Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  Very early, around three, I awoke to a dip in the bed as Samuel quietly climbed in, finally putting aside his writing for much needed sleep. Even though we fought, his presence was more comforting than our warm blanket.

  “Kaye.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I hate to see you cry. I think I hate it more than anything.”

  “I cry when I’m upset. I cry when I’m happy. I cry at flippin’ rock concerts. It just leaks out.”

  He searched through the blankets until he found my hand, and tucked it, safe and secure, between his two palms. “Do you ever wonder if our marriage was a mistake?”

  I frowned. He’d asked me this more than once. Did he believe we’d made a mistake? “Occasionally,” I hedged. “But I always come to the same conclusion—it was a choice. I chose to marry you, and I don’t regret it. So no, it’s not a mistake.”

  “Okay.” He exhaled and closed his eyes. “Okay.”

  A week after the benefit concert, Molly and I had a lunch date with a potential college intern. She and Cassady would return to Alaska in early July. Molly was strangely tight-lipped on the status of their relationship, but there was little closeness between my friend and her beau. I hoped for the best for my friend. After all, she’d uprooted her entire life to chase adventure with Cassady in Clam Gulch. But if she returned to Colorado before the year was out, I wouldn’t be shocked.

  Molly checked her watch for the third time as we stood outside the Fighting Mango, a lunch spot neither of us had ever visited but was popular with the Communication Arts department at the University of Colorado. TrilbyJones had been asked to consider their PR majors for internships, but the interviewee was late.

  “Five more minutes, and we go inside and try those mango cocktails.”

  “We have to go back to work, Mol.’”

  “We can split it.”

  Just then, a harried young woman who couldn’t have been more than twenty rounded the corner, loaded with a book bag that looked heavier than my hiking gear. She swiped her blue-streaked hair into a bun but came to a dead stop when she spotted us.

  “Neelie!” Tears gathered in her eyes and something inside me withered. “I love you, so much. And Oh. My. Gosh. I love your hair!” An uninvited hand touched my bobbed blue locks. “I’ve never seen someone your age pull it off!”

  “That’s it. I’m going back to blonde first thing tomorrow.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Molly.

  The student shook her head, as if every piece of knowledge in her world had been turned on its head. “A blue-haired Neelie Nixie. I can’t...wow. This will change everything when I read the books again.” She remembered herself and thrust out a hand. “I’m so, so sorry, I’m Ashley. I know, me and every other twenty-something. Just call me Ash, it avoids confusion. Let’s eat mangos!”

  We settled into a table and perused the menu. Mango chicken, mango sandwich, mango salad...

  “I sense a theme,” said Molly as she cleaned her glasses with her shirt hem.

  A distinctive chuckle caught my ear and I followed it to a booth across the dining area.

  There was Samuel, seated across from a man I’d never seen. He was in his mid-fifties, though his sunbaked skin belied his age. Steely locks tufted around his ears and beefy hands paged through the menu. His clothing was work-worn and stained with the same clay that was impossible to wash from the knees of my jeans after weeding my mother’s gardens. Though I couldn’t understand their words, I saw, without a doubt, the lilts and trills of the Spanish language.

  Agricultural worker? A new employee with Alonso’s magazine?

  Ash clutched my forearm. “Shut. Up. That’s Samuel Caulfield Cabral! I love his books, though the pirate one kinda threw me. Wow, he’s even hotter in person...” She covered her mouth. “Aaaand he’s also your husband. I’m sooo sorry, it’s just that I’m a huge Nixie fan. Neelie Nixie got me through a really rough time in the fourth grade.” I choked on my ice water. Ash blinked rapidly.

  “Oh, I know SCC is never happy to hear elementary kids have read his books, but my parents are very modern. It’s all good.” She gasped. “Do you think you could introduce me?”

  My eyes darted over to Samuel’s table. After the jail incident his mood tipped neither toward mania or depression, but stabilized, a small miracle. He wasn’t better…just not worse.

  By now, he too had spotted us. He gave a quick shake of his head. I narrowed my eyes in confusion. He widened his, silently telling me in no uncertain terms was I to bring my student over to his table. Odd.

  I turned back to the girl, who was touching up her orange lipstick. Me and my blue hair didn’t judge. She showed me her teeth.

  “Any mango stuck in there?” Yeah, she didn’t stand a chance.

  “Sorry Ash, but I don’t think this internship going to work.”

  Her face fell, as if I’d told her Indigo Kingsley had been recast. Then she squared in her shoulders in a way that reminded me of (and I hesitate to say this) me. “Look, I know I’m a ditzy, crazy Nixie fan, but here’s the deal. I’m also creator of YourNextBook, an app that connects readers with authors and their work.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Samuel told me about this, it’s really popular. That’s yours?”

  She shrugged. “A good book can change a life, and that’s what Samuel Cabral’s did for me. Authors have more control on the app and so do readers. It’s the way of the future. Now, take my track record with app development and translate it into consumer relations. With the right algorithms, you could shine through the thousand other PR campaigns and place yours directly in front of your target audience.”

  Molly was speechless. Me too, and I loved it when people surprised me. “If you’ll do our social media too, you’ve got the job.”

  Ash squealed. “Thank you, thank you! I wanted this so badly.”

  “Now it’s truth time. You could have an internship with Google. Why us? Is it because of Sam’s books?” Ash’s face reddened and I softened toward her. “Tell you what. If you let Samuel and his guest enjoy their lunch while you tell us about your awesome tech skills, I’ll invite him to our next luncheon and he can sign your books. Deal?”

  Joy blossomed and she shook my hand. Somehow, I thought our next luncheon at the Fighting Mango would be attended by five bouncing Nixie fans. “Deal. Oh, and I’m doing the Google thing next year.”

  I slid into the passenger side of Samuel’s Subaru after a quick change into my trusty Tevas. We were heading up to the construction site of what would be our new home to check the freshly-lain foundation. Admittedly, I’d had very little involvement until now. The idea had been Samuel’s. He’d purchased the land. He’d chosen the builder and selected the floor plan. It dawned on me how much my disinterest in the project hurt him. It all clicked when our marriage counselor asked, “how would you feel?” Joe Cool could bring the guilt in five seconds flat. Since that session, I’d thrown myself into creating this home together. Building materials, architectural features, bathroom placement, all in.

  The foothills slid by. As the canyon grew taller and narrower, it left one with the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped in that Death Star garbage compactor in Star Wars. But soon the canyon widened and I exhaled. For June, the sun was absolutely scorching, the air dry and dusty. Left Hand Creek barely trickled as it played peek-a-boo with the road. One final bend and there was our new home up the hill, the concrete foundation now visible. I broke into a smile. Samuel grinned, also. We got out of the car and strode up the hill to where the foreman packed up for the day.

  “Everything go okay?” Samuel asked.

  The man flicked a speck of dried cement from his forearm. “Cement’s poured and we’ll give it a month to cure, then build the frame mid-July.”

  We explored the construction site. Typically, house foundations looked smaller than their true square footage. But even without the walls, the footprint was massive. This would be a big home for just the two of us. My heart saddened a
t the thought of never filling this great home with children, but I pushed through it.

  “Do you like the house?” I hadn’t even heard Samuel approach, but I now saw the foreman had departed and it was just the two of us.

  “It’s missing a few walls, but open floor plans are all the rage.”

  “Cheeky.”

  “I like the house. No, I love it. And I love you.”

  He kissed the top of my head, proof that he was trying. Satisfaction bounced through me at this small, yet huge, gesture. I wrapped my arms around his middle and squeezed. “Walk with me?”

  We wound our way up the maze of trees, now vibrant and quivering in the flush of summer. The ground was pocked with shady soft spots where spring mud had yet to harden and crack, and soon my Tevas were caked. I scraped off the soles on a nearby rock. To my left, the old mine entrance peeked through the undergrowth.

  “Are you going to ask me about lunch today?” Samuel asked.

  “I was getting around to it.”

  His smile was a bit sad. “The man’s name is Javier. I met him when I was locked up after my run-in with Santiago Saturday. He was in on a misdemeanor charge, driving without a license and slapped with a three-hundred dollar fine. He belongs to a group of seasonal laborers on guest visas who journey up from Mexico City in the spring to work the farms around Greeley, then head back after harvest.”

  I nodded along, wondering what this person had to do with Samuel.

  “Javier says he knows my sister.”

  “Danita?” His look told me otherwise.

  “Supposedly, they’re neighbors.”

  Concern filled me. “Do you believe him?”

  “What else do I have to go on? The thing is…she doesn’t live in the States anymore. Her address is in Mexico City.”

  “She returned to Mexico!? But you went through so much trouble to get her out!”

  “That’s why something is wrong. Javier doesn’t know why she wants to see me, but believes she returned through the cartel tunnels and one of their thugs followed her—that’s why she didn’t show. He thinks she’s probably skipped town, and if I want to find her, I should start with her home address in Mexico City.”

  “That’s insane. What did he say when you said you wouldn’t go?” His gaze was riveted on the gravel he ground beneath his boot. My gut turned to ice. “Of course you told him no.”

  A long pause. “Kaye, she’s my sister.”

  “Oh my God! You have no idea who this Javier guy really is, if he even knows your sister!”

  “Don’t you think that has crossed my mind?” Samuel was a genius in many ways, but he had a history of putting his faith in the wrong people. “Firecracker...” His tone was too patronizing for my liking. “I can’t abandon her. Besides, Mexico City is fairly safe. Most of the Zacatón activity is concentrated in north Tamauli—”

  “Then get the Mexican law enforcement to help.”

  “Been there, done that, they’re ‘still investigating’ the first time I went to them. For all I know, she simply needs to get back on her feet.”

  I grew desperate. “Why are you doing this? You hardly know this woman.”

  “If I don’t help my sister, no one will.” He placed his hands on my shoulders. “Mi vida, I need you. I won’t travel alone—I’ll ask Santiago, Uncle Carlos to go with me—he’s a pro at finding missing people.”

  “It’s also time to tell your parents about Marieta.”

  Samuel dropped his head in concession. “I never wanted to tell you about any of this.”

  That hurt. “Well, you married me. Complete honesty comes with the territory, bub.”

  “I know. And I’m trying. But sometimes, complete transparency is more complicated than strutting down Pearl Street buck naked.”

  My lips twitched. “The hippie performance artist on the old capitol lawn would disagree.”

  His eyes softened. “I love you, Kaye Cabral. Forgive me for dragging you into this mess.”

  “That sounded a lot like ‘forgive me for what I’m about to do.’”

  “That too.”

  I straightened my spine. “I’m going with you.”

  “Like hell you are.”

  Samuel’s tone was as hard-set as concrete and arguing would be a waste of breath.

  Instead, I planned. What would I need for an emergency trip to Mexico? My passport. International data plan for my phone. Snacks…lots of snacks. What would Samuel’s sister need?

  With a start, I realized I knew very little about her.

  Chapter 13

  Down Climb

  Moving down a rock face rather than up. Usually done when climbing without a rope, in emergencies, or when a climber has ventured off-route.

  Hydraulic Level Five [WORKING TITLE]

  Draft 1.113

  © Samuel Caulfield Cabral and Aspen Kaye Cabral

  VOLCANO SLUM

  It’s dusk in Mexico City. Aspen has her mountains back home: Mount Holycross. He glances at his watch. She must have summited by now. This is my mountain, thinks Caulfield as he, Uncle C and S edge along a backstreet piled with a dull rainbow of garbage and work their way up rough-carved roads, higher and higher toward the summit of this dormant volcano, now only an anthill for the dense lines of humanity that march its slopes. He wouldn’t have involved them, but traveling alone to a place like Tizilicho is akin to taping a sign to one’s back that reads ‘KIDNAP ME.’ Tizilicho isn’t in the part of Mexico City where families drive nice cars to restaurants when dad works late and mom doesn’t feel like cooking.

  “That girl from my store—she lives in a place like this?” says S.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “This doesn’t feel right, man.”

  “What choice do I have?”

  Uncle C doesn’t question, never does. He’s just visited his mother in Ciudad Victoria and what’s a nine-hour detour south to Mexico City? The man is as easy-going as the broken-in cowboy boots he’s worn since the eighties. He adjusts his giant belt buckle, smooths his mustache. He just wants to get out of the slum before the sun dips below the hills and plummets them into darkness.

  But S halts under a flickering streetlight, the only one on the hill. Deep lines are made deeper in its amber glow. “What are you hiding? Who is this girl to you?”

  No suspicion or accusation—just questions. S seems to have forgotten that Caulfield called him a ‘womanizing douche.’ He strongly suspects Aspen ran a below-level operation to talk S onto the plane with him.

  Forgetting isn’t always a bad thing. Because of his broken head he forgets quiet often, mainly small, useless memories. Millions of trees grow because squirrels forget where they bury nuts. That’s all he wants for his sister, to help her grow roots, to thrive far away from this place. “She’s my sister.”

  “Maria—”

  “Not Maria. Another sister.”

  Uncle C’s handlebar mustache twitches but he says nothing. More unraveling…only a matter of time before his parents learn of what he’s done, but it’s too late, the mesh is a tangle of threads between his fingers. “She’s my half-sister. My real dad and a woman from Tamaulipas had a thing.”

  Isn’t that a hang-up: his ‘real’ dad, as if the man who raised him isn’t ‘real..’ It’s a pungent leftover he should have tossed fifteen years ago when he became a man and realized who stood beside him and who didn’t.

  Caulfield was the product of a broken man who found a broken woman and together they made a broken child. The same for his sister, and that’s what binds them together—not blood or family. Mental illness. Both fought demons and lost, and won, fighting, always fighting. She claimed Caulfield was her light and maybe that’s why he now stands under a dirty streetlight in Tizilicho. Who else is left to be her single beaming lampstand, cutting through the smothering, overwhelming fog of drug use? That fog uses up person after person like sulfur mustard, steals their light, absorbs their light. Had she grasped and clawed for his light, only to find he wa
sn’t a true light at all but a weak imitation?

  Caulfield remembers when he dragged her to the rehab center in Ciudad Victoria nearly six years ago, ratted hair and clammy skin, her body trembling as poison leaked from her pores…

  “Why did you bring me to this place?” she snarled.

  “You need help. They’ll never find you here.”

  “They’ll always find me, Caulfield. They’ll find me because I’ll always find them first. That’s how messed up I am.”

  “You can overcome this. I did.”

  “I don’t have familia, like you.”

  “You do now.”

  She did overcome. She completed rehab, found cheap housing in Ciudad Victoria. But the cartel was always three steps behind with another ‘job’ and promises of more drugs. She needed to leave the country and he helped.

  “You can never contact me again,” she said as they left the cross-border tunnel behind in Texas. “It is safer this way…”

  What if he hadn’t listened? Would she still live in this slum? Tizilicho, built on top of a World Heritage site where ancient Aztecs eked out a living forging canals and artificial islands.

  What little grass grows between grimy cinderblock apartments is crowded out by volcanic rock.

  No electricity, no running water. People siphon it from the neighborhood down the hill.

  Caulfield inquires at the grocery store at the bottom of the hill (little more than a shed with basic food staples on teetering shelves), the clerk says he saw her a few days ago. “She looks like you. Tall, skinny, wide mouth. Sweet girl, comes in every other Friday from the slum with money. Brings children —neighbors pay her to watch them.”

  Caulfield pulls out the yellow post-it note, flimsy as fabric from carrying it in his wallet:

  Hermano, I need you. There is no one else. Meet me at the Mount Sanitas trailhead tomorrow at six in the evening.

  “Why didn’t you come?” he murmured when he called the number she’d scribbled, but only a dial tone answered.

  Now, Uncle C waits for them at the top of the stairs, thumbs hitched over his belt buckle like a true vaquero. The outline of a gun holster is visible beneath his embroidered shirt. It’s illegal to carry a firearm in Mexico, but as often as Uncle C drives the dangerous northern Tamaulipas highways, he doesn’t blame him for packing heat.