by R. L. Maizes
“None of your business.” Zev has never voted. The way he sees it, the less he has to do with government, the better.
“Country would be in better shape if he was in charge.”
When the kid merges onto I-25 South, Zev suggests they listen to country music.
“My dad likes that,” Brian says, but he doesn’t change the station. “This guy’s got it right. There won’t be anything left for my generation if we don’t change Washington.”
Zev resigns himself to hearing the candidate and the kid talk.
“I grew up on a ranch near here,” Brian says, as if Zev were the least bit interested. “We weren’t making much from the cattle, but we were sitting on oil and gas. Big company contacted my dad, wanting to drill, and for a while it looked like we’d be rich. Then the government passed restrictions. Made it expensive to get the minerals out of the ground. I had to take out student loans for college. Can’t even afford to go to Cancun for spring break. That’s bullshit.”
“That’s tough.” Zev’s never been to Mexico, but if the cops track him to Phoenix, his ultimate destination, he might make a run for the border.
“Whatever happened to free markets!” the kid says, turning to Zev, the car drifting over the lane line.
“Watch the road!”
Brian looks forward and straightens out the wheel. “My dad started raising alpaca. Funny-looking animals.”
“Is that right?”
“I’m going to open a grow operation. I’m majoring in agriculture, but they don’t offer classes on marijuana cultivation yet.” He fishes a joint out of his shirt pocket, lights it, and holds it out to Zev.
Smoking pot is legal in Colorado but not while driving. The last thing Zev needs is for a cop to pull them over. “You could get arrested for that.”
Brian takes a deep pull on the joint, holds it in his lungs, then releases it, filling the car with sweet smoke. Mo sneezes. “It relaxes me.”
Spotting a state trooper’s car at the side of the road, lights flashing, Zev feels cold creep up his arms and legs. But the cop is too busy giving someone else a ticket to notice the Camry. The kid puffs out another thick cloud, and Mo sneezes again. Farther along the highway, some other officer is just waiting to fill his quota. He’ll see the joint in the kid’s hand, and all of Zev’s careful planning will be destroyed. At least Mo has settled down. When Zev peeks into the carrier, her eyes are closed.
Brian glances at Zev’s lap. “Cat likes it, anyway.”
Opening the window to clear the smoke, Zev says, “It’s a shame.”
“What’s a shame?”
When the smell is gone, he closes the window to keep Mo from getting cold.
“What are you talking about?” Brian says.
“It’s too bad you won’t be able to vote for that guy you like.”
“Why won’t I?”
“A cop catches you smoking that, you’ll get a DUI, which is a felony.” Zev doesn’t know if it’s true and doesn’t care. “Felons can’t vote.”
Brian looks at the joint and frowns. For a moment, Zev thinks the kid is going to ignore him, but then he licks his index finger and thumb, pinches the end of the joint, and returns it to his pocket. “Whatever.”
The Rocky Mountains roll past to the west, peaks still wrapped in snow. Zev won’t feel safe until he’s out of Colorado. He’s trading mountains for desert. As he gets older, he’ll fit in among the Arizona retirees. The idea of finding an apartment with a swimming pool, taking a dip after work, appeals to him.
He met Elissa in Arizona. Both twenty-two, they worked at a National Park Service concession in the Grand Canyon, and he stole valuables visitors locked in their cars at night. Elissa had just graduated from college. She told Zev she was looking for a brainless summer job in a beautiful place. For Zev, it was another in a long line of dead-end jobs. Restless, he’d been chasing around the country since Elijah, who’d taught him how to be a locksmith, died of a heart attack when Zev was twenty. Elijah’s children had sold his business to another locksmith who didn’t have a need for Zev’s services.
Before Elissa was assigned to his workstation, Zev had considered quitting because the pay was shit and the hours deep-frying chicken and fish dragged, oil spattering his sweaty face and arms. The first day she worked alongside him, time disappeared as fast as the food he served. He imagined freeing her hair from the net that was part of their uniform, her fingers from latex gloves. He showed her how to short a rude customer at the register, and she laughed, flashing brilliant, oversize teeth, as if she’d waited her whole life to be a thief. “We’re the Bonnie and Clyde of saturated fats,” she said, pocketing her take. As they cleaned the station after closing, Zev brushed his lips against the auburn fuzz on the back of her neck, her skin flushing a satisfying crimson.
Their first night together, they slept on top of his sleeping bag, their heat keeping the cool weather at bay. Another evening, as they walked the canyon rim, Zev presented her with a cashmere sweater. “The owner left the park, so it’s okay to wear it,” he said, and again was rewarded with a glow of teeth. By the end of the season, they’d made plans to move to Colorado. A year later, they married in Sedona, home of Elissa’s spirit animal, the ringtail cat, and a bed-and-breakfast that had a discounted weekend. Zev tells himself his return to the desert state has nothing to do with Elissa’s recent move there.
Brian unwraps a chocolate bar labeled incredibles and eats two squares. “These are healthier, anyway. Want some?”
“Maybe I should drive.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
There’s little Zev can do except hope they reach Albuquerque before a trooper pulls them over. From there, he’ll catch a Greyhound to Phoenix and disappear. His forehead is damp. He considers getting out and hitchhiking, but he doesn’t know if the police are looking for him, if his picture has gone out over the wire. “Cops could arrest you for that, too.”
“Don’t be so nervous, old man.”
The kid is driving fifteen over the limit. Zev counts down the miles to New Mexico, gripping the cat carrier, scanning the road for cops. When they pull into a gas station in Pueblo, Brian pumps gas and heads for a fast-food counter.
In the bathroom, Zev leashes Mo and lets her stretch. He removes the towel liner, wet with piss, from the carrier and drops it into the trash. Wishing for a sponge and some bleach to scour the carrier, he settles for foam soap from a dispenser and a damp paper towel, instead. After scrubbing his hands and face, he fills a small dish with water and another with cat food. Mo takes a few sips but refuses to eat. She moves slowly, whether from arthritis, the stress of the day, or inhaling, Zev doesn’t know. On his way out, he buys two candy bars and a can of Coke, and they get back on the road.
He hands Brian a twenty for the gas and resumes his watch. His eyes are itchy and dry, tired from the strain. When lights flash behind them, the candy bar sinks in his gut and he thinks he might pee. Did someone recognize him at the gas station and alert the authorities? The kid pales, but manages to pull over. Zev considers his options. Running will signal he’s guilty of something, and he doubts he’s faster than the trooper. Besides, he can’t leave Mo. The officer takes his time, probably running the kid’s plates. Zev hopes Brian doesn’t have a warrant for some drug-related offense or a year’s worth of parking tickets.
One hand clutching his weapon, the other, a ticket pad, the trooper approaches the car. Brian removes his license and registration from his wallet. At least the car isn’t stolen. Zev sniffs, certain he can still smell the pot, though it’s been hours since he aired out the car. To stop his hands from shaking, he sits on them, then realizes he should keep them in sight and hooks his fingers in the air holes on the cat carrier.
The kid opens his window. “What seems to be the problem, Officer?”
“You failed to signal when you changed lanes, and you were speeding.”
Zev keeps his face down. While it might seem suspicious, it’s better than the cop r
ecognizing him. He watches the officer out of the corner of his eye. Sweat soaks Zev’s underarms, and he waits for the officer to notice.
“My turn signal may be out,” Brian says.
“That’s a violation.” The trooper flips open his pad.
“Sorry, sir.” Offering his license and registration with his left hand, the kid adjusts his red cap with his right.
“You a fan of the candidate?” the trooper asks.
“Yes, sir. A law and order fan, generally. I admire what you guys do.”
“How ’bout your dad? Is he a fan, too?” The officer indicates Zev with his chin. It pains Zev to keep quiet, but he knows better than to correct him.
“Big-time. We saw him at a rally in Denver. Most exciting night of my life. It seems like the country may be getting back on track, if you know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” the trooper says. “You’re wise for your age. A lot of young people don’t seem to get it. Maybe you can have some influence on your friends.”
“I try.”
The officer examines the documents and shuts his pad. “Everything seems to be in order. Ever think about trying out for the force?”
“I’m studying criminal justice.”
“Glad to hear it. We need more young people like you. Try to be more careful. And fix the light.”
“Yes, sir. I will. You be safe out there.”
“Thanks.”
When Brian pulls away from the shoulder, Zev’s head drops to his hands.
“You gotta relax,” Brian says. “It was just a traffic stop. You aren’t even driving.”
* * *
Mountains that loomed gray and green and jagged all day, soften and round, glow red as they pass the Sangre de Cristo range at sunset. Small, bushy piñon pines crowd the side of the road. When they cross into New Mexico, Zev envisions a future in which he’s free.
He stayed in Colorado all these years because it was where he had lived with Elissa, where she could find him if she had a change of heart. Every room in the house evoked memories of her. She picked out the dining room chairs, cushions covered in sailcloth fabric, and the matching drapes. In the kitchen, he could smell meals she had made: brisket, baked chicken stuffed with lemons, lasagna with vegetables instead of meat, which she called her “kind dinner.” In a corner of the living room, in the small drawers of the olive wood secretary she inherited from her grandmother, she concealed notes written on the backs of napkins. This is not who I am, read one. I don’t get a moment’s peace from that child, read another. The secretary was always locked, the key hidden, but she had to know that wouldn’t keep him out. He read them years before she left but brushed them off as insignificant, a way for her to let off steam.
He got used to her absence but never accepted it. If he couldn’t have her love, he could have his anger, which he tended like a fire. When it died down or threatened to go out, he examined the cuts on his face and arms, and if they were healing, he walked among the thorns for new ones, remembering how she lavished care on the bushes—pruning, fertilizing, deadheading, and filling vases with blooms that perfumed the house all summer.
At ten at night, Brian drops him off at the Albuquerque bus terminal. Inside, gate announcements crackle over a loudspeaker. People doze on chairs, plastic bags, suitcases, and backpacks at their feet and on adjoining seats. If the police question ticket agents in Colorado, they won’t have seen him.
In the bathroom, he tends to Mo again, trying to make her comfortable. His bus departs a little after midnight. Zev boards first and sits at the back, Mo next to him. Relieved to be out of the kid’s car, he doesn’t mind spending the night sitting up. Though he brought copies of Car and Driver and This Old House, he leaves them in his bag, unwilling to turn on the light and risk someone getting a better view of his face.
12
La La pulls up to Zev’s with a bag of groceries, the same items she buys every week: frozen foods, Pop-Tarts, coffee, cream, and a variety of household supplies. Noticing his car and van are missing, she wonders if he sold them to help pay O’Bannon’s bill, or if there’s another reason the vehicles are gone. Their absence unsettles her.
She lets herself in the back and calls out, but her father doesn’t reply. Mo doesn’t appear, either.
On the dining room table, the train circles the track. Zev’s ankle monitor rides in an open freight car, indicator light flashing as it transmits GPS data. Pain gathers at the base of her head. She isn’t surprised he found a way to remove it. And she understands now why he wanted the train. If she weren’t overcome with loss, she might feel a bit of pride. A second ankle monitor, one that isn’t blinking, secures a note to the table. She lifts the note, though she doubts she’ll like what it has to say.
Dear La La, I’m going away. You’re the only one I’m sorry to leave. If not for me you’d be graduating from veterinary school right now. I won’t let them lock me up. I can’t live that way. I never have and I’m too old to start now. Those places aren’t clean. You’re the best daughter I could have asked for. You never looked down on me even after you went to college. I mopped all the floors and vacuumed. If I can avoid the bounty hunters, the bonding company will foreclose on the house. Take anything you want before they do. I’m sorry about all this. I love you.
Dad
Except for the soft scraping of the train’s wheels against the track, the house is unbearably quiet. Gone are the sounds that always surrounded Zev: the swish of a mop; the crinkle of a magazine page; the click, click of a lock being worked. For the second time, a parent has left her without saying good-bye. She rereads the note, hoping to have overlooked something. It contains everything (he’s gone) and nothing (where? How can she reach him?). She balls it up and sticks it into her purse. She hates the thought of her father in prison, but at least there she could visit him.
As far as she can tell, the authorities don’t know he’s gone. They’ll figure it out when he doesn’t appear at the bail hearing. La La hopes he gets away, except for a small part of her that wants him caught and returned to her.
She wonders if she’ll ever see him again or hear him misquote a magazine. He was the only one who needed her. Except perhaps for Black and Blue, who miss her when Clem has them. And she’s responsible for Mo, now, too. But is it possible Zev took the cat?
She turns toward the couch. When she doesn’t see Mo, she rotates her arms and shoulders, alarmed to find they move freely and without pain. Perhaps the cat is dozing on the dresser next to the window in Zev’s room, as she does sometimes. La La rushes down the hall, catching her wrist on the doorknob as she turns into Zev’s empty bedroom. She calls to Mo by name and when that fails to produce her, with a hissing sound. In the kitchen, she shakes a jar of treats and waits.
Why would he take Mo? The cat carrier isn’t in the bedroom closet or under the stairs. Though La La hasn’t lived with Mo for years, she’s always known where to find her. Since Zev’s arrest, she’s imagined losing him to prison, but she never thought Mo would disappear, too.
From the top of the sofa, she collects three strands of brindle fur that escaped the vacuum and pushes them into her pocket. She presses her nose to the couch, hoping to inhale the cat’s delicate scent, getting a lungful of fabric freshener instead. If not for Mo, she never would have met Dr. Bergman. She can still hear the cat’s muffled purr, her yowling cry on seeing a tom through the window. She longs to feel those sounds in her body.
And then there’s the house. Though she often felt trapped inside, at other times—playing with Mo and Tiny, diagnosing an animal with Dr. Bergman, even planning robberies—worlds opened to her there. It was the only place she knew her mother. They gardened together in the back, La La digging holes eight inches deep and six inches apart, inserting tulip bulbs in the fall before the ground froze. Bright flowers came up year after year, long after her mother disappeared, the red ones suggesting blood and foul play, the orange ones, fire, calamities La La imagined kept Elissa from returning.
She’ll search the house for clues about Elissa before the bond company forecloses. Something with her mother’s address on it. She’s always had the feeling Zev knew more about where Elissa was than he was saying.
In the bag on the floor, groceries thaw. Looking for Zev is out of the question because she might lead bounty hunters to him. She considers calling John O’Bannon but wants to give her father time to get away and doesn’t know what the lawyer’s responsibilities would be. She starts to dial Nat, then stops. Nat will tell Tank.
Though she’d like to go on sitting in the house, soaking up the smell of well-oiled locks, it’s a bad idea to let the police find her there.
Soggy groceries beside her, she eases the car away, her eyes drawn to the rosebushes in the rearview mirror, their first buds appearing. There’s no longer any reason to enter homes that aren’t hers. She owes O’Bannon nearly eight thousand dollars, but she’ll pay it off slowly now that she’s not worried about him dropping Zev. She releases a breath she’s been holding for months, only to discover relief isn’t all she feels. She enjoyed raiding the homes of strangers, whose lives—rich and full of family—she coveted. She’ll miss tending to other people’s pets, neglected, as she was.
On the other hand, she can tell Clem she’s stopped. La La imagines he’ll greet the news with relief. He might insist on coming over to see her. They won’t mean to, but they’ll end up spending the night together, after apologizing to each other. The next day, he’ll break up with Naomi. It’s not her fault, he’ll tell her. It’s just that he’s never stopped loving La La. It may not happen exactly that way. Perhaps it will take a bit more time. But time is something La La has, and she’s willing to wait. Though she’d like to, she can’t call him yet. Not until Zev is out of harm’s way.
At home, Black licks her hand and Blue climbs her side. She drinks in the scents of dried mud on their paws and sap in their fur and briefly forgets she’s an orphan.