Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  A car waited outside the door. The driver deposited me at the bridge with a warning to cross and get lost. Fast.

  The crowds crossing the bridge were easy to blend into. Across the bridge, I jumped into my nondescript midsize tan rental car and hit the highway to the airport. Fear and sadness weighed on my chest but I didn’t have time to stop.

  I’ve rebooked my flight to DC, but it doesn’t leave for another hour. The minutes tick slowly. Every man wears sunglasses and bears a sinister appearance. The flight-or-fight impulse is making me crazy, and I imagine running through corridors, imagine myself locked on the plane without any way to escape. I need to get home. I need to write this story. I need to get rid of it. What is the point of putting myself in this danger if it is all for nothing? And clearly, not writing the story won’t lessen my danger. I’m already knee-deep in it.

  Finally, I’m on my way. The first leg ends without incident. But then two men who boarded the plane in Texas transfer with me in Houston and board my plane bound for D.C. Coincidence? No way! I’m being followed. There’s no way I’m letting on, though—letting them know I know or letting them see me sweat. It’s not like danger’s new to me. And I’m not in Chechyna, Rwanda, or Beirut; I’m in the U.S. Though in some ways, that actually doesn’t help. I can’t defend myself. This isn’t a war-torn country where civil society has broken down. The wheels of justice turn differently. I can’t go to the police. They can’t do anything until I’m actually dead. And chances are, there won’t be any evidence to prove homicide. It’ll look like an accident. Where can I go?

  The Rez?

  I keep picking the same answer. One of these days, it’ll be the right one. It’s just the wrong one now.

  I need my dogs and they’re still at the kennel. I don’t want to think too much. Short-term planning ensures my sanity. Shadow and Luna can’t protect me, but they can . . . make me feel protected, make me feel like someone is in this beside me.

  The air is close and humid and the scent of death hovers. I smell my clothes, but they’re not the source. The stench walks with me to the kennel. The odor is as strong as it was in the barrio in Ciudad Frontera.

  “Hi, Ms. Westerman. Shadow and Luna will be so happy to see you. But we thought you weren’t coming back until another ten days?”

  “Oh, I was always coming back for a couple of days.” I search for the story that will make sense to her, but nothing makes sense, even to me. “I wasn’t going to get the dogs—I didn’t want to upset them— but I decided I want them with me. I have to bring them back in a couple of days, though. I’ll be going back out of town. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. We have their kennels reserved for them anyway.”

  Back out on the street, the dogs pull on their leashes. The air is filled with a heady stew of earth, flowers, and excrement. I’m sure it’s the latter that pulls the dogs forward. I look around. I’m one breath away from hyperventilation. Loosening my shoulders, I focus on my breathing, but I must look like a . . . what did we use to call it . . . a spaz attack?

  The walls of my apartment are as foreign as those used to imprison people. This used to be my sanctuary from my hard travels, but I’ve never really made it my own, and now it doesn’t even feel safe. It is just the place I stop on my way to somewhere else—someplace to lay down my head and my suitcase for a time. There are no pictures or well-loved items to make it my own. There are ragged chairs and a sofa, some old tables, a small and usually empty refrigerator, and an oven that has never felt its own warmth. I call it home, but it’s an illusion—or a delusion. Grandmother used to say we’re from the stuff of stars and we were created where the two mighty rivers, the Minnesota and Mississippi, meet. Many years ago my parents took me there, to Bdote, where Grandmother’s people were first created. The noise outside and the silence in here drown my memories of the softly lapping water. But then, the cars and roads of the Twin Cities were no different than other cities, and low-flying airplanes reminded me that the past was dead. The information at Fort Snelling, rising high upon a rock bluff, glorified frontier history. There was no story of Grandmother’s people’s suffering. It was a great forgetting. Home exists at the frontier of the imagination.

  It was Grandmother who told me we must be the water keepers. Mni, water, is pure and the source of life. It holds great power and is sacred, wakan. By the waters of Mde Wakan, the Creator gave us psin, the wild rice that grows in the water. Her stories were filled with the beauty and bounty of the maple groves, the plentiful fish, and the wind in forests that stretched for miles—the world before its destruction. And now here I sit, surrounded by four white walls. I’m miles away from home.

  I’m also miles away from people who are dying from contaminated water.

  The front door looms and beckons to me. What good am I here? The least I can do is tell the story. Be the keeper of the water. Free the truth. The first thing intruding man takes is story. It’s time to take it back.

  “You will save me, won’t you?” Shadow and Luna wag their tails.

  It’s 4:30 p.m. It’ll be a long night.

  Heather works for AAC. She must have some insight.

  Her secretary answers. “Heather Collings’s office. May I help you?”

  “This is Mariah Westerman. Is Heather there?”

  “No. She’s in Charleston. She wouldn’t tell me why, but she sounded nervous and it’s earlier than she had planned. She has some important stuff happening here that I know she didn’t want to leave unfinished. I know you’re supposed to meet her there, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Sharon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You need to tell her things are bad here. I don’t know what’s going on but her boss has been asking about her and he’s on a mission to find her. I don’t know how much longer I can hold him off. Something bad must’ve happened for him to be this worked up and for Heather to have left so suddenly. She didn’t even tell me.”

  “I’ll try to find her. Thanks, Sharon.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful. Tell her I’m trying to hold down the fort, but I’m not sure I’m doing a very good job. Ask her for me, what is going on?”

  “I will.”

  What’s she doing?

  She must be at our hotel in Charleston. I dial the number. “I’m trying to reach Heather Collings. Would you ring me up to her room, please?”

  There’s a pause. “Certainly, ma’am. I’m ringing her room now.”

  “Hello.”

  “Heather? Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What on earth are you doing there?”

  Heather begins to sob. “Brandon tried to kill me.”

  I freeze. “What?”

  “He tried to kill me. He’s been having an affair with a woman who was having his baby un . . . un . . . til . . .” Her sobs intensify.

  “Until what, Heather?”

  “Until she was murdered.”

  “What? Who murdered her?”

  “They don’t know. It could’ve been Brandon, but they don’t know. There was a sign someone else was there.”

  “What sign?”

  “They won’t say.”

  “What did Brandon do to you? What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. There was a lightning storm and it was getting really close. I guess it got too near and I blacked out. I don’t know. When I came to, he was choking me. Oh Mariah, if you could’ve seen the look on his face.”

  I’ve seen the worst of mankind. But this is different. He tried to kill Heather. His own wife. He’s a rat, but I didn’t see this coming.

  “I’m so sorry, Heather. Where’s Shannon?”

  “She’s with me. She was there. She doesn’t understand.”

  “God, Heather. Stay at the hotel. I’ll try to come early. Tomorrow might be perfect—if I can make it through tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing. You have enough to worry about.”

  “Mariah! What
do you mean? I told you, now you tell me. That’s not fair. You guys are always trying to hide everything from me like I’m some . . . some weakling. I’m not, you know.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Actually, it’s about your company.” I explain to her everything I witnessed in Mexico—the contaminated manufacturing chemicals dumped down the drain, the rate hikes for access to treated clean water, the dumping of raw sewage and waste in the river, the cholera epidemic, the missing dead, and the threats. I leave out only the worst: the undocumented and unconfirmed live burials.

  Heather sucks in her breath. “You should come tonight.”

  “I can’t. I have the dogs and I have to submit this part of the story that I haven’t even written yet. I haven’t even decided the angle.”

  “Mariah. You’re playing with fire. I think I know who’s behind it all.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know for sure and I’m not sure if anyone else is involved, but Michael Saxton is the current CFO. He’s been handpicked to take over the helm. He’s evil. I know that sounds sinister, but I’ve never liked the guy. He got me to do something shady, and everyone is pretty much marching to his drum. And there’s more, I think.”

  “Wait, but how does that implicate him?”

  “I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have. Besides, I overheard my boss discussing some unsavory employment practices in—get this— Mexico. We only have one facility in Mexico. It’s in Ciudad Frontera. And I know they’ve been dodging some malfeasance issues. There’ve been rumors.”

  “That still doesn’t mean he’s behind it.”

  “No, but I think he had something to do with Brandon’s mistress’s death, too. The investigator told me the actual claim of discrimination was against him. She told the investigator he was the father of her baby and that’s why he fired her. She told Brandon he was the father. I don’t know the truth and I don’t know what game she was playing, but the affair and baby would definitely have a chilling effect on Saxton’s rise to the CEO position. The board at AAC doesn’t like any controversy. She obviously didn’t know who she was messing with.”

  “We need to find out what that clue is.”

  “They’re not going to let me know, Mariah. They like to keep information secret that only the killer knows.”

  “Have you told them about your suspicions?”

  “Of course not. I’m here because Brandon tried to kill me. I still need my job, especially if I’m going to be a single mom now. Besides, it’s just a theory. A hunch. They won’t do anything with that.”

  “Yeah. You’re right.”

  “But just in case I’m right . . . You should get out of there. I don’t trust any of them.”

  “But not trusting someone and believing they are capable of murder is a stretch. You haven’t told me anything to implicate this Saxton guy.”

  “No. I just know it’s him.”

  “So you really think I could be in danger? From him? I mean the guys at MSF thought I was, but nothing has happened and it could have easily enough. Someone could’ve picked me off at half a dozen places between Ciudad Frontera and here. I think we’re all being paranoid.”

  “Mariah. You’re the one who always has the good instincts. But I’m telling you. My instincts are screaming at me. It’s like I can see all of a sudden. Things have been bad ever since Michael Saxton received the royal blessing. He’s changed my boss. I don’t even know who he is anymore. And I always had a good relationship with him. I’m telling you. The man is awful. Come to Charleston. Come now.”

  “I’ll try, but if all of this is true then someone has to tell the story. I have to at least tell the story of what I’ve seen in Ciudad Frontera. It’s not just what I witnessed—it’s a promise I made.”

  “Mariah. Come quickly or you’re going to end up in some hole in the ground with a bullet in your head.”

  A hole in the ground? Buried alive? There’s the rest of the story, but I’m already in over my head. Focus on what you can prove. “Let me get through tonight. I’ll focus on getting this story out. I also have to get in touch with the tribunal that Espy and Tomas told me about. It’s a water tribunal in Latin America. It will definitely make AAC squirm. I also have to pick up my coworker’s flash drive. Then I’ll get on the first plane to Charleston tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “No. I’ll be there tomorrow. Manana.”

  “Mariah, be careful. I think there’s more to this.”

  “I will. I promise. I’ll be there. Manana.”

  “Maka Manana.”

  How does one find language for the meanness of men? Mom once told me that spirits are sometimes good and sometimes bad. It all depends on the circumstances. Just focus on the issue of access to clean water and wastewater treatment plants. If I keep my article limited to what I do know, there will be another day. There’s more to uncover, and I intend to get to the bottom of it. Someday. If I live through this.

  It’s 4:00 a.m. now. Time to let the article go.

  “Time to get some shut-eye. Right?”

  Shadow and Luna thump their tails.

  We retreat to the bedroom and the dogs settle into the folds of the sheet.

  Sleep doesn’t come. The dogs are quiet, but that doesn’t put me at ease. Somewhere, trouble lurks. My journey through AAC’s compound trails through my mind. What if Heather is correct?

  The whiteness of the ceiling and the perfect circling of the paddle fan are maddening. Whoo-whoo-whoo. It’s a perfect backdrop for my waking nightmare and the images of past horrors cycling through my head. The empty streets of Ciudad Frontera’s makeshift neighborhoods haunt me. They were like war-torn streets. Powerlessness seeped through the mud and grime. The streets spoke the same language. Frontiers rest at the outer limits of space and time. It’s the point at which the unfathomable becomes limitless.

  The Russians had a word for “no limits” in Chechen fighting: bespredel. I was reporting for Reuters when I came upon a group of soldiers. They had captured a female Chechen sniper. They tied her ankles with steel cables to two armored personnel carriers and slowly tore her apart. She screamed. The soldiers laughed. When they were done, her blood soaked the earth and her screams followed me everywhere. I heard them in my waking hours and in my nightmares. The Russians thought they had found justice, but the Chechens were the ones who had been wronged for centuries. Does power always have to determine the conditions and limits of justice? Does only power maintain the right to the language of justice?

  I bore witness to the sniper’s suffering, but I couldn’t write it. It has remained locked in my brain. I’m a writer, but there are things I cannot express. There are no words in the universe. There is no narrative for understanding. The language of compassion and empathy is mankind’s strongest armor, but it’s silent at the outer reaches of the frontier. Bespredel.

  18 Esperanza

  My suitcase lives and breathes. It is now home to many animals. For every one I remove, two more gain ground. The contents swell in proportion to the jumble of my fast-moving thoughts. Angelica shoves her favorites deep into the pockets of air, mixing the smells of home with those of my suitcase. I remove the animals again.

  “Angelica, I can’t take these with me.”

  Angelica bats her long brown lashes over her large eyes. Her eyes remind me of Gabriel’s, but that’s impossible. Angelica is Tomas’s. “But Mama, you need someone to keep you safe and bring you home.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be safe and I’ll be home before you know it.”

  Angelica turns as Izzy brings in a picture. They smile at each other conspiratorially. A Pegasus flying over a city of dots with a wide expanse of water in the background swims across a white sheet of paper. A single airplane enters from the left-hand side and, over the entire scene, obliterating the sky, hangs a rainbow unattached to the Earth.

  “Izzy, that’s beautiful.”

  “It’s for you, Mama. So you don’t forget to fly back home.
”

  “Izzy, why would I forget to fly back home?”

  “Well, they’re your secret best friends and you seem really sad lately. I would stay with them if I were you, but I want—we want—you to remember to come home.”

  “Silly. How could I forget to fly home? You’re my family. I’d swim the seven seas, climb the tallest mountains, and scale the biggest skyscrapers to get to you. I love you too much to forget.”

  I open my arms wide to show them the magnitude of my love and the girls fold themselves tightly into my arms. They still need and want me. Such moments are fleeting. My oldest has already bowed and shifted under the pressure of adolescence.

  Carlos no longer needs me. Busy on his computer, his social life has taken front seat. Soon, he’ll leave his room to ask to meet up with his friends for the evening. Once again, I will have to explain it is late and they should plan their social life for an earlier time. I like my kids safe under my roof when night falls. Tomas concurs. But it’ll be me upon whom Carlos will tally another adult transgression, another assault on his yearning for absolute freedom, another wave crashing against the shore.

  Those heady days of hormone-induced yearnings are a memory not easily forgotten, though the sense of it diminishes with time—a deep knowing that stretches in front of me like a vast ocean, capable of swallowing whole all that I cherish most. I am afraid for my children. I cross myself, as I have seen my mother do a million times. The gesture gives me comfort and ties me to my history. Hail Mary, full of grace . . . I remember what happens after all that hope and wonder is destroyed. Crushing disillusionment and finally, heartbreak. I couldn’t bear to be away from my children when such a storm blew through. I should be here. In an instant, life can change forever. I need to tell them so they will understand.

  The sound of Izzy’s voice startles me. The suitcase still yawns like it did all those years ago in Mexico. “What are you crying about, Mama?”