The Story With The Owl

Julie is riding shotgun. We’ve got the music up and the windows down, and she’s leaning into the slipstream, letting the wind have its way with her fluttering, flapping, pulsing corona of hair.

The sun is just peeking over the dusky hills. This early it’s a golden light, promising something soft and lovely, but it’s a lie. It’ll top a hundred again today, the sort of heat that bleaches the sky.

We’re headed to the river for a float. It’s a Wednesday, but we’ve both called in sick. The notion came to us in bed last night. Our apartment was still sweltering after midnight.

We could use a cool down, don’t you think? Julie had whispered in the dark, knitting my fingers with hers. Let’s get out of here.

I did, and so we are.

* * *

I like to think I made the first move, but I know that’s not quite right.

We met at a party last spring. I felt her eyes on me and found Julie leaning against the wall, suddenly there, suddenly impossible to miss. Tall and long-limbed, with brown hair loosely gathered, she wore a thin, gauzy dress, a creamy yellow that burned like a candle in the dim light. She met my look with a tilt of her head and a hungry smile, the sort of smile that puts things in motion.

She dangled her beer by its long, thin neck and held my gaze as I crossed the room. My mind buzzed with static. I had no plan, no idea what I’d say.

It didn’t matter. She pushed away from the wall to meet me halfway. Julie’s smile soon became a laugh, then became a kiss. We were on our way.

* * *

Alfalfa fields race by on either side. Bursts of irrigated water arc over the alien green, raising rainbows from the ground. In a few hours, maybe a few days, water we floated on will be cast out here, sucked from the only thing keeping this corner of the desert alive.

The sun continues its climb. The car is beginning to heat up. We’re still a ways from the river.

I glance over at Julie. She’s pulling her hair up in that absentminded way of hers, spiraling her hand to tighten the rubber band that secures her ponytail. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her t-shirt lift as she brings her arms up and catch a peek of her tattoo. Just a glimpse is enough to thrill.

Are you hungry? I raise my voice over the wind. I think there’s a place up ahead. Maybe 20 minutes or so.

Ooh, yes. Some breakfast would be great, Julie says, nodding. She puts her hand on my leg.

* * *

Later, after the party, after the kiss, as we laid together in that lazy, languid way, I traced my finger over Julie as she drifted toward sleep. I needed to commit every rise and round of her body to memory. I’d never felt skin so soft.

I woke to her dark searching eyes. She had turned to face me as I’d slept and now her head rested on the pillow just inches from mine. This close, I could see flecks of caramel and chestnut lit up by the mid-morning sun. Hey, she said softly. Hi there.

Hi yourself, I said, and kissed her. Is that what you were looking for?

She laughed and scissored her leg over mine, pinning me down and pulling me closer. Maybe, she said, acting serious. Or maybe not.

I shifted my weight, trying to wriggle from her grip. She was stronger than she looked, and she knew it. Now what, Julie said, tapping my nose.

Tell me about your tattoo, I said, giving up. My hands began to roam. What’s the story with the owl?

Oh no, Julie growled. She climbed up and on, smothering me with her body. I don’t give out my secrets so easily.

* * *

The road dips and the landscape changes. The rolling hills and lush fields are behind us. The desert asserts itself, stretching away in an endless open of rabbitbrush and sage. Rocky outcrops stud the land, heaved layers of basalt and breccia streaked orange with lichen.

Look, Julie says. She points to a shape on the horizon, perhaps a mile away. What’s that?

I squint. Probably an old homestead, I say. There are a few of them still scattered out here.

She touches my arm. Let’s stop. I want to see.

I thought you wanted breakfast, I say.

I do, Julie says. But I want this, too.

I lift my foot from the gas and let the car slow on its own, searching for a pull out. The shape has come into focus, and we can see it’s a cluster of buildings gathered around a leafless tree.

There, Julie says. How about there?

I pull the car from the hiss of asphalt onto the crunch of gravel. There’s an opening in the wire fence that hems the road. A dusty two-track threads through the sage to the buildings.

As the engine idles, we stare at what’s left of the homestead. A boxy, one-story shack. A three-sided shed for storing hay or wood. And the largest, a barn, it’s roof mostly gone, listing to one side.

Come on, Julie says. What are we waiting for?

Without the wind from the road, the heat is coming on fierce. My shirt clings to my back. I don’t know, I say. This doesn’t seem like the best idea.

It’ll be fine, she says. She looks at me with those eyes. Let’s just poke around a little.

I put the car into gear and we lurch our way over the potholes and park under the dried-up oak. Without the engine, it’s dead quiet.

Now what? I ask.

Julie smiles and, in one motion, lifts her shirt up and over her head and tosses it into the backseat. Against her deep tan, her white bikini top glows. She leans toward me with a kiss. Now, she says, we explore.

She moves to leave the car, flashing her ink. The owl twists as she turns, as if it were rising from her side, unfurling its wings in the moment just before flight. I know enough to follow.

We find the shack gone gray with weather and open to the desert. There’s no sign of the front door. All the windows have been smashed. We pause at the threshold, letting our eyes adjust to the dingy light.

Inside, it’s just an open space littered with trash, mostly beer cans, shards of bottles, and crumpled fast food wrappers. The air is thick with the smell of urine. We spy an overturned table, a pile of blankets, and a rusted oil drum standing in the corner. Crude taunts graffiti the walls.

Not much to see, I say.

Julie takes my hand. No, she says, not anymore. There’s loss in her voice. But who lived here, do you think?

Originally? Probably a cattle farmer, I say. Maybe 80 years ago or more. This is all open range. It had to be a tough life.

Julie sighs. Let’s check the barn, she says, giving my hand a squeeze.

From the outside, it looks to be in worse shape. It’s leaning hard to the right and much of its roof has caved in. Some of its siding is missing, the old boards either scavenged or peeled off by the wind. The barn isn’t a barn, not anymore. It’s a checkerboard of light and dark, caught between being and not.

I think we should stay out here, I say. It’s not safe.

Julie steps toward the wide opening. No, she says. I need to see it.

The sun is a hammer. I feel the urgent pull of the car, the road, the cool river waiting.

No, really, I say. We should get going, don’t you think?

Julie steps inside. Although I’m just a few paces behind, the distance between us seems suddenly vast.

She takes another step into the shadows and then stands motionless, taking it in.

Hey, I call out. I think that’s far enough.

If she hears me, she doesn’t let on. The wind begins to stir. I wait, watching, shielding my eyes.

Julie takes another step and then another, picking her way through the minefield of splintered wood and rusty nails toward the center of the barn.

I shuffle my feet, kicking up dust. Something sour turns in my stomach.

Another step forward. Another minute of watching and waiting. She can’t go much farther. A mound of collapsed timber and shingles blocks her way. She’s standing at the edge of a bright spot, half in shadow, half in sunlight. I need to leave, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

Jules. Please. Let’s go get something to eat. My voice comes out thin, the squeak of something small and weak.

A moment passes. I hold my breath. I don’t know what else to do.

All at once Julie leans back and looks up, spreading her arms wide. Oh babe, she calls over her shoulder, come here. You really should see this. Oh, it’s wonderful.

* * *

I’ve got the windows up and air conditioning on high when Julie opens the door and slides into the front seat. Her face is flushed and her body gives off a fierce heat.

Here, I say, handing her my water bottle.

She takes it and drinks deeply, keeping her eyes closed. Thanks, she says, handing it back.

The A/C roars, bathing us in cold air. We stare at the barn through the windshield.

Hey, I’m sorry, I say. I was worried, that’s all.

She waves me off. It’s ok, Julie says. I get it. I only wanted to share it with you.

I put my hands on the wheel. Well, tell me then. What did it look like?

Instead of answering, she reaches into the back seat. I wait as she purses her lips, blindly searching.

No, she says turning back, t-shirt in hand. She gives me a sad look. I wish I could. She snaps the shirt open and tugs it over her head, pulling it down and over her body. The owl disappears. Some things you just have to see for yourself.