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DESERT DINER
A Novel
JAMES ANDERSON
CROWN PU B LI S H E R S
N EW YO R K
ISBN 978-1-101-90652-1
eBook ISBN 978-1-101-90653-8
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First Edition
ing and yelling did was piss him off. If there was one seventy-
nine-year-old man on the planet you didn’t want to piss off, it was
Walt Butterfield.
I was probably the only person to have seen the inside of Walt’s
Quonset workshop in at least twenty years. These occasional ex-
cursions into Walt’s world, always by gruff invitation, never lasted
longer than the time it took for me to slip freight off a hand truck.
I left the new box of parts next to the door and did the smart
thing. It was a piece of good luck that Walt hadn’t answered my
knock. I might have done something stupid, like ask him where
he’d been or what was in the six cartons.
I always hoped to catch Walt, or rather have him willing to
be caught. On a handful of occasions we sat in the closed diner.
Sometimes he talked, though usually not. I always listened when
he wanted to talk. A few times he actually fixed and served me
breakfast in the diner. He had been around the area longer than
anyone, or at least longer than anyone who had a brain that
worked and a reliable memory.
I returned to my truck determined not to dwell on the strange
freight or Walt’s absence. The really big mysteries in life never
troubled me much. How the pyramids were built or whether Cor-
tés was a homosexual didn’t bounce my curiosity needle. On the
other hand, Walt’s absence and his odd freight were hard to resist.
The diner and I contemplated each other. Like Walt himself, it
had a long and colorful past.
U.S. 191 is the main highway north and south out of Price,
Utah. North led to Salt Lake City. Due south took you to Green
River, and eventually Moab. The turnoff for State Road 117 is
about twenty miles from the city limits of Price. Ten miles east,
down 117, on the left, surrounded by miles of flat, rugged noth-
ing, you came upon The Well-K nown Desert Diner.
A ll the coffee caught up with me a few miles down the road from
the diner. I searched for any spot large enough to allow me to safely
pull over my twenty-eight-foot tractor-trailer rig. A narrow turnout
appeared ahead. It was almost hidden at the bottom of a slight hill
that came at the end of a long gentle curve. It wasn’t a turnout at
all—it was a road, though I didn’t realize that until I had stopped
and climbed down out of the cab. Dirt and sand have a special feel
under your boots. This ground had a contoured hardness to it.
I scuffed at the sandy surface with a boot tip and stood there
amazed at what I had uncovered—a slab of white concrete. I fol-
lowed the concrete about fifty yards up a gentle slope. At the crest
of the hill were two brick pillars connected by an iron arch. Inside
the arch, in cursive metal script, were the words “Desert Home.”
It seemed strange to me that I had never noticed the entrance
before. I’d driven by it twice a day, five days a week, for twenty
years. A car sped by on the highway below. The pillars were just
high enough and far enough from the road they couldn’t be easily
seen, even if you were looking for them. Given the height of my
cab and the level of the sloping highway, the entrance was nearly
impossible to spot from 117.
For a moment I reflected on what had once been a grand en-
trance. It was somebody’s dream gone sour and lost—probably
a ranch. When I lowered my gaze a bit, the distance came into
focus and I could make out a series of shallow, dry creek beds
carved into the sands, all intertwined and attached.
It took a minute for the truth of the scene to register. They
were not creek beds at all, but lanes and cul-de-sacs that had
never made good on their promise of homes, except one, probably
a model, that stuck out like a sturdy tooth on an empty gum. It
was down the hill a couple blocks on my right.
A gust of wind kicked up a miniature twister of dust at my
feet. My discomfort returned. Relieving yourself in a wind can be
tricky business. The abiding loneliness of what lay ahead seemed
to beckon, and the one-story model house offered a chance to get
out of the wind. I had no idea I might be hopping any sort of fence.
Walking down the hill toward the house, I could almost hear
the sounds of children playing and the happy drone of families
enjoying weekend barbecues. It was a ghost town without the
town and without the ghosts, since no one had actually ever lived
there. I imagined ghosts of ghosts, less than ghosts, and I felt
oddly welcomed into their company.
The model house had held up exceptionally well through the
however many years it had been sitting there abandoned to the
elements.
Maybe, like most orphans, I thought too much about houses.
I’d never owned or lived in one as an adult. I had strong opinions
and a tendency to evaluate houses in a particular way—w indows
first, placement mostly. Then the porch, whether it had one and
what direction it faced. I liked porches and I’ve always been par-
tial to those that were eastward facing. Finally, the roof. I’ve never
liked a roof that’s too pitched. If I wanted a hat I’d buy a hat. A
sharp-pitched roof always seemed to put me off for some reason.
The house was alone in a bed of sand and the windows were
unbroken and clean, and placed slightly lower for the cooler morn-
ing air. The porch faced east toward the sparkling mica-flaked
mesa about fifty miles away. Any desert dweller will tell you the
true beauty of a desert sunset can be best appreciated by looking in
that unlikely direction, the east, away from the sun. A single faded
green metal lawn chair relaxed on the porch. Someone would have
been happy sitting there on a fine cool evening. The roof had a
graceful, easy pitch that welcomed instead of threatened the sky.
I walked around the house. There was no sign anyone lived
there, or had ever lived there. In the backyard I paused and took
in the unhindered view all the way west to the Wasatch Moun-
tains. The south side had the least wind. I stepped up close and
rested my forehead on the shady wall just beneath a clean win-
dow. In the freedom of the moment and the beauty of the setting,
I unbuckled my belt so I could fully abandon myself to the long-
anticipated event.
It was almost quiet in the shade. Wind made a high whistling
complaint as it slipped in and out of the eaves above me. When I
looked up at the whistling, my sight traveled past the window—a
kitchen window, I guessed. In that fraction of an instant my eyes
glided over the disapproving face of a woman.
A good many bad behaviors have been honestly attributed
to me over the years. Most of them I have just as honestly and
sometimes even cheerfully acknowledged. Pissing on the side
of someone’s house, however modest or isolated, had never been
among them. Such a breach surpassed bad manners and marched
straight into the territory of criminally stupid. In the Utah desert
it is likely to get you shot.
In my haste to retreat, my jeans slipped to my knees. I stum-
bled backward and over. Despite my best efforts, the flow con-
tinued undeterred while I thrashed around on my backside. It
occurred to me at that moment I might have borne a striking