Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  ELEVEN

  JUST BEFORE SUNRISE, with the dregs of the meth still burning out of his system, Gabe felt an insane desire, almost a biological need, to clean. This had happened before. The meth come down zeroed out his focus and pushed him into the minutiae of cleaning. If he was scrubbing green and black mold from sinks and bathtubs, he could ignore his blood falling from boil to simmer, and his jaw would slowly unclench. He took what remained of the bathroom door off its hinges and dragged it to the curb. In the kitchen, he scraped and put away dishes that had been accumulating for ages. He dug out the vacuum cleaner and sucked up so much ash and dust from the carpets that their color turned from grey to sand. Each obliterated stain and tossed-out beer can brought him one step closer to Micah.

  Long after the sun came up, Gabe climbed back into the bathtub for sleep. The smell of bleach clung to his skin like plastic film, but the porcelain was clean and cool. He slept hard and still. His back curved to fit the shape of the tub.

  In the afternoon, climbing out with a tortured groan, Gabe felt sick. The state of the house should have cheered him up, but the hangover had seeped into his bones, and his head felt gummy. It was a hangover with moral dimensions and no dignity, as if his kidneys and liver were so clogged with toxins that his soul had shriveled.

  He looked around the house. Nothing was different, not really. The rot and dirt had been papered over with a thin layer of respectability and disinfectant.

  Gabe winced when he saw the coffee pot. He had filled the machine with water and ground coffee the night before. A note was taped to the pot: Just press start. Some kind of gift from his high self to his hungover self. Then he saw the next note, this one stuck to a mug: To Do Today: Sell Kids to Drugs, 2 PM. He supposed it was funny.

  That kid called himself something idiotic. Sketchy? Smokey? Tangling with teenage potheads. Gabe shook his head. “No, thank you.”

  There were other ways to raise cash. He imagined Frederick sitting in his lair, peering into a crystal ball and smiling at Gabe’s wise decision.

  He took his coffee upstairs and felt shards of pain in his knees, as if the drug had left flecks of rust in his joints. Fragments of memories came back to him. He’d spent time in Micah’s old room. He pushed open the door. The room had been empty, but Gabe must have dragged in the air mattress and a few things Micah had left behind: a box of toys, a clown lamp, a milk crate. The toys were scattered. Posters of long-retired wrestlers, growling and pointing at Gabe, hung on the walls. He had also thrown an old poker table under the windowsill and put some pencils and construction paper on the padded, beige top. It looked like a crime scene or a bad movie set. Micah would hate it. Gabe hated it.

  His chest tightened like a serpent had wrapped around him. He needed to sit, but his legs barely fit under the poker table. This side of the house looked out on his overgrown half-acre field. The barn out there was half-caved in, and flaking red paint would occasionally catch the wind and blow like red snow into his neighbor’s yard.

  He used to have a couple of horses in that barn—helpful for odd jobs working cattle, taking tourists up the mountains or meandering through the woods. He had sold both horses and got a good deal on a power-washing rig. The plan was to build a life blasting dirt out of the world’s cracks, but he sold the power washer last year.

  He took a pencil from the coffee can and tapped it on the table.

  A few notes to Micah, Gabe decided. Simple explanations to help clear the air. He rubbed the light blue construction paper between his thumbs and forefingers. It felt child-like, more suited to games than a meaningful confession.

  Son, I’m not sure my own father ever loved me. The old man was damn near a mute and I can’t say we ever had more than a handful of honest to god conversations. I always wanted to be better than that to you.

  Gabe read it two, three times. Whiny. He crossed it out.

  In my life I’ve tried to do what I thought was right but there’s no denying I made bad choices. Done things, seen things, lived lives other people couldn’t imagine.

  Gabe balled up the paper. That was turning into bullshit—tall-tales and half-truths. Gabe tried again. Again. Each time he approached some honest appraisal of his life, some true feelings, the writing veered into boasting about bull riding or the Army. Balls of colored paper piled up around his ankles.

  He needed some help. Gabe found his phone under some blankets in the closet. Lou was the articulate brother, and he was bound to have something to say.

  “Hey, man,” Gabe said. “Glad I caught you, what you doing?”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Lou replied. “What do you need?”

  “Everyone’s messing with me lately. Maybe I’m just calling to call.”

  “Sure, yeah.” Lou cleared his throat. “Calling to call. What are you up to? Let me guess, chillin’?”

  “No, no, no, Micah’s coming down this weekend, and I’m getting the place ready for him. You should see it. Place’ll knock your socks off.”

  When the will was read, no one expected the house, their father’s only object of pride, to go to Gabe. Lou was the one who stayed there, cared for their dying father, maintained the house and held the whole world together. But Lou was never mad. Getting out of that house gave Lou his life back.

  “I’ve wanted to go into town,” Lou said, “take Micah to lunch, but it’s hard to find the time.”

  “Then you should come here this weekend,” Gabe said. “Come down, join us. The kid’s getting into camping. Going into the mountains. Must run in the blood, I guess, right?”

  “I don’t know. Things have been tough at work.” Lou paused. “What was it you needed?”

  There was never a big showdown with his brother. No conscious decision to stop seeing each other, at least not on Gabe’s part. One day, he looked over and his brother was gone, like a boulder broken in two by dripping water.

  “How would you describe Pop?” Gabe asked. “Like if someone asked for the truth, how he really was.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got another project going on. Remember when you were going to trace our family back to the conquistadors?”

  “I’m serious. I want to talk to Micah about the family.”

  “Look at you.” Lou whistled. “Getting all thoughtful down in that big house by yourself.” Gabe wanted to throw his phone across the room.

  “Nevermind, I’ll figure it out.”

  “Oh, pobre Gabriel,” Lou said. “Pop’s gone. He was complicated. That’s the word I’d use. Then I’d change the subject. He dicked around, so Mom split to God-knows-where. Hell, he probably beat her ass like he did us.”

  “He only hit us when we deserved it.”

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that, brother.” Lou took a loud, deep breath, as if he could exhale the conversation. Sure enough, he was onto another topic. “Hey, I know a guy, he works with my girl, and he wants to go into the mountains. I told him you’d show him around.”

  “He’ll pay?”

  “Yeah, charge him. He’ll talk your fucking head off.”

  “Come down, we’ll hit an old trail or something.”

  “I wish I could but I’ve been working like a dad, so when I have a day off, I take a day off.”

  “Like a dad?”

  “You fucker, I meant to say ‘dog.’ Now you got Pop on my brain. I’m not writing my life story. I don’t need those memories.”

  “What about Mom?” Gabe asked.

  “You trying to ruin my whole day?”

  “Hang on, I’ve been wondering about her. About him too, both of them.”

  Lou went quiet for a few seconds. “You still there?” Gabe asked.

  “It’s too late for these questions, man,” Lou said. “Right after she ducked out, I tried to tell myself stories about where she went, and you, not Pop, you beat the shit out of me for it.”

  “Nah,” Gabe said. “That’s not . . . no.”

  “I said she was in Hollywood, or singing in Vegas, and yo
u knocked out two of my baby teeth.”

  Now it was Gabe’s turn to be silent. “I don’t remember that,” he admitted. “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to deal with Pop all by yourself.”

  The words came out in a rush, and Gabe wondered who they were supposed to make feel better.

  “That’s it,” Lou said. “Goodbye, I’m done. I’ll text you the guy’s number. Call him if you want. Or don’t, that’s fine too.”

  Lou hung up.

  Gabe felt a pain in his gut, not in his stomach, but straight through his guts. Gabe always thought that when the time came, and he knew it would come eventually, turning everything around would be a breeze. Making amends, reaching out, asking for forgiveness, rebuilding his life, all of it: snap. Done. But now it was getting late, and he needed to get to The Pig.

  TWELVE

  EMBARRASSMENT CLUNG TO OLIVIA LIKE TAR. Driving out to Española, she imagined Andrea howling with laughter at the thought of Olivia popping champagne and posing on the bed, only to fall asleep when he never showed up.

  Olivia let out a small, sad laugh. She wanted to upend Charles, but he had practically tumbled down the mountain and onto the highway.

  Leaving Santa Fe and heading into the mountains relieved a tension Olivia had been trying to ignore. She had spent years wanting to be a city girl, but those valleys outside of town had a power over her.

  She pictured Taos. That’s where the four of them—Olivia, Andrea and the girls—would likely end up. Olivia had her eye on a house in the mountains a short drive from town. A few years down the line, maybe she would have a gallery with her name on it, and the only time she would think about Cody Branch would be when she saw his name on a new development. Or maybe when he was finally handcuffed and marched away.

  Olivia looked to the right of the highway as a passing cloud sent a shadow racing over the valley. Her stomach filled with nerves and she drove fast. If Mallon had noticed the disabled tracker, he was keeping it quiet. She knew that would not last long. She turned on a podcast, something juicy that followed a series of murders in a Texas bordertown. She wasn’t listening, but the words filled the air and made her less scared.

  The house looked empty and dark. The blinds were drawn, and from the sidewalk there was no way to tell a family lived there. No toys in the yard, no blaring TV you could hear from the street, even Andrea’s car was parked four houses down.

  They had gone through this before. Andrea would settle in and then get paranoid. She would decide they were about to be kicked out by Branch’s men, or that the debt collectors would find her, so they would hunker down and wait for the end.

  Andrea answered the door, already raising her hand to Olivia’s objections.

  “I know, I know,” Andrea said, “you hate it when it looks like we’re hiding.”

  Olivia put her keys and phone on a table near the front door. “A hermit with kids draws attention. This is your house, go meet your neighbors, send the kids outside to play, open the windows.”

  Andrea shook her head. “But this isn’t our house.” She pulled her sweater tighter around her shoulders and pointed towards a back room. “Let’s keep it down, they’re sleeping, or at least they’re talking very quietly.”

  Olivia picked her keys up. “I brought some food.”

  Andrea followed her outside. Olivia resisted the urge to compliment her on the steadiness of her gait. The last time she had, Andrea almost hit her with her cane and said, “It shouldn’t be impressive to walk without falling over.”

  Olivia grabbed three of the grocery bags. She saw Andrea try to do the same but then grab a pack of paper towels instead.

  “You have to stop buying us so much stuff,” she said. “I’m not totally broke. I still have money from Mom, and we’ve moved so many times, I’m not even getting hospital bills anymore.”

  “I know, I know,” Olivia said. “But I have an ‘Entertainment Budget,’ and there’s no reason not to use it.”

  When Olivia put the groceries away, she saw most of the previous food she’d brought last time was still untouched. Andrea said, “The kids are on a grilled cheese and cereal kick this week, and I don’t have an appetite for much.”

  “That’s fine, just let me know. I’ll get the best grilled cheese fixings I can find. Let’s get some thousand-dollar cheese. If they sell that anywhere, it’s in Santa Fe.”

  Andrea laughed and sat down. She would never actually give Olivia a grocery list. She needed what Olivia was offering, but she was too proud to place orders. Olivia grabbed vegetables out of the fridge and started assembling a salad.

  “I hope that’s for you,” Andrea said. “I just ate.”

  “Nice try. What’d you eat? A handful of jelly beans?”

  “I like jelly beans, and every tray of hospital food comes with a soggy iceberg salad. For real, the tomatoes are white and the croutons can crack a tooth. Kind of put me off salads for a while.”

  Olivia tossed the spinach with cherry tomatoes, cucumber slices, feta cheese and olive oil. She put the bowl in front of Andrea. “You’ll suffer through this one. Now, where are your keys?”

  “I don’t want to park in the driveway. What if a realtor drives by and they know this place should be empty?”

  “There’s no realtor,” Olivia said. “This is your house.”

  Andrea picked up the fork. “But you know it’s not.”

  Olivia sighed. “I’ve got a show tonight. I can send a car out here. You can . . .”

  Andrea took a bite of salad and shook her head. “Uh-uh. Nope. I’m not going to go to some Canyon Road gallery. Cody will be there, and I’d end up breaking a wine bottle over his head.”

  “Go for it. You might win an award.”

  Andrea pointed with her fork towards the front door. “So, listen to me, I’ve got some cousins in town willing to get us out of here. They’ll put me and the girls up for . . .”

  Olivia shook her head. “No, no, no. We’re not staying in this town. Give me a couple weeks. I’m so so close. I’m right there. There’s a guy helping me, and we’re going to figure out how to get what we need.”

  “The girls need stability, and you’re taking too many risks for us.”

  “No such thing.”

  “You got a week tops, girl. You’ve been great to us, but after a week we’re figuring something else out. This isn’t good for any of us.”

  Olivia nodded and smiled because if she stopped smiling, she would burst into tears.

  THIRTEEN

  CHARLES PROPPED THE POSTCARD up against his computer monitor. Fields of Play: New Oils by Olivia Reyes Branch. She had painted back in Chicago, but it had seemed to be more of a hobby. He wondered if Branch owned the gallery. Charles knew there was no way he could go tonight.

  Yet, every time Charles tried to focus on his emails or news coverage of yesterday’s press conference, the postcard distracted him. She had been waiting for him. In his bed. Charles stood and shook his hands, as if he could fling her off his skin. Of course she would reenter his life with a splash. That manic energy floored him when they had first met, until it started to drain him.

  According to the legal documents, Charles’ marriage to Olivia fell apart because she had an affair. He appreciated that juicy detail because it was humiliating enough to wring sympathy from family and friends. Her infidelity kept anyone from asking if he, too, had cheated.

  At the time, he had been grateful to escape. They met while Charles was on a campaign. Usually, campaign tunnel vision reduced the universe to what was a foot in front of your face. Anything beyond your duty to your candidate—family, friends, life—blinked out of existence. But Olivia burned brighter than his campaign. As the candidate drank more and the poll numbers slipped and slipped, Olivia became a sign of other things Charles could have in his life. They were married after Election Day—a loss, of course.

  One month into the marriage, Charles knew the whole thing was a mistake. He saw the same look on her face, as if there were a vague,
rotting scent in the air. After the flush of hurried love had subsided, Olivia grew bored and Charles realized the momentum that had swept her up in their relationship would reverse and carry her away. He landed another campaign in Chicago, so he could be close, but she was always asleep when he came home and gone when he awoke. Then, she stopped being home at all.

  Divorced at twenty-two. Someone once told him that being divorced when he was barely of drinking age made him seem mysterious and world-weary. They had immediately lost touch with each other, and Charles could not even imagine what terrible chain of events led her to Cody Branch. He looked back at the postcard. Maybe he should ask.

  Charles snapped his head up when Salazar stepped into his office.

  “I woke up this morning hoping it had all been a bad dream,” she said. She stood inside the doorway with her fingertips clasped at her stomach. “Bones of an old warrior dug up and causing trouble? My kids used to watch ‘Scooby-Doo.’ I swear I’ve seen this one.”

  Salazar walked around Charles’ desk and admired the view out the window. It was a deliberate pose. She looked more comfortable in his office than he did.

  “Press coverage has been light,” she said. “The local papers and channels are all over it, of course. Decent impact in Arizona and Oklahoma. Only capsule stories, so far, in The Times and Post. I’m surprised there’s not more nationally, but that’s good for us. It means no one believes them. Online activists are a bigger threat. We’re not the bad guys yet. Let’s keep it that way.”

  “This is complicated,” Charles said. “I love it. It’s exciting. But it is complicated.”

  “Look, last night Cody told you more than he needed to. I’m not happy, but it happened. Stay focused. Today is only about the Apaches.”

  “I get it. I’m focused.” He wanted to defend himself, talk about all the secrets he could have told over the years, but he held back.

  Salazar faced the windows again, as if she were lecturing the mountains. “You also signed an NDA. We’ll enforce it if we need to.”