Body and Bread (19 page)

Mary Jo lay in weeds beside the tracks, arms oddly twisted, perfect breasts exposed, legs ironically bent into a
Tlahzolteōtl
crouch. My hands moved from her neck to her mouth, checking for breathing; I hated myself for not knowing what to do. Her still, naked body reminded me of the anatomy lab cadaver, and I thought,
She needs a nurse
. My father had called them indispensable, the same word Sam had used when he told me to face my true self. Now I wondered who that person could be. Mary Jo’s chest rose, but her eyes glared. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, choking, wondering if I should drag her to the station platform. Instead, I leaned, protecting her from view.

Smoke floated above us. The engine smoldered, its iron side gutted, misshapen, its compartment squashed, sheets of steel flapping inside flames. I’d tried to do what Sam said, and now look.

Before we had anything to cover us, people gathered on the station platform to watch firemen douse the flames. When he faced me, Antonio Mendoza tipped back on boot heels, his finger raised, pointing.

Two emergency aids rushed over, but I insisted that Mary Jo and Diane be treated first. I raised the collar of my borrowed coat and sat, leaning against a light post. Later, a technician strapped a temporary cast on my leg. As he propped my foot on an empty packing box, two uniformed men stepped forward.

“Miss Sarah Pelton?” one said.

“Yes.”

“Would you come with us, please?”

I hobbled to their car with its flashing light, then sat in back behind a wire screen, throbs searing my ankle. I remembered that Sam had shoved a Laredo policeman and found myself thinking how stupid that had been.

“This won’t take long, Miss Pelton,” the driver said, pulling onto the street. When he lowered his chin, a fleshy pouch framed his jaw.

The other, younger man had a receding hairline; comb tracks exposed more strips of scalp. My view of his mouth fit between the screen’s rungs. “You and your friends had some big party,” he said. “Are y’all lesbos?” Static crackled from a dashboard box, its microphone dangling like a toy.

“Let the lady relax,” the driver said, his profile a mug shot. “Downtown says go easy on this one.” His partner’s face materialized, crisscrossed by wires, then turned back toward the street.

Gusts from the front windows whapped my face, ears. The seat covers smelled of unwashed bodies, of “altercations,” of coffee, salt, grease. I thought of my room at home: its desk with a secret compartment where I kept a note from Mary Jo; its bed with a mattress molded to fit my shoulders, spine; its second-floor windows framing views of neighbors in their backyard. Shivering, I bent over, shifted my legs, but I couldn’t stop shaking.

“Have you talked to my parents?” I asked.

The radio barked, “Five-twenty-one in progress, Sixth and McAllister.” The officers exchanged comments, oblivious. Static rattled, then again clicked off.

I pictured my father holding the phone, being told about the explosion. He’d frown, and then his eyes would widen, not out of anger, but fear. His disappointment would come once he and Mother knew I was safe. Then I’d be like Moses, who made that one unforgivable mistake. “It was my fault,” I said.

“Yeah?” the young cop said, turning, wire framing his parted lips.

The driver nodded, “Won’t be long we’ll be at the station. We’ll take your statement there.”

Neither man touched me as we walked into the building, but the creaking leather felt like a pistol at my back. “I made my friends do it,” I said, suddenly weepy. I hoped taking the blame would somehow ease my guilt. Jesus rode into Jerusalem on palm leaves knowing what He faced. Aztec warriors climbed hundreds of steps to bend backward over the sacrificial stone. Sam fought gangs with no chance of winning when someone needed help. My father had bowed his head when Mr. Gueldner, his patient, placed coffeecake in his hands. “I’m ready,” I said, praying that jail was one of Sam’s experiences I’d somehow escape.

My parents brought the district attorney Blair Corcoran, a neighbor and long-time friend, with them to the police station. My mother, her face oily, flushed, came through the door first, huffing, checking the room. She glanced at me sitting on a chair in back, then approached a slab-jawed woman in uniform, who sat at a desk by the door. “Someone tell me what’s going on,” she said. My father and Blair appeared. “Pelton,” my mother insisted, tapping a stack of forms.

“Yes, ma’am,” the woman said, swinging her chair to the other end of the desk, “your daughter’s been charged with destruction of public property.” She pointed to a chair as she picked up the phone. “Take a seat.”

“But what does that
mean
?” My mother stiffened, her floral handbag squashed against her chest.

The woman mumbled into the receiver, then hung up and opened a desk drawer. “Restitution and a fine, possible jail time,” she said, pulling out a piece of paper. She began to write. “Would you sit down, please?”

“Blair,” my mother said. “What’s going on?” Behind a counter, another phone rang. A shadow flitted past. Someone laughed.

My father stood nearby. He stroked his tie, buttoned and unbuttoned his suit jacket. “Mama?” he said, his expression like the engine’s metal: hard yet broken.

My mother walked over, slid her arm under his, then patted. “Blair’s going to explain,” she said. “Sarah’s all right, see?” She nodded. “Right, sweetie?” Immediately, he approached.

“I’m okay, really,” I said as he checked my eyes, my cheek, head, neck. Removing the temporary cast, he pressed and turned my swollen leg. If a limb could have a migraine, mine had one, the nerves electrified, merciless. A throbbing shot to my groin, almost making me faint. “Oh,” I moaned, clamping my teeth.

He re-wrapped everything, tightening the straps. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said, his eyes watery. “Your mother and I are here to help.” He straightened, his back rigid as ever, then rested his hand on my shoulder. “Now, try to relax. I’ll take care of your ankle as soon as we’re finished here.” Then he walked to Mother, who stood, hand on hip, talking to Blair. “Is there any way,” my father said, “to pay for the damage, whatever those charges come to, and not have to put her through anything else? This, of course, was a terrible accident. Sarah’s always been a good girl. You know that.”

Blair looked at the linoleum then slipped his hands into his slacks pockets.

“I apologize for putting you in this position,” my father continued, “but I don’t know what else to do. Certainly, we want to do whatever you decide is right.”

Mumbled shouting came from the entrance. An officer wrestled a stumbling soldier across the room and into a large cage in the corner. “I want a phone,” the soldier wailed, his words wobbly as a loose wheel. “I know my rights.”

The officer strode to the counter. “Call the M.P.s,” he said, leaning close to the glass. “Tell them to come pick this guy up.” Then he tugged at his waistband, repositioning his pants, turned, and left.

Blair looked at my father. “Let me make a couple of calls,” he said. Suddenly he stood next to a phone on the slab-jawed woman’s desk. Putting on his reading glasses, he watched while she helped him find a number; then he dialed. Following the usual courtesies and a summary of what had happened, he said, “So you don’t have any problem with a fine for damages and some community service? We don’t want to step on your toes, here.” He listened; we waited.

“I’ll call him now,” Blair said into the receiver, plugging his other ear. “I appreciate your cooperation, Willie.” He hung up, adjusted his eyeglasses, and checked on a second number. Again he dialed and relayed a summary of events. “The sheriff says as long as you go along, he’s agreeable.” After a pause, he added, “Then I’ll go ahead and make the plea bargain for you to approve in the morning. Thank you, Judge.” Nodding at my father, Blair asked the woman to prepare a personal recognizance bond. Afterward, he turned to my parents. “You can take her home in a few minutes,” he said.

“Blair,” my father said, reaching for a handshake, “I don’t know how—”

“But what about her record?” my mother snapped. “She can’t have a record. She’s just a girl. Can’t you—”

“Nothing will appear on her record,” Blair said, dropping my father’s hand.

“Mama…” my father said, almost touching her shoulder.

“But,” Blair explained, “she’ll have to come to court Monday morning.”

“Court?” my mother whined. “You said that—”

I stood. “Daddy, I’m so sorry. I was trying to—”

“Sit down,” my mother said, dropping her purse on the woman’s desk, toppling a cup.

I did as I was told, relieved. Tell me when it’s over, I thought. My mother’s sharp voice had an oddly relaxing effect.

My mother followed in her station wagon as my father drove us in my Corvair to the hospital so he could set my ankle. He helped me hobble to the back entrance then pushed me in a wheelchair to his examination room, my mother walking alongside. After seating me on a table, he swiveled his chair between a bowl of plaster on a metal tray and my leg. He squinted; his jaw locked. His strokes and taps made me weepy. I couldn’t remember if he’d touched me since we’d squeezed together on a saddle at the farm.

“What has gotten into you?” my mother said, pacing. “First your hair, now this.” Her nylons swished with each step. She coughed, then turned, lip trembling. “You could’ve been killed.”

I was as baffled as she was. The fact that I’d reasoned myself into trouble made me numb. I’d had fun with my friends—yes, was that so terrible?—had felt the presence of something—I knew I did—and look where that got me. Now, my sweet, ridiculous parents seemed right. Was I the only one confused? I remembered my face in the reception room mirror: cut, swollen, like the priest’s in my dream. “What now?” I said.

“A man is what the winds and tides have made him,” my father said, wrapping my leg with plaster covered gauze. “Circumstances form the character.”

“Owen,” my mother said, pressing her forehead, sinking into a chair.

“Sir?” I said, afraid not to respond. More than ever, I wanted to understand what he was thinking. I hoped he’d keep talking until I did.

“If you were a jury member hearing this case,” my father said as he layered the dressing, his ritual creating a firm support, the result clean, reliable, “how would you judge the situation?”

That’s when I cried, sobs that shook until my parents helped me lie back, a prostrate offering.

I decided to go with my father and Hugh the next morning to church. Even though people would stare, I could listen to music, think. The familiar rituals, ecclesiastical stained glass, assurance of a loving God, and compassionate crowd were the comforts I needed most. First, though, I had to find out about Mary Jo and Diane.

“That goddess of yours knows how to throw one hell of a tantrum,” Mary Jo said into her hospital phone. She’ll be fine, I thought. Diane said, “I’m grounded till the year 2000.” Good-bye, I’m sorry, I thought.

Dressed, my head in a scarf, I took the mask off the wall. I fingered the earflaps, tongue. When I remembered the looped, clicking voice, I covered its mouth with my hand. I needed a clear definition of Sam’s idea of truth, a description of who he thought I was.

“What happened to your face?” Hugh asked, sliding his socked feet across my floor. His shirt, a hand-me-down, stopped at his belly button.

“Nothing,” I shrugged. Dad had stitched a cut on my chin. “I’ll be all right.”

“Is that a cast?” he said, trotting over, rubbing the plaster. “Can I touch it?”

“I guess so, sure.”

You in trouble?”

“Not any more.” I put the mask in a cabinet underneath my bookshelves.

“What’d you do
that
for?”

“What?”

“The mask. How come you took it down?” He picked a pen off my desk, threw it into the air, caught it. “If you don’t want it,” he said, stepping forward, “can I have it?” He clasped his hands in a mock plea. “Please? Come on, Sar, do this one thing.”

I remembered telling him about ritual sacrifice; I’d thought I was saving him. “I can’t,” I said.

“Crud,” Hugh said, wilting.

“Wait,” I said, forcing him to face me. “Something happened last night.”

His eyebrows arched.

“Trust me, Hugh. You don’t want that mask.”

Be a cornstalk. Beat your breath
.

That afternoon, while I lay on my bed surrounded by homework, Sam appeared. “What are
you
doing here?” I asked. He wore a t-shirt and faded Levi’s, the row of copper rivets like antique coins. Now, I thought, I’ll get him to explain what he meant when he said I shouldn’t be afraid to look, that I should become my true self.

He walked around the bed, leaned against my dresser, aiming his glance. “I came to thank you,” he said.

“For what?” I propped myself higher.

“For taking the heat off.” He started to smile but stopped. “Mom and Dad must be royally pissed.”

“They’re mad all right,” I said shoving books, thumping, onto the floor.

“Yeah, what you did was stupid. For once, I actually agree with them.” He crossed to the bed. “You okay?” He leaned, checking my leg, stitched chin.