He was chosen last.
He was also an easy out, because ‘Fello’ didn’t know a lick about baseball. If I had been Rafael, I wouldn’t have returned after the first baseman told me to step off the base and then tagged me out.
I trailed Samuel and Angel on the way home, my star-struck eyes glued to the jaunty tilt of Samuel’s backwards baseball cap (I was an innocent kid, so my eyes hadn’t learned to stray lower). It was difficult to understand their conversation, but I saw in the fiery set of Samuel’s shoulders that he was upset.
“Firecracker, why do you think Rafael gets dumped on? Doesn’t it bother you?”
I shrugged, played it cool in front of my crush. “It’s not nice, I guess. Maybe if he learned the rules of baseball...”
“You’re right, absolutely. I’m going to teach him.”
For an entire month, Samuel pedaled over to Rafael’s. I tagged along, nothing better to do. My most helpful contribution was “never run for second base when the shortstop has the ball.” Samuel loaned him his old glove. Showed him how to ‘swing thru,’ and ‘keep your eye on the ball.’ By August, Rafael knew enough to remove the big bully target on his back.
When Samuel was team captain, he never chose Rafael last. If one of his Little League teammates told Rafael to steal third base, Samuel shouted “¡No seas gacho!” And they listened.
You know why? Because Samuel was a light. He set the bar so high, we were forced to stretch.
I think we are all born to be lights. But sometimes our hands are so out-of-practice, it’s hard to strike the flint, catch the kindling.
Snowmass Mountain
September
“Is that a wild cat?” I grabbed Luca’s sleeve and pointed to the underbrush where I swore there’d been a pair of amber eyes. He squinted.
“Don’t see a thing. Sorry.”
“It was like a mountain lion, only smaller.”
“A bobcat, maybe, or a lynx? Keep your eyes open.”
“We don’t have to worry unless it’s rabid. Stealthy creature.”
I dragged up my tee and wiped sweat from my face. The heat of early September was nearly unbearable, hitting record levels and mercilessly cracking an already arid land. Still, no rain. Angel, Luca, and I battled up Snowmass Mountain, the trade-off a dramatic temperature shift that brought sweet relief from the castigating summer.
I collapsed on a boulder, its solid, wind-smoothed surface an ice pack on my skin. There were no trees, no shade, nothing but cool wind and sunshine. Glorious.
“That’s it. I’m building a cabin right here in the tundra.”
“I’m sure it’ll hold up next winter,” Angel laughed.
“Better yet, I’ll burrow a hole next to this marmot colony. Do you think they would mind? Would you mind, little friend?” I asked a fat marmot tucked in a bed of columbine. The furry guy scurried and slid down the hill, off to warn the slope’s inhabitants of my sinister plan.
“What number is this for you?” Luca dug through his pack and tossed each of us a Clif bar.
“Twelve, I think? Hector’s just two from his fifteen, though.” I hadn’t planned to climb today, but when Hector backed out because of a ‘last minute commitment,’ I didn’t think twice about lacing up the ol’ Tevas. I’d been glued to the weather channel’s radar for too long, staring at two red and yellow pinwheels: one barreling toward Mexico’s Gulf Coast and the other, its Pacific Coast. I couldn’t turn away, as if I could change the course of Hurricanes Manuel and Ingrid. Samuel was in Nuevo Leon, the state directly to the west of coastal Tamaulipas. At least he was inland.
“There’s still time before November,” I continued. “The Canucks also have three more peaks to go, but winter hits the Canadian Rockies a lot earlier than our Rockies. We’ve got this in the bag.”
“Right on, Sister Blue Hair.” Angel and I bumped fists like dweebs.
I didn’t tell them Hector and I would finish out our fourteeners challenge separately. There would be no more climbs with him, alone or with a group, at least not for a few years. My heart ached at the loss of my friend, but if you’re allergic to bee stings, you don’t keep a hive in your backyard.
I turned a complete three-sixty, my beloved Rockies rising around me, range after range, like massive choppy waves frozen in a split-second. Far to the west, more than a hundred miles over the Uinta Basin, the sky was the steely gray of storms, thank God. The duel hurricanes in Mexico warped normal weather patterns, even this far north. By the time we left Snowmass, we’d be drenched. I said as much to my climbing partners.
“We better hit the trail,” Luca agreed. “Get off the more treacherous parts of the mountain before this gully-washer.” But no ‘gully-washer’ arrived. Something happened to the storm we saw, so far away, between the western ranges and us. It stayed in the Uinta Basin. Little did I know, those storms building and churning, stuck over the Uinta Basin, would produce a flood so ruthless, it would wash away anything in its path.
When Angel asked to see the new place, I jumped. Reluctant to return to an empty apartment with Samuel in Mexico, I needed distractions.
Potholes rattled my teeth as Angel’s pick-up truck bounced up the road to Samuel’s and my new home. Left Hand Creek barely trickled thru its rock bed, the summer heat and lack of rain having depleted its supply. Angel slapped his knee as his country music station blared something about booze, rain, open roads, and American-made pick-up trucks.
“Been a rough summer, hasn’t it?” said Angel.
Said the same thing myself, the other day. But I wasn’t singing about it. “Not much rain. We’re playing catch-up just to meet normal rainfall levels. Turn right.”
He cranked the wheel. “I’m not talking about the weather, hermana.”
“I can’t complain. But I want to hear about your deployment overseas.”
He rubbed his military cut, the skin on his neck leathery and darkened by an oppressive desert sun. “Look, I know I’ve been gone a long time and it’s hard to jump back in. But can I tell you what I see?”
“Sure.” Guess we’d go there after all. He parked in the driveway.
“When I left in January, I saw my smiling, loony sister-in-law carry herself with a confidence that made complete strangers stop and stare. Now, nine months later, she’s not smiling. She’s still loony, but that confidence is gone. You’re thinner.”
“Not a bad thing, Angel.”
“It is for you. Your whole body kinda drags when you walk.”
“Like an ape?” I scratched my armpit and puffed out my cheeks.
Angel frowned. “I swear you’re twelve.”
I lurched into the backseat for my Tevas and eased them over blistered heels. “Things between Samuel and I...haven’t been great. But we’re in counseling, we’re committed to each other, and we’ll survive. So, while I appreciate your concern, your job right now is to spend time with your wife and your two beautiful babies.”
“Danita sent me.”
I should have known. Despite my downplaying the severity of my marriage crisis, she always saw. “Tell her I had wild redneck sex in a pond with her brother Sunday morning, while she was at church. That should shut her up.”
A slow grin spread over Angel’s face. “Believe me, it would be an honor.”
We meandered over the hill, grass crackling under our feet. It was dried, dormant, desperate for water. Angel whistled. “Nice place. How many stories you building? Four?”
I hip-checked him. “Just two. Someone has to clean it. The roof goes up later this week, then the windows.” I pointed out the creek, the trail ascending through the trees toward the old mine. We walked the perimeter of the property, wobbly on legs nearly shot from two days of mountain climbing.
He scratched his neck. “So…what’s this insanity about a drug addict posing as Samuel’s sister?”
“Despite what Danita believes, she really is his sister. If you met her, there’s no way you could deny she’s a Cabral.”
“I get that. But you and Sam are so close to the situation, you aren’t considering other possibilities. See, this is where being gone for six months comes in handy. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found?”
“She wouldn’t have asked for help if that were the case.” I examined a downed tree we’d need to chainsaw into firewood when Samuel returned.
“Here’s what bothers me. Isn’t it entirely possible the whole thing is made up? Samuel’s got a big bank account.”
Dread crept into my bones. “You know, I’m not sure. Javier’s creepy. But she seemed so…” I looked for the right word. “Genuine. Maybe she was coerced?”
We made our way back to the pick-up truck and climbed in. But Angel only sat behind the wheel, thoughtful. The air grew stale and stifling, and I cranked down the window. The air outside wasn’t much better.
“Here’s a scenario for you,” he said after some minutes. “Marieta’s scraping by in Mexico City, finding work, making friends. But then she learns something about this Javier she doesn’t like. Perhaps he’s sold her out to the Zacatóns, perhaps he’s a human trafficker, I don’t know. She flees, tells no one where she’s going. Javier knows Marieta has a famous brother in Colorado, someone with money, and thinks maybe she’s gone to him. Samuel’s a prime target. Trouble is, Sam’s off the grid after that debacle in Boston. His people are tight gatekeepers.”
“But until recently, NixieNet.net posted his comings and goings.” I muttered Alan Murphy’s name like a curse.
“So he joins a group of migrants working the Front Range farms, stalks Samuel and reels him in with ‘Marieta’s address’ in Mexico. But Sam is street smart: never reveal your travel plans, don’t use unofficial taxis, surround yourself with an entourage, etcetera. He doesn’t simply follow Javier to that Mexico City slum. Bro takes Santiago and his Uncle Carlos, who has guns and balls as big as his Mexican belt buckle.”
“But I’ve seen Javier around town when Samuel’s gone.”
Angel stared me dead in the eyes. “Maybe he has a plan B.” A shiver slithered down my spine and my brain raced, trying to pinpoint times I’d made myself alone and vulnerable. “No contact with this guy, comprende? If he comes knocking, lock yourself up tight and call the police.”
“I can’t call the police, because he’s done nothing to threaten me. Being brown isn’t illegal, hermano.”
He rolled his eyes. “Then call me, Lily-white.”
“Loud and clear, Lieutenant.”
Just like that, Angel’s job was done. He literally wiped his hands, relieved to have completed his task. “Let’s head back. I need time with my baby girl, teach her how to power-five like a Wonder Twin.”
Angel’s truck rumbled to life and cool air poured into the cab, sweet relief. My mind zipped over unexplored angles in this deepening cavern. But one crucial question veined this scenario’s walls like glowing lublinite, begging for attention:
This fragile, rumpled woman I’d twice met in Paddlers, the one who looked like Samuel… what was Marieta’s angle?
The night before the Great Flood began, Samuel called me from Mexico. I told him Angel’s theory about Javier. I assured him I would stay with Angel and Danita.
“Reminds me of the rabbit and the coyote.”
“No clue what you mean.” Samuel must have found the local toloache peddler.
“That old Mexican folktale. Surely you remember my father telling it to us when we were kids.”
He told me to get comfortable for a bedtime story.
“Everyone knows a coyote’s favorite meal is rabbit. But rabbits are tricky creatures. Once upon a time, a particularly hungry coyote chased a rabbit into the hills. He lost sight of his prey but soon found him, leaning against a rock high atop a cliff. Just as he was about to devour him, the rabbit cries ‘no, you mustn’t eat me. For who will keep this boulder from tumbling down the cliff and destroying the world? Quick brother, hold the boulder while I find a stick to brace it!’ So coyote holds the boulder and the rabbit scurries away. Coyote waits and waits, braced against the rock until his limbs ache and he can’t hold it anymore. ‘Let the world be destroyed,’ he cries and runs as fast as he can, only to find the boulder still perched high above on the cliff. Rabbit has tricked him.”
Hazy memories wrapped around me, warm and colorful like Sofia’s old peacock quilt, of being tucked into Danita’s trundle bed while Papá Cabral wove this tale in the shadows of the bedroom lamp.
“Well, now the coyote is hopping mad. He tracks the rabbit across the plain and comes upon him lapping water from a lake, when the moon is round and bright. Just as coyote is about to devour him, the rabbit cries ‘no brother, don’t eat me! Eat this delicious cheese at the bottom of this lake. Do you see it?’ Coyote’s eyes widen and his belly gurgles. He asks rabbit how he can get the cheese from the water. ‘We must drink our way to the cheese,’ says rabbit. ‘Drink quickly, for you are bigger than I.’ So coyote drinks until his belly hurts and he is more sodden than a sponge. Water pours from his eyes and ears and he looks for the rabbit, only to find him vanished. Coyote has been tricked, once again.”
“I remember this,” I said as cobwebs retreated into the night. “But how does this correlate to you, Javier, and Marieta?”
“For the life of me, I can’t figure this out: who is the rabbit and who is the coyote?”
We spoke for an hour about our new house, the latest news in Boulder County, the drought. He asked about my climb and I told him Hector hadn’t been along. “I trust you,” he said, but I wasn’t sure he did. That was okay, we had lots of time.
I asked him about his trip. “You’re in Nuevo Leon.”
“Yes, Monterrey.”
“Isn’t that awfully close to Tamaulipas?”
A pause. I pictured him running his hand through his hair, the way he did when he was anxious. “It is. I’m actually on my way to La Vereda.”
Frick frickin’ mother frick. Anywhere but there. “You told me you wouldn’t go back.”
“I didn’t tell you that.”
“Dammit, Samuel Caulfield Cabral! Both Mexican coasts are about to get hit by hurricanes, and you’re driving straight into Ingrid instead of away. You are going to get yourself kidnapped or killed.”
“I won’t. Ninety-nine percent of travel in Mexico is safe, at least for the next couple of days.”
“Is that a promise?” I said with a voice too sarcastic to be loving.
“I’ll talk to you as soon as I can, Kaye.” End of call. I slammed my phone on the counter, so hard the case popped loose.
Morning dawned bright and beautiful, and I opened the curtains in Dani and Angel’s townhome to another summer simmer. I turned on the news as I rifled through their pantry for cereal. A box of disgusting bulgur wheat was shoved to the back of the shelf, the same stuff Samuel ate. Do not think about him in Tamaulipas. Do not check your phone for the thousandth time. Do not get in your car and hop an airplane. Do not, do not, do not...
The anchorman was as cheerful as the sunshine outside the window:
“Relief from the heat is on its way, folks. The sprinkle we had yesterday was a foretaste of things to come. Clouds will build midday and that nice cold front we’ve been telling you about will move in, along with an unusually high level of moisture in the atmosphere. Some much needed rain is on the horizon...”
Yeah right. Rain was elevated to ‘myth status’ on the Front Range. But as I darted into Fischer’s Deli for a turkey and Swiss, clouds billowed high into the sky. Rain pattered the pavement just as I ducked inside TrilbyJones, lunch in hand. Only a quarter of an inch total rainfall, but rock and clay doesn’t absorb water. The rain raced down the foothills and settled nicely into our parched creek beds, a blessing for a land in a forty-year drought. My blue hair frizzed out like it hadn’t in years, turning me into a Muppet.
How could we have possibly known that this miniscule quarter-inch of water was the first of what experts would one day call a ‘thousand-year rain’?
&n
bsp; That night, I sat beside my window and watched rain cascade down roof eaves and gush from the gutter, mesmerized. Its wetness tickled my nose. Fresh leaves and grass and earth perfumed the air, and I sucked in an exuberant breath.
My phone rang. I snatched it up. “Samuel. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just killing time at the airport. Listen, you and Angel were right about Javier.” I sat up, sobered by his voice. “I’m almost positive he’s working for the Zacatóns.”
“For the love of all that’s holy, get out of Mexico.”
“As soon as I can. This is something I can promise.”
“Please be careful.”
“I need you to ask Jaime to search the Dark Web again. Instead of looking for info on me or Marieta, see what turns up about Javier Sanchez.”
My mouth popped open. “‘Sanchez,’ as in related to Marieta Sanchez?”
“That’s right—he’s her uncle.”
“Holy schnikes!”
“Try this address in Mexico City. Are you ready to write?”
I grabbed a pen and paper. “Shoot.”
He read an apartment number in the Tizilicho slum, one number higher than Marieta’s.
“I want to know everything she finds on him, his wife, his children. If she can discover who he’s working for, even better. And read the chapter of our book I’m sending you…” He cleared the sorrow from his throat. “I love you. I’ll be home soon.”
I texted Jaime the information and settled in with Samuel’s newest chapter, hammered out in a busy airport while he waited for the next flight. Four hours later, I buried my face in my pillow and slid into fitful dreams of babies crying and La Llorona, wailing into a starless Mexican sky.
I downed one, two cups of strong, black coffee the next morning, still haunted by my husband’s discoveries in La Vereda. So Javier was the brother of Marieta’s mother, and he ran drugs for the cartel. (That explained his chilly warning about Border Patrol and how he knew Samuel and Marieta had dumped those kilos in a Texas farm pond). Javier would not be awarded a “world’s greatest uncle” mug anytime soon. Why, then, had she lived next door to him in the Tizilicho slum? Was she still running drugs, too?
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