Compromised

by Heidi Ayarbe

  I try to stay awake. Really. But I end up breaking rule number two…again. I don’t even feel the rumble of the truck on the highway. I am so, so tired. We jump awake when the flashlight shines on us. I hold my hands to my eyes to block the glaring light.

  “Get the hell out of my truck,” she says.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  “Well, don’t just sit there staring at me like some dumb deer on the road. Get out of my truck.”

  We stumble out of her truck, stiff from so many hours curled under the tarp. Our breath comes out in silvery puffs. We stand in the driveway of a country home—soft yellow light filters through the windows.

  “You fell asleep,” Nicole says through her teeth. “Again.”

  I rub my eyes. It’s so hard to stay awake. “Well, we got a ride, didn’t we?” I say under my breath. It’s not like staying awake would’ve changed anything.

  “So? You runaways?” The lady stands with hands on hips. She wears a heavy flannel jacket and wranglers—worn cowboy boots peeking out from under the jeans.

  “No!” I say—too loud. I step forward. “We’re, um, on a road trip.” I glance at Nicole. “And we’re trying to go cross-country on our own for our senior project.” Yeah. That sounds good. “So we, um, hitch rides and—”

  “And hide out in the back of people’s trucks,” the lady finishes. “You’re a bad liar, kid. Real bad.”

  “Asswipe,” Klondike croaks, then says a slew of obscenities. He taps the lady’s shoulder and croaks. “Sorry,” he says. “We just needed a ride.”

  I blush. Nicole tugs on Klondike’s elbow, which only makes his tics worse. It’s hard to remember that it’s better to ignore him.

  “We’re sorry,” I say. “He can’t help the stuff he does and says. We’re just looking for my aunt. Sarah Jones. She lives in Boise. Really. That’s the truth.”

  The lady gnaws on her lower lip. “I must’ve picked you three up in Jackpot. And the last thing I need is to get busted for toting around runaways—no matter what you’re doing.” She looks the three of us up and down. “So either I call the cops or you head along your own way. Your business is none of mine.”

  We nod. That’s a good thing about people—a total lack of interest in anything not directly related to them. Think about it. AIDS, hunger, global warming, genocide—this happens daily. And we don’t care. Apathy is the disease of the developed world. The more bad stuff happens, the less people care. And that works for us.

  “Well,” she says. “Get going. I don’t want to see hide nor hair of any of you by the time I’m done unloading the truck.”

  We turn to go when Klondike doubles over in a coughing fit, holding tight onto his side. I rub his back and Nicole tries to keep him still. The coughing must be killing his ribs and bruised side.

  When the coughing stops, Klondike sits. “I just need to rest. Just a minute,” he says before letting out a soft, low croak. He leans his head on Nicole’s bony knees.

  The lady eyes us over the bulky boxes she heaves to the edge of the truck. I go to her. “Um, can we have a couple of minutes? To rest?”

  The lady nods.

  “And just something hot for him. It can be hot water.”

  “This isn’t a twenty-four-hour truck stop, honey, and I don’t need trouble,” the lady says with lips pursed. But her eyes aren’t cold.

  “Please,” I say. I look back at Klon, eyes closed, resting against Nicole. Nicole motions for me to join her. Move on. But Klon needs something warm.

  The lady nods. “You are a sorry-looking bunch. When’s the last time you had anything decent to eat?”

  I can’t remember.

  She gnaws on a toothpick. “I need help with these boxes. You pull a muscle or throw out your back, I will deny you were ever here, okay? I can’t afford a nasty lawsuit by some snots like you.”

  I cringe. Dad’s done that. His idol for a time was the McDonald’s hot-coffee lady, though he did concede that the finger those people found in Wendy’s chili was going a bit far. There are limits. Even for Dad. Or at least there used to be. My stomach tightens. I hate missing him. He doesn’t deserve it.

  Nicole pulls Klon up. Everyone stares at me. The lady says, “You the head of this gang?”

  “I guess,” I say.

  “Well, are you three going to help or not?” she asks.

  “We just need something hot for him, ma’am,” I say. “If we help, will you get him something?”

  “I’m Jan, not ma’am. If you’re going to haul my boxes, you’d better know my name.”

  I begin to introduce us when she holds up her hand. “And I sure as hell don’t want to know your names.”

  “Go sit over there, Klon,” I say, and motion to a place next to the garage. “We’ll take care of the boxes.” Nicole and I unload the truck and set the boxes in the garage. Then we sit next to Klon, waiting for Jan to bring him a hot drink.

  She comes out with a cup of steaming liquid and hands it to Klon. He looks at Nicole and me.

  “Go ahead,” I urge. “You need it.”

  Klon sips at the liquid and cups his cold hands around the mug. His twitches subside for just a moment. I exhale. It’s like I haven’t taken a breath since we left Jackpot.

  “Do you even know where you are?” Jan finally asks.

  “No,” Nicole says. “But it won’t be long until we figure that out.”

  Jan shakes her head. “Lord help me. Come inside.” She takes the empty mug from Klon and turns toward the door.

  We stare at her.

  “I’m not going to ask again.” She turns and walks up the porch, leaving the front door open.

  Nicole glares at me. “You’ve definitely gotta have some kind of sleeping disorder. Jesus, Jeops, we could be on the moon for all we know.”

  “I can assure you we’re not on the moon,” I say.

  Nicole rolls her eyes. “C’mon.” We trip up the crooked steps of the old ranch house. Smoke spills from underneath a door in the entryway.

  “What the hell are you doing up? Do you have any idea what time it is?” Jan barks at a closed door. “And put out that Goddamned cigar. You’re gonna set the house on fire!”

  A door opens. It’s a coat closet. A tiny woman half the size of Jan peeks her head out. Her wiry gray hair is pulled back taut in a barrette. A thick cigar dangles from her lips and she has a monstrous can of Lysol clutched in one hand. She nods at us and shuts the door again.

  “No wonder she likes us,” Nicole whispers. “They’re just as nutty as Klon.”

  I look over at Klon. I can tell he’s relaxed. His croaks got quieter as soon as he saw the lady in the closet.

  Jan walks ahead of us. “Follow me,” she says, pushing through the cluttered hallway. “Watch out for Ganesh.”

  We walk by an elephant statue covered with candle wax. It teeters on the edge of a wooden table with three legs, the fourth made of old magazines. The living room isn’t much more organized. Every inch of wood-paneled wall space is covered with trinkets from all over the world. Nicole picks up a dusty yellow box and opens the lid. Twelve tiny dolls fall into the palm of her hand. I try not to groan, sure she’s going to steal them when Jan turns back. “Guatemalan worry dolls.”

  “What?” says Nicole.

  “Asswipes,” Klondike croaks and taps on the yellow box.

  “Worry dolls. You tell them your problems before going to bed, and they help take care of them while you sleep.”

  “Tallywhacker,” he says, and holds his side.

  Nicole smiles. “That’s nice.” She looks at the room, her eyes scanning all the exotic contents.

  “Looks like you kids have a lot of worries of your own.”

  I clear my throat, not looking up.

  Tap tap tap tap. Klondike plays on my shoulder. I try to shrug him off but he taps harder.

  “Some,” says Nicole. She stares at the dolls in her hand. “Where did you say they were from?” she asks. “The dolls?”

  “
Guatemala. Central America.”

  Nicole holds the dolls in her hand. She clasps it shut. It would be so easy for her to steal them, but I watch as she lets them fall back into the tiny box and puts it back on the shelf. I sigh, relieved, trying to ignore Klondike’s loudening croaks. The good thing is that Jan doesn’t seem to care about what Klondike does and says.

  “Wait here,” she says. When she leaves the room, Nicole turns to me. “You thought I’d take them, didn’t you?”

  I shrug.

  “I don’t steal what I don’t need. That’s not cool.”

  “Okay. Sorry. It’s just—”

  “I’m not your dad,” Nicole says.

  I feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

  Jan comes into the room with a pile of blankets, three mugs of hot chocolate, and a box of graham crackers. “Like I said, this is no luxury hotel. You’ll have a good breakfast and baths in the morning. Good night.”

  The next morning Jan wakes us up before the sun has risen. We rub sleep from our eyes. I pull the blankets tight around me. She hands us three threadbare towels. “You can stay the day and one more night. I need help unpacking those boxes. You’ll get your three meals. But tomorrow you’re out at sunrise.” She sniffs. “From the smell of things, you all need to shower and wash those clothes. You know how to wash clothes, don’t you?”

  We nod.

  “Breakfast will be ready at seven thirty.”

  I look around for a clock, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

  Jan shakes her head. “An hour and a half. So there’s the bathroom, here are the towels, and here’s some laundry soap. Hot water’s expensive. So keep the showers under five. The dryer beeps when the clothes are done.” She points to a door. “There’s the kitchen. Don’t be late.” She hollers down the hall. “Did you hear that, Nancy? And put out that Goddamned cigar!”

  Nancy peeks from the closet and sprays her Lysol can in Jan’s direction. I wonder if she sleeps there. I stare at the rotary phone and worry if she’ll call the police.

  Jan says, “Your business is none of my own.” She looks us over head to toe. “I can see you’re not bad kids. But you’re not taking the right road, that’s for damned sure.”

  The three of us stare down at our toes. Klondike whispers, “Tallywhacker, asswipe,” then taps my arm.

  “One more night.” Then she turns on her heel and goes into the kitchen while we get washed up.

  The hot water trickles out of a rusty showerhead and I jump away to turn up the cold.

  I don’t want the shower to end. I scrub my hair and use her conditioner, my curls coming unknotted. Nicole pounds on the door, “Five minutes! Switch!”

  I stand and look at the filthy water that swirls around my feet and splashes up my ankles. Just one more minute, I think. Just one.

  Nicole pounds again and I step into the steamy bathroom, the mirror fogged up. My skin is itchy and red.

  Nicole gets into the shower. “Klon’s sleeping again.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What’s with that?” Nicole asks.

  “You know. On average a person will spend a third of his life asleep.”

  “That explains why you can’t seem to keep your eyes open. Ever.” Nicole shouts above the spatter of water. “Christ, what a lot of wasted time.”

  “Nah. It’d only be a major evolutionary glitch if sleep didn’t serve some purpose—memory, learning, rest, who knows? All animals sleep. Scientists study it all the time. Humans need at least seven hours a night to be fully rested. And Jan probably woke the roosters up.”

  After a while the water turns off and Nicole steps into the bathroom, wrapping her body in the towel. “Well?”

  I’m sitting on the woven rug on the bathroom floor. “Well what?”

  “Aren’t you gonna go get Klon? It’s his turn.”

  Our clothes are in the dryer, so I tiptoe around the house in a damp towel, leaving little puddles wherever I go. Klon is sound asleep, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, curled up against one of Jan’s bookshelves. I shake him awake and steer him to the shower. When he’s done, the three of us sit in the steamy bathroom, listening for the beep of the dryer.

  When we’re cleaned and dressed, it feels like heaven—our clothes soft and warm against our skin.

  Jan bangs some pots in the kitchen and whistles a tuneless song. She dumps piles of steaming porridge on our plates.

  We spend the day organizing boxes of trinkets so Jan can take pictures to sell on eBay. Klon sleeps most of the day.

  At dinner we sit around the table. I lean in and jerk my head back. It smells like burning socks.

  “Potato, kale, soysage casserole,” Jan says. “Our favorite.”

  The lady from the hallway leans her bony elbows on the table and stoops over her plate, plunging her spoon into the casserole. She finishes everything on her plate and creeps off down the hall.

  I crane my neck to see where she’s going.

  “Back to the closet,” says Jan between mouthfuls.

  “Of course,” says Nicole.

  Klondike smiles.

  They say hunger is the best sauce. Not tonight. The pasty casserole sticks in my throat and I drink several glasses of water to keep it down. Still, bite by bite, I eat until my plate is clean. Klon and Nicole are on second and third helpings. Jan offers, and I accept more, refilling my water glass. Food is food. No matter how bad it tastes.

  Klon’s head nods and he jerks it up, his eyes wide. It’s early, but Jan ushers us to the den where we slept last night. “You three need to sleep. Good night.”

  “You gonna look at your letters again?” Nicole asks.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  She nods. “I look at my postcards lots.”

  “I understand.” I pull out the letters and we both look at the faded flower. “I like this one the most. It feels more—”

  “Real.” Nicole finishes my sentence. “What’s the letter say?”

  I read:

  Dear Michelle,

  Reading Mom’s name aloud is weird to me and I pause. Michelle. Michelle Brandt. Then Michelle Aguirre. Then Michelle Brandt Aguirre—loving daughter, wife, and mother. Dead. I clear my throat and read on.

  I didn’t know the world could be so big outside of the farm.

  The tourist season is crazy with people coming in from all around the world. Before the snow has melted, the hikers arrive. And they come from Europe, South America, Asia—even Africa. The tents fill with aromas from around the world: curry, olive oil, sardines, and greasy sausages. Every group I take has a different menu.

  I’ve been on three tours with Michael Jones now. Michael Jones. He couldn’t sound more American if he tried. At first, I found his presence to be irritating. He’s quiet. Too quiet. He’s not charming—at all. Not like your Michael. But over the past several months, guiding groups into the mountains, I’m starting to think there’s something there in that huge frame. (He’s over 6’5”—a giant!) The other day, after coming back from a two-week backpacking trip with a Japanese group (I never want to eat seaweed and wasabi again), he gave me this flower. He said, “This is a piece of our home.” Our home. What does he mean by that?

  But it made me feel like I found my place—something you and I have both always searched for. And I couldn’t think of anyone better to send it to.

  I thought you could use it more than me.

  This is my home now. I’m never going back. It could be yours, too. Yours, Michael’s, and Amaya’s. Come home.

  Love,

  Sarah

  I fold up the letter and put it back in the envelope.

  “Wow,” says Nicole.

  I nod.

  “What’s the next letter say? Did she get it on with the giant?”

  “That’s the last one. The last one dated before—” Before Mom died. What else would Aunt Sarah have had to say? “The only other things that come after this letter are the paycheck stubs.”

  “Intense,” Nicole sighs
. “You think she’s in Boise?” Nicole asks.

  I shrug. “I hope so. You think your dad’s in Chicago?”

  “Probably.” Nicole holds the flower in her hand. “It’s all about this flower. This is the key,” she says.

  “Maybe.”

  Then Nicole and I start short-e words. She knows more than she thinks. She just gets her vowels mixed up. We study until my eyes stop opening after I blink. Klon has been fast asleep for at least an hour.

  We lie down in the den, bundled up, warm and full.

  “Not all people are shit,” Nicole says.

  “No. I guess not,” I agree, and fall into a dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Purpose: Find Aunt Sarah

  Hypothesis: If I can find Aunt Sarah, we’ll be okay. I don’t know why, but I just know things will be okay when I find her.

  Materials: Mom’s box, the locket

  Procedure:

  1) Get to Boise

  2) Find the restaurant where Aunt Sarah worked (works)

  3) Find someone who knows Aunt Sarah (if she’s not at the restaurant anymore)

  4) Get in touch with Aunt Sarah

  5) Start a new life

  Variables: The restaurant: Will it still be there? Will somebody remember her? Will she be there? Aunt Sarah: Will she take us all in? Will she know what to do? Am I ready to have somebody else make these decisions?

  Constants: Me, Nicole, Klon

  “I’m not gonna say, ‘Call me if you need help.’”

  We stand on her porch, and she hands each of us a sack lunch.

  “I don’t want to see or hear from any of you ever again, okay?”

  We nod.

  “The nearest town is four miles south of here.”

  The three of us look around. I look toward the mountains and sun and turn around on the porch.

  “Lordy, Lordy,” she says. “That way.” She points to the left. “You have problems, tell ’em to the dolls.” She hands Nicole the box of worry dolls.

  Nicole cups the box in her palm. She looks up at the lady. “Than—” she starts to say.