by Mark Gimenez
‘What’s that for?’
Chapter 4
‘I’m hungry, my butt’s numb, and I think I swallowed a bug!’
It was just after eleven the next morning. Nadine Honeywell required twenty-four hours’ advance notice prior to leaving town. She wore the crash helmet, goggles over her black glasses, and number 100 sunblock on all skin exposed by her short-sleeve shirt and shorts. She sat higher in the second seat. Book wore jeans, boots, a black T-shirt, black doo-rag, and sunglasses. He glanced back at his intern; she was holding her cell phone out. He yelled over the engine noise.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Trying to text!’
‘Why?’
‘I always text when I drive!’
‘You’re not driving. You’re riding.’
‘Close enough!’
Book had installed the windshield so they didn’t eat (all the) bugs for four hundred miles, the leather saddlebags to hold their gear, and the second seat for Nadine. He had picked her up at seven. Four hours and three hundred miles on the back of the big Harley hadn’t improved her mood.
‘There’s a rest stop up ahead. I’ll pull over. We can stretch.’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s turn back!’
They had ridden west out of Austin on Highway 290 through the Hill Country then picked up Interstate 10, the ‘Cowboy Autobahn’ where the posted speed limit was eighty but the actual limit pushed one hundred. They were now deep in the parched high plains of West Texas. Other than the four-lane interstate and the wind farms—thousands of three-hundred-foot-tall turbine windmills dotted the landscape on both sides, their blades rotating as if propellers trying to push Texas eastward—the landscape remained as desolate and untouched as it had been at the beginning of time. Book steered off the highway and into the rest stop. He slowed to a stop, cut the engine, and kicked the stand down. Nadine hopped off as if she had been adrift at sea and now touched land for the first time in a year.
‘My God, you never heard of cars? With climate control and CD players?’
She yanked off the helmet and goggles, shook out her shoulder-length hair, and wiped sweat from her face. Book removed his sunglasses and the doo-rag then pulled two bottles of water from a saddlebag. He handed one bottle to his intern; she drank half.
‘I could really use a caramel frappuccino right about now, but I haven’t seen a Starbucks since we left Austin.’
‘I don’t think you’re going to find one out here, Ms. Honeywell.’
‘It’s like a desert.’
‘It is a desert. The upper reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert.’
‘What are those?’
She pointed to the horizon where a low ridgeline with craggy peaks stood silhouetted against the blue sky.
‘Mountains.’
‘In Texas?’
Mountains in Texas. Book had ridden the Harley through much of Texas, but not this part of Texas. Of course, it took some amount of riding to cover all of Texas; the state encompassed 268,000 square miles.
‘How much longer?’ Nadine asked.
‘Couple of hours.’
‘I’m hungry.’
Book reached into a pocket of his jeans and pulled out a package of beef jerky. He handed a strip to Nadine. She took the jerky with her fingertips and held it out as if examining a dead rat.
‘You’re joking?’
‘High in protein.’
She made a face and extended the jerky his way. He took the jerky and clamped the strip between his teeth then reached into another pocket and removed a granola bar. He offered it to her.
‘Good carbs.’
She regarded the granola bar a moment then gestured at his clothing.
‘You got another pocket with hot dogs?’
‘Sorry.’
Her shoulders slumped in surrender. She set the water bottle on the bike and pulled out a bottle of Purell hand sanitizer; she squirted the gel and rubbed her hands together then took the granola bar and bit off a piece. He chewed the jerky.
‘I’m missing my Civ Proc class,’ she said.
‘You can learn rules anytime.’ Book spread his arms. ‘This is where a real lawyer works, Ms. Honeywell—in the real world. Not in an air-conditioned office on the fiftieth floor.’
‘I’m going to write wills.’
‘Why? That’s boring.’
She shrugged. ‘Not a lot of danger in estate planning.’
‘You ever meet an heir cut out of his daddy’s will?’
They came to law school without a clue what it meant to be a lawyer. It wasn’t sitting in a fancy office poring over discovery for eight hours and billing ten. Being a lawyer was about helping people in need. Real people, not rich people. Book was determined to teach his interns that the law wasn’t found in the casebooks but out here in the world beyond the classroom. They came to him as law students; they would leave as lawyers.
‘Professor, can I ask you a question?’
He chewed the jerky and nodded.
‘Why are you doing this? You read that letter then jump onto this motorcycle and ride to the middle of a desert? And drag me along? Why? Why do you care so much about Nathan Jones?’
‘He was my student four years ago.’
‘How many students have you taught? A few thousand? What makes him so special?’
‘He was also my intern.’
‘For how long?’
‘One month.’
‘You knew him for one month four years ago, and now you’re dropping everything to help him?’
Book stared at the distant ridgeline and thought of Nathan Jones.
‘He saved my life.’
She frowned. ‘How?’
‘Long story. And we’ve still got a long ride.’
She regarded him for a long moment while she finished off the granola bar. Then she said, ‘Next time, get the kind with the chocolate coating.’
Book donned the doo-rag and sunglasses then swung a leg over the Harley.
‘You ready?’
‘No.’
But she bucked herself up then strapped on the goggles, pulled on the helmet, and climbed on behind him. He started the engine, shifted into gear, and accelerated past roadside signs that read ‘Burn Ban in Effect’ and ‘Water 4 Sale’ and onto the long black ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the distant horizon.
One hundred thirty years before, Hanna Maria Strobridge saw the same distant horizon from her seat inside her husband’s private railroad car. His name was James Harvey Strobridge, and he built railroad lines for the Galveston, Harrisburg, and San Antonio Railroad. He had built the very line they rode on that day. Hanna had ridden in that private car from California to Texas; she had even been at Promontory Point in the Utah Territory for the driving of the golden spike in 1869 when the first transcontinental railroad was completed. At the time, James was the foreman for Central Pacific Railroad, which built the track eastward from California. After a moment, Hanna dropped her eyes from the horizon to her book, Feodora Dostoyevsky’s latest, The Brothers Karamazov. She fancied Russian novels and striped skirts.
Two hours later, the train stopped at a water depot bordered by three mountain ranges. Hanna had no idea where they were because the depot had no name. Her husband, as superintendent of railroad construction, possessed the sole and absolute authority to name every water depot and other unnamed locale within the railroad’s right-of-way. But he had no imagination for naming persons or places, so he had delegated his authority to his wife.
‘Well, Hanna, what are you gonna name this little no-count place?’
She pondered a moment and thought of the servant in her book named Martha Ignatyevna. Of course, ‘Martha’ was the English translation; in Russian, her name was—
‘Marfa.’
And so it was.
‘And that’s how Marfa got its name,’ Book said.
From the back seat: ‘Fascinating.’
Sitting four hundred miles due west of Austin, t
wo hundred miles southeast of El Paso, sixty miles north of the Rio Grande, and a mile above sea level, the high desert land colloquially known as el despoblado—‘the unpopulated’—and geologically as the Marfa Plateau is generally unfit for human occupancy. It’s not bad for cattle, if it rains. If it doesn’t, it’s not so hospitable to them either. But man’s nature drives him to settle the unsettled frontier; and so men have tried in Marfa, Texas.
From a distance, as you come down off the Chisos Mountains from the east and onto the plateau, you see the Davis Mountains to the north and the Chinati Mountains to the south; between the ranges lies a vast expanse of yellow grassland. And smack in the middle you see a small stand of trees, hunched together as if seeking safety in numbers against the relentless wind whipping across the land. The trees, planted by the first settlers, offer the only shade for a hundred miles in any direction and define the boundaries of the town of Marfa. As you come closer, you see the peach-colored cupola atop the Presidio County Courthouse peeking above the treetops as if on lookout for rampaging Indian war parties. But no savage Comanche galloping across the land on horseback threatened the peace in Marfa that day; only a Con Law professor riding a Harley with his reluctant intern perched behind him.
Book downshifted the Harley as they entered town on San Antonio Street and rode past a Dollar General store on the north side and dilapidated adobe homes on the south; Presidio County ranked as the poorest in Texas and looked it, except for a few renovated buildings housing art galleries. He braked at the only red light in town then pointed to the blue sky where a yellow glider soared overhead in silence. Nadine pointed south at an old gas station on the corner that had been converted into a restaurant called the Pizza Foundation; her face was that of a child who had spotted Santa Claus at the mall.
‘Pizza!’
‘Let’s talk to Nathan Jones first. Maybe he’ll have lunch with us, tell us his story.’
‘What time’s your appointment?’
‘Didn’t make one.’
‘Why not?’
‘Better to arrive unannounced. Nathan was always given to drama, probably read too many Grisham novels.’
‘Just so you know, if he made me ride six hours on this motorcycle for nothing, I’m going to beat him like a redheaded stepchild.’
In the rearview mirror, Book saw a green-and-white Border Patrol SUV pull up behind the Harley and hit its lights. He cut the engine and kicked the stand down; he noticed Hispanics on nearby sidewalks scurrying away. Two agents wearing green uniforms and packing holstered weapons got out of the SUV and sauntered over. Both were young men; one was Anglo and looked like a thug, the other Hispanic and an altar boy. The thug eyed the Harley.
‘What’s that, an eighty-nine softtail classic?’
‘Eighty-eight.’
‘You restore it yourself?’
‘I did.’
‘Turquoise and black, I like that. And the black leather saddlebags with the silver studs. Cool. What engine is that?’
‘Evo V-2.’
‘Damn, that’s a fine ride.’
The thug admired the bike then Nadine perched high in the back seat and finally turned his attention to Book.
‘You Mexican?’
Book glared at the agent.
‘Do I look Mexican?’
‘You look like an Injun, but we don’t get Injuns around here no more, just Mexicans.’
The Hispanic agent’s expression seemed pained. He took a step slightly in front of the thug. He was either the good cop in a good cop/bad cop routine or genuinely embarrassed by his partner.
‘You look familiar. Where have I seen you?’
‘On national TV, you dopes,’ Nadine said from behind. ‘He’s famous.’
‘Who you calling dopes?’ the thug said. Then he turned to Book and said, ‘Were you the bachelor?’
A look of recognition came across the Hispanic agent’s face; he smiled broadly.
‘No, he’s the professor. Bookman. I watch you every Sunday morning. It’s an honor to meet you, sir. I’m Agent Angel’—AHN-hell—‘Acosta.’
‘John Bookman.’ They shook hands then Book aimed a thumb at the back seat. ‘My intern, Nadine Honeywell.’
‘And this is my partner, Wesley Crum. Please excuse his bad manners, Professor, he was raised by the scorpions in the desert.’
‘Funny,’ the thug named Wesley said.
‘Did you come to Marfa to see the art?’ Agent Acosta said. ‘Judd’s boxes? Chamberlain’s crushed cars? Flavin’s fluorescent lights?’
‘Uh, yes,’ Book said. ‘That’s why we’re here.’
Agent Crum’s eyes loitered on Book’s back-seat passenger. ‘I got fluorescent lights in my trailer,’ he said with a grin, ‘if you want to see them.’
Nadine sighed. ‘Dope.’
Agent Crum’s grin turned into a frown.
‘Enjoy your stay, Professor,’ Agent Acosta said. ‘Bienvenidos.’
Book fired up the engine and gunned the Harley through the light and turned north on Highland Avenue. He saw in the rearview the two agents engaged in an animated conversation.
‘Dopes, Ms. Honeywell?’
‘I call them as I see them, Professor.’
They cruised slowly up Highland, apparently the main street in town. It dead-ended at the courthouse that loomed large above the low-slung buildings. They rode past the Marfa City Hall on the right and then a row of refurbished storefronts occupied by the Marfa Public Radio station, the Marfa Book Company, and a shop called Tiend M that sold handmade jewelry. On the very visible side exterior wall of one building graffiti had been painted in large strokes like a billboard: The Real Axis of Evil is the US, UK, and Israel. A city crew with brushes prepared to paint over the message, no doubt unappreciated in West Texas. They crossed El Paso Street, and Nadine pointed again.
‘Food Shark!’
Parked under a large shed with picnic tables was a silver food truck with ‘Food Shark’ stenciled across the side and a few customers at the service window. A sign read Marfa Lights Up My Judd. Bicycles were parked under the shed and foreign-made hybrids at the curb; one had a bumper sticker that read WWDJD? On the north side of the shed ran railroad tracks; Book hit the brakes hard as the crossing arms came down. The red lights flashed, and a train whistle sounded; a cargo train soon roared through downtown Marfa on its way west to El Paso. Hanna’s train still came through town, but it was now the Union Pacific.
When the arms rose, Book accelerated over the tracks and across Oak Street and past Quintana’s Barber Shop, the state Child Protective Services office, and the Iron Heart Gym. Other than the activity under the shed, downtown Marfa sat silent—no car horns, no sirens, no squealing tires, no sounds of the city. There was no traffic and few pedestrians. No joggers, cabs, pedicabs, or panhandling homeless people that one encountered in downtown Austin. It was as if the town were taking a siesta. Across Texas Street was a building with a replica of an oil rig on the roof; on the far side of Highland sat the two-story, white stucco El Paisano Hotel.
‘Back in the fifties, they filmed Giant here,’ Book said. ‘All the stars stayed there.’
‘That was a movie?’
‘You’ve never heard of Giant?’
‘Nope.’
‘It’s an epic about Texas’ transformation from a cattle economy to an oil economy.’
‘Sounds exciting.’
‘It’s a classic. Rock Hudson played a cattle baron.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s dead. James Dean played a ranch hand turned oil tycoon.’
‘Never heard of him either.’
‘You’ve never heard of James Dean?’
‘Is he on Twitter?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Well, there you go.’
‘What about Elizabeth Taylor? She played the cattle baron’s wife.’
‘Is she that blonde movie star who used to date Clinton then committed suicide a long time ago?’
&n
bsp; ‘That’d be Marilyn Monroe. She dated Kennedy. Overdosed on pills.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She’s dead, too.’
‘How am I supposed to know about dead people?’
‘How about Donald Judd?’
‘You’re making these names up, right?’
‘No.’
‘Who did he play in Giant?’
‘No one. He was an artist here in Marfa.’
‘Let me guess: he’s dead, too?’
‘He is.’
‘Is there anyone in this town who’s not dead?’
Book turned right at the shuttered Palace Theater onto Lincoln Street and parked in front of a one-story building facing the courthouse. A small sign on the stucco façade read: THE DUNN LAW FIRM with MIDLAND-LUBBOCK-AMARILLO-MARFA in smaller letters below. They got off the Harley. Book removed his sunglasses and doo-rag and knocked the dust off his T-shirt and jeans. Nadine removed the crash helmet and goggles and smoothed back her hair. They entered the law firm offices and stepped into a well-appointed reception area. Hallways extended off both sides. In the center along the back wall sat a receptionist behind a desk. Her head was down. They walked over to her. She wore a black dress. She wiped tears from her red face with a white tissue then blew her nose. She finally looked up at Book.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
‘Funeral.’ She wiped tears again. ‘This afternoon.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
She nodded then forced a professional expression.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’m John Bookman, to see Nathan Jones.’
Her professional expression evaporated; she frowned and appeared confused.
‘Nathan? But … it’s his funeral.’
Chapter 5
‘Rock Hudson, James Dean, Elizabeth Taylor, Donald Judd, Nathan Jones … does everyone in Marfa die?’ Nadine Honeywell asked.
‘Eventually.’
On the western edge of town, out on San Antonio Street past the Thunderbird Motel and the Pueblo Market, across the street from a junkyard and adjacent to a mobile home park, was the Marfa Cemetery. A chain link fence ran down the center of the cemetery. West of the fence were the graves of the deceased of Mexican descent; some of the gravesites would qualify as religious shrines. East of the fence were the graves of Anglos; small American flags fluttering in the wind marked many of the gravesites. A dirt road crisscrossed the cemetery. They had ridden the Harley in and now leaned against the bike a respectful distance from the burial of Nathan Jones.
