Savior (19 page)

Sabine DeVries had worked for a church NGO in El Salvador that set up schools. She was an enigma to me. She seemed to hate Talbert and was often silent, sitting with knees rolled up to her chin. She put up with Hammond, just barely, and resented my presence without, it seemed to me, giving me a chance. She was bitter, probably because, unlike the other two, she expected to be an eventual human sacrifice in one of the
Santos Muertos's
ritual reenactments.

Talbert's obsession was
to develop a sign language among us, and when he learned Chagnon had given me a scrapbook to write in, he asked me to smuggle in a few sheets of paper and a pen. There was a surveillance camera trained on us at all times, hung from a fairly crude plastic housing above the door I came in, so the three had developed a routine where they did exercises, jumping jacks, deep-knee bends, and pushups, led by Talbert, until Hammond, pretending to become overheated, would take off his shirt and hang it above the door on the plastic box. With sheets of paper and the pen, we would then sit against the wall while Hammond wrote out an alphabet with corresponding hand signals. We made four copies and began to commit the signs to memory so that we could communicate at all times on important matters without fear of being understood. It took a few weeks, but eventually we all became pretty good at it, practicing with banal conversation. But then, after a period of time in which I proved I was trustworthy, they let me in on their big secret. They were working on a tunnel from the ceiling ventilation shaft in our common room.

We used the handles of forks they'd stolen from their dinner trays to loosen the screws on the
vent cover. I wasn't strong enough to balance on anyone and dig, but switched off with Hammond to have Talbert or Sabine on my shoulders working away at the screws to loosen the cover and reveal the work they'd been able to do thus far. Above the drop ceiling was the pliable ventilation pipe, about ten inches wide, surrounded by the layered rock we were buried beneath. The plan they had was to widen the mouth of the rock and dirt shaft in which the pipe lay. The three of them were hoping that only a few feet above the ceiling, if you followed the shaft, would be the floor of another tunnel or shaft wide enough for a person to get through.

We
would only spend about fifteen minutes working before we would stop and sweep up the dirt and rocks off the floor with our hands. We buried some of it beneath the sofa in a hole that they had found under a cracked section of concrete. Then we would divide up the pile among us and Talbert would lick up the remaining stone dust with wet fingers and swallow it. We would put the rest in our pajamas, tying up sleeves and legs to carry it out that way. Once back in our cells, the idea was to dump the dirt in the latrine buckets that were washed out with hoses in the bathroom and pumped up to the septic tanks.

Lucas, Guajiro and Ruben
used to argue after my weekly shower and on the way back to the cell about who were the greater fighters in the wars of liberation, Colombians or Venezuelans, who were the better lovers, or who made the best horsemen, and they tried to involve me as the adjudicator in these discussions. I was able to ease the strain among the three by reminding them that soon they would no longer be young, and the best solution for losing one's youth was to try and get along and not always feel that they had to prove themselves in these petty arguments. But of course they were suffering from isolation almost as much as we prisoners. And we had our own difficulties that eventually proved our undoing.

Sabine had a
cheap paperback book given to her by Lucas. It was a chapbook of poems by Nicanor Parra called
Los Profesores.
Lucas was very secretive about it and had risked a lot to give it to her. Sabine brought the book with her to the common room to share. It was in Spanish, and Lucas had written out translations of some of the poems in English in the margins. The translations revealed a rebellious streak, a fondness for a human outlook, that I thought was a revelation:

Los profesores nos volvieron locos              

a preguntas que no venían al caso
              

cómo se suman números complejos
              

hay o no hay arañas en la luna
              

cómo murió la familia del zar
                           

The professors drive us crazy

with their stupid questions

how to add complete (sic) numbers

are there or
no spiders on the moon

how the zar's (sic) family finally died

There was a bit of a rebellious streak in his choices. It made me reassess my previously low opinion of Lucas and his co-workers. Before, I had seen them as low-lifes who would do anything, carry out any orders, unreflectively, in the thrall of the superior power of Chagnon. But now I could see that there was the possibility of growth and rapprochement with these men, that they had imagination and a calling for life like anybody. There was more in common between them and us than there was separating us.

Sabine read various poems aloud with Hammond looking over her shoulder. There was a significant intimacy between them, as if they they had found common ground and were seeking to create a space for themselves away from the two of us, Talbert and me. Talbert was maddened by the sight of the two of them reading from this book; and to me, in a whisper, in the far corner, while the two continued to read as if drunk on the words, he said he would have to inform Chagnon about the poems. His reasoning was that it put the escape plans in jeopardy and it was better to have Sabine punished than to put us all in danger of discovery. He was clear on his reasons, but it seemed to me that his glazed eyes smacked of some kind of secret paranoia, a weakness for power. I felt like it was my responsibility to work with Talbert, so I said that if he informed on Sabine and Lucas, I would blow the lid myself on the tunnel. He glared at me and then looked away. I knew he was angry but couldn't guess at the extent of his vengefulness. Imprisonment on the order of five or so years had twisted him. He could no longer remember what it meant to use the ebb and flow of time as a model. For him it was all black now and the escape had become an obsession that outweighed all other possible events. His universe had shrunk down to that one singularity and it had consumed his heart with the negative pull of its awesome energy.

Chagnon came into my cell one day. I had been writing out a letter to Ricky, and I presented it to him, taking it out from under the mattress where I keep the notebook.

Thank you, I said, for this opportunity. This one act of kindness means you have a heart, Samael.

I will read what you have written. Your feelings and opinions are a small, insignificant factor. We are obliged to keep you alive and mentally functioning for your usefulness to us. That is all.

Read it now, then. Let me know what you think.

He took the letter from my hand and read from it.

Dear Son,

It is with great sadness that I write to you from my prison. I do not know where I am, but it is the Santos Muertos who have me here. I hope you are well and Uncle Tony and Aunt Ginny as well. I know you must think me foolish for all my talk of God and faith and family and look at us now, separated by an unknowable and unquantifiable space for no good reason. But I do believe that God has put us here as a test and you can be sure of one thing from this end. I have not forgotten you and constantly pray night and day for your safety and well being. You are the light in the night for me, Ricky, and will always be along with your mother. As long as you are alive and in the game I have a reason to cheer. Are you eating well, taking care of your health, doing your homework? I know these are the lame things a father has to ask about, and you would prefer to talk about the passing fancies that the world wants to dangle in front of your eyes to distract you from the important things. But don't lose sight of a few simple truths. Love will always win in the end. Every good deed is rewarded. Habits of mind become habits of character in the long run. Take care of others. Be generous. Keep me in your prayers. We will be together again soon.

Love,

Your Father

Chagnon looked at me.

A boy does not want to be carrying around the weight of his father's petty bleatings. Keep it short and simple, for your son's sake. And you don't mention the Chocomal. We need to think again about your role here, I can see. There is a simplicity that borders on unintelligence.

I tried, Chagnon. Go easy on me.

He paced back and forth without looking at me. He seemed to be weighing his words.

I understand you have seen the other prisoners.

Yes. Thanks also Chagnon. For that. It's been a huge improvement.

What do you think of their mental state?

What do you mean? They're fine, despite everything.

That's good.

Don't try to con me, Chagnon. You don't care.

They are high-value prisoners. I keep telling you, your health is important to our cause. We need to maintain you alive.

They need sunlight, Chagnon. Do you know what suffering that is? Talbert's been inside for five years.

Talbert worries me. He is very, how you say it, rigid.

Well, he's a career military officer. He has his discipline and his training.

His is an unhealthy involvement with life, the ideology of life. I can read it is his facial musculature. He needs to be re-educated to hold death in its proper place. Ironically it will relax him.

Yes, well, it would.

The American male has been emasculated by the culture of life, of caring and compassion. We need to save you from this, Mr. Lyons. Do you not feel the need to reclaim your proper role as destroyer, the terrible rapist of the natural?

No, I really don't.

You are denying the truth. Perhaps you need the water treatment to make the
Santa
happy.

I just need you to mail the letter to Ricky like you said you would.

He sat next to me on the bed. It made me nervous. I could feel my skin literally crawl, something about the magnetism of his body, the way it was charged. To me it was as if a snake had approached. At close range his eyes were slitted and inhuman and the tattoos on the skin accentuated his feral appearance. I couldn't help myself from wanting to vomit. But I locked eyes with him.

I will do so as soon as you make the changes I have recommended.

I'll do them right now. Here.

I jumped off the bed and searched underneath it for the pen, which was stored in a corner of the box frame. I picked up the letter from the floor and sat back on the bed with the letter against the journal on my lap.

             
PS: Don't worry about Samael Chagnon. I can personally attest that he has good plans for the Chocomal once he gets his hands on it. He is a true visionary with not a negative thought and I wish you could just get it to him ASAP so I could get to see you sooner.

I said it out loud as I wrote. Chagnon watched over my shoulder. He took it from me after I had written out the address for Tony and Ginny in Pittsburgh. I assumed that if Ricky were all right that he would end up with the two of them.

How is he going to get the tablet to you if he doesn't know where we are?

He knows. They know where we are.

Why don't they come get you?

We are protected. Have faith on me, Mr. Lyons; I am a
protegido
of the
Santa
herself. She guards her son.

And then he took the letter and was gone.

I don't know where I am. The light is buzzing over my head as I lie here. My faith is so fragile I can't really even believe I have any. It's a candle in the wind, a breath easily extinguished. It seems like such a leap for an imprisoned man to believe in a higher power. Just breathe. Sometimes breathing is the only real faith. Beyond breathing, what is there, what higher narrative am I enmeshed in? There is nobody to ask. Is there an angel directing this chorus? Or is it just the swirl of the meaningless and repeating universe? This is what I believe:

I believe in trusting my senses and intuitions to nobody.

I believe that I am trapped in a hell that has nothing to do with me.

I believe that the world is also trapped in a hell that has nothing to do with me.

I believe there has been a mistake.

Fifteen
—The Dead

Ricky awoke on the floor of the bus and looked up to see Lianne already dressed. He sat up and whispered.

What are you doing? It's three in the morning.

Don wants to show me the meteor shower. You can come if you want.

Ricky groaned and put his head back down on the pillow and writhed under the blankets.

You coming?

No.

Okay. You'd rather sleep. You're missing it.

If it was Don showing them the stars, Ricky thought he'd rather be plunged in eternal darkness. His misery was only compounded by the cold of the night without Lianne's warm backside against his on the floor. He tossed and turned, and anger and self-pity slowly were replaced with a colder appraisal of his situation. Lianne and Don were in love, and although he had no real claim on her affections, they had set out on the journey together. When she'd heard about his seduction by Aunt Peggy, she'd been happy for hi
m in an older sisterish kind of way that had left him surer than ever that her feelings for him were over. It was a hard thought, but maybe he was better off getting out of there on his own. All he had was the tablet. Maybe he should sell it. That was what Grill and Fuzz Tone were rumored to have done with enough methamphetamine to light up the St. Louis metropolitan area, according to Don. They were hanging around still, partying with Ned and Vargas and Aunt Peggy. Ned had sort of okayed the sale in the end, and Grill had been asked to use some of the proceeds to purchase some much-needed supplies and to put some into the rainy day fund since they were thinking of heading down to Belize in a few years to buy some land there as a jaguar reserve.

Vargas was
allowed to sell most of the meth in the cities for the same purpose. To live on a jaguar reserve was a higher sort of calling apparently, and Don and Lianne talked about it as if it was a certainty. Ricky didn't want to give up on his plans. The idea of finding his father seemed very remote and impossible, and this sad reality was something he had not yet been able to work his way around. When he listened to the news in the morning on the radio in the big house, it was like hearing hints of his father's life and suffering. Raids on safe houses in Chicago, teachers and students on strike in the universities, drug smuggling cartels expanding their influence in Texas and California, money laundering scandals in the major banks, Europe and Asia floundering in civil disturbances. It was like the pieces of the puzzle that he and Al had first glimpsed coming together on the mountain with Evelio and Noah. And nobody else could see it coming. He had no idea how to communicate his dread, except to keep working and get it together, enough so that he and Lianne could continue up to Canada. Did Canada even exist? He had no idea.

About an hour or so before the dawn, someone else came on the bus. Ricky, awake, listened to the footsteps and saw the little figure of Scissorhands slipping into the place on the sofa he shared with Arden up at the front. Vargas rarely slept with them. Arden had this weird need to tell people she was Scissorhands's sister, but everyone knew she was really his mother. They were supposed to be a family unit, but like everything else on the farm, work schedules, financial arrangements, parties
, and meals together, everything was fluid, changeable as the wind that stretched across the Tennessee sky.

In the morning, Ricky got up and dressed and walked outside to the tub and took a bucket of water to wash his face and hands and brush his teeth. Scissorhands was there next to him with a look of numbness that could
just have been lack of sleep. But Scissorhands was always hanging out with the old guy, Governor Harris, who lived in town and came up to the parties and helped with the harvesting of the marijuana crop. Ricky had seen Harris and Scissorhands that first night at the riverside, and he somehow knew that Scissorhands's blank smile and passive demeanor were actually the cover to a toxic well of hatred and confusion and abandonment to this man's weird desires.

Scissorhands’
s bushy hair was sticking out all over and Ricky told him to wet his hair and comb it.

Why should I?

You'll look better. That's why.

Who cares?

Ricky turned to him and looked him in the eyes.

Scissorhands. Do you hate your life?

Yeah.

This place sucks.

It's supposed to be a happy farm, dude.

Well, you haven't d
runk the Kool-Aid, have you Scissorhands? At least there's breakfast.

Ricky plunged his face into the tub.

That's what Governor Harris says. Everything else is peas and potatoes.

Is that what he says?

He likes his peas and potatoes.

Scissorhands. You need to get away.

Get away where, dude?

Not where. From.

I hate him. Don't nobody think I don't.

I know. You need a hand?

What you talking about, dude?

We'll figure it out.

Don't tell no one. They'll kill you and dump you in Lake Lajoice like they did to Bobby Sandoval.

Who was Bobby Sandoval?

Hey, just keep your shit out of it.

Okay, Scissorhands.

Name is Gabe.

Oh. I thought your name was Scissorhands.

Come on, dude. You really think that's a name?

I don't know. Around here it is
, maybe.

Scissorhands laughed, an odd chirpy laugh that made Ricky smile as he dried himself off.

Up to the big house, he filled a plate with heated-over potato casserole and some stir-fried bean sprouts and a large piece of pumpkin bread slathered with butter. This was good, to fill your stomach before a day of work. Ned and Vargas were sitting by the woodstove conferring quietly and soberly, and Grill and Fuzz Tone looked up at Ricky with some distant recognition and kinship. Ricky thought of the way their relationship to him had shifted since coming to the farm. Now they were like distant cousins he'd once known.

They were hanging up the marijuana plants they'd harvested in the previous three days, lugging them out of the woods five or six tied together and wrapped in black plastic sheeting and duct tape. In the greenhouse, they worked overhead on ladders, he and Don, while Julia and Lianne fetched the plants from the big pile at the door. The drying plants filled the greenhouse with a heady aroma. Nobody talked, leaving Ricky to dream of flying, his favorite dream since he could remember. Besides surfing, everything else paled in comparison to this perennial fantasy of his. He’d seen the videos of the man in the flying suit zipping along the mountainside and soaring between the canyon walls, and the images from those videos filled his imagination as he worked on the marijuana harvest. He got it from his father, his love of flying. Al had never been a pilot, but he knew all about the history of airplanes and about some of the pioneers of human flight.
They were supposed to go parasailing together at a place in Daytona, if they ever got back home.

After a few hours, the four of them stopped for a break. Don rolled some leaves he bunched in a loose cigarette paper and lit up the joint.

Don't want to smoke too much of it green, but this'll give you a taste, man, he said.

He lit it, inhaled deeply and passed the joint to Lianne, who did the same, coughing, and then passed it to Julia. Ricky refused it. He thought it would just make him feel worse than he already did, and he wanted to somehow make a point of being different,
focused on his goal of finding his father.

What the hell, Ricky?
said Lianne, exasperated.

No, I don't need it. I already told you, I'm crazy enough as it is.

This'll cure you of your social isolation. This is the Jah weed, man. Purify yourself, brother.

No, I don't think I will.

Ricky's got Aspergers, said Lianne.

Do you really? asked Don.

Not really, said Ricky.

After he quit the football team his dad wanted to get him tested
.

Not everyone needs to know that.

Don laughed and toked again on the joint, holding it himself, as if the others had had enough. When he released his breath, he spoke.

I used to hate all the jocks, man. I know where you're coming from, man.

I don't hate the jocks.

Ricky is a natural athlete. He just like
s surfing better than playing football.

Lianne. I can speak for myself.

They need to make Twister a varsity sport. I am the best, said Julia.

Don and Lianne started laughing and rolling around on the ground.

I'm serious.

Oh, man. That was funny, said Don. He passed the joint again to Lianne.

He sat up and looked at Ricky.

I respect that decision. Football is all about yesterday. You're looking for the manhood tasks of today. I get it, Ricky.

He's my knight in shining armor, said Julia.

I don't think so, said Ricky.

That Aunt Peggy likes it without any armor. Right, Ricky?

That was unnecessary.

That's what she said.

Julia sputtered and laughed, blowing out the smoke. She tried passing it to Ricky again. He waved her off. He stood and walked down between the two rows they'd hung, weaving between the plants. Their voices stung and he wasn't sure what he was thinking or what he would do with his anger. He kicked at the ladder, sending it sprawling. He felt trapped, and it was all his own doing. They shouldn't have stolen Lianne's dad's car. He should have had a better plan. He thought Lianne was making a mistake hooking up with Don, but he didn't think he could find a way of telling her how he felt,
that everything was a huge mistake, ever since he'd picked up the tablet from that trunk in Coconut Juan's shop. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe the voice he heard wasn't really his mother's voice. Smoking was making it worse, everyone hiding behind the fuzziness of the elongated moment.

Hey, what's up, my man? Need a get that ladder back up.

It was Vargas come in to inspec
t their work, keep them on task.

I'll get it.

Don and Lianne and Julia stood up slowly and got ready to resume work. Ricky picked up the ladder and positioned it back in the row.

Need you to take better care of commune property, said Vargas. This ain't your mama's shit.

I'm sorry.

Let' s say you all get the rest of the crop hung and taken care of and tonight we
’ll take everyone into town and go bowling.

All right, said Don. Bowling rocks, man.

Bowling sucks, said Ricky.

He got on the bus in the late afternoon, holding himself on the rail and taking a deep breath.
Despite his intuition, he'd eaten two brownies in the big house before Vargas announced the bus was ready, and he knew that he would be feeling the effects. It was strange how the urge to self-destruction came on him when he was feeling the lowest. He looked around. The inside of the bus was splattered with neon paint. Lianne and Don sat together, not looking at him. Julia and Scissorhands and a bunch of the smaller children were with their mothers and boyfriends. Most of them lived in town and were taking the bus to avoid driving while under the influence. Vargas, the designated driver, and Grill, next to him, had snorted some of the meth in the backroom of the big house and were feeling invincible. It was another reason Ricky knew it was bound to be a bad scene at the bowling alley. The bus began to roll down the hill. Ricky sat down by himself in a seat behind Grill. It was his first time off the farm. He thought that it might be his last. He had Lianne's backpack with everything he owned, ready to roll on a moment's notice, if given the chance. He watched Vargas work the gearshift. Ricky had never driven a bus, but thought he could pick it up. Vargas downshifted going around the curve onto the county road, and then once headed towards Hobenville he shifted into the top gear, motor whining with unexpected strain, and he turned around and spit something through his throat, some kind of guttural statement, a few words towards Grill that Ricky did not hear, too distracted looking at the woods and the farmhouses, a sign for Amityville Iron Works, a restored 18th century forge with Ye Olde Gift Shop.

You can bet on that, said Grill. I never trust the cops in these parts.

Well, we got an understanding with the Man. We bringing in revenue to the county and the state. Not many businesses in these parts can say that.

Money talks, said Grill.

I'm just sayin'. You in a good mood, right?

Yeah.

This here town ain't as backward as it looks. We could be doin' a stop at the Safari Club and leave everyone at the bowling lane and you and me go in for a quick spell.

I'm up for it, man.

Your old lady don't have to know. Right, Ricky? What go down on the bus stay down on the bus.

Ricky smiled as Grill turned around.

Ricky a good kid, said Vargas, looking in the rearview.