The Shimmering Road

by Hester Young

  “Listen,” he says, “maybe you can answer this question.” He plays with the label on his beer, peeling at the edges with his thumb. “Did Jasmine try to get some money from me?”

  For a second, I think that he is, in his sexy, broken English, accusing her of stealing. “Money?” I echo. “What do you mean? Did she take money from you?”

  “Cómo se dice . . .” He frowns, trying to find the words. “Money for a child. When the law says a father has to pay the money.”

  “You mean child support?” When I finally realize what he’s getting at, the urge to take a swing at him is strong. I can feel Noah, too, tensing up beside me. “As far as I know, Jasmine never sought any child support, no. She knew you were out of the country. The courts couldn’t really do anything.”

  “Okay,” Ruben says, unable to disguise his satisfaction. “Good. Someday maybe I want to go back to the States. And I don’t want the police to arrest me because of the child support.” He tries to laugh, as if this last part were a joke.

  I manage a weak smile in return, but all I can think is, Hello, motive. “You think Jasmine would’ve done that to you? Sue you for child support?”

  “That girl?” He shakes his head, and in that moment I see traces of the spark between them, an admiration for Jasmine flashing in his golden eyes. “With that girl, a man can never know.”

  • • •

  AS I STAND OUTSIDE our hotel room fumbling with the key, Noah finally loses it. “Bastard,” he mutters. “What a waste of oxygen.”

  “You mean Ruben?” I jerk the door open. “We don’t have to like him.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t.” Noah tosses our overnight bag onto the bed with a frown. “He’s bad news.”

  “I’m just glad we found him. It’s good to know there aren’t rare genetic disorders in his family, just a little childhood asthma, right?” I glance around our hotel room, determining what exactly two hundred dollars has bought us for the evening. The walls and furniture are beachy in that airy pastel oh-look-a-painting-of-a-shell way, and the tan carpeting has obviously been selected for its ability to conceal sand. Not quite an advertisement in Coastal Living, but serviceable. I duck into the bathroom, making it a point to inspect the shower before I get too comfortable here.

  “Look familiar?” Noah says from behind me.

  The shower is a gleaming white with a turquoise curtain; it smells of bleach. I smile at the distorted image of my face in the chrome showerhead. “Never seen it before in my life,” I tell him.

  “You’re still not showerin’ here,” Noah says, and as hot and sticky as I feel, I don’t argue. “So what did Pam say when you called? Was she surprised?”

  “I don’t know. She said she was going to call Vargas. Told me to be careful.”

  “McCullough’s gonna hear about this,” Noah says with some satisfaction. “Ruben better watch his back.”

  “You don’t look too worried on his behalf,” I observe.

  “Whatever’s comin’ to that guy, he deserves it.”

  “You’re really advocating vigilante justice here?” His hatred for Ruben surprises me. Apart from getting a little too worked up about sports games, Noah isn’t normally a violent or aggressive person. “What is it about this guy that eats you? The cheating? Because you know that’s all McCullough cares about.”

  Noah stares at me as if insulted by the question. “The man’s got no respect for women, that’s what eats me! Did he really look that broken up about Jasmine to you? Hell no. Disposable as a paper towel, that’s what she was to him. And Micky, he couldn’t unload her fast enough.” He sits on the edge of the bed and yanks a boot off. “McCullough might not be doin’ it for the right reasons, but I think he’ll get the outcome right.”

  I sit down next to him. “Look,” I say, “Ruben’s a self-absorbed asshole, sure, but so was Jasmine by all accounts. She made some bad choices, too.”

  “Yeah, well, she didn’t deserve to die for them.”

  “You really think Ruben killed her? Her and Donna both?” I don’t want to believe it, don’t want to add another terrible thing to Micky’s bloodline.

  “Maybe,” he says, less sure of himself now. He removes his other boot and tosses it onto the carpet.

  “But why? To avoid child support? Even if she was threatening him with it, I don’t think he wanted back into the United States that badly.”

  “Drugs, then. She was in and out of the country seein’ him, wasn’t she? He coulda had her runnin’ drugs.”

  “What, you think Ruben’s a part of some big, scary cartel? That he used Jasmine as some kind of mule?”

  “Could be.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry. The floppy-haired dude who flirts with old-lady tourists? You really think that guy can stop thinking about his pecs long enough to participate in the international drug trade?”

  “Those people come in all shapes and sizes, Charlie.” Noah’s jaw tightens. “Carmen used to tell me stories.”

  I bristle at the mention of his ex-wife.

  “Carmen’s law firm deals with all kinds of border stuff,” Noah continues, as if I might find this “insider knowledge” impressive. “She’s defended a lot of Americans who got caught smugglin’ crap over the border, guys with some pretty shady Mexican contacts, and the thing Carmen always said—”

  “I get it, I get it. Appearances can be deceiving. One should not unfairly profile drug runners.” The last thing I need right now is Noah’s imparting nuggets of wisdom from his brilliant lawyer ex. I liked Carmen better before I knew the woman had brains, when I could picture her as some superficial housewife with no real interests beyond spending money.

  Noah’s too hung up on his wild Ruben theories to notice my momentary flicker of jealousy. “You have to admit,” he muses aloud, “a bartender in a rich tourist town isn’t a bad cover.”

  “I think you overestimate Ruben’s intelligence.”

  “Yeah? Well, I think you underestimate it.” He gives me a long look that seems to imply I was too flustered by Ruben’s good looks to assess the situation properly. “He lied about Rohypnol, I can tell you that much. There’s no way that guy doesn’t know what Rohypnol is. He works at a bar, Charlie. That’s where people use that stuff. I mean, what self-respectin’ bartender doesn’t keep an eye out for dudes slippin’ Rohypnol and GHB in drinks? Unless he’s the one druggin’ girls himself.”

  “Maybe Rohypnol has a different name in Mexico. Anyway, I doubt he has to drug girls to get action.”

  “There are some scary-ass creeps out there, babe. You don’t know what he’s into.”

  I sigh. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right and he’s this evil bartender rapist. Why would Jasmine end up with his pills? I mean, fifty tabs of Rohypnol? That’s weird.”

  Noah considers this. “Maybe she found ’em, or was sellin’ for him—”

  “So he’s a rapist and a drug lord?”

  “—or she coulda bought ’em herself in Rocky Point. You can buy stuff in Mexican farmacias that will get you twenty years in prison in the States. She’s white. They probably didn’t search her car too hard when she crossed the border.”

  I smile as I heave myself to my feet. “Can I just point out that, beyond the fact that you have no coherent theory here, you’re starting to sound as wildly speculative as—well, me?”

  He groans. “Oh God, I am. You . . . you’re a bad influence.”

  He watches me peel off my shirt and bra and root around our bag for articles of clothing not damp with sweat. The sight of my breasts, swollen from pregnancy, proves more than enough to clear his mind of Ruben. “Look at you,” he says, grinning, “I swear those girls are gettin’ bigger every day.”

  I cast him a suggestive smirk, suddenly ready to take advantage of our impromptu seaside vacation. “Get ’em while the getting’s good. Our child-free
days are numbered.”

  Noah slides slowly and purposefully off the bed. “Woman,” he says, his voice low and husky as his lips brush my neck, “I’m gonna be all over you like wet on water.”

  • • •

  THE NEXT MORNING, as we drive home from Rocky Point, I’m flying high. We found Ruben, we secured his promise to terminate parental rights, and I’m safe. The baby, too, is safe—enjoying a sugar rush, in fact, from the bottle of apple juice I just drank.

  I’ve taken the wheel today, giving Noah a break from all the driving, and the combination of speed, sunshine, and endless open skies is intoxicating. I’m in control. For the first time, I allow myself to consider the possibility that my nightmare is just that: a nightmare, and not a premonition. My worst fear given form and shape in the darkness of my subconscious, but ultimately insubstantial, a shadow that disappears in light.

  Ahead of us, the road shimmers in the heat, solid concrete made suddenly fluid. I want to believe in this desert magic, believe that my dreams are just another kind of mirage, nothing to be trusted.

  There are virtually no other cars on the road, and I haven’t been paying much attention to speed limits, so when I spot two cars pulled over on the shoulder far ahead, my first reaction is to slow down. Parked behind a silver, older-model Corolla is a white SUV with a green stripe and official lettering on its side. Definitely governmental, possibly a cop. I reduce my speed even further.

  “Border Patrol,” Noah says, just as I’m close enough to read the words on the vehicle for myself.

  Wearing a hunter-green uniform, sunglasses, and heavy black boots, a Border Patrol officer stands by his SUV, speaking into what looks like a walkie-talkie. Only as we drive past do I see the man behind him, his brown arms pressed to the side of the vehicle, preparing to be searched. In the backseat of the Corolla, I swear I can make out a child’s face. Staring. Frightened.

  “What did that guy do?” I ask, disturbed by this scene. “Is he illegal?”

  Noah shrugs. “Who the hell knows,” he says. “They stop everyone.” For a few seconds, the statement hangs in the air, uncomfortable and demonstrably false. “Well,” he says, shifting in his seat, “not everyone.”

  I stare at my arm on the steering wheel, pale with just a few summer freckles and never more than fifteen minutes from a sunburn. I know who Border Patrol stops. I know it’s not me.

  PART IV

  Tucson, Arizona

  Eleven

  Noah is noticeably calmer after he’s retrieved his gun from Pam’s place. I’m a bit surprised Pam doesn’t question us about our encounter with Ruben, but she’s on her way out when we catch her.

  “Off to meet a friend,” she says, which sounds emotionally healthy and not entirely true. I suspect the “friend” is connected to whatever private investigation she’s conducting, but for once, I shut my mouth. The voice of my third-grade teacher, Ms. Mancini, echoes in my head: Keep your eyes on your own paper.

  I heed Ms. Mancini’s advice. Today we’re attending the Sonora Hope luncheon at some art museum, accepting the service award Donna’s no longer here to claim, and that is nerve-racking enough. Why borrow trouble?

  With half an hour to kill before the dreaded luncheon, Noah and I stop at a park near Pam’s place and try to map out the coming week beneath a shady mesquite tree. He hasn’t been to the gym in a few days, and all that restless energy is starting to seep out; he begins doing pull-ups from an overhanging branch.

  “I say we head home after this Sonora Hope thing.” He drops to the ground and runs a hand through the tree’s hanging pods. “We can come back next weekend to visit Micky.”

  “I’m not going back to Sidalie yet.” I loll against the trunk, sleepy in the heat. “Book a flight tomorrow if you want, deal with your business stuff. But I should stay. There’s so much left to do.”

  He sighs. “I’m not gonna leave you alone here. What’s so important it can’t wait a few days?”

  I pick up a fallen mesquite pod and crack it open, studying the seeds. “One, we need a lawyer, an Arizona lawyer, to draw up whatever documents Ruben has to sign. Two, I’d like to get into Jasmine’s apartment and collect Micky’s stuff. And three . . .” I toss the broken pod back on the ground. “Before we make any decisions about Micky, I want to look at some houses. Get a feel for what it might be like living here.”

  “Yeah?” After all his bold talk of relocation and adoption, Noah sounds unsure about taking such concrete steps. “You really think we can make a go of it in Tucson?”

  “Maybe.” I meet his eyes, finally ready to force a topic that we’ve been hitherto avoiding. “While we’re figuring out the future, it might be time to sort out your financial plans. You’ve got a lot of money sitting around, Noah.”

  He kicks the dirt with the toe of his boot. “We’ve got plenty to do without worryin’ over that.”

  “If you want to donate all of your inheritance, that’s fine, I get it. But we need to budget accordingly.”

  “Budget?” He repeats the word like it’s foreign to him, which I suppose it is. For years, he’s had an accountant handling his company books, and Carmen must have dealt with their personal finances.

  “What’s your next move, career-wise?” I ask. “If we move to Tucson, are you going to work for someone else? Retire? Start a new company? Your inheritance is a factor in those decisions, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I haven’t thought it through yet,” he admits, scratching the back of his neck.

  “You need a financial adviser.”

  “You mean we need one.” He frowns. “We make this decision together. It’s our money, you got that?”

  “It was gifted to you,” I protest. “It’s yours.”

  “If we were married, it would belong to both of us.”

  I smile and close my eyes. Though not about to have the marriage talk with him, I can appreciate that it comes from a good place. “Have you thought about organizations you’d like to donate to? Any special causes you care about? Or should we just write Sonora Hope a big fat check and be done with it?”

  Noah scoops up a plastic wrapper from the ground and throws it into a nearby trash can. “We’re talkin’ a whole lot of money here, Charlie,” he says. “This would have to be a damn good lunch.”

  • • •

  TUCKED ALONG the southeast corner of Saguaro National Park, the Desert Museum of Contemporary Art stands as a sophisticated architectural experiment, a collection of sharp corners and angles that appear starkly beautiful against the vast expanse of sky. Though its clean lines call to mind some fantastical, futuristic city, the building is situated on an empty patch of desert land well beyond the Tucson sprawl. I’m surprised that someone would choose to put a museum way out here, and yet, as we pull into the parking lot, I find the place reasonably busy.

  “Do you see these cars?” Noah gapes. “Man.”

  He’s right. The surrounding vehicles read like a checklist of luxury brands: BMW, Audi, Lexus, Land Rover. This is a side of southern Arizona we’ve not yet seen.

  We follow a winding walkway past a series of square and rectangular water pools leading to the entrance. The front wall of the building consists mainly of tinted glass, and by the time we make it through the doors, I’m itching to know who operates this museum and where they get their funding.

  The lobby contains a number of pieces mounted from the ceiling and displayed on platforms of varying heights, but its centerpiece is a massive loop of clay, pounded flat and rolled into a lopsided tube, with metal coils wrapped around it. On one side of the tube, a pile of feathers encircles a single upright bone. I glance at the accompanying placard, which identifies the artist as Jenni Rook and the title as Consumption. Noah stares at Rook’s creation with an expression of both concern and bewilderment, and I grin, making a mental note never to take him to MoMA.

  Sonora
Hope is holding its presentation in the museum’s event room, which consists of a small stage, several round dining tables with place cards, and an open space in the back for mingling. Presently, the room is half full with about forty men and women engaged in polite conversation.

  “Didn’t know this was black-tie,” Noah grumbles, although none of the men in the room are actually wearing ties. Collared shirts, yes, and linen pants or polo shorts or seersucker bottoms of any length . . . but not ties. In his loose, many-pocketed shorts and rumpled button-down, Noah sticks out like a turkey in a den of peacocks.

  Maybe people will think he’s one of the museum’s exhibiting artists. That could get him a pass.

  Lunch itself is a tame affair, filled with remarks on the weather and discussions of summer homes in Montana and Colorado. We’re seated with a pair of husband-and-wife cardiologists and some kind of entrepreneur with a much younger girlfriend. I know the drill. I ask our companions a dozen questions, look fascinated by their answers, good-naturedly tease one of the cardiologists about his golf game. We make it through our meal without any mention of Donna and my relationship to her.

  I’m glad when Teresa King finally appears to kick off the donor lovefest. I want to get this over with. Teresa looks much as she did at Donna and Jasmine’s funeral, except that her clothing choice today is a more upbeat shade of blue and her makeup can’t quite conceal the circles beneath her eyes. She quickly introduces herself—though it’s apparent from the abundant applause that everyone present is already familiar with her—and welcomes us all.

  “As many of you know,” Teresa begins, “my involvement with Sonora Hope is, first and foremost, a personal one. I’m Mexican by birth, American by luck. I spent my early years begging on the streets of Nogales, trying to help a young, single mother make ends meet.”

  Heads nod, and I gather Teresa’s history is widely known and likely part of her persona, although it’s news to me.

  “My mother died before her twenty-fifth birthday, and I was sent to an orphanage at the age of eight,” Teresa tells the sympathetic crowd. “For most Mexican children in this situation, opportunity ends here, as few families are willing to adopt an older child. But I was fortunate. I won the lottery, you might say, for I was adopted by a family, and not just any family—an American family.” She pauses, gazing out at her audience. “Not a day passes that I don’t marvel at my many blessings. Not a day passes that I don’t wonder if I deserve them.”