Chapter 17

Vernon walked heavily from the window and sat down in the same chair he'd used before. He pulled the tape player closer to him, thought for a moment, then pushed Record with a decisive finger.

"Alison," he said, "this is your father. I know you don't want anything to do with me, and after this tape I won't have anything to do with you unless you want me to. It's up to you after this.

"All I want is to apologize to you. What I did was wrong – it was sinful, Alison. I don't know what you're doing, what you believe, where you are, any of that, but I'm a Christian now, and I know that I did wrong. I could make excuses, but I won't. There isn't any excuse for what I did.

"I won't ask you to forgive me. I don't have that right. I hurt you in so many ways. I know what you did after you ran away, and that's all my fault. It's all my fault..." He wiped at his eyes. "I won't ask you to forgive me. I'll just say I'm sorry ... and I hope things are better for you now." He pushed Stop, and leaned back in his chair.

I pulled the machine toward me, rewound the tape, and hit Play. It had recorded well, as well as Al's message had. I stopped and rewound the tape, and ejected it. As I stuck the cassette in my shirt pocket I said, "I'll make sure she gets this. Whether she listens to it is her affair."

"I understand. I'll be at the motel for another week, if she ... no, she won't want to contact me. But I'll be there, if you need me." He stood. "I won't offer to shake your hand again. I understand now why you refused earlier. I don't blame you. I wouldn't want to shake my hand either." He looked at me for a few seconds, and I don't know when I've felt like I was getting such a searching examination. "You're a good man, Mr. Carpenter. Protect my daughter." And he turned and went.

It was about five minutes before I stirred. "Well, there's a story for the grandkids," I said, not knowing exactly what I meant by it. I got up and got a Coke from the fridge, and stood in my turn at the window. It was late morning now, and the autumn light on the mountains was clear and beautiful. I've written a ton of poems about those mountains, seeing them in all sorts of light and weather conditions. I call the Sandias by my own private name, Weathermaker, because so often the wind from the north hits that massive hump of stone, and rising water vapor condenses into clouds that move south along the ridge, and dissipate where the Sandias sink down into Tijeras Canyon. Today there were no clouds, just a jet contrail high over the Crest.

Suddenly I hated the city, the greenery along the streets that was as unnatural as a whore's painted face, the asphalt and concrete and steel that had turned an arid plain into a gigantic sinkhole into which water and electricity poured without ceasing. I hated the office building in which I stood, the Blazer I owned down in the parking lot, the gun in my drawer, all the manmade things that aren't as God made the world. I hated humanity – the seething, raping, murdering, whoring, addicted, thieving, mass of humanity that reproduced and reproduced and never showed the slightest concern for right and wrong, much less for God.

God ... Yes, I was a Christian. I turned and looked at the Bible on my desk. I didn't merely believe in God, I didn't just believe in Jesus – I believed them. What they said, I took as truth. I hated injustice partly because God does. I wanted to do right for those who had no other recourse in part because that was God's call to His people. And here I was carrying messages for a baby raper.

But somehow that thought didn't work for me. It was true that Vernon Hitt had raped his daughter. He'd admitted it, hadn't even tried to deny it. And it was right that I hate that sin. But something about my reaction to him was bothering me. No wonder I hated the world just then – I wasn't sure at the moment that I liked myself much, and I didn't know why.

"Some elder you are," I said into the silence of the office, and my voice sounded strange – like some evil, hateful man who'd snuck into my body during the night. Yes, some elder I was. I was supposed to help God's people and I couldn't even figure myself out. Maybe I ought to resign the position ... though I could hear Cecelia if I did. She would tell me, in words of about 37 syllables, exactly what she thought of someone who'd accept a post and then resign it the next day.

"And the worst of it is that she'd be right," I said, still not recognizing my own voice.

I took a long drink of Coke. The bubbles burned my throat, and I had to take a long gasping breath when I lowered the bottle. It was down to half full now, and I thought of all the bottles of Coke I'd drank over the years. I love the stuff, but just then I could hardly swear to it. I'd taken a long gulp, and hadn't tasted a thing.

I thought of a foul word, didn't say it, tossed the half full bottle in the trash, and grabbed my gun and hat. "If I gotta feel this way, at least let it be outside," I said as I slammed the door behind me.

I don't know where exactly I went. I know I wound up parking the Blazer at the Wal-Mart on San Mateo, and I think I took off walking in the direction of Zuni, heading more or less east and a little south. But exactly where I walked I couldn't say if my life depended on it. I was so wrapped up in the tangled mess in my head that while I know I observed what was around me, and would have come to full alertness if there'd been a threat, there being no threats I didn't pay much mind to anything. Experience had taught me that no matter how deeply I went inside my skull I'd notice something that might hurt me, but when I'm that deep, I'm not sure I'd notice Cecelia if she were dancing unclothed in front of me ... not that she'd ever do such a thing in public, and probably not in private either. It's not her style.

When I came to and actually noticed where I was, the sun was heading for the western horizon and I was standing outside Scalo, a fancy Italian restaurant in the Nob Hill shopping center at Carlisle and Central. I'd made a big circle, apparently, or part of a circle anyway. I didn't have far to walk to get to the Blazer, and I set off east along Central. It's amazing how things snuggle up to each other in Albuquerque. Here in Nob Hill it was all trendy stuff, goths and unreconstructed hippies and some university students, all the people who show their refusal to conform to the Establishment – or whatever they call it these days – by rigidly conforming to the standards of whatever group they're part of. You don't get more conformist than a militant non-conformist. Those people would think I was hopelessly square – or whatever today's term is – but the fact is that I'm not part of any group in the way I dress or talk, or what I read, or the music I listen to, and they are.