Yuma: A short story romance
By Erin Lausten
Copyright 2011 Erin Lausten
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Yuma Proving Grounds, Arizona
I should have known I would fall in love on a bombing range. It was scorching. Sweat was trickling down the back of my neck and the only thing between me and the hot Yuma sun was a brown-felt pseudo Indiana Jones fedora. This was not romance, and yet, there I was staring wide-eyed and stupid at the man beside me.
Matthew wasn’t my type. I liked them medium build, blue-eyed, and blond. He was tall, dark, with gorgeous brown eyes. And married.
We threw our backpacks over our shoulders and tucked the clipboards under our arms then spread out 10 meters from each other to continue our way through the desert. Heads down and eyes alert we scanned the ground for traces of humanity; the older, the better.
After we flew through our transects we caught up to the rest of the team plodding along in a desperate bid to complete the survey before the sun touched the tips of the distant mountains. The novelty of the situation was lost on them.
Matthew and I, on the other hand, were riding high on the discovery of WWII era ration cans and tank tracks. The added spice was the very real possibility of being blown to bits by the hundreds of unexploded ordnance half buried throughout the survey area. This was the first archaeological project I’d been on that even remotely felt like an Indiana Jones movie, and I loved every moment.
Behind us the growl of an ATV announced the arrival of Jeremy, our escort from Explosive Ordnance. He swung off the purring machine and sauntered our way. This stocky man was the only thing that stood between us and the agony of shrapnel peppered bodies. We were in good hands.
“The boys back at the shop were wondering if y’all found any gold.” The local Arizona dialect had yet to take a chip out of Jeremy’s thick southern accent. The other archeologists on the team rolled their eyes and kept walking. The search for Spanish gold was always of prime importance to the locals and it got old real quick for most archaeologists.
But Matthew laughed. And my heart danced across my chest in an abbreviated jitterbug. “Yep, we did. But the booby traps kept us from finding the mother lode.”
The two men kept on chatting, but I had to turn my attention to the changing terrain. We reached a small copse of cottonwoods, signifying the presence of a wash.
Locating artifacts was pushed to very edges of my consciousness. Instead, I was scanning the nearest brush for little beasties of the slithering sort. We had already encountered five fat rattlers during this project, more than enough to make me obsessively cautious around the brush.
I was so intent on looking underneath every shadowy bush that I only noticed the rusted red of an artillery shell when my foot was about to land. Shifting my weight backward mid-step I landed on my back in an unladylike sprawl.
“You alright?” A masculine voice yelled from several meters away. My backpack added enough weight to make righting myself a practice in physical comedy.
“Yeh!” I shouted and scrambled to my feet, not wanting Matthew to see me flopping around like a turtle teetering on its shell.
“I found something!” I brushed the dirt and plant debris from my clothes and waited for the others to make their way over to my spot.
“What did you find?” Matthew inquired, as he and Jeremy emerged from behind a rather distressed looking cottonwood.
I pointed at the rusted metal that peeked through a mere three inches of mud. Water running through the wash had all but covered the thing and I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t spied it through the corner of my eye.
“Yep. That’s unexploded ordnance.” Jeffery commented. Both he and Matthew stood with their arms crossed against their chests, looking down at it with the manly consideration reserved for beat up vehicles, broken garbage disposals, and apparently artillery.
“Is it live?” I asked
“Don’t know.” Our trusty EOD expert replied. He pulled a GPS from his backpack and began plugging in the location for future reference.
“If I had stepped on it would it have blown up?” My mind flashed to the training video we had been forced to watch explaining the dangers of unexploded ordnance and the very real possibility of death or injury.
“Maybe.” He smiled.
I pursed by lips and squinted. “You’re messing with me.”
He shrugged and turned back the way they had come. I glared at his back, then walked a good ten feet around the ordnance and flounced through the brush. Matthew’s infectious laughter caught me before I could outrun it.
The prickly branches grabbed at my cotton t-shirt and heavy canvas pants as I continued along my transect. I was all for adventure, loved it in fact, but not at the expense of a one of my limbs. I felt particularly attached to them. The majority of ordnance had the explosives replaced with concrete in order to test weapons during peace-keeping practice sessions. But some were live, which is why Jeffery was with us and what had me feeling a little shaky.
However, the biggest threat to my survival was the inconvenient attraction I felt toward Matthew. His pure enjoyment of life was so unlike the people I had met throughout my twenty-four years. Everyone always had one complaint or another and never really saw the fun and beauty that could be found in every moment.
I sighed. It was no surprise that someone had plucked him from the pool of eligible bachelors before I had a chance.
I was mulling over the unfairness of life when I noticed another rusty shell pop-up where my foot was destined.
“Dang it,” I muttered, distracted again by the handsome devil and his stupid heart stopping smile and soul enfolding laughter.
“I found another one!” I shouted, and waited as the brush rustled in response.
***
“You get the award for finding the most things that could have killed us.” Matthew grinned at me through the rear view mirror of the generic white van the archaeology agency had rented for the project. The night before had been quiet and everyone was very ready for this project to be over. Unfortunately, there had been a small parcel of land left to survey.
We had begrudgingly dragged our tired bodies from lumpy hotel beds and arrived at the range just as the sun began to kiss the desert landscape. Four hours and two historic cowboy can scatters later we were on the road ready to take advantage of what was left of the day and see the local sites. Considering our location, the couple hours we had to spare would be more than enough.
The van coasted into the Yuma Territorial Prison parking lot. As we climbed out of the vehicle the project director looked at her watch. “We need to be back here in an hour so we can grab some lunch before we head back to Phoenix.”
Matthew and I looked at each other and then took off running toward the park entrance. One hour was hardly enough time to spend in the place that had once held the notorious Joe Boot and Pearl Heart, the last stage coach robbers in Arizona!
I giggled, feeling a little silly running like a six year old would toward an ice cream truck. But, with Matthew running beside me, I wondered why anyone wouldn’t want to feel that way again.
Built on the highest landform in the area, the main guard tower stood sentential over the deep blue Colorado River. As we trotted past I felt the gaze of the guards that had once stood looking in toward the prisoners. What did they think about as they strolled across those wooden floorboards? How many nights had their wives waited for them to come home for dinner? How many families in Yuma had territorial prison guards in their family tree?
I turned to see Matthew waiting for me at the Sallyport entrance to the main prison buildings, its architecture a reminder that Spain had once been the main power in this land. One look in his eyes and I knew that he saw the same things here that I did. For once, I did not feel like the goofy kid barely restraining my enthusiasm in front of the more reserved.
We slowed our pace so we could take in the surroundings. The Kerry green lawn between the buildings felt out of place after days spent tramping through the desert. “Have you been here before?” Matthew asked.
“No.” I answered and looked up into his eyes. They were a warm cinnamon color sprinkled with ginger that invoked thoughts of cool winter nights with cider mulling on the kitchen counter and pies warming in the oven.
“Me neither.” He replied as he held the door to the little museum.
We were hushed as we meandered through the exhibits, casting discerning eyes over the artifacts. I recognized some from surveys I had done throughout the state. Others, like the nefarious ball and chain and Backstrap Darby handcuffs, I had never seen up close.
Matthew stood a few feet away, peering down into the faces of some of the territorial prison’s more malcontented guests. It was terribly hard not to wander closer, to give into the pull I felt to share his space.
The door opened and the rest of the team shuffled in. The tiny museum suddenly felt stuffy, as if they had walked into something personal, something I did not want to share. I looked eagerly toward the back door, then at Matthew. “Do you want to go look at the cells?”
He seemed as earnest as I was to leave the museum. The funny thing was I loved the artifacts; the history made my soul feel free. But they never held my attention when they sat behind the glass accompanied by some uninspired description on a three by five card. I wanted to touch it, to smell it, to taste the dirt in the air when I pulled it from the ground.
We crossed through the wrought iron gate that led to the main cell block. Now this was what I was talking about. Here I could feel the prisoners trudging through the heat after working a long day. I could hear the coughs from tuberculosis, and the groans of squeaky beds. When I peered into one of the cells I could see scribbles of graffiti on every inch of blank wall space. The majority left by drifters and bums that had stayed there during the Great Depression. This is where I felt the fabric of time grow thin, where I could feel our ancestors as they always have been, just people.
It was an awesome feeling but I reveled in it. I felt an excitement and a giant smile breaking across my face. I have never done solemn well. I looked over at Matthew and he had that same stupid grin plastered on his face. My heart went double time, again. That poor organ of mine was exercising excessively this week.
We continued on through the complex. Matthew waxed on and on about all the beautiful details he saw in what we passed and what fascinated him about it. I just walked, loving every moment of being with someone that understood.
An unplastered adobe wall rose up in front of us. A wood frame protected the entrance from the disintegrating walls and a hand carved sign with bright white letters announced DARK CELL. This was the punishment cell, a cave of darkness that could make a person crazy in a matter of hours. Filled with a peculiar sense of dread, I slowed my approach.
Matthew turned and raised an eyebrow. “Scared?”
“No.” I replied.
I was not scared. I was something, but not scared. Trepidatious was a much better word for it. But he would not be hearing that from me. I put on a smile, added a little skip to my walk, and we ducked through the door.
Once past the light from the entrance it was the very definition of black; sucking in light into an envelope of destruction. The kind of black where your eyes never grow accustomed. Prisoners had gone insane after only a few days in this darkness. I doubted I would have lasted a few hours.
Behind us I could see the faint light from the entrance and it gave me solace knowing I had a direction out. If it had been covered? I shivered. Matthew had disappeared. I stood still, listening for his breath, a scuff of a shoe, anything.
Suddenly, a loud clang rang out and echoed painfully through my head. I was so frantic I couldn’t remember how I got out, but there I was, sitting in the hot desert sand, wide-eyed and hyperventilating.
Matthew emerged just a moment later with a struggling boy gripped by the pant waist in each hand. They were spitting mad and so was Matthew. He strode right past me as he demanded the boys tell him where their parent were, and then was gone for a good five minutes. It was fortunate because at the moment I was embarrassed beyond the dirtiest of potty jokes.
I scolded myself for being a dope. Stood and brushed the particles from by pants, took a deep breath, and begged my cheeks to stop burning. I was pretty sure I had a semblance of normalcy in my stature when he returned, but added a paparazzi smile just in case.
“Are you ok?” He grinned at me again. I loved the creases in his eyes when he smiled. His heroic response to those little monsters sent images of southern belles fanning themselves through my mind. He was tall, and strong, and nice, and sexy, and oh, just plain perfect.
“I wish I had known you before.”
I did it. I inserted that foot right into my mouth. I groaned inwardly. So what if he was perfect. He was married. Married!
“Before what?” He asked.
“Never mind. Let’s go look at the New Yard.”
***
The cultural resources report stared at me in accusation. Had it been animate, it would have slapped me by now. A big slap to the face might have been the thing to snap me out of this funk. But the probability of it doing so was about as likely as me finishing the stupid thing.
The Director sat right behind me. It was Friday, going on four o’clock and he still hadn’t left. He never stayed this late and his presence was eating at my web surfing time.
I typed another line of gibberish and then erased it. Matthew had been gone for the week on another project. During that week I sat in the office, angsting like an adolescent, bemoaning how cruel fate could be. At least adolescents had hormones to blame. I was just a pathetic airhead pouting because things had not gone my way. Beating myself up over it was counterproductive, but I didn’t care. It was fun.
The door rattled open and Matthew’s field crew came in. There was that irritating heart flutter again. I sighed. Scolding myself was getting tedious. I was positive the infatuation would pass and then we could even be friends. I sighed again. I wouldn’t buy that line if it were encrusted with gold.
I looked intently into the computer screen. I wasn’t looking at anything, but I thought I was doing a pretty good job of faking it. At this point, I imagined the report was rolling its eyes at me. Things must be really bad if I am animating words on a screen.
Matthew came up to the desk. “Hey.”
At least I didn’t have to fake it anymore. I looked up and tried not to fall into his hot summer bedroom eyes. “Hey.”
“There’s an antique show at the State Fairgrounds this weekend.” He handed me a crisp cardboard flyer.
“Oh. Cool. That looks like fun. When are you going?” He looked a little surprised by my question and I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he didn’t want me to go at the same time. I scolded myself again for being silly.
“Probably around noon on Saturday.” He replied.
“Well, awesome, maybe I’ll see you there.” He smiled, I cringed. Talking to him was painful. I felt like such a ninny. How had I become so socially stupid?
***
I was a little out of place. Actually, I was a lot out of place. Three people stood ahead of me in line and all would have been eligible for AARP. Once I paid my five dollars, I swam out into the sea of fanny packs and walkers. It was interesting being alone in a place where I obviously stuck out and after a few minutes I really didn’t care that I was the odd one out.
Rows and rows of stalls filled the giant building. There was furniture, glassware, farm objects, house objects, books, cooking tools, toys, everything I could possibly imagine people would want to collect. There was a lot I hadn’t imagined people would want to collect too. I was knee deep in a box of vinyl records when I spied Matthew. He stood across the way, in an energetic conversation with a bottle seller. I debated whether I should let him find me rather than go up myself. But I had enough of my wimpy and whiney attitude.
His arms were up in an emphatic gesture when I touched his shoulder.
“Hey! You made it!” He exclaimed.
He turned back to the man behind the bottle table. “Meet Bob, he’s part of the Federation of Historical Bottle Collectors.” I smiled and shook Bob’s hand. “Bob was just telling me about this great can scatter out on the national park.”
We stayed with Bob for a few minutes longer, but when a couple of seniors showed up we wandered away. It was fun moving from one stall to the next talking about the objects we saw and what they were used for and what they meant to us as a country. I try not to get too intense about old things with my friends and family, so it was nice to go overboard with someone who understood.
The crowd slowed as the day moved on and we were able to take some time really exploring our favorite collections. We were flipping through historic photographs when I got the nerve to ask the question that had burned in my mind all day. “Does your wife not like to go to these things?”
He looked at me quizzically, “I’m not married.”
“You’re not?”
“No.” Now I was confused. Mary Anne, one of lead archaeologists, had told me he was married.
“I’m divorced.” That explained it. Sort of.
“Girlfriend?”
He just smiled. Reaching down he took my hand in his and pulled me into the aisle. My heart was doing jumping jacks and I was pretty sure I would die an early death if he kept holding my hand. We walked out the doors into the fading day and he looked at me with his soul enveloping eyes, and asked, “Want to go get dinner?”
Oh yeah, I wanted to go to dinner. “I could eat.” I said, and then I smiled.
###
About the Author
When not writing Erin Lausten spends her time with her archeologist husband and three children in Phoenix Arizona. Active historical re-enactors they participate in numerous organizations such as the Society for Creative Anachronism where she takes her love for history off the written page and into the real world.
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