“Oh my God,” Lobo mimics. “Yes, you are.”
Cam bumps me. “Dude, stop drooling.”
I’m not exactly drooling, at least not literally.
“Arlo, this is the girl for you,” Aunt Portia says. “The one to take to the opera.”
“No, not the opera!” Lobo says. “Anything but the opera.”
“The opera!” Aunt Portia insists.
“She’s right, of course,” Uncle Sal says.
“And not just any opera,” Aunt Portia goes on. “You take her to the one in Rome.”
“Rome, Italy?” I say. “Or Rhome, Texas?”
But what I think is,
Oh my God, yes, you are.
TEN MINUTES LATER, I’M CRUISING down the Clayton highway on my 250—the white line spinning my eyeballs into visions of Lee—when Kenya Man barks:
L.A. . . . L.A. . . . L.A.
Gonna get my junk in play
At the corner of Sunset and La Brea.
I dig my phone out of my jacket and pry it under my helmet—not easy when you’re bombing on a dirt bike.
It’s Dad, breaking my spell.
“Tie up your nag!” he shouts, then hangs up.
How can I tie up my nag when I’m riding it? My other nag, my Yamaha YZ 125, is already tied up—cozy in the shed beside Dad’s dinosaurs.
He must’ve drained a can or two. Or three. Or four. Or six.
When I get home, I tie up my 250 and go into the kitchen. Dad’s sitting at the table, glasses perched low on his nose, mumbling over his manuscript. He looks like he’s had a marathon session of novel writing. I glance around for empties but don’t see any.
“Go tie up your nag,” he growls.
“Hey, already did,” I say, a little pissed.
He pushes his chair back, gives me a tough look. But there’s a glint in his eye. “I beg to differ—follow me.”
He flips on the driveway lights, and I follow him out. Parked off the drive is an extremely ripped and shiny motorcycle. A diamond black Ducati Monster 1100 EVO. Naked and muscular. Exhaust pipes aimed like twin silencers.
“Whoa!” I say. “Where did that come from?”
“Compliments of the United States of America,” Dad says.
“But why? I haven’t done anything yet.”
“Get used to it, Arlo,” he says, handing me the keys. “You’re a government employee now.”
I go over and check it out. The Ducati is one bulging engine. Even parked and keyed off, you can almost hear it pulsing.
“Guess I better try it out,” I say.
“No you don’t,” Dad says. “Dinner first. C’mon, I’ve cooked us some glorious empanadas.”
I WOLF MY GLORIOUS EMPANADAS and then take the Ducati Monster 1100 EVO for a test drive. I ease along the access road. All the cutoffs that tempt me on my dirt bikes do not tempt me now. The Ducati smells one road only: Interstate 25.
At the Shell station, I ramp on and aim south. Gradually, I give it teeth—seventy miles per hour. Eighty. Ninety. But the Monster snoozes on. Just south of Maxwell, the interstate straightens into a black arrow. Smack smooth. Famously unguarded.
I wake up the Monster.
Chapter 25
IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT. I’M DRIFTING off—about to plunge into the REM trench—when my laptop pings. I rub my face and sit up.
It’s another e-mail from Colonel Kincaid. He can’t seem to he keep normal business hours.
Arlo, what do you know about the mountain lions of Asia?
Say what?
Specifically, what do you know about the Caracal? For instance, did you know that this big cat survives through clandestine movement and the ability to vanish into the rugged high terrain of its native land?
Think about it.
He signs off as simply, “Kincaid.”
What the hell! Is he drunk?
I could kick his ass for waking me up.
But he’s the reason I’ll be getting the paychecks. And the reason there’s a Ducati 1100 EVO Monster parked in our shed tonight.
So I forgive him—just this once—and go back to sleep.
Chapter 26
“THREE DAYS,” DAD SAYS. “I give your sister three days. Fish and guests spoil in three days, as Ben Franklin liked to say.”
We’re driving into Chicorica Canyon. The sign at the hairpin—10 MPH—is blistered with gunshot. We cross the creek. Only there’s no creek anymore. Just gully and goo.
“Ben must’ve got it wrong,” I say. “’Cuz it’s already been four days.”
“Has it?” Dad looks out at the country.
At every other turn, we see the pipeline. It runs downhill, trestling over pines, chaparral, and arroyos. When it hits the bottom of the canyon, it points like a ruled line to the town reservoir six miles to the west.
It’s been almost a year since they finished construction on the dam and pipeline, but the copper glistens like it was yesterday.
We bounce over the cattle guard, grind past the barn, and pull up outside Lupita Fields’s house. Through the cottonwoods, I can see the Punch Bowl—the deep-wide part of the creek where Siouxsie and I used to splash around. Now it’s a scum-green bog. The irrigation canals are dry. Lupita’s ranch looks, feels, and smells like thirst.
“Go raise some hell, Guapie,” Dad says, opening the door. El Guapo is off like a jackrabbit—down the hill, across the pasture, to the town where the prairie dogs live, to do just that.
“A happy poodle is a joy forever,” Dad says.
The screen door slaps, and there’s Lupita, looking summer tanned, even though it’s pale October.
“Been a long time, Hec,” she says.
“Yes, it sure has,” Dad says, grabbing Siouxsie’s suitcase from the back of the pickup. “Unless you count me staring down at you from an upstairs window.”
“I don’t count that,” Lupita says.
She’s wearing a turquoise tank top and a green Western shirt, with a bit of silver in her belt—about as much as she has in her hair, which is twisted up in a clip with falling coiled tendrils. Dad sneaks a hand behind his back and tucks his shirt in.
“Hey, you!” Lupita says to me. “Come here, handsome boy.”
I go up the steps, and she engulfs me in her arms. Everything about her is a ten-thousand-dollar saddle. I can feel her softness, strength, and sorrow—sorrow not for herself, because many women down in Clay would gladly trade places with her, despite her solitary ways and drought problems, but for us.
Lupita Fields is full of grit, with no patience for shit—that’s how she is.
“You plan on breakin’ your neck while you’re up here?” she asks, nodding toward my YZ 125, which I’ve tied down in the back of the pickup.
“Something like that,” I say.
She lifts her voice. “You guys are staying for dinner. Guess who’s cooking?”
“I don’t believe it,” Dad says.
Turns out Siouxsie’s not really cooking. She’s sitting at the kitchen counter rolling pie dough. A colander of apples stands beside her.
“Jonathans?” Dad asks, as if nothing happened four nights ago.
“Jonogolds,” Siouxsie says, not looking up.
“Mmm-mmh!” Dad says. “Apple pie is God’s own comfort food.”
“I sure hope so,” Lupita says. “Because our main course might not be all too comforting.”
“Lee’s making tofu,” Siouxsie says, leaning heavily on the rolling pin.
“Imagine that,” Lupita says. “Four generations in the beef cattle business, and I’m serving tofu to my guests. That is the impact of my niece.”
“Hey, where is she?” I ask.
“Glued to the news,” Siouxsie says, rolling the pin with extreme care, even though it’s just flat pie dough. Dad notices too.
“That’s right,” Lupita says. “We aren’t likely to see Lee until after the BBC World Update. The girls’ room is command central these days. You’d think Pakistan was next door in Colfax Co
unty.”
“Lee’s obsessed with the BBC World Update,” Siouxsie says.
“Who isn’t?” Dad says. “All those dapper British broadcasters. They sure know how to enunciate. We Americans just hem and haw—yup, y’know, uh-huh. We take a dull ax to the old Anglo Sax. Lupita, isn’t your brother stationed over there?”
Lupita sighs. “Yes, he is. Lee’s dad’s in that hellhole up on the border. Scares me too.”
“Go on down, Slim,” Siouxsie tells me. “She’s been working on your project.”
“Slim!” Lupita chuckles. “Your mother used to call you that—Little Texas Slim. You were so skinny. And proud of your boots.”
Siouxsie leans over to check out my scuffed Gringos. “Not anymore.”
I pick up the suitcase and go down the hall to Lee’s room, which Siouxsie now shares. I stop in the doorway.
Lee’s doing some kind of yoga pose in front of a wide-screen TV. She’s wearing a powder-blue T-shirt, cropped high, and white yoga pants, cut low. The pose looks like one of those sun-salutation-chakra types, the kind you see flipping across cable. She has that just-showered look—sleek, damp, and shiny, her hair towel-fluffed. Only problem is, it’s so long it’s hiding her butt. Her legs are toned and tight. A silver ring shimmers on the second toe of her left foot.
I mean, damn!
I rap on the doorjamb. “They tell me this is command central.”
Lee flashes me a smile. It’s one of those pasted-on ones, the price I must pay for my bad joke. But was it really that bad?
“I’ve marked some jumpsuits,” she says, holding her pose. “Go ahead and have a look.” Her head tilts toward the laptop on her desk. “Just don’t talk to me—the war segment’s coming up. Siouxsie’s had to learn the hard way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, scooping up her laptop.
I drop onto the couch and inhale her post-shower, pear-dipped-in-honey essence.
I’m buzzed. A slave. Willingly.
But the moment I embrace this thought, I reject it. Man is not born for slavery, as the Declaration of Independence states. I’m sure the hell not.
On TV, the anchorwoman says:
“We go now to Pakistan’s North-West Frontier, where correspondent Ethan Shackleton has filed this report.”
Lee unpretzels herself and comes over to the couch, sits at the far end, and folds up her knees. She gazes at Ethan Shackleton. He definitely has her attention.
“This . . . is a broken country. A land of gnarled hills, craggy canyons, and scarce rain—until today, when it rained death . . .”
“Rained death,” I echo. “Nice one, Ethan.”
Lee cuts me a look.
“Today’s air offensive overshot its intended target and struck an allied convoy, reportedly killing four U.S. and seven Pakistani soldiers. The number of civilian casualties is still unknown.”
The camera pans down a road to a smoking bus.
“This is the fourth attack gone tragically wrong in the past two months. A warning, these images are not for the faint of heart.”
The camera zooms in on charred bodies.
“‘Spotty, at best’ is how one high-level official today described the coalition’s aerial campaign against the insurgency. ‘An outright failure’ is the consensus of many leading opinion makers.’”
“‘Spotty, at best’! C’mon, Ethan. You can do better than that.”
The camera lingers on the crumpled body of a soldier. We see the American flag patch on his uniform.
“One more down,” I mumble.
“That’s it,” Lee says, thrusting her arm toward the door. “Get out, Arlo!”
I slide lower in my seat. “Don’t get bogged down in all this,” I say.
Lee’s eyes spark. “Bogged down! That soldier had breakfast this morning. He had a future this morning. Now it’s gone. Why? Do you understand why? I sincerely doubt it. So how can you sit there and say ‘Don’t get bogged down in all this’?”
“Yeah, well . . .” I say, and leave it at that.
What I don’t say is, I’ve thought a lot about this—how death goes down in our society, our world. What I’ve come to realize is that for your sanity’s sake, you’ve got to draw a line. Because the world loves death—or, to be fair, loves images of death. They are everywhere: in the ABC-BBC war holes, in the fictional slime of prime time, in the splattery world of movies and video games—especially video games. I should know.
My advice: Do not grieve. Cut yourself off from all that. Because one real death is all a body can take. Real grief chews you up, sucks you dry, and spits you out.
But I don’t say this to Lee.
Her dad’s over there.
I open the laptop. She’s bookmarked “Motorcycle Jumpsuits.” Uncle Sal wants me to get “something Elvis-y”—or something that says “I love America.”
Lee has marked:
The “Jeweled Elvis (glasses included).”
The “Elvis Zombie Mechanic (new with tags).”
The “Elvis Fountain Jumper.”
Elvis—come on. Didn’t he die on a toilet?
And do I really love America?
I love the sky over America. I love the mesas. Especially Burro Mesa. The north rim is my favorite place on earth. If that’s America, then hell, yes! I love it.
Lee’s also marked some non-Elvis-y jumpsuits:
The “General George Armstrong Custer, complete with gauntlets.”
The “Evel Knievel, with ‘EK’ embroidered on the waistband.”
The “Robbie Knievel, with ‘Live Life at Full Throttle’ blazed on the back.”
The “Elton John.”
I scroll through page after page of “Motorcycle Jumpsuits,” sure that Uncle Sal would love the flame-colored suit with the huge wrestler’s belt or the American flag suit with tire treads up the back.
But I can’t. I just can’t.
Finally, “Motorcycle Jumpsuits” ends. I’m about to close the laptop when my eye catches something on the next page under “Specialty Flight Clothing.”
The headline reads:
Flying Wingsuit
For the Hard-Core Insane.
Bargain of a F***ing Lifetime!
I pop the link and read:
My beautiful new wife does not think it healthy for me to base jump, bridge jump, or cliff surf anymore. So I guess I’m going to take up golf instead. If you’re into extreme sh*t—and want to know what it feels like to truly soar—then this suit is for you. She’s a veteran of Royal Gorge and Devil’s Tower. I will profoundly miss the ‘Old Flying Squirrel.’ Awesome airfoil. Excellent condition. Bid now.”
“Got it,” I say.
Lee stays fixated on Ethan Shackleton. Stunned into submission, you might say.
“In the last year alone, the United States has launched scores of drones against insurgent strongholds in the Swat Valley.”
I set the laptop between us and lean toward the TV.
“Unmanned aerial vehicles of varying sizes and purposes prowl the skies of the North-West Frontier twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year.”
Images of various drones pop up. I’m extremely familiar with most of them—the hunter-killers like the Predator and Reaper. And the hunter-gatherers like the Firefly and Hummingbird.
For sheer shock and awe, I prefer a hunter-killer. But the fact is, I never met a drone I didn’t like.
“Indispensable in aerial imaging and lethal in attack—when they hit their targets—drones represent the West’s best hope to defang the tiger of terror.”
“Tiger of terror.” I almost compliment Ethan on that one. He really does have a way with words. But I hold my tongue.
“This is Ethan Shackleton, BBC World Update, reporting from Pakistan’s North-West Frontier.”
Lee turns down the audio. “Okay, Arlo. What do you got?”
She grabs the laptop, perches it on her knees, and stares at the “Flying Wingsuit.”
“Hey, this isn’t wha
t Uncle Sal—”
“Bid everything,” I say. “All two hundred bucks.”
Chapter 27
“KNOCK, KNOCK.”
Lupita’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded. “Hope I’m not interrupting any important military business.”
Lee closes her laptop. “No, we were just—”
“I’ll bet you were.” Then to me, “Hey, Slim, your dad and I are going for a drive. You tag along. We need to talk.”
“And, darlin’,” she says to Lee. “Tear yourself away from Pakistan and go help Siouxsie with her schoolwork. In about forty-five minutes, I want you to start on that famous to-FU of yours.”
“All right,” Lee says.
Five minutes later, Lupita, Dad, and I are grinding into the canyon in her Dodge “longbox.” Dad cranks down his window and inhales the crisp, piney, lonesome, delicious October twilight. “My God,” he sighs.
We stop below the dam that holds back Chicorica Creek. The creek used to run fast here. Thin-fast in the winter, fat-fast in the spring. Now a trickle drips out of a pipe into the mucky bed.
Lupita kills the engine and pulls the hand brake. We stare at the dam—a wall of concrete about eighteen feet high and a hundred feet wide. This is the first time I’ve seen it up close.
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 14
