by Rilla Askew
One more drink, she told herself, then to bed. Even if the roads were clear in the morning, it was still a two-hour drive to the City, and her hair was gummy with the expensive salon product Kevin insisted she use. She was going to have to get up early to wash it. There was no guarantee, of course, that the roads would be clear. She switched on the floor lamp to locate the clicker, stood squinting at the blossoming screen. Well, thank God. The storm had apparently swept on out of Oklahoma—no hyped-up forecaster interrupted Jimmy Kimmel. Not even one of those little logoed maps in the corner showing Doppler radar. McAlester had dodged the bullet—no power outage this time. The roads should be fine by morning. Hallelujah again. She sat down.
It was after midnight. On cable news it was all repeats of the evening shows, excitable analysts analyzing last week’s primary. Or was it next week’s? They were always on now, the primaries, a constant low-grade fever, a stew pot on simmer. Monica propped her feet on the coffee table, pulled the blanket from her shoulders and tucked it under the full length of her legs, snugged the brightly striped wool over her toes. She unmuted the mute button, took another sip.
Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | Night
In the Gloss Mountains
The moon is low in the sky now. Soon she will be hidden behind the slope of the hill. The coughs of the boy grow thinner, more shallow, as if there is not enough air within him to breathe. Luis sits huddled beside him with the green sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders, thinking, remembering, trying to stay awake. To keep watch. How very strange, he thinks, the manner in which his journey has turned the opposite way of so many others, and yet the same. All the world knows the stories of those lost in the desert, the ones who walk north and never reach their destination, and yet never return. Their families never see them again, never learn what has happened to them. At the beginning of his journey, in Mexico, Luis had been relieved that he would not have to walk across the frontier because his sons helped him, they paid the money to the coyote to bring Luis north in the crowded truck. Never did he expect that his journey would one day become like the others, crossing the long flat plains without protection, without sufficient food or water—and yet his journey is very different from the stories. He travels not to the north but to the west, suffering not heat but too much cold. Traveling with a boy who is very sick, who could become, it is possible, one of the vanished ones.
No! No. This is not true. Our Lady will not withdraw her protection so much as to permit this to happen. This fear is only the fear of Luis, his fatigue and lack of faith. The boy no longer talks aloud in his fever, but lies very still, very pale in the moonlight. Is he perhaps better? Tomorrow, Luis whispers aloud to the high plains night, the sinking moon. Let us protect him until tomorrow. Then we will find help.
GodSaveYouMaryYouAreFullOfGraceTheFatherIsWithYou . . .
There have been many gifts, Luis reminds himself. Many small miracles of passage from Our Lady of Guadalupe, who has attended the travels of Luis from his home in Arroyo Seco all the way to this place on the night plain. She will not abandon them now. She was with them in Tulsa, when Luis left the boy sleeping inside the truck in the yard of the sister and walked the long block back to the little spanish store.
He had expected the shopkeeper to be a man. When he saw the mexican woman behind the counter, he felt strange, as if he knew her, as if he had seen her many times before. But oh, how he breathed! hearing the familiar words when she asked what he wanted. She was short and round and spoke with a Chiapas accent. Probably it was only her familiar words and coloring that made her seem like a person he had known. Of their conversation he remembers very little. He must have asked for the aspirin to help the boy. Perhaps that was when he told her he was traveling to join his sons. Certainly he asked for the bathroom, and with her permission he went into the cramped ammonia-smelling room in the back of the store. When he came out again, the small bottle of white aspirins sat on the counter and also a tall plastic bottle of Pepsi and a short bottle with water, and the boy stood in front of them, counting out coins from the jar. Had Luis carried the jar of coins to the store? He cannot remember.
What he remembers most distinctly from that day is how the woman said it would be dangerous for him to stay in Tulsa. The migra was strong there, she told him; it was not a good place for Luis. Families had been separated, she said. Many men deported. The woman spoke with the boy in english, with Luis in spanish. So rapidly the woman clicked the english words! And the boy talked just as quickly to the woman. Soon it became apparent that the woman was familiar with the sister of the boy. The woman turned to Luis then and told him in spanish that the husband of the sister had been deported since before Christmas. But now the sister talked with the news reporters, the woman had seen this. Therefore maybe the sister was not trustworthy. She was married to a mexican man, it was the truth. They had a daughter. Nevertheless, she was a lightskin. The woman shrugged, as if to say, This is no business of mine; you must decide for yourself. Luis picked up the coin jar and the plastic bag with the Pepsi, and he and the boy turned to leave. The woman called out, ¡A moment! From the cash register she withdrew an american dollar with the number twenty on it, held it out to him. Is dangerous here, she repeated. Go quickly to your sons.
So, yes, this was a miracle. Or a mercy. The kindness of a woman who did not know him but would help him go to his sons. He and the boy walked back to the truck. ¿What is this word, dangerous? the boy asked. But Luis did not know how to explain. Dangerous means dangerous; it could not be demonstrated like a broken twig. Again they sat in the truck. Did they talk? Luis cannot remember. Did they eat? He does not know. Those hours waiting for the sister seemed to last forever, the sky growing grayer, the inside of the truck turning colder.
This was when the fatigue came most hard on Luis. Many times he found his head dipping forward, his eyes closing, and he would jerk himself alert. Finally he crossed his hands on the top of the steering wheel, rested his forehead on them, saying to the boy that he would rest his eyes only a moment. Later he awakened with a quick flash of fear. He could not tell the hour, but he believed that much time had passed. And still the sister had not come. The boy sat reading the yellow dictionary. His lips were trembling with the cold. Luis, too, was very cold. He started the motor, watched as the indicator needle came only a little way above the letter E.
He told the boy that they would go now to buy gasoline and then return to wait for the sister, and the boy said okay, but he could not show Luis where to go. They drove around many blocks, but Luis did not want to travel far and become lost; he was also concerned that to keep driving would finish the gasoline. So he drove back to the street of the little house, stopped in front of the spanish store on the corner, thinking he would go in and ask the shopkeeper for directions. But now the sign in the window said in both english and spanish that the store was closed. Look, the boy said, pointing down the street to a white van parked in front of the little house. I think is not of my sister, the boy said. I dont see it . . . He motioned behind himself. In the past.
Okay, Luis said.
¿Is good or bad? the boy asked.
¿Who knows? We will wait a little while and watch.
The passenger door of the van opened and a young woman with black hair climbed down. She crossed the yard and knocked at the door of the little house. She knocked many times, looked around the yard, looked back to the van, knocked more. At last she returned to the van, and the van pulled away. But
it did not go away. The driver turned at the next corner and parked just at the edge. Luis could see then the brightly lettered words and numbers on the side of the van. The people in the van waited, Luis and the boy waited. More time passed. ¿What do you think? Luis asked the boy. The boy shrugged. No idea, he said.
Then another vehicle passed where they were parked—a police car! Even worse. And the police car, too, stopped in front of the little house. A police in uniform went to the door to knock. He stood with a pad of paper in his hand, waiting. Dangerous, the boy whispered. Luis looked over. Oh, of course. The dictionary. Dangerous for me, Luis said. His heart was thumping fiercely in his chest. But not for you. Maybe you can go to him, he will help you.
¿Help me for what?
To wait for your sister. So you will be in a place where the people will not hurt you.
The boy looked up. His face was very old for such a young boy. No, he said. We have a new plan. I come with you to your sons. Then my grandfather is ready. Then I come home.
I think is better that you wait for your sister.
I think is better that I come with you.
Luis sat watching the police knocking at the door. Maybe the police would turn and see them, only one long block away. Maybe he would say to himself, I will check this mexican man sitting in a truck with a boy whose face has been beaten. Then all would go very badly for Luis. But how to drive away without attracting attention? If he would go forward, he must pass the police car. If he would turn the truck in the street to go back, the police would see him. If he would reverse the truck around the corner onto the next primary street, this would be even more bad, because the street was busy with the traffic, and the police would know someone in the truck was trying to sneak away. Then, as Luis prayed for guidance, the police returned to his vehicle and drove to the corner, where he turned right, passed by the van, and disappeared, and at once the van followed the police car, easing away out of sight. Luis and the boy looked at each other. The boy laughed out loud. Then Luis laughed. After a moment he said, Now is possible for you to wait for your sister.
She doesnt come today, the boy answered, gazing straight ahead. My mother say me. I go with you.
Luis, too, stared straight ahead a few moments. This was the same, like in the cemetery. He could not leave the boy alone. To wait might bring more danger. So yes, Luis thought then. They would go together to the Guymon town, and when his sons would return the truck to the grandfather, they would return also the boy. Luis nodded once. Okay.
In this way began their journey together from the city to this frozen place here on the night plain. Many miles, many days and nights of travel, following the red spidery roads they were able to discover from the map, west, toward the Guymon town. And only a few hundred of those miles inside the blue truck.
The boy whimpers inside the damp sleeping bag. Luis puts his palm to his forehead. The heat of the fever rages, and yet the boy shivers. Luis can feel him shuddering beneath his hand. Quickly Luis unwraps the sleeping bag from himself, lays it across the boy. Within moments his jaw begins to clench with cold. If only he had the protection of the truck now! The inside of the truck had seemed insufficient, too battered and small and chilly, but how much easier the journey had been before the truck failed them! It is for this reason, Luis thinks, that the boy became sick. So much time exposed to the freezing weather. It would have been better if he had taken the boy to a police or a church in a town while they were still traveling in the rolling land where the towns were frequent. Luis was then making such effort to avoid the towns, when he should have been seeking their help. But how could he know? A man can know only the mistakes of the past, the decisions he would make differently if he could remake them. Never is there sufficient knowledge of the future to make the wise choices. What is there to rely on, when a man must make choices? Protection and guidance from heaven. The blessings of the sacraments, if he is able to receive them. Prayers. Miracles and mercies. Faith.
Part Three
Welcome the Stranger
Wednesday | February 27, 2008 | 6:15 A.M.
Moorehouse residence | McAlester
Morning brought headache, dry mouth, and a slight argument with her husband in the kitchen before daylight. “We need to stay here, babe,” Charlie said, scratching his belly, his thin hair sticking up like a kewpie doll’s. “One more day.”
Monica pressed her thumb against the ache between her eyes. “I know you can work anywhere, Charlie, but I have obligations.”
“They’ll understand. They know the roads are bad. Listen, I got a feeling. My old political bone’s trembling. I can smell it.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors,” she said, pouring coffee. She pawed through the overhead cabinet for ibuprofen.
“What if something breaks and you’re not here to capitalize on it?”
“I can capitalize from Oklahoma City.”
“Not the same way. Look, what’s the difference between even-numbered years and odd-numbered?”
“Oh, shut up.” She took down a glass, ran some water. The difference, as Charlie loved to repeat ad nauseum, was simply that in even-numbered years you had an opponent. Meaning: you are always in campaign mode, whether it’s a campaign year or not. You never let your guard down, never quit paying attention to your constituents, the ones who elected you—the people here in this little burg in southeastern Oklahoma and nearby environs who sent you to the People’s House. Monica tossed back the Advil, gulped a slug of water, gazed at her husband a moment. “What the people sent me to do is make laws at the capitol to their benefit,” she said evenly. “And that’s precisely what I’m going to be seen doing. Today.” She set the glass in the sink and went to take a shower.
Charlie had the Escalade warming up in the garage by the time she finished blow-drying her hair. His laptop was open on the passenger seat, the connect card winking lazily, his twin BlackBerrys propped in the cup holders. He held the driver’s-side door open for her. She didn’t really feel like driving—the Advil had only dulled the throbbing, not eliminated it—but it would be less irksome to drive than to be the one to have to monitor Charlie’s laptop, the constant influx of e-mails buzzing in on the phones. Less stressful. There was no way her husband could just drive somewhere; he always had to be doing six or seven other things—even if it was just fiddling with the radio to track the news on NPR and the Oasis Network at the same time.
They crossed town in predawn darkness. The residue of last night’s ice glistened in the crooks of trees in the graying streetlights. The roads were still wet, but clear. A thin line of red broke on the eastern horizon as they turned north on the Indian Nations Turnpike. The farther north they drove, the heavier the ice sheen on the trees and power lines, but the roads remained navigable. Charlie scanned his RSS feeds, read aloud the better blog postings, the relevant e-mails and “tweets,” as he called them, some new messaging system that sounded to her like abbreviated fortune cookie renderings.
By the time they reached Henryetta a half hour later, the sun was glaring on the sparkling trees, the ice-spangled fences. Monica squinted against the brilliance as she negotiated the ramp onto I-40. After that, thank God, the sun was behind them. She listened with only half an ear to Charlie’s monologue. Her mind was distracted. She hadn’t heard from anyone yet, not even her most avid allies, but really it was still early; she might have to wait till she got to her office to find out how her performance had been received. She occupied her mind with rehearsals for what she’d say to the Speaker if he was excited about the way things were going, and also what she’d say if he was pissed. Not that Coughlin would ever reveal pissed in any overt way—h
is veneer never slipped—but she would know. Oh, what was she worried about? She’d been perfect. Hadn’t she been perfect? It was just this hangover making her feel shaky. She’d be fine as soon as she got something to eat.
The news, when it came, arrived not via one of Charlie’s incessant news feeds or blog posts but through an old-fashioned cell-phone call. “Hey, man,” Charlie said. “Yeah. Yeah. Nope, haven’t heard a thing. We’re driving.” He listened. “Are you shittin’ me?” Charlie listened a while longer, let out a whoop. “Thanks, friend. You just made my day.” And then to Monica: “Turn around, babe.”
“What? No. We’re almost to Shawnee.”
“Huh?” He glanced around. “Oh, yeah.” They were well past the iced area. On both sides of the interstate, the land sloped toward the dark tree line in shades of winter beige. “Okay, okay, no need to address it from down there anyway, the sighting was in Tulsa. You’re back on the job, right. Working for the Oklahoma taxpayers.”
“Sighting. You mean—the kid? Somebody’s seen him?”
“Better than that, babe.” Charlie’s grin was beyond wolfish. “They’ve seen him and the illegal Mexican he’s traveling with!”
“No.”
“Oh yeah.”
Monica let out a whoop of her own. Her mind raced. “How do they know it’s—oh my God, it’s the, uh, uncle, right? Or whatever. That guy they deported?”
“Cunningham didn’t say. Maybe. Yeah, could be. All he told me, word came in last night some bodega owner admitted to seeing the kid and a Mexican together in Tulsa last Thursday, and why his detectives just now got around to hauling that shopkeeper in for questioning the Tulsa chief of police is mighty anxious to know.”
