by Susan Slater
Pauly idly wondered how early Grams had gotten up to look that “together” in the middle of the night. Smooth skin, maybe a little puffy around the eyes, glowed with the expert application of foundation and blusher. The false eyelashes, short thick ones for street wear, framed violet eyes. Violet? Pauly looked closer. Grams was wearing colored contacts. The lightning-white hair was piled on top of her head, difficult to tell what was hers and what was a hairpiece. A wide violet scarf seemed to anchor everything in place. And other than looking like a leftover from Dynasty, Grams looked pretty good. Maybe she’d just stayed up, hadn’t gone to bed at all.
“The motor home is parked out front. Here are the keys. I’ll tell Steve that you’ve gone on over. It’ll take him awhile to get this show on the road. Here, let Hofer hand out the rest of these burritos.”
Pauly started to protest.
“Go on now. We can handle breakfast. You have just one bang-up Christmas, you hear?”
Was there a little extra emphasis on the “bang”? Pauly wondered. But Grams had quickly hugged her and hadn’t said any more. She was obviously pleased that Pauly would be spending the holidays with Steve.
Pauly grabbed a burrito, her bag, and a jacket, pausing only to slip it around her shoulders before she walked back through the house and out the front door. The motor home sat in the semicircular gravel drive close to the house, and loomed up to block the circular rock garden that defined the driveway’s inner edge. The coach was a boxy thing, a rectangle on wheels in varying shades of pinstriped brown. “The Southwind” was stenciled artistically along the side amid one-dimensional cacti and yucca in yellows and greens. The artist had even signed his work.
Pauly unlocked the side door and, tossing her bag ahead of her, climbed up the fold-down steps. The living area was deceptively spacious but crowded with ugly overstuffed flowered velvet furniture in wine tones. The interior paneling was dark, fake walnut Pauly guessed, while the short hall leading to the one-piece, molded plastic bathroom had speckled rose wallpaper. A bedroom just as garish, if Pauly remembered correctly, was a cubicle beyond that.
The whole thing had a little old Mom and Pop feel to it, something to tool around in once the nest was empty. It needed a bumper-sticker that said “We’re enjoying our kid’s inheritance.” Depressing, but Pauly was too tired to care. She stretched out on the sofa. She hadn’t slept well the night before in El Paso, and the fight with Archer had robbed her of energy. Now she felt safer, locked in a motor home. Only Grams and Hofer and Steve knew where she was, and she could keep an eye on Steve. She’d wake when he got there.
But she didn’t. It was nine thirty and they were almost to El Paso before she sat up, trying to get oriented.
“I figured you needed your rest.” Steve glanced back at her in the large rearview mirror.
“My God, I must look terrible.” Pauly quickly tried to fluff her hair. “How long before we stop?”
“We’ll be taking over the National Guard Armory. It’s across town, not too far from the border. We’re probably talking an hour, maybe forty-five minutes before we get there.”
Pauly pulled back the curtains from the square picture window to her right. The sun flooded in, high in the sky, painfully bright. Pauly blinked, then squinted at the landscape, the outskirts of El Paso. A metal building on River Street floated into her consciousness, the fire, a young boy, the transient; she turned away. Could all that have happened just night before last?
“Think I’ll brush my teeth.” There was no answer from Steve. He was concentrating on keeping his place in the convoy of trucks, motor homes, and trailers as they pulled single-file onto the first exit ramp.
Pauly had time to buy a newspaper when Steve stopped to gas up. She bought a cup of coffee and leaned against the counter. They’d be here for awhile. She scanned the front page, then leafed through the first section. She was looking for something in particular and almost missed it, the article was so small. Thursday’s fire that had claimed a life in the industrial area of River Street was attributed to arson. No surprise there. The body still had not been identified, other than to announce that it was a woman somewhere in her late fifties. The article went on to say that authorities suspected it was the body of a transient often referred to as Maxine who frequented the area, and asked that anyone having information about this woman to please contact local law enforcement. There was a phone number.
Pauly wished the woman had remained anonymous. Now it was like she knew her, this Maxine who had accidentally gotten in the way, in the way of Pauly’s death, and that made her feel responsible. She was the last person that Maxine had spoken with. Could Pauly have saved her? In all honesty she didn’t think so. She could close her eyes and smell the gasoline, see the fire shooting down the hallway. The fire had simply exploded and burned so hot and quickly. She had been lucky to have escaped.
“Ready?”
Pauly crumpled the paper, then wished she hadn’t started so violently when she saw Steve’s quizzical look. She tried to wipe any semblance of guilt off her face. She’d just been reading the newspaper. Not a crime. Or maybe it was if you were withholding information.
“Want me to drive?” She smiled brightly. Change the subject, keep him from wondering what could possibly have been of such interest to her.
“Maybe later. Thanks.”
She sat by the window again and watched as they worked their way across town.
“We’re almost there. We’ll set up in the parking lot of the Armory. It gives us bathrooms and showers, a real luxury. Steve turned at the next corner and followed his entourage to the back of a two-acre lot.
“This is where it might get a little boring. We’ve got less than six hours to turn this area into a midway with rides and shows. You can watch, or stay here and rest. Take a walk, if you’d like. I wouldn’t wander far to the south if you do. That’s where it starts getting rough, about two blocks over. A little close to the border. But there are some shops to the north, a shopping center with a grocery store.”
Pauly checked her watch. Eleven-thirty. “I think I’ll just wander around here, see if I can help anyone. I promise to stay out of trouble.”
She smiled and hoped she sounded casual and not like someone with a plan to find a child and question him. She couldn’t wait to seek out Jorge. At least find where he was staying. It had never dawned on her that he might not be with the group. It was unlikely that he’d stay in Albuquerque. She assumed from the number of people involved in the show that he’d be one of them.
But she felt a twinge of apprehension. She had so counted on this trip for answers, what if her time was wasted? But she didn’t know that for certain yet, and she had the next six hours to hunt unobserved.
“I’ll meet you back here at six.” Steve pulled on a flannel shirt and tossed her the keys to the motor home. “You know you can always come back here before that if you want. Fridge is stocked, beer, sandwiches, help yourself.”
“Great, I will.” She watched him leave, trotting across the asphalt towards the eighteen-wheelers parked single file along a chain-link fence.
Pauly opened the fridge. Steve wasn’t lying. There was more food than could possibly be eaten in a week, let alone a couple days. Grams’ doing? Probably. Pauly pulled a sandwich off the saran-wrapped stack on the shelf nearest her, then searched for a baggy or foil, pulling out three different drawers under the counter before finding a selection of food wraps. On impulse, she added a second ham and Swiss on rye to the plastic bag that she dropped in her purse. She’d eat later, maybe find a picnic spot in the park across the street.
The afternoon promised to be warm, high sixties at least, but for now her down vest felt good. One more look around the motor home—did she have everything she’d need? Or was she just stalling? Being this close suddenly had given her the jitters.
Pauly took a deep breath, opened the motor home door, hopped to the pavement, and turned to lock up. This was it. No turning back now. She started towards
the activity and quickly realized that she could get in the way by not knowing what she was doing. A Ferris wheel was being pulled into place with a winch and crane. A man yelled in her direction, warning her to stay back. It would be safer if she walked close to the trailers and motor homes and away from the trucks.
Pauly wandered behind the line of parked living quarters and next to a ten-foot fence with round loops of razor wire lacing the top. The area looked deserted and Pauly was about to turn back when she heard a trailer door open and close. The woman who had had the puppies for sale was setting up exercise pens behind her trailer and came back down the steps with an armload of newspapers.
“Hi. Need any help?”
The woman looked startled then relaxed.
“You’re the one looking for a puppy. Lulu’s granddaughter?”
Pauly nodded.
“I was real sorry that we’d sold them all. They’re so cute. Sorta sell themselves. People watch the act and expect them to somersault off the divan at eight weeks and play dead. Actually they can’t do that until ten weeks.” She grinned and Pauly realized she was kidding. “You know if you’d like to help, you could set up another pen and put some papers down. Davy, that’s my son, promised to help but he’s disappeared somewhere.”
“That’d be fine. I’m Pauly.”
“Brenda.” The woman lit a cigarette, offering the pack to Pauly.
“No thanks.”
“Willpower? Or did you just never have the habit?”
“Maybe a little of each. I tried it in high school but didn’t like it.”
“That’s amazing. You know now people can sue the tobacco companies for withholding evidence? Keeping people in the dark about how addictive this shit is. Guess they even upped the nicotine levels to keep people hooked. I’ve tried to quit. About a hundred million times.” She smiled ruefully. “I’ve been hypnotized, stuck with needles, gone cold turkey. Nothing works. You think people are going to get any money if they sue?”
“I guess I’d doubt it. Too many of them.”
“Davy.” The woman suddenly yelled and motioned for a pudgy youngster to join them. Pauly watched as the young boy sauntered across the lot towards them. He was a pretty hip-looking pre-teen with initials carved into his hair on one side, baggy shirt spilling over baggy jeans that flared over the tops of unlaced sneakers.
“This is my son.” Her pride was as obvious as Davy’s embarrassment. He stared at the ground as his mother made introductions. “Now you help Pauly here and be quick about it. I need to let those little buggers out of their crates.”
Pauly grabbed one side of a folded wire enclosure that leaned against the side of the trailer, Davy hefted the other. It was quickly apparent that he had done this before, so Pauly followed his instructions; they were more or less monosyllabic but helpful. Between them they flipped the four-sided pens open before placing them on the ground. Davy grunted his approval when she did it right. Teenagers were a trip. Had she been this insolent at the same age? Probably.
“Clip that corner.” Davy pointed then clipped the corner nearest him.
Pauly found a metal snap-looking thing hanging on the side and snapped it into place, securing one end. Brenda had disappeared inside. This could be her chance. Wouldn’t Davy know all the kids who helped with the dogs? Probably. He might be the one who could help her.
“I’m looking for a young boy named Jorge. I think he’s from Honduras.” Pauly watched Davy, who was spreading newspapers.
“There’s no Jorge here.”
Pauly fought back sickening disappointment.
“Did he stay in Albuquerque?”
Davy paused to look at her. “I don’t know no Jorge.”
“Wait. I have a picture.” Pauly walked to where she had tossed her bag by the trailer’s steps and, fumbling for her billfold, produced the snapshot of Jorge and Randy standing side by side. She handed it to Davy.
“That’s the child I’m looking for. I’ve seen him work with the dogs before.”
“That’s Paco. Yeah, he works with the dogs.”
Paco? Not Jorge? Of course, Paco was a nickname. Pauly put the picture back in her billfold.
“I’d like to talk with Paco. Is he here?” She held her breath, slowly releasing it at Davy’s nod.
“He don’t speak very good English.”
“I’d need an interpreter.” She had Davy’s attention now. It hadn’t dawned on her, but the job of interpreter probably needed to be worth something.
“How much you gonna pay?” Davy was obviously thinking the same thing. But why not? This was perfect.
“The job pays ten for bringing him to me and another ten for helping us talk.”
“Twenty?”
Pauly nodded.
“Twenty-five.”
Pauly got the distinct feeling that bargaining came naturally to Davy.
“Okay.” She wasn’t going to quibble about five dollars. “Is your Spanish good enough to be the interpreter?”
“Yeah. I learned from my dad. And, I help out sometimes with the kids around here. So, when do we do this?”
“Will everyone knock off for lunch soon?”
“About one-thirty.”
“How about meeting me over by that bandstand in the park after the lunch break but before you have to be back.”
“Okay.”
Brenda pushed open the door to the trailer, carrying a Jack Russell under each arm.
“These guys are about to burst. I don’t like to make them wait to go potty longer than six hours and it’s been almost nine.” She put the two dogs down in the nearest pen and went back inside.
“I’ve got to go now. You won’t forget?” Pauly asked.
“Not for twenty-five.” A kid’s grin, pleased with himself, already counting the money, maybe planning on another haircut; those couldn’t be cheap.
Pauly leaned over to pet the terrier leaping at the side of the pen.
“See you in a couple hours.”
***
Pauly crossed the street early, fully intending to try and stake out her territory. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if someone was already sitting on the steps of the grandstand. But the steps were empty. She’d been too excited to eat but now spread a couple of Kleenex out and placed the two wrapped sandwiches on top. Maybe he’d be hungry, or maybe Davy. Kids were bottomless pits. She was glad she’d brought food.
She was having difficulty referring to Jorge as Paco. But she’d soon find out that the name was an alias. What other questions would she ask? She’d rehearsed her part. She thought she was ready.
The boys didn’t keep her waiting. Next to Davy, Randy’s adopted son looked diminutive. But so beautiful. Again she was taken by his frailty, unblemished skin almost translucent making the dark curls surrounding his face stand out in stark contrast.
Both boys seemed bashful at first and eyed the sandwiches.
“These are for you.” Pauly handed one to each and motioned for them to join her on the steps. Paco sat next to her on the same step. Now that he was here beside her, trusting, at ease, munching on a sandwich, it seemed difficult for her to begin.
Pauly took a deep breath.
“Ask him about his parents.”
Or parent, singular, she thought to herself. Was the question too direct? She needed to know about Randy, up front, at once…no putting it off with small talk first. They probably didn’t have too long. She felt a need to make the most of their time.
Davy repeated her request and Paco stopped eating and looked away. Then slowly he answered, taking his time. The answer was a long one and Pauly fought an urge to fidget. Finally Davy explained.
“He says that his parents are very poor and that he came to the United States to work in the carnival. His uncle brought him here. His uncle got him papers so he could stay and make money to send back to his parents.”
“What’s his uncle’s name?”
Pauly almost held her breath. Did he call Randy by name? Was “
uncle” some euphemism for adoptive father? Or was there some special name between father and son? Or maybe a secret name, one used with the other while…. She couldn’t let herself think of that, those moments when Randy might have touched the child, fondled him…or more.
“Preacher-man,” Davy said.
“What?”
“The name of his uncle.”
“But who’s that?” Pauly was dumbfounded.
“You know, that old guy that gets up and talks about Jesus all the time.”
“Hofer?”
“I guess so.”
This was crazy. Was the child mistaken? How could Hofer be this uncle? Unless as an owner he took care of the paper work in order for Jorge to work with the carnival. But what kind of papers let a nine-year-old work? You didn’t get a green card at this age. Pauly leaned forward.
“Ask him if his name is Jorge Roberto Suarez Zuniga McIntyre.”
But the child looked up and shook his head. He seemed to understand some things.
He pointed to his chest and said, “Me llamo Paco.”
“That’s probably a nickname. What’s his full name?”
Again before Davy could translate, the child said clearly, “Me llamo Carlos Zapata Chuc.”
Pauly sat back. Chuc? Not Zuniga or McIntyre? What was going on? She stared at Paco, who had calmly taken another bite of sandwich. Was he lying? But why would he lie about his name?
“Was he born in Honduras?”
A quick conference between the two.
“Merida.”
“Where’s Merida?”
Davy shrugged. “Somewhere in Old Mexico.”
“He’s Mexican?” Pauly wasn’t sure why she repeated that. But who was the child listed on the adoption papers? The age was right. But the country of origin, of birth, was Honduras. There was really only one way to clear all this up. She pulled the picture of Randy and Paco out of her billfold.
“How does he know this man?” She handed the picture to Davy, who showed it to Paco.
Paco shrugged but looked at the picture closely, turning it over then upright again before babbling excitedly in Spanish.
