NOT AN AMERICAN

by Stanley W Rogouski

"Don't let me put pressure you. Take as much time as you want."

  John Avellanos left his cousin's office in a state of emotional turmoil. Elizabeth Felton had been so persuasive that it briefly solved his identity crisis. He finally knew what he wanted to be, the real Martin James Ruiz, a native born working class American who lost his mind in a war he hated and recovered his sanity working to defeat the ugly racist demagogue who had ruined his father's hometown. That was a fairytale come true, and he, John Avellanos, could make it happen. He imagined working for his cousin after she took office, having the power to fire the policeman who beat him up, and broke Andy's arm, but then he remembered what the real Martin James Ruiz had said. My sister might be running this whole town and I'll just be some bum living in a shopping mall. There was an integrity in that, a lack of ambition, an unwillingness to piggyback off of someone else's hard work and success.

  The next morning, Avellanos woke up early, showered, got dressed, and sat down at his desk in front of the waterproof plastic envelope. He was wearing an unpretentious but well-made and comfortable chamois cloth shirt and a pair of dark, cotton twill slacks, having explored his uncle's closet the evening before, and having found that most of the clothes did indeed fit perfectly. Nicholas Felton was 6'2" tall, 180 pounds, and had a 32 inch waist, just like he did. It was uncanny. He had also looked at photographs of his uncle as a young man in his 20s and 30s. He realized why he had had such a hypnotic effect on his cousin. He, Martin Ruiz, and Nicholas Felton had all been stamped from the same mold. How could three people in the world look so much alike?

  The consciousness that his resemblance to his late uncle had thrown a spell over his cousin made John Avellanos more determined than ever to tell his cousin the truth. He glanced briefly at the newspaper article and at the photo of himself as a child with his mother as a middle aged woman. He also looked at the wallet sized photo he and his other, now quite possibly dead cousin Martin Ruiz had made in the old photo booth at WillyMart. He put all three back in the waterproof, plastic envelope, put the envelope under his arm, and walked upstairs to his cousin's office. He knocked, and walked inside. This time, he did not hesitate. He took out the newspaper article and the old photo of himself and his mother, and put them down right down on top of the desk. He held back the small photo of himself and Martin Ruiz.

  "Laura Felton died in 2001."

  Avellanos was amazed by his cousin's reaction.

  “You're bringing me news about the worst kept secret in our family," she said, coming around her desk, taking his hand in hers, and putting his index finger down on the photo of himself when he was an 11 year old child. "Do you see that little boy? That's your cousin."

  Avellanos remained silent.

  "He was murdered along with his mother and her companion. I suppose you've wondered how I can be running for office in this town when your aunt was a fugitive and a murderer."

  She released his hand.

  "A few years ago, Michael found out that your aunt hadn't died back in the 1970s. She had lived underground in northern Mexico until 2001. It was an impressive feat of sleuthing. Not even the Mexican government knew about it. Michael also knew that our father had turned your aunt into the FBI, just like David Kaczynski turned in his own brother, and probably saved lives in the process, but he still thought he could use it. Three years ago, he sent our father a letter, warning him not to oppose the CCIA, and it might have worked, except for one little variable he hadn't anticipated."

  She put his finger back on the photo of himself as a child.

  "Making political capital off the idea off of a dead child? Transform the infamous Laura Felton from a terrorist into a mother? Sure Michael, go right ahead. Good luck with that. You should visit the chapel across the yard. There's a plaque dedicated to your aunt and that poor murdered little boy. I also have another picture upstairs, although not as good as that one. Nobody, not even Michael, ever found out who his father was, but we do know his name was John. I bet he would have grown up to look just like you, tall, strong, handsome, just like our father. I don't know how you found out about your aunt, and I don't know where you got that photo, but don't spoil the good impression you've already made on me, and believe me you've made a very good impression."

  Avellanos looked offended.

  "You don't think I came here to blackmail you?"

  Elizabeth Felton threw her arms around him. He felt her warm tears against his cheeks as she hugged him.

  "I think you would be well within your rights if you did. But I know it's just your way of telling me you're a private person and you'd rather stay a private person. I guess Michael sent that photo to your mother, bastard. This just makes me more determined than ever to drive him out of office. Stay here as long as you want, whatever you decide to do, even if all you want to do is sleep for 16 hours a day and recover from the war. I was devastated when I found out that I had a little cousin in Mexico murdered by drug cartels. I was devastated when our father died. I was devastated to know I had a brother, but that he was lost somewhere, homeless and alone. Then you showed up, quite literally on my doorstep, and I realized I wasn't an orphan after all. The brother I thought I had lost forever had been thinking of me all along."

  She went back to her desk, put the old photo and the newspaper article back inside the waterproof plastic envelope, and handed it back to John Avellanos, who put it under his arm, and walked over to the window. It was a clear day. He could see all the way to Route 1081 and the West Hill Coal Breaker. He put his hand inside the waterproof plastic envelope and held the small photo of himself and Martin Ruiz between his fingers. All he had to do was take it out and show it to his cousin, and she would no longer be able to deny the truth, but he found himself unable to speak. He zipped the envelope back up, put it back under his arm, and walked back over to his cousin's desk.

  "I don't know what to say."

  "Don't say anything. Just take your time and heal your soul."

  Chapter 21 - these are not the droids you are looking for

  Traces of light appeared in the east as a 15-year-old Ford Taurus rolled into the empty parking lot at WillyMart. A very tall, darkly handsome young man and his pretty blond companion got out. He pulled a knapsack out of the back seat, and threw it over his shoulder. They walked out to Route 1081 along the edge of the parking lot, careful to stay on "public" property. When they reached the highway, they crossed over, walked north on the shoulder for another quarter mile, and continued over the small bridge past a block of vacant two family houses covered with graffiti.

  "Attention Illegals," it said. "America's Guard Is Watching You."

  At the bottom of the hill, alongside the tall, newly constructed fence around Winterborn II, they found an SUV marked with the logo of a private security firm, and two men wearing America's Guard jackets. One of them, a very young man with blond, already thinning hair, and a full beard, frowned. The other, a thin, clean shaved middle-aged man seemed indifferent.

  "So Cathy Chegoffgan," the younger man said. "I haven't seen you since high school."

  "How are you TJ?"

  "We can't let you in to take any more photos," the older man said. "It's too dangerous."

  She pointed to John Avellanos.

  "I've got my intern to protect me."

  "That guy?" TJ said, grunting.

  "I've also got this," she said, pulling her shirt back to reveal the 38 caliber revolver. "I found this in my father's old bedroom last week. I just had it oiled. I want to try it out."

  "Why don't you just go to the gun range?" the older man said.

  "Come on Stan. Who can afford that? I just want to teach my intern how to shoot."

  "I'm from the Peoples Republic of New Jersey," Avellanos said, repeating the line they had rehearsed in the car. "I can't even buy a shotgun there."

  "Tell me about it," Stan said, extending his hand. "I moved out three years ago because of fat boy Christie's communist gun laws. What a liberal shit hole that is."

&nb
sp; Avellanos shook his hand.

  “He does have that accent," TJ said.

  Stan nodded.

  "I guess it couldn't do any harm," he said.

  "I can get you a better gun than that," TJ said to Cathy Chegoffgan. "You're not going to get much stopping power with an old 38."

  "We're only going to shoot some empty beer cans," she said.

  "Alright you can go inside," Stan said to Avellanos. "I guess it couldn't hurt anybody."

  “Thanks," he said.

  TJ laughed.

  "If you see any illegals in there just shoot them."

  Avellanos laughed nervously.

  "I wouldn't know where to put the bodies," he said.

  TJ pointed up to the West Hill Coal Breaker, which was becoming visible in the morning light.

  "You're a big guy. Just sling the body over your shoulder and climb up that hill. You see that old coal breaker. There's a mine shaft on fire. You throw a body in there and you'll never see it again."

  The expression on Cathy Chegoffgan's face changed to one of familiar contempt.

  "TJ likes to fuck with people," she said.

  "I'm not fucking with you," TJ said to Avellanos. "Those wetbacks will kill you and rape squirrel without blinking an eye."

  "Squirrel?"

  "That's my native American name."

  "That was her nickname in high school," TJ said. "That crazy mother of hers didn't give her any food so she used to eat acorns in front of us until we'd share our lunch with her."

  "See. He just likes to fuck with people."

  Avellanos reached into knapsack he and Cathy Chegoffgan had brought with them and took out the Corsican Vendetta knife he had taken from the two "temps" who had tried to mug George Kozlowski the week before. "Vengeance is Mine" it said on the blade. He brandished in the air and stepped towards TJ.

  "We also have this," he said. "I personally don't put too much stock in guns. By the time you get it out the holster you might get your throat cut, especially if you go around calling someone's mother crazy."

  "Is that so?" TJ said. "If I have to choose between a cheap cigar store knife and an AR-15," he added, tapping the stock of his gun. "I know what my choice would be."

  Cathy Chegoffgan came up behind Avellanos and snatched the knife from his hands. She noticed that it had two small holes at the end of the handle.

  “My intern gave me that knife for my 21st birthday," she said as she pulled the sharpened piece of table leg she wore around her neck up over her head. "I use it to cut my steak at the dinner table. It freaks people out," she added, throwing the rusty piece of aluminum to the ground.

  TJ laughed.

  "And you say I like to fuck with people," he said. "You know Cathy. I have a question."

  “Yes. It's fake," she said, threading the string through the holes in the handle of the Corsican vendetta knife. She looped the knife over her head, tied the string around her neck, and tucked it under her shirt. "That's why the inscription is in English, not Italian."

  "No," he said, "not that. We all know what happened to your father up there. "Won't you get flashbacks or something if you go up there with a gun?"

  “No," she said, "and here's where you've got it wrong. I was aiming at a beer can, but I hit a rock. If I had been able to shoot straight, if I had hit the beer can, my father would still be alive."

  Stan expressed his approval.

  "I like your attitude," he said. "You're not like one of those liberal pussies always calling for gun control."

  “Gun control is hitting your target," she said.

  Stan clapped.

  “Thank you," he said. "Thank you. The kids are alright."

  "Well if you're going to miss and hit the wrong target," TJ said. "Just do it when intern's around. He's got a big mouth."

  "Go for it neck beard," Avellanos said, "you're welcome to try and shut me up any time you want."

  Cathy Chegoffgan grabbed him under his arm.

  "Let's go," she said, pulling him in the direction of the construction site, "or you're going to get us both shot.”

  "Who was that guy?"

  "TJ? He's just someone I went to high school with."

  "He's an asshole."

  "No shit. So why waste your time?"

  "He insulted you."

  "He insults everybody. Have you thought about what I said?"

  "Leave town?"

  "Yes. Tonight. Let's disappear."

  "I'm sick of running. That guy TJ. Is he your ex-boyfriend?"

  “Oh Christ no. He's disgusting. I'd bend over and gnaw my own vagina off before I slept with him."

  "Is he obsessed with you? Did you friend zone him or something? Is he the guy you booby trapped the door for? Is he some kind of stalker?”

  "No. No. No, and no. We could get in my car, and drive to California in three days. It'll be cool. Why not?"

  “I owe it to my cousin. She saved my life. I can't just bail on her. And how about all your stuff. You can't just leave that. Why don't we do this? Let me give the speech this week, say goodbye to David and my cousin, and then we'll leave."

  "I guess you're right," she said. "I just hate this town."

  "We'll be out of it soon enough."

  "And then we can just disappear."

  He bent over and kissed her forehead.

  "We can disappear without a trace."

  "There's the fence," she said. "Do you think you can get over it?"

  "I can try," he said. "Fuck. Look at all the razor wire."

  "That's a serious fence," she said. "If you're scared you'll cut your hands just let me know. I don't want to go over that fence. Why don't we just go back to WillyMart, get in my car, have breakfast, pick up a few things from my place, and drive to California."

  "I need to know what happened to him," Avellanos said. "I need to know if he did it. And even if we can't find any proof, I need to go up there one more time, just to say goodbye. I'm not a religious man, but I need to say a prayer for him or something, have some kind of memorial, to put something up there. I don't know. But I need to do something. He was like my twin brother."

  "I know," she said. "I feel like I know him."

  "You do know him. Will you say something?"

  "I'll say something. I'll try."

  "There it is."

  Avellanos pointed up to West Hill. The sun had risen far enough over the eastern horizon so that it illuminated the forbidding outlines of the West Hill Coal Breaker. Cathy Chegoffgan nodded her head.

  "What a fucking place to commit suicide, "she said. "After next week, I never want to see this fucking place again."

  Chapter 22 - tear down this wall

  John Avellanos and Cathy Chegoffgan hopped across the drainage ditch, and stopped at the fence that now circled the half-demolished construction site at Winterborn II. 8 feet tall, built of heavy steel, and topped with razor wire, it was a forbidding sight. "Private Property," it said every 20 yards. "Keep Out." Avellanos swung the heavy knapsack off his back and onto the ground. Cathy Chegoffgan removed a thick piece of tarp and a pair of heavy, steel reinforced gloves, while he just stared. Just a year ago, the fence didn't even exist.

  "Jesus, this fence," he said. "It's like that fence in, I don't know, have you seen that movie with Steve McQueen, the Great Escape?"

  “Never seen it," she said, running her hands along the fence.

  "It's a about a group of British prisoners who escape from a Nazi POW camp. One guy steals a motorcycle. He almost gets away but gets caught in the razor wire."

  "What kind of fool would try to jump an eight foot fence on a motorcycle?" she said, continuing to probe the fence with her fingers. "But I guess it's better than getting caught by Nazis."

  "We'll have to watch it when we get back," he said, putting on his gloves. "OK. Here goes. If I get caught, you're going to have to call TJ to come and get me."

  Avellanos stepped back to get a running start. He leapt up onto the fence, grabbed the tarp, and clim
bed over the top. After getting his shoe caught in a piece of razor wire he had neglected to cover up with the tarp, and violently shaking it out, he finally made to the other side. He looked over at Cathy Chegoffgan.

  "Jesus Christ," he said. "Do you think you're going to be able to make it over?"

  “I don't see why not."

  She walked over to the fence, pulled the tarp down off the razor wire, and put it back in the knapsack with her pair of gloves. After she swung the knapsack over her shoulders, she pulled open a gap in the steel mesh of the fence big enough for a grown man or woman to walk through, and crossed over to the other side. Avellanos burst out laughing.

  "Fuck you."

  "I was testing you."

  They turned around, scampered up the embankment onto the service road that had been cut through the big unfinished parking lot, and continued across the construction site on to West Hill. In the early morning, the eastern side of Winterborn II was a pleasant walk. With the sun illuminating the odd patch of wildflowers, or the occasional herd of deer, the great construction site had the air of a dead industrial civilization being reclaimed by nature. It was only when you crossed over to the largely demolished western block of never to open retail outlets that it began to look like of a World War I battlefield. There were no trees and very little grass. Heavy construction equipment lay about in idle neglect. There were puddles of dirty water in half dug trenches and the smell that came from the moist, contaminated earth. There was a bare chain link fence plastered with signs.

  "EXTREME DANGER," the signs said every five yards. "RISK OF DEATH.

  They gave the fence a wide berth as they splashed across the little stream and continued up the old railway bed. West Hill could be a difficult climb. The path at intervals would simply disappear, forcing you to jump onto the half submerged tracks, where broken ties, debris, and deep, partially concealed holes made it seem almost designed to produce twisted ankles. But they had both made the climb many times before. The way he walked along with little or no effort, even with the backpack, made her raise her eyebrow, as if she had suddenly believed that he had actually had served in the Marine Corps after all. She would occasionally look over her shoulder down at the construction site, then quickly turn around and continue up the 879 feet slope, letting her joy in movement overcome her bad memories of her "community service," a striking contrast to the lugubrious Martin James Ruiz, whose steady, unchanging gait had always been so rigid and military. They reached the top of West Hill a little after 9, turned, and looked back down at the construction site at Winterborn II.