Made in the U.S.A.

by Billie Letts

  While Rosa was setting up for an IV, the doctor opened Lutie’s mouth and retrieved a tooth barely attached to her upper gum. Using his fingers, he inspected the inside of her cheeks, then examined her tongue to find that she’d bitten through it on one side.

  As he began to unbutton her blouse, he spoke to Juan, who immediately led Fate from the office to the living room, where they sat side by side on a couch.

  “You’re very worry about your sister, but my friends, Dr. Morales and his wife, a nurse, they will to take good care of her.”

  “They will take good care of her,” Fate absently corrected Juan’s English, a matter of habit.

  “Yes, I don’t speak the English quite good, but Spanish I know.”

  “And I don’t speak Spanish.”

  “But we will find a way, Fate, to talk one to each other.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I hear Lutie call your name much times.” Quickly, Juan corrected himself. “Many times.”

  “My sister . . .” When Fate began to cry, Juan put his arm around the small, shirtless boy and pulled him close. “I’m afraid that Lutie . . . I’m afraid she’ll die.”

  “No, no. Lutie strong girl, and my doctor and nurse friends don’t let her to die. Trust this, I tell you.”

  With a bit more control now, Fate said, “How did you know about us? Your notes, the food . . .”

  “Fate, we have later for to answer questions. For now, you rest. You have not to fear, but to rest. Only to rest.”

  “But—”

  “I wake you when it needs.”

  And Fate, his body heavy with fatigue, his mind clouded with doubt, his eleven years feeling like ninety, leaned his head on Juan Vargas’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and gave himself, at last, to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  FATE, LUTIE, JUAN VARGAS, and Draco left Rosa and Dr. Hector’s home just after dawn on a Tuesday, and though they’d spent only four days and nights there, Fate could hardly get through the good-byes, mostly because of Rosa. She had become, for him, as close as a woman could to his notion of a mother since his own had died before he had memory.

  Rosa was always available to assist her husband in his practice, but somehow she managed to find time for Fate. In her small library, quiet and comfortable, she had created a space that seemed spiritual, though there were no religious symbols in evidence—no crucifix, no statues of Mary, no paintings of Jesus, no lectionary stand holding a Bible.

  There, Rosa introduced Fate to writers he didn’t know: César Chávez, Gabriel García Márquez; to the poetry of Pablo Neruda; to the art of Diego Rivera; and to the music of the Mexican cellist Carlos Prieto.

  But her favorite writer was Sandra Cisneros, whose piece titled “Salvadore, Late or Early,” only two pages long, was the most beautiful prose Fate had ever heard. He especially liked the sound when Rosa read it aloud.

  In addition to sharing her books, her music, and her art, she invited Fate to the kitchen to talk while she cooked, and to him, her cooking became an art as her beautiful small hands mixed, kneaded, beat, sliced, and diced.

  She told him how she and Dr. Hector had met, both of them working at the same circus in order to pay for their medical training—he as a physician’s assistant, she as a nurse practitioner while working on her RN. She talked, too, of their meeting Juan Vargas, an aerial performer, watching him fly through the air a hundred feet above the earth without a safety net below.

  But when Fate asked how Juan came to live on the streets of Las Vegas, Rosa gave brief, vague accounts, telling him Juan would open that chapter of his life when he was ready.

  Every night, Rosa came to the room where Fate slept, to read to him her favorite stories by her favorite writers. Then when she finished, she would kiss him on the cheek and whisper, “May God keep you in the safety of His arms.”

  Yesterday, the day before their departure, Juan and Fate had gone to the room at the Gold Digger where Lutie and Fate had been living. At Juan’s polite invitation and with his help, Fate had worked through the rubbish that had piled up since they’d moved in. He rounded up Lutie’s cosmetics, teen magazines, shoes, clothes, hats, belts, and scarves—most shoplifted, a few actually paid for. He emptied what was left in the glove compartment after it had been ransacked; then boxed up his own books and a small bag of his clothes.

  After they’d packed them in the trunk of Floy’s Pontiac, they drove two blocks, where they transferred Lutie’s and Fate’s possessions into the trunk of Juan’s Lincoln Continental, cavernous when compared with the Pontiac.

  The car, Fate learned, was an ’88 and might have been valuable if not for the dents and dings the body had suffered through the years. But though it looked pretty shabby outside, the inside was roomy, the upholstery looked and smelled new, the floorboards showed no sign of dirt or sand, the dash was clean of dust, and even the ashtrays were empty and shining.

  Juan, not much of a talker, had explained a bit of the automobile’s history, but mostly he let the car do the talking for him. He was proud of the old Lincoln, and keeping it spotless was important to him.

  Fate had known without being told that Juan was moving them out of the Gold Digger. Perhaps he planned to take them in, maybe share his apartment with them. Fate didn’t figure he had a house, but a small, inexpensive apartment seemed likely.

  When they finished the transfer and a last look through the trash of the Pontiac, Juan tossed the keys onto the dash, then slid under the wheel of his own car and pulled away.

  “What about—” But Fate didn’t get to complete his question.

  “We don’t need it anymore. This”—he patted the steering wheel—“will be the better car for the trip. Her name is Matilda. Good tires, license tag legal, registration legal, and more resting bed for Lutie.”

  Fate could have asked then, could have asked where they were going . . . and why, but he didn’t. He felt safe with Juan, the first time he’d felt safe since Floy died.

  Juan drove several miles out of town to a spot on the bank of Callville Bay where he lived in a tent surrounded by brush and young saplings, almost hidden from view. Living in a tent, away from the streets of Vegas and the people who wandered those streets, seemed to be a step up from living in a stolen car, so if Juan was moving Lutie and Fate into the tent with him and Draco, Fate would be glad.

  But that wasn’t part of the plan.

  Juan kept his tent just the way he kept his car: spartan, spotless, and organized. Beside a sleeping bag, he had a small cooler, a box of books, and another of clothes, neatly folded and well arranged. A shoe box contained his toiletries. The only object that seemed personal was a framed photograph of a younger Juan, his arm around an older man who favored him, a man Fate guessed to be his father. The picture stood on several glass bricks to serve as a table only for the photo. Fate noticed that when Juan packed the picture, he placed it carefully among his folded T-shirts for protection. Finally, Juan packed a twenty-pound sack of dog food and a large plastic bowl, and they drove back to Dr. Hector’s house, Fate already dreading the next morning’s good-byes.

  He hadn’t slept well that night, knowing it was likely the last night he would ever spend in that house, in the doctor’s office, Rosa’s home. The last night she would come to his room, read to him, tuck him in, and whisper her prayer. When he finally did fall asleep, it was Rosa he was thinking of.

  The plan was to leave just after dawn, so everyone was up except Lutie. She had regained consciousness shortly after being placed on the examination table, but because of the pain, Dr. Hector had kept her sedated, as she was now for the trip they were about to undertake, a trip whose destination was still unknown to Fate.

  Dr. Hector went over his instructions for the third time, handing Juan the plastic bag containing antibiotics to fight infection, pain medication Lutie would need regularly for the next two or three days, fresh bandages and astringents for cleaning her various wounds.

  The men loaded Lutie i
nto the spacious backseat of Juan’s Continental, a move they accomplished under the direction of Rosa, who had spent hours the previous day turning the backseat into a hospital bed so that Lutie could ride comfortably and safely on the trip. She had even made a bed out of old rugs and blankets for Draco, who would alert Juan if Lutie needed attention.

  Rosa had packed a plastic box filled with fruit, gazpacho español soup, lemon chicken, buñuelos, and sopa da plátano, a dessert she had made for supper the previous evening and which Fate had liked so much, he had taken three helpings, only after Rosa insisted.

  When it was time to say good-bye, Rosa hugged Fate tightly to her chest and whispered to him, “If you ever have need of me, no matter the time, just call.” She slipped into his hand a closed envelope, then kissed his cheek and whispered, “May God keep you in the safety of His arms.”

  Fate waved as the Lincoln pulled away, but the features of Rosa’s face were distorted because of the tears in his eyes.

  He waited until they passed a sign that marked the city limits of Las Vegas and another that urged visitors to come back soon and often.

  Finally, it was time to ask.

  “Juan, where are we going?”

  “Oklahoma,” Juan said. “We go now to Oklahoma.”

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  FATE, SLUMPED IN the passenger seat, his head resting against the window, had been asleep for almost two hours when Juan pulled into a QuikTrip.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “Just east of Flagstaff. But my blue baby here”—Juan patted the dash of the Lincoln—“she likes to having her belly full.”

  A rustling sound from the backseat caught Fate’s attention.

  “Is big sister awake?” Juan asked.

  “No.”

  “Well, time for her medicine, I have to peeing, Draco, too, and Matilda wants gas. Kill four birds with one rock, huh?”

  “Two birds, and it’s stone, not rock.”

  “You gonna mess with my English all the way to Oklahoma?”

  Fate grinned. “Probably.”

  “I tell you what. You talk your English and I’ll talk mine.”

  “Speak, not talk.”

  Juan shook his head in mock disgust. “This gonna be one long damn trip.”

  “Why don’t you go to the bathroom; I’ll give Lutie her medicine.”

  “Okay,” Juan said as he got out of the car. “But remember, Doc said one of the blue ones, two white. You don’t confuse.”

  “I won’t.”

  With Juan’s seat empty, Draco jumped into it and started to whine.

  “It’s okay, girl. He’ll be back.”

  After Fate gathered the pills, a bottle of water, and a straw, he got into the back, making room for himself on the seat beside Lutie. He studied her for a few moments, watching her eyelids flutter in sleep, wondering what she might be seeing behind those delicate, paper-thin layers of flesh, both purpled now with bruises.

  “Lutie, it’s time for your medicine.”

  She opened her eyes as far as the swelling would allow and said, “I’m thirsty.”

  Fate inched his fingers beneath her head and lifted it until her lips found the straw. With each pill she swallowed, she grimaced.

  “Is your throat sore?”

  “Everything is sore,” she said as Fate lowered her head back to the pillow. “When did I get out of the hospital? Or was it a clinic?”

  “Just this morning.”

  Since the attack, Fate had talked to Lutie several times, so he wasn’t as frightened by her confusion now as he had been at first. Dr. Hector had explained to him that the drugs and the concussion, though mild, would leave some blank spots in her memory for a while.

  “Where are we now?”

  “In Arizona.”

  Fate could see in her expression that she was trying to piece together bits of information, trying to get what she could remember in the right order.

  “Are we still with that man? That Italian guy?”

  “His name’s Juan, and he’s Mexican, not Italian.”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right. Juan. So where is he?”

  “He’s gone to the toilet. Do you need to go, Lutie? I can help you if you do.”

  “Help me?” Fate heard the fear in her voice. “I’m not paralyzed, am I?” Seized with alarm, the notion that she might not be able to walk, even though she had walked several times while at Dr. Hector’s, she slapped at her thighs with her good hand. “I can feel my legs.”

  “No, no. You aren’t paralyzed. Just stiff and sore. The doctor said you would be for a few more days.”

  “Then why would I need you to help me?”

  “I just meant I could walk you to the bathroom.”

  “Then do what? Wipe my butt? No, thank you! If I need to go, I can get there by myself.” But to make sure, she lifted her legs one at a time, the effort causing her to groan, a sound that drew Draco’s attention. When she draped her paws over the seat, her face staring into Lutie’s, the girl was startled.

  “That’s Draco,” Fate said. “Juan’s dog.”

  “God, it looks like a beast.”

  “She’s just big. She rides back here with you to make sure you’re okay, kind of like your own warning system on this trip.”

  “Now, tell me again where we are?”

  “Arizona.”

  “And where are we going?”

  “Oklahoma.”

  “Why?”

  “Juan has family there. He thinks they’ll let us stay with them, take care of us.”

  “But I was taking care of us, Fate. I had a job, money for our apartment, and—” A memory suddenly broke through, her breath coming hard as she tried to remember. “My purse! Where’s my purse, Fate?”

  “It’s safe, in the trunk, Lutie.”

  “Are you sure? You’d better make damn sure because all our money’s in it. That black purse with a silver lock.”

  “I’m sure.” And he was sure that the purse was in the trunk, but he was also sure the money was gone; sure, too, that the white powder in the plastic bag was coke. But he knew this wasn’t the right time to talk about that. He didn’t think Lutie was ready to handle that subject just yet. “For now, you need to relax, leave worrying to me until you feel better. Can you do that?”

  “But you’ve got to get my purse out, look inside the billfold, and count the money.”

  “I will.”

  Drawing a deep, slow breath now, her eyes blinking as her medication kicked in, she said, “Fate, do you remember . . .”

  He waited for her to continue. Finally, she said, “That day.” She was beginning to drift away, though she seemed to be trying to hold on to the moment of memory, to pull herself back from the waiting fog.

  “What day?”

  “We were, I think we were making mud pies, because . . . because we were locked out of the house, but . . .” Her eyes glazed over, then closed, making Fate think she’d gone to sleep.

  But she surprised him.

  “Seems like we were living with Bona or Meverly then.”

  “Maybe it was Mona or Beverly,” Fate said.

  “Yeah. The one who bleached her hair and turned it orange. Well, when we went in the house, all that mud, she . . .”

  Before she could put it all together, she was out, her body limp against the sheets of the bed Rosa had prepared for her.

  “Sleep, Lutie. Everything’s going to work out.”

  As he brushed a stray lock of her hair away from her face, he realized he didn’t really believe what he’d just said.

  They were going to travel over a thousand miles with a man they hardly knew, going to a town they’d never heard of before, to join a circus family who had no idea that two kids, Lutie and Fate McFee, were about to come into their lives.

  Then Fate smiled when he remembered what Floy used to say when he’d tell her about one of his bizarre plans to change the universe. She’d look at him as if he were
more or less a regular person and say, “Now, what could go wrong with that plan?”

  Nevertheless, he stroked his sister’s arm and said in a whisper, “This will all work out fine, Lutie. Just fine.”

  For the next couple of hours, Lutie and Draco slept while Fate and Juan had occasional conversations—brief, stiff talk limited mostly to the scenery, the traffic, the weather—all crafted to avoid revealing anything personal. But that was about to change.

  “Tell me about the circus, Juan.”

  “Ah, Rosa been talking, right?”

  “I asked her about the posters in her house. The circus posters.”

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “I could talk all the miles to Oklahoma and still not tell everything.”

  “Then talk real fast,” a comment that made Juan laugh, but not loud enough to wake Lutie.

  “You been to circus, right?”

  “No.”

  “You have never saw circus?” Juan looked dumbfounded.

  “Seen, not saw.”

  “Sorry, Professor McFee.”

  “The circus never came to Spearfish; I guess because the town’s too small. One came to Rapid City last year, but we didn’t get to go. The woman I told you about? Floy? She didn’t have enough money.”

  “You seen circus on TV, though. Right?”

  “Saw, not seen.”

  “Saw, seen. I saw what I seen, I seen what I saw. What’s difference?”

  “You’re right. What’s difference. Now, tell me about the circus.”

  “My family in circus for many generations. Parents, aunts, cousins, uncles, brothers, sisters. See, Fate, circus is like a . . . tribu. Is it right? Tribu?”

  “Sounds like you might mean tribe.”

  “Yes! Tribe. So babies grow up in circus tribe. Become acrobat, cook, rigger, animal trainer, clown, trick rider, aerialist. And whatever parents do, the childs—no—the childrens must become better. Like mi bisabuelo Hernando Vargas, he—”