The Wind

The sheriffs’ tires rolled silently along the driveway. The soft compacted silt of the playa cushioned the tires as they rolled. He had never come to the old lady’s house. He had seen her plenty over the years. Driving her beat-up pick-up truck. The windshield broken out; the yellow paint faded with the desert sun. There was debris in the yard. Rusted metal. An old fridge laying on its side. Her pickup was parked next to the house. The screen door banged open. The sound made the sheriff flinch as he put his vehicle into park. He knew the old lady was private. He didn’t really want to bother her, but she hadn’t showed up in town for a really long time and the towns folk were starting to talk. It wasn’t like her to not show up for this long.

 He couldn’t remember at this point when she had first arrived in town, but the yellow truck had had a windshield. Her hair had been dark then, not wild with white like it was now. Her eyes had always been the same grey. With echoes of blue. As if there had been blue in them once before but a storm had come and never left them. He had never seen her smile. She was perfunctory at best in her dealings with the town folk.

He had been a young man when she came into town. He remembered all of the town talking about a single woman who had bought land way out in the desert. Farther out than anyone was willing to live, anyone that was sane or normal that is. People tried to get to know her, but quickly found out she was having none of it. She was not friendly. It didn’t matter to her how attractive the men in town found her. She shut everyone of them down the same way. Her flat grey eyes stared them down while she pulled the hammer on the hammer on the .357, she wore at her hip. It only took one or two men asking her out in town before no one did anymore. Only out of town men bothered if they saw her. Then the local boys had the pleasure of laughing at them.

The Sheriff had never been dumb enough to try hitting on her, besides, he was twenty three years younger than her. He had run into her in the desert once when he was sixteen. He had gotten his truck stuck in the playa. He had decided to for a stupid joy ride like teenagers do. Loud music a bottle of whisky and driving too fast in the dark. He had hit a soft patch in the dry lakebed and the truck had begun to spin out.

The tires had begun to dig deeper into the soft playa. He had done everything he had known to do. Rocked the truck back and forth carefully. Inched slowly. Placed boards under tires. Dug out. All to no avail. He sat down in moonlight not knowing how close to dawn it was, truck buried to its axles. He wasn’t sure how far he was from town. Sullenly he went to get the whisky from the cab of his truck. His feet were cold as he sat back down on the ground, his head making a muffled thump as he looked up at the stars. His thumb ran over the ridged edge of the whiskey cap before he unscrewed it and took a long drink. There was absolutely nothing to be done about being stuck right now.

It was the wind that woke him up. The feeling of the dirt beginning to hit him in the face. He could feel it burning his eyes and his lungs. He pulled his t-shirt over his head I an effort to filter the fine dust hoping to be able to breath. He reached his hand out into the whiteness. Feeling for his truck. The first direction he moved he was met with air. Keeping his head tucked as best as he could he rolled the other way and hit solid metal. He hadn’t realized his heart was beating hard until that moment. His fingers slid along the metal of the truck gliding with the fine playa dust. He finally found the door handle. Pulling himself up he cracked the door. Fighting with the wind he managed to push himself into the cab of the truck and pull the door closed. The howl of the dust storm became muffled. The windshield swirled in a taupe cascade of dust. Inside of the truck cab the air was thick and still. Shit. Shit. Shit. It was really bad when a windstorm started on the Playa. You never know when it would end. You couldn’t see. Nobody could see you. It could be days. It could be hours. He was fucked. All he could do was sit here. He had no water. He had no food. He started to cry.

He wasn’t sure how long she had been standing outside his truck window, aviator goggles, respirator, full length trench coat, and her .357 just staring at him. She was the same color as the playa from head to foot.

He opened the door. “You wanna come in out of the wind?”

“You wanna go home” She answered instead.

“I’m stuck. I can’t.” She turned and walked into the dust storm. He shut his door confused. Soon He saw the faint outline of a yellow pickup in front of his truck. Then she got out. Crawled under his truck attached it to his frame then attached it to her truck by something he couldn’t make out. She knocked on his door. “Put it in neutral” Then walked away again. He did as he was told. She stood in the dust storm with what looked like a giant ratchet. Slowly his truck began to move forward. The wind continued. Sometimes he could see her. Sometimes he couldn’t. He slowly felt the tire begin to roll freely on the hard packed playa. He could see her remove the large ratchet object and replace the cable with a tow strap connecting his truck to her truck.

She walked to his window. He cracked open his door. The wind swirled dust into the cab. “I am going to pull you to the road. When we get there stay parked till the storm passes.”

She shut the door and walked away. He had watched her disappear into the dust.

He felt the first tug on the truck. It was slow and steady. He grabbed the wheel keeping it steady. He threw the truck into neutral making sure the wheels could turn freely. Slowly the truck moved forward in the soft sand. Slowly he felt the tires begin to roll on hard playa. The yellow pickup in front of him came into view periodically between gust of wind. Thick dust swirled against the windshield. The cab of the truck was thick with floating dust particles. Occasionally the truck would rock with a gust of wind. The tires rolled. The wind blew. Time stretched. He knew he was connected to her truck still because he could occasionally feel the tug from the truck pulling, but he felt more alone now than ever. The wind howled.

A sharp bump, and a smooth vibration in the steering wheel told him they had left the desert. They were on asphalt. He hit his brakes quickly as her taillights suddenly became visible. Her figure became visible a moment later. She unhooked his truck from hers. Then she walked to his window. He cranked it down watching the dust build at the rubber at the base of the glass.

“I would stay here till the wind calms, or you can risk driving in the storm. Your choice.”  She turned then and left. He sat there. In his truck. Watching the wind blow swirls of dirt across black asphalt. He didn’t know how long it took for the storm to pass and the sky to clear, but when he did the truck turned over easily, rumbled to life, and the dust danced across the hood of his truck as he drove home.

The memory made him smile as he sat in a different truck so many years later staring at that same yellow pick-up truck now faded, parked. She hadn’t stopped driving the pick-up after the windshield had come out. She had just begun to wear aviator goggles while driving. Her beauty had strangely become concentrated in her eyes as she got older. The desert etching its way into her skin. Much like the dry playa, her smooth skin was fractured by deep cracks, contrasted by blue grey storm cloud desert eyes. Her dark hair had gone white and grey barely in check like Cirrus clouds. She still carried the 357. She still refused to speak. Nobody knew anything about her.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He was worried. He wasn’t exactly sure what to say to her… He turned off his truck. Sighing he opened the door and stepped out of his truck. The desert air was still. There were no birds. He called out. There was no answer. Just the banging of the screen door. Apparently, she had no dog. Taking a deep breath he walked to the trailer. He held the banging screen door open and tried the handle of the front door. It turned easily.

He stepped into a dark hallway. The silence inside was oppressive. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the interior. The windows had been covered. Pictures lined the hallway. An eclectic collection of picture frames lined the walls. Brillant beaches, with glittering water and sand had been caught in mahogany edges. He saw her then in a photograph. A younger self. A young woman who still remembered how to smile. Her arms wrapped around a young man and a young woman. All of them looking directly into the camera. Their bodies close. Their heads thrown back. Smiles infectious. The next picture they were together again. This time on the beach. The next picture was her in a bathing suit wave crashing around her. Laughing. The hallway was one image after another. A close up of the man. His dark hair falling in his eyes while he read. The young woman twirling on the beach. If the frames did not hold memories of these three. They held images of the ocean. Gulls wheeling over blue water. Light playing off waves.

Unease built in his chest as he moved further into the house. The house was tidy. A fine layer of dust lay across the furniture, as if nothing had moved in here in a while. If he didn’t know where he was, he would think he was closer to the ocean in this trailer. Everywhere he turned he saw images of water. In the living room there was a door and, a large, framed photo of the three on a peer, wind whipping their hair. He stepped closer. There was something different about this picture. Her eyes were different in this picture. More akin to her eyes when he met her. Her arms were around them both. But she stared directly into the camera. Her chin dipped just slightly. There was no smile there.

He turned from that picture. Going to the door. He opened it. It was dark, but he could tell it was a bedroom. It was quieter in here. Stepping in his breath caught. He moved to her side. Her frail body hung. Dark clothing hanging loosely from her. Her wild hair draped over her face obscuring it. A chair tipped over at her feet. A cream color sheet of paper was pinned to her dark colored shirt with a silver pin. With shaky hands he pulled it free. Written with a beautifully detailed hand the only thing written on the paper was The Wind.