From above, the boat was a dot on the seascape caught
in the wide expanse of blue sky and sea but from the inside, it was a boxing
ring; the boat struggled over swells that slammed the bow. The boat ran along
the peninsula toward Grace Point. At the helm, Taylor Walker stood firm. His
charisma belonged more to a general than an executive. He steered the Sea
Cruiser inland and headed for the empty beach. Waves rocked the boat, the next
wave higher than the last, splashing over the gunwale. The passengers laughed
nervously with each gut drop.
“That looks like a good spot,” said Benny Jones.
Taylor nodded.
Alec Walker sat off to the side on a soaked cushion. The cold water sprayed in his face and the cool winds masked the burning effects of the sun. At his feet, a life preserver rocked back and forth in a puddle. The Velcro on the strap was folded over itself. He kicked it and looked up. A larger swell rose up and hit the starboard side with a surprising force. For a moment, Alec felt as if the boat were tipping upside down, in slow motion— his whole world was about to fall into the mad sea and he would be finished.
“Holy crap!” yelled Benny Jones. “Did you feel that?”
Benny smiled then let out a loud nervous laugh. He
stood alongside Taylor.
“We’re good,” yelled Zack Gary.
Zack moved slowly toward the stern. He held on to the slippery gunwale and walked a step at a time, rocking back and forth and balancing precariously. A wave bashed the starboard; he slipped and for a moment it looked like he might topple over. He lunged forward and grabbed the stern cleat. He held on. He looked at Alec, eyes big as marbles. “Okay! Maybe we’re not good,” he said, smiling.
Zack moved slowly toward the stern. He held on to the slippery gunwale and walked a step at a time, rocking back and forth and balancing precariously. A wave bashed the starboard; he slipped and for a moment it looked like he might topple over. He lunged forward and grabbed the stern cleat. He held on. He looked at Alec, eyes big as marbles. “Okay! Maybe we’re not good,” he said, smiling.
“We better move, ha-ha,” Benny said.
“Don’t worry. It’s not my first start, you know,” said
Taylor.
Taylor steered the boat inland and as the boat closed
in on the shore, the swells transformed into smaller navigable waves. Zack
dropped anchor.
“Get the raft,” Taylor said.
Alec stood up,
a little tight from the trip. He kicked aside the extra lifejackets floating on
the floor. He stopped at the refrigerator and pushed aside a collection of
fishing rods and brought out the small raft. He dropped it into the water and
tied the rope around his wrist. Benny and Zack gathered the portable grill, red
cooler and passed it to Taylor, who by now had jumped into the raft. Alec and
Benny jumped into the water and swam to the shore; Zack floated in with Taylor
and the raft.
After they landed easily on the quiet beach, Taylor
and Zack dragged the raft on to the smooth hot sand; while Benny opened the
cooler and pulled out a beer. Taylor looked around without much thought to his
whereabouts, as if he had been here before. He set up the grill, with a
familiar quickness and turned on the flame— soon hot dogs and burgers were
grilling. Zack pulled out a beer and he gave one to Alec.
Alec kicked his feet in the hot sand. He scouted the
far sandbank that receded beyond a tide pool and into a growth of tall rigid grass.
He studied the landscape and composed photos in his mind. Despite a miserable
hangover, he scoured the dunes. His trained eye carved his visions into black
and white compositions.
Benny pulled from the raft, a nerf football and he whizzed it into the air to Zack. He snagged it with both arms; his right leg landed straight on but his left swung the other way and he tripped and stumbled but remained on his feet. He threw his arms up in jubilation.
“Eat that!”
Benny took off on a go route and Zack straight-armed
a deep pass. Benny tracked it down, leaped and made a one armed catch. Just as
he hauled it in to his chest, his beer slipped from his hand and tumbled into
the sand.
“Hey. Are you hungry?” Taylor asked.
“Not really. I’m still hungover.”
“Have a cheeseburger. It will make you feel better.”
“I think I’ll just go for a walk,” Alec said.
“Don’t make me call Search and Rescue on your
wandering ass,” Taylor said.
Taylor smiled.
“Just going to stretch my legs.”
The night before, Alec had gone to a Red Sox game.
After the big Red Sox victory, he, Zack and Benny hit the Lansdowne Street
bars. He drank a few too many shots and woke in the morning with a migraine. If
not for his class assignment, he would have just slept in bed all day.
After a half-mile or so of trudging across hot sand, he came upon a branch— white driftwood, stuck into the sand upright like a post, as if it were put there as a marker. Lobster netting entangled the driftwood. He cocked his head. A child’s sneaker clung to the netting; its laces knotted around the driftwood. Strange, he thought. He wished he had brought his camera but his hangover, as it usually did, poisoned his memory. He found the angle he liked, a tight close-up where he would have taken the picture.
“All right. Time to go.
After a half-mile or so of trudging across hot sand, he came upon a branch— white driftwood, stuck into the sand upright like a post, as if it were put there as a marker. Lobster netting entangled the driftwood. He cocked his head. A child’s sneaker clung to the netting; its laces knotted around the driftwood. Strange, he thought. He wished he had brought his camera but his hangover, as it usually did, poisoned his memory. He found the angle he liked, a tight close-up where he would have taken the picture.
He took in a deep salty breath as a breeze rushed
over him. The faint sound of a child’s small voice seemed to follow the breeze.
He chuckled at his mind’s ability to create false perceptions.
He followed the voice, more out of restlessness than
curiosity. He came to a wide inlet where the rising tidewater rushed through a
narrow channel. It rose slowly rising as it emptied on the other side through a
pile of seaweed-covered rocks. Across from the channel, he saw a few parked
cars facing east toward the ocean. Men and women gathered near the cars,
talking and smoking; a few drank beer. A smoky mixture of sausage and chicken
wafted from a grill. He heard Lynyrd Skynard coming from a radio. Seventy yards
separated them.
As he turned to leave, a muffled cry rose up again.
No one was there. He was baffled. He strode to the edge of the rocky bank and
then leaned over the edge. At last, a young girl appeared, drifting away with
the current towards the open sea. She struggled, gasped. Small white arms
flailed in the water.
“Help.”
Alec froze, stunned. Then, he shook
it off like a bad dream. He studied the channel. It was rising faster by the
second and it made a powerful cascade of sound that grew more terrifying. He
tore off his shirt and dove into icy sea. He swam toward her. The water was
liquid ice and it took several minutes before his body regulated to the cold.
The undercurrent fought him every stroke. It pulled him back. It pushed him to
the side. It took all his strength to straighten out and reach the girl. Her
head dipped helplessly beneath the water as if she were on the verge of
quitting. He reached out and lifted her up.
“Who let you come out here all alone?” he asked.
Her eyes darted nervously.
“My mom.”
He laughed. Her face relaxed. He spied a sandy trail
where she had placed her flip flops and towel.
“All right. Time to go.
He lifted her on his shoulders. She wrapped her arms
around his neck. She was a small girl but took on weight in the water,
especially without the aid of ground at his feet. She held him tight as if she
were never going to let go. He kicked his feet and paddled his arms. The
resistance from the extra weight caused the undercurrent to push them backwards
two strokes at a time. At that pace, they would drift out to sea.
“We’re going to play a game. I’m going to throw you—
that way, towards the beach. And I’ll pick you up and do it again.”
“Like tag?”
“Exactly. But I’m always it.”
“Okay.”
He slid his hands beneath her armpits hooked and
tossed her forward, not so easily, like a wet medicine ball. He swam parallel to
the current. Sometimes when he released her, she slipped and fell right in front
of him; other times she splashed three feet ahead. He swam. Without her weight
on his back he moved fast. In between deep breaths he talked softly. “You’re
doing good… look… we’re almost done.”
Then, a wave blind-sided them. It came up from behind
and rolled them over; her eyes had a look of horror and death. Alec took the hit and rolled with it. He shielded
her. The wave was so powerful that Alec was able to tumble in the rest of the
way to the shallow cove. When they hit the shore, he led her out of the water
and fell heavily on the sand. He was winded.
He stared blankly at the sand granules.
“Go on to your
mommy— and tell her you shouldn’t be here alone.”
“Thanks Mister.”
He watched her run up the trail, sand flying out of
her footprints. He sat there dumbfounded and confused. This girl would have drowned,
for sure. He wondered how God chose His victims and what prerequisite went into
His thinking process. What choices did the chosen have, if any? It was not her
time, he thought. He was a little torn. On the one hand he believed in God and
fate; on the other, it sure seemed like a world of random events, like the
course of a child’s lost sneaker caught in lobster netting and beached
driftwood.
He stood up, breathing easy again. He looked out
across the channel. He decided to wait a little while before crossing back over
to the other side.
Chapter 2
The alarm
went off. He
hated the alarm clock more than his job. Red digital numbers glowed like
devil’s eyes. It made him uncomfortable and morbid and dreary all over again.
He hated mornings because of it— the electronic scream seared through the membrane
of sleep. It hit him like a baseball bat on the skull— he hated everything
about the morning. He slapped at the snooze button. He turned away.
His eyes
lingered on his father’s box for a long time. He had finally gone through it. Random
items were scattered around it— envelopes and bills and overturned pictures.
He turned toward
the ceiling. What was he doing right
now? He wondered. He had nothing, no one.
He truly hated his life— such a façade, his life— thoughts and feelings buried
over the years. He got out of bed. He slipped into unwashed work pants and
shirt. After a quick cup of coffee he threw on his boots and jacket and exited
his apartment building.
As he cut
across the parking lot to his truck, there was a subtle bounce in his step. What
was the rest of the world up to? He wondered. It was like he had been asleep
for twenty years. He hopped into the front seat of his blue Eldorado and sped
off. He cursed the broken heating coil. It was a short twenty-minute drive to
the warehouse on East Street.
He shuddered
at the thought of the warehouse— it stunk of dust and oil and misery. The year
is 2004. After seven years working in the warehouse he knew everyone— the
delivery guys from New Hampshire and the office clerks from the suburbs. Truth
be told, he hated mornings, alarm clocks, work and people. His life had spun
itself into a dark cocoon.
The expressway ran along a straight line. He noticed
the moon, a beautiful red moon; the sphere so close, he was hypnotized by its
sloping mountaintops.
As his exit ramp came into view below the red moon
glow, something intangible, as if a ghost nudged him, forced his hand and led
him passed the ramp. He turned down the road that leads to the Civil War fort
along the Boston Harbor. Soaring airplanes roared over him.
On the radio the song, Marguerittaville played. He
hummed the part about how it’s nobody’s fault. Then it dawned on him, as clear
as the landing planes: life does exist outside the fucking spring packing
plant. There was more to this life than boxes and springs and time cards and
monotony— and maybe there were dreams, old latent dreams just on the edge of
the horizon and beyond that red moon.
He shut off the radio and the car and stared over the
harbor, sunlight glinting over the ocean and through the windshield.
He scrolled over his life. He had lived alone so long
now. He hadn’t a girlfriend in years, not since Cassandra. He was single, no
kids and independent. He could leave his apartment anytime. He lived
anonymously. Other than coworkers and the teller at the bank, his only social
contact comprised the Internet— though he doubted “social” best described the
activity. He wandered through chat rooms, shopped online stores and researched
data when he needed answers about weather, climates or general information.
He circumvented MySpace. His profile picture, taken
in 1994 at Saugerties, New York reflected a lean, carefree twenty five year old
man with long hair dripping across his face. He stood beside Benny and Zack—
all three shirtless and covered with dried mud and laughing. Back then, Alec
always smiled.
New friend requests popped into his MySpace mailbox—
hot buxom blonds, Jasmine or Delight, who sold great new wonders that, inspired
their sex lives. Penis enlargement pills. A bottle could be his for $24.95.
These days, his friends list was mostly rock bands and advertisers. Nightly he
deleted dozens of spam emails and messages. MySpace was more about acquiring a
huge friends list— even if they weren’t real friends. He scrolled across the
page. He had no real friends on MySpace. Benny preferred books to computers and
Zach despised the Internet. Benny was a river guide at Grand Canyon; Zach lived
somewhere in Guatemala.
Alec studied the descending airplanes for a long
time. In the distance they were tiny and mute as bugs skimming the pond until
each one closed in— big and supercharged. American, Pan-Am and Delta.
Southwest. From what he saw in movies and read in books, he loved the west. It
reminded him of warmth and light. And new beginnings.
He started up the car and drove back on to the
highway in a new direction. The red moon followed him like a trusted companion
until it peeled slowly away and daylight broke. He set the truck on cruise
control. Something spurred him on, burned in him like an addiction. He drove
all day. He pumped gas when he needed it and ate when hungry. By sunset, he had
traversed 700 miles and hunkered down at a cheap motel in Roanoke Virginia. The
next morning, he bolted across Middle America juiced on coffee. By nightfall,
the red moon had returned. He cruised into Tucson Arizona and checked into the
first motel he saw.
*
In the morning, he rolled out of bed and thought: I’m
gone. Really gone. He had stopped wishing to be somewhere else, years ago, but
now, that same somewhere else had found him, captured him quite suddenly. He
stood by the bed, staring at his feet. He felt free, weightless. He didn’t care
about the warehouse, apartment or bills. He walked to the door, still dressed
in his work pants and shirt.
He opened the motel door. Mountains tumbled over,
pushed down and cut across the blue sky. He wondered how he had missed them in
the first place. Then again, he had arrived under the cloak of night. Now the
sun beat down on his face and the world around him might as well been a strange
planet. Cactus dotted the landscape; dry heat simmered along the scorching
earth. He crossed the street and at Circle K gas station, bought an ice coffee
and the Tucson Citizen. He spied a shaded bench and rejoiced, surprised by the
lightness of his thoughts. He sat down.
“Alec Walker?”
He looked up. The man looked vaguely familiar. He had
beady eyes and subtle twitches in his neck. Alec knew him from somewhere and
shook his head, resigned.
“It’s me, Billy Bulbz. From Shanks class,” he said.
Mr. Shanks. So many years ago, he thought.
“Billy. Yes Billy. Hey how are you?”
“I live here. Been in Tucson about two years now. I
run a bar downtown— not too far from here.”
Back in the day, Billy treated acquaintances as
brothers-in-arms, on the surface, but after their departure, he told bad jokes
and back-handed shots at their character.
“I just got here last night. I’m thinking about
staying.”
“Well, I could always use some good help at the bar,
you know until you figure out what you want to do.”
“If you’re offering me a job, sure. I’ll take it.”
“It’ll be nice to have a white face around for a
change.”
“I’m free, anytime.”
“Here’s my business card. Call me tonight. I’ll give
you the details,” he said.
Money was no problem— for he had squirreled away a
mattress full of cash over the years and didn’t need to work, not yet anyway.
Nonetheless, he had decisions to make. What about his life left behind? He was
certainly ready for change and he prepared to let this new road take him for a
trip, at the very least, a detour from the mundane reality of his last few
years.
Chapter 3
Alec performed a yeoman’s job at the Wagon Wheel.
After only a week of washing dishes and mopping floors, he was now bartending. He
became familiar with locals and tourists and welcomed all patrons with a
friendly New England accent. Sometimes after a long shift, he would sit at the
bar, drink a few beers and listen to music. This night, he ambled up to the
jukebox, a five dollar bill in hand. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to hear,
Walk the Line or Heart of Gold.
“That’s a good song, no?” she asked.
He turned around and smiled.
“Which one?”
“Yes.”
Sandra Dee wore her hair long and straight with
crimson stripe the length of it. She dressed in tight blue jeans, a Sublime
concert shirt and Converse sneakers.
“Good,” he said.
He put in the money and played Heart of Gold.
“I know you’re not from here,” she said. “So I’ll ask…
why are you here?”
I don’t know yet.”
“So you will live here, in Tucson?”
“I think so.”
“Watch for scorpions. They sting like a
motherfucker,” she laughed.
“I’ll be careful.”
“You have a family?”
“No. Not anymore.”
She gazed at him and processed his words. She nodded.
“Let’s play darts.”
They crossed the room to the dart boards. He snagged
the chalk from the shelf and spelled their names on the scoreboard.
“So what do you do for a living?” he asked.
“Nothing real exciting.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Ha ha funny man.” She punched him on the arm
lightly. “My brother runs a diner across town. I waitress.”
“Your brother must pay well,” he said, chuckling.
“Shut your trap, man,” she said.
She shot her dart, bull’s eye.
“Or I’ll shut it for you,” she laughed.
She spoke with a softness and directness that
inspired him to listen to her every word, as if she were singing through a
smoky western accent. He had never met an American Indian. She brought out his
old spontaneity, so long dead in him. She matched him shot for shot with
confidence. She bought endless rounds and when he waved cash at the bartender,
she refused his offer. He was her guest and she, a perfect host.
She swigged on her beer, put the bottle on the table
and looked at the board. Her crystal blue eyes sized it up and she took aim.
She held the dart in a practiced stance and released it with the precision of
professional. Whoosh, deadly accurate.
“Who did that? Ha!” she spun in a circle.
He felt like a man again, a very lucky man. He was
afraid he would wake from this trance and come to his senses. The years of
guilt and depression had taken its toll. That night, he felt as if he might
evolve into someone else, a quiet stranger in a strange land. He basked in an overwhelming,
unfamiliar joy. He had developed butterfly wings, he thought and taken flight
across the arid wasteland.
*
*
There had been a time when, seven years before he
could not stop thinking about his girlfriend, Cassandra Odessa. He was in love
and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, make babies, coach little
league and live life happily after.
One night, he and Cassandra had gone out to dinner at
Four Square in Boston across from the Commons. It had been weeks since he had
seen her. She had been shuttling back and forth between Boston and New York
working and was especially busy now, with Christmas catalogues and flyers in
full demand. Born to be a model, Cassandra Odessa was gorgeously sleek and
refined. Her dark curls, sculpted cheeks and statuesque beauty brought to mind
Helen from Troy in the 21st century.
They left the restaurant bundled in hats, gloves;
Cassie in her long wool coat and scarf and stylish boots. He walked slightly
ahead, anticipating how he would pop the question.
“Let’s cut through the park,” he said.
They crossed at the crosswalk; a sea of yellow taxi
cabs stared them down until they reached the curb and passed through the iron
gate into the park.
“This is nice,” she said. “I can breathe.”
The wind rattled through the Whispering Willows that
grew by the frog pond, the pond now packed with families’ ice skating in the
makeshift rink. The giant Oak trees were lit up with red and white Christmas
lights, blinking wreaths, and life-sized manger displays. A fresh snow coated
the grass, frozen over. At the Minute Man statue atop the hill, they stopped
and observed the panoramic view.
“I miss you, you know,” he said.
“I know. Work is just exhausting right now.”
He removed his gloves and drank from his flask— a
warm mixture of coffee and Bailey’s liqueur. The lights on the Christmas tree filled
the park with color.
“Once the holidays are over….”
He truly loved her. He knew that having a family was
not on her to-do-list, for now at least and that her modeling career was first
priority. Still, he was a hopeless romantic and believed they could be together
no matter what life threw at them.
“I don’t know. I really don’t see things slowing
down. In fact there is talk we might be moving to New York,” she said.
He reached into his pocket; he fingered the ring box.
He ground his teeth and counted the fleeting seconds, waiting to tag that right
life-changing moment.
“It’s really crazy right now.”
She pulled her hat over her ears. She rubbed her
gloved hands together.
“Cass’… I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”
“It’s getting cold,” she said.
“You know I love you. And I just don’t see any reason
to wait. You mean the world to me. I know things have been tough for us the
last six months. But I know, in the grand scheme of things, it’s all minor
inconvenience… as long I have your love. I don’t care about anything else.”
Her smile disappeared.
“We’ve been friends for a long time,” he said.
He took out the ring box, opened it. The diamond
gleamed. He took to one knee.
“Will you marry me?”
Her eyes fixed on the box; tears formed.
“Oh… it’s beautiful.”
She gazed upon it as if it were a foreign object,
some artifact from a remote archeological dig.
“Well?”
She stammered.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes… no… maybe.”
“Wow… I can’t Alec. Not now. You know that.”
“Why not?”
“The agency… they want me to move to New York.”
“Really?”
“I’m not sure if it’s the right thing,” she said.
“So now you have to move to New York?”
“I have to follow my heart, Alec.”
“I could go too. I could easily be a fashion guy.”
“It’s not that. I love you. I do. But… things have
happened.”
He closed the ring box.
“I can’t see you anymore. I’m sorry. It’s too
complicated,” she said.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“I have to go.”
“Four years come down to this— a one liner?”
She fled in tears and disappeared into the bowels of
the Green Line train station. Shock consumed him like foundry fires. A
sickening gloom oozed from the Christmas tree. He stood dumbfounded and gaped
toward the stairwell as if she were a ghostly figment tossed from his
imagination. He tried to move; his feet were like ice blocks, bonded, like
glacier freeze to the ground, blue streaks of ice fastening him in place.
The next
morning he sat at the kitchen table. He drank coffee. He scraped an old coffee
stain on the table with a butter knife. He turned the knife over. He stabbed at
the stain. He twisted his wrist. A key clicked in the door lock. The door
creaked open and the familiar slip of soft shoes on the linoleum floor. He
froze but his breathing quickened. He remained seated, not turning to face her,
the butter knife tight in his grip. She brought in the cold air with her from
outside. He knew right away: she wasn’t his princess anymore returning from
exile. She was a stranger, passing through his life like a brief beautiful
storm that suddenly dissolves into cloudy shaken sky. He stands there admiring
as it moves across the horizon away further away. Fearful it could return and destroy
him.
“Forget something?” he asked.
“Listen, Alec. I never meant for any of this.”
“So what’s his name? That’s all I really want to
know. And why.”
“I’m not going to lie to you. I owe you that. It was
harmless enough. He’s a photographer. We were just friends, coffee buddies. I
wanted nothing to do with anything.”
He turned placed the knife on the table. She folded
her hands in her lap and looked at him with dark sleepless eyes.
“Right. Coffee buddies.”
“We were fighting a lot. I was lonely, vulnerable.
You weren’t around and that didn’t help. Pierre… he just made me laugh. He made
me feel good about myself.”
“Pierre? What kind of name is Pierre anyway?”
“I
never meant for it to happen.”
He leaned forward.
“When did it?”
“Six months ago.”
“You didn’t have to go to New York. You could have
just worked here.”
“Al, it’s not that simple. I’ve been unhappy here,
not with you but here in general…in suburbia. I’ve felt like a caged dog.”
Silence ticked away between them.
“Why didn’t you say something… when you started
feeling… so disconnected? We could have faced it then.”
“I’m sorry.”
He had known it all along he realized that morning. She
had bided her time. Maybe New York would be her Pulitzer, a prize that would
come at the cost of friendship. Her career was her true love; he was secondary,
a stepping-stone.
“Did you sleep with him?”
She looked away toward the window and closed her eyes.
He picked up the butter knife and scraped at another coffee stain. The pain was
too heavy and weighed on him like a toxic blanket.
“Just leave. Go.”
“I am…I just wanted to say that I’m sorry… and that I
will always love you.”
“You said it. Now, leave. Please.”
“Goodbye Al.”
She closed the door and the cold resonated in the
room. He rose to his feet and wearily reached and parted the drapes. He watched
with a depressing finality as she walked out of his life; so beautiful and sure
of her future on that cold, deceitful road. She hopped into her Camaro. He saw
a silhouette, a large framed body, a man. He felt himself choking on his spit.
His chest hurt as if he were falling into the pressurized bottom of the black
ocean.
It all seemed like a bad dream now. In retrospect, it
was just the beginning of an even worse nightmare.
Chapter 4
After the movie, Mystic River, Alec and Sandra Dee
walked to nearby Rattlesnake Bar and Grill. They ate chimichangas, tostadas,
laughed and kidded each other. Alec mocked his Boston accent, quoting dialogue
from Mystic River. Sandra Dee smiled and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “I
was just pahking the cahr in Hahvahd yahd.”
After a few beers, they walked back to his motel room
where they fell on the bed, snuggled and kissed. He was out of practice in
romance etiquette; his hands groped, all over her chest. It aggravated more
than it pleased her. Her shirt and bra tossed on the floor. He was ready to
explode in his jeans.
“Slow down. Easy,” she said, smiling.
“Sorry.”
“Patience.”
She unzipped his pants and stripped them to his
ankles. She climbed on top of him, her breath warm on his thigh. She sucked on
his cock and he came in thirty seconds. Just like that, he was all done. His
stress floated off; the world was one peaceful unified rhythm. He sighed. He
massaged her breasts softly.
“That’s more like it… relax,” she said.
He loved her attitude, confidence and the way she
made him feel like a man. She observed great humor, with an edge he related to.
A feisty, loyal tribesman, she harbored no bad feelings toward whites, unlike
her family and most of the tribe. She measured a person, not by color or
politics but by the size of their heart.
“You look like a little boy,” she said.
“What?”
“Your little bad boy smile. You are so cute.”
“Ha— it’s because I just came.”
“Oh. And I thought it was because you liked me. I get
it. You’re using me.”
“Right. I secretly hate you,” he said.
“You repulse me very much.”
“Whore.”
“Pimp.”
She cackled.
“So why are you in Tucson? Of all the places you
could go why here?”
“I… I woke up one morning, sick of my life. I just sort
of… left. I didn’t know where I was going. I hopped in my truck and just drove.
It was like something guided me here.”
“What made you leave?”
“I guess I was just overdue, long overdue. I guess I
needed a road trip.”
“I’m glad for it.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time doing nothing. Just wasting
away. Here— with you, I don’t think of the past. It’s like you make me forget.
I feel reborn.”
She kissed his chest.
“Have you ever wanted to leave?” he asked.
“I love the land here… it’s very old, very dangerous.
It’s the only land I know.”
“You never wanted to see how others live?”
“Where else
will I go? I was born on the reservation. My mother died here. My grandfather raised
me.”
She turned her face toward the cracked ceiling.
“I like it here. It’s home. I have cousins here you
know. My grandfather. He was a great man. He taught me about our heritage. He
taught me about America.”
They lay on the bed a long time. She rested her cheek
on his chest. Her breath warmed his skin. He had never met a woman so open,
free, and crazy. Good crazy, he thought.
“Besides I make good living.”
“Oh right, super waitress.”
“Well, many of
my cousins run illegals across the border.”
“You mean like Mexicans?”
“I mean like Mexicans, Brazilians, Puerto Ricans,
Nicaraguans… the list never ends.”
“Isn’t that… very dangerous?”
“It’s just a day in the life here, honey.”
She lived on the Santa Rita Ranch in the Tohono
O’Odham reservation, west of Tucson. The reservation covered 90 miles across
the southern boundary of Arizona— its boundaries lay in the US as well as
Mexico. Most of her family disliked Mexicans as much as they disdained whites,
she said. Mexicans were invading their land, destroying homes and cemeteries.
They smashed fences, doors and ravaged barns and sheds often disposing trash,
clothes and sometimes, dead bodies in their yards. Their reservation sat right
smack in the hot spot— on the frontline of drug smugglers, robbers and illegal
alien crossings. It was commonplace practice for many Indians— smuggling was
simply part of the economic atmosphere.
“That’s crazy shit,” he said.
“Which part?”
“Everything. Sounds like a mean business. And a good
way to get killed.”
“It is what it is,” she said.
She rolled her hips on top of his. She stroked him
until he got hard again.
“Ok. Let’s do this, sweetie. Just relax, ok?”
“Ok.”
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