Perdido

by Rick Collignon

  “It was light, but there wasn’t sun yet. The air was pale. You know how it is early in the morning. I don’t know why, but I left the truck parked in the middle of the road at the top of the ridge and I walked down to the river. There wasn’t no wind. Some cows eating the grass on the bank of the river. It was quiet, quiet. The cows just chewing and watching me walk down. You could see the rope, how it went around her neck and running up to those… those… Cómo se dice?”

  “Trestles,” Felipe said.

  “Trestles.” Delfino lowered his head, the skin folding on the upper part of his neck. Will could see patches of whiskers, white against his skin, that he’d missed while shaving. Delfino folded his hands in his lap. “She was naked,” he said. “She wasn’t wearing nothing. Not even any shoes. Her skin was like chalk, it was so white. I walked down that hill like I was walking into some strange painting God had made in the night.”

  Delfino took off his cap and turned to Felipe, who was staring down at the ground between his feet. “She didn’t look dead,” he said. “Not like you would have thought. Her eyes were open. Her arms were loose at her sides. Like this,” and he dropped both his arms and tilted his head a bit to one side.

  Felipe leaned back and blew some air out of his mouth. “Pobrecita,” he said.

  “Malo, no?” Delfino said. “Eee, you should have seen her. Her face looked like she didn’t want to be dead. Like she wanted to open her mouth and say something. And not to the cows, neither. To me. I got to the foot of the bridge and stopped and stared at her, and one of those shitty cows bawled out, and I swear, every hair on my body stood up and danced. I went back up that road backwards, a lot faster than I came down.” Delfino stretched out his leg and moved his foot around as if something itched inside his boot.

  “I sat in the truck and watched her, waiting for someone to come. After a little while, I saw that she was turning around. Slow, even with no wind. Turning round and round over the river.” He bent over awkwardly and picked up a stone. He tossed it up and down a few times and then gave out a loud shriek.

  “Damn dogs,” he yelled, throwing the rock. “Get away from here.”

  Will glanced around quickly and saw nothing but the rock bouncing off one of the cedar posts fencing in the pigs.

  “Damn dogs,” Delfino said again. “Messing around with my pigs. People don’t do nothing anymore. Go to work at the mine in their new trucks and can’t even keep their dogs tied up.” He said something in Spanish to Felipe. Felipe smiled and nodded his head yes, then straightened out his back and stood up slowly.

  “Well,” Felipe said, “we should go. The water’s still running in my garden.”

  Will stood up and moved his shoulders around to get rid of the tightness. “How long did you wait in your truck?” he asked Delfino.

  Delfino looked up at Will as if he had never seen him before. “An hour,” he said. “Maybe a little more. Tomás Pérez from Mesita drove up. We talked some, and then he went to call someone.”

  “Call who?” Felipe asked.

  “I don’t know who he called,” Delfino said. “All I know is that later the Guadalupe police drove up in that old pickup they used to have and found me asleep in my truck. They banged on the door and told me I could leave. If I was going to go to La Prada to get across the bridge. I told them I’d never drive over that damn bridge again. I started my truck and drove home. Never did get potatoes that winter.”

  “Who were the cops?” Felipe said.

  “Frank Martínez, Frankie Junior’s dad. He’s dead now. Shot himself in a hunting accident years ago. You remember? He was so drunk he was walking through the woods holding his rifle backwards. He fell into some scrub oak and the gun went off. The other one was Ray Pacheco. He’s still here, but he doesn’t work no more. You know where he lives, no?”

  “Yes,” Felipe said, nodding. “Up the canyon.”

  “Sí,” Delfino said. “Up the canyon.”

  “What was her name?” Will asked.

  Delfino shrugged. “How should I know?” he said. “They buried her up on the hill just outside the church cemetery. It’s all weeds now. I didn’t go to see her buried, but Ray stopped me on the road a few days later and told me they had put up a cross and that she could have been anyone.”

  Four

  HIPOLITO TRUJILLO AND Francisco Ramírez and Cristóbal García were the first men to set foot in this valley. It was in autumn before the first snow. No one knows where they came from or where they were going, only that they came here and did not leave.

  Telesfor Ruiz told Will these things one afternoon in August. It had been a hot day with clouds and no rain. Will had helped Telesfor half drag an old sofa from behind the house, where it was doing no good, Telesfor said. They dumped it in an arroyo not far away, where it sat, Will thought, as if in a place it preferred not to be. When they walked back to the house, they went inside where it was cool and ate cold meat and chile and drank milk with a little whiskey.

  Hipolito Trujillo and Francisco Ramírez, who were first cousins, decided they should return to where they came from for their families and for the family of Cristóbal García, and Cristóbal should remain here in this valley so that there would be someone to say this place was theirs. Cristóbal, who did not enjoy being alone, told Hipolito and Francisco he feared they would become lost in the mountains and wander forever, and where would he be then? Besides, Cristóbal thought, the junipers that grew along the creek looked as old as God and seemed like things that might move around once it grew dark.

  It was in late September that Hipolito and Francisco left the valley. They swore to Cristóbal that within a few weeks they would return with his wife and children and that then they could truly begin a life in their own place where their names would be of importance. As Hipolito and Francisco walked through the pinon and up the foothills out of the valley, Cristóbal stood by himself near the creek in grass that came to his waist. He watched them leave and thought that his life would soon be so crowded he would not even have time to think. He was the father of eight children, all girls who looked like him, small with fast movements and a good nature. Just the thought of them with him here in this place pushed Cristóbal’s unease away, and he smiled.

  Hipolito and Francisco did not return for two years, and by then, their return was of no matter to Cristóbal García. Just five days after he watched them walk out of the valley, it snowed three feet, and days after that, in snow that came to his chest, Cristóbal lost his mind.

  For two years, in his insanity, Cristóbal built small houses that were no more than mounds of sticks and mud throughout the valley. He populated the village with people he had known through his life, and he named the place not Guadalupe but Perdido, because Cristóbal had come to think that not only was this valley lost but so was everyone in it.

  Living with Cristóbal were seven priests who all argued; his grandparents and parents, who visited him daily; his twelve brothers and sisters; his wife, Ignacia, and eight daughters, whom he greatly enjoyed; and a multitude of others who would appear whenever his mind wandered that way, which was always. Perdido became so full of people, who always made noise, that Cristóbal thought that if he were not already crazy, all those about him would make him so.

  It is not known, Telesfor told Will, why it took so long for Hipolito and Francisco to return. But when they did, they found the valley covered with small dwellings that were good for nothing. And in the midst of all this, a man who was no more than rags and bones and who talked to shadows.

  Will looked at the old man sitting at the table across from him. He could see chile on Telesfor’s mouth. He thought that although Telesfor was built solid and sturdy, there was still a frailty about him. Will knew that the story he had just heard would be almost impossible to know, and he asked the old man how he had come to hear these things.

  Telesfor said that he had heard the story as a child. Maybe none of it was true, but he had never forgotten it. He said that over the years th
ings become lost and that this was a story few knew, other than himself. And now Will.

  Will drove alone up the canyon. He drove slowly, keeping an eye out for the old red flatbed that Felipe had said was abandoned at the end of Ray Pacheco’s drive. The day had turned hot, though it wasn’t yet noon. Will drove with the truck windows down. The air vents under the dash were open, kicking up the stale odor of dust. He nearly missed the turn, just catching sight of the rear end of the vehicle sticking out of a clump of weeds. He stopped in the middle of the road, backed up, and turned down Ray’s drive.

  When Will and Felipe had left Delfino’s, Felipe had sat quietly on the passenger’s side of the seat, staring out the windshield and thinking this had been no way to spend the morning. Drinking warm soda pop and listening to stories like that. Although he hadn’t seen Delfino for some time, and it was good the viejo looked well, Felipe thought that he could have been fishing or fixing his rotten plumbing or just sitting in the grass beside his garden.

  When they got to Felipe’s house, Will said, “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in taking a ride to Ray Pacheco’s.”

  Felipe didn’t turn his head. He could see that the front door of his house was wide open and that piled in front of it were at least seven bikes. He knew his children and their cousins and who knew who else were inside making egg sandwiches and driving Elena crazy and that soon he would hear about it. He wondered how this day, which had begun so pleasantly, had slipped out of his hands. After a few seconds, he asked, “Why do you want to see Ray?”

  “I don’t know,” Will said. “That’s where Delfino ended. Why not?”

  “Ray’s not like Delfino, that’s why not.”

  “No one’s like Delfino.”

  “I don’t mean it that way,” Felipe said, wondering why he was even having this conversation. “I mean you’re not going to get any soda pop at Ray’s.”

  “I’ll just ask him what happened,” Will said, “and that’ll be that.”

  Felipe shook his head. “Eee,” he said, “you don’t listen to anything, do you?” He climbed out of the truck and told Will how to find Ray’s house. As Will was leaving, he saw a herd of kids run out of Felipe’s house. Over their voices, he heard Felipe yell, “And don’t let him know you know me.”

  Ray’s place was about a quarter mile off the road. Each side of the narrow drive leading to it was lined by an old cedar fence, and spreading away from it in both directions was alfalfa, thigh high and in need of cutting. The house sat on a couple of acres. Sod, browned out and clipped short, lay along the front. Everything else was dirt mixed with gravel. The house was a long, wood-framed rectangle painted white. Will knew if he dug into the siding, he’d find the aluminum walls of a trailer underneath. A new blue pickup and a small car were parked in front. He pulled in next to the truck and shut off the engine. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  Will smoked and stared at the house, waiting for some sign of life. There wasn’t much to see. The yard was neat, nothing lying around. The curtains were drawn and the windows were shut, even on such a hot day. There was an empty feel about the place, as though whoever lived there didn’t come out much or else never went in. He thought that maybe Felipe was right, that this wasn’t such a good idea, and that if he were smart he’d back up his truck and drive away. He brought the cigarette to his mouth. He could feel the sun lying on his legs. He remembered Delfino saying that the girl looked like a painting God had made in the night, and he thought, What the hell, there’s nothing to lose. He hit the horn lightly and climbed out of the cab.

  The front door swung open and Ray walked out. Will had seen the man around town for years but had never known his name. They’d never spoken, a nod now and then at the lumberyard or the post office, that was about it. Ray was a large man, in his late fifties or early sixties. He was built thick, but not much of it appeared to be fat. He walked over to where Will was standing and offered his hand.

  “Ray Pacheco,” he said. They looked at each other for a second, and then Ray moved his eyes away and stared out at his alfalfa.

  “My name’s Will Sawyer,” Will said, turning with Ray to look at the field. Will could see patches of dirt and areas of stunted alfalfa where irrigation water hadn’t reached. Blue blossoms puffed out the tops of the plants.

  “Almost time to cut,” Will said.

  Ray looked at him. “It’s that time of year,” he said. He was wearing a tractor cap pulled down low on his forehead. His face was smooth and dark and heavy, with dark rings beneath his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

  There was little doubt in Will’s mind that this man would prefer he left and that if he had any sense, he’d ask about buying the old truck parked at the end of Ray’s drive. They could kick that around for a few minutes and Will could get out of there gracefully. Instead, he bent down and picked up a stone. He tossed it up and down a few times and then flung it off to the side.

  “I work with Felipe Griego,” he said. “Yesterday we took a ride out to Las Manos Bridge, and he told me about a girl found hanging out there. I guess this was back when you were a police officer. I thought if you had some time, you could tell me some more about it.”

  Ray turned his face toward Will. One of his hands moved up to just above his belt, and his fingers began massaging his belly as if he were trying to work out a cramp. He was an inch or two shorter than Will, but with his girth it didn’t seem that way.

  “Why would he say that?” Ray asked, and Will thought that it wasn’t hard to see what kind of police officer Ray had been.

  “Why would he say what? About the girl?”

  “No,” Ray said. “To see me about it. Why did Felipe send you here?”

  “Well,” Will said, “it wasn’t really Felipe. Felipe just told me about the girl. Delfino Vigil told us it was you and Frank Martinez who came out and got the body.”

  The door to the house opened and an older woman walked out carrying an armful of stuffed animals. She took the steps slowly and walked by Ray and Will without a word. She opened the door to the car, threw the stuffed animals into the front seat, and climbed in after them. She started the engine and drove off, a cloud of dust following her.

  “You talked to Delfino about this?”

  “Yes.” Will took his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered the pack to Ray. Ray didn’t even look at them. “I don’t mean to bother you,” Will went on, “the story just kind of hit me. This girl hanging out there like she fell from the sky.”

  “She didn’t fall from the sky,” Ray said. “She was a suicide.”

  “Is that what the autopsy said?”

  “I don’t know about any autopsy.”

  “Who was she?” Will asked. “How’d she get out there?”

  Ray looked past him, somewhere else. “It was a long time ago,” he said. “I remember it was a suicide. She hanged herself. Why would I care about this? If Delfino said something different, that’s his business.” He looked at Will. “I got things to do. Don’t come back here again.” He turned and walked to the house. Will watched the screen door slam behind him.

  Five dead skunks lay on the highway in front of the Guadalupe lumberyard. Two of them had been badly mangled by cars. The other three were intact, and Will thought they looked as though they’d keeled over in mid-step. The place was quiet and empty, with just a couple of vehicles parked way off to the side that belonged to Joe and his brother Lawrence. The air outside the building smelled rank. Lawrence was behind the front counter when Will walked in.

  “What’s with the skunks?” he asked.

  Lawrence was leafing through a trade magazine. “Keep the door closed,” he said without looking up. “It’s bad out there.”

  “It’s bad in here,” Will said and pushed the door shut with his foot.

  “Not as bad as before. It’s worse early in the morning, but then you get used to it.” He flipped quickly through the pages of the magazine. Lawrence was nineteen years old and was the second younge
st of eight brothers who all worked, off and on, at the store. The business had been run by their father and before that their grandfather, who had bought it for too much money from the Medina family. Lawrence tossed the magazine aside and reached for another one. He spent from seven-thirty in the morning to five in the afternoon behind the front desk reading hardware literature and making lists of what to order that Joe always ignored.

  “So,” Will said. “What were you, attacked?”

  Lawrence studied the catalog in his hands and then swiveled on his stool and tossed it in the trash. “We borrowed a trap from Lloyd,” he said. “Been catching a skunk a day all week.” He straightened out his back and stretched. “It’s too hot to work today. What do you want, anyway?”

  “You’re trapping skunks, then bringing them over here and running them over?”

  “Did you come over here just to bother me?” Lawrence asked. “They’re from the yard. From under the building.”

  The lumberyard had always been infested with skunks. Even in the dead months of winter, you could catch the faint odor of skunk wafting up from the floorboards. One spring a few years back, Julian, the youngest brother, who must have been all of twelve years old at the time, had come up with the idea of gassing them. He and Lawrence had hooked up the exhaust pipe of their delivery truck to a long hose and pumped the fumes under the foundation. They all thought this was a great idea until everyone inside began to get headaches.

  “How do you get the skunk out of the trap without getting sprayed?” Will asked.

  “The skunk can’t lift his tail in the trap,” Lawrence told him. “We drag the trap out to the road and open it. The skunk runs like hell and Julián shoots it.”

  They looked at each other for a few seconds without saying anything. Finally, Will asked, “Where’s Joe?”

  “In the office.”

  Joe was laid out in the chair behind his desk, his hands wrapped around the back of his head, his legs stretched out to the side. “Qué pasa, Will?” he said.