Borders of the Heart

by Chris Fabry

  I’ve been thinking, she said. Delicate words from delicate lips.

  Thinking what?

  How it will be when we’re apart. What that will look like for you.

  Why not what it will look like for you?

  She smiled. I already know that. It’s nothing I could describe. And nothing I would want to because it would only make you long for it.

  What’s it like? Is it clouds and harps and angel wings?

  She giggled and closed her eyes and took a breath. Darkness sparkled on her skin like sunlight on a lake. This is not about me; it’s about you.

  Everything about me is about you. Don’t you see that?

  She put a hand out and he took it. Soft and supple, her skin white but her fingertips deeply calloused. Her nails were childlike, cut to the quick, and the veins in her hands stood out like tributaries to some inner world that left him an outsider. He was an illegal alien and the border was her heart.

  I can’t be everything any longer, she said. I was never meant to be.

  What do you mean?

  You have to move. You have to leave. You can’t keep coming here and holding on.

  I could never leave you.

  Yes, you can. You’re stronger than you think.

  I’m weaker than you think.

  Remember Santayana, she said.

  He searched his mind. She loved quotes. She lived by words pithy and profound. Some were maudlin when he first heard them, but the longer he turned them over, the more they meant. Dredging from some well of words, he said, “Those who don’t learn from the past are condemned to repeat it”? Something like that, right?

  Not that one, she said. Everyone knows that one. Everyone botches it. She turned from him and pulled her hair back, the other side this time. Unveiling. “It is not wisdom to be only wise . . .”

  I don’t recall it.

  Sure you do. “And on the inward vision close the eyes . . .”

  He shook his head. No, I can’t.

  “But it is wisdom to believe the heart.”

  She touched his chest again and he said her name, soft as a whisper. Alycia.

  And then she was gone. He reached for her but empty footprints filled the places where she should have walked. It was that moment he dreaded most, though he knew if she did not leave, he could not be surprised by her coming.

  When he awoke, it was dark and he could taste the sleep in his mouth. The only sound was the thump, thump of a bass guitar coming from the sanctuary. He thought he should write all of that down, capture it quickly on some scrap of paper or write it on the dry-erase board. The words she had said to him, the start or finish of a song yet unwritten.

  Then he thought of Maria. Was she alive? Had Muerte found her? And if he hadn’t, what was the man’s next move?

  Maybe Maria was better off without J. D., as far away from him as she could get. Perhaps her salvation would come in the distance she kept. But he couldn’t shake the feeling of connection, a bond between them. He had felt it from the moment he saw her move, from the moment he put her on his horse. Something unspoken, something spiritual. That sounded like a romantic feeling, but it was true. Had she felt it as well?

  The cot creaked as he sat up, and his head and stomach swirled—a thousand thoughts and some underdone chicken combining in a perfect storm. But he had woken up feeling worse all those days on the road chasing pavement and double-yellow dreams with hangovers the size of Nebraska. A time in his life when he’d played it safe, guarding the hand he was dealt, protecting himself and listening to voices that said they had the perfect plan, the design that would lead to prosperity. People who told him who he needed to be to get his songs heard, the brand he needed in order to conform him to their view of who he was.

  Alycia’s illness had shown him he was searching for someone else’s songs. And after her diagnosis, his career had gone into a self-imposed free fall. He poured himself into saving her and pulling her back from the brink, waking every day with the fear that he’d lost her.

  The decision to come to Arizona had been irrational, impetuous, spur-of-the-moment. That was how Alycia had lived and how she compelled him now. She had said the gut and the mind were connected, that if you were sick in your stomach or intestines, there was a direct connection to your head. He had been skeptical and dismissed her out of hand, laughing at her pronouncements against the toxic lifestyle the world had embraced. The change of diet, the way she had cleaned out all the chemicals and had begun growing her own vegetables and copied verses that said you could be satisfied living on the side of a mountain growing your own food and taking care of your family. She had been connected to all of that while he had stayed aloof. Maybe that was why he had come here, to follow what he hadn’t believed. Or maybe he just wanted her back and this was his way of searching.

  Now the sane part of him wanted to tell the authorities what he knew and walk away. He could head back east and face what he’d walked away from, which was almost as daunting. But he could practice what he had learned on the Slocum farm. Maybe find some kind of rhythm and live out his life as part of the landscape of humanity, just moving day to day, sunlight to dusk, and beginning over.

  But something deep in his heart wouldn’t allow giving up. He couldn’t help feeling he was on a path with destiny at the end and life and death on either side of the road. He just wasn’t sure which ditch he was sliding toward.

  He walked into a room with books in stacks several feet high. On the side of the wall was a crudely drawn sign that read Libary. Glue strips for mice lined the floor and a few had been successful but not discarded. Out the window were security lights over the front church doors. People milled about, some smoking, some staring at the sky, all of them sweating and listening to the music emanating from the sanctuary.

  The sound brought back the first night he had walked to a microphone, singing words scribbled on a page in a three-ring binder. He was just a kid, so he didn’t know enough to be scared of the chance he was taking. He’d spent hours working through the chords without looking at his left hand, closing his eyes or standing in front of the mirror, but no matter how much he practiced, he couldn’t prepare for what happened deep inside. The strange, unexplainable mix of exhilaration and fear, like holding a loaded gun on a charging tiger or feeling the bat in your hands as a curveball hangs on the inside corner. Opportunity and chance all wrapped up in a singular moment in time before people who dared you to entertain them. That was the moment, the first time in his life when he truly felt at peace in the midst of the chaos of his own heart. He finally felt at home.

  He wandered through the rest of the building and found a spartan bathroom with copies of Our Daily Bread and a missions magazine by the toilet. The outer door opened. Footsteps on the tiled floor. Then a flash of fluorescence under the door.

  “J. D.?”

  It was Pastor Ron—at least it sounded like him.

  “I’m in here.”

  “I was just seeing if you were awake. We need to talk when you have a minute.”

  The room where he had slept was Ron’s office. The pastor moved behind the cluttered desk with a makeshift bookshelf behind him and sat with his feet propped. There were Spanish and English volumes behind him stacked in haphazard rows. Thick Bible commentaries and books that said Tozer and Spurgeon and Lewis and Packer on the spines.

  He motioned to the plastic chair in front of the desk. “Sleep okay?”

  “I was out pretty fast,” J. D. said. “Thanks for the food and the place to rest. I appreciate it.”

  “Glad you got some sleep.” He shifted in the chair and crossed his legs. “Let me get to the point. Two things. First, your truck is gone.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I told you this wasn’t the best neighborhood. Was there anything of value in there?”

  J. D. thought of all he had just lost. “Just a rifle.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it.”

  “Did
you find the truck, too? Because from the looks of it, I’m afraid it wouldn’t have gotten you much farther anyway.”

  J. D. rubbed his face and stared at the wall.

  “The second thing is, I talked with a couple of people about your friend, Maria. Word’s out on the street about her. She must be pretty important.”

  J. D. nodded. “A bunch of people want her dead.”

  Ron scratched stubble on his chin. “Yeah, and there’s big money that wants her back. If you keep looking, I’m not sure you’ll be with us much longer. The police are looking for her and you. There are people from Mexico on her trail. Rumors that the Zetas are involved.”

  “She mentioned them.”

  Ron winced. “Did she tell you who she thought was after her?”

  “His name is Muerte.”

  Ron’s mouth dropped and he raised his eyebrows. “Gabriel Muerte? He’s here? Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know his first name, just that he wasn’t a real nice guy and wanted her dead for some reason.”

  “Madre mía,” he said, holding up both hands and putting his feet on the floor. “If I were you, I would walk away. No, run as fast as you can. If you don’t value your life, keep looking for her.”

  “I’m not the kind who . . . gives up.”

  “J. D., there’s not a police officer below the border who would sneeze in the direction of Gabriel Muerte. You know what his name means in Spanish, right?”

  “I can’t help what a man’s name means in another language. Doesn’t matter to me if it’s Smith or Jones or if it means liverwurst. That girl needs help.”

  “There was an officer killed last night in Tucson. The police are looking for anyone with information.”

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “They think it may be related to the doctor’s death and a man found dead on the road near La Pena.”

  J. D. knew about that but didn’t say anything.

  Ron stood and looked out the small window that faced an alley. The reflection of the streetlight showed the tattoos like a signpost to his past. “I’ve been with this church since it began and I’ve always said the day we put our protection over our mission is the day we give up on being who we’re supposed to be. Greater is he who is in us than he who is in the world. The Lord has protected us. We’ve placed our complete faith in him.”

  “You got a family?”

  Ron took out his wallet and tossed it to J. D. In the front flap was a photo of him behind his wife and five smiling children around them.

  “I’ve never worried about my back or my family or what might be coming down the road.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Until now.”

  J. D. nodded. “Those are beautiful kids.” He put the wallet on the desk.

  “The church is growing. There are people getting saved every day. And then we go to the people south of the border and take the love of God right to them. Right through the cartel, with the guys with M16s standing guard. We go there in plain sight and distribute food and clothes and coloring books and Bibles. Some have been talking with cartel members themselves. They’re listening; they’re interested. There’s so much going on down there.”

  “I understand. But why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t want it to stop.”

  “How is my finding Maria going to stop any of that?”

  Ron sat heavily in the chair on the other side of the desk. “We know Muerte is after her. Maybe the Zetas. Her own family. Maybe she stole something. Maybe someone’s upset about her involvement in the work we’re doing. I don’t know—”

  “Wait,” J. D. said. “You do know her. You lied to me.”

  “No, I didn’t lie. Maria . . . showed up at a couple of our events down there. Some of the townspeople saw her and became afraid.”

  “Why would they be afraid? She said she wants to help people.”

  “They thought she was with the cartel. That she was trying to infiltrate us and harm the work.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “I don’t know. But I do believe there are forces at work here a lot bigger than her. And her motivation may not be as pure as you hope.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ron sat forward. “I have family members in that town. My wife is from there. We have tried to get as many out as we can. Muerte is personally responsible for many deaths. Beheadings. The people are terrified. You can cut the fear in that town with a knife.”

  “And a few throats, it sounds like.”

  “Muerte is only one evil you face. I made some calls. Maria has a bounty on her head. Dead or alive, it doesn’t matter. One million dollars.”

  “Who’s putting it up?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. But you can imagine how many are trying to find her. If you are working for next to nothing and you are offered a million dollars, what would you do? Add the police to that, and the Border Patrol, who seem to think she had something to do with the death of one of their agents, and you have a powder keg. One spark will set the whole thing off.”

  “I’m not trying to ignite anything, Pastor. I just found a girl out in the cactus. And for some reason I’m drawn to her. Call it God if you want. I guess I’ll find her again if it’s meant to be.”

  Ron interlaced his fingers. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “About what?”

  “About anything. About why she is so important to you.”

  It was an open gate to a field J. D. wasn’t sure he should enter. He studied his fingernails for a moment, figuring and calculating. Thinking about what his voice would sound like if he spilled more. Finally he said, “I don’t have a real good track record with preachers.”

  “Why’s that?”

  He shrugged. “I just don’t.”

  “Did you grow up in the church?”

  “I went because my parents made me. And then I went because the pretty girls were there.”

  The man laughed and J. D. thought it was a good sound to hear a preacher chuckle. But Ron turned serious when J. D. said, “Then I got in trouble for hitting a pastor. Knocked him out cold.”

  “What for?”

  “He said something I didn’t like. He wound up not pressing charges but it kind of soured me on people of the cloth.”

  “What did he say?”

  The next logical question. The next bread crumb along the path. Should he keep dropping them?

  “It was at a funeral. I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Ron studied him. “Where was this?”

  “Nashville.”

  “That’s where you’re from?”

  “Near there.”

  “And why did you move here?”

  “To learn farming. Pick up some pointers on how to do it without all the pesticides and chemical engineering they do to food. This situation has gotten me sidetracked.”

  “Well, there’s a purpose in everything.”

  J. D. closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. The magic words. “That’s what the preacher said just before I hit him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He meant it to give comfort, I guess. To give hope that God is up there and in control. I don’t want a God in control who lets all this happen.”

  The man stared at him.

  “The other thing people are fond of saying,” J. D. continued, “is that he works all of this for our good. You’ve probably said that one, too.”

  “Romans 8:28. It’s an important verse but it gets taken out of context.”

  “Well, if you’ll forgive me, I’ll skip the context and the sermon.”

  “I understand.” A long pause. “Whose funeral were you attending? Someone close?”

  “My wife.”

  “I’m sorry. How long had you been married?”

  “Six years. Almost seven.”

  “What happened?”

  “Are you asking me this because you care or because you�
��re trying to figure out if you can trust me? Because if you’re going to tell me what I need to know, I’ll keep talking. But if not, I’ll leave.”

  “What if it’s both? I care and I want to know if I can trust you.”

  J. D. nodded and peered at the low ceiling tiles with brown water stains. “She had a growth in her brain. Everybody assumed it was cancer and kept calling it that. I didn’t have the energy to correct them.”

  “What happened?”

  He spoke unlike any preacher J. D. had ever known. Most of them he had met as a child and even those who had helped his wife had treated him with something akin to polite indifference. As if there might be someone behind him they’d like to talk with a little more. Some better opportunity they didn’t want to miss. And he couldn’t blame them because they probably sensed he was a closed door.

  But this man was different.

  “It was something growing inside her head they couldn’t get to,” he said after a while.

  “Did they do surgery?” Ron said.

  “They tried. Sliced her open to have a look. Then they pieced her together and the stitches made her look like Frankenstein. If the tumor hadn’t grown, she’d have been okay.”

  “But it did.”

  “Yes, sir. Grew like a weed.”

  “Did she go through radiation?”

  How much to tell. He could tell her whole life story. All the particulars if the man wanted to hear it. Somehow speaking the words made him feel better, like he was still connected with her—which he was, all the way from head to toe.

  “She believed in doing everything natural—no antibiotics, no medicine except if she really needed it, which was pretty much never. Didn’t take Tylenol or Advil or NyQuil. But when the headaches and the dizziness got worse, and then her vision blurred, she got a prescription. Then . . . Well, it was downhill pretty fast from there.”

  “So no radiation.”

  “Right. Even the thought of it killed her. I don’t mean literally—it was just a sense of giving up, you know? Admitting that she couldn’t fix herself naturally. Her body couldn’t heal what was wrong. She always believed the body could repair itself, that left to its own was better. But when she couldn’t stop the sickness, it shattered her.”