Courtney E. Webb

The trail was quiet this time of the morning, the sky a hazy blue, giving a hint of rain but surely promising upper 90s heat by late morning.

Yaya could hear the cry and titter of the desert birds. She tried hard to recognize them and to tell the difference between their cries. The small cactus wren and the curved bill thrasher had similar tit-tit cries. The quail she could easily tell as the mother bird scurried across the path trailing a clutch of smaller birds behind her. The owl she knew she would never hear; it was a night predator and the hawk she could mostly see, circling high in the sky above her. It, she knew, was looking for lunch.

Tis the way, she thought to herself. Shi’ma Yazhi, (little mother in Apache,) her chestnut mare plodded along the trail in her quiet, unassuming way. Yaya knew her quarter horse knew the trail better than she did. The police detective knew the horse would instinctively lead her out so far on the trail and then almost knowing it was time, turn around and head back.

Yaya had learned to trust and rely on her horse’s instincts. Shi’ma was a seven-year-old quarter horse, brought by its owner from a cattle ranch in Oklahoma. Smart, capable and extremely calm, she was the perfect ride for Yaya who, admittedly, was an advanced beginner to intermediate rider.

The Tucson police detective had taken up riding a couple of years ago, something she had always wanted to do and never had the time or money for. Now that her little girl, Katie, was seven, and was consistently spending every other weekend with her dad, attorney Vince Vinciflora, Yaya could count on some more time for herself. She had tried to get Katie, or Scooter as she was called, to ride with her. The little girl thought the horses “Big, scary and smelly!”

“Ah, well,” Yaya said to the large saguaro as she passed. “I guess we can’t do everything together.” The saguaro with its big arms held out to the side, seemed of course, to nod agreement.

It was a little past spring in the Tucson desert area and the flowers were fading. Summer had not quite hit yet but Yaya was trying hard to respond to the alarm clock to get out of the house early enough to avoid the heat. It was good in other ways too; she avoided Sunday traffic and the zillion yuppies that appeared with their various very perfect children in tow.

This morning she had done a little walking on the trail to stretch the muscles out before riding. She was annoyed to hear a perfectly blond couple chastising their perfectly blond three-year old for ‘whining’ as they marched on briskly ahead of her. As the child fought to keep up on her two-wheel scooter, the dad proclaimed, “We can rest at the bridge.”

Yaya gawked, knowing full well the ‘bridge’ was a good two miles away and uphill.

If I had my baton with me, I could give ‘em both a little rap on the head, she thought to herself. “Parents!” She huffed out, “Never learn.”

It was only a short walk for her as she was ready to get to the stables; she stopped by the birders table to reacquaint herself with local bird names. She saw the same parents, with the two children in tow, checking out the same table.

Ha, Yaya laughed ruefully to herself, maybe the hike was too much for them too. She thoroughly hoped so.

Yaya got to ZZZ stables and unpacked her gear: water bottle, nut snacks and proper low-heeled riding boots. Her horse-owner partner, Pricilla was already out in the yard getting Shi’ma Yazhi saddled up.

Pricilla was a tall, thin young woman of about twenty-eight or twenty- nine years. Dressed as usual in tight blue jeans, cotton T-shirt, sunglasses and a short, rimmed cowboy hat; Pricilla was country all the way down to her dusty, hand-tooled cowboy boots.

Hailing from Oklahoma, she had sunflower blue eyes, freckles, a dirty blond plait down the center of her back and a warm welcoming smile.  Pricilla had driven from the mid-west with her quarter-horse behind her in an individual horse trailer. Something about following a husband out here who had been stationed at the air base.

The young woman didn’t share a lot of details. Long experience dealing with the public as a police officer, Yaya knew not to press for information. Good or bad, the facts would eventually come out.

Yaya had started at the stables taking lessons. She very quickly gravitated to Shi’ma with her calm manner. Other of the stable horses could be cranky and bad mannered. Over a period of time, chatting with Pricilla, it became evident the young woman did not make enough income to live in what was rapidly becoming upwardly mobile Tucson, even on the outskirts. With a series of short conversations and thinly veiled offers to help, the two women agreed to a plan. As ‘co-owners’ of Shi’ma, Pricilla would ride her during the week and take care the food and water. Yaya would ride one to two days on the weekend and they would split costs. The split was more like 60-40% with Yaya paying the lions share; she didn’t care. She loved the horse and figured Pricilla was doing most of the heavy work anyway.

So, the relationship between the two women solidified and Yaya’s riding skills steadily improved as well as her personal relationship with Shi’ma. It was as though the horse began to understand that this was someone different, not just another rider. She would nuzzle Yaya when they came together and Yaya always remembered to bring a small apple or carrots for her equine friend.

“Hey, Yaya,” Pricilla called out. “Good?”

“All good, Prissy, and ready to go,” Yaya responded as Pricilla handed the reins over to her. The two women exchanged smiles as Yaya mounted up.

Out on the trail, Yaya could feel the cares and worries of the week fall off her shoulders. It was one place she felt she could really relax. What a great feeling!

A few miles away, at The Writer’s Retreat Group, held at a small desert conference center, things were not so relaxed.

Reginald Knight noted and oft praised author/scriptwriter from Hollywood was holding forth with his groupies. A collection of some very fat to some very skinny women were clustered around Reginald, sitting on white folding chairs in a large room usually reserved for meals.

Reginald was pontificating about the ‘Writing Process’ and the women were scribbling furiously.

“Yes, yes,” he put up a well-manicured, tanned and pudgy hand, “you have to feel the character, feel it. In here,” he lightly punched his rounded gut. “Feel it, feel the character, get into the emotions and then,” he waved a hand in the air like he was holding a magic wand, “take all that and put it down on paper.”

The women nodded rapidly; mesmerized.

“Tell me Pamela, how is your character feeling?” he asked one of the women, his English accent subtly coming through.

“Well,” Pamela one of the thin women of about forty or fifty years of age, with wispy indifferent hair and a baggy, floral dress about two sizes two big for her replied in a timid voice. “Well, the character is really me and some events that happened to me when I was a teenager.” She trailed off looking hopeful at the great writer.

“Ah, memoir, your genre. I see.” Reginald tapped one pudgy finger against his chin.

“That’s alright, isn’t it?” Pamela responded to the silence nervously.

There was a pause. “Oh, yes. Quite alright. Many of the best writers out there do memoirs. It can be a very popular genre.” There was another pause. The blue eyes stared at the thin woman. “You do know what a genre is, don’t you, Pamela?” It was like the school master addressing a naughty student.

The woman blushed deep pink. “Yes, yes. I think so,” She looked around desperately, silently begging for help.

One of the other women, a short, stocky lady with spiky white hair and big red glasses spoke. “Of course, Reginald, the ladies in our group all know that. A genre represents the different styles of books, like mystery, romance, thriller and so on.” She shifted her gaze to Pamela and gave her a meaningful stare.

“Oh, right, right,” Pamela tittered, “different styles of writing and books.” She stopped and looked down at her writing pad, the pink flush fading to a dark red. She looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her.

“Of course, of course,” Reginald smiled.

He faintly resembles a desert lizard when he smiles, thought the older woman in the red glasses. She got a faint ‘ick’ feeling.

Sue, the older woman and group leader, took charge of the meeting and announced, “Well girls, I think we have annoyed Reginald long enough and I for one vote for a recess for lunch!”

There was a generalized chorus of agreement. Chairs got shuffled backwards and like on cue, the center staff showed up to move long white tables into place. Behind the long-raised countertop at the side of the room, kitchen helpers could be seen to pull out large containers of sandwiches, chips, pickles and cold sodas to put in place.

Most of the women excused themselves for a few minutes to wash up before lunch.

Sue latched onto Reginald before the group broke up. He was heading toward a side door.

“Joining us for lunch, Reginald?” Sue asked gaily.

Reginald turned a gimlet eye to the lunch fare. With the slightest grimace and shrug of the shoulders he told her, “Thanks, Sue. Appreciate it. There’s an Italian place just over the hill I have been wanting to try. Think I’ll jog over there for lunch.”

Jog was a euphemism of course. Reginald or Reggie, as most of his friends called him, never jogged anywhere if he could help it. Walking from his jaguar to the door of a restaurant was about as much exercise as he could stand.

Sue nodded with a frozen smile. Reginald had been paid a nice sum to come and be their speaker at this two-day conference. Dining with the guests was generally considered de-regur for their other speakers. Of course, she thought to herself, this jerk has to be the different one.

Not saying what was actually on her mind, instead she said, “No problem, Reginald. I guess we start up again at 3:30 to go until an early dinner. Yes?” She smiled with determination.

Reginald glanced at his Rolex watch, considered it a moment and said, “Yes, I think I can do that.” He smiled beatifically at Sue, and she did have to admire the incredibly well-done veneers on his front teeth.

The man turned and left. Sue unclenched her hands and walked stiffly back to the lunchroom and plopped down on a fold out chair. Her buddy, Louise, sat down next to her.

“Trouble, dear?”

Sue poured herself a large glass of ice-water from the carafe. A recovered alcoholic, she downed a large mouthful of the cold liquid before speaking. “I don’t know, Louise. I am not sure this guy was worth the money we put out for him.”

Louise looked concerned. “Well, honey. He is a very well-known writer, and he does really seem to know his stuff….” She trailed off looking hopeful at her friend.

“I know all that, hell, I was the one who did the research and found him. It’s just…I don’t know. There is just something about him.” She shook her head and sipped her water.

Louise shrugged and poured some water for herself. They both stared out at the beautiful blue skies seen through the huge plate glass windows of the kitchen area.

On the backside of the conference grounds, in one of the guest rooms, a different scene played out.

“I felt so stupid. I just felt so stupid.” Pamela cried into a small handkerchief.

Her friend, Hillary Jane, a forty something lady, held her around the shoulders.

“Come on, Pam. It’s alright. No one will even remember by tomorrow. It will be forgotten,” she said soothingly.

“I knew the answer, I knew the answer to the question. I just froze!” Pam wailed into the soggy scrap of linen.

“Pam, how long has it been since you’ve been in school? You forget stuff like that you know. Happens all the time.”

“I haven’t been in college for twenty years,” Pam sniffed. “I’ve been married and had kids.”

“See,” reasoned Hillary, “perfectly understandable.”

“But he is so well known and written so many books. I don’t know. I don’t think I can go back this afternoon. I’m too embarrassed.”

“Well, I am a copy editor and read a lot of stuff and I have never read anything of Mr. Reginal Knight. So, he can’t be all that great.”

“Well…” Pam was running out of objections.

“Look,” Hillary got up and pulled Pam up with her, “let’s go have some lunch and then maybe a little nap. We’ll both be good as new for the next meeting. Then, if you don’t want to come, I’ll just make your excuses, and we’ll meet up again for dinner. I hear some of the girls want to try a Mexican food restaurant just over the hill. Maybe have a margarita. It will be fun!”

Pam nodded miserably and allowed herself to be led out of the room for lunch.

This guy is a regular asshole, Hillary thought to herself as she led the way to the lunchroom. Absolutely no call for him to act like that. She grimaced and put it out of her mind for the moment.

In truth, Hillary was herself a bit more than she appeared to be, or just another member of a woman’s writing club. Tall, willowy, with long light brown hair with some silver showing through, Hillary was a bit pass forty but had not yet hit the fifty mark. She was still attractive and made careful use of cosmetics and hairstyles to accentuate her features.

Hillary Jane was in truth more than a copyeditor for magazines. She was a ghost writer for the Hollywood scene. Her specialty was scripts and script repair for some of the bigger writers in the movie biz who were in too much of a hurry to be careful with their writing or too lazy to take the time anymore to clean things up before submitting. Somehow, once scriptwriters attained a name for themselves, some of the hard work of editing and revising seemed to be a bit beneath them.

Hillary had disclosed to Sue, but not the others that she had been variously: Zane Grey, Samatha Cartwright, Lillian DePlonsebury, Rex Mananoff, Sweet Sister Sue, amongst others.

“You are kidding,” Sue breathed out in sheer disbelief.

“Nope,” Hillary shook her head. She sipped her iced tea. They were having lunch.

“So why, I don’t understand, don’t you tell everyone? Tell us, the girls? They would be astounded, I know.” Sue plucked an olive from her plate and started chewing.

“Non-disclosure agreements,” Hillary replied. “Iron-clad. Attorneys and everything, signed in blood. Multiple threats of death and dismemberment if I talk.” Hillary bit into her whole-grain tuna sandwich.

“Wow,” Sue replied, “that seems so…so…”

“Unfair?” Hillary replied. She shook her head in the affirmative. “I know. But those are the rules and you got to play by the rules you want to make the money.”

“Still…” Sue shook her head and popped another olive in her mouth. She swallowed. “They pay you well?” she wanted to know.

Hillary nodded. “It’s a living. I’m not making what the big-name screenwriters make, of course, but I get by.”

Sue nodded thoughtfully. “So, just how much do the big names make?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Hillary thought a moment. “Maybe two, two hundred fifty thousand a year.”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand! Wow! I never knew. That’s as much as some doctors and lawyers make. Jeeze. And then you…?”

“A whole lot less than that,” Hillary replied and laughed. She chased the tuna bite with some potato chips and sipped her tea.

continued part II