by John Rechy
Suddenly she moves away from Jerry, past Manny, out the door.
Manny sighs: ‘I don't know where to go now.’ Slowly he leaves the house.
Jerry remains on the stairs looking into the vast darkness.
Outside. Shell runs down the steps. Quickly she's in her car. She starts it. It dies. ‘God-fucking-damn!’ she yells angrily. She starts it again. With a vicious jerk, it lunges forward. She drives urgently into the freeway along the scorching, dry Texas night.
She reaches the crossroads, turns. Trees are black, like jagged paper silhouettes. And now she's on the levee. She drives recklessly along the dirt road, dust stirred angrily. She's left the few scattered cars behind her. She stops abruptly.
The river.
She gets out of the car. She stares at the small sandy island on the water—where they built their dazzling sand castle that joyous afternoon—and then destroyed it. Where they stood that strange night, naked, like sentinels guarding their worlds. Where so much passed, silently, between them.
She stares at the black river, the trees, the sand. She removes her shoes. She wades across the water in her torn dress, her flesh welcoming the cool water.
She stands on the island. Their island. She looks to one side, to the other. Remembering how they stood, those magic moments. Apart. But close. Close in the currents of the drugged world. She looks down at the sand, moist. Remembers: the castle.
She stands alone on this island on the dark, deserted river.
Suddenly, like a terrified child, she lies on the sand. She nestles her face against it. It's the sand's moisture, she tells herself, it isn't tears.
