by Bella Pollen
‘Who exactly is this guy?’ Robert had demanded on the phone. ‘What’s his business? What does he own in the town?’
‘Why?’ I hedged. Hogan’s most recent contribution to Ague was a large poster outside Prestcott’s which offered visitors a chance to ‘Step back into the Bygone days of the Old West.’ I’d been furious that he’d managed to get hold of Robert behind my back. Furious and deeply apprehensive.
‘Alice,’ Robert said, ‘he offered us a swap!’ And a nasty fibrous knot began to form in my stomach.
I was already in a tailspin of confusion about Temerosa. Now that reality has crashed headlong with my fantasy of the place, I couldn’t see how I could possibly go ahead with plans for a retreat. I couldn’t see how I could ever have come up with such a stupid idea in the first place.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Duval had said. ‘The world exists on thousands of different levels and just because some are more tragic than others, it doesn’t make them any more valid. You fall into that way of thinking and you become Nora, so overwhelmed by the world’s suffering, you go mad. Besides, the border has always been a place where crazy ideas flourish and a retreat is nothing if not a crazy idea.’
Unfortunately, Robert, as I knew only too well, was an entrepreneur whose business strategy was built on crazy ideas. Anything that required a punt he was prepared to consider – and when I say anything, I’m not exaggerating. Robert laughed it off. Bravado had always been his calling card and, to begin with, I loved him for it. His conviction always enthused others but he had no patience for follow-through. Sooner or later money for every one of his projects drained away and he was left grasping at ever thinner straws. Each new idea was the angioplasty balloon that would unblock the clogged arteries of our debt and make the heart of our ailing finances beat healthily once more. Temerosa had been no different. For a while after we got back from that first trip, Robert was Bugsy Siegel and Temerosa his Las Vegas. Then the ghost town became just another piece of paper lodged with the lawyers. A ghost project, buried and forgotten, its potential scattered to the four winds of the Sonora. Six months ago Robert couldn’t believe my resurrection of the Temerosa plan, and now here he was, thoroughly overexcited about the idea of a swap.
‘Alice, what if this is the opportunity we’ve been waiting for? Hogan thinks that if we’re ambitious enough for the project, it could attract some serious investment.’
‘Robert, trust me. You do not want to be in business with Hogan.’
‘Just hear him out, Alice. What harm can it do? Look . . .’ He tailed off and I knew then what was coming. ‘Maybe I should find a way to get over there.’
He’d said it before, but he didn’t really want to come any more than I wanted him to. Our unspoken separation suited both of us and we knew it.
The silence down the line thickened.
‘Alice, I want to see you.’
‘Robert . . .’
‘I miss you, I miss the children.’
Guilt washed over me. ‘They miss you too.’
Sooner or later I’d have to let him come. Of course I would, just not yet. Please, dear God, not yet.
The investors join their wives. Hogan chalks up some small talk while I sink ever further into the sofa, squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember what the sun feels like on my face.
‘Open your eyes.’ Duval had closed my hand round something smooth and cold.
‘What is it?’
‘A fossilized leaf. I found it by the schoolroom.’
I traced my finger along the thin indented spine. ‘So fragile.’
‘Except – think of the unimaginable pressure it’s had to withstand. It’s been burnt by lava, flooded, crushed and yet it’s still survived. It’s an incredibly romantic idea . . .’
‘Gentlemen, ma’am,’ Jeff is saying pompously. ‘To business.’ He hands Selby a piece of paper. ‘This is a US state department warning issued to tourists this week. Numbers of muggings and abductions are rising. Numbers of illegals crossing this year are up ten per cent on last.’
The two investors exchange a look. ‘Jeff,’ Selby says and his voice is pitched low, ‘you promised us the situation would improve.’
‘And so it has! Everywhere that Ranch Rights has patrolled, that is,’ Hogan says. ‘Security is tight on our own property lines, but gentlemen, geography is not on our side.’ He spreads a map on the table. ‘This is Ague,’ he circles it, ‘and this is where we are now.’ He joins the two circles with a thick black line then taps the map with his pen. ‘And this is where you come in, Mrs Coleman, because right here in the middle sits Temerosa.’
All three men look at me. ‘We need to join forces, ma’am,’ Hogan says emphatically. ‘Take a share in each other’s business. One investment to protect.’ He rakes the felt tip across the map. ‘One line to close off.’
‘One twenty-mile line, Jeff,’ Selby reminds him. ‘How in God’s name are we going to protect something that long?’
‘Recruit more people, that’s how.’
‘Ain’t this whole thing best left to the Border Patrol?’ one of the wives asks nervously.
‘Ma’am, I salute the valiant efforts of the Border Patrol to enforce the law but they don’t have the men or the motivation to keep these criminals off private property. Why do you think we formed Ranch Rights in the first place? Think about it: the desert between Temerosa and the border is some of the meanest, most scorched ground in the whole of the west, so why do people continue crossing there?’
The two men look at him expectantly.
‘Because someone is making it easy for them,’ Hogan says.
‘That’s what folk are saying.’ Selby nods.
‘My guess is it’s one of those middle eastern fellas,’ Helen offers.
‘Whoever it is, it’s someone who knows the terrain round here like the back of their hand.’
I close my eyes again. See Duval leaning on his horse.
‘If you want to teach your children something about this place, you should take a small patch of land no bigger than twelve foot square, and watch it every day. Look for changes in the leaves, the prints of animals, study their droppings, see what they eat. If you can do that for a whole year then you’ll understand how the desert works.’
‘So what’s that then?’ I’d pointed at a scrubby pine-looking thing.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’
‘You’re a complete fraud!’ I’d laughed.
‘I’m not really up on my conifers,’ he said. ‘Test me on cacti if you like. I’m brilliant on cacti.’
‘Okay, give me your top ten then.’
‘My top ten.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Let me see now, would that be rated for personality or best in a swim-suit?’
‘I’ll settle for overall winners.’
He slapped a fly on the horse’s neck. ‘Well in no particular order, the saguaro, because they’re so human. Drive through northern Arizona and the hills up there are choked with them. You can find ones that look like grizzled old men, or cowboys ready to draw a gun. Some look like Chinese priests or lepers. On a good day you can find one that’s a dead ringer for your father.’
I laughed up at him.
‘They have endearingly human qualities too.’
‘Really? Like what?’
‘They get thin in a drought and fatten up when it rains. They can live on a centimetre of water a year but if they don’t get that much the older ones fold up and die and leave the water for the younger members of their family . . . Then there’s cholla, which have wonderful names – Beehive Nipple, Strawberry Hedgehog, Teddy Bear.’ He pointed at a bushy-looking cactus. ‘Those are cholla there, but watch out for them. Their spikes detach very easily; if you brush against them they hook into your flesh leaving only the thinnest hair above the surface of your skin. Very hard to get out. In Spanish, the word means annoying small-town gangsters. Ask Benjamín about his various spats with the cholla. He believes they jump out at you out of sh
eer malice.’ He pointed at another plant which looked like the padded end of an ogre’s club. ‘That’s barrel cactus. Any minute now it’ll sprout a pink or yellow flower on top of its head which makes it look exactly like a southern black woman going off to church in her best bonnet . . .’
Selby fixes me with his probing stare. ‘Ma’am, you’ve been living in Temerosa for over four months now. Have you seen any of those 9/11 type people around the place?’
‘None at all.’
‘You spotted any aliens coming through town?’
‘Apart from the little green ones?’
‘Mrs Coleman, we appreciate your European sense of humour,’ Hogan says heavily. ‘Really we do but—’
‘Jeff tells us you have a local builder handling the works,’ Lane interrupts.
‘Duval!’ Hogan says with distaste. ‘The man’s a drifter, a liberal. He only hires Mexicans!’
‘Mexicans, huh?’ Selby’s eyes narrow with suspicion. ‘All legal, I assume?’
‘I certainly hope so. At least Mr Hogan was kind enough to check their work permits for me.’
In the quiet of the schoolroom, I see Duval’s head bent over the fake ID cards, a frown of concentration on his face.
‘Just the same,’ Selby is saying, ‘you can’t be too careful. Mexicans are Mexicans.’
‘I don’t know how you sleep at night.’ His wife shudders. ‘They say Temerosa is haunted.’
‘Well I guess you can’t have a ghost town without ghosts!’ I say cheerfully.
‘But it’s so remote down that road!’ she persists. ‘You must dread those endless evenings.’
‘Oh there’s always something to do,’ I murmur. Now, when night closes in and the moon rises, when the children have fallen asleep and Benjamín takes up position outside their bedroom, Duval comes to the cabin. Through the window I watch for him to step out of the shadows, the reins of the horses in his hand, and then we ride out to the flap of a bird’s wing, the swishing of tails and the tap dance of hooves on rock . . .
‘We must get you more involved in our social life,’ Helen is saying. ‘In fact why don’t you come to my pot-luck dinner next Thursday?’
‘You’re very kind,’ I thank her, wondering what fresh hell a pot-luck dinner might be, ‘but there’s always masses to do, climbing, hiking . . .’
‘Not around Temerosa!’ Helen’s agitation jiggles the rhinestones on her tracksuit top. ‘Not so close to the border! Tell her, Jeff, please!’
‘It would be extremely foolish,’ Hogan says thickly. ‘Now that the weather’s so much warmer, the number of crossings will rise with every passing day.’
‘First thing tomorrow I’m signing you up for the Happy Hikers club.’ Helen pats my knee. ‘It’s all women. We use only well-marked trails. It’s wonderful exercise.’ She gives my leg an extra squeeze. ‘I told Jeff it wasn’t right, what if something should happen to you? What if you should meet one of those Mexicans face to face? These people are desperate. There’s no saying what might happen.’
‘It’s time you and the kids came under the protection of Ranch Rights,’ Jeff says. ‘All of us here are members and there are like-minded people signing up with us all the time. Let us patrol Temerosa and the land surrounding it. If we come across anyone who shouldn’t be there, you can be sure we’ll catch ’em.’
‘And then what?’ I ask.
‘We turn them over to the proper authorities.’ Hogan clears his throat. ‘Of course.’
‘Hold on now, Jeff,’ Helen says. ‘Mrs Coleman’s not comfortable with this, I can tell.’ She makes a grab for my hand and clasps it between hers. ‘I can see you’re a compassionate person, same ways I am. Hell, I understand what you’re thinking. Sometimes I sit and look at these people through Jeff’s binoculars and I feel so sorry for them. They don’t have a damn thing. We have our sympathies, we find it heartbreaking. Believe me, I want to take them all home and give them fried chicken, I want to give them my guest room.’
‘But . . .’ I ease my hand out of hers, ‘you don’t.’
‘Alice, you keep on inviting people into your house, soon they’ll be sleeping in your bed, eating your food, using your shower. The house won’t sustain the people. The house isn’t big enough for all the people and the house will eventually fall down.’
‘Like my wife says,’ Hogan has on his pulpit voice now, ‘we’re all caring souls, but our compassion stops at the border. Once these people cross the line, they’re criminals and I have no sympathy for criminals. My duty is to American citizens. I have no choice but to turn these people back.’
‘Won’t they just try to cross again?’
‘We convince them not to.’
‘I see . . . How?’ I ask quietly.
Selby and Lane look at each other uneasily.
‘Ma’am, no disrespect, but this is a man’s conversation and one I’d prefer to have with your husband.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I push up from the sofa. I have to get out of here. I make my goodbyes and promise Hogan I’ll pass everything on to Robert when we next speak.
‘Or if you prefer,’ he offers, ‘I’ll call him myself.’
‘Mr Hogan!’ I curb a strong impulse to squeeze my hands round his throat.
‘Ma’am?’
‘May I speak frankly?’
‘Of course. You’re amongst friends here!’ Helen says.
‘Robert’s mother has just died and this is a very difficult time for him and though he would think it rude to say so himself, being English and all, I’m sure you can appreciate he needs to be left alone to grieve. Actually, we both do.’
‘Why, you poor things.’ Helen looks mortified. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. Were you very close to her?’
‘Very.’ I contort my face into an expression of pious sorrow then canter towards the emergency exit. Hogan follows close behind. At the door he shakes my hand in his ponderous way and I can almost taste the fresh air when he implores me to wait and disappears into the hall cupboard, re-emerging with a plastic bag of fawncoloured caps with ‘Ranch Rights’ printed on them.
‘Take a couple for the kids as well,’ he says, beaming, ‘After all, one size fits all!’
23
‘Why do people like Jeff Hogan move here if they feel it so beneath them?’ I say irritably. ‘And what’s with the ghastly Betty Crocker wife? I mean, where do you find women like that these days?’
‘e-Bay, probably,’ Duval says, scanning the breakfast menu, and I laugh. ‘There’s money to be made on any border and Jeff Hogan thinks he’s the man to do it.’
‘And is he?’
‘Look around you,’ he says. We’re sitting in a corner booth in the M&M waiting for Winfred to show. Apart from the usual disparate characters snatching a moment’s refuge from life, the place is empty. Barb, the waitress, hovers by the serving hatch staring vacantly into space. Two truck drivers are simultaneously smoking and forking eggs into their mouths. In the M&M it’s business as usual, it’s all dreams and desperation, washed down with cup after cup of weak percolated coffee.
‘See that guy?’ Duval nods at a gimlet-eyed man sitting alone at a table, mopping up yolk with toast. ‘He’s fifty-two, looks seventy. See his boots? They’re bound with duct tape where they’ve worn through. He lives in a cabin with no heating and no water and looks like he’s a dollar away from destitute. In fact he owns a hundred and eighty thousand acres of deeded land and another three hundred thousand acres in leases.’ He points to another table where an immaculately groomed cowboy studies the menu with the intensity of a college professor editing his lecture notes. ‘That guy is a horse trainer. Good one too, but the locals are scared of him. He’s a wild son of a bitch with two brothers in the state penitentiary and his wife’s lover buried in his backyard. I bet if you were to look in his pickup outside, you’d find a pearl-handled colt forty-five in the front passenger seat and a couple of rifles in the back. You know,’ he adds wryly, ‘for the dangerous business of shoeing
a horse.’
I look quizzically at the cowboy’s ramrod-straight back.
‘People fare better on the border when they’re not all they seem. Hogan, however, is exactly who he seems and those who flash their credentials around as readily as he does tend to be stripped of them.’
‘By you?’
‘No, not by me. I have no interest in Hogan. But by someone.’
‘And if not?’
‘Then he’ll make his fortune, sell that log monstrosity of his and upgrade to an expensive white stucco build with wrought-iron fencing, a bougainvillea-filled patio and a house alarm system with armed response in Scotts-dale. He’ll spend his retirement showing off to the rest of the community, congratulating himself on getting out of Houston and realizing too late that his new-found freedom in the desert extends only as far as the power of his air-conditioning unit.’
‘If you ever forsake your life of crime, I think you should consider writing a column.’ I sweep a by-line in the air with my hand: ‘Great Stereotypes of the West.’
‘And I think you should eat your bacon.’ He’s looking at me in that curious way he has and I drop my eyes for fear that he will read what’s inside them. During these last few weeks I’ve been road-testing feelings that have been dormant for so long I scarcely remember what to do with them. All I know is that the more time I spend with Duval, the more it feels like the missing pieces to some emotional jigsaw are being slotted back in place, and I should probably stop right now, before it’s too late, before the picture is complete and there, apparent for everyone to see.
‘Why? Are you intending to pinch it?’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘Give me a low-down on the huntsman at the till and it’s yours.’
Duval starts to twist round.
‘No.’ I touch his hand lightly. ‘Without looking.’ Underneath mine, his fingers are long and brown. A pianist’s hands. I look down at them. I’ve wondered before how it would feel to have them curve around the edge of my ribs. To brush over my skin. I take my hand away.
