Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  I looked skyward. “You have no filter, do you?”

  “I’m Chicana. I can use the racist stereotypes, unlike you, Snow White. That reminds me. I’ve got something for you from a friend who owes me for winning full custody of her cat during her divorce.” Jaime held up her phone. It was a scan of a Mexican identification card for one Daniel Rodriguez. I zoomed in on the grainy photo and examined it…thick black hair, full lips, dark eyes, stocky build. Perhaps in his early thirties?

  I touched the brooding face, sad. He was a handsome man… Tragically, now a handsome dead man.

  We packed up the rubber balls as the dogs whined, stripped off our mud-coated boots (which was really hard with one good hand). To my surprise, Jaime helped me zip my fleece.

  “I’m gonna do something really nice for you, Trilby, so good, years from now you’ll thank me.”

  I lifted a dubious eyebrow.

  “You have Hector’s permission to stop searching for him.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He’s gone, Kaye. If he were able, he’d tell you to quit wasting your time looking for his body and go save someone you still have a chance to save. Dwell on the living, not the dead.”

  My lips twitched. “That’s what Hector says.” Said.

  “No one lived more than him, that’s for sure. He wasn’t afraid of death.”

  “I think it was a case of not acknowledging mortality. Lemme tell you about the night after my Gran died…”

  The winter of my senior year of high school was the first time Hector Valdez deliberately shared an awful hippie joke.

  I’d sat in the corner booth of the Lyons Diner, tucked away from the early dinner crowds, a cup of hot chocolate and a slice of pie on the table. Both were untouched. My Gran had succumbed to cancer the previous day, alone in Durango, save for a hospice nurse. My mother had planned to travel down, but once Gran entered hospice, she’d passed six hours later.

  Mom wasn’t one to grieve with anyone but her gardens, but there wasn’t much to grow in January, so I’d fled to give her the solitude she’d craved. The Cabrals were spending the last of winter break in Southern California visiting Uncle Carlos and Aunt Lucia, so the diner was my best option.

  It had snowed, so the tile floor was slippery as patrons tracked slush through the door. The bell tinkled and in walked Hector Valdez. His skin was still free of tattoos, and a head-full of black hair curled over his forehead, around his ears (how I wished he’d never razed that dishy mane). He spotted me in the corner and flashed a killer smile, but as he strode toward my booth a puddle jumped up and attacked him. I saw it in his face, the moment he realized he was going down and there was nothing he could do. He groaned, hauled himself off the floor. Then that smile was back, now a touch rueful as he rubbed his tailbone and waved away a waitress’ profuse apologies.

  The booth wobbled as Hector crashed across from me. “You gonna eat that?”

  I shook my head and he grabbed the slice of lemon merengue pie, bypassing the fork.

  “Stopped by your house and your mom told me you’d be here. Wanna go skiing while pretty boy is out of town?”

  “Not really. My Gran died.”

  He scooped up half the pie and crammed it in his mouth. “Yeah, I heard,” he said through cheeks-full of lemon filling. “So why are you here, all by yourself?”

  “Mom needs space. The Cabrals won’t be home until Thursday night, Dad’s being dad and high off his butt, such a hippie. This is the best I’ve got.”

  “You’ve got me. I’ll be your distraction.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “It’s not like I can forget. It’s here, in my chest, a fifty-pound weight pulling me down.”

  “Sure you can, you just have to think about living instead of dying. I bet I can help you.”

  I lifted an eyebrow and he gave a flamboyant gasp. “Not like that! Mind of a sex perv, I swear.” He polished off the last of the pie and sucked his fingers clean. “Speaking of hippies, what do you call a hippie who breaks up with his girlfriend? Homeless!”

  I snorted. “You have no idea how true that is.”

  “Tom and Audrey on the rocks again?”

  “The opposite, actually. Thus, the ready supply of pot. Tell me another.”

  “Why did Hippie Tom cross the road?”

  “I assume that’s where the ditch weed grew.”

  “Nah, but good guess. Who else would follow a chicken around?”

  My mouth cracked a smile, despite the sadness that clung to me like a wetsuit. Hector pointed. “See, mamacita? Dwell on life, not death.”

  I shifted against the broken spring. “Got any more of those?”

  “Give me time. Hey.” He reached across the table, slid the lukewarm mug from my grip and replaced it with his hand. “Why don’t you tell me a story about your Gran?”…

  Jaime shook her head after I finished my story. “‘Héctor es comediante,’ said no Juan ever. Swing by later. I’ve got some really dirty stories about that jackass.”

  “Thanks Jaime.” I stepped onto her front porch. “Just...thank you.”

  “Just…go away,” she snarked as she closed the door in my face, “and do something about that ugly blue hair!”

  I felt more like my old self as I tousled my freshly cut blonde curls, now stripped of blue.

  I could almost pretend the floods hadn’t happened. I took the stairs two-at-at-time, up to our apartment. “You’ll never believe this. Jaime found a picture of Daniel Rodgri…”

  My voice died in the doorway. Samuel sat on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, though they’d left fretful, messy trails through his coffee-colored hair.

  Though his mouth was grim and silent, his ice eyes poured pity.

  He didn’t even need to say it.

  They found Hector.

  The Valdez boys discovered their brother’s body that very day, tangled in a debris pile where St. Vrain converges with the South Platte River. Like war veterans who’d seen unspeakable things, they kept the details between the two of them. Years ago, when the Colorado River was unusually heavy with spring snow melt, I’d seen the distorted, swollen carcass of a dog. Actually, I’d smelled it first and my eyes unthinkingly sought out the source of the horrendous decay. But I couldn’t un-see it and un-smell it, and I kept my kayak pointed forward and my oar in the water until a mile down, then put the boat out and immediately vomited into the weeds.

  There was a reason Hector Valdez’s casket was closed at his wake, instead of the traditional white sheet draped over his body.

  Tricia wanted a traditional Mexican (read Catholic) funeral, though everything about it was wrong because nothing about Hector Valdez was traditional. But everything was wrong about the way he’d died, and everyone shook their heads as they ate food and drank velorio, as if a vibrant sunflower had been deadheaded at the cusp of its bloom. And wasn’t Tricia allowed to have something traditional in the death of her marriage, if not in life? No husband to come home to, no babies, no long years and gray heads. That’s what they all said.

  I couldn’t remember what Santiago and Angel said in their eulogies. Tricia asked Samuel to play his Spanish guitar while I sang because she wanted tradition, and neither of us dared tell her it wasn’t traditional.

  And oh lord, the novena. Nine days of recitation and prayers, masses and mourning. I wondered how long it would take for Tricia’s veneer of stoicism to crack, and two days seemed to do it. As the prayer ended, we stood, shoulder to shoulder: Molly, Sam, me, Danita, Angel, Tricia, Santiago. Together we stared at the sprawling tableau of framed photos that chronicled Hector’s life: lived to the fullest and never lived at all. Tricia’s body trembled as she desperately fought to hold back a flood that had already ravaged her world.

  “What can I do?”

  Tricia turned to me, brittle, clinical eyes sweeping my healing injuries. “How are the ribs?”

  “I’ve got good painkillers.”

  “Hmmm, I bet. About three weeks of h
ealing…no chest infections?”

  “None.”

  She nodded, all doctor. “Good, good. I’ve been so busy at the hospital and…and…” she cleared her throat and refocused on my offer of help. “The family clinic is still a mess, especially the basement. Smells like a sewer. We could use a clean-up crew, if you’re up for it. Keep the bandages loose, lift nothing more than twenty pounds. And bring a mask and gloves.”

  That was our duct tape over cracked foundations: physical labor. Samuel had asked Uncle Carlos to continue the hunt for Marieta Sanchez in his place, and he had obliged. Frankly, she and Daniel Rodriguez were far from my mind as we went house-to-house, following insurance inspectors through neighborhoods with shovels, mops and buckets of bleach. We demoed rotten walls and put up new sheet rock. We cleaned inventory at Paddlers but pitched most of it. Helped my TrilbyJones clients put their businesses back together in whatever way we could, because when I threw myself into the needs of others, I didn’t have time to rage over the set of tattooed arms who no longer worked alongside us and never would again.

  Hey mamacita, sky’s as clear your criminal record. We jumping today?

  But at night…

  When all was dark, when the hard labor of the day stilled and red clay coated the tiles of our bathroom shower…

  There’s fresh snow in the backcountry. First tracks are ours if we get up there before dawn.

  When our dishwasher quietly rattled in the kitchen…

  When the security light flickered, cold and pale. When dry, mountain air fluttered our curtains and coiled around our skin like satin ribbons…

  Two Fourteeners left, don’t you bail on me now.

  “Come here, firecracker.” His voice was soothing, warm.

  I curled onto my husband’s chest and released my pain.

  There, safe in his arms, I slept. I slept and dreamed of a blue door…a sad mother and her baby, lost on la montaña.

  Two weeks later, it still took me twice as long to navigate the beleaguered streets of Boulder. The creek had cut a strong path right through the heart of the city, severing roads and toppling traffic lights. While I’d been trapped on the mountain, my quick-thinking office manager had organized a rapid removal of any files and boxes stored in the TrilbyJones basement. Dude was getting a big fat bonus this year. Sump pumps had run ‘round the clock until we’d lost power, piping water out and away from the foundation, sparing our home.

  Even though the car dealerships had reopened, we’d neglected to replace Sam’s Subaru. He rode with Angel or Danita up to Lyons to help with clean-up, and I’d finally just paid Ash for her boat-of-a-car until I did some legitimate car-shopping. I parked the rust bucket and hauled myself up the stairs. Another morning at the office, another afternoon of demo, this time the Snowy Marmot Discovery Center, whose outdoor patio was beyond saving. I wasn’t expecting Samuel home for another hour, when the sun set and work on his parents’ property ceased. So, I was surprised to find the living room lights on.

  “Sam?”

  “Back here,” he shouted from the bedroom closet.

  A suitcase was open on the bed, a familiar, disheartening sight. He emerged from the closet with an armful of clothing and shoes.

  “Where are you going?”

  Worried eyes sought mine. “Marieta finally called. She needs help getting out of Tamaulipas, and I can’t do nothing. I’m sorry, I know I promised—”

  “Give me five minutes to grab my bag and my passport, and I’ll go with you.” I pulled my hiking bag out from under the bed.

  Samuel shoved it back under the bed. “Absolutely not, Kaye. You’re still recovering from a sprained wrist and cracked ribs.”

  “Which have given me little trouble during the flood clean-up.”

  “You are not going with me to Mexico. I’ll call Santiago—”

  “He just lost his brother, Sam. His family needs him.”

  “My Dad—”

  “And he just lost his house! This time there’s no one except me. You’ve reached the bottom of the barrel,” I said acerbically.

  He rounded on me, his face near wild. “This has nothing to do with a lack of faith in your capability! Is it so difficult to believe I want to keep the woman I love beyond anything safe from harm? This isn’t a sightseeing jaunt. These people have guns and no value for human life, and they won’t hesitate to pull the trigger if you get in their way. Do you get it?”

  “Do you get it? I would rather risk my life beside you than risk living without you, alone in Colorado.” I took out my bag again and stuffed it with clothing and hygiene items.

  We fired harsh words over our shoulders in our race to pack, until he grabbed his suitcase and pounded down the stairs. I shouldered my hiking pack and followed him, determined not to watch him drive away from me yet again. We got to the parking lot and he froze. The only car we owned was a lime green 1977 Chevy Impala behemoth that once belonged to my intern.

  And I had the keys.

  A slow smile spread across my face. Samuel cursed and slapped a hand against the roof of the car.

  I squealed. “Yes! I win at life. I’m buying this baby a custom lowrider conversion when we get to Mexico.”

  Troubled blue eyes swept over my fading injuries, newly healed ribs, paused upon the fresh pink scar along my hairline. “I will never forgive myself if something happens to you.”

  “You’ll just have to remind yourself that I wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. That, and I own the car.”

  “I’m deadly serious, Aspen Kaye.”

  “So am I!”

  “What kind of husband would I be if I took you into the most dangerous place in Mexico?”

  I tossed the keys into the air. “I get that every fiber of your being wants to keep me safe. But I’m ready to hunt for someone I can save. Hector’s dead. But maybe, maybe, we can save your sister and if you climb into that car without me, I’ll follow. I’ll borrow Jaime Guzman’s car—she’d loan it to me—plug in the Garmin and drive south across the border until I reach that tiny village in the mountain. You know I’ll do it, Samuel. But I’d rather be in this ugly green Impala with you.”

  Silence followed my outburst. His iron-rod posture relented. “Why do you always have to fight me, firecracker?”

  “History and experience have taught me, if I don’t fight, I get left behind.”

  He closed his eyes and mumbled something under his breath. His face was carefully blank, but I knew his brain raced, formulating a plan. Finally, he gave a slow, decisive nod that concerned me more than it thrilled me, because, knowing the lengths Samuel had taken in the past to protect me, it couldn’t be this easy.

  “Fine. Get in. But if I tell you to get back in the vehicle, you better race for the border, do you understand?”

  I saluted. “Yes sir, Sergeant Pepper.”

  “This is going to be a disaster,” Samuel grumbled as he took my bag and tossed it next to his suitcase.

  We flew south down the highway, past Denver, past Pueblo and into Oklahoma. Red rocks and mountain slopes gave way to tornado-prone flatland, field and shrub and a sky so big and wide, I felt small.

  “Playing devil’s advocate: are you sure the woman you spoke with was your sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “She called a burner phone I set up specifically for her. I left a message with Daniel Rodriguez’s abuela in La Vereda.” Love, loyalty, and plain blind hope were driving this Chevy Impala into Mexico, and it didn’t stop for doubt.

  “What are we going to do when we get there?”

  Samuel nervously drummed the steering wheel. “I’m still working that out in my head.”

  Night fell somewhere in Texas, and we lost ourselves in a blur of yellow lines and dark hulking shadows. I drove while Samuel slept, and then we switched. The adrenaline of our race from Colorado had long receded and what followed was a painful stillness.

  Until recently, I hadn’t much experience with death. When G
ran died, we’d known it was coming. The last summer I spent with her, before my senior year of high school, was a litany of chemo appointments, weakness and nausea, and scouring Durango boutiques for elaborate scarves to cover her hair loss. Gran’s glitzy streak was so prominent a print on her genetic fabric, I’d often wondered if my salt-of-the-earth mother was adopted. Her coffin was lined in a red satin so deep and shiny, it could have been re-purposed drapes from an Old West brothel. But that was Gran. She’d wanted to be framed in brilliant crimson as people snapped one last mental picture.

  Hector’s face flashed, bright and intense. Only his brothers had that final glimpse. I wondered if my imagination was worse than reality.

  My heart clenched and I gasped. Sam glanced at me. I curled into the passenger seat, squeezed my eyes shut. If I could just sleep for another hour, I could shut down the thoughts. But I’d already slept through Colorado, Oklahoma, and half of Texas. My body simply didn’t need another minute of rest.

  My husband reached over and rubbed my neck. I leaned into his touch, a contented cat.

  “We’ll be at the border soon. I thought we’d stop for a stretch and a bite in Brownsville.”

  The blue glow of the dashboard clock read five a.m. “Mmmhmm.”

  “The text you sent me the night of the flood... of all things, why did you want me to go to my sister’s mountain?”

  I stretched my arms, yawned. “You’ll think it’s crazy.”

  “Remember who you’re talking to.”

  I smiled. “I had a dream. A beautiful, sad dream. I was back in the nursery with a baby, except your sister was there with me. Marieta.” I tried to conjure the feel of it. “She told me to follow her to the mountains, to her home. We walked through a bright blue door. It seemed really important.”

  “Important enough to make it your last words to me?”

  “I suppose that’s what I did.”

  “When my sister called ...”

  I watched Samuel’s troubled face. “Yes?”

  “She was sobbing, hard to understand. She asked me to go to her family on the mountain. She didn’t elaborate, but she said I’d understand.” He fell silent, lost in the echoes of my dream.