Life Lessons

by Stefan Merrill Block

  But in your own childhood, these old divides hadn’t seemed quite so dire. Spanish was now a required course for all students; in your grade-school days, white and Latino children were often invited to the same birthday parties. And yet, in recent years, as the cartels seized vast powers in Mexico, the white population had been fretting, with growing panic, over the stories of narcotic warfare coming from only a few miles away. Down the river, at the border town of Brownsville, police had recently found body parts of a number of Honduran immigrants scattered across the highway. Up in Presidio, local ranchers were reporting bands of cartel soldiers crossing their properties by night. Immigration had leapt to numbers unknown for generations. And as all these addled refugees came over the river, they arrived to a county blighted by lack of commerce. Ranching and mineral mining had long ago gone bust in your hometown. The only real industries left in the county were sluggish tourism, out in the state and national parks; border control enforcement; and the few local businesses that the employees of these federally funded enterprises could support. The last thing that hardscrabble Blissians wanted was a multitude of new workers, willing to toil for less-than-legal wages.

  Something had to be done, was the white opinion, and so it had been a summer of a great many deportations, whole families carted from Bliss to the other side of the Rio Grande. For the TV cameras, the West Texas Minutemen—one of those jingoistic militias that patrolled the desert for surreptitious immigrants—were doing frequent demonstrations at the river, shooting their rifles into the Mexican sky.

  Though this fraught border between nations lay thirty miles to the south of Bliss, another border ran down the center of your schoolhouse. Just as the towns all over your county were split in two, neighborhoods segregated by language and skin tone, you’d come to see that Bliss Township School was truthfully two schools; the honors classes were almost entirely white, the “regular” classes mostly Latino. All of the school’s officially sanctioned activities—dances, football games, academic clubs—were white, and the Latino activities were mostly ones that the school officials tried to disperse: the Tejanos’ daily gatherings out front, right on the schoolhouse steps, where they blasted music from their cars, causing a minor, perpetual commotion.

  It was out there, just beyond the school gates, that something of a brawl had broken out the first week of school, when Scotty Coltrane and his pale cronies began barking abuse at the grounds crew. “Andale, andale!” Scotty was yelling at a lawn-mowing man when a Mexican kid crept up from behind and bloodied Scotty’s nose. Under ordinary circumstances, it might have ended there, the boys called before Principal Dixon, a suspension issued, but in that tense August the fight turned into a brawl, a dozen boys piling on.

  But even in this divided school, you felt yourself to be in a further subdivision all your own, a boy who wanted only to pass his days unnoticed. It was shaping up to be another lonesome year, the worst yet, until that actual miracle happened.

  You had been in your father’s art classroom, after school that Thursday, marking up your biology homework as Pa worked paint thinner into the student tables. Your brother was sketching something at an easel—a ballerina in a tutu, screaming as two lions devoured her legs—when he turned his head to an arrival at the door. Rebekkah Sterling stepped timidly into the room.

  “Rebekkah,” you said, feeling ashamed to speak her name to her face.

  “So!” Rebekkah said. “Today I get to see where Oliver Loving lives.”

  Through a blooming blush, you watched her closely, something in her wry grin suggesting her attendance at the meteor shower must have been some kind of a joke. Or, more likely, she had only accepted your father’s invitation to be kind.

  But then a wondrous thing happened when Pa drove you home. “Shotgun!” Charlie yelled in the parking lot, and climbed into the front seat. And as one of the backseats was piled with Pa’s collection of paper coffee cups and fast food refuse, Rebekkah and you had to sit right next to each other, your denim-clad thighs touching snugly, your leg registering each jostle with ecstatic friction.

  “A couple hours till nightfall yet,” Pa said when you arrived at Zion’s Pastures. “Why don’t you take Rebekkah for a little show-around, and we’ll get the picnic ready?” He winked at you, not very subtly.

  Most of the land of Zion’s Pastures was just parched country, like photographs you’d seen of the islands of Greece, if someone had vacuumed away the Aegean. But you wanted to show Rebekkah your land’s rare swatch of lushness, guiding her down to the fertile earth along Loving Creek. As you led Rebekkah through the machete-cut trails, your anxiety turned you into some kind of historian. “My great-great-grandfather and his family came from Wales, that’s near England, and they had this crazy idea that Texas wouldn’t be so different from Wales but with enough land for everyone—” You begged your mouth to silence, but it refused to quit its lectures. “This is called a century plant. Its stem supposedly shoots just once in a hundred years.” You awkwardly added, “To reproduce.” Rebekkah silently trailed your elbow. You elected for the most arduous paths, where many times you had to lift a branch for her to duck the tunnel of your arm. At last you came to your destination, the little creekside cave where you spent many evenings and weekends, doing your homework and writing your rhymy poems at the old poker table you had taken from the storage shed.

  “Here it is,” you said. “My secret lair.”

  “Secret lair? What are you, Superman?”

  “That’s the Fortress of Solitude.”

  “So no solitude for you, huh?” she asked. “You bring a lot of people here? It’s very cool.”

  “You’re the first. The first non-Loving, I mean.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You should be. It’s very exclusive.”

  Rebekkah emitted a faint “ha” and looked up to observe the fleshy knobs of the mini-stalactites that hung from the ceiling. There had been a time when your boyish imagination could make this pocket of rock seem deep with mystery, a potential burial place for the sort of lost Mexican treasure that your late granny liked to tell stories about. Now it looked to you only like a dim hollow, shallow and gray.

  “Oh my God!” Rebekkah shouted, doing a frantic little skip. “A snake!”

  You laughed, more loudly than you intended. “That’s just snakeskin. Some rattler must have molted here.” You both knelt to examine the diaphanous material, the translucent scales making miniature rainbows in the early evening light.

  “Wow. It’s sort of beautiful,” Rebekkah said.

  You poked at the iridescent rattler sheath, and the frail substance crumbled under your fingertip. Rebekkah put a hand to her face. “You ruined it,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s no big deal. Snakeskin is everywhere around here. Really. We can find some more, if you want.”

  Rebekkah stood away, made a frustrated little snort. You couldn’t quite understand what you’d done wrong, but you did understand that you were already failing your first conversation with her.

  “Listen,” you said. “You really don’t have to stay all the way to tonight if you don’t want. My pa could drive you home.”

  “Your pa. So Texan.”

  You shrugged. “Ma and Pa. That’s just what we’ve always called them. I guess it was my grandmother’s doing. Always made us do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “Anyway,” Rebekkah said, “thanks for the advice. But when I want to go, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “It’s just that I know it’s kind of weird that you’re here. And now you’re looking like you are feeling weird.”

  “Weird is how I’m looking?”

  “I didn’t mean—maybe not.”

  “If anything,” she said, “all this is just making me a little jealous. This place. Your family. You get to live like this every day.”

  But you were the jealous one just then, jealous
of other boys better suited for a girl like Rebekkah, with her sad, thousand-yard stare. “My dad drinks alone in his shed most nights,” you told her, trying to match your tone to hers, that whispery subdued register. “My mother looks at me like I’m three years old.”

  Rebekkah glanced up at you, smiled sadly. “Well, I guess we have a few things in common, then.” And then Rebekkah reached for you and mussed your hair like a child’s. Like a child’s, maybe, but on the hike back to the house, your legs throwing long shadows, you could still feel the warmth of her hand on your head, a kind of imaginary crown.

  “And have you heard about how scientists have been measuring the universe?” Pa asked, two hours later, on that hilltop. The remnants of the picnic your mother had packed were strewn about. In honor of the guest, Pa had limited himself to wine, the emptied bottle of Merlot now tipped on its side. “They’ve found this way to take the whole thing’s weight. They can weigh the universe now! Incredible!”

  cups and fast food refuse, Rebekkah and you had to sit right next to each other, your denim-clad thighs touching snugly, your leg registering each jostle with ecstatic friction.

  “A couple hours till nightfall yet,” Pa said when you arrived at Zion’s Pastures. “Why don’t you take Rebekkah for a little show-around, and we’ll get the picnic ready?” He winked at you, not very subtly.

  Most of the land of Zion’s Pastures was just parched country, like photographs you’d seen of the islands of Greece, if someone had vacuumed away the Aegean. But you wanted to show Rebekkah your land’s rare swatch of lushness, guiding her down to the fertile earth along Loving Creek. As you led Rebekkah through the machete-cut trails, your anxiety turned you into some kind of historian. “My great-great-grandfather and his family came from Wales, that’s near England, and they had this crazy idea that Texas wouldn’t be so different from Wales but with enough land for everyone—” You begged your mouth to silence, but it refused to quit its lectures. “This is called a century plant. Its stem supposedly shoots just once in a hundred years.” You awkwardly added, “To reproduce.” Rebekkah silently trailed your elbow. You elected for the most arduous paths, where many times you had to lift a branch for her to duck the tunnel of your arm. At last you came to your destination, the little creekside cave where you spent many evenings and weekends, doing your homework and writing your rhymy poems at the old poker table you had taken from the storage shed.

  “Here it is,” you said. “My secret lair.”

  “Secret lair? What are you, Superman?”

  “That’s the Fortress of Solitude.”

  “So no solitude for you, huh?” she asked. “You bring a lot of people here? It’s very cool.”

  “You’re the first. The first non-Loving, I mean.”

  “I’m honored.”

  “You should be. It’s very exclusive.”

  Rebekkah emitted a faint “ha” and looked up to observe the fleshy knobs of the mini-stalactites that hung from the ceiling. There had been a time when your boyish imagination could make this pocket of rock seem deep with mystery, a potential burial place for the sort of lost Mexican treasure that your late granny liked to tell stories about. Now it looked to you only like a dim hollow, shallow and gray.

  “Oh my God!” Rebekkah shouted, doing a frantic little skip. “A snake!”

  You laughed, more loudly than you intended. “That’s just snakeskin. Some rattler must have molted here.” You both knelt to examine the diaphanous material, the translucent scales making miniature rainbows in the early evening light.

  “Wow. It’s sort of beautiful,” Rebekkah said.

  You poked at the iridescent rattler sheath, and the frail substance crumbled under your fingertip. Rebekkah put a hand to her face. “You ruined it,” she said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “It’s no big deal. Snakeskin is everywhere around here. Really. We can find some more, if you want.”

  Rebekkah stood away, made a frustrated little snort. You couldn’t quite understand what you’d done wrong, but you did understand that you were already failing your first conversation with her.

  “Listen,” you said. “You really don’t have to stay all the way to tonight if you don’t want. My pa could drive you home.”

  “Your pa. So Texan.”

  You shrugged. “Ma and Pa. That’s just what we’ve always called them. I guess it was my grandmother’s doing. Always made us do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “Anyway,” Rebekkah said, “thanks for the advice. But when I want to go, you’ll be the first to know.”

  “It’s just that I know it’s kind of weird that you’re here. And now you’re looking like you are feeling weird.”

  “Weird is how I’m looking?”

  “I didn’t mean—maybe not.”

  “If anything,” she said, “all this is just making me a little jealous. This place. Your family. You get to live like this every day.”

  But you were the jealous one just then, jealous of other boys better suited for a girl like Rebekkah, with her sad, thousand-yard stare. “My dad drinks alone in his shed most nights,” you told her, trying to match your tone to hers, that whispery subdued register. “My mother looks at me like I’m three years old.”

  Rebekkah glanced up at you, smiled sadly. “Well, I guess we have a few things in common, then.” And then Rebekkah reached for you and mussed your hair like a child’s. Like a child’s, maybe, but on the hike back to the house, your legs throwing long shadows, you could still feel the warmth of her hand on your head, a kind of imaginary crown.

  “And have you heard about how scientists have been measuring the universe?” Pa asked, two hours later, on that hilltop. The remnants of the picnic your mother had packed were strewn about. In honor of the guest, Pa had limited himself to wine, the emptied bottle of Merlot now tipped on its side. “They’ve found this way to take the whole thing’s weight. They can weigh the universe now! Incredible!”

  “Incredible,” you said, but you had much more interesting measurements in mind. Your fingertips had at last forged the great divide, and they fell with exhaustion on the polyester shore of Rebekkah’s blanket. You must have been less than six inches from her now; you felt the warmth that her skin radiated. Your fingers took the land’s measure, stood, and began the final march. A sudden streak of brightness cut the deep purple above. “Oh! Look look look!” Charlie shouted.

  “So, Rebekkah, tell us about you,” your mother said, her voice at the edge of that tone she used with strangers, the one she called skeptical and your brother called mean. “You’re new here, right?”

  “We’ve been here for a little more than a year now. My father works for an oil company. Fracking. Never in one place long.”

  “Poor girl,” Ma said. “I know how that goes. We moved around so much when I was a kid, I’d gone to eight schools before I was fifteen.”

  “It’s hard,” Rebekkah said.

  “I have to admit,” Pa said, “I saw a little thing about your father in the paper, something about the surveys his company’s been doing around Alpine. Fingers crossed they strike it rich, Lord knows we could use the business.”

  Rebekkah shrugged. “He never tells me much about it,” she said. “Just lets me know when it’s time to move again.”

  “Our family has lived here for about a million years!” Charlie piped. “We never go anywhere! It’s not always such a picnic, let me tell you.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Sorry.” Charlie giggled.

  Even setting aside the miraculous identity of your guest, it was very strange to witness your family perform itself for an outsider. You couldn’t remember the last time a visitor had come to Zion’s Pastures. A couple of years before, your mother had cured the grandfather clock of its mildew infestation by setting it for two days in the front yard. “Just needs a little sunlight to heal,” she had explained. A seventeen-year-old boy, unkisse
d, could be forgiven for already beginning to conceive of Rebekkah like that healing sun upon his whole lonesome, mildewed life at Zion’s Pastures.

  “So how you liking it?” Pa said. “School going okay so far this year?”

  “It’s good. I sure miss your art class.” You noticed that as she spoke she gestured with her left hand, but kept the other lying there, unbudging in the darkness.

  “You know,” Rebekkah said. “All this star talk is reminding me of that song. They call me on and on across the universe—”

  All four of you tuneless Lovings lay there, stunned, as Rebekkah sang a line of that Beatles tune.

  “Crikey,” Charlie said.

  “Beautiful.” Pa whistled. “Got some serious pipes on you, good Lord.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Rebekkah said. “I just like to sing sometimes.”

  After a time, Pa resumed his astronomy lesson. “Of course you know that falling stars is not really accurate. What you are looking at are just minor asteroids burning up in the atmosphere, but it is remarkable . . .” You were no longer listening. Because your hand understood that it didn’t have forever. And so, in one brave and reckless act, your hand called upon the support of wrist and forearm. It crouched low, and then it sprang. And there would perhaps never be a joy as acute as the joy of Rebekkah’s downy, warm-soft fingers when they did not stray from the point of contact. Your hands remained there, for whole seconds, their backsides pressed together, turning red hot, generating the atomic material of the future. But your hand was no fool. It understood that the snakeskin had been a kind of sign; if you lingered too long, the delicate thing would crumble.