What Brings You Here

FICTION

by Lisa Beech Hartz

          Down on Main Street the shops are filled with postcards and T-shirts and coffee mugs. Galleries draped in batik shawls and hand-woven sweaters and ponchos. Clay bowls and blown glass. In every shop, Lorraine introduces herself and Lucy. We’re new, she says. The shopkeepers smile patiently but don’t ask any questions. Not: Where are you from? Not: What brings you here? In the post office, Lorraine signs up for a box. They don’t deliver mail to the houses here. Isn’t that charming? Lorraine says. Their box is number 1201. Lorraine turns the key in the lock, opens the box. Big surprise: Empty. 
         I love this place, Lorraine says. 
         Every time they step outside the sun blinds Lucy for a second. They’re waiting to cross the street when they see an old station wagon completely covered in dolls. Hundreds of them glued or wired or somehow stuck there like for a parade. Baby dolls and Barbies. A troll doll with pink cotton candy hair stuck on the antenna. The man behind the wheel has long dark hair. He drives slowly by, not smiling. Not waving. 
         They take OK Street up to get a good look at the red mountain with its big white B and turn to face south toward Mexico. Just more scrub and nothingness. The sun so hot it stings. The sky a burning blue. The houses sit atop steep narrow stairs with retaining walls holding in little gardens of cactus and flowers, yellow and purple and blazing orange. Lorraine keeps saying: Can you believe it? Can you believe it? It’s so steep there are places it feels like they’re going to fall and never stop falling.

Putting Things In and Taking Them Out

FICTION

by Lisa Beech Hartz

          So what do you think of our little hamlet? Dave asks Lucy. I don’t know yet, Lucy says. Good answer, Dave says. He’s rolling a cigarette. Filling the paper with pinches of tobacco. She’s going to love it, Lorraine says. I can just feel it. Maybe not, Lucy says. Maybe I’m going to hate it. You’re tired, Lorraine says. Maybe you should go on to bed.
         Dave owns a store on Main. Antiques and collectibles. Lorraine collected him the first time she stopped in. The divorce not even final yet. Dave says he’s been here since the seventies when the houses were going for a hundred dollars. That’s how badly people didn’t want to live here. 
         Lorraine says Lucy’s father is going to sell the house in Michigan and most of what’s in it. Things, Lorraine says. That’s all he ever cared about. The accumulation of objects. Lorraine only let Lucy bring a backpack and her trunk from camp. Lucy kept putting things in and taking them out. The town car didn’t bring Lucy’s father home from the airport in time for goodbye.
         Lorraine wears a dress she bought in town. It’s long and has hand-painted yellow birds all over it in mid-flight. Lorraine asks Dave about Mexico. Is it dangerous? There’s a shop she’s heard of in Nogales. Dave says they’ll all have to go sometime down to the beach. Puerto Peñasco. The border towns aren’t anything, Dave says. He’s leaning back in the chair he brought up in his truck. A wide wicker, it squeaks out its objections to his weight. He’s got his hair pulled back in a sad little ponytail. A big silver buckle on his belt. Cowboy boots.
         Dave and Lorraine are drinking red wine out of the new handblown glasses. Dave offers Lucy some. Yes, please, Lucy says. Oh, I don’t know about that, Lorraine says. Just a splash, Dave says. He pours more wine into Lorraine’s glass, and then Lucy’s. The wine swirls into her last sip of water. It goes pink, then maroon. Lucy thinks of her father wandering around the emptying rooms in the house in Michigan sipping from his vodka tonic. He calls now on Sunday afternoons. Mostly he asks about Lorraine. Is she seeing anyone. Does she ask about him. He’s pretty slurry by the time they hang up. Love you, Lulu. Click.
          On the way to Safeway in the morning for what Dave calls provisions they drive past the pit left by the copper mine. It’s a vast hole in the ground streaked with golds and tans and oranges. Cut into steps, rough and rubbly. A greenish pond at the bottom, iridescent. Lorraine wants to stop, get out and take a look, but Dave says it’s not going anywhere. Lucy wonders how come no one ever filled it in. How come they just put up a flimsy chain link fence and moved on.

Good for You

FICTION

by Lisa Beech Hartz

          When Lorraine has painted enough baskets to sell, Lucy and Jason pile them into the back of Jason’s pickup. Lucy sits between Jason and Lorraine as they ride down the hill so steep Jason never takes his foot off the brake. He parks the truck in the alley behind the store. Lorraine says, You two wait here. I can handle this myself. Oh, fine, Jason says. Lorraine grabs a handful of baskets decorated with kokopellis and saguaros and disappears around the side of the building.
         You want to go for a walk or something? Lucy says. I’m okay, Jason says. She likes the way Jason smells, like late fall in Michigan, smoke and rain and soon snow’s coming. Jason lights a cigarette. Don’t ever do this, he says. It’s getting cold in the truck. The sun doesn’t reach the alley. If Jason had parked in the sun they’d be roasting now. Even in January. Arizona is funny like that.
         Arizona is funny, Lucy says. It can be hot or cold depending on where you’re standing. Hmm, Jason says. He’s looking out through the windshield. A piece of paper dances in the breeze, flying up and floating. Never touching the ground. Can I put on some music? Lucy says. She turns the knob on the radio. No, Jason says. He switches it off. Runs down the battery, he says. His hand touches hers for just a second. She wonders if he thinks she’s pretty. Lorraine is pretty. Long dark hair, a wide smile. Lorraine wears hippie clothes now. Everything colorful and flowy. She tells people to call her Lori.
         I’m going to take a walk, Jason says. Lucy follows him around the corner, past the front window of Mosaic. Down the block he stops and turns around, heads back up past the store. Lucy can see the reflection of the two of them in the store window, a ghosty overlay of the old steamer trunk displayed there. It’s open and inside must be a hundred tiny drawers.
         I’m going to marry her, Jason says. But she’s barely divorced, Lucy says. She’s divorced enough. Jason lights another cigarette, cups his hand around the end against the wind. His fingers long and thin. You want me to go get her? Lucy says. I can wait, Jason says. There’s a lot of traffic on Main, big cars creeping along so people can look at the old buildings and the galleries. Sometimes it’s like living in a theme park without the rides. Jason said that once: Bisbee is like Disneyland for retirees.
         The shop door jangles and Lorraine appears, Dave right behind her. Lorraine has a big smile on her face. She lets her eyes slide over Lucy and Jason. I’ll be in touch, she says. Dave watches her walk away. Jason hurries to catch up with her and Lucy follows. So? Jason says. He took them all and wants to see more soon, Lorraine says. Great, Jason says. Good for you. He tries to catch Lorraine’s hand but misses. She’s hugging herself against the cold.