Hacienda del Sol

“One of these days, Mom,” Jerome told her when he phoned Sunday evening, “I’ve got to settle down.”

Images of a wedding, a wife and grandchildren spun into Polly’s head. She wished she could shove her arms through the receiver and hug her son. He had always been such a loner, traipsing the world with everything he owned on his back, but somehow he’d managed to stay alive, working as a fisherman, a lifeguard and a skipper of a garbage scow.

Strangers, women mostly, returning from Timbuktu, phoned to say they had met Jerome in a bar. He was fine, they had gushed, more than fine, handsome, funny, charming. How proud she must feel to have such a delightful son.

Postcards from Cuba, Chile, New Zealand, Thailand, Australia, Burma and India obliterated her refrigerator door. Whenever she took out the milk, she’d turn one over to read his adventures, described in precise square handwriting so much like Harold’s.

Every other year Jerome appeared at her door in ragged shorts, long hair and a fearsome beard. He’d shave and shower, leaving white patches on his coppery cheeks. Lord knows she wanted to feel proud of her son. Every penny she’d earned went for Jerome’s education. How little the vagrant in her guest room resembled the child she’d nurtured in her heart.

“I’ve bought some land in the desert,” Jerome finally told her. “I can retire there when I get old.”

Retire? Jerome had retired the day he’d graduated from college. His phone call confirmed Polly’s worst fears: Her son

had deteriorated from nomad to recluse to hermit, an agnostic prophet fated to wander the desert for 40 years.

She didn’t ask where he or the land was located, because she didn’t want to hear his answer--Morocco, Lebanon, Syria.

“I want you to see my place.”

“Oh, you have a house?” A house with mice, scorpions, spiders and snakes. A sod house like her grandfather had built when he’d settled on the plains.

“Not yet. When I get some money together, I might build something.”

This was the touch, the gentle touch. Money for a piano crate, a trailer, a mobile home.

“It’s outside Borrego Springs.”

“Burrito Springs.” Polly repeated Harold’s old joke.

“Yes,” Jerome said. “Can you drive here or shall I come and get you?”

“I can still drive,” she snapped, wishing she’d kept quiet for once. She didn’t want to fight traffic for four hours to reach the middle of nowhere.

“Good. Some friends from Carlee’s told me about a funky motel, Hacienda del Sol. I’ll make a reservation for you.”

“We’ll see,” she vacillated, using words that had saved her from having to say yes or no throughout his childhood.

Jerome phoned the next two Sundays, each time more insistent. Finally, he said, “Mom, if you don’t come now, it’ll get too hot. You’ll have to wait until October.”

“All right, then. Next Friday.”

Thousands of gigantic wind turbines whirled on either side of the freeway as Polly drove through San Gorgonio Pass. Maybe the windmills had attracted Jerome, a Quixote for the 21st century. In Cabazon, dust obscured dinosaurs built near an Indian casino. Polly cocked her head, heard Jerome in the back seat, 6, maybe, 7 years old. “Can’t we stop, Mom? I’ve never seen a dinosaur.”

Must have been 90 degrees that day. Harold drove from one mirage to the next on the two-lane highway, decades before the Morongo tribe conceived the idea of making millions from poker.

“No, hon. You’ve got school tomorrow. We’ve gotta get home.”

As soon as she rounded Christmas Circle, Polly spotted a blazing neon sun over Hacienda del Sol. A woman in a blue muumuu, her white hair cut into a butch, answered the office bell.

“Your son called. He’ll arrive at 3,” the manager said, unwinding her spiel. “While you’re waiting, you can have a swim. The Mexican restaurant behind the motel makes gigantic margaritas. It’s the best place to eat. Avoid Carlee’s. That’s where the locals hang out. A pretty rough crowd.”

In her room, Polly switched on the swamp cooler and inspected under the bed for scorpions, then went to relax by the pool. Jerome--taller, thinner, tanner, his eyes a darker, clearer green--caught her napping in a chaise lounge. When he hugged her, a holster on his hip poked her belly. “How about a hike before supper?”

“On your land?”

“No, let’s save that until morning, when you’re fresh.”

Hmm, worse than Polly had guessed.

They got into her car. Jerome drove out of town and turned off at the campground. “Remember this, Mom?”

This? This sagebrush? A few yards farther they came to a picnic table, then another and another. Yes, she remembered sitting at one of these tables, Harold on one side, Jerome, barely tall enough to rest his elbows on top, on the other. The pleasure of that day returned and filled the hollows inside her.

Jerome parked around a bend. “The palm grove, remember?”

A sign at the entrance to the path warned, “Hot, dry trail. Carry one gallon of water per person.”

“It’s all right, Mom. I’ve got a couple bottles in my backpack.”

They climbed knee-high rocks and wound between boulders taller than she was. To avoid tarantulas and snakes, she planted her hands and feet with care, but soon her boots bristled with cholla spines. She sat on a rock to pull them out. They stuck to her finger. She yelped. Jerome handed her a bottle of water and withdrew pliers from his holster. He’d come prepared, just like Harold always had.

“Remember the day you, Dad and I walked up this canyon? It was so hot,” he said, while he removed the thorns. “When we got halfway, you pulled out warm tomato juice and soda crackers. I almost cried. I was so disappointed.”

Just remembering the story made the water taste better. Tomato juice. She had wanted to serve Jerome a nutritious drink, something without sugar. Tomato juice had seemed the perfect choice, but after they drank it they felt thirstier than ever.

The wind picked up and whirled down the canyon. They set off again over a steeper trail, Jerome taking her hand, pulling her up. Sand stung her face. She closed her eyes. A little boy’s hand grasped her own. She remembered guiding him through crevices, boosting him over boulders, lifting him over a stream.

“Well, that’s enough for today,” Jerome said. “The wind’s making it tough, and when the sun drops behind the mountains, it’s going to get very cold very fast.”

Walking back, Polly could barely lift her feet. The car looked so close, but she doubted she would reach it.

Jerome stopped by her room at 7. “What do you feel like for dinner? Enchiladas or steaks?”

Polly stared into Jerome’s green, green eyes. She knew he preferred Carlee’s, but the motel manager’s warning rang in her ears.

The minute they entered the strip mall Polly regretted her choice. Fluorescent lights from the cafe glared into the twilight. Three disconsolate families sat at Formica tables. Not even a serape hung on the wall. However, their hike had made her ravenous, the hungriest she’d felt since Harold died. She ordered the combination plate and a double margarita.

To lure him home, she had intended to discuss pleasant topics, the roses she had planted and the new roof. Instead she surrendered to her old habits. “You’ll never find a job in this godforsaken place, Jerry.”

“You’d be surprised at the kind of people who live here, Mom. I’ve met accountants and lawyers at Carlee’s. If I had to, I could work as an EMT, a travel agent or a substitute teacher.”

“You’ve got to save some money. You’re middle-aged. You don’t have that long left.” Nagging made her feel old.

“I’m doing fine, Mom. You and Dad taught me to set aside something for an emergency.”

Didn’t Jerome realize life was an emergency?

That night she lay awake, wondering what con man had sold Jerome his land, by what nefarious scheme had her son raised enough money to buy his barren chunk of desert.

At 6 a.m., sunlight poured between the slats in the mini-blinds. Polly packed and set her suitcase by the door. She wanted to go home, back to civilization. When she stepped outside, the billowing clouds, the sapphire sky, the lime-green palo verde trees startled her. No breeze, no dust, perfect serenity.

“I’d like to get on my way so I can beat the L.A. traffic,” she announced when Jerome came out of his room.

His green eyes faded to gray. “Well, we’ll eat breakfast, then we’ll see.”

They walked across the empty highway to Kendall’s coffee shop in time to watch the changing of the guard--laborers leaving for work, tourists arriving for coffee. The people looked normal, but the desert unsettled her.

“Jerome, I don’t see how you can bear to live here. Danger everywhere you step.”

Jerome shrugged his shoulders. “You get used to things wherever you are. Look what you’ve got in L.A.--car chases and freeway shootings. I’ll bet you’ve stopped reading about them, they’re so common.”

Polly nodded. Still she felt uncomfortable. “Jerome, where did you get the money to buy your land? Tell me the truth, now. Don’t fudge.”

“That winter I fished on the Bering Sea I saved every penny.”

The Bering Sea. Polly shivered. He could have frozen to death, drowned or been dragged over the side along with a net.

When they returned to the Hacienda, Jerome walked to the car. “It’ll only take half an hour to see my land.”

“Well, I’ve driven this far. I don’t suppose it would hurt.”

They passed a golf course, date palms and a grove of grapefruit trees, bright green in a bowl of pastels. With the sun still low, the mountains stood out sharp and dark against the sky.

Jerome stopped between tall sandstone walls, punched in a code and an iron gate swung open. Polly couldn’t believe someone had bothered to fence this weed patch. Jerome parked next to a tall yellow fire hydrant. “This is it.”

Scraggly beige bushes stretched all the way to the mountains. She stepped into the sand, and her eyes narrowed. Just like in the “The Wizard of Oz,” the scene switched from black and white to color. Polly’s filter dissolved to reveal magenta blossoms on barrel cactus, crimson and copper on beavertail, red flags atop ocotillo. Blue stalks swayed above the sage, indigo buds materialized on a celadon bush, desert primrose trailed next to lavender sand verbena. If she wanted to plant a garden this exquisite, she couldn’t.

Jerome scurried up the slope. “I want to build my place high enough so I don’t have to stare at other houses.”

Polly could see other homes--not shacks, but mansions, haciendas--rising in the distance. “A desert Beverly Hills.”

“I’m learning straw bale construction.”

“Straw? Like the three little pigs?”

“Rice straw.” Jerome grinned, his old childhood grin. “Cheaper than stick and insulates better than brick.”

“Harold would like that. You’re an ecologist just like your dad.”

“It’s still early,” Jerome said, checking his watch. “Feel like attacking Palm Canyon again?”

Yesterday she’d felt so tired, but today she had energy to burn. “Let’s try.”

In the parking lot, Jerome handed her a tube of sunscreen and a slouch hat like his own. With age, he’d lost the pale freckles on his nose and acquired liver spots on his hands.

By the time they reached the hill where they had stopped yesterday, Polly wished she’d eaten more breakfast. They topped a ridge. A logjam of fallen palms filled the center of the canyon. If they didn’t hurry, she’d miss checkout at the Hacienda.

When Jerome was a teenager, he used to run far ahead of his mother and father, but today he took his time, scanning the mountains for bighorn sheep, inspecting the cactus blossoms along the way. Under his tan skin, his cheekbones rounded, replicating the landscape.

“This is the widest I’ve ever seen the stream,” he said. “Usually, it disappears into the ground far up the hill.”

“Just looking at it cools me off.”

Jerome pulled out the water bottles. “You’re pretty fit, Mom.”

Polly smiled.

Beyond a bend, flat rocks lay in the stream. Jerome took her elbow and steadied her as she leaped from one to another. On the far bank, the path grew steeper and narrower with lush vegetation along the sides. They climbed without speaking. Sometimes Polly clambered on all fours, amazed at her own agility, her own strength. Her heart pounded, not from exertion, but with exhilaration.

Around one last boulder, a pool of clear water and the umbrella shapes of the palms came into full view, a small grove packed in the narrow canyon. A few hikers rested atop flat boulders, others wandered among the trees. No one spoke. The site felt as holy as a chapel.

She went inside the grove and sat in the cool, moist comfort, remembering the day Harold, Jerome and she had triumphed over this rough terrain. Happiness swept over her, followed by a pang. What delight Harold would have taken in enjoying this hike again with their son. How she missed Harold, but half of him lived in Jerome.

When they reached the car, Polly announced, “We both deserve a steak at Carlee’s.”

“Sit anywhere, folks,” the bartender shouted when Jerome pulled open Carlee’s door.

Three men in polo shirts sipped beers at the horseshoe-shaped bar that filled the center of the room. Jerome chose a booth instead. Well-dressed couples chatted at the adjoining tables. If she were to visit Jerome again, she would have to update her wardrobe. The waitress set a sizzling steak platter in front of Polly.

“The motel manager told me not to come here,” Polly whispered. “Said they serve a rowdy crowd.”

“Saturday night they have karaoke, but I avoid it. Can’t stand loud music anymore.”

After dinner, they settled into rusted metal chairs on the Hacienda grounds, and together picked out the constellations.

“Have you seen the Southern Cross?” Polly asked.

“Yes, my first night in New Zealand I stayed up until 4 a.m. I wished I could watch forever.”

Polly slid lower in the chair and wrapped her sweater around her. If she hadn’t gotten a crick in her neck, she might have lingered all night under the brilliant sky.