D e s e r t E x p o s u r e September 2008

The Old Goat's Secret

Ol' Dan was keeping mum about more than just his recipe.

By Betty McMahon Buman

The rough-and-tumble borderlines draw all kinds of people, who sometimes come together in the most surprising ways. As this short story shows, with people — as with goats — you just never know.

The last spoonful of Dan's goat cheese spread still contained a hint of the oil and herbs that Dan had smothered it in. With the last taste lingering on my tongue, I headed to Old Dan's to replenish my supply.

Illustration by Lisa D Fryxell

A few miles out into the desert, I drove off the asphalt onto a dusty gravel road and followed it, twisting and turning, past a stand of flowering yucca. Even though my Jeep was a veteran of many trips through the desert, I still groaned as mesquite branches scratched against it in the narrowing dirt track. After about 20 minutes, the road seemed to end abruptly, but I'd been there before and knew a 45-degree turn through the creosote bushes would take me to a driveway of sorts.

I shouldered the Jeep across the deeply rutted "driveway" and soon Dan's tiny adobe house came into view. Goats scurried behind the place, bleating as I drove up. His old border collie ambled up to me warily, barking as I sat, waiting for Dan to emerge.

I'd never waited more than five minutes. Eventually the door would open and Dan would come out, beckoning me onto the porch. But today, 10 minutes went by, then 15. Reluctant to return home empty-handed, I walked to the house and climbed the two steps up to the wooden porch. I knocked on the door. No answer.

I reached for the door handle and pressed the latch down. The door opened. I peered into the house. "Dan!" I called. "Anybody home?" No answer. I stepped inside.

My first impression was that the house was not what I expected of an old desert bachelor's house. Everything was in place and scrubbed. A pan of beans simmered on a cast-iron stove in the corner. Colorful curtains stirred in a slight breeze. Another fragrance blended with the aroma of the cooking beans, but I couldn't place it. A row of glass jars of goat cheese sat on the counter, waiting for someone like me to come along and buy them.

As I shuffled across the room, something prickly brushed across my face. I looked up and swatted away a sheaf of herbs — one of many — hanging from the ceiling beams. Ah. . . that accounted for the unusual smell.

"Dan!" I called again. No answer. Maybe he was in back. I padded across the kitchen, stooping to avoid the hanging herbs, when I heard a slight sound off to the right.

I retraced my steps to a room that led off from the kitchen. The door was ajar. I nudged it open. Old Dan lay prostrate on a quilt-covered iron bedstead. Beside the bed, a woman sat in a chair, leaning over him, her hands covering his. Her head was down.

"Excuse me," I said, flustered. "I-I came to get some cheese and came inside when I —"

She was a Mexican woman, dressed in a white loose-fitting skirt and blouse. Her black hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head. I guessed her to be about 40.

She turned a tear-streaked face toward me, then back to Dan.

"Is he okay?" I asked gesturing toward Dan.

She shook her head back and forth and dropped her hands in her lap, where she twisted a handkerchief, periodically bringing it to her face to wipe away tears and swipe across her nose.

I approached Dan, and saw immediately that he was not okay. He had, in fact, passed from the land of the living.

Uncertain what to do, my instincts took over. I went to the woman and touched her on the shoulder. "Do you need help?" I asked her.

She looked at me as if she did not understand. I tried my rusty high-school Spanish. "Usted necesite ayuda?"

She nodded without looking at me. Her shoulders shook again as she wept.

"Voy volver," I murmured, telling her I would return.

I walked outside and retrieved my cell phone from the front seat of my Jeep. Hoping it would work this far out in the desert, I punched in 911. Luckily, it connected. I told the dispatcher the sad news and how to get to Old Dan's place.

Back inside, I brought the woman a glass of water, then left her alone by Dan's side.

In about an hour, Sheriff Martinez arrived with a couple of paramedics. They did what they had to do, finally carrying Dan out of the house. We left the woman, who declined to leave, standing in the kitchen as we drove away.

The next day, I stopped in at the sheriff's to finish giving my report. A young deputy took my information.

"Who'd have thought?" I said. "All this time I thought Old Dan was out there living as a hermit, and — whaddya know — he had a woman with him all this time. Who is she, do you know?"

"I think I might," the deputy said. "My grandfather was a good friend of Dan's. He told me a story once about how the two of them found this young woman in the desert. They took her to my grandfather's house, gave her something to eat and drink, and Dan said he'd take her to the sheriff's. My grandfather said okay, then never thought anything of it. I'd be willing to bet that woman was the girl he found. He took her home instead of turning her in to the authorities."

"But that woman had to be 40 years old," I said. "She wasn't any girl."

"Dan was close to 80 when the two of them found her," said the deputy. "I suspect she took care of him for the last 20 years."

"He saved her life, then she helped him prolong his," I said, musing on the herbs hanging from the ceiling and the uniquely special goat cheese. "She's probably still illegal. What'll happen to her now?"

"Afraid we'll have to pick her up and send her back to wherever she came from 20 years ago," the deputy said, wrapping up the report and closing down the computer program.

On Friday, the day after Old Dan's burial, Sheriff Martinez drove out to Dan's place to carry out his troublesome task. He'd find out who the woman was, and if she was illegal, he'd send her back to Mexico.

He got out of the squad car, took off his hat and slapped it across his leg, trying to dislodge some of the dust that seeped into the vehicle no matter how many doors and windows were closed. He knocked on the door. No answer. He pushed the door open and entered the house. No one was around. He searched the three small rooms, then stepped outside. The goats were gone. Everything else looked the same.

A rumpled piece of paper was on the table, next to a cell phone. He straightened out the paper. The note, in Spanish, was addressed to "Maria" and written in the wavy block letters of an old man's handwriting. It included a phone number.

"When I am gone, punch in this number on the phone," the note said. "Tell the person who answers that Dan said it is time to come. Wait, and someone will come for you and the goats."

"Hmph," said the sheriff, pocketing the piece of paper. He walked outside and sat on the edge of the porch. He tapped a cigarette out of a pack, lit it and puffed quietly. He finished the cigarette, dropped it on the ground and stomped it out. Then he reached into his shirt pocket and took out the piece of paper. He pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket, held up the paper and lit it on the corner. He turned it gingerly with his fingers until it was fully engulfed in flame. He dropped the paper into the dust and stepped out the fire, grinding the ashes into the desert floor.

Then he walked to his squad car, got in, and drove away.

Betty McMahon Buman lives in Deming. She was a finalist in our 2007 writing contest, and another of her short stories was the grand prize winner in 2005.

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