Kind of Kin (18 page)

She kept walking. In another second Juanito's truck started, and soon he pulled alongside her.
“El agua,”
Juanito said,
“es peligroso.”
Sweet stopped, squinted up at him. How to explain all of it? That her husband couldn't be trusted. That her husband might as soon turn him in as look at him. Juanito gestured toward the distant creek. “I drive you, okay? Then I come for my wife.”

“No, you don't
come for
your wife,” Sweet said. “You come
stay with
your wife! You get me?”

“Sí, claro.” He beckoned through the window. “Come.”

The trip back across the creek was harrowing but not so bad as the first. Nothing's ever as bad the second time, Sweet thought. The horn sounded again as they climbed the far bank. Sweet swung the truck door open before Juanito had hardly got stopped; she hurried around to the driver's side. “Go back and stay with Misty.” He had his head turned away, looking through the back window to see how to turn around. “Juanito!” His smooth face swiveled to her. Sweet bounced her two open palms in a “stay” gesture like you'd give a dog. “Stay,” she said. “You and Misty, stay. Understand?”

“Okay. See you later.” He started to back up.

Okay. See you later. She hurried along, picking her way through the scrub brush until she reached the gulley and scrambled down. Terry wasn't honking in rhythm now, just one long continuous blare.
HONNNNNNNNNK.
She ran to her car, considered tapping out an answer—but no, that would only draw his attention this direction, not to mention provoke such questions as What the hell took you so long? She started the car and headed toward the house. She had to get Terry to go home. No. No! Not home. Back to Poteau. Because she was going to have to hide the kids at the house and wait for dark—what else was she going to do with them? She'd make them all lie down in her backseat for the drive to town. How she would sneak them from the carport into the house in broad daylight she didn't know, but she'd cross that bridge when she came to it. Sweet snorted. Cross that bridge.

Her husband's large Silverado looked oddly small in comparison to the giant horse-trailer-hauling pickups parked all around. Terry himself looked small, standing beside the open truck door with his burgundy cap in his hand. Their son wasn't with him. Sweet glided her window down. “Where's Carl?”

“At the preacher's. I went by there looking for you. He said you must have come out here for the mounted search.” He glanced behind her toward the pasture. “What were you doing?”

“Just, you know, looking around. For Dustin.”

“Hadn't they been out there already? They been all over this property.”

“I know, I just, you know. Killing time. Waiting on the searchers to get back.”

Silence. After a moment, Terry said, “How you doing?'

“Good. Good,” she said. “You?”

“Good.”

“How's Carl?”

“He's good.”

Another silence. Tee stood in the crook of the truck door, examining his frayed cap brim, turning it in his hands, plucking at the loose threads. After a long time he said, “I'm . . . I'm . . . I really hate it that it turned out like it did for your daddy. And for . . . everything.”

“Okay,” she said. That was the nearest she'd ever heard him come to saying
I'm sorry.

“Me and Carl, we . . .” Terry glanced up. “He needs to be home, Sweet.” Her husband waited, gazing steadily at her now, the bags under his eyes thicker and paler than ever. When she didn't answer he looked back down, gave the cap another turn. “We oughta . . . we got to be in this together.” He raised his sad brown gaze. “I need to be at home.”

Seventeen years. He was a good man. She loved him. “Just . . . not right yet, Tee,” she said, wavering. “Carl Albert don't need to be in the middle of all this. Let's wait till things settle down. Till after Dustin comes home.”

“We'll deal with it,” Terry said. “We're a family. I'm, I really am . . . aw, honey, you know I didn't mean for things to get messed up like this.”

“You didn't.”

“Not for your dad! Not for Carl Albert, or Dustin!”

“Just for the Mexicans?”

“It ain't every Mexican, just the wetbacks! Just ones coming here to take people's jobs! You know how many men been laid off from Arkoma in the last year? Nineteen! Look, I come out to borrow your dad's trimmer for the bar ditch. His truck was gone so I went to the barn to get it, the place was crawling with them, they scattered like a bunch of minnows! Not a damn one of them could speak English. They couldn't even tell me where your daddy was at! Face it, Sweet, he's a fanatic. I'm sorry, but he is. You seen how he acted last summer at that blamed whatever it was, that party at Misty Dawn's house!”

Yes, she remembered; in her mind's eye she could see her father on the Mexican side of the yard gesturing around with his hands, acting out the words, while Terry leaned against the church van with his arms folded, watching him—and yes, all right, it had bothered Sweet, too, honestly, to see how cleanly her daddy fit in over there, but that was him. That was just Daddy, a man who would go to a Mexican church in Heavener the same as he'd go to a black church in McAlester, or a Catholic church, even, just . . . whatever. Daddy just had that weird streak. She remembered how Terry groused the whole ride home, talking low, barely over the van's motor, so her daddy wouldn't hear from the back. If Sweet wanted to go to any more family shindigs in Tulsa, he'd muttered, she could blamed well drive herself. This was the last time he was putting up with such crap! Sweet had wondered in silence what was so terrible that he'd had to put up with—a little trumpet music and barbecue smoke? Her daddy trying to act like he knew Spanish? Aloud she'd said only, “All right, you won't have to go. I'll drive next time.”

But there hadn't been a next time. The police had stopped Juanito a few months later for—what was it? Some sort of driving infraction, illegal lights or something; Sweet never quite got the whole story. It had happened so fast. By the time Misty called Sweet, sobbing hysterically on the phone, Juanito was already in the Tulsa County Jail. And then he was gone.

A cold thought struck her then, sinister, sickening. Had Terry turned in Juanito, too? Sometime after the party? But why would he do that? Oh, surely, surely to goodness the man she had lived with all these years was not that low-down ordinary skunk-ugly mean. She looked at him now, scratching his chin under his beard, rubbing his forehead; she knew the signs. He was starting to lose patience. He suddenly tugged his cap on, reached in and swiped his keys off the dash. “I hate that frickin' motel,” he said. Then he leaned in and jabbed the truck key in the ignition, which started to buzz. The door dinger dinged to announce that it was standing open with the key in the ignition. Terry straightened, stood peering down at her, a firm, settled look. “We're not waiting till Dusty comes home. He might not ever come home. He might be—”

“Shut up!” She whacked him on the chest. “Don't you
dare
say it! Don't you ever,
ever
say those words!”

“Aw, honey, no. I don't mean that. We'll find him, sure. Right now today, this morning. They might've found him already.” He reached for her. She let him pull her toward him, let him put his arms around her back, but she didn't soften against him. “Don't worry, honey, he'll turn up.” Terry tried to make his rough voice soothing; he stroked the back of her head with his big paw. “He's probably just, who knows, wandering around. The sun's out, he'll get his bearings, he'll come on in, the men'll find him, don't worry, it's all right, it's all right . . .” The buzzer buzzed, the dinger dinged. After a time Terry reached in and unseated the key. In the silence Sweet heard a motor coming up the gravel road. She twisted around, and Terry released her as she turned toward the approaching vehicle—a mud-spattered SUV filled with men. Her heart lurched. Back already. That was good. Maybe that was good. Or bad. She didn't recognize the fellow climbing out of the driver's seat. She couldn't tell a thing from his expression. Terry took her hand, held tight while they waited.

“Did the sheriff get here yet?” the man said.

“We don't expect him till the teams get back,” Terry said.

Sweet looked beyond the man's shoulder at the five men in red hunting caps inside the Explorer. She didn't know any of them, either.

“Deputy in town told us to wait here for the sheriff,” the man said. “He don't want folks going out unless him and his men coordinate it.”

“Y'all haven't been out searching?”

“Got to wait on the sheriff. But they said he'll be here pretty quick. Soon as he can get things organized.”

“What things?”

“I don't know. Communication lines. Or paperwork, maybe? I really don't know. They're moving search headquarters out here from Wilburton, they said. Sheriff wants everybody heading out from one location, wants it all centrally coordinated. Makes sense, I guess. How about we pull over and park next to that GMC? That won't be in y'all's way, will it?”

Monday | February 25, 2008 | 1:30
P.M.

State Capitol Building | Oklahoma City

M
onica had felt all morning like she was sleepwalking through her committee meetings. Present in body, absent in mind. Her grande extra-shot skinny latte had failed to help. Half her attention was focused on trying to rehearse her bill presentation, the other half kept looking over her shoulder, wondering who was talking about her, and what they were saying. Lunch was no better. Prepped and served by a clutch of student dieticians flanked by homemade signs advocating healthy eating, the food would have ordinarily suited her—baby carrots, chunks of broccoli and cauliflower, ranch dressing, fruit cups, little cartons of 2 percent milk—but today she had no appetite whatsoever. And where were her brains?

Tanked up on caffeine and no food, by the time session started, Monica Moorehouse was grinding her teeth. The speaker pro tem's voice reverberated over the sound system: “The House is now in session! Clerk will call the roll!” Everyone kept milling and milling and gossiping and laughing, which irritated the bejesus out of her. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the regular early-session roving, but the chitchat and commotion further frazzled her nerves. Things weren't helped when the representative from the Nineteenth District stood to introduce his special guests, the assistant chief of the Choctaw Nation and a whole row of tribal elders. And wouldn't you know, the Doctor of the Day just had to be named Gonzalez.

“The House will come to order! The House will come to order!” Her desk partner, Representative Thompson, strolled in, laid his two cell phones on the desk, clicked his laptop awake. His BlackBerry buzzed and he picked it up, strolled out again. Numbly she listened to the session unfold: Speaker recognizes Representative Renegar for questions on the amendment . . . Thank you, Mr. Speaker . . . Members of the House, prepare for debate . . . without objection . . . roll call, final passage House Bill 1727 . . . Representative McDaniel, you are recognized to explain your bill . . . Thank you, Mr. Speaker . . . Members of the House, please come to order! Debate is in progress . . . Roll call, final passage House Bill 1893 . . . Will there be debate? Seeing no debate . . . Representative Cox votes aye, Representative Wright votes aye . . . Members wishing to vote or change their vote . . . prepare to declare the vote . . . having received 73 ayes and 26 nays, the chair declares the bill passed . . .

It seemed forever before she finally heard the pro tem call her name. “Representative Moorehouse, you are recognized to explain your bill.”

When she rose from her desk, she felt the gallery's eyes on her, as well as the eyes of almost all her fellow legislators, a kind of watchful attentiveness rare on the House floor. But the effect of so much audience steadied her, and she proceeded fluidly, making every point she'd practiced, even after she'd glanced up at the south gallery and spied in the padded burgundy row directly below the Indians a small clutch of middle-aged Hispanic-looking men in business suits. This would be the Oklahoma Association of Hispanic Professionals, no doubt. Or possibly members of the Coalition of Latino Clergy and Christian Leaders. But Monica kept right on explaining the provisions of the bill smoothly, efficiently, right through to the end.

“Will the representative entertain questions?” the pro tem asked by rote. This was a point much discussed over the phone with Leadership, and one she'd been uncertain about until this very moment, but a kind of bold confidence rushed through her. “Yes, Mr. Speaker,” she said, and she remained standing, microphone in hand, fielding the opposition's barbed but politely veiled inquiries about “unintended consequences” and “negative fiscal impact” if the state had to defend against federal lawsuits with House Bill 1906 as they were still doing with the bill's predecessor HB 1830, et cetera, et cetera. Monica maintained her frozen smile throughout the minority's irrelevant commentary about crap that had almost nothing to do with the current bill.

“My constituents in western Oklahoma,” Representative Johns declared, “have contacted my office numerous times about how badly they're hurting for workers. We've got a real labor shortage since this bill's predecessor went into effect—not just farm workers but skilled construction labor, too, I'm told.”

“The simple solution for that, Representative Johns, is for them to hire citizen workers.”

“Thank you, Representative Moorehouse. That's very good advice. But they tell me every citizen in my district that wants to work is already working. Contractors are having to turn down jobs on account of they can't get workers. Now, now,” he said, raising his hand as if to fend off an assault, “I promise you, nobody's advocating for illegal workers. But one of the unintended consequences of this bill's predecessor is how it took whole work crews out of the state, whole entire families, many of them here legally, maybe even the majority. This bill's predecessor, House Bill 1830, created such a climate of fear that folks left in droves, and that has produced some real problems in my district. So my question here this afternoon, Representative Moorehouse, is this: Couldn't one of the unintended consequences of House Bill 1906 be to create such an inhospitable environment—”

At which point Monica waved her microphone avidly at the pro tem, who immediately recognized her. “An inhospitable environment is just what we
want
to create for lawbreakers, wouldn't you agree, Representative Johns? We intend to roll up the welcome mat for these lawbreakers, just as we intend to quit having Oklahoma taxpayers pay to educate their children! And to that end, I believe that the education notification provision in House Bill 1906 addresses the issue very well . . .” And she went on to pull the focus back to the bill at hand.

Another member, from one of the Tulsa districts, stood to speak of the recent negative national publicity creating a damaging image of the state, but Monica fended that off with, “Representative Howe, what is your question?” She received plenty of support from fellow majority members in the form of friendly leading questions, the answers to which tripped off her tongue, including debate on the touchy English Only provision—touchy solely because of the Indians, but she had that part deftly rehearsed. “Oklahoma is infinitely proud of its Native American heritage, we
are
Native America, as everyone in this august House knows, and certainly we would never want to do anything that would in any way impinge on that great proud heritage . . .” And so forth.

Still, she was unsure, really, until the voting was well started just how it would go. But the bill passed—with less of a resounding margin than 1830, it's true, far less of a margin than she'd hoped for—but a respectable number of minority members had voted aye, and she knew that the Senate vote, when it came up in a few weeks, was a shoo-in; everybody knew that. House Bill 1906 was a done deal. Unless the governor vetoed. But how could he, when he'd so ceremoniously signed 1830 into law? Anyway, they had the votes to override a veto, she was sure of it. Elated, she was smiling her thanks to several nearby lawmakers when she spied one of the Senate assistant floor leaders motioning to her from the outer hall. Flush with triumph, she went out to see what he wanted.

“Congratulations, Representative Moorehouse. Fine work.” Yes? Then why did he look so sour. “I don't want to take a bunch of your time,” he said. “I've just been visiting with some people from my district who drove over from Sapulpa this afternoon. They told me a bit of, I don't know, some disconcerting news I thought I'd pass along. It would seem that the Latimer County sheriff is going to be on
Larry King Live
tonight. The promo clips have been rolling all morning.”

If she hadn't been so in the zone right then, Monica probably would have groaned out loud. The sheriff was a media hog and an egotistical fool, like Charlie said, and every time he opened his mouth he made Oklahoma look worse. But
Larry King Live,
good God, couldn't somebody have prevented that? It wouldn't just be a cringe-producing sound bite, it would be a whole goddamn interview. She held on to her smile. “Well, that is unfortunate news, Senator. Thanks for letting me know. But I'm sure it'll be fine.”

“Yes, well. Apparently the reason he's going on is to defend his arrest techniques. The clips show him denying that that child's beat-up face had anything to do with the initial raid or the boy's treatment at the hands of his men.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I wish I were.”

“I thought that was a dead story!”

“If it was, it's been resurrected.”

“But the man's an idiot! That's only going to give it legs!”

The senator shrugged. Monica heard the chair finalizing the bill. “Oh my God. Excuse me, Senator!” And she rushed back onto the floor, but she was too late. The minority whip had already captured her bill. This time she did groan audibly, if faintly. Never once had she failed to recapture one of her own bills—that small bit of procedural housekeeping that ensured she'd be the only one permitted to bring it up again. Now the opposition had captured it; they could bring it up for reconsideration, in the meantime having tried to work the floor to make the vote tilt their way—or at minimum adding language that would nullify the bill's intent. Leadership would
not
be happy. She tried to tell herself it would be okay, but the pass margin had been too slim; she couldn't quite convince herself there was no reason to worry.