When Dreams Die And Come Again (standard:romance, 4668 words)
Author: Billy Jack Baxter	Added: Feb 09 2002	Views/Reads: 3591/2452	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Love is found and lost in the Jemez Mountains of New Mexico.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

"Yeah, yeah--it's good."  I said.  "How 'bout a couple more beers...for
me and, I'm sorry, I don't know your name."  I pushed my old work cap 
off my brow. 

"Jenna--Jenna Logan."  She offered her hand; it was soft, but the
handshake firm. 

"Pleased to meet you, Jenna Logan.  I'm Will Davis." 

She cocked her head and smiled. 

"I must warn you, though," I said, "the local rule is: if a local is
ever spoon-fed green chili stew in the Los Ojos Bar by a stranger, then 
that stranger is stuck with that local for life." 

Jenna smiled and said, "Well, Will Davis, I'm no stranger; we've been
introduced, remember?  But, I guess we shouldn't take a 
chance--besides, being stuck with you for life...well, that might not 
be so bad." 

I was caught short; I couldn't tell if she was joking or not.  I hoped
not. 

And that's the way it happened, two years ago.  And except for one night
a week her girlfriend, Jess, would pick her up and take her to 
Albuquerque, we never spent a night apart. 

Jenna said she attended a night class a UNM on those weekly Wednesday
nights--a creative writing class--and she and Jess stayed at Jess's 
parents house in Corrales.  I had no reason to doubt her, at first. 

I have a place down the canyon and back off Highway 4.  It's nestled
back in an obscure side canyon, an off-chute of the Jemez River.  It's 
made from adobe and stone; I built it myself. 

The cabin Jenna was staying in wasn't a mile away as a crow flies.  Jess
and her husband owned the cabin.  Their home was in Los Alamos, where 
her husband worked for the Labs.  The cabin in the Jemez was a weekend 
retreat; they seldom used it, and it was perfect for Jenna, who was 
obviously running from someone...or, something. 

Jenna and Jess grew up together in Santa Fe.  After graduating in 75,
Jenna attended the University of California at Chico, to escape. 

What?  She didn't know or wouldn't tell me. 

Why anyone would want to leave this state is beyond me. 

Her sophomore year she met Allen, who six-weeks later became her
husband.  That was in 77.  She dropped out and Allen earned a degree in 
finance.  According to Jenna, her life was pure hell from that day 
until she left him. 

She was 20 when she married Allen, 40 when I met her.  I was 44, and
never married.  Never needed it...well, never found anyone I could 
honestly say I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. 

I was raised here in the Jemez River Valley, went to school in San
Ysidro.  Jenna's parents and my parents live in Colorado, now.  Only 
Jenna and I are where we were born. 

Yeah, Jenna escaped for a while, but like most people raised in this
enchanting state, she was drawn back, back to the unforgiving deserts 
and mountains and skies of New Mexico. 

After we left the bar, that first night, Jenna followed me to my cabin. 
I pulled my old pickup into the crude drive in front of my cabin and 
Jenna pulled her Land Rover into the pinons that shielded my cabin from 
the canyon winds and roving eyes of tourist.  You couldn't see Jenna's 
cabin from mine, but it wasn't far up the little dirt road that ran the 
full length of out canyon. 

We didn't go in, at first.  We stepped out of our vehicles and Jenna
strolled over to me--with purpose--wearing a peaceful smile, put her 
slender arms around my neck, and we kissed for what seemed like an 
eternity.  When we broke the kiss, she looked up at me with those eyes, 
moist with tears, cocked her head in the way that makes my knees weak, 
even now as I write this, and said, "I feel like I've known you all my 
life, Will.  Do you believe in reincarnation, or predestination?" 

"I don't know, Jenna.  But this sure feels strange; like we're best
friends getting back together after a long time apart.  I just don't 
know.  But I do know this much: I don't want you to leave tonight." 

"Don't worry," Jenna said with a big grin, "remember the local
rule...and I don't break rules." 

We both laughed. 

So, hand in hand we walked down the little dirt road.  The moon wasn't
full, but close, and we just walked and talked until we knew it was 
time to go inside and consummate our friendship, or destiny, you could 
call it. 

It was late, well past mid-night when we fumbled through the agonies of
first love.  Then we made love with the bedroom window opened wide, the 
sheer curtains ruffling in the night breeze until the sky slowly turned 
pink in the east.  Jenna fell asleep, her head resting on my chest, but 
I stayed awake for about ten minutes, stroking her hair and enjoying 
the faint aroma of her shampoo mixed with sweat, inches from my nose.  
Then I drifted off into a dreamless sleep, untroubled and painless.  It 
was the first time in a long while and it felt wonderfully different. 

Days, weeks, and months drifted by like a hot air balloon on a calm
autumn morning.  We'd always drop by the Los Ojos for a few beers after 
I'd get home from work.  The new of our relationship had worn off for 
the locals and we were just Will and Jenna.  But the new hadn't worn 
off for us. 

Jenna didn't work, didn't have to.  I never asked her where the money
came from, but I figured it had something to do with Allen.  When it 
came to Allen and the past, she didn't want to talk about it. 

She would say, "Let's just focus on the now, one day at a time.  You
worry too much about the wrong things, Will.  I'm where I want to be." 

Then she'd cock her head in that provocative way and smile, and I'd be
like potter's clay in her hands. 

On weekends and days I'd get off early, we'd walk down through the
bosque along the Jemez River, happy and content.  It was early spring, 
the cottonwoods along the river bloomed huge and pale yellow against 
the evergreen mountains and valleys, leaves trembling in the cool 
canyon breeze.  She loved the gracile hollyhocks that exploded in a 
gamut of colors, standing tall against the valley's cabins. 

We'd sneak up to Spence Hot Springs, up 4, toward Los Alamos, some
nights and soak naked in the scorching mineral waters until we 
resembled boiled lobsters.  It always amazed me how natural and at home 
Jenna looked lying on the huge lava boulder that surrounds the lower 
springs, bathed in the soft white light of a full moon.  Sometimes I'd 
sit across the springs from her on my own boulder and watch the water 
and sweat slowly evaporate from her naked body.  And I'd wonder what 
I'd done to deserve such a lovely creature. 

She'd catch me staring, then motion me over and we'd make love on the
spring warmed boulders, under the clear and cold night skies as the 
Milky Way stretched across the sky above us like a giant zipper. 

How was I to know that what she was running from had actually caught up
with her? 

I remember the first time I showed her my special place.  It is an oddly
shaped chunk of black glazed rock, pushed up from the earth's core 
millions of years ago during volcanic activity in this area.  It is 
shaped like a bench, a throne, and just the right height to sit down on 
comfortably.  It even has a backrest and is wide enough to accommodate 
five or six people. 

I found the place when I was a kid.  I hiked all through these mountains
and fished all the streams.  It's up a little finger canyon, about a 
quarter mile, that runs behind where my cabin now stands.  The canyon 
is narrow and steep, but a well-worn path snakes along one side and 
dead ends at the throne.  From the rock bench you can look out over a 
small grassy valley to the east or look down to the canyon's bottom.  
If you're real still and quiet, you can watch wildlife creep out of the 
pinon forest and drink from the fresh water spring at the bottom of the 
canyon.  The spring's runoff trickles out to the valley, and then 
disappears into the rich black earth. 

It was early spring when I first showed Jenna my spot, my throne, and
she immediately fell in love with it.  She didn't talk much when we 
were at the bench, and when she did, it always a faint whisper.  It was 
as if she had entered a sacred cathedral, a religious place.  And now 
that I look back on it, I guess it has always been that way for me, 
too. 

We'd sit for hours, holding hands, gazing out over the valley or
watching deer, coyotes, raccoons, skunks--almost ever kind of animal 
that lives in these Jemez Mountains--drink from the spring. 

Sometimes she'd stretch out on the classy rock, her head resting in my
lap, and gaze up at the infinite blueness of the sky.  Sometimes she'd 
spot an eagle or red-tailed hawk gracefully riding the thermals high 
above our secluded throne.  I'd watch her brown, gold-flaked eyes as 
they followed the raptor's ballet, engrossed, fascinated.  And I would 
look through her eyes, into her soul, and what I saw...was love. 

Sometimes I'd catch her staring out over the valley.  Not like she was
staring at anything in particular, but staring straight through 
everything.  I wanted to ask her about it, but I'd let her be, and 
after a while she'd come back, but never the same as before she'd left. 


Then the days came when I'd return home from work and she wouldn't be
sitting on my front porch waiting, like she'd always done before.  So, 
I'd hike up the trail behind my cabin and sure enough, there she'd be, 
sitting on our rock, legs crossed Indian style, watching the spring for 
forest creatures. 

She'd always tell me--in that whisper voice--what she'd seen.  Finally,
it got to where she simply abandoned the porch all together and we'd 
meet on the rock everyday.  I didn't mind, of course, I would have met 
her in Timbuktu if she'd wanted me to. 

Most afternoons I'd carry a six-pack of Coors to the rock in my old,
beat-up Playmate cooler.  She said she liked drinking beer at the rock 
better than the bar any old way.  And yes...I'd have to agree with her. 


One afternoon we were perched on our rock, looking at the spring, when
out of the pinons crept a solid white fox.  I could tell, just by 
watching it, it was an old male.  He inched his way to the edge of the 
spring and crouched, his long pink tongue lapping cautiously at the 
cold, clear water.  He'd pause from time to time, raising his black 
button nose to the air, trying to catch an enemy's scent.  He'd glance 
from side to side, and then continue drinking.  All the while, his 
hindquarters were tense, ready to carry him back to the shelter of the 
forest. 

Jenna squeezed my hand.  I could tell she was bubbling with excitement,
vibrant, alive.  After a while the white fox finished drinking and 
darted back into the pinons.  In an excited whisper, Jenna said, "Will, 
did you see that?  Have you ever seen a white fox up Here?  God, he was 
so beautiful." 

I admitted that I'd never seen a white fox, not only up here, but
anywhere.  It was shaped like our gray fox that lives here in the 
southwest, but this one was white as freshly fallen snow.  I told her 
it must've been an albino, a freak.  She didn't like the freak part, 
but didn't mind the albino. 

Then she said the damnedest thing: "Will, that's it, that's what I want
to be." 

"What do you mean that's what you want to be?" 

"When I die, silly.  You remember, I said I hadn't figured out what I
wanted to come back as.  You know, when we were talking about 
reincarnation.  Well, that's what I want to come back as. 

"Wasn't it beautiful, Will?  Wasn't it special?" 

She raved about the fox for thirty minutes, until it got dark and we
walked back to the cabin.  I guess that's when I first realized that 
Jenna was holding something back a lot worse than a failed marriage. 

The only afternoon that we wouldn't go to the throne was on Tuesdays,
the evening before Jenna and Jess went to Albuquerque.  When I'd get 
home from work on those evenings, Jenna would be busy preparing supper. 
 This happened every Tuesday evening.  It was just fine with me, of 
course; I'd been eating my own cooking for as long as I cared to 
remember. 

Jenna was an extraordinary cook and would go all out.  She'd take down
my best plates, glasses, and silverware--which weren't that grand--put 
a nice crisp tablecloth on the picnic table I used to eat off of, light 
candles, and chill a good New Mexico wine.  I didn't have to do a 
thing; she said this was my night off. 

After a leisurely meal and bottle of wine, she'd sit me on the couch and
put some music I liked on the stereo.  Then she'd clear the table and 
do the dishes, never once letting me help.  After the dishes were done, 
we'd make love.  It always struck me as odd that on these particular 
nights, Jenna's love making was more intense, more desperate.  She 
would make love like it would be her last time.  And now that I think 
about it, that's exactly the way it should be done. 

Early the next morning Jess would pull into the drive, always around the
same time.  Jess and I would talk a bit before I left for work and 
Jenna would always holler at me on my way out the door, "I'll call you 
tonight, Will...after class.  Don't forget to watch for my fox...I love 
you." 

"I love you too, Jenna."  I'd shout back. 

Oh God, how I loved her. 

Later that night, just like clock work, she'd call.  "Did you see my
white fox, Will?"  She'd ask. 

"Sorry Jenna, I didn't," I'd always say, because I never saw that fox
again, neither did Jenna.  But I'd always watch and hope, because I 
knew how much it meant to her. 

Then on Thursday when I'd return home from work, I'd walk behind the
cabin and up the canyon to our rock carrying my old cooler and there 
she'd be, sitting Indian style on the throne, watching for the fox. 

I don't want it to sound like all we did was sit behind the cabin and
watch for wildlife.  We did a lot of things, especially on the 
weekends.  We'd fish the Jemez River and small lakes around our area.  
Jenna was a superb angler.  We hiked back and saw the original stone 
lions, not the fake concrete ones at the visitors' park at Bandolier, 
and explored the cliff dwellings there, as well.  We'd go to Taos and 
Santa Fe and Chaco Canyon.  She never tired of these excursions, nor I, 
even though I'd visited them many times before. 

I guess the reason we never quarreled or fought, the reason we got along
so well together, was that we loved doing the same things.  I think 
that's where a lot of couples go wrong.  They don't like doing the same 
things. 

After we'd been together nearly a year, Jenna and Jess's Wednesday night
sleep over in Albuquerque turned into a Wednesday and Thursday night 
sleep over.  As most men, my first reaction was jealousy, suspicion.  
But when I sat down and sorted it all out, I knew Jenna wasn't seeing 
anybody else. 

When she'd get back home on Friday, usually before me, I'd find her
sitting on the porch at my place or up the canyon watching for the fox. 
 She'd act as if nothing had happened and we'd sit and talk or take 
long walks.  I guess I was afraid to bring it up, afraid of what I'd 
find out. 

There was one thing I did notice, though: She seemed to be growing more
and more possessive; which was fine by me, because I'd never felt as 
wanted as Jenna made me feel.  After the two days apart she'd literally 
cling to me, never letting me out of her sight.  She would always have 
to be touching me in some way.  It worried me, but it didn't. 

Then the day came when I got home on Friday and Jenna wasn't there.  I
make all kinds of excuses in my mind, telling myself everything was all 
right.  This went on until Jess called me at ten o'clock that night. 

Oh, she sounded convincing enough, telling me that some old, mutual
friend of theirs was in town and they hoped to be home the next day, 
Saturday.  But I could tell by Jess's voice everything wasn't all right 
and the fact that she told me Jenna was in the shower and couldn't come 
to the phone, didn't sound right at all.  Jenna had always talked to me 
herself, not once had she relied on Jess to call me. 

On a hunch, I did something I'd never done before: I pried into Jenna's
personal life. 

I knew here she kept a spare key to her cabin.  Although Jenna stayed
with me every night, she spent most of her days at her cabin down the 
road.  I got into my old, beat-up pickup, drove down the canyon to 
Jenna's cabin, and let myself in.  Everything was tidy and clean, like 
I expected it to be.  Hell, she was rarely there, but when I walked 
into the kitchen I found something I couldn't explain, at first. 

On the counter by the sink, there was a lazy Susan stacked with pill
bottles.  I read the labels and found most were prescription vitamins, 
scores of them.  There were a few painkillers and a few I didn't 
recognize, and the same doctor in Albuquerque, at the University 
Hospital, prescribed them all.  I didn't know what to do.  I stood 
there in the kitchen, for probably fifteen minutes, staring at the pill 
bottles. Then I drove home. 

When I arrived back to my cabin, I snatched a six-pack from the frig and
a bottle of rum from the cabinet.  I picked up the cordless phone on my 
way out of the door.  I sat down on the porch and drank and waited for 
Jenna to call.  But deep down inside, I knew she wouldn't.  I drank the 
six-pack and half the bottle of rum that night before giving up and 
going to bed. 

I had told Jess when she'd called I had to work the next day, Saturday. 
So, when morning came I got up and went through the motions.  This was 
the first time since I'd met Jenna that we'd been apart for three 
straight days. 

I worked the best I could until noon, and then knocked off for the day. 
I felt the need to go home and see if Jenna was there or if she'd 
called.  I wanted to hold her, feel her body next to mine, talk to 
her...at least one more time. 

When I got home everything was as I'd left it.  The place felt so empty,
so meaningless without her there.  I glanced at the half full bottle of 
rum by my porch chair, and then walked on down the steps.  I went 
around behind the cabin, then up the canyon to our spot.  I sat down 
and tried to think...what was I going to do? 

Hell, what could I do? 

Late that afternoon I heard somebody coming up the trail.  I sat up
straight and looked. Whoever it was, was still quite a ways away, but I 
was almost positive it was Jenna.  My heart started to rack; I wanted 
to see her up close; I wanted to touch and hold her; I wanted to have 
long conversations with her.  I didn't dare look, for fear that I'd 
imagined the sound, imagined the person making their way slowly toward 
me.  So I simply sat, my heart trying to beat its way from my body. 

I could hear the footsteps growing closer...closer.  The sun was low in
the western sky and cast a long, lean--almost alien-looking--shadow in 
front of the throne. 

She had stopped. 

Without looking up, I said, "Jenna, where have you been?" 

When she didn't answer, I looked up and slightly to my left, shielding
the low-lying sun with one cupped hand, expectation in my eyes. 

Jess stood in front of me; she looked like she'd aged twenty years.  She
held the bottle of rum by its neck.  It dangled there like a wine 
bottle in a Central Street drunk's hand. 

Jess's eyes were pools of tears; she handed me the bottle and said,
"Here, drink some of this." 

I took the bottle and twisted the cap off.  I took a drink, and then
another. 

Jess sat down beside me and put her arm around my shoulder, then pulled
me close to her side. 

"She didn't want you to worry, Will.  She died peacefully.  She wanted
me to give you this."  Jess handed me a folded piece of paper.  As I 
unfolded it, it was as if my fingers didn't know what to do. It read: 

"I loved you more than love, Will.  Please don't morn my death, be
joyful I'm in no more pain.  Go on with you life, bit watch for my fox. 
Whatever you do, don't forget about my fox. 

Until we meet again, Jenna" 

I folded the note carefully and put it in my shirt pocket.  Jess said,
"Jenna loved you so very much.  You made her last year here worth 
living.  You do know that, don't you? 

"When she first arrived here, she wanted to give up.  I think she would
have died sooner if she hadn't met you." 

I didn't know what to say.  Hell, I was unable to say anything.  So,
Jess and I simply sat and held on to each other...for dear life. 

That was one year ago.  It's been two years since I met Jenna in the
bar.  Oh, I go to work and still go down to the Los Ojos every night.  
I can't even begin to describe how bad I hurt for a while, but time 
does take care of everything...to some extent. 

I especially felt better today, at the rock.  Better than I have since
Jenna and I sat there.  A friend came to visit me there, but not the 
old gentleman; it was a young inquisitive female.  It was solid white 
all right, white as newly fallen snow. 

You ask me how I know it was a female, I just know. 

I watched her for as long as she would let me.  She was nervous, edgy as
she lapped at the spring water.  But before she retreated into the 
safety of the pinons, she paused, for just a brief moment and her eyes 
met mine, high above her on our throne.  She didn't run; she didn't 
even seem frightened.  She simply cocked her head in an all too 
familiar way and walked away, never looking back, into the forest. 

I stood up. The breeze blowing through the canyon had a chill to it,
which wasn't peculiar for this time of the year.  I raised my jacket 
collar and started up the trail to my cabin, which will never be the 
same again.  I paused before I got out of sight of the place that the 
white fox disappeared and I whispered, in a Jenna whisper...good bye, 
my love. 

The end. 

Sometimes I can feel your presence On our pew, Or high above Through the
eye of a hawk, Or your excited whisper In the cottonwood leaves, 
Stirred by a gentle unsuspecting breeze In the early morning solitude 
Along the bosque. But most of the time I don't feel you at all As I sit 
here Alone, Surrounded by time. 


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