Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection

by Cody Luff

"And can you trust him? I mean, that's a big move. You can't be giving notice on the lease..."

  "Well, nothing's for sure, I don't know when we will. But I know there are openings in at least two school programs for personal training, I'm sure of that, which could get me a good job in a Valley corporation."

  "You don't know anything about body building."

  "I work out, and I know nutrition."

  I realized my forehead was creased. I was frowning. I didn't want to frown. I wanted to be supportive and cheer on my child but to leave a gated community was a risk. "Do you need money?" I said.

  "No, I have some. I've been saving."

  "You have? How much?"

  "Enough."

  "But how much? You'll need three thousand just to move and get started for a few months."

  "I have enough. Look, I don't want to say too much online, you know?"

  His virtual eyes gave me a loaded stare.

  "Alright," I said. "But you'll need a gun."

  "I don't need one."

  "Yes. You do. There's at least 120 miles between Sacramento and San Jose -- on the highway, where desperate people live."

  "I know, but I have other protection."

  "Don't pay anyone in advance."

  "I know, I'm not."

  "Buggie, why don't you just charter a train car here? I can prepay from downstairs. Costco has a new kiosk for just that kind of travel. You can figure things out here, save money, stay for a while, at least until someone says something."

  "I'm not going to get you thrown out!"

  "But just until someone says something."

  "Like the patrol? No, it's not debatable. I'll be in touch after we get settled. We're preparing. We'll be fine."

  "Oh, Will, please don't go."

  "Mommy, we will come see you -- when the time is right. It's just not the right time now."

  ***

  After we blew kisses and said goodbye, I went down the hall to the Guatemalans’' apartment. I brought an angel food cake. I knocked. There was a commotion behind the door though I knew they were expecting me in the evening for dessert. There was some thumping and shushing before finally the tiny bent mother opened the door. Her face was lined, her hair white. The father stood from an armchair, his barrel chest with its gold cross preceding him, and shook my hand. They nodded as they smiled. A bottle of guaro was on the coffee table. Their saints candles were lit. The son watched a soccer match on the screen. The mother and I went into the kitchen nook to cut up the cake. The father asked Hector in Spanish if he wanted cake. Hector said nothing, he watched the match from a stool positioned a foot from the screen. The parents and I sat down at the card table by the wall. A stained, bright yellow cloth lay across the middle of the surface. The mother poured a coffee so strong I almost spat. I took cream. The father spoke some English and we chatted in a broken rhythm about the Coyotes baseball team. The warm Arizona wind blew on our forearms as we cut off cake pieces with our forks.

  After a few minutes, the mother rose to fetch napkins. I heard a squeal, or a scream, I wasn't sure which and out of the bedroom came a child, about two years old, African. He plopped down on the mattress by the window, then grabbed the sheet and threw it over his head as if playing a game. A young woman, her head covered by a scarf, darted from the bedroom after him. She lifted his wrestling body in her arms. Someone yelped. Someone cussed. A man in a ripped T-shirt came from the bedroom and grabbed the woman by the wrist to yank them out of view. The door slammed.

  I looked at the Guatemalan mother. She'd stood up from her chair and been motioning to the young parents. At seeing me, she sat down and folded her hands.

  "Are there more?" I said.

  She shook her head. "Please, we work hard. We take no money. I give you money."

  "Don't," I said. There was a chunk of cake on my plate, a small piece on my fork, another small piece on the plate. I set down the fork. "I should go."

  The father rose and touched the back of my hand. His fingers were heavy, dry. "Please," he said.

  "Don't see me and I won't see you," I said. I went to the door and left the room where Hector was still mesmerized by the players running around in random circles on the field.

  ***

  The next day my perspective changed. I went downstairs to buy a few supplies. Inside the warehouse, there were hundreds of people, maybe thousands. Who could tell who was living where? There was one card per family. And the staff was so accommodating and nice at check out that I returned to my apartment feeling a little bold, a little hopeful.

  At first, I tried William's tablet but realized that was dumb since he wouldn't be online for days, maybe weeks. Then I remembered the phone I'd sent him and dialed the number.

  Five extended rings passed before a man answered with a brusque "What."

  I meant to speak but uttered and uhmed and finally said, "William, is William there?"

  "Who?"

  "William Hunter. Is this Ethan?"

  "Ethan? Who are you, lady?" he said. "What are you up to? Is this a sales call?"

  "No, my son, I bought this phone for my son, and he's supposed to have it. Where is he? Are you in Sacramento?"

  "Hey, back off, I bought this piece from a guy named Gilford."

  "But it can't be yours, my son is supposed to have it. Is he there?"

  "No."

  "Where is he? Did you steal this from him?"

  "Steal? I bought this fair and square for fifty bucks. I shelled out good money. Look, I don't know any William, I don't know any Ethan, Gilford's the guy I bought it from. It was fair and it's mine now."

  "Is this Gilford tall? And has hair that's kind of brownish blonde? He has …" I was about to say a Fu-Manchu moustache but then realized William had shaved it off and this young person wouldn't know the reference anyway, so I said, "he has brown eyes, very handsome."

  "Who the hell are you?" he said, "What do you think I am?" He clicked off. I dialed again. He didn't answer.

  ***

  For three days I called that phone before the guy threatened to call the police and I gave up. Occasionally I tried William's tablet but couldn't connect and then every few days I tried both the phone and the computer but there was never any connection.

  Early on the morning of Valentine's Day, I heard voices. Around lunchtime when I left to get groceries, I saw the building manager roaming the hall, directing workmen. The Guatemalans’' apartment door was open. I heard a vacuum, and hammering. Men were ripping out the carpeting and installing new. I closed the door, no longer feeling like going out. I went to my laptop to rent a movie, maybe The Hobbit, Ty's favorite where the dragon's brought down, but the screen was in saver mode: photos of Helga and Ty and then William on my lap as a baby. I couldn't turn away. I watched the rotating images one after another until the setting sun reflected off a mirror and created a glare on my screen. I got up to close the curtains but when I reached the window, the sun had dropped behind the mountains. A soft orange light glowed against the dark jagged terrain. Below in the neighborhood, the signs on stores and gas stations had not yet turned on, nor had the streetlights, and the hills and roads and buildings all muddied together in a large shadowed mass that grew and grew until it seemed to devour me with its senseless black presence.

  PHIL PADDOCK

  Confluence

  GORDON NIM WASN’T MUCH of a talker. Even as a boy his speech was ponderous, the reflective and analytical faculties canceling the spontaneous and impulsive ones. He didn’t use the tactics of posture or gesture to his advantage either. He didn’t lean in close or raise his eyebrows in conspiratorial winks, didn’t vary the tone of his voice, or pinch an arm to punctuate his message. It was a problem both of conviction and idealism- the noble expectation that people ought to listen to one another. As he learned the world didn’t work this way, he ceased to expect to be heard. Because of this, Gordon seemed smaller than he really was. A small and indistinct blur.

  When Gordon was in his twenties his co
nvictions made a brief revolt. His voice emerged and used it to declare love and to declare war. First there was Patty, a waitress at the Bella Vita restaurant where he layered lasagna, simmered scaloppini and piccata sauces; and later, after that ended in a clatter of accusations and shattered dishes, an artful girl named Miranda. He chased her to Australia and when she said she wanted to but was afraid because of Joe, Gordon declared war on her oppressive ex and shut him up with a decisively quick first strike at the throat.

  Now, in his forty-first year, the essential Gordon Nim, the one who held his tongue and listened with a poised sense of irony, had long since replaced the impassioned one.

  Not that his desire to be heard exceeded anyone else’s. He wasn’t needy, God forbid. After all, being muted was something Gordon was used to; the cynical creases in his smile proved it. And besides, he had remedies. Several times a week he dropped in at Seaview Park for a game of hoops. Even in his forties he remained an effective player. On the basketball court his unorthodox shooting motion and clever moves made him vivid to the men and boys who ran there. Swishing difficult jumpers punctuated his presence. He’d been writing too. Though it hadn’t been published, he felt confident that an interested public awaited his completed book about the Golden State Warrior championship team of 1975. He’d researched the lives of each player: coach Al Attles could still be found at most Warrior home games, while Derrek Dickey, Charles Johnson and Phil Smith had all improbably passed on within their fiftieth years of life. Now he was at work on a history of the Cameno River, long abused by developers, that ran along the north end of Santa Lorena and into the sea.

  Gordon served as a high school counselor, doing a job where one might expect he’d give counsel- delivering information to students and their parents. But Gordon’s work at Santa Lorena High School wasn’t so much about talking as it was about listening. In August, while students and teachers were still on vacation, the counselors met to prepare for the imminent swell of human traffic. Spared the regimentation of bells every hour, there was, in spite of their busyness and the burden of budget cuts, an agreeable ease to the rhythm of the days. Now Friday, the office staff cleared out early, eager to snatch the tail of summer before it disappeared.

  As Gordon stepped into the muggy August air and into the parking lot with Assistant Principal, Ed Martinez, his colleague produced a book from his bag; What Men Know about Women. “Check this out,” he said. “Open to any page; it’s all good.” Gordon cocked his mouth in a wry smile as Martinez’ eyes glistened with suppressed glee. When Gordon exposed the pages inside, blank after blank after blank, Martinez exploded in laughter. “Go ahead and share that one with your wife!”

  Gordon waved off the offer, but Martinez insisted. “Pass it on!” The book now in his hand, Gordon thought Martinez might be right. Rita had sometimes accused him of failing to understand her. They might have a good laugh about it. He thanked Martinez and headed home, ten minutes across town.

  On the way, Gordon stopped at a corner market that had a big city feel for little Santa Lorena. Mel’s Corner Pocket was an old and tight space, with merchandise stuffed to the rafters.

  Gordon stood in a short but constipated line as an elderly woman doddered to complete her transaction. Then a man stepped up behind him, jerking his eyebrows into raised accents when Gordon glanced his way.

  “Friday!” Then, when Gordon didn’t answer. “How ya’ doin?”

  “Good,” Gordon said, delivering the word quickly. He sensed the man would have more to say.

  “Jesus, it’s a sauna in here!”

  The woman turned and spoke of the owner, who stood at arm’s length. “I don’t know why he won’t at least use the fan.” Gordon gave a half-smile.

  The stranger behind him appeared well kept; a gold watch glistened on his arm. His shoes were fine Italian leather. Gordon glanced at a sports page on the rack.

  “Say, how you like them Giants?”

  “I don’t really follow baseball,” Gordon said.

  “How about the Warriors this year. Maybe this is it? We been waitin’ a long time; is this the season?”

  Gordon shrugged his shoulders. “Big changes. They’ll win more games, but I have to admit I’ll be sorry to see them slow the tempo. If they do it right, they’ll keep Monta Ellis. They need to add some players, not trade what they have. Maybe I’m too idealistic, but it’d be nice to win as David, not Goliath.”

  Gordon advanced in the line and set his items on the counter: a pint of half and half for the morning coffee, a cold ginger ale and a pack of gum.

  The stranger continued. “I like that!” he said. He came around on Gordon’s side and leaned in close, demanding Gordon’s eye. “You’re thinking different than everybody else. Wow, after all their losing and you say keep doing it. Everybody wants to get bigger and tougher, get more physical, pound it down low. Get to the line, win with defense; isn’t that right? Isn’t that what everybody says?”

  Gordon nodded, paid the clerk and started to go.

  “Not you though. You say let everybody else get big and we’ll stay small.”

  “That’s not what I said; the Warriors need some players who’ll play defense, but I’d try to keep Monta,” Gordon added, reaching the exit.

  “Here’s a mismatch for ya’. What about this: a guy leaves work early, goes home and finds his wife with the mailman. The son of a bitch mailman. What does he do about that?” The few patrons braced themselves, their eyes on the floor tiles, the merchandise, anywhere but at the man cracking to pieces.

  Only Mel and Gordon turned and looked.

  The eyebrows were arched up. “Who does he go after first- him or her? There’s some fun and entertainment for ya’. There’s some tempo!”

  Gordon turned and stepped out the door where high clouds held in the afternoon heat.

  “So listen,” he heard the voice behind him, “you got five minutes? I just wanted to get your take on something.”

  Gordon scrunched up his face in defense. The determined machinery of the man’s jaw moved up and down as he spoke.

  “I liked what you said about the Warriors in there: go small, up-tempo, have fun. Like the best part of Don Nelson’s not completely gone; the vision’s still there: shoot threes, look for steals. Listen, you think it’s more important to win or have fun?”

  The Warriors under Nelson had been a lunatic side show, a reckless and entertaining gamble. Gordon took stock of his surroundings; they were on the sidewalk of Ocean Avenue, afternoon traffic flowing past. He perceived there was nobody planted behind him, ready for a double-team. The stranger’s hands were visible and held no weapon. It was just the two of them out in the open.

  “Sorry,” Gordon said. “Gotta go.”

  “Wait,” the stranger said. He held out a twenty. “Go ahead.” He winked. “If you’ll just listen a few minutes. Just right here. No big deal, just a few minutes, on a Friday afternoon, two guys talking basketball.” He thrust the money at Gordon and the bill brushed against his shirt. He lowered his voice, “sorry about that in there; not your issue.” He was short and stout, with neat, dark hair that had receded. “I know,” the stranger said, “it’s crazy.” He withdrew the money. “But the thing is, you can’t get anybody to listen. Maybe I can’t even pay you to listen, right? Think about that, what an insane place we live in that we won’t even take good cash just to listen to somebody. And I mean talking about something we like to talk about. Yeah, maybe you can’t even do that. The thing is, I have thoughts about things, you know, stuff I need to say. But everybody’s gotta go, or they just want to say their bit; lay down their rant, and nobody wants to know what you’re really thinking. It’s okay if it’s ordinary; it’s okay if it’s what everybody’s heard before, but once you get specific, once you start to really say something exact, forget about it. That is, if you can get a word in, right? If you can even get a word in!”

  He pinched Gordon’s arm and a laugh spasmed out. Gordon started to turn away again, but the str
anger stepped with him. “It’s just you seem like somebody who maybe can hear me, that’s all. Maybe I met you before somewhere; I don’t know. You have a way about you. You’re an intelligent guy, right? See, I’m being honest. Ooo, look out! Too strange.” He laughed again and Gordon observed a scar that ran from his left eye to the bony bridge of his nose. “That’s all it is; people telling the truth about what they see. I just thought you might be able to hear me. I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about this.” He held out his hand. “Nick Rigney.”

  They shook. “Okay,” Gordon said. “I’ll listen.”

  Rigney talked about growing up in the Northwest corner of California, a pit stop named Gasquet along the Smith River. His family had owned sixty acres of property and he still had half of it. It was the last significant acreage left to a California family that ran back six generations on his mother’s side. They’d moved south to north, trading and selling. Some of the land was just east of Santa Lorena, in the Cameno River watershed- a region whose history Gordon had begun to probe. For Rigney, that land was long gone before he was born. What he knew was the Smith River country and the cabin where he went to get away from it all. Every year he carved a new steelhead figure out of local wood. There were over twenty of them now, all different sizes and the wooden fish were hung from the ceiling of the cabin, a whole school of the fish. What he learned carving was that you couldn’t always force things the way you wanted them to be. A knot in the wood meant you had to use the knot, work around it. It was about listening to what the wood wanted to do, what shape it wanted to make. He’d been a good son and a football player, who went off to college at Chico State. Half-way through, Rigney met a farmer who taught him about agriculture and business and he never finished school. Didn’t need to, he said. “All’s ya gotta do is take chances.” He told Gordon about his past because he wanted to make a connection between who he’d been and who he was now. That was the thing he really wanted to talk about- how we become who we are. “You too,” he said to Gordon, “I mean how’d you get to be who you are? And who can really see who you are? Anybody? Does anybody really listen well enough to get who you are? It’s big, it’s complex isn’t it?”