Midnight Cactus

by Bella Pollen

  ‘What about you, Mrs Coleman? Been obeying the speeding laws?’

  ‘Oh sure.’

  ‘It’s pretty expensive to get fined, you know.’

  I look at his fresh, open face. ‘Gee, yes, Winfred. I know.’

  He grins.

  ‘So what are you doing in here?’ I ask him. ‘Are you off duty?’

  ‘Oh no. I just picked someone up.’ He nods through the window to the Ford Explorer. A skinny little Mexican is fidgeting in the front seat looking like a kid who’s praying his mother will remember to buy a packet of crisps along with the petrol.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Just some guy I’m taking back into Nogales.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Joseé? Cos he’s an illegal.’

  ‘And you left him alone in the truck?’

  ‘Sure, why not?’

  ‘Isn’t he under arrest?’

  Winfred shrugs. ‘Nuh-uh, he’s been running drugs and needs a lift home.’

  I study his face for signs of subversive humour, but Winfred just doesn’t look like someone who knows how to take the piss.

  ‘He’s a mule. He comes across two, three times a week, gets rid of his load, then he goes back over the border. If I see him, I give him a ride, y’know, save him the trouble of walking.’

  ‘Let me get this straight. You fine me a hundred dollars for driving ten miles above the speed limit, but you give a drug trafficker a free lift home?’

  Winfred’s smile is clean and white and might be graded as classic American were it not for his canine teeth, which have crept over his incisors, causing his upper lip to jut out somewhat. ‘Hey, Duval said you had a temper.’

  I stiffen. ‘You know Duval?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Oh, him and me, we’re good friends.’

  ‘Really?’ I keep my tone casual. ‘How did you meet him . . .? I mean are you both from round here?’

  ‘Nuh, my home is in Utah.’

  ‘And Duval?’

  ‘I meet him all over the place. He’s one crazy cowboy!’

  ‘Uh-uh . . . what exactly do you mean by that? What kind of crazy?’

  Winfred begins to look a little shifty. ‘I dunno.’ He reaches for a toothpick.

  ‘So what brings you here?’ I change the subject. ‘To Ague?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I got into a fight on the rez, and so I left.’

  ‘Did you kill someone?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Are you a sheriff?’ Winfred chuckles. ‘Cos you don’t look like a sheriff.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer,’ Jack replies severely.

  I ask Winfred how he got into the Border Patrol and he tells me that after his fight he went to Las Vegas and drank heavily for a while, then got his act together and took the law enforcement exams.

  ‘Is that where you learned to speak Spanish?’

  ‘Yeah, I learn it pretty good at the academy but it’s slipping away now.’

  ‘You don’t need it?’

  ‘Sure, I need it. I need it to say – name, José? Stop, José! Sit down, get up, put your hands behind your back, José. I speak good enough for a mulo, but Mrs Coleman, don’t you go giving anybody lifts round here, okay?’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Two men, from the prison, they escaped a few weeks back and nobody caught them yet.’

  ‘What were they in prison for, running a red light?’

  ‘Ha ha, Mrs Coleman,’ he wheezes.

  ‘Alice,’ I say automatically.

  ‘There have been murders on the border so you got to be careful. Don’t go picking up any strangers, you know what I’m saying, ma’am?’

  ‘Have you seen The Blair Witch Project?’ Jack interrupts.

  Winfred looks to me for help.

  ‘It’s a film.’

  ‘Have you?’ Jack presses.

  ‘Nuh-uh.’ Winfred shakes his head.

  ‘What about The Exorcist?’

  ‘Jack,’ I say warningly.

  Jack, of course, has seen neither of these child-friendly films but nevertheless has a masochistic desire to be terrified. If I ever cave in to pressure and allow him to watch an even faintly scary movie, it’s a disaster. He invariably storms my room in the middle of the night and refuses to go back to sleep until I have promised never to be so irresponsible again.

  ‘I don’t know nuthin’ about movies,’ Winfred says.

  ‘They’re about the devil,’ Jack says.

  ‘I’ve seen the devil,’ Emmy says.

  ‘You certainly have not.’ Jack turns to Winfred. ‘Have you seen the devil?’

  ‘The dude with red eyes?’

  ‘And horns,’ Emmy corrects.

  ‘Naa, I’ve seen skinwalkers, though.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Spirits of dead Indians.’ He lowers his voice. ‘They’re bad things. Everybody sees them, they’re everywhere. They smell like rotting flesh. They run fast, really fast, they cover a lot of ground. They leave dust behind them and when you get close to them,’ he snaps his fingers, ‘they disappear.’

  ‘Do they shoot people?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Yuh, man, all the time.’

  Jack’s eyes widen. ‘Did they shoot you?’

  ‘Sure, they shot me once.’

  Emmy gasps. ‘Did you die?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t die, stupidhead. Did they shoot you with a gun?’

  ‘Naa, they shot me with a bead.’

  ‘A bead?’ Jack looks bitterly disappointed.

  ‘In here,’ Winfred touches the back of his shoulder with a hand. ‘I had to get the witchdoctor to suck it out.’

  ‘A witchdoctor?’

  ‘It was an iddy-biddy bead with shells on it. Witch-doctor sucked it right of my shoulder blade.’

  The children wriggle with pleasure.

  ‘What else, what else?’ they shriek.

  ‘You know those coyotes you hear at night?’ Winfred leans forward over the table. ‘They’re just skinwalkers. They can turn themselves back and forwards whenever they want. If you see a coyote track, don’t step on it. It’s dangerous.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You can get coyote sickness. Also you should never look into the eyes of a coyote. It’s a bad omen.’

  ‘What’s an omen?’ Emmy asks.

  ‘It’s a sign that something is going to happen,’ I explain.

  ‘If you look into the eyes of a coyote, you go crazy,’ Winfred says.

  ‘What else are you scared of?’ Jack says. ‘Snakes?’

  ‘Naa, snakes, naaaaa. Owls. I’m scared of owls.’

  ‘How can you be scared of owls?’

  ‘They’re a bad omen too. If you see an owl, someone close to you will die.’

  ‘Is there any animal you can look in the eye without dying?’ I ask drily.

  ‘Yuh,’ he says, ‘snakes. But you shouldn’t open your mouth when you see a snake, or it will jump in.’

  ‘Hey, you don’t scare me one bit,’ Jack says scornfully. ‘I’m not scared of nuthin’.’

  We wind slowly around the Temerosa switchbacks heading home. My head feels heavy and woolly. Weather-wise it’s been a strange day, muggy and close, a stormy tinge to the sky. I’m tired and strangely depressed. I close my eyes for a second, trying to squeeze out a headache, but as I open them again an animal darts in front of the car. A small white-tailed deer. Instinctively I slam on the brakes. The truck lurches sideways, glances off the rocky corner of the hill, spins then slides inexorably towards the edge and, for one horrifying truncated moment, I’m paralysed with fear, then I yank the wheel and ram my foot down on the stiff lever of the hand brake. The car spins in a circle then, oh merciful God, stops.

  My heart pumps furiously. Any faster, a few more feet, and we’d have been over that edge and into oblivion. Shakily, I turn to look at the children. They stare back at me, white, speechless. ‘It’s okay,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘It’s okay. We’re just going to get
the truck on the right side of the road again and then we’ll be fine.’ I ease the gears into neutral and try the ignition, but the engine, apparently resentful of such unnecessary cardiovascular exercise at this late hour of the evening, gives a sickly cough then promptly flatlines.

  The truck’s bonnet opens via a lever underneath the passenger seat. I stare hopefully at the blackened greasy innards in case something wildly obvious presents itself to me, but it’s a futile exercise. I have mastered petrol and windscreen-wiper fluid, but I am unable to tell a growling minotaur from a purring battery. I slam the bonnet shut again.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Jack is first out of the car.

  ‘I don’t know. It won’t start.’

  ‘Can’t you fix it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I have no answer. Why can’t I fix it? It’s truly pathetic and don’t I know it, but meanwhile, what to do? I have no idea how far we are from home, I can’t even remember how long since we left the truckstop. ‘You’re always dreaming,’ Robert liked to complain and he was right. Fuck. The children are already tired and the chances of someone coming down the Temerosa road at this hour are about zero.

  ‘Jack, Emmy,’ I take a deep breath, ‘we’re going to have to walk.’

  ‘Walk!’ Understandably, the children sound appalled.

  ‘There’s no other way of getting home.’

  ‘Why can’t we get a lift?’ Jack says.

  ‘Do you see any taxis driving by? Do you see a bus stop anywhere?’ Jack looks subdued and I feel bad, but it’s all I can do not to drop to the dirt myself and throw a good tantrum. What the hell are we doing out here in the middle of nowhere, where mobiles don’t work, where there’s no such thing as the AA, or a chirpy switchboard operator from Dial-a-Ride ready to direct a black cab in our direction? I want to be able to get on a tube or catch a bus or call a friend, then wait for them in Starbucks, surrounded by coffee and muffins and newspapers. How hopelessly irresponsible to be out here with two children and not have even the first idea how to change a tyre. I sift through the plastic container in the back of the truck. A road map, one of Emmy’s mittens, some sticky sweet papers. No first-aid kit, no torch, no rope, no nothing. What if we had crashed? What if it had been storming, and how could all this only be occurring to me now?

  An owl flashes across the road, the beat of its wings making a swishing noise. Emmy covers her eyes with her hands. ‘Someone’s going to die,’ she moans. ‘Winfred said so – Jack’s going to die.’

  ‘Why me?’ he retorts. ‘I bet it’ll be you.’

  Emmy starts to cry. I pull her close. ‘No one’s going to die. We’re all going to be fine.’ I wrench the car keys from the ignition, retrieve a phlegmy-looking bottle of water from under the front seat and set off, the children trudging beside me in stunned silence.

  ‘How far is it going to be?’ Emmy asks after thirty seconds.

  I look at the road ahead. One curve of this hill looks very much like another and I’m not entirely sure where we are. The sky is black and glitters with stars. The silence is noisy with night whispers and I’m watching out for coyotes, for owls and snakes, for skinwalkers.

  ‘I’m cold,’ Emmy says.

  I take off my fleece and pull it down over her head. The sleeves dangle almost to the ground.

  ‘How far?’ she repeats.

  ‘I don’t know, sweetie.’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh,’ she groans.

  ‘Emmy.’

  ‘I’m not walking.’

  ‘Come on, Emmy, you have to.’

  ‘I don’t and I won’t.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to leave you here.’

  ‘Fine fine fine. Leave me then just leave me here to die TO DIE do you hear?’

  ‘Listen, Emmy.’ I drop to my knees. ‘Think about it. You could be doing what every other five-year-old in the world is doing, you could be finishing your homework or having a bath or arguing about going to bed, you could be having a day like any other day, like everybody else’s day and you’d never remember it. But today is different, so it doesn’t matter if you get cold or tired because you’ll be dry and warm in a couple of hours. You’ll get home and you’ll have hot chocolate and you’ll remember tonight for the rest of your life, because tonight we had a big adventure.’ This rousing speech nearly brings tears to my own eyes. Unfortunately, Emmy remains unmoved.

  ‘A couple of hours!’ she says. ‘No way, no way.’ She shakes her head slowly.

  ‘Oh, God. Emmy, please.’

  ‘Emmy, come on, I’m cold too.’ Effortlessly, Jack raises her to her feet, then taking the limp end of her fleecy sleeve begins leading her along the road as though she were a small petulant donkey.

  ‘There was an Iranian monk,’ he recites, ‘who went to bed in a bunk, he dreamed that Venus, was tickling his penis—’

  ‘Jack!’ I say, mildly shocked.

  ‘And woke up all covered in—’

  ‘Jack!’

  ‘Sweat!’ he shouts.

  ‘Jack! My God! Where did you learn that?’

  ‘Jack said penis,’ Emmy gurgles. ‘Jack said penis.’

  ‘That’s unbelievable. Who taught you that?’

  ‘Can’t remember,’ he shrugs warily.

  ‘Well, it’s great. Do you know any more?’

  ‘Of course I do. I know lots.’

  ‘There was a young plumber of Dee.’ He begins reciting again. ‘Who was plumbing a girl by the sea.’

  ‘Okay, Jack . . . er . . . maybe that’s enough. I glance at Emmy, who’s now skipping happily along the road . . . ‘but, you know . . . thank you, I whisper.

  ‘Whatever,’ he says.

  ‘Did you learn these at school?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  ‘You must remember.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Granny taught us,’ Emmy pipes up.

  ‘Wha-at!’ My heart whacks against my ribs.

  ‘You stupid!’ Jack pinches Emmy’s arm.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emmy begins sobbing. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

  I whip her round to face me. ‘What do you mean, Granny! Which Granny?’ But I already know which granny. Robert’s mother, a formidable eighty-year-old Austrian, died several months ago, and it is only because Robert has finally begun unravelling the legal complexities of her estate that he cannot be here.

  ‘Granny, my mother Granny?’ I confirm.

  Jack nods.

  ‘But where . . . how?’

  ‘She came to Grampa’s, on the train. She brought us presents.’ Jack hangs his head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Emmy says. ‘I’m sorry, Mummy. I’m sorry.’

  I slump down on a rock, stunned. I do not see my mother. I have never allowed the children to see my mother because I do not believe she’s earned the right to her grandchildren.

  ‘Mummy, please . . .’

  I look helplessly at my daughter’s ketchuppy face. As a child I thought my mother would love me because that’s what mothers do in books. I struggle with indignant tears. How dare she think she can just slip into their lives, guilt free. How dare Dad let her?

  ‘Grampa said you’d be angry,’ Jack ventures.

  ‘I’m not angry with you, either of you, I’m not.’ I smooth my hand against his cheek, then grab hold of Emmy and squeeze her. My poor little Emmy who can’t keep a secret. Emmy, who has said nothing for all this time . . .

  ‘Mummy, stoppit.’ She wriggles free. ‘Look!’ She twists my head and I stare, puzzled, into the night-time haze until I see them, just visible, two headlights dipping in and out of view as a car rumbles round the mountain.

  ‘Oh, thank you, God.’ I jump up.

  ‘Yes, thank you, God.’ Emmy puts her hand in mine. I put my other arm around Jack’s shoulders and we stand in the middle of the road to
gether as the headlights grow brighter and rounder and bigger and closer.

  The children sit wordlessly in the back of Duval’s truck. I take sips from the water bottle, my feet nudging Taco’s back, while I try to think of something to say. Since the Taco incident, conversation between Duval and myself has become even more of a tightly scripted affair, based around the tangibles of light fixtures and electrical sockets, so after my ‘thanks a lot, very kind of you’ and his ‘no trouble’ we both fall mute. It’s dark outside the window. The skeleton outline of the mountains just visible against the sky. In the Orkneys, I think, under this very same sky, people could be staring at the Northern Lights.

  ‘What are you going to charge people to stay in that place of yours once it’s finished?’ Duval’s voice breaks the silence.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer, surprised at the direct question. ‘Couple of hundred dollars a night, maybe.’ There were health retreats and spas all over the west of America. I’ve done my internet homework. One, on the outskirts of Taos, New Mexico, offered peace, serenity and cyanide baths for $3,000 a week.

  ‘Uh-uh. So people who drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much, will be able to pay even more to feel better about themselves.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with people who have money and are not starving,’ I say coolly.

  But I hear Robert’s voice in my head. ‘We must decorate it western style,’ he’d shouted, tramping through the cabins, barking ideas enthusiastically into the mini disc recorder he liked to keep clipped to his shirt pocket. ‘Horseshoes, bear heads, Indian prints . . .’ and then he was off. As I listened to him crashing around, I stood on the deck outside and watched the early morning light wash over the hills. A hawk of some kind flitted between the rocks. Under my feet, the stones on the path were a mixture of browns and rusts, their edges glittering with pockets of quartz and I remember thinking that no one should ever be allowed to touch this place. Ever.

  ‘Alice,’ he shouted when he finally emerged. ‘. . . Oh, there you are . . . Was it the Sioux Indians out and about scalping around here, or the Apache? Check breed of Indians!’ he commanded into his mike without waiting for a response.

  ‘So what’ll these people do once they’re here?’ Duval says.

  ‘Oh ... I don’t know, the usual stuff. Go on diets, get healthy, have massages, go for hikes.’

  ‘Hikes.’