Desert Discord

by Henry D. Terrell

  The great unspoken thing, however, was Hershel’s displeasure that his son was marrying a shiksa, and a brown-skinned papist to boot. Never mind that his own wife Sarah had been raised a Catholic. When she agreed to marry a Jew, she did the right thing and embraced the old faith, despite the stresses it placed upon her own family. They got over it. Simon, as far as Hershel could tell, had not even considered asking Nita to convert. And why did they have to be in such a hurry to get married? (Hershel was pretty sure he knew the answer to that one.)

  It was a forty-minute drive to the airport, Nita chattering away, excited. She had done that a lot lately. She had been almost irrepressible at the courthouse when they signed the papers. She cried in front of the justice of the peace and two witnesses she didn’t even know. Jesus! Nobody cries at a JP wedding.

  As they drove through the airport entrance, Simon wondered if he should park or if Mom and Dad would be waiting at the curb, like they said. The flight had arrived half an hour early.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” said Nita. “I got applause at the meeting last night.” She was referring to the traditional attagirls and attaboys they gave at Weight Watchers meetings when somebody lost weight. “I lost two and a half pounds. If I had managed just three or four more pounds, the dress would fit perfect. But, oh well.”

  “I know it will look good on you,” said Simon.

  “You haven’t even seen it yet, silly,” said Nita. “And you won’t, either. Not till I come down the aisle.” She drifted into wedding reverie. “It will be so good … so holy and good. I’m still thinking we should have communion afterward.”

  “I can’t,” said Simon. “That you have to do on your own. I’m not Catholic.”

  “You could kneel down with me, and Father Tom would bless you. Someday, after you’ve taken instruction and been baptized, we’ll all get to take communion together, as a family. If we are blessed with children, which I’m sure we will be.”

  “I should say we will be,” said Simon. “Pretty darn soon.”

  “We don’t have to be in a hurry,” said Nita. “Probably, we should wait a couple of years until we’ve saved some more money.”

  “Wait a couple of years? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, I can keep my job at the title company for the time being. The orchestra might not pay you very much, but your job at the bank is doing pretty well. If you could get a promotion, we can save for the down payment on a real house.”

  Simon did not understand what he was hearing.

  “Uh … honey, are you telling me you’re not pregnant anymore?”

  “Oh, no.” She laughed. “I never was, I guess. I got my ladies, time a couple of days after we signed the papers. I was just late. My body was being irregular. It’s always been like that. The doctor said it’s okay. I’m really sorry I put you and my folks into such a state, but it all worked out for the best.”

  “You are not having a baby? There never was an emergency?”

  “Thank heavens for that,” said Nita. “It gives us time to get settled and enjoy life together before we have too many responsibilities.”

  “Nita! You mean all of this …”

  Nita suddenly pointed. “Hey! Is that your mom and dad? Your mom looks good. She must be younger than mine. I think your dad’s tired, though. It was probably a long flight.”

  Simon had barely stopped the car when Anita hopped out and bounced over to Simon’s mother, standing with her light-blue matching suitcases and tote bag.

  “Are you Sarah?” Nita beamed. “I’m Simon’s wife-to-be, Anita.”

  “What a joy to meet you!” Sarah Frost beamed. “Call me Mom, okay?”

  “Mom! I like the sound of that!” The two women hugged.

  Hershel stood on the curb, scowling. Simon sat in the driver’s seat, mouth agape. Hershel leaned in to the passenger-side window.

  “Hey, are you going to just sit there like a pile of laundry?” Hershel said. “Help your mother with the luggage.”

  The next day back in Duro, at the same time that Simon Frost was standing dumbfounded in front of a large brown crowd at Holy Redeemer Catholic Church trying to remember his vows, Officer Cam Miller made his second trip out to the Rhodes house. He brought bad news.

  “He’s pressing charges,” said the policeman. “The DA has no choice.”

  Sam Rhodes was stunned.

  “What? Who, that Spanish kid who got the concussion?”

  “No, the other one. His friend. Frost.”

  “I distinctly recall he said he wasn’t in a position that night to see what happened,” said Sam.

  “Apparently, he’s changed his tune. Says he saw everything and is willing to testify that it was an assault and not just a fight. And he says he specifically remembers what each boy did.”

  “That little girly-haired shit! How can he get away with that?”

  “It’s his prerogative,” said Miller. “If it goes any further, then it’s up to the DA.”

  “But Frost was at the hearing, and so were the boys! He got a good look at them then. Of course he can identify them now.”

  “Well, yes,” said Miller. “But Del Ray Dustin wasn’t there, and Frost picked him out from the photo lineup. He also had some details, like he said Joe and Del Ray were wearing cowboy hats, and he described your son’s truck. He also gave us some other things that weren’t public. He was pretty specific.”

  Sam sighed. “Well, Chris is still asleep. It’s his day off. You want me to wake him up?”

  “We don’t have to yet,” said Officer Miller. “The main thing I need to do is search the pickup truck, if you give me permission. It was allegedly used in the commission of a crime. I just need to establish that there isn’t any physical evidence.”

  “I suppose you can,” said Sam. “But really, Cam, what could you possibly be looking for?”

  “Blood, mostly.”

  “Blood? I’ve been in that truck several times since the fight but haven’t seen any blood.”

  “It might not be much. Could be just a trace amount. But that young man bled quite a bit from his head, and some of it could have been tracked in. I would need to look at Chris’s boots, too, if y’all let me.”

  “Whatever,” said Sam. “But I don’t think this is the big deal the DA is making it out to be. Some boys got in a fight. It’s really a shame the guy fell and got banged up, but it happened. And he got a cut on his head. Have you ever had a cut on your scalp? It bleeds like crazy.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Miller.

  Sam fetched the keys to the truck, and Miller opened both doors, crouching down and examining the floorboard on the driver’s side, checking around the accelerator and the brake pedal.

  “Nothing obvious here,” he said. He moved around to the other side of the cab and checked the carpet. “Lot of dirt,” he said. “Some of it could be blood, but I can’t be sure. I have to get some samples.” He then opened the glove compartment. “Whoa. What’s this?” he said.

  It was a leather wallet. Miller flipped it open and removed a driver’s license with a familiar picture and name.

  Andrew Deutsch Zamara

  Sam came around to see what the officer was looking at, and Miller showed it to him.

  “Oh, Jesus,” said Sam. “Those dumb, dumb shits. I suppose this changes everything.”

  “Aggravated robbery,” said Miller. “Yes. I’m afraid it does. Please wake up your son.”

  – 38 –

  Peggy’s Home Remedy

  Simon and Nita’s wedding was more fun than Andy expected. Andy had no lines but presented the ring when instructed. Simon looked a bit like an herbivore in the high beams but stumbled through his vows without prompting. Nita had sobbed through hers. The whole ceremony, in the presence of all her family and friends (half the Mexican-Americans in Duro, it seemed), and by the power vested in Father Tom, was designed to turn on the eye spigots, and it did. Nita was outmatched only by her mom, who snuffled and blew her nose from
the I-dos through the recessional (Mozart’s allegro from “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik”). Andy would have chosen something a little less clichéd, but he didn’t say so.

  On Sunday morning, the day after the wedding, Saskia drove Andy back to his parents’ house south of Duro.

  St. Cecelia’s had officially cut Andy’s rehab to just Tuesdays and Thursdays, so he was spending more time away from the Piedmans’ house. He thought this was probably for the best. Janey went along for the ride.

  “I’m really worried about Erycca,” said Saskia. “At first, I thought she was just being inconsiderate as hell to Mom, running off and not telling anybody. And I can’t imagine Timothy taking her someplace—he has it good at our house—and I don’t see her agreeing to run away with him.”

  “I’m worried too,” said Andy. “I don’t really know her, but she does seem pretty independent. She never says much to me.”

  “She doesn’t say much to anybody,” said Saskia.

  Janey chimed in from the backseat, “I bet she’s just had it up to here with Mom. I know I have.”

  “It’s you who doesn’t get along with Mom,” said Saskia. “Stop projecting your problems onto other people. Erycca and Mom get along just fine. What has she got to complain about? Mom let her boyfriend move in.”

  They reached the exurb where the Zamara property sat and turned up the gravel driveway. It was a hot day, but the windows were open at the house. The evaporative cooler on the roof hummed away.

  “You guys are wasting electricity,” said Saskia.

  “My mom is probably cooking her tea,” said Andy. “It stinks up the house pretty bad, so she opens the windows.”

  They parked, and all got out.

  “What a cool place,” said Janey. “Do you have chickens? We used to have chickens, till the neighbors made a BFD and we had to get rid of them.”

  “We do have chickens,” said Andy. “Our neighbors hate them too. The roosters, at least. They start going off about four in the morning.”

  They went inside the house. It was warm inside, and a sour smell permeated the premises. Peggy came out of the kitchen.

  “Pee-YEW, Mama!” said Andy.

  “Hi, baby!” she said. “I thought you were coming later.” Peggy went to Saskia and gave her a hug. “I’m sorry about the smell. I have tea in the oven. It needs to stay a few more minutes.”

  Peggy greeted Janey. “You must be Saskia’s sister Erycca.”

  “I’m Janey. Erycca’s missing.”

  “Janey! Mrs. Zamara doesn’t need all our family drama,” said Saskia.

  “Missing?” said Peggy. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “She ran off with her boyfriend,” said Janey. “Nobody likes him.”

  “Jane, stick a cork in your face,” said Saskia. “Yes, my sister took off a few days ago, and we’re really worried. We haven’t heard a word from her, and it’s not the kind of thing she does.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that,” said Peggy. “I’m sure she’ll turn up all right. Hey, would you like some iced tea? I have a pitcher.”

  “Sure,” said Saskia. “Is it the special tea that Andy told me about?”

  “Oh, heavens no,” laughed Peggy. “That doesn’t taste very good. It’s really a medicine. I take it for the knees. It helps my arthritis.”

  “You have to cook it first?”

  “It makes it work better. Unfortunately, it stinks to high heaven when it’s in the oven. Twenty or thirty minutes at two hundred fifty degrees, then you soak it in vodka for a day or two to make a tincture, and bottle it in old medicine bottles. That’s what you make the tea from.” Peggy laughed. “I know it sounds like I’m keeping moonshine out there in the shed, but it just takes a couple of teaspoons in a cup of regular tea. There isn’t much alcohol after you mix it up. I put honey in it so I can stand the taste. I wouldn’t take it if it didn’t help my joints so much.”

  Peggy disappeared into the kitchen, while Andy and the Piedman sisters sat in the living room.

  “Where’s Pauline?” called Andy.

  “She’s at her friend Lisa’s house!” shouted Peggy from the kitchen. “She should be home by supper.”

  Saskia leaned over to Andy and whispered, “Andy, I know that smell. It’s grass. That’s what it smells like when my mom is making brownies, when she’s getting the dope ready. Your mom is making dope tea.”

  “Of course,” whispered Andy. “We just don’t call it that.”

  “Does she know?”

  “Oh, I’m sure. But it’s an old family recipe she learned from my Mexican grandmother. Abuelita used tequila instead of vodka, but it was the same thing—the old Zamara arthritis cure. Just don’t call it dope.”

  “Where does she get the … plants?”

  “She grows them,” said Andy. “In the back of the greenhouse behind the poinsettias. Just seven or eight plants at a time. She’s done that since we moved out here. Nobody bothers her about it. And she says it really helps the pain and the stiffness.”

  “Wow,” said Saskia.

  Peggy came in with a tray bearing four large glasses of iced tea. Janey took a glass.

  “Do you ever put the tea in brownies?” asked Janey.

  Saskia shot her a severe look, but Peggy laughed. “Oh no. Just liquid tea. It would probably ruin something delicious like brownies.”

  “I don’t think it would,” said Janey.

  The ding of a timer rang from the kitchen.

  “Oops, time to take out the trays,” said Peggy. “I’ll put them out on the back porch. Then we can close the windows and it won’t be so hot in the house.” She jumped up and headed for the kitchen.

  Janey put her iced tea glass down on the coffee table, right beside a cork coaster. Andy reached over and moved the glass onto the coaster.

  “Watch out for water stains,” said Andy. “This is a nice old table.”

  “Sorry,” said Janey. “Hey, Andy, can I see your chickens? I have a way with animals. I can communicate with them, especially birds. I love chickens. I miss them. It was my job to feed them.”

  “Sure,” said Andy. He led Janey out the back door and around the side of the stand-alone garage, where a wired enclosure held a couple dozen white, red, and speckled hens. Janey walked around the outside, making clucking noises with her mouth and holding her fingers next to the chicken wire. Several chickens came over to investigate.

  “See, they like me,” said Janey.

  “They think you have food,” said Andy. Saskia and Peggy came outside. Janey went around to the far side of the enclosure, and the flock followed her.

  “Do you have any chicken feed?” Janey called.

  “Yes,” said Andy. “It’s inside that metal bucket by the shed.”

  Janey pried off the bucket lid and scooped a handful of feed, then started walking around the perimeter, tossing bits of feed into the pen, causing a ruckus among the chickens.

  Andy spoke quietly to Saskia. “Your sister is funny. She has a lot of … child in her.”

  “Yeah, she does. She’s pretty smart, though. Her teacher says she is one of the best readers in her class.”

  “What teacher?”

  “Her schoolteacher.”

  “Doesn’t she have more than one?”

  “No. She won’t have more than one teacher until she gets to junior high.”

  Andy looked at Saskia, baffled. “Wait … Janey’s not …” He searched Saskia’s face for a hint that his leg was being pulled. “Saskia, how old is Janey?”

  “She’s twelve.”

  “My goodness,” said Peggy. “She is a big girl for her age.”

  “That she is,” said Saskia. “She gets it from my dad.”

  Andy was beginning to see things in an unexpected light. “I thought … I always thought Janey was between you and Erycca in age.”

  Saskia laughed. “A lot of people think that. At least until they talk to her for five minutes. She’s still just a kid.”

  “Twelve year
s old?”

  “That’s right.” Saskia called to her sister. “Come on, little sis! We need to be getting back.”

  “Awww!” said Janey. She tossed the rest of the feed to the hens. “Okay. I guess.” She knelt by the wire fence. “Bye, ladies!” she said. Then she walked around to Peggy Zamara and extended her hand. “Thanks for the iced tea. It was nice to meet you. I love your chickens.”

  “It was nice to meet you too, Janey,” said Peggy, shaking hands. “Come back again. You can help me sort the chicks.”

  The large aviphilic girl embraced Andy in an energetic hug and planted a loud kiss on his cheek. “See you Tuesday!”

  “Yeah!” said Andy.

  He watched her walk away, hips broad and swaying.

  Twelve. She’s twelve years old. Wow. That … I … did not expect. He felt a strange wave of vertigo from the unseen cliff he had been standing beside in blissful ignorance.

  Well, he thought. I can honestly say I did not have sex with a sixth grader.

  – 39 –

  But Douglas’s Birthday Is May 9

  For a few minutes, Douglas managed to convince himself that it was somebody’s sick idea of a joke, because the letter was stamped July 11, and that had been a Sunday. No office of any sort worked on a Sunday, especially a government office. Nice try, guys. You’re sick fucks.

  But then he noticed that it was actually dated July 14. The number was smudged. He felt slightly nauseated, and his ears rang.

  But my birthday is May 9! My number was 197.

  That’s what they had said on the TV, that awful day last winter when he made himself watch the draft lottery in real time. A smug, self-admiring tight-ass congressman in a dark suit ceremoniously removed plastic balls one at a time out of a large glass cylinder to answer the fateful question—who will stay, and who will go?

  They said at the time, and the newspaper confirmed, that the highest number to get the all-expenses-paid Asian vacation was 195. Hearts of young men across the nation beat fast as he called the numbers one by one, and the corresponding birthdates were flashed on the TV screen. Finally, when the last of the fatal numbers was drawn, and a sick feeling came over thousands of young men born September 24, Douglas had been free and clear, and he breathed a little easier.