Out There: a novel (30 page)

Soon enough a hint of light came, and the scratching of birds on the other side of the gate was soon followed by the shuffle of steps Jefferson had been awaiting. Gabriel was coming. Jefferson could hear his footsteps.

Much as on the previous evening, he got up and dusted himself off, but this time he stood out in front of the gate, holding the newspaper he’d picked up, ready to present to his friend. Remedios the Pup waited at attention by his side.

Just as on the previous night, the heavy handle began to turn, and soon the turquoise gate was swinging out to reveal the famous writer in his pajamas, his little dog and the guinea hen at his feet. The old man had a look of disequilibrium about him this time, though, his eyes unnaturally glazed and his gait off-kilter, so Jefferson stepped forward to offer his assistance, telling Gabriel “Good morning” and “How are you doing?” and “Here’s your newspaper, sir.”

The old man looked at Jefferson anew, as if his old eyes had taken a moment to focus upon the young man standing before him, and then he smiled an old man’s smile, saying, “Why, thank you, and how kind of you.” He took hold of Jefferson’s elbow and proceeded with his shuffle away from the turquoise gate, asking him his name, and whether he’d like to join him in a walk by the light of the moon, and whether he had any stories he’d like to share.

It
was the end of the fifteenth day, and with Mexico City fading behind him, the climb of the high desert plains ahead of him, and many miles to go on the tired Kawasaki, Jefferson began to think of everyone he needed to thank. He started with the entire country of Iraq, thanking all those citizens of that distant land for all their sacrifices. And then the US Army, his Tenth Mountain Division and the men and women who’d shared his living space. Thank you, Rock Guns, he said in his mind. He’d met a famous writer, his very own Gabriel, and while it had not changed everything, it was an accomplishment. How many people could claim it? Some people thought miracles changed everything, and that was missing the point. He was grateful for the trip and for the time he’d shared with the old writer, and he was thankful for all the miracles that had happened along the way, even for the bergamot woman who had chosen to spare his life.

Gabriel García Márquez was still Number One, but after him a long list followed in Jefferson’s mind, beginning with Esco, who he knew was responsible for so much, much of which he would never know. He guessed he probably would have died of diaper rash or curdled milk in his bottle or that a flash flood would have whisked him away in his stroller or that he would have been devoured by red ants if it hadn’t been for her. He needed to find Josephina Maria C de Baca, and he wanted to write to Tajia, and then there was Ms. Tolan and, of course, Nigel. He’d go see Dr. Monika in a few days, tell her some new stories, and later he’d begin a list of a whole lot of other people he needed to thank, some of them teachers, many of them strangers.

Jefferson rode slow and easy on the way back home, taking the time to stop along the way whenever there seemed a good reason. By the time he made it back to that roadside spot near the little town of La Parrita and saw the lone man still standing on the edge of the road, he already knew he would stop. Though their conversation was brief and bare, a mix of Spanish and English, Jefferson learned the story of the man’s difficult adolescence, and of his love of nature and his hope for mankind too. Every day, the lone man told Jefferson, he waited on that roadside until one person stopped to say hello. Some days he waited all day. Some days the first passerby stopped.

In the end, it took Jefferson almost eleven full days to reach Santa Fe. It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve—the best day of the year in his hometown, he had always thought—by the time he took the off-ramp onto St. Francis Drive. Even though he imagined his grandmother had been cooking all day, he bought two dozen tamales at Posa’s on the way home. When he walked through the front door to surprise his family, there they all sat, playing Scrabble and listening to Nat King Cole, Esco’s favorite for the holidays. It was as if he had never left, all over again—only this time the sameness, the coming home, proved to be a comfort.

After all the hugging and a short dance sequence from Nigel over in the corner and a flurry of questions about how his trip had gone and how had it worked out with the famous writer guy, and how Remedios was as a traveler, Esco told him that the C de Bacas would be joining them for dinner, and did he know Josephina’d had a little baby? She’d decided to be a single mom, had moved back home with her mom because the baby’s father was good for nothing, and, oh yes, she asked about Jefferson from time to time. Esco had thought it was the nice thing to do to include their family for Christmas Eve. She hoped it would be okay with him—she would have asked him if she’d known he was coming home. Jefferson had no words to answer his grandmother, because everything she was saying struck him as so ordinary and good. His eyes began to be aware of a bright light in the corner of the room, sparkling against the ceiling and letting off a soft, warm glow. He could hear the opening few chords of the hallelujah song. It was a little difficult to have a conversation when his gifts were in full swing like this, so he just let an easy smile wash over him.

After he’d talked a little more and gotten the pup some food in the kitchen, Jefferson went down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door on the festivities and let the warm quiet pinkness of the space, these old tiles, hold him. Esco had a vanilla votive burning on top of a washcloth on top of the toilet tank, giving off a smell like all the holidays he’d ever had. He ran hot water and washed his hands and looked over his skin in the mirror. It was clear now, though he could see some scarring from before. He felt a slight sadness over this fact, as he’d always worked so hard to have clear skin, but it was Christmas Eve, and he’d made it home on time, and Josephina and her baby would be coming over soon, so he shook away the small vanity and allowed himself to look straight into his own eyes. They looked good, he thought, as he leaned in real close and stared, just a minute. If someone had seen him, they’d misinterpret, think he was studying his own surface. Really Jefferson just wanted to see for sure. Yes, his eyes were brown—just as they’d always been, he guessed. They didn’t look so tired, considering all that riding. There was even a little holiday sparkle to them, the part of them that could see extraordinary light overlaid on what might appear as darkness to someone else, this quality he swore showed itself now in the mirror as the best part of wisdom.

“Oh, you look so good,” Esco said when he walked back into the kitchen.

And there it was. Finally Jefferson could say what he’d wanted to say for so long.

“It’s really good to be home, Esco. It’s really so good to be home.”

Out There

By Jefferson Long Soldier

In tribute to Gabriel García Márquez

It rained more than three years, and many months and two days.

And then

A radiant Wednesday brought a trickle of blood,

Out under the door,

Crossing the living room,

Running out into the street.

My heart’s memory stopped,

Replaced by a viscous bitter substance.

Someone dead under the ground,

Dark bedrooms,

Captured towns,

A scorpion in my sheets.

Conservatives and liberals, all of them wearing funny underwear.

The smell of dry blood.

The bandages of the wounded.

All of it,

A silent storm.

Me, left out there.

Dying of hunger and of love.

Out there,

Everything, even music, reminded me of beauty, and

That literature was the best plaything of all.

Out there, a big world:

I didn’t know why we were fighting.

Parrots painted all colors,

A hen scratching to the beat of a tambourine,

Men making fish,

Women replacing buttons,

Children discovering ice.

Out there,

I could not find what I was looking for.

Every house a madhouse.

Daily habits nonsense.

The eggplant patch of my memories,

Nothing but mourning and exile and dust.

Then I found it,

Gigantic and sturdy,

Almost enough to drown me in a cistern.

Its soft whispering,

A mineral savoring

Of love.

I hung my hammock between almond trees and made love to it in broad daylight.

I gave thanks to it.

Why?

It opened my eyes.

I saw a light rain of tiny yellow flowers falling.

Yellow flowers falling on the town,

Covering the roofs and blocking the doors.

Yellow flowers opening up the most hidden passageways of my heart,

Lifting me up into the air.

I saw a new day breaking out on the horizon,

A sediment of peace filling me.

It had never occurred to me until then to think

I was too young to know

That I would hear music again,

That I would smell the whiff of oregano,

Roses at dusk.

That I would go on living,

Human and nostalgic,

Remembering without bitterness,

Multiplying all that is good,

Softness in my heart.

About the Author

Sarah St
ark is a former policy analyst who wrote about international security issues, including nuclear nonproliferation and peacekeeping. For the last 14 years she has made her home in Santa Fe, New Mexico, where she currently teaches literature and creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts (IAIA). She is happily married and the mother of four wonderful children.

Please visit
SarahStark.net