Running to Calico

by Nicole M. Bailey

Yuky Y

Our alarm clock was always set to the beeping noise, but the night before my finger slipped while setting it. Instead we woke to a radio DJ’s voice hollow in its shock. The voice was saying something about the World Trade Center and a plane. It was a dream. I bit the inside of my cheek, testing the level of reality. My cheek bled. That’s when Bill sat up ramrod straight and said, “We need to get to the TV.”

I brushed the hair from my eyes and a forceful sneeze burst from my nostrils. I was hungover, not uncommon. Hungover was my general state in the morning, but this hangover on this morning was particularly insidious. I tripped down the hallway toward the living room where Bill was perched on the armrest of the sofa.

“A plane crash? In New York?” He waved his hand to shut me up.

In the moment between when he waved his hand and resentment filled me, the second plane hit.

“Holy fuckin’ shit!” Bill jumped off the armrest and paced the living room. It was clear now that this was not an accident. He was waving his arms and bending down at the waist over and over, like a bizarre exercise routine. He went into the kitchen and pulled the phone jack from the wall.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t want the station calling me.”

“Do you think something else will happen? Do you think there’s another attack waiting to happen?” His eyes welled. He said, “You should pack.”

I was so confused. I was bleary-eyed. I needed some coffee. I wanted to call my mother. I didn’t understand any of it. I touched the inside of my cheek. My finger came back bloody. My cheek was swollen. The whole thing was way too fucking real.

Bill wanted to get out of town. He was convinced that L.A. Harbor was the next spot on any terrorist’s list, and if something did happen in L.A. Harbor, he would be forced to respond. He was a police officer in Long Beach. Bill had seen some awful things on duty over the last couple of months, and I knew it was starting to weigh on him. He was getting quieter and meaner. Still, if I had imagined this morning, in my wildest dreams, it would not have included Bill hiding from his job.

He was already in the bedroom grabbing his guns and hiking boots from the back of the closet. He had two duffel bags out on the bed and he was stuffing them full of clothing for the both of us. I found that particularly disturbing because I’d never seen Bill pack his own bag, let alone mine. I asked him to calm down. I said we should see what unfolds. There was no way of knowing what else was in store. And where would we go? Was anywhere really safe?

“We’re going to Calico.” Calico — out in the Mojave Desert. He’d lost his mind.

I felt everything unravel. I didn’t have many good things to hold onto with Bill. I’d considered leaving him, but I didn’t because it sounded hard. I had a good job. I would have been fine on my own, but it was the idea of starting all over again that got to me. The one thing I had left with Bill was that he made me feel safe. Even when he was tearing me down.

He was acting crazy, but the insanity on television made him seem reasonable. What did it mean when his gut reaction was to run? That question was a tugging child on the hem of a mother’s skirt.

“Shouldn’t we tell someone where we’re going?”

“No. No one can know. Once everything dies down, and we know it’s safe, we’ll come back and say we were on a spur-of-the-moment vacation.”

“Your mother’s going to call. My mother’s going to call.”

“We’ll use a pay phone on the road.”

“But…”

“Don’t you see what’s happening here? Everyone is going to die. Those police officers and firefighters are going to die in those buildings. They’re going to die!” He was shrieking and pulling at his hair like a mad scientist in a campy 1950s film.

“Okay, okay,” I said.

“You finish packing. I’m grabbing the tent, the wind-up radio, some water and whatever we’ve got food-wise. We’re going to be out there a couple days at least.” He rushed out of the room.

I sat on the bed and tried to cry. Nothing was happening. I had a lump in my throat. I felt close to despair, but I could not cry. I went into the kitchen, poured myself a whiskey, and packed the rest of our shit, stuffing the bottle in the side pocket of my bag.

It would take us roughly two hours to get to Calico. Once we were in the truck and out of town, I could tell Bill was calming down. He carried tension so heavily everyone around him could feel it. Once I saw him relaxing, I relaxed a little too. I went to turn on the radio, but he brushed my hand away. I was pissed. I tried to let it go because I knew he was frightened, but the other voice started inside my head. She was getting louder and louder. She was saying, “Why are you always giving him passes? Why do you always have an excuse for him?” I was saying back that I didn’t have time for her women’s lib at the moment. I was too tired to stand up for myself today.

At one point, I had to pee. We stopped at a Flying J, and I went in on my own. Every TV in the place was tuned to CNN or Fox and every soul was facing the screen in a way that reminded me of the Twilight Zone. The people did not move. No one looked my way when I came inside. I was surprised there weren’t more cars on the road. With the news and Bill’s reaction, I’d imagined bumper-to-bumper traffic. That wasn’t the case. I felt like no one was running as hard or fast as we were.

Before long, we were pulling off the freeway and driving into the Calico mountains. I knew just where we were going because we’d camped in these canyons before. This place could be absolutely gorgeous. What looked dead and drab during the day came alive at sunset. All of the nuanced pinks, browns and purples embedded in the rocks bled through as if smeared together on canvas.

I was not a camper before Bill. My family did not camp. My parents were wealthy and believed vacations were not for children. “Kids are always on vacation,” my mother said. I was sent to my grandmother’s while Mom and Dad went on cruises or fancy trips to Europe. I kind of fell in love with Bill when he took me camping. He was trusting me with an adventure the way no one ever had before. Back then he laughed at how girly I behaved. I could not set up a tent or light a fire or pee outside. It was endearing to him. I wished I was still that kind of girl and not the kind of girl who packed a handle of Jack Daniel’s in the side pocket of her duffle. I may have once been green, but I don’t remember being the buzz-brained pushover I’d become. Driving into these canyons made me feel like I could start over and go back to who I used to be, go back before I married a police officer whose meanness I tolerated, back before there was so much hate in the world that people flew planes into towers, back before I watched my husband run away from the job he swore to do.

Times had changed. I guess Bill decided he wanted to hear the radio because he sat on the tailgate of the truck listening while I put up the tent. The towers had collapsed. Another plane had crashed in a field in Pennsylvania. Another flew into the Pentagon. We were isolated from this news all day so to hear it rolling in all at once made me feel like a ghost. The whole world was shaken, and I’d spent the day in a truck with my husband unaware of how it continued. I didn’t know what would have been worse. Would it have been worse to sit on my couch all day drinking and watching the news as each new nightmare unfolded, or was it worse that we’d run away from the collective horror of the world and we were receiving it all in one neat blow, like taking a dog out back and ending its misery? I felt so dirty. Bill was a coward.

He kept saying, “Nothing’s happened in L.A., yet.” Every time he said it, I wanted to tell him nothing was going to happen in L.A., but how was I supposed to know? Anything was possible in this goddamn shit storm. By the time I had the tent set up, it was four o’clock, and I needed a drink, a smoke, and a walk. Bill was lying inside the tent listening to the radio and winding it up every so often.

I said, “I’m going for a walk.”

“You probably shouldn’t go alone.”

“Well, I’d like to, and I’m going to.” He didn’t say anything back. I guess he was probably too ashamed and exhausted to boss me around for once.

He called after me, “At least watch out for mines.”

Calico was known for its silver mines scattered throughout the canyons. The mines were treacherous and dated as far back as the 1880s. Bill and I hiked out here enough that I was well aware of the mines. A common story was that of a dirt biker who had unknowingly rode right up to a mine and fell through the shaft. They never found his body. We’d once stood on the edges and threw rocks and bottles down the shafts waiting to hear them hit bottom. I took a flask and my cigarettes on the walk. I kept thinking about the day that had unfolded behind us. I guess the word to describe it was surreal but that felt cliché. I lit a cigarette and my half-empty lighter clicked to the rhythm of my thoughts, “It’s a nightmare. It’s a nightmare. It’s a nightmare.” I repeated the phrase so many times in my mind that I started to wonder which part was the nightmare. My marriage? The terrorist attacks? The bizarre pilgrimage to the desert? It was all blurring together. As one hangover faded away, I felt the next one coming.

I came to a mine. A rickety fence wrapped around the shaft opening and a faded “DANGER!” sign described the place. I shouldn’t have walked right up to it, but I did anyway. I took a big swig and spit it right over the fence and into the hole. I wondered about this hole. What was on the other side?

On the other side, was my husband something sensitive like a painter? Was he tender? Did he notice I was drunk all the time? On the other side of the hole, was I drunk all the time? Did hijacked planes operate as massive bombs? I could have gone right over that fence. I didn’t know what was stopping me. I would just fall and fall and fall. I would never hit bottom because there wasn’t a bottom at all. I had thoughts like this before, waiting in the left lane, yielding to traffic. Often, I’d thought about turning into the oncoming cars. I’d never done it because I didn’t want to hurt anyone else.

I stepped away from the fence and continued hiking. If I stayed on this path, I would end up coming through the back end of Calico Ghost Town. On a regular day, it would be closing at this hour. Considering the events, I was sure it had been closed all day. I still headed in its direction because I thought it would be nice to see a still of American life. I wanted to see something nostalgic and romanticized. I was thinking about how I’d never walked this far alone in these mountains, a silly thought at thirty-three years old. The sun was sinking low. Normally, I would have been unsettled by the prospect of walking back to camp in the darkness with no flashlight but so much had happened in the last nine hours that rattled me more than dark wilderness could.

I came to the ridge just above the ghost town and campground. I could see all the way to where tourists entered the park. The campground this time of year was usually halfway full at the very least. This evening only three tents and two RVs remained. We ran away while some people ran home. I saw a lone crackling fire and heard a deep voice carrying its way up the ridge.

Calico Ghost Town’s American flag was at half-mast. No one was in sight. Technically, it was against the rules to enter from the ridge after the park was closed. I climbed down anyway. I passed the school house, the geode shop and the area where children could pan for gold. I stopped at the front porch of the saloon and sat down on a deserted bench. My flask was nearly dry. It was so peaceful to sit and observe the emptiness. It was the only time in my life I’d ever get the chance to be so alone in a tourist trap like this one.

I heard him before I saw him. I knew I was busted, and I tried to surmise how tipsy I was before I looked down the road at the man coming my way. I talked to myself quietly to measure the slur. He was probably a park ranger who lived here and dressed in western garb to complete the “experience.” I’d seen these guys before. He walked with his head down and his cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. I got ready to stand, but he motioned for me to stay seated.

“I can go,” I said. “I know the park’s closed. I know I shouldn’t be here.”

He sat down next to me and crossed his right ankle over his left knee.

“It’s nice when it’s this quiet. Not nice the reason it’s this quiet.”

“No,” I said. He took off his hat and stroked the brim with his thumb and forefinger. He had a nice head of sandy blonde hair that was matted with dirt and sweat. His shirt and jeans were dusty.

“Where did you come from?”

“Whittier,” I said.

“Never heard of it.”

He wasn’t in a hurry to get rid of me. He patted my knee and pointed to my flask.

“It’s nearly dry,” I said.

“It only takes a drop.” I chuckled at that.

“I remember when things were different than they are now,” he said. “Lots of people working to survive here. We had a certain amount of fear, naturally, but there was a simplicity to life that just doesn’t exist any longer.”

“Oh, lots of people still visit Calico,” I said. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about.

“That’s not what I mean. I mean before people visited. When people lived here is what I am talking about. When we all came to mine silver.”

He was telling me a tall tale. He had a nice act going, and he looked the part. I was buzzed enough to almost believe him, but it was a little too neat. Here I was hiking across desert canyons to essentially break into a tourist trap because I craved romanticism, and here he was telling me he was a ghost hanging around his old haunt. I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t. Why were all my emotions just inches away from being real?

“Do you feel things?” I asked because it was the only question I was carrying at the moment. “Because it feels like I don’t truly feel anything. It’s as though experiences happen around me or maybe over me? Even today — with the news — I couldn’t cry. Sometimes I wonder if I’m real.”

He nodded. “I suppose we all feel like that from time to time.” He reached into the cargo pocket against my thigh and retrieved my cigarettes and lighter. I wondered how he knew I was carrying them. This move was so intimate it sent a clear vibration down my spine.

He lit a cigarette and used the cherry as if it were a laser pointer. He drew our attention to the ridge we were facing. The light was perfect for the secret colors of the canyons to appear. A velvet purple that reminded me of a blanket I’d snuggled as a child ran deep into the ridges.

“That’s real,” he said. We sat in the quiet while he smoked. When he was finished, he put the thing out with his boot. “It will be dark soon. You probably shouldn’t walk back to your camp in the dark.”

“You could walk with me,” I said. I was attracted to him now. I had a fleeting vision of rolling with him in the dirt, his fingers running through my hair, a deep groan washing over us both.

I wanted to keep him next to me. “Put your hand in my pocket,” I wanted to say.

He shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but this all feels a little too Field-of-Dreams-y for me. You just appear from the past to dump vague wisdom on me during an attack on our country, the same day I lose all respect for my husband and myself?”

“You’ll have to walk alone. Like the rest of us. Go on.” He shooed me off the bench, tapping his hat on my knee.

I stood and stepped off the porch. I kicked the dirt like a child.

“Well, okay then,” I said.

He smirked.

I started to hike back up the hill past the geode shop, past the schoolhouse. I scrambled up the ridge and turned back. I figured he wouldn’t be there. I knew the way wise visitors from the past worked. He was still there, shooing me on.

It was that time of evening in the desert when it’s not quite light and not quite dark. Everything in front of me was bathed in soft half-light. The noises the evening brought were so crisp it was like hearing them through a surround sound system — light breeze through dried-out brush, boots crunching, pant legs swishing against each other, lighter scratching the flask in my pocket.

When I got back to camp, Bill had started a fire. He had some hot dogs going and a can of beans. I sat in the camp chair next to him, silent.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How you wake up and it’s all so fucking different? And you’re so fucking afraid? I’ve never been so afraid.” He was crying. I didn’t look at him. I heard it in his voice, and instead of sympathy felt nausea. I shrugged my shoulders. At some point, he asked me if I was listening, and I said no. He kept talking anyway. The fire burned out, and he went into the tent and fell asleep. I had to laugh at his nerve. He was so clingy all the sudden. He wanted to be told it was okay he’d decided to be a coward. I didn’t have it in me. I needed someone to listen. I needed to be at home, watching the television, participating in reality, not running from it. These days, I was always evading the black, bottomless hole waiting for me.

I settled on leaving Bill. I would leave, and I would crawl back into reality. I sat all night in my camp chair thinking about this new life. I’d made these plans before, and just like Bill I fled every promise I ever made to myself. Promises that involved my marriage, or my drinking, or my smoking, or the little lies I held close to keep sane.

I watched the sun rise hazy over the canyon ridge and rejoiced in the way light exposed every crack and crevice nature had to offer. I resolved to change, and this time, I knew I would.

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Nicole M. Bailey’s work has previously appeared in Santanero Zine, Turk’s Head Review, NAILED Magazine, Hoosier Lit by The Geeky Press, and onstage at STAGEStheatre in Fullerton, Calif.