All You Get Is Me

by Yvonne Prinz

  Johnson and Uncle Ned take notes furiously.

  “We came to the part of the road that runs straight for a while but you’re still not allowed to pass there. The lines are solid yellow.”

  “The lines were solid yellow? You’re sure?” asks Johnson.

  “Yes.”

  “You seem to know a lot about driving, Aurora. Have you ever driven a car yourself?”

  I swallow. “Uh, no,” I answer, not a lie. I’ve driven a Jeep, not a car.

  “You’ve never driven? You live on a farm. You must have driven something, a tractor, perhaps?”

  My dad is watching me with interest.

  “Uh . . .” I remember that I’m under oath. “Yeah, sure. I’ve driven a tractor and . . . a Jeep.”

  “A Jeep. On the highway?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  My dad’s eyebrows go up. My first, in a long list of lies, is exposed. I know I’m going to hear about this later.

  Johnson makes a note. “Okay, so you know a bit about the rules of the road.” Monk grimaces. Not only am I a star witness but, at fifteen, I have driving experience.

  “Let’s continue with what happened that morning. You came to the part where you’re not allowed to pass. . . . ”

  “And the woman pulled out from behind us and started to pass us. When she got up to my dad’s window she slowed down for a few seconds and gave him the finger. She took her eyes off the road and looked right at him.”

  “Can you show us the, uh, gesture? You know, with your own hand?”

  “Sure.” I give him the finger. My dad and Uncle Ned grin and look away.

  “Okay.” Johnson reddens slightly. “Let the record show that Miss Audley is holding up the middle finger on her right hand. Continue.”

  “The straightaway ends there and the road dips down into a little valley. The pickup came around the corner in the oncoming lane and the SUV couldn’t get out of the way in time and she smashed into the right half of the front bumper. The pickup spun around and flipped over the edge into the ravine and the SUV continued on for a few hundred feet and tipped over in the middle of the road.”

  “Was the pickup driving in its own lane?”

  “Yes. She tried to pull off to the right when she saw the SUV but there was nowhere to go.”

  “And who called 9-1-1?”

  “I did.”

  “And why you and not your dad?”

  “He told me to. He jumped out of the truck and ran to help Sylvia.”

  “Sylvia. The woman driving the pickup?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was your dad able to help Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “Well, no. Sylvia was trapped. But he took the baby, Rosa, out of her car seat. And carried her out of the ravine and gave her to me. Then he went back to Sylvia. He talked to her until the paramedics came.”

  “And did your dad try to help the SUV driver?”

  “No.”

  “Was Mrs. Rodriguez alive when they pulled her out of the pickup?”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Yes. I think so. But she looked really bad. Her arm was crushed. She was losing a lot of blood.” I wipe my eyes on the back of my hand and Uncle Ned hands me a tissue. The court reporter gets a tiny wrinkle between her eyes but she keeps tapping away.

  Monk and Johnson exchange grim looks.

  “Did you get a good look at the pickup after the accident?”

  “Yes. Actually I have photos of it.”

  “You took photos?” Johnson’s eyes widen slightly.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you think to take photos during all of this?”

  “I take photos of everything. I’m a photographer.”

  “A photographer.”

  “Yes.”

  “You have photos of both cars at the accident scene?”

  “Yes.”

  Johnson’s and Monk’s eyes meet again.

  “So, Aurora, to your knowledge, no one else saw the accident?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Okay, Aurora. I just have one more question and I want you to think about this very carefully. If Connie Gilwood, the woman driving the SUV, hadn’t slowed alongside your dad’s truck to deliver that, um, gesture, do you think she still would have hit the pickup?”

  I try to relive that moment but it’s just impossible to remember something in split seconds when it all seemed to happen in slow motion. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Thank you, Aurora. That’s all we need from you today.”

  Everyone in the room seems to exhale. Uncle Ned gives me a discreet thumbs-up and my dad comes around the table and hugs me. I think now would be a good time to tell him that it was me who backed the tractor into the side of the barn in May and not Steve.

  On the way home in the truck my dad tells me that he thought it went really well. I wait for him to mention the fact that I’ve been driving without his permission but he says nothing.

  “You’re a star. You were fantastic. There’s no way they’re going to put you on the stand. I’m confident that they’ll try to settle.”

  “On TV the star witness always turns up dead.”

  “That’s just TV crap.”

  “I hope that this is all over soon. Do you think the insurance company will pay?”

  “Insurance companies are slippery. They’ll try all kinds of tricks to weasel out of paying. They might appeal it but I don’t see how they have too many options here. Connie hired her own lawyer too, which is smart. She’s going to need one.”

  I wonder for a second why he called her Connie and not Connie Gilwood like he usually does. It seems a little familiar for someone he’s never really met. I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to talk to Forest. I want to tell him everything that happened today and have him assure me in his quiet way that it’s all going to be okay. As we drive through town, I look for his car on the off chance that maybe he’s here. I would feel so much better if I could just catch a glimpse of his face. I don’t see his car anywhere. I look in the window of Millie’s but there’s no one sitting in the booths. It’s the kind of hot where no one feels like eating and coffee is out of the question.

  When I get home, I climb the stairs up to my room. My legs feel like lead. My bedroom is as hot as it ever gets, even with the oak tree shading the roof. My windows are wide-open but the curtains stay dead still. I turn a fan on high and pull off my sticky clothes. I stand in front of it naked and let the breeze cool my skin before I pull on my cutoffs and a tank top. Rufus has disappeared to the coolest corner of the barn. He’ll stay there till he’s hungry and then he’ll emerge covered in straw, looking sheepish because he knows he’s neglected his guard dog duties.

  I sit down in front of my computer and open my mail. There’s an email from Forest. It was written half an hour ago.

  To: Photogirl@earthlink.net

  From: Hamonrye@yahoo.com

  Re: Miss u

  Roar,

  Where have U been? I’m dying to see U. Can U meet me later? I’ve been thinking about your chin all day, your lovely, lovely chin. Call if U can.

  Yours 4-ever,

  4-est

  Ever since I told Forest that I hate email abbreviations, he includes them in all his letters. I run my finger along my chin, trying to figure out what’s so lovely about it.

  I can hear my dad on the phone downstairs in the kitchen. He’s all fired up about the deposition. I think he must be talking to Uncle Ned. He’ll probably be on the phone forever so I send Forest an email telling him to meet me at the tar pits in an hour. I pull off my clothes again and put my bathing suit on and put them back on over it. I load up my backpack with a bottle of water that I fill from the pitcher in the fridge with chunks of ice in it. I also grab a plastic container of Ambrosia melon chunks and two plums from a bowl sitting on the table in front of my dad. He winks at me. Since the deposition I’ve been elevated from “daughter” to “secret weapon,” kind of like the pen that shoots poison darts in a Bond movie.
I find a sort of clean towel in the laundry room and go back upstairs and click my email on again. Forest has responded:

  Roar.

  I’ll B there.

  F.

  I’m bumping along on the narrow dirt road when a black truck passes me slowly. I recognize it from the pit bull in the back. The truck slows and stops about fifty feet ahead of me diagonally, blocking my way. I stop pedaling. Brody Burk eases himself out of the driver’s side and walks around to the back of the truck. He leans up against the tailgate and watches me.

  “Afternoon, miss,” he says, slightly lowering the brim of his black hat. There’s a sweat stain along the hatband. His hat is meant for winter. No one around here wears a felt hat in the summer heat. I see that he also has sweat stains in the armpits of his fancy western shirt.

  I don’t respond. There’s no room for me to pass on the right and I don’t like the look on his dog’s face so I start to squeeze my bike to the left of the truck. Suddenly Brody lunges at my handlebars and hangs on. I skid to a stop. He grins at me. The dog growls.

  “I wonder if I could have a moment of your time,” he says with a Texas drawl, even though he was born right here.

  My heart is thundering. I watch his big hand on my handlebars, holding tight. His other hand casually twirls a toothpick in his mouth.

  “Ya know, this thing your dad is doin’, this campaign to save those dirty Mexicans, I’d really hate to see someone hurt along the way, or worse . . . dead, wouldn’t you?” He says the last part slowly with the emphasis on the word “dead.” I smell alcohol on his breath.

  I say nothing.

  “Because, ya know, when you think about it, if those Mexicans weren’t here in the first place, well, none of this woulda happened now, would it?”

  I still don’t respond. I try to force my face into something that doesn’t look as scared as I feel. He takes his hand off my handlebars and grabs onto my upper arm. I look down at his fingernails, which are clean, betraying his cowboy image. He squeezes hard and I pull back. He hangs on tighter. He’s hurting me.

  “You seem like a nice girl. Maybe you could convince your dad to leave this alone. Not much point in it anyway, ain’t gonna be no farms left around here soon, and then all them criminals can head back to that shithole of a country they came from.” He lets go of my arm and touches the brim of his hat. “You think you could do that for me, sugar? You think you could talk to him? Why don’t ya try?” He winks.

  I start to pedal away from him; my legs are shaking. The pit bull lunges at me, barking. I almost shriek in fear.

  “You have yourself a nice day now, ya hear?” he calls after me.

  I arrive at the tar pits ahead of Forest, gasping and hot and terrified. I’m completely nauseous and I’m not sure I won’t throw up right there. I drop my bike and sit down in the shade of a live oak, taking deep breaths, trying to calm myself. It’s too hot to stay onshore. I yank off my clothes and wade into the greenish cool water. It calms my hot skin. I spread my arms out and float on my back, looking up at the sky, trying to banish Brody’s leering face from my mind. A few minutes pass and I hear Forest’s car. I tread water as he turns off the noisy engine and all is still again except for the gentle sloshing of water against the muddy bank. He pulls off his clothes and leaves them in a pile next to mine. He’s wearing swim trunks that could possibly be considered retro in L.A., but around here people would point and laugh. He wades into the water and swims out to me. He immediately sees that I’m upset.

  “What? You’re shaking. What happened?”

  I tell him. I show him the mark on my arm, the outline of Brody’s fingers. He puts out his arms and pulls me to him and we stay like that for a while, our legs moving just enough to keep us above water.

  “I have to tell you something else too,” I say.

  “Tell me.” His face is inches from mine. I feel exposed. I try not to cry.

  “I went to a deposition today. I had to tell them what happened that day.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Yeah. My mom’s lawyer told her and she told me. She calls you ‘that farm girl.’”

  “Wait, how long have you known?”

  “A while.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I figured you’d tell me when you were ready.”

  I stare at him. Could someone possibly be this cool? Could I be this lucky? I kiss him softly and pull away, studying his face. His long eyelashes are wet and it makes his eyes look bluer and greener. He has more color in his face than when he first arrived, especially on his nose and his forehead and his chin.

  “Now, I have to tell you something,” he says.

  “Tell me.”

  “I love you.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “A long time.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Because, I need you to know.”

  Being loved by someone who isn’t your parent, someone who wanders into your life and slowly comes to know you and understand you, is sort of like being reborn. You walk around knowing that under his gaze, you are lovable, desirable, interesting, funny, and beautiful. No one has ever looked at me like this before. No one has ever made me feel this way with just a few words or a glance or a touch. The whole concept of two people falling in love like in the movies or on TV has always seemed so stupid to me. I’d roll my eyes and look away. But this thing I have with Forest is much more than TV love. It feels real. I love the way I feel knowing that someone is thinking about me this way. It makes me see myself in a whole new way.

  I’m too afraid to tell him I love him back. I’m afraid he’ll think that I think I should. So I don’t. But I do love him. And I know that he’ll wait patiently for it like he does everything else.

  That night I can’t sleep. The cool night air never arrives and I lay on top of my quilt spread-eagle with the fan blowing on me. I can’t stop thinking about Brody. I can’t stop thinking about what Forest told me today. Everything has me stirred up and I’m scared and giddy and restless. When I got home from the tar pits, I told my dad what happened. He cursed Brody Burk and called him an ignorant bully. Then he hugged me for a while and said how sorry he was that he dragged me into all of this. I already knew that he wouldn’t back down, though; I know my dad. He doesn’t respond to threats.

  I hear a car in the driveway and check my clock. It’s almost midnight. As the sound of the car comes closer, red and blue lights start to revolve around my room. I hear the jumbled static of a police radio. I jump out of bed and look out my open window. A police officer is walking up to the house. Rufus is barking at him. My dad is already on the staircase. I hear the whine of the screen door and then I hear him talking to the cop. His tone of voice changes from fear to anger. I keep watching at the window as my dad and the cop walk over to the patrol car. The cop opens the back passenger door and roughly pulls Miguel out as though he’s a criminal. He undoes his plastic handcuffs. Miguel rubs his wrists and he and my dad speak quickly to each other in Spanish. The cop goes around to the other side and gets Tomás out. Even from my window, I can tell that Tomás has been beaten. One of his eyes is almost shut and he’s bleeding from a cut on his cheek. There’s blood all over the front of his white T-shirt. The cop releases his handcuffs and my dad speaks to Tomás in Spanish. Tomás shakes his head and looks down at the ground. My dad asks the cop why he handcuffed them if they weren’t under arrest. The cop says they were involved in a bar fight and they were being “uncooperative.” My dad asks Miguel if that’s true and Miguel shakes his head no and explains something to my dad.

  “He says he couldn’t understand you. He doesn’t speak English,” my dad says to the cop.

  “Well, he should learn. This is the United Sates of America. We speak English here. This is a quiet place. We’d like to keep it that way. In the future, we’d appreciate it if you’d keep your workers under control.”

  The cop starts to wa
lk away but my dad has to respond.

  “I’m not a goddamn slave owner. My workers are free to come and go as they please.”

  The cop turns back. “Sir, if your workers are here illegally, that makes them criminals already.”

  I run downstairs and get out the first-aid kit. The policeman gets back in his car and drives off in a huff. By this time Steve is up too and everyone converges in the kitchen. My dad helps Tomás to a kitchen chair and has a good look at his injuries. Steve talks to Miguel, trying to understand what happened.

  “Roar, get me a wet cloth.”

  I run the water till it’s hot and get a washcloth out of the hall closet. I soak it and hand it to my dad, who dabs Tomás’s cheek. Tomás winces. My dad carefully cleans the wound and opens the first-aid kit. He disinfects the cut and tapes a dressing onto it. He takes a kitchen towel and fills it with ice cubes and presses it onto Tomás’s eye. Tomás holds it there with his hand. Rufus licks Tomás’s free hand. My dad pulls up Tomás’s T-shirt. Ugly purple bruises are starting to appear along his rib cage. He touches them carefully, looking for fractures.

  Steve is still talking to Miguel in Spanish and I can understand enough words and hand gestures to figure out what happened. This was no bar fight. This was a message for my dad sent by the other farmworkers, probably the same people who risked their lives alongside Tomás crossing the border into the U.S. and probably the same people who were at his side when Sylvia died. The message is “stop.”

  Chapter 16

  The heat continues on, as relentless as my dad and his lawsuit. The day after Tomás is beaten, we get calls from the local paper in Stockton, the Sacramento Bee, and even a left-wing Spanish newspaper that’s printed in the Mission in San Francisco. Somehow my dad has become the unofficial spokesperson for a movement that the farmworkers are reluctant to own. He’s a shepherd without a flock, a preacher without a congregation.