Borders of the Heart

by Chris Fabry

  “You fool,” Muerte said. “I followed you. I saw every move you made.”

  “Really?” J. D. said. “I noticed somebody getting close after I gassed up, but I don’t think you followed me before that. I may look stupid, but I try not to live it.”

  Muerte grabbed Maria by the arm and dragged her into the living room. He threw her down and she skidded on the dusty wood flooring and hit her head on the hearth.

  Muerte pointed the gun at her temple and shouted at J. D., “Tell me where you put the money or she dies right here.”

  “You pull that trigger and you’ll never get it,” J. D. said calmly. “I can promise you that.”

  The man’s arm tensed. He seemed to be deciding between his need and his lust to kill.

  A noise. Something blipped. It was Muerte’s phone and he studied the screen. J. D. noticed movement behind the man. A door that was ajar swung open. Maria gasped and Muerte smirked as if he would never fall for such a trick.

  The figure aimed, fired, and a hole opened in Muerte’s right shoulder. He whirled and fired wildly, the spray of bullets leaving a trail from ceiling to floor and crossing the bedroom door and the man’s body.

  “Father!” Maria shouted.

  The man slumped and dropped his gun. Maria ran to him.

  Muerte tried to kick the handgun away, but J. D. jumped on his back, knocking his head against the doorjamb. Another wild spray of bullets. When Muerte fell, J. D. put a boot on his shoulder wound and he cried out, releasing the gun. The weapon was hot and smoking. J. D. grabbed both guns and stepped back.

  Maria helped her father sit up, blood staining his shirt.

  “You were right about him,” the man said. “I should have listened to you.”

  She brushed hair from his forehead and cradled him. “It’s okay. Everything is okay now.”

  “No, everything is not okay, mi hija.”

  Muerte struggled to rise but could only drag himself into the bedroom. Blood poured from his wound.

  “Shoot him,” Sanchez said.

  “He’s not going far,” J. D. said.

  “How did you get here?” Maria said.

  Sanchez waved a hand and his eyes rolled back. Each breath was a struggle. “I found out about the tunnel to this house,” he gasped. He put a hand on her face. “I came for you.”

  J. D. kept his eyes on Muerte. He was crawling toward an opening in the floor, pulling himself along slowly, pitifully, the life coming out of him with every move.

  “You never told me of this house, Gabriel,” Sanchez said.

  “There was much I didn’t tell you.”

  “Shoot him,” Sanchez said again to J. D. There was a rattle in his voice.

  J. D. set down the automatic and stepped into the room, looking into the hole. A metal ladder attached to the concrete wall. He pointed the handgun at Muerte’s head.

  Muerte stared at him, helpless. “Why are you waiting? Can’t pull the trigger, J. D.?”

  Something inside clicked, like a light switch. Facing such evil, the man who had been responsible for so much violence and death, was unnerving and yet clarifying. It wasn’t that he couldn’t shoot. Anyone could pull a trigger. It took something more to wait, to allow life to take its course.

  “Go ahead, shoot me,” Muerte said.

  “You don’t deserve to die that easy,” J. D. said. He grabbed the man’s ankles and pulled him away from the hole. More blood oozed onto the tile. J. D. dialed 911, telling the operator he needed the police and an ambulance.

  Maria wept softly. Her father stared into the distance. No rattle from his lungs.

  “You need to go,” J. D. said. “Before the police get here. Get on the other side. Go home.”

  “I have no home,” she said. “I have no place to go.”

  “The people in your town. You have them. That’s what this was all about. You can help them.”

  “Can I? And what about me?”

  “You told me once that when God is at work, it doesn’t matter how big the problem is. He can do mighty things. He can move mountains. You still believe that?”

  She nodded and wiped away a tear.

  “This is your chance to crawl under them. Go.”

  She looked up at him. “We stopped him, J. D.”

  “You stopped him. You kept him from his plan.”

  “The police are going to ask a lot of questions, aren’t they?”

  “I’ll handle the questions. Just go.”

  Maria kissed her father’s face and placed his body flat on the floor. She stood and held J. D. in a long embrace.

  “Will I ever see you again?” she said.

  He pushed her back and looked into her eyes. “We’ll have to move some more mountains for that.”

  She smiled sadly and stepped toward the tunnel, then screamed. Something moved in his line of sight and he saw the flash of a blade and then felt pain in his thigh. J. D. brought the handgun down hard against Muerte’s forehead with a sickening thud and the man collapsed.

  Sirens in the distance. Pain in his leg. A knife sticking out. J. D. went down on a knee.

  “Go,” he said, holding his leg, trying not to pass out.

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “You have to.”

  Maria looked at the tunnel, then turned and kissed him. The pain mixed with pleasure and death, and he knew he would never be the same.

  “I will see you again,” she said. It was more like a prayer than anything.

  Sirens grew louder and the rain began again, the sound on the roof like a washing.

  The front door burst open and all J. D. could do was drop the gun and hold his hands in the air. “In here,” he cried. “I need help.”

  40

  J. D. AWOKE IN THE MORNING HALF-LIGHT, with the sun rising above the mountains behind him. He looked over the heads of the dozing and caught Win’s eyes in the rearview mirror. Behind their van was a makeshift trailer filled with clothes and toys. Another van trailed, half-filled with people and the other half with a tent and donated food. He couldn’t get over the goodness of people who heard of a need and responded with open hands. Hands, hearts, and pocketbooks were, in the end, intertwined. At least that was what he had come to believe.

  The salmon-colored light bathed the hills ahead of them like a rainbow and cascaded, spilling gold and red shadows. The world seemed brighter now, like he was looking at it for the first time. Every small thing had meaning. A bird in flight. Bees flitting from one flower to another. His frosty breath in the chill of a December morning. He had not asked for these feelings, but here they were, replacing something that had died with Alycia. He felt as if the darkness he had held inside had been illumined and the light brought life like he couldn’t believe, along with power and strength and possibilities opening like spring flowers.

  He did not know what he would find. He did not know if she would be there. He had tried to communicate, first through the authorities in the US, then through the Mexican authorities, then through private channels. He had tried calling, contacting her via e-mail, and had written several letters, but there had been no response. He held out hope that something good was about to happen.

  The boy stirred beside him and stretched and yawned. A face full of life and a head full of questions. J. D. could have missed this. That took his breath away. He could have missed these days and the living he was meant to do. Could have missed the freedom of a heart released. Would have missed the moment when he stood at the door of the house in Tennessee and felt the embrace of his father and the sobs that came from somewhere deep in both their chests.

  His father and mother had taken care of Jonathan while J. D. was away, while he was searching for himself or for what life would be like after Alycia. They had driven from Tennessee to Arizona in midsummer after the legal issues J. D. faced were over. They stayed two weeks, and every day his father had mentioned the blistering sun and the heat index. He’d taken them to Old Tucson, and though his father couldn’t sto
p complaining about all the cactus, he could tell the man was warming to the idea of perhaps selling their land in Tennessee and making a fresh start.

  “Are we there yet, Daddy?” Jonathan said, a little too loud. Almost three, he had a cute way of talking halfway through his nose.

  J. D. gathered him in and hugged him. Long gone was the summer heat. It had been replaced by a chill that grew colder as they rose in elevation.

  “Not yet. We’ll be there soon. Go back to sleep.”

  A woman in the seat next to them smiled warmly and shifted. J. D. stared out the window. If someone had told him a year ago he and his son would be in a van with a church group headed to Mexico, he would have called them crazy. Even crazier was the fact that he wanted to be here. He had always heard about the mysterious ways of God, from Alycia and others, and if this was how he worked, well, he could believe it was mysterious. Something next to crazy.

  Late in the morning the group stopped to eat, and his son sat with Win and Iliana. They were like another set of grandparents.

  “Where’s Ernesto?” the boy said.

  “We’re hoping to see him today,” Win said. “He’ll be glad to meet you. And I want to see you kick his new soccer ball to him.”

  “That’s not a real sport, you know,” J. D. said.

  Iliana laughed. “Don’t get me started. We’ll be here all day.”

  It was after noon when they drove up the mountain road into Herida. He’d seen pictures of the squalor and the people too frightened to walk the streets because of the violence. At this time of year it was a fight to stay warm with winter wind whipping through their adobe homes. But there was something different, something that didn’t align between the pictures he’d viewed and the scene before him. It took him a moment to realize it was the people. Instead of a barren street and shuttered windows, there were people. Flesh and blood and hearts and dreams walking anywhere they pleased.

  Children ran from hidden spaces into the light, some barefoot or with shoes so tattered they might as well have been. One sight of the vans and supplies and the group was engulfed. Children clamored and waved and ran dangerously close to the vehicles.

  Win parked the van near a field that J. D. had seen in a brochure the church created. A grassy area where kids kicked ratty soccer balls through netless goals. He helped Jonathan out of the van and they stretched and began to unload. First it was the trailer and equipment—a sound system and tables and chairs. Men from the town arrived, and soon J. D. stood back and pulled out his guitar. It would be a challenge to keep the strings in tune in the brisk air.

  “We’re hoping your voice will draw them in,” Win said.

  “Won’t be my voice; it’ll be the toys in the trailer.”

  Win smiled. “I’m glad you were able to come.”

  There were coats and sweaters and shoes and socks to hand out. No sense waiting until later because kids were cold. No sooner had they slipped on their shoes than the soccer balls flew and the field filled with children and laughter. Jonathan watched, keeping close to his father.

  “You want to play?” J. D. said.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Okay. But you can if you want.”

  Streams of people poured into the venue, and the smell of freshly grilled hot dogs and burgers brought even those without faith. Townspeople knew this was a church group from Tucson, and surely some stayed away, but J. D. guessed this was most of the town.

  When a ball rolled near them, J. D. stopped it with a boot. A girl no older than Jonathan bounced up to them, her dark hair swaying. J. D. kicked the ball gently to her and he scooped it up. Instead of turning, she looked straight at Jonathan as if he were an alien. Big brown eyes pleading like a Precious Moments figurine, a wide grin and stubby teeth.

  “¿Quieres jugar conmigo?”

  The boy looked up, half for approval, half for translation.

  “She wants you to play. Go ahead.”

  The girl rolled the ball to him. He kicked it and it skittered to the right. J. D. tried to show him how to angle his foot, but Jonathan scooped the ball up and ran, squealing as the girl followed him.

  J. D. laughed and felt something stir inside, not so much an ache as a promise. A distant memory reflecting in the faces and lives around him. She would have loved this place.

  It did not happen as he pictured it. In his mind he had played the scene again and again. He would see her far off, through a cloudy haze. She would be kneeling in front of a child or perhaps helping an old woman try on a coat. She would be in action—moving, walking toward him, or playing—and then she would see him across a street or some wide field and they would move together and embrace.

  That was how he thought of it just before sleep overtook him or while reading some Bible verse she had quoted. But how it actually happened was not as romantic. He simply heard a voice that set off a chain reaction, like the rumble of a volcano. He shivered. It could have been from the cold or her voice or both—he didn’t know and didn’t care.

  “Are you going to play that or just tune it?”

  He turned and saw her white smile, hair up, jeans and boots and a sweater. A vision. He wanted to embrace her, but he held back and stood the guitar between them.

  “I was thinking about playing you a song. A new one.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a country song. About losing and losing some more and finding out you don’t need much of what other people say you do. It’s about getting life in focus.”

  “I’m glad you’re singing and writing songs again.”

  “I am too.”

  She looked at the soccer field and the blond-haired boy in the middle of a group. “I wonder which one is your son?”

  He laughed. “Not hard to pick him out of the litter. I can’t wait for you to meet him, Maria.”

  When he said her name, she drew closer. “I prayed you would come. I prayed things would work out for you and the authorities.”

  “It worked out a lot better for me than Muerte. They’re still haggling over whether to ship him back to Mexico.”

  “It’s difficult for me to even hear his name.”

  “Well, we’re both standing. I guess there’s something to be said for that.”

  “Yes, Win must have prayed. And Iliana, too.”

  “Wore out their knees for the both of us, I’m sure.”

  A boy ran to J. D. and hugged his legs and it took him a moment to recognize Ernesto. The boy’s mother and father followed and Maria introduced them. The mother said something in Spanish, ending with “Thank you, very much.”

  “You don’t need to thank me, ma’am. Maria’s the one who saved your son.”

  The father smiled and shook J. D.’s hand. There was an awkward silence until Jonathan arrived. J. D. introduced Ernesto, and the boys stared at each other as the parents beamed.

  “Jonathan, this is Maria. She’s the friend I told you about who helped me when I lived on the farm.”

  The boy peered up at her and Maria knelt and looked him in the eyes.

  “Hi,” Jonathan said.

  She smiled and touched his shoulder. No condescension. No big-girl-to-little-boy talk. “I am very glad to meet you, Jonathan. How do you like it in Mexico?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you like the soccer field?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “I was hoping you and your father would join me for dinner. Would you like that?”

  He looked at J. D. “Can we?”

  “I think we can work it out.”

  The boy hugged Maria, then said, “I want to play soccer.” He went back to the game.

  “Where are you staying?” J. D. asked when Ernesto’s parents left.

  “At my father’s house. We have taken in some of the orphan children in the area.”

  “We?”

  “A friend of mine who helps with the church. Her husband is the pastor. You will meet him. He will probably ask you to play at the service tomorr
ow.”

  “He better wait until he hears me.” A pause. “Did you get my letters?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Not right away, because of what has happened with the authorities. They were beautiful.”

  “The police down here—the authorities know you’re not taking over your father’s business, right?”

  “I convinced them eventually. It’s a slow process showing that you are not like your family.”

  They walked to the other end of the field, Maria leading and J. D. following with his guitar.

  “What happened to your wedding ring?” she said.

  “Took it off on the anniversary of Alycia’s death. I think she would have wanted that.”

  “And you put it away?”

  “Yeah, a box at home. I might need it again someday.”

  “No, if you ever get married again, you should buy another ring.”

  He stared at her and she looked toward the hills as she spoke. “It seems like a lifetime ago, what happened to us.”

  “Do you ever think about it? Dream about it?”

  She nodded. “More than I want. We were close to death.”

  “Sometimes you have to get close to death to know what living’s all about.”

  “Is that in your song?”

  “It’s between the lines.”

  He gazed at the vineyard growing its way up the hillside to the villa overlooking the town. The soil was rich and loamy, a good place for a garden. From the looks of the trees they got plenty of rain.

  She asked where he was living and what he had been doing in the months since they had seen each other. He told her about the Slocum family and how he had helped them get back on their feet after the farmer’s death.

  “The kids took it hard. Mrs. Slocum decided to sell. Going to turn the pasture into a big power generator. Solar. She’ll be okay financially.”

  “And your son?”

  “He’s living with me now.”

  “And?”

  “And he’s a handful. But he’s a good kid.”

  “You’re living in Tucson?”

  “Right. I don’t think I can go back to Tennessee. At least not right now.” He paused a moment. “How about you? Have you recovered from the loss of your dad?”