The Infinite
Page 30
THEY SIGNED ON WITH A CONTRACTOR AND BUSED DOWN THE river delta. They received reflective vests and suffocating jumpsuits. The corporation had them sit through a safety seminar, some executive lecturing from projected slides under a white tent on the beach. Afterward, Rodrigo asked him what it had all been about, so Moses translated the basic message: “The company wants you to drink plenty of water.”
They went out on boats and laid arms of floating orange boom meant to cradle oil. Word came through—the slick was fifteen miles offshore. The next morning it washed in, great brown waves of it. It reeked and clung to them as they moved down the beach with shovels and thick contractors’ bags, scooping up the uncooperative sludge. His skin burned from the fumes while he sweat. Front-end loaders crawled along behind them, unleashing buckets of bright white sand. They will be digging up oil on this beach for years, Moses thought.
A week later they were in Mobile Bay, floating boom, waiting for the onslaught. But by the next dawn the currents had shifted and the oil hammered Pensacola instead. They loaded onto the bus and set out.
The bus took them to the water and turned onto the finger of island beach that separated the bay from the Gulf. A procession of big yellow machines stretched along the sand for miles, back to the waterfront hotels and condos. Men wearing the same reflective vests crowded the shade beneath a large pole tent.
The bus drove until the road ended at a parking lot full of news vans, a milling crowd. Out on the point of the island sprawled a stone fort, squared in by its battlement. He heard one of the men say that Geronimo had been locked up there, a long time ago.
“What is it?” Rodrigo asked.
“An old prison,” Moses answered.
Beneath the tent, the corporation issued new crinkly metallic suits and provided another safety seminar. The beach looked as bad as Moses remembered the Tamaulipas beach looking three decades before. Vast puddles of the stuff. Primordial muck. He could see the tar rolling in the heart of the waves. The beach was brown-black as far as he could see. Clumps of crude rolled ashore like footballs, melted down in the heat.
They shoveled, scooped, moved along. Moses set his gear down, ran away from the water, and vomited. Then he went back to work. They covered a lot of ground. The loaders crawled through and shat white sand. The beach looked new. An hour later a fresh tide of oil came in. They were at it all day.
When dark fell, the foreman asked for volunteers to clean through the night. He explained that They—whoever They were—needed the beaches to look good for the television crews when the sun came up. Moses volunteered himself and Rodrigo.
They received hard hats fitted with infrared headlamps. The foreman explained: It was sea turtle hatching season, and this bit of protected beach was nesting ground. The infrared would allow the baby turtles to find the water; a normal flashlight was the same wavelength as moonlight and would disorient the hatchlings. The red lights filled the dark, turning the beach into another planet. It became difficult to distinguish oil from sand. Moses neared the water and a small crest broke around his boots, coating them with crude. He realized he wasn’t seeing sand at all, and he wondered what in fact they were saving the sea turtles from, guiding them back into this mess.
The foreman found Moses in the middle of the night and called him over. The foreman pointed to Rodrigo. “He’s with you, right?”
“Yes.”
“I hate this,” the foreman said, “believe me.” He removed his helmet and scratched his head and put the helmet back on. The otherworldly glow made him look angry even if he wasn’t. “My boss just passed through and ordered me to check you and your pal’s IDs.”
“ID? Why?”
“Fort Pickens.” He gestured to the old prison looming in the dark. “There’s some law says illegals can’t work on federal ground. I didn’t know. Now I need to see some paperwork on you both.”
Moses stared at the man. “But we are working.”
“I know,” the foreman said, massaging the bridge of his nose. “My hands are tied.”
Moses dropped his shovel and didn’t answer. He removed his gloves, rubbed his eyes. Rodrigo approached, asked in Spanish what was happening.
“Look,” the foreman said. “I’m not even supposed to do this, but here’s your pay for today.” He proffered two one-hundred-dollar bills. “One for each of you. Take it and go. Anyone asks, I don’t know nothing, all right?”
Moses looked at the money and looked at Rodrigo. Rodrigo, language aside, understood. Moses walked to the water and looked out over the Gulf, where new slicks were surely rolling toward him. There was something more, too. Something else, out past everything he could see. It pulled at him, but he couldn’t reach it. Rodrigo was silent on the beach. The foreman followed him to the water, begged him to take the money. Moses couldn’t answer. He was dreaming about the turtles.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the energy, conviction, and skill of literary agent Elizabeth Copps, it is likely this book would still remain on my hard drive. I can’t thank you enough, E.
Laura Brown, my editor, works incredibly hard. Thank you for lending your inimitable talents to this book. It is an absolute joy to be one of your authors.
Thank you, as well, to Maria Carvainis and the MCA crew: Martha Guzman, Bryce Gold, and Samantha Brody. Thank you to everybody at HarperCollins, particularly Jonathan Burnham, Amy Baker, Cal Morgan, Kathryn Ratcliffe-Lee, Keith Hollaman, and Joanne O’Neil. Julie Hersh, as well, thank you.
Huge thanks to my dear friends and early readers: David Parker, Michael Pitre, Chrys Darkwater, Andrew Ervin, Kelcy Wilburn, Riley Sise, and Julian Zabalbeascoa. Each of you offered invaluable insight and your own, unique brands of encouragement. I love you all.
Joseph Boyden and Amanda Boyden: as far as I’m concerned, I lucked into your workshop many years ago, and everything else has followed. This novel benefited beyond measure because I’ve known you as teachers, mentors, and friends. Much love to you both.
Danny Goodman: model reader, writer, friend. Without you, buddy, none of this goes.
Ryan Rogers, how often did we talk about this book? Thanks for everything, my man.
I’m also grateful to Scott Collins, Charles Broome, and Jeffrey Marx for enthusiastic reads and indispensable advice.
Nicole Martin, Kate Stastny, David Pomerleau, Marc Paradis, Andre Bohren, Erin Walker, Jamie Amos, Spider Stacy, Louise Stacy, and Casey Lefante: y’all are the best.
Ronald Avila, Roy Kesey, Javi Sanchez, Michelle Sanchez, and Jessica Viada: thank you for your expertise and your generosity.
Special thanks to Adam Sargent, Skip Horack, Colin Walsh, Brian Sullivan, Tim Sise, and Ellen Barker.
I also counted on Tom Crane’s boundless encouragement. Thanks, Uncle T.
To everybody in the Creative Writing Workshop at the University of New Orleans, especially Rick Barton, Randy Bates, and Joanna Leake: thank you, for so many things.
I’m sorry if I’ve forgotten to mention anybody. Many wonderful people helped, in one way or another, over the years.
Mom and Dad, you made sure I dreamed. A long time ago, when I told you I wanted to write, you did nothing but love and support me, as always. Alex, Sami, and Tommy, I’m grateful for you guys every single day. I’ve learned so much from you. And all my family, thank you.
Kate, the inspiration you provide never ceases. I can’t imagine this book existing without you being my partner first. I write for you.
Jonathan, little guy, I’m so glad you are here.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NICHOLAS MAINIERI’s short fiction has appeared in the Southern Review, Southern Humanities Review, and Salamander, among other literary magazines. He lives in New Orleans with his wife and son. The Infinite is his first novel.
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ADVANCE PRAISE FOR THE INFINITE
“Nick Mainieri is the real deal, and The Infinite is stunning. A compelling, brilliantly told debut,
written with power and clarity.”
—Philipp Meyer, New York Times bestselling author of The Son
“With a sharp eye for detail and careful, generous prose, Mainieri conjures whole worlds with a few words, taking the reader on a thrilling, heartbreaking journey. The Infinite is a sparkling debut, a novel that seems to guarantee you’ll be hearing Mainieri’s name mentioned in the same breath as contemporary masters like Denis Johnson and Cormac McCarthy.”
—Ron Currie, Jr., author of Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles and Everything Matters!
“The Infinite is a surprising novel of border crossings and desperate violence, of young love and hardship, of adventure and identity, of bravery and the lack thereof. It also introduces us to one of the more complicated and capable heroines I’ve come across in a long time; the beautifully scrappy and haunted Luz Hidalgo, who you do not want to back into a corner. I flew through this book, half hopeful and half terrified of what was coming next. This is a powerful and propulsive read. Highly recommended.”
—M. O. Walsh, New York Times bestselling author of My Sunshine Away
“The Infinite is that rare, beautiful first novel, so contemporary and yet as timeless as first love itself. And Nick Mainieri does what great novelists do with their first great works. He creates unforgettable characters in young lovers Jonah and Luz who, both together and alone, navigate the rushing river of the borderlands that mark our two Americas. The Infinite is a heart song, and Nicholas Mainieri is one of our next great storytellers.”
—Joseph Boyden, Scotiabank Giller Prize–winning author of Three Day Road, Through Black, and The Orenda
“Spanning northern Mexico and the Gulf South, The Infinite is an entirely modern western, with a visceral sense of place and an ear for the small anxieties that shape our most courageous actions. In this tale of borders—national, familial, psychological—Luz and Jonah are more than just teenagers in love; haunted by their pasts and grasping for an uncertain future, they guide us through swampland, desert scrub, high school hallways, and a sicario’s hideout. This is a thriller with heart, a romance on the run, and a manifesto for our increasingly tenuous landscape.”
—Katy Simpson Smith, author of The Story of Land and Sea and Free Men
“Nicholas Mainieri has written a profound and sensitive novel about the ways in which disasters, both natural and unnatural, can all too often make us who we are. The star-crossed love story at its heart makes The Infinite an unforgettable debut that also happens to be impossible to put down. It has all the makings of an American classic.”
—Andrew Ervin, author of Burning Down George Orwell’s House
“The Infinite is a novel that defies easy description. A gripping, edge-of-your-seat thriller following two star-crossed young lovers set adrift—but also a lyrical, beautifully written, and affecting meditation on many of the big questions. Nick Mainieri has crafted a page-turner, yes, but these sentences, and these characters, will linger for a long, long time. A remarkable achievement.”
—Skip Horack, author of The Other Joseph, The Eden Hunter, and The Southern Cross
“The title of Nick Mainieri’s wonderful debut novel is perfectly apt. The Infinite takes the reader on a heart-pounding, heart-rending adventure through the infinite complexities of being alive in the world today. Part City of Refuge, part Breaking Bad, this novel takes you by the hand and won’t let go. I couldn’t put it down, and I can’t stop thinking about it since finishing. The writing is smart, beautiful, and unafraid to ask the big questions. This is fiction that stays with you and heralds the beginning of a wonderful career.”
—Andrew Malan Milward, author of I Was a Revolutionary
CREDITS
Cover design by Joanne O’Neill
Cover photograph © matabum / Getty Images
COPYRIGHT
THE INFINITE. Copyright © 2016 by Nicholas Mainieri. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Title and part title page photograph by Jose Gil / Shutterstock
ISBN 978-0-06-246556-6
EPub Edition November 2016 ISBN 9780062465573
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