Monk's Castle
Part Three
by Jack Lennox

3

"Life in a garden is relaxed, quiet and sweet...but survival in a howling desert demands action, the unceasing manipulation and mastery of the forces of nature, including, of course, human nature. Colonies established in the desert require aggressive, intellectual, controlled and well-disciplined people." --Leo Marx

"Did you see that?"

"What?" I turned my head from the road in front of me. Jenna looked both amazed and amused.

"I think it was a miniature golf course."

"It was a miniature golf course."

It was Wednesday, late morning, and I was taking my girlfriend out for a late breakfast ...I use the word girlfriend loosely here. We'd been together for only the second time yesterday, both before and after work. Without acknowledging or confirming it in words, we nevertheless were making some kind of pair, our time spent together as if we'd known each other for years. If that sounds too comfortable for what might be a romance brewing, I'll reassure you that sexual tension was boiling frothily beneath the surface ...at least my blood was percolating.

"I'd call it optimism," she laughed.

I could see her point - about the golf course, that is. The temperature was climbing this week - 117 crispy degrees outside the comfortable air of the golden Firebird. The tempting tourist attraction she had spotted was a small open rectangular plot along the highway completely devoid of anything resembling vegetation, much less a tree to shade any demoniacally dedicated mini-golf enthusiast. Actually, the bleak, gray course lacked any feature raised more than a few inches off the ground, resembling more an oversized board game ...maybe the windmill and giant clown-head had melted in the sun.

"Well, it's summer," I reminded her. "Winter, there's a line down the street to get in."

"Yeah, right," she smiled dryly. "Tell me there's more to do in this hole than that."

I couldn't think of anything right offhand.

"Thank God for the casinos," she sighed.

"He works in mysterious ways. ... and whadda ya mean, hole? I'll have you know this is my home, and now you've offended me."

"Hey, it's my home, too. Days like today, it's a hole."

I turned to catch the tail of a lopsided grin. She was looking very good in a short pink top and well-worn jeans. Her place was north, across from the casinos, and we were further south than she was familiar with, almost as far as Monk's unbound hacienda. Lou's Country Diner is at the very south end of civilization, chosen for its good basic food and because I thought I'd introduce Jenna to Traci, who happened to be working there as a waitress. Jenna reached out and fiddled with the car radio, but got nothing.

"Sorry, doesn't work," I informed her.

"No CD player? Tape?"

"Nope."

"Great. You'd think a musician would want music."

"The air conditioning works. Desert priorities."

She didn't seem very impressed.

"So, have you thought about moving, Donny-boy?"

We were going back to her apartment after brunch where I'd get the grand tour.

"Yes, I've thought about it." That was an understatement.

"Aaand...?"

"You're sure you want me as a roommate?"

She sighed, perhaps a little irritated. "Do I sound unsure?"

I glanced sideways and smiled, hoping she didn't think I had something against the idea, or more importantly, against her. The fact was, if I didn't have strong, and still unanswered, feelings for Jenna, the idea of sharing a place with a woman would have been a lot less daunting.

"I just need a little more time, Jen ...it's a big decision."

We rode in silence for a mile, the scattered roadside shops and strip malls thinning out to a trickle as we made our way south.

"Why do you keep doing that?" she laughed.

"Doing what?"

"Leaning back and eyeing the dashboard like you're flying a 747, and it could go down any minute."

"I'm checking the car's vital signs. That's what all these gauges are for," I explained patiently.

"I know what they're for," she retorted. "They don't need to be checked every mile, ya know."

She smiled prettily and flashed her coffee eyes.

"It's an old car, in case you hadn't noticed ...and you wouldn't be such a smart ass if we broke down out here in the heat."

The Mojave Valley community is dotted along the river in many patches, and we'd reached a stretch of highway that ran through a few miles of mostly undeveloped land. The topography is rougher here, the river out of sight behind dry brown scrub covered hills where you get a more vivid reminder that you are surrounded by the stingy desert. Through sheer effort, people have made this a home, but the land is still not, by nature, hospitable. In summer, during the middle of the day, it defies the living, lying motionless, a blinding hypnotic trap to be sprung on the careless and unsuspecting. Along the highway, we were in no grave danger, but I liked the view much better from inside the car.

"You worry too much," she replied. "You need to loosen up, Donny-boy."

"I'm plenty loose, thank you."

"You think? I think you're definitely the cautious type ...timid ...afraid of taking chances."

Timid? I'd braved the rapids of the mighty Colorado. Survived the Badlands of Utah. Descended into the grandest canyon to the very bowels of the Earth. Her words struck me like a fist ...a small fist without too much force behind it, but still a fist. I played it off.

"Are you saying I'm a girlie man?" I asked in a painfully thick accent. "Hear me now and believe me later, young lady, I'm not into politics, I'm into survival..."

By the way, I don't like to brag, but I do a pretty awesome "Arnold". The key to making it funny is adding a few inarticulate syllables at the end that sound like a Nazi choking on a bratwurst.

"Was that supposed to be Arnold Schwarzenegger?" she inquired with a completely straight face.

"You think?" I looked at her incredulously, and a little hurt besides.

"The accent's not quite right."

"And I suppose you could do better?"

"Foreign accents are my specialty."

"Oh yeah? Let's hear one."

"Zat eez no problem, silly boy ...Le prix d'Amour, c'est seulement Amour."

I thought it sounded like decent French, but after bearing her critique, I wasn't feeling so generous.

"Not bad. Is that northern or southern Italy?"

"Donny, you're an ass."

With the look she had on her face, she could call me an ass any day of the week. I had a tremendous urge to kiss her. I thought the good juicy smack of my hard palm on her smart-ass little bottom would be pleasant, as well. If I wasn't busy driving, I just might have done it.

*****

Lou's was perched on a big lot at the corner of County Road and nowhere. Beyond that outpost, the highway cut through dirt and scrub for another twenty miles south before the next town. The diner looked more like a ranch house than a restaurant, especially if you're used to franchise cuisine ...no bright colors, no gleaming arches, no happy clowns. If you liked good food, though -- the kind you'd make at home if you were handy in the kitchen -- it was worth the drive. I guess there's just something about a place owned by someone who got into the business because they like to cook rather than as a simple business investment. Lou Castanza was as excited about making an omelet as a buck, and the pride he had in his Country Diner was evident.

I pulled into the entrance to a paved parking area that was relatively empty. The place did good business, but we'd hit the slower time between breakfast and lunch. A welcome line of trees along the west side of the building created a shady spot for the car. Jenna and I made a direct path to the door before the heat could smother us.

Inside we were hit by a blast of chill air, at least relatively speaking. Except for some clatter from the kitchen, and muffled conversation, the diner offered a quiet sanctuary you wouldn't find at prime time. The square room was simple and efficient: comfy booths lining three walls, a counter with kitchen behind the fourth wall, and plenty of tables in the middle. Most of the tables were empty. I observed the Seat-Yer-Self policy and led Jenna to the only booth available, a nice dimmer one with a blind drawn over the window.

"So which one is Traci?" Jenna asked, a little confused. We'd been sitting for several moments, and she had been scanning the room with interest. Neither of the two waitresses roaming the floor had seen twenty in a few years.

"I don't see her." I was a bit confused myself. "Maybe she's on a break."

I recognized Evelyn, a fifty-something woman I knew from previous visits. She had the look of one who'd weathered the dry clime of the desert. Her spirit was strong and her eyes were kind. The "girls" working for Lou all wore a blue getup. I don't know anything about fashion, but it was some kind of Western ensemble with the embroidered patterns on the shirt and a few tassels here and there. I'd heard Traci complaining about the uniform, and I had to admit it looked a little hokey. I caught her eye and she hurried over to our table. Above her kerchief she wore an oddly sheepish expression.

"Hi, Donny. What can I get for you two?" She smiled at Jenna, then stood with pad in hand still looking a little distracted.

"Hi Ev. Is Traci around? She should be working today."

Evelyn looked behind her as if she were about to divulge an unsavory secret no one was supposed to let out of the kitchen. When she turned back she reluctantly informed us that Traci had been let go that morning. "She was fired!?" Ev winced at my outburst. The news was stunning.

I felt bad for Traci. She had needed a job real bad, and she owed Monk for this one. He and Lou had known each other for years, Lou more than happy to hire her as a favor to his old buddy. I'd got wind of the fact that Lou was less than happy ever since.

"What happened?" I asked, hopeful that maybe it was something that could be worked out favorably.

"It's really not my place to tell," Ev replied apologetically. "Maybe you should talk to Lou. I can get him for you," she offered as concession.

I thanked Ev, but excused myself and went to look for the owner myself. The swinging door to the kitchen flew open as I approached, and the man himself appeared. Lou Castanza's not a guy you really want to mess with - not that I had any such intention. He's short but built like a little tank, and his temperament can often lead to a Mussolini-like advance on the enemy. I was relieved to sense right away a passiveness in his demeanor.

"Oh, Donny. How nice to see you. How you been my good friend?" I got a quick hug and pat on the arm. He was always one for a hearty greeting, but his heart seemed a little too leaden to put much air in it that day.

"Hi, Lou. What happened?" I got right to the point, tried to sound sympathetic.

His expression was pained, and a sound of exasperation escaped from beneath his thick black mustache. "Tell Monk I tried, Donny. I'm running a business here."

"She's not a very good waitress, I take it."

Lou looked at me like I'd claimed World War II was an unfortunate skirmish.

"She is menace, Donny. Never on time ...careless with orders, drops dishes ...Oh, Donny, she cost me money. The place is busy; she sits and talks with her friends." He threw his hands up over his head in an animated show of frustration. I almost couldn't keep from smiling, but managed to respect the gravity of the moment.

I was back seated across from Jenna. We'd commiserated about Traci's misfortune, then ordered a couple breakfast specials - your basic pancakes, scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon - and were enjoying the simple fare that somehow Lou knew how to make taste special.

"That's too bad," Jenna managed between bites. "I really wanted to meet her today."

"I'm sure you'll meet her soon enough."

"Is she pretty?" Jenna asked, pinning me with a conspiratorial smile.

"She's pretty hot, actually." I smiled and winked back. Honesty's the best policy, they say.

"It must be tempting, the three of you all cooped up in that little place of yours." Her tone was playful. I wasn't really buying it.

"I suppose."

"That's it? You suppose?"

"Yes, it can be tempting," I conceded in a mildly mocking tone.

It wasn't a crime to be tempted by a temptress. Some nights I'd be watching TV in that tiny living area and then there she'd be ...her tight young body in thin short pajamas, shapely legs of flawless skin, barefoot, ten perfect toes painted the color of blood. Yeah, she could be tempting. Her face was pretty, in a girl-next-door kind of way, with narrow mischievous eyes, and a little gap between her two front teeth turning her smile a little more endearing. She wore her platinum blond hair in a glamorous bob; fetching, but incongruous with a girl not quite the sophisticate.

"So how is it that a hot young girl ended up living in a trailer with two much older, temptable men?"

"It's not really a trailer. It's a house that can be moved in an emergency."

"Funny. Doesn't answer my question."

"I guess it's a good question." I forked a sausage and forced a smile; she chewed without diverting her inquisition.

"I don't know the whole story," I paused to gather my thoughts. "I know she doesn't know her real parents. She was adopted very young by a deeply religious couple. Maybe they were doing God a solid, or wanted to pad their existing family of boys with a little girl Mommy could dress up like a doll, I don't know ...but they always made sure she knew she was there by their grace ...and with the subtle suggestion that she was less valuable than their 'real' children. There was some hinted at abuse."

"That's horrible. How can people treat a child like that?"

"I don't know, but keep in mind this is only Traci's side of it ...with my interpretations thrown in. She's had her troubles, but she's really not a bad kid. She's bright, more than she tends to let on. Her folks have homes here and somewhere in Idaho, so she's lived here off and on all her life. At some point, though, she became too much for them to handle, and they abandoned her when she turned 18. Her ex-boyfriend used to work at the Flamingo, and she hung out there regularly. Somehow she hooked up with Monk, and he ended up providing her a place to live ...they bonded strongly in some way."

"So I take it he's some kind of father figure to her?"

"I think you could say that ...yes."

"Are they involved?" Jenna crooked her fingers in a gesture to indicate quotation marks around a subtle disapproval. Frankly, I thought she was being a little petty. It really wasn't her business.

"No ...I take it you think we have some kind of orgy going on over there."

"No," she relented.

"Look, Jenna... to the best of my knowledge, Monk is like an uncle to Traci, and I'm kinda like an older cousin ...not the Ozarks kind ...Traci and I have never been involved," I mimicked her gesture. "She's attractive but not my type ...okay?" I was slightly irritated, but at the same time, I wanted to be reassuring.

Her expression softened considerably. "I know. I'm just teasing you."

It wasn't terribly amusing.

"I trust you Donny." She flashed her prettiest smile.

"You've said that before. How is it that you trust me so much?" I looked at her evenly.

"One of my gut feelings ...a strong feeling."

I recognized something in her face I hadn't seen before. She was a little embarrassed. I reached across the table and she put her hand in mine. Her small hand. She was more fragile than I'd imagined.

*****

When I turned onto Marina Road it was noon, the demon sun above, the shadows hiding under every available object as if to escape the inferno. We were on our way north to Jenna's apartment, with a minor detour to pick up a guitar I needed later that afternoon. Monk's shift at the Flamingo ran from evening into the wee hours, and Jenna seemed eager to meet the primary representative of my known extended family.

I felt a burden to my self-confidence as I tried to see the neighborhood through Jenna's eyes. In the movies there's a term they use called "trucking", where the camera is placed on a moving object so as to follow the action of the characters. We were slowly trucking through a three-dimensional, but oddly flat scene playing on the big screen of the car windows -- a scene not of abject failure, but not either of boastful success. Dirt, gravel, and chain-link provided the backdrop over which the string of meager houses and trailers floated by huddled, their homely charm turned downcast under the scrutiny of a piercing sun. Most everything standing pleaded for a fresh coat of paint, and the life-affirming green of a lawn would have been welcome. Too few Mojave residents seemed up for such challenges. A scattering of trees--ash, cypress, mesquite, oak, and palm--are the land's single blessing, but all stood dried and weary, and somehow uncharitable.

It was with some small measure of pride that I drove through the open gate to our mobile manor. The structure sagged slightly, but looked relatively fresh from a recent paint job, the dignified slate gray set off with a crisp white trim. No lawn, but we kept a tidy yard free of the junk often seen set out front like some forsaken garage sale. The crunch of gravel under tires announced our arrival, and I could see the tail-end of Monk's truck parked in back and Traci's little pickup in its customary spot along the north fence. It was at that point that I had my first disquieting twinge of apprehension.

"I'll just run in and grab it," I rushed, leaving the engine running after coming to a stop under my unruly mesquite. It had occurred to me that our happy household might not be so cheery after Traci's sacking. I figured there could be a better time for Jenna to meet the family.

"No, come on." she was already halfway out of the car. Resigned, I turned the key to the ignition and the car sputtered to silence. In its wake I could already hear the high whine of the air conditioning unit, the sound familiar against the quiet of the desert, a machined wail proclaiming that humans in defiance have set up camp there. As I shut the car door behind me, I was hit with the frightening realization that the air conditioner wasn't the only thing crying.

It was coming from inside the trailer, and it wasn't the high-spirited squealing I'd found provocative on Monday, but rather the sound of desperate anguish. Frankly, it sounded like a determined beating. Though the blows were a muffled, barely discernible rhythm, the yawling response was to a deep pain both physical and emotional. Incoherent and unconsolable. My heart was in my throat, my stomach sour, as I tried to process all that was happening -- poor Traci's ordeal with, what I estimated was, her dreaded hairbrush -- Jenna's look of dismay as she turned to question me with outraged eyes -- my own sad place in this sordid drama. I had little time to sort it out as Jenna ran to the door. Sometimes the doorhandle can be uncooperative, and when it stuck, she began to pound hard on the door with both palms, screaming demands that it be opened. The dissonance inside abated.

Moving forward as if through hot molasses, I made my way to Jenna where, with a practiced twist, I pulled the door open. Without missing a beat, she was inside. I followed quickly only to witness the surreal -- Jenna's back as she rushed at Monk, who stood blocking the way into the short hall to the bedrooms. Without so much as slowing down, she shoved him above the gut, though unable to budge the man twice her size.

"What the fuck did you do to her!" she screamed at him. Monk's face was mute befuddlement, his eyes drawing mine as if to ask, "Who is this small creature, and can you protect me from her?"

Jenna turned to me. "Call the police," her voice cold.

I stood helpless, but Jenna was already squeezing by a wooden Monk. She rapped lightly on Traci's door, the sobs now coming from the room soft and sporadic.

"Traci, honey, are you all right?" Jenna inquired gently before shooting daggers our way.

"Go away. Leave me alone," Traci's wet voice muffled.

I stood both embarrassed and helpless. "Jen..." I started but wasn't sure what I wanted to say.

"Where's the phone?" she demanded, heading towards me.

Monk was at Traci's door. "Trace, you need to come out here."

"No."

"Come on, Princess ...Please, come out," Monk urged gently. Jenna and I watched as the door opened. The girl emerged and stood by Monk, who had returned to the living room now made even smaller by four. I immediately had my doubts as to how this was going to help. Traci looked the worse for wear, face blotched and eyes puffy from crying, her hair frightened. Her body was partially wrapped in a bath robe, and I thought it entirely possible she had nothing on underneath. I could imagine the soft swathing slipping from her shoulders revealing an exotic Rodin-like sculpture, a white marble figure with molded buttocks the color of wine. Then Jenna could really go ballistic. I stood rooted to the spot as Jenna approached the clearly discomfited young woman.

"My God, what did he do to you?" She looked the girl up and down.

"Look, I'm okay," Traci managed. "Could you please just go?"

At the moment, I couldn't fault her lack of hospitality.

"Get dressed, honey. Let's get you out of here."

I'm sure Jenna believed she was rescuing an abused woman, but Traci's response was first disbelief then disdain. She turned in a huff, marched the few feet back to her room and slammed the door.

Jenna's accusing eyes swung back-and-forth from Monk to me, angry and hurt. They came to rest on me. "Are you just going to stand there?" I moved towards her, hand extended.

"Don't touch me." She looked away.

"Jen, we need to talk. Come with me." I decided it would be best to discuss things in private.

"Come with you? Where? Why?"

"Jenna, please. You said you trusted me."

We locked eyes, Jenna's injured and confused, mine troubled but determined. Maybe she recognized the storm raging inside. Maybe she found a little compassion for my suffering. She relented with reluctance. I led her down the hall to the main bedroom and shut the door behind us.

*****

I pulled a rolling chair away from the desk and motioned for her to sit.

"I'll stand." Her arms were crossed, her demeanor stubborn.

"Jenna...sit," I instructed firmly. She yielded, but with no change of stance. I sat on the edge of my single bed, elbows on knees, paused in thought. I sighed, rubbed my face, ran fingers through my hair like a bad actor in a soap opera. I wasn't sure what to say, but I needed to figure it out quick.

"Jen... do you understand that what we came upon here today is an act between consenting adults?"

"Consenting?" she questioned in astonishment. "Consenting ...as in, I'm an abused young girl who needs a place to stay so go ahead and beat on me?"

"Shhhh...!" I admonished under my breath. "The walls are thin here." I nodded towards Traci's room. At least we'd be talking under the air conditioner's heavy breathing.

"Well... I think it's disgusting how far you'll go to protect your good ol' buddy."

I still felt like that bad actor. "I understand why you would be upset ...it upset me, and I know more about what's going on. I know it's unusual, but you need to listen, Jen."

I needed to explain, but felt inadequate to the task.

"I'm listening."

I wasn't convinced. "First, you need to admit that you don't know it all." Her arms remained folded firmly under her chest; her expression offered no admissions. "You have to recognize that there are human desires outside your personal sphere of reality."

"Huh?"

Maybe I was being a bit pretentious; that somehow seemed preferable to spelling it out plainly. "You've heard of spanking, right? As like a turn on?" I asked, wishing I was somewhere else ...anywhere else. She just looked at me. Nothing. I don't know what she was thinking.

"Some people like to be spanked," I forged ahead. "They don't see it as a beating. It may be painful, but it's still good ...like maybe getting a really intense massage ...or like when people eat really spicy food that burns their tongue, but they still find it tasty." It was a meager start. I knew I had a lot more explaining to do.

"You've GOT to be kidding," she exclaimed. "You're going to sit there and tell me she LIKED it."

I shushed her again. "It's complicated. Some people like it in a different way."

"You mean it's some kind of S and M thing?"

"That's not exactly how they see it."

"How exactly do you know how Traci sees it?"

"Last month was Monk's birthday...," I started to explain, realizing it sounded like I'd transported the conversation to another dimension and with some vital part lost in transit. "He was down fishing at his favorite spot near Yuma, and Traci and I decided we'd paint the house ...you know, surprise him when he got home. Working together, it was an opportunity to talk; we got to know each other better. ...We were taking a break and she lit up a cigarette. I got on her case a bit about it, and she admitted something to the effect of, 'Uncle Monk would tan my hide if he caught me."

Jenna listened without averting her gaze. Her expression gave me only the tiniest amount of encouragement.

"Anyway, I just thought she was using a figure of speech or something, but she was intent on me knowing the reality of it. They have this thing where, if she messes up, she gets spanked."

Jenna seemed unmoved by the revelation, yet her mouth betrayed an awkward bemusement. "Why?"

"She says she needs that kind of discipline in her life," I shrugged.

My rapt audience didn't appear convinced. "But she likes it? ...I'm not following."

"Yes, that's where it gets more complicated. She likes being in that kind of relationship. I think she likes acting the brat to get that kind of attention ...but she doesn't like being punished. For it to work, the punishment needs to be something she fears... I know, it's a balancing act that seems to defy logic, but it doesn't have to be logical to be desirable ...if you'd heard her talk about it, you'd see that she is definitely into that scene."

"And what does Monk get out of this scene?" Her intonation of his name didn't exactly convey respect.

I was doing the face-rubbing, fingers-through-hair thing again and thinking maybe Jenna was the one who needed a good spanking. "I've known Monk all my life. I know he cares about Traci and wants what's best for her ...before you get too wise about it, he probably does enjoy it in the same way she does ...at least from the other side of the paddle."

"Enjoys it, how?"

"I think he likes having some control over her ...for her welfare ...but I assume it's also probably a turn on ...but maybe not times like today. I'm sure today was unusual." I was doing my best to explain something I'd thought about but never been involved with.

"It's a turn on, but they don't have sex," she stated with a hint of sarcasm.

"As far as I know. If they do, I see no reason why they'd hide it from me. Granted, he's 55-years-old, but it wouldn't be illegal. It's really not my business, anyway.

"You're right. It's really not my business, either. Can we get out of here now?"

*****

The desert is mostly a quiet place. Some days the wind will come up and howl like a pack of wolves, but it's a lonely sound that reveals no confidences and offers no encouragement. The town had recently laid a new road out to the east that skirted all of the developed land along the main highway. Without stops, and not yet heavily traveled, it served as a much faster route if you had to traverse the entire length of town north and south. It takes you out into the mute wilderness, a surrounding matched by the silence that had settled in the stifled confines of the car.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glanced at the woman sitting as passenger, her thoughts not shared, her range of vision confined to the right and straight ahead. I imagined she was feeling regret, but not for her apparent uncharitable attitude. I was feeling inadequate ...trying to solve a puzzle. Why would this woman choose to be with this man? Jenna was certainly in no position where she had to settle for any enthusiastic guy that came along. She could inspire plenty of enthusiasm, and there were potential suitors out there with much better credentials ...certainly more upwardly mobile than a journeyman musician living with what she seemed to consider a couple of degenerate hillbillies. In my heart, though, I still believed in her. The problem had to be my lack of understanding.

The silence was a vise, its jaws holding my heart. I didn't want it to be over. I'd experienced enough loss. I'd lost my father before I understood the concept, my mother before I appreciated her sacrifice. My innocence...gone long ago, and times where I'd even lost my self-respect. I'd suffered through failed relationships, and with girls I'd known a lot longer. It was with a grim realization that I knew I'd survive, but if I lost Jenna, it would be with a barren space inside, a core deserted, a hard soil where nothing sweet could ever grow.

We sped through scrabbly sand, each alone with our thoughts. She'd said she wasn't feeling well, thought we might put things off until another time. I was concerned - her illness vague and without name. As to rescheduling my tour of the apartment, I didn't press for a firm date. I thought it best to simply take things at face value. She was upset about what we had just witnessed, and she needed some time to herself. Soon things would be back to wonderful. Maybe she was right about my worrying. I should not have been obsessively checking the gauges on our relationship with the irrational fear that it was about to break down in the desert.