take you out for a friendly drink tonight? It really does help."

I thought about it for a while and came up empty. I had friends, female and male, with whom I shared interests and parts of my life, but outside my family in Boston, there was nobody who would take care of me when I needed it. There hadn't been since Anne. I didn't lean on other people; other people leaned on me.

David noted my silence. "Right, then," he said. "I'm taking you out tonight. There's a nice, quiet little British pub not far away. Well, I hope it'll be quiet on a Monday night, if there's no soccer on the TV. I'll drive."

"I don't want to go to a bar and drink," I said. "Besides, Cate wasn't really my girlfriend, so we didn't really break up."

"You were living together?" he asked. "And sleeping together?"

I nodded to both.

"Then it's a breakup," he said. "We can do something else if you want. A movie, mini-golf, ..."

"What am I, twelve?" I asked teasingly.

He ignored the interruption and continued. "... a hike in the mountain preserve, a strip club, ..."

"A strip club?" I asked, mildly surprised.

"Well, I assume you like naked women ..." he replied.

"Fair point," I said. "I always thought those places were full of horny guys." I tried to keep the judgment out of my voice. I was honestly curious, and maybe even a little intrigued.

"Mostly," he agreed, trying to suppress a goofy grin, "but I've seen a few female customers too, when I've been. They looked like they were having fun."

I didn't respond, wondering exactly how familiar he was with strip clubs.

He shrugged. "Thirteen bachelor parties in the last eight years, between family and high school buddies," he explained in response to my curious look. "I wouldn't go on my own, but I won't deny enjoying it."

"And one more in September, for your own wedding?" I asked.

"Yeah, probably," he replied with that same goofy grin and a slight blush. "Eddie's planning everything. I don't really know what he has up his sleeve."

"Should be pretty wild, then," I said. "Eddie doesn't seem the type to do anything halfway."

"Melanie made him promise to keep it sane," he said, blushing further. "We'll see ..."

I didn't want to make David any more uncomfortable, so I shut up and considered my options while David's face returned to its normal color. "Lemme check on movie times," I said.

I only found one movie that held much interest for me, and the only show nearby was at eleven in the morning. No luck there. Any thoughts of a strip club vanished at the idea of seeing a naked, dark haired beauty who would remind me of Cate and Anne.

"How about mini-golf?" I suggested.

"So I guess you really are twelve," he replied, smiling. "Seriously, though, whatever you want. I can leave in about forty five minutes."

"Works for me," I said. "Thank you, David. I really appreciate this."

He smiled and turned back to his computer to finish up work for the day. I did the same.

~~~

I went to the ladies room to change into shorts and sandals before we left. I always wear jeans and closed shoes for protection in the lab, even in the heat of summer. When I got back, I saw that David had changed as well, into shorts and a blue polo shirt.

After gathering our stuff, we walked out to his car and drove off. Traffic was slow out of campus, but it moved well enough on the freeways. We got off the Superstition freeway about twenty five minutes later, not too bad for rush hour on a Monday night.

In the middle of the drive, I remembered my manners. "What about Melanie?" I asked. "Will spending the evening with me cause you any problems at home? I really don't want to ..."

David held up his hand to silence me while he changed lanes, and then he looked over at me and smiled. "Melanie," he said, "is in Wisconsin, visiting her parents. She left this morning."

For just a moment, I thought he looked like a teenager up to no good when his parents went away for the first time. An instant later, though, he was the same easygoing, dependable David. It was probably just my imagination.

"Oh," I said awkwardly. "Okay." I didn't really know what else to say.

I hadn't been mini-golfing in years, and I'd never been to this place before, so I just followed David. It was a big entertainment complex, more than just mini-golf, and I was glad he knew where he was going. He paid for everything and picked up our clubs and scorecard. We had our choice of brightly colored, beat-up golf balls on the way out of the entry office. David reached in and grabbed one, not caring about the color. He came out with orange. I spent some time looking at the various shades and picked purple as the least offensive.

There were three courses to choose from. Two had fairly generic fantasy themes, knights and damsels and the like, but the third had some actual personality. It was called The Lost Dutchman, named for the Arizona gold mine that legend claims is hidden somewhere in the Superstition Mountains. It also looked like the most difficult of the three courses, at least based on the description on the score card.