by Glenn Trust
“All depends on the company and who’s talking about it.” Isabella leaned close across the counter. “There are days when I think my skull might explode if one more cowboy tells me it’s a hot one … or a dusty one … or a late spring or early winter or …” She shrugged and smiled. “You get the picture.”
“I get the picture.” Sole nodded. “Still, I can see how the routine here could be … comforting.”
“Routine?” Her face twisted into a lopsided smirk
“Sure. You know, the normalness of everything.” He turned and nodded out the window. “Things don’t seem to change much in Creosote.”
“You got that right!” she laughed. “Not a damn thing changes … ever.”
“I can see how that could be comforting. Sometimes things change too much.”
His face darkened for a moment, and then he shook it off, but not before Isabella noticed. God only knew what this man was holding inside, but she figured it had to be something terrible to take hold of him like this and not let go.
“Get out. I’m closing up,” Isabella said brusquely then ran the rag once more over the counter, took Sole’s coffee mug, placed it in the sink, and came around the counter.
“Oh, sorry.” He stood, surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor.
“Nothing to be sorry about.” She opened the door and waited. “I close every day after breakfast.”
He walked out into the morning sunshine. The air still had the fresh morning scent of sage and prairie grass, but the day’s heat was building. He looked around, a little embarrassed and not sure what to do next. Isabella laughed.
“Come on. I’ve got a shady porch at my place, and we can sit … if you want.” She reached out and took his arm. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to bite, and I don’t expect anything. Just nice to have some company and conversation.”
“It’s just …” He held his ground, standing in the middle of the street.
“I know. There’s someone … or was.” Her eyes softened. “I won’t ask about her. You can talk or not. That’s up to you.” She grinned. “As long as you don’t mind if I talk. Damn if I don’t feel about to burst with things to say to someone who hasn’t already heard them a thousand times.”
“Alright.” He relented and allowed her to tug him along down the street.
“Morning.” Mazey sat on her stoop, watching, a knowing smile on her face.
“Morning, Mazey,” Isabella said as she trudged past holding Sole by the arm.
“Looks like a hot one, don’t it Isabella?” The smile on Mazey’s face broadened into a grin, and she let loose a resonant laugh that began deep in her belly.
“Yes, it does.” Isabella pulled Sole’s arm close holding it against the side of her breast and laughed.
He followed along, feeling as awkward as a teenager caught in the back of his daddy’s car with the prom queen. The movement of her breast against his arm as they walked had his undivided attention.
They retraced the walk that Isabella took every day on her way to the café, and in a few minutes arrived at her small frame home. As promised, the porch was on the north side and shaded from the sun.
“Sit here.” She pushed Sole into a wicker chair and went inside.
He sat, surprised at how comfortable he felt in her presence. He noted the worn, but dust-free porch planks, the small but tidy patch of grass in the yard, a tool shed off to the side, flowers growing in a neat plot beside the porch, and a vegetable garden surrounded by wire fencing in the yard, just at the far edge of the grass.
The screen door squeaked, and Isabella came onto the porch holding two glasses of lemonade. She handed one to Sole and sat in the chair beside him.
“I’ve got something stronger if you want it.”
“No.” He shook his head. “This is fine.” He sipped the lemonade. “Perfect, in fact.”
They were quiet for a minute, sipping lemonade and watching a catbird move through the grass, stalking an earthworm. With a sudden hop, it pounced and poked its head into the grass. The worm dangled and wriggled in its beak as the bird lifted and fluttered to a nearby bush to enjoy its meal.
“What do you suppose the worm feels,” Isabella said.
“Interesting question. Guess I’ve never given much consideration to the feelings of earthworms.” He looked to the side and smiled at Isabella. “Callous, huh?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about you, Bill Myers, or whoever you are, but I would say that being callous is not in your make-up.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because I can see from your actions that you are not callous.”
“Not that. What you said about whoever I am?”
“Oh.” She put the lemonade down on the porch and pulled her legs up into the chair, resting her chin on her knees as she thought about it. “I don’t know, really.” She turned her head toward him. “There are a lot of unspoken things about you. Mystery sounds too dramatic … just things that you don’t want people to find out or get close to … maybe your name and who you really are is one of those things.” She nodded and put her chin back on her knees. “But I would bet that your name is not really Bill Myers.”
There was nothing to say. Lying about it would not convince her otherwise. Besides, she was right, and he was not sure he could lie convincingly to this woman.
After a minute, Isabella broke the silence. “Are you going to do it?”
“What’s that?” He was relieved to have something—anything—to talk about.
“Go to work for Tom Krieg?”
“Oh.” Suddenly, he was not so relieved. “I might.”
“Okay.” She said it with a nod, considering his possible employment by Krieg as something she would have to accept as part of knowing him. “I imagine you have your reasons.”
“I do.”
“Sounds mysterious.”
He made no reply. Krieg’s offer of employment would get him south of the border. That was all that mattered to him. He would be closer to the men he sought, would have a chance to get the lay of the land and come up with some sort of strategy. He might even figure out a way to survive. There was no way to explain all of this to Isabella.
“Alright then,” she said after a minute. “You do what you have to do. If you need a friend while you’re here, I’ll be your friend. Just one thing.” She paused, waiting for him to turn his head in her direction and look at her. “Watch your back with Krieg and his partner Zabala. They will use you up and throw you away. Everyone is expendable to them. If you don’t believe me, check with Sherm. He’ll be able to lay things out for you better than I can.”
“I’ll remember that, and I do believe you. Thanks for the warning.” He nodded and hesitated. “And thanks for being a friend. Haven’t had one of those in a while.”
“Well, you’ve picked up a couple in the last day.” She chuckled. “A middle-aged woman and an old man. Keep this up, and we’ll have to throw a party and invite all your new friends.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, smiling. “Haven’t had one of those in a while either.”
Their banter had a seductive quality, innocent enough on the surface but with the unspoken understanding that she was all but asking him to stay around and see what could become of their relationship. It was all the more tempting because she was more than pretty. Isabella was genuine, smart, and frank, without pretension or flirtation. She said what she thought and let you know what she wanted.
They came from completely different backgrounds, but the similarities between her and Shaye were undeniable. Was that the reason he felt the attraction, the need to find someone like Shaye? In his heart, Sole knew that would be unfair to Isabella. Using her as a surrogate for his dead wife would leave them both empty and searching for something more between them.
The roar of an engine sounded at the far end of town. An ATV running at full throttle came down the road, sliding sideways into the driveway. A young
man in blue jeans and a tee-shirt got off, removed his helmet, and walked to the porch.
“You must be the new guy.” He grinned and stepped up on the porch.
“Guess I’m the newest one around.” Sole smiled, taking an immediate liking to the boy’s straightforward ways.
“Sandy Palmeras.” The boy extended his hand.
“Bill Myers,” Sole said, casting a momentary side glance at Isabella.
“I want to thank you, Bill, for looking out for my Mom. I heard what you did for her and how you handled Doyle Krieg and his father.”
The boy spoke like a man. His grip was firm. His face smooth, bearing the bruises of his fight the day before, but it was a serious face with a dignity beyond his years.
“I didn’t do anything you wouldn’t have done.”
“That’s true, but I wasn’t there. You were. Thanks for that.” Sandy smiled, turned, and pulled the screen door open. “I’ll leave you two love birds alone, now.”
Sole sat looking straight ahead, not daring to turn toward Isabella as his face reddened.
Isabella laughed at his discomfort, giggling, “From the mouths of babes.”
27.
A Chancy Thing
The pickup rolled to a stop in the bare dirt and scrub grass that served as the front yard of the shack. Sherm Westerfield sat behind the wheel, waiting for the dust to settle around the truck before pushing the door open.
“About time you made it home!” The man on the porch was sprawled back on one of the wooden crates that served alternately as a chair, table, or footstool, as the occasion required.
“Reggie!” Sherm plodded through the dirt to the shade of the porch, his feet raising little puffs from the ground with each step. “Haven’t seen you in two months, maybe longer.” He reached the porch and slapped Reggie on the shoulder. “Want a beer?”
“I’m ahead of you.” Reggie lifted the bottle from the porch beside his crate and shook it around to indicate its depleted level. “Looks like I’m dry.”
“Here.” Sherm opened the old Frigidaire that sat on the porch in all weathers and pulled out two bottles. More dust rose into the air as he slammed it shut again. “Damn stuff gets everywhere, don’t it?”
“That it does.” Reggie accepted the beer with a smile, twisted the cap off, and raised the bottle. “To Robby.”
“To Robby,” Sherm replied solemnly.
Both turned the bottles up and drank half down before coming up for air. It was their tradition.
***
Reginald ‘Reggie’ Prince was like a son to Sherm Westerfield, which to the casual observer would seem entirely peculiar. Reggie grew up in the Sunnyside district on the south side of Houston where in any given year he had a one in eleven chance of being the victim of a violent crime.
Reggie managed to stay ahead of the odds, but between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, he was the victim of three strong-arm robberies and an assault. The assault by a man with a knife who had just been ejected from a bar for being disorderly left him with a three-inch scar along his left cheek. It wasn’t personal. Reggie just happened to be passing by on foot and made a convenient target.
Not long after, Reggie decided that if he was going to be a target, he would do so on his own terms. He enlisted in the Army and was deployed to Afghanistan and then Iraq the following year. It was on his third deployment, back to Afghanistan, that he met Sherm’s son Robert. As often happens when individuals from vastly different backgrounds are thrown into close quarters under trying circumstances, they find friendship in unlikely places and with unlikely companions.
The only thing Reggie and Robby shared was the accident of being born in the state of Texas. During a patrol in Taliban held territory, they found something else in common.
When the firefight erupted around them, they were riding through what had seemed to be empty desert a moment before. Triggered by an improvised explosive device that destroyed the command Humvee and the lives of the platoon leader and his driver, the attackers poured fire into the remainder of the platoon.
Snipers concealed two hundred yards away behind a ten-foot-high mound of dirt began taking their toll. The soldiers were forced to keep their heads down or risk a bullet through the brain. As they sought cover, Taliban fighters emerged from nearby camouflaged positions dug into the sand to hammer the column with automatic rifles and grenades.
Reggie and Robby took up position between the wrecked Humvee and an abandoned troop truck. Back to back, they defended each other and the half dozen wounded soldiers sheltering with them.
An eternity later—twenty-two minutes according to the official Army log—help arrived, and the Taliban fled. Reggie and Robby were the only members of the platoon not wounded or killed in the fight.
The other survivors credited them with saving their lives. Both were awarded the Bronze Star.
Their friendship blossomed during the ensuing months. Promises were made to stay in touch. With three weeks remaining in their deployment, they came under fire once more. This time the odds were better, and the Taliban left over a hundred dead fighters on the field. The American soldiers suffered only four wounded and one killed—Robby Westerfield.
When his enlistment ended, Reggie came to the Texas brush country to find Robby’s father and pay his respects. He had only planned to stay for a few hours. He remained there for a month, and the two bonded, held together by the memory of a dead son and friend.
Eventually, he left and returned to his home in Houston, such as it was. His mother had passed away during his second deployment. He thought of returning to the Army, but the fire was gone for him. He found other ways to survive, street ways.
Sherm never asked much about his life. Reggie came and went, doing whatever he did when he was away. Sherm was reasonably sure it wasn’t entirely legal and probably had something to do with drugs, but he but never asked questions. It didn’t matter.
Reggie was Robby’s friend, and by extension, Sherm’s friend and the only connection remaining to his dead son. As unlikely as the paring was—a young inner-city African American and a curmudgeonly old west Texas cowboy—Reggie began to look at Sherm as a sort of father figure. The feeling was mutual, and Sherm had found another son to ease the pain of the loss of his boy.
***
They sat on the crates, sipping their beers. A dust devil rose out of the prairie a mile away, swirling into the sky. Reggie laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Sherm asked.
“That whirlwind out there makes me think of all the ways we grew up different, Robby and me. Never see something like that around the city, but I’ll bet Robby saw it a thousand times … ten thousand.”
Sherm nodded. “I reckon he did.”
“Just makes me realize how chancy life is,” Reggie mused. “One born in a city, one out here, different lives, seeing different things, smelling different smells.”
“Yep, I suppose it could have been that way. Like you say, life is a chancy thing.”
“One thing I know, though.” Reggie’s voice lowered, thoughtful as he watched the whirling dust move away in the distance.
“What’s that?”
“Wouldn’t have mattered … me here and Robby in the city … wouldn’t have changed a thing. Robby would still be the best friend and best man I ever knew.”
Sherm nodded and wiped at a tear.
28.
The Most Beautiful Prison
“This is your home?” Jacinta stood before the guesthouse situated a hundred yards from the main house.
“It’s where I stay. This is where you will stay, as well.” Claire smirked. “Nothing around here is mine … or yours. Everything belongs to Krieg.”
“He gives this house to you as a place to live?” Jacinta was incredulous. She stared wide-eyed at the structure. “Where I come from, this is the house of a person of wealth. And he gives this to you to live in for free?”
“Nothing is free here. I pay.” Claire’s eyes met Jacinta’
s. “You will pay.”
Jacinta nodded her understanding. She had already begun paying. They mounted the steps to the porch side by side. Claire pointed to two cushioned chairs, upholstered in floral print slipcovers.
“Sit. We’ll talk.”
A live-oak shaded the porch. Sprinklers hissed out in the open yard, sending sprays of water over the lawns and flowers and making tiny moving rainbows from the refracted sunlight. Jacinta had only seen such grandeur and extravagance in public buildings in Mexico, never in a private home. Even the family whose children she had tended and who were considered wealthy in Culiacán never had such a place as this to call home.
“There are some things you must understand.” Claire waited for Jacinta to turn her head in her direction. “These are things he will expect that you understand. If you do, you will be treated well. If not …” Claire shrugged. “You must learn these things.”
“I should not be here,” Jacinta said softly, shaking her head. “This is a mistake. I should be on my way to Houston to my uncle’s home.”
“And I should be a lady in a palace.” Claire laughed. “But I am not, and you are not on your way to Houston. You are here.” She leaned toward Jacinta. “And at that, you should be grateful. You will live well here, plenty of food, clothes, a house to share with me, and even a good bed to sleep in when he does not want you.”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“Want has nothing to do with things. You and I …” Claire touched her breast and motioned to Jacinta’s. “We are the same. We were not born for our own pleasure, but for others. That is not such a bad thing when you come to understand it. Most of all, don’t resist it. Accept it. Enjoy the life you will have here and forget the life you wish you had but never did … and never will.”
Tears glistened in Jacinta’s eyes. Claire’s words were not spoken in anger. They were not full of hate. They were not outwardly threatening. They were merely hopeless, and that made them terrible to hear.
Claire explained the conditions under which Jacinta would live from this time forward. It was a life without choice or other possibilities. Dreams and hopes of anything else were futile. Jacinta was crushed.
