Kind of Kin (22 page)

Not that Sweet was much of a political person anyway, but she did vote. Usually. Most of the time. In presidential elections anyway. Terry was the one who paid attention to that stuff, and that was because he came from a political family, or anyhow his own daddy, Carter Kirkendall, had worked on the county election board practically till he'd had one foot in the grave, and Tee's great-uncle, Gene Kirkendall, used to be a corporation commissioner right up till the time he got sent to prison for bribery and corruption when the state attorney general was sending all those commissioners to jail years ago. It had been Terry's daddy's idea, in fact, for them to name their son after an Oklahoma politician, and Sweet hadn't argued. She'd figured there would be other children she'd get to pick the name for . . . a daughter, yes. Oh, how fiercely she had longed for a baby girl. How relentlessly she'd prayed.

Sweet sucked in her cheeks, bit down hard on the inside of her mouth. But the old familiar ache, once awakened, wouldn't leave her. It had been a part of her life's rhythm for too many years.

You couldn't even call them miscarriages, not really—a few days late, enough to make her hope, then a heavier flow than usual, that was all. That was the rhythm: two or three days of hope, then one long heartsickening day of lost hope, then the low, tender ache starting, the yearning, the wait for next month. She'd tried, back then, to talk to Terry about it. But he didn't want to talk. And so Sweet had prayed. Prayed and prayed and prayed. Then, the same month Carl Albert started second grade, Sweet had, in a great weeping emotional trip to the altar, rededicated her life at a church revival. After that she'd quit praying for what she wanted and started praying to accept the Lord's will. And the Lord's will must be, had to be, the fact that she was only ever going to bear the one child. The one son.

Oh, Carl Albert. Oh, honey. This was going to be so hard on him. Sweet's chest was working. She could hear her throat making little low-pitched voiced sounds. She swiped at the windshield with her open palm again. She couldn't see. Everything was so smeary. Maybe her defroster had quit working, too. Damn it. The gravel turnoff would be coming up soon. Damn it. Oh, honey, sweetheart, Mommy's sorry. Carl Albert. My baby. She couldn't see. She couldn't see anything! Sweet stopped the car on the pitch-black road.

There was nothing. Only the faint scent of wet asphalt, the oniony odor from wadded-up food wrappers in the back. The
suck swish click
of her worthless wipers. The tortured, hiccupy sound of her own breaths.

Tuesday |
February 26, 2008 | Evening

In the Gloss Mountains

I
n the
cleft of the dark, glinting hills, Luis opens his coat, uses the knife the boy
gave him to cut a rag from the tail of his shirt, pours cold water on it. With
the damp shirt-rag he bathes the face of the boy. For one week, he reminds
himself, the miracles have come without limit, one following the other following
the other. Each time he believed they were lost, the way opened. Each time he
grew afraid, Our Lady brought him peace. She has accompanied them every mile,
every minute, until this frozen hour beneath a purpling sky in this small
sheltered place on the dark plain. But this hour the boy coughs. His skin is
hot. The truck is lost. Luis fears that Our Lady has abandoned them. For what
reason? He cannot tell.

Please, mister,
the boy
says. His voice is rough and low, too rough for the voice of a child.
I have thirst.

Yes,
Luis says, and he
opens the jar of water, holds the cold mouth for the boy to drink. In the dark
cleared space around them the ground glints in the moonlight as though diamond
dust has been sifted in the soil. The boy shifts again, restless. Luis touches
his forehead. He is burning hot, his hair is soaked with sweat. Tomorrow they
must find a town, find a doctor or hospital. The boy cannot travel the cold,
gray days any longer. He cannot sleep anymore in the frozen nights, huddled
inside the sleeping bag. Luis is afraid, and yet peace accompanies his fear. The
peace of surrender. To have traveled so far, and still not see his sons. This is
a terrible decision. But of course, there is no decision to be made. If he does
not find help soon, the boy will become more sick. It is possible he will become
too sick to get well. No. We must not think this. Luis presses the edges of the
sleeping bag more tightly around him, says quietly,
I will
climb to the top of the hill to see where is the next town.

¿You return soon?
the
boy asks in his rasping voice.

Yes. Very soon.

The climb is not difficult. The hills have been
coursed with paved walkways, steel rods for banisters—a park of some kind,
though with so few trees, no tables or benches or flower beds, Luis does not
know why anyone would want to come here. There are signs near the road that tell
the name of this place, and also the names of plants and animals beside
drawings; he recognizes the animals—a lizard, a tortoise, a rattlesnake, a
mouse—but he cannot understand the english names. By the time they arrived here,
the boy was already too sick to read the words aloud. Luis climbs to the top of
the highest hill; at the crest is a great flat place, like a table stretching
far into the darkness, but the ground is rough, broken by gashes in the rocks,
mounds of stone, clumps of brush. Looking off, he can see many miles in all
directions—a light here, a light there. Lone distant houses. They would have a
telephone, Luis thinks. A car. He looks to the east, the flat cold plains across
which he and the boy have traveled, and can see a small clutch of lights—the
little gasoline store and few houses they passed in the early morning. The
distance is, he remembers, very far. In the west, the sky is still violet, but
on the dark earth below he sees no clustered lights indicating a town. Still, it
seems better to go on than to go back.

We will go as soon as the dawn comes, he thinks.
How strange. All the journey they have been hiding in the daylight, moving
rapidly off the road each time they heard a car or a truck, lying down with the
bicycle in a ditch or some tall grasses until the vehicle passed. Tomorrow they
will travel openly on the side of the road, hoping that some person will drive
near and stop. We will do this in the early morning, Luis thinks, if the boy is
able to ride a little more.

Quickly he turns to feel his way with his feet
across the flat hilltop. The way seems more treacherous going down than
climbing; he has to hold more often to the steel bars, his feet slide on the
little stones, his knees ache, refuse to bend. When he reaches the bottom, he
cannot recall which of the small sheltered crevices he left the boy in.
¡Boy!
he calls softly. But there is no need for
silence. They are no longer hiding. It would be welcome if someone heard him
calling and came in a car to arrest them. He calls again, this time with his
hands cupped, very loudly:
¡Dustee!

Here,
the boy answers
with that choked scratchy sound.

Luis makes his way toward the voice.

The boy has pushed down the sleeping bag. He lies
sweating, his face wet.
¡No, no!
Luis says, pulling
up the flannel.
¡You must keep warm!
At first the
boy fights him, pushing away his hand; then he turns on his side within the
sleeping bag, whimpers, grows quiet.
It is well, my son,
Luis whispers.
It is well.
Overhead the sky
is growing darker. Luis wraps the green sleeping bag across his shoulders to
keep warm. The moon is high in the sky already, a little west. When they left
the farm in the blue truck, Luis remembers, she was a thin white sliver in the
afternoon sky.

That first day the boy showed Luis where to turn,
and where to turn, until they were driving west on a rutted dirt road in the
frozen winter afternoon. He talked rapidly in english and spanish, but Luis
understood very little, only that the boy wished to see his mother. Then the boy
grew silent. He sat leaning forward, holding his arm, intently watching the side
of the road. Luis, too, watched the road, and also the low humpbacked hills to
the south and to the north. He liked seeing the blue hills in the distance. They
were not majestic like the Sierra Gorda, but they were pretty.

Here, please,
the boy
said, and gestured for Luis to turn again. They had come to a small cemetery a
short distance off the road, very ragged and rough looking, with thorny,
leafless brambles crawling over the rock walls. A rusted iron sign arched across
the entrance showing english words. As soon as the truck stopped, the boy jumped
down, supporting his left hand with his right, and ran to the open gate. Then
the boy halted, walked slowly through the cemetery till he reached a shiny black
headstone near the back. Luis had never seen a black headstone; it seemed a
strange thing. Was it a mark of honor in this country to have a black headstone,
or was this something bad? Luis pictured the black quarry stone of the Temple of
Our Lady of Guadalupe in Arroyo Seco. On the front of the unfinished temple, the
black stone was something beautiful and good. Maybe here it was the same. On the
far side of the cemetery the boy stood with his head bowed. Luis turned his eyes
away to give the boy privacy. The other graves appeared untended, with tall
yellow grasses growing on them, obscuring the markings. Some of the headstones
had fallen over. They were all gray colored or white, very small. The sun was
rapidly descending. Soon dark would come, and the cold would be worse. Luis sat
in the quiet truck for as long as possible, but at last he returned his gaze to
where the boy stood. His heart bumped. He thought the boy had disappeared. Then
he saw the wine-colored sleeve peeking out from the far side of the stone. Luis
reached to the floorboard for his coat, climbed down from the truck.

He found the boy sitting with his back against the
black headstone, facing the fiery sun, his cap brim pulled low. After a moment
Luis sat beside him, placed the coat on the ground between them. The winter sun
swam low on the horizon, a fierce red circle. Luis said,
The night will be coming soon
. The boy said nothing. After a time
Luis asked,
¿What does your mother say to you?

She says my grandfather loves
me.

It is the truth,
¿no?

Yes.

Luis could feel the sadness in the boy but knew
nothing to help. He used one hand to shade his eyes from the sun. It was already
halfway below the ragged line of earth now, one half the red circle.
Night will soon come,
he repeated
.
The boy shrugged. Luis placed the coat a little nearer to him.
Your arm,
he said.
¿He is
broken?

¿Broken?
The boy tilted
his head, his bruised face shadowed by the cap brim, the brown hair pushed down
flat and parted to each side above his brows.
¿What is this
word?

Luis used his two hands to show the gesture of
snapping a stick into two pieces.

Oh.
Bro
-
ken.
I dont know.

With your permission, I will
look
. Very carefully Luis reached for the hurt arm. The boy did not
yip though he made a face of pain as Luis peeled back the slick jacket sleeve.
The wrist was red and swollen, turning bruised. With his fingers Luis felt along
the arm, the wrist.
Not broken, I think. Maybe sprained.
Gently he placed the arm back the way the boy held it.
¿How did this happen?

The boy said nothing. The sun was gone then. In its
place a rosy light glowed all along the horizon. The boy, too, was glowing rose,
the grave, the stone wall, the stunted trees.

Before the light will be gone,
Luis said,
we must study the map.

Okay, the boy said, but he made no move to rise.
The sadness in him was a thick dark wave. After a moment he said, very softly,
I want to see my grandfather.

This was also a sadness. The grandfather in the
prison. Luis did not know the adequate words to say to comfort the boy.

We wait for the night,
the boy said.
Is more . . . carefulness.
For the police. ¿You understand? Then I talk to my grandfather.

And Luis did understand. The boy wanted to go to
the prison to see his grandfather. But this was not possible.
I cannot go where the police will be
.

Yes. We are able. No problem.
My mother say me. You wait in . . . the car.
The boy
motioned toward the truck.
Then we go. Very later. No
problem,
¿okay?

Luis answered nothing. He sat thinking. Perhaps he
would be able to follow the map and find his way to the Guymon town alone, but
he could not drive off and leave the boy in the cemetery, in the night, alone.
Neither did he wish to return the boy to the place where the people would hurt
him.

We go together,
the boy
said.
To the house of my sister.

Luis nodded slowly.
Good,
he said.
It is well.
Then the sadness was not
so strong, neither in the boy nor in Luis. Another traveling marvel—not a
miracle, no, but a little mercy.

They waited long. Luis helped the boy put on the
coat. The rose light turned purple, then gray. They moved from the grave to the
truck, sat waiting for deeper night. The boy talked a little. He liked to come
to this place to hear his mother, he said, but he could come only sometimes.
This place was far from his house for walking, even more far from the house of
his aunt and uncle. He needed to speak with his grandfather. This was very
important. He needed to tell the grandfather that he was not . . . But
then the boy became suddenly silent. He did not reach for the yellow dictionary
to find the correct word. After a moment Luis said quietly,
¿How will this be? The prison will be closed.
He spoke slowly, with
great deliberation. If he talked normally, the boy would sit frowning, shaking
his head, but if Luis employed simple words, spoke slowly, the boy very often
understood. This time the boy shrugged.
My mother say
me
was all he said
.
The night grew
colder. Luis started the truck to put on the heat, but he did not want to use so
much of the gasoline, and soon he turned off the motor again. He brought the
backpack and one of the sleeping bags from the truck bed, spread the bag open
across them, and they ate crackers and flat squares of cheese from plastic
wrappers. They had nothing to drink.
I forget the water,
the boy said.
I go too quickly.

No problem,
Luis said.
The moon was a thin white cord in the sky before them.