Midnight At The Oasis

  Midnight At The Oasis

  P X Duke

  Published: 2011

  Tag(s): "short story" "on the road" "adult content" "language warning" "midnight at the oasis" motorcycles fiction contemporary

  Midnight At The Oasis

  by

  P X Duke

  Frank Ross is headed down Mexico way, but first he has to escape from the high desert and the clutches of a sweet-talking, nimble little thing that has spun her web and led Frank down the road to good intentions gone bad. Following a trial by fire, Frank manages to get back on the road, but not before narrowly escaping a damsel in much distress when he refuses to take her along for the ride.

  Midnight At The Oasis

  Copyright 2011 P X Duke

  All Rights Reserved

  Disclaimer

  What follows is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. Places mentioned by name are entirely fictitious and purely products of the author's imagination, and are not meant to bear resemblance to actual places or locations.

  The road never ends. Neither does the adventure.

  Part 1

  New growth

  The desert fan palm is the largest palm tree in North America. It can grow to a height of 75 feet. Trunk diameter can be up to three feet. Its leaves can grow on the stalk to over six feet in length. Extremely sharp spines on the leaf's two edges are capable of cutting skin very badly. When the leaf dies it remains attached throughout the life of the tree. A skirt of dead leaves can build up completely obscuring the tree trunk. Strong winds can blow the dead leaves off.

  Fire is also known to burn off the dead leaf stem.

  I'm sitting in a chair, pretending not to watch. Trying to watch.

  Dark brown hair is slicked back. When she gets closer I can see that she has freckles, glistening through a sheen of water in the late afternoon light. The blue of her eyes is intensified by the light blue of the pool. That's what draws me to her.

  "Hello," she says.

  I answer her.

  "Hello."

  She smiles tentatively, rubs water from her face, and curls her hair around her ears with long, slender fingers. Then she goes back to her slow laps, the water barely rippling as she passes back and forth, easing closer with each pool-length. Her bathing suit matches the color of the pool, making arms and shoulders and legs appear disconnected from the rest of her body.

  Finally she stops in front of me, treading water, shoulders out of the water, long hair trailing. I watch her brush it back again, her elbows raised high this time, showing herself to me.

  "Where are you from?" she asks.

  I have been so carefully watching that I'm caught unaware by the question. Finally I answer.

  "Up north."

  Seemingly satisfied with my two-word reply, she smiles and pushes her way back to her laps. Her legs kick and the water splashes and she is gone again. She glides, noiseless, hands and arms pulling, feet and long legs kicking. The rippling water distorts, causing her body to shimmer and dance.

  Again she stops at my side of the pool. She hovers, and passes her hands back over her hair and then down across her face. I can see the hint of a smile, and I smile back.

  "Have you been here long?" she asks.

  "Since yesterday," I answer. "And you?"

  Please let her be a guest here at the inn, I say to myself.

  "I work here," she says.

  Inwardly I release a sigh. I will see her again.

  She pushes off once more, back to her laps, but now they aren't laps. They have become a different kind of dance. She is under water and leaping out of the water, legs kicking and thrashing and splashing. Suddenly, she slows and climbs out at the far end of the pool. She picks up her towel and tosses her head as she throws it over her shoulders. When she does she looks over at me, waves and is gone.

  Yes, swimmer, I have been watching your dance.

  My adobe is typical southern desert fare. A wooden gate bars entrance to a small sandy courtyard with two chairs. A table is made from a section of palm tree. To guard the room a thick wooden door with a steel latch hangs on three huge black steel hinges. The door looks strong enough to keep an army out. I nickname the place Fort Apache, and feel secure. Inside, there's a fireplace and a chair to enjoy it. A mirror hangs over the mantle; a picture over the bed. A writing desk is by the door. This will be home for a couple of days while I catch my breath and decide on the route I will ride in search of adventure in Mexico.

  Back at the restaurant I end up sitting at the end of the bar with my back to the wall. It's where I like to be. Watching. For what, I'm not sure. I finish my Pacifico and the bartender takes my order for dinner. Halfway through dinner the swimmer comes in from the kitchen. She walks directly towards me and smiles.

  Not shy, this one, but I already know that.

  "I'm Rachael. From this afternoon by the pool, remember? Hello again."

  "Hello. I'm Frank. I was hoping I'd see you. Sit down and join me."

  "I can't stay long. I'm working."

  "So late?" I ask.

  "My aunt owns the place. I work for her."

  "Then you must know where all the bodies are buried," I joke. For a moment I think I see fear in her eyes.

  Before Rachael gets up to leave, she asks if I'd like to share a fire later. The invitation, unbidden, surprises me. More dancing, I suspect.

  "There's a wood stove on the old patio," she explains. "Some evenings it's put to good use until the early morning."

  On my way back to my room I check it out. It's definitely old and looks like it has seen a lot of use—the block wall behind is black with soot. I'm looking forward to seeing Rachael again.

  I'm not getting any younger, so I hit the rack for an hour—or so I think. Suddenly it's almost three hours since my head hit the pillow and it's past ten. Have I slept through Rachael's fire? Was there one tonight?

  I splash cold water on my face and then dance my clothes on barefoot on the cold tile floor. Finally I stumble out into the night and then return to pick up a shirt to ward off the desert chill. Just in time I see Rachael walking out of the empty restaurant, silhouetted by the lights still glowing behind her. A ring of keys rattles in her hand.

  "I was just coming to get you."

  "I slept for a bit. I'm glad I didn't miss out on the fire," I tell her.

  Someone—Rachael, I suspect—has left out bags of kindling and paper.

  "Well, since we're both here, why don't I get things going," I say.

  "All right. Do you have matches?"

  "No, I don't."

  "I'll go," Rachael says. "If you find any before I get back, don't light the fire without me."

  "I'll wait," I tell her.

  I crumple paper onto the stove's grate, then pyramid kindling on top. Rachael returns with matches, and I hold out my hand for them.

  "I want to light the fire," she says.

  "All right. I'll find something for us to sit on."

  By the time I get back with chairs and two large logs for reinforcement the fire is blazing. The heat builds quickly. The logs pop and crackle and the top of the stove starts to glow red in the dark night. We push back from the blaze and I use this as an excuse to turn my chair towards her.

  "You made a pretty good fire. You must do this all the time."

  "No, not really. It's only the third or fourth time since I've been here. Usually someone else does the lighting, and I get to watch. I'm glad you waited."

  "It was no trouble," I tell her, smiling.

  She turns and looks at me.

  "Why did you come here?" she asks, all of a sudden.

  I ramble on about winter up north and how it's so great to get away from
it. As I do, I watch the dancing fire light up Rachael's face. When she pushes her hair past her ear, her fingers are caught in the glow.

  "How long have you worked here?"

  "My aunt owns the place. My grandmother lives here too. I take care of her when I'm not working in the office," she tells me. "I do reservations and menus and sometimes help out in the kitchen. I pretty much get to do whatever I want."

  She never answered my question.

  "It sounds to me like you have the perfect job."

  "Well, not really. I'm bored to death most of the time."

  Thus the reason for your dance in the pool, I think.

  The wind has picked up and the twin palms standing by the pool are swaying in the breeze. Old and thick, their heavy skirts are joined at the top by the fronds of the other.

  "Listen," says Rachael. "Can you hear them rustling?"

  "They're whispering," I say, "but I don't know what they whisper."

  The fire is starting to cool rapidly now.

  "Should we put more wood on?" I ask.

  "No, it's getting late," she says. "I should go and check on grandmother soon."

  "All right, but we should stay by the fire until it dies."

  "Yes," and she takes a stick and pokes at the glowing embers.

  Rachael has managed to get charcoal on her temple and I bring my hand up to massage the spot. She doesn't flinch when my fingers linger for an instant before returning to the arm of my chair.

  I know how to dance too.

  She looks at me and smiles.

  "I have to go now," she says.

  "Now I know what the palms are whispering."

  "What's that?" she asks, startled.

  "They're whispering how much I've enjoyed your company."

  Rachael laughs, turns, and walks toward the house on the front of the property, disappearing into the darkness. After closing the fireplace doors I manage to stumble in the dark back to my adobe.

  Part 2

  Taking root

  The root system of the fan palm is comprised of thousands of pencil-thin rootlets usually no more than 15 feet in length. This mass is so thick and dense that competing vegetation rarely penetrates the space occupied by the root system.

  High cirrus clouds obscure the rising sun. I expect to see it appear subdued through the clouds over the horizon, but it doesn't happen that way. All of a sudden the sun is just there, unspectacular. This must be the way each morning starts when you live here—nothing special in a sunrise.

  Mid-morning I wander to the patio and pick a table in the warmth of the sun. I settle in to read and I'm rewarded when Rachael walks past. I invite her to sit and join me, but she stays only a minute. I linger for most of the morning, pleased each time Rachael manages to pass by. Reminded of her dance in the pool, I'm starting to think she's doing it on purpose.

  Finally she sits down. "Okay, I can stay for a while now. I'm on my break."

  "Well then, let's have lunch."

  "Sure. We can sit at the bar. What would you like?"

  "All I need is soup and some of that homemade bread," I tell her.

  "Soup it is."

  Rachael returns balancing the bowls of soup and a bread basket. Finally we're facing each other on a corner of the bar.

  "I made the soup today. How do you like it?"

  "It's not bad. I didn't know California women could cook. I thought all of you hung out in some valley filled with malls."

  She gives me a kick under the bar.

  "I know, I know," I laugh. "I think tonight I'm going to walk into town for dinner. It's not because of your cooking, either. When you're done, why don't we go together? It'll get you out of here, and I know I'd enjoy your company. How about it?"

  "Oh, yes. Give me a chance to make some arrangements and I'll let you know. I've got to get back to work. Thanks for sharing lunch."

  "You're welcome. I'll see you later."

  There's no doubt in my mind.

  I spend the afternoon wandering around a place that stretches out along the highway in that typical small-town way—as though anything away from the main drag would wither and die. Perhaps it would in this part of the world. There's little to serve anyone passing through—a restaurant or two, gas stations, a couple of old motels in need of repair. Finally I give up and head back.

  We meet at the bar, both aware that leaving together will have tongues wagging. It doesn't matter to me, of course, but she's the one who lives and works here. Without saying a word, we look at each other, I nod and we get up to leave. Out of the corner of my eye I see the bartender looking our way. She smiles and waves, but I pretend not to notice. Finally we're outside in the cool evening air.

  "Did you get the idea that we might be a topic of conversation for a few minutes?" she asks.

  "I'm pretending I didn't notice anything," I reply. "Do you do this often?"

  "Go out with guests? No, I don't, but I wanted to get away from here for a while and forget everything about this place."

  "In that case I'm glad you're doing it with me."

  "I am too, Frank."

  We walk down the gravel drive and into town along the roadside. She tells me about what she wants to do—how she’d like to spend the summer in Montana on a ranch to see what that would be like; how she’d like to own a bed and breakfast some day, but only for about six people. It sounds like she knows what she wants to do with her life.

  The restaurant is set back from the road, standing alone on the edge of town. Inside is the brightest interior I've ever seen. Red covers everything. Walls. Floor. Seats. Tables. We grin at each other and find an empty booth and then the waitress comes over and slaps red menus on the table.

  "I don't know a thing about Mexican food. I'm from the land of Taco Bell hell. In any case my eyes haven't adjusted to this place yet."

  Rachael smiles. "I'll order for you if you like," she says.

  "How about explaining some of it to me and we can work on it together?"

  After dinner on our return we walk close together for some comfort, advancing shoulder to shoulder against the night's chill. Finally I put my arm around her waist and pull her against me.

  "Do you mind?"

  "Not if you don't," and she does the same.

  "Can we switch to the cold side later," I ask.

  "Yes."

  "In that case I'm glad it's not warmer."

  "Me too," and we both laugh.

  Our pace slows now that we're dancing in step.

  Peals of laughter erupt from where we spent last night, then the sound of a guitar, interrupted by more laughter. We stop and listen, then jump up to peek over the wall.

  "It looks as though someone has stolen our fireplace," she says. "We're going to yours."

  "We'll need some wood. There's none in my adobe."

  "The woodpile is this way," and she takes my hand to lead the way. We stumble in the dark, laughing and giggling and bumping into each other, looking for kindling and logs. At last we manage to collect two huge armloads.

  "This will last until next week," I tell her.

  "That's the general idea, isn't it?" she says in return.

  I think I'm going to like it here.

  We fumble our way in the dark, crashing through the gate and the door. Firewood tumbles onto the floor. Rachael crumples paper and puts kindling in the hearth, and I find matches.

  "Would you like to do the honors again?"

  "If you'll let me, yes."

  Rachael kneels to light the fire and then turns out the light. In the orange darkness my hand searches out hers and our fingers join. We sit like that, silent, listening to the crackling of the fire. When I raise my hand and caress her face our lips meet, tentative at first, and warm. Suddenly she moves with a start and looks at her watch.

  "I've got to see to my grandmother," she says.

  "I know you have to go." I kiss her before I let her get up. "Now go. Come back when you can."

  "I'll try not to be too late.
"

  "I'll leave the door open for you," I tell her.

  "I'll be back as soon as I can."

  When the fire starts to die I give up the wait and climb into bed. The sound of the door closing wakes me, but I stay still to get my bearings. A shadow cast by a shaft of light from the almost full moon moves past the window, then Rachael pulls her nightgown over her head and drops it on the floor by the fireplace. Even in the dim light I can tell she has quite the body.

  She brushes her hair off her face and tucks it behind her ears. Finally she leans down and lifts the covers to crawl in beside me. Her body is cool from the night air, and she stretches against me to warm up.

  "This is a pleasant surprise," I tell her.

  "I wanted it to be," she says.

  She reaches down and takes me in her hand. "Oh! What's this?"

  Rachael strokes the half-hard length of me and then her cool hand moves on to my balls. Her hand lingers, fingers fondling first one, then the other, finally getting both in the palm of her hand.

  "They're huge," she whispers. "And heavy. I can feel the heat in them." Her breathing is ragged as her hand cups and pulls at them, milking. “Oh God. The heat.”

  "That's what you get when you let a man watch you undress when you think he's sleeping. I'm going to throw another log on the fire, all the better to see you with," I laugh. "It'll help to take the chill off of you too."

  I pretend to roll over her to get out of bed and when I do her hands grab at my back, trying to pull me back down.

  "Take the chill off with what was in my hand," she says, hard-edged.

  "I'm not going far," and when I get up she flings her legs to the floor and sits naked on the edge of the bed, leaning back on her elbows. Waiting.

  I throw a log on the fire and turn around.

  "Now get over here," she commands.

  When I get close her hands grab at me and her mouth is on me in an instant. She sits and sucks at me, greedy, stroking and pulling with both hands until I'm hard again, and then she rolls onto her back, feet off the bed, knees spread wide. Welcoming.