Juan Pedro knew it would be tomorrow or the next day or maybe even the next before they figured out that the driver of the truck was not in the building. He turned, slung his rifle over his shoulder, and motioned for Catalina to move up the hill. She didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. She simply picked up Gabriela and followed Diego, who had begun trudging up the steep, snowy trail. The trail marker read Woody Ridge Trail. She’d never been here, but based on the way Juan Pedro kept prodding, she had a feeling he had. With the echo of muffled gunfire below, they climbed for a mile, their feet slipping more with every step. Soon the grade grew so steep they were pulling on tree limbs and bushes to help their ascent. Freezing rain blew sideways.
An explosion rang out from below. Fire raged where the building had stood. Juan Pedro smiled again. Now it would be a week or two or maybe never before they figured out that he wasn’t inside it. He lit a cigarette, spun the brass lighter in his hand, and laughed quietly.
Diego stumbled and Catalina caught him as Juan Pedro smacked the back of the boy’s head. Catalina pleaded for rest through chattering teeth, but Juan Pedro pointed farther upward. He directed them around a small outcropping of rock and then back into the trees, where they came upon a natural break in the granite. Beneath an enormous rock outcropping was a cavelike space large enough to park two or three pickups. Someone had piled firewood and dried evergreen branches in the corner. Juan Pedro quickly lit a fire.
Catalina and the kids hovered near the flames, their shivering growing more intense as they warmed. Catalina helped the kids strip out of their wet clothes and settled them between the fire and the granite wall. She used long branches to hang their wet clothes against the rock wall, added larger logs to the fire, and circled the growing base of coals with rocks that would hold and reflect the heat. Staring at her two terrorized and exhausted children, shadows from the flames flickering on their faces, Catalina made up her mind: a bad death would be better than this living hell.
Because sleep could get him killed, Juan Pedro had trained himself to go without. When he did sleep, he did so in one of two dozen shipping containers strategically placed throughout the Southwest. He could lock them from the inside out, and something about locking himself in convinced his subconscious that he’d be safe. But if he’d been awake several days and couldn’t get to one of his trailers, he’d take something, a powerful narcotic, to knock him out for a few hours. Something that would medically override his system and force his instincts to shut down.
Catalina’s problem was that she never knew when he would do this. Like everything else in his life, when and what he took was secret. Juan Pedro was a master at controlling information. It was what made him valuable. Given that, she never really knew when he was asleep or just pretending. She couldn’t even trust his snoring. The only signal she’d ever been able to trust was the sight of his eyeballs moving back and forth beneath his eyelids. But he would usually cover his eyes with a hat.
Juan Pedro had been keeping himself awake for almost five days. Catalina knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. He had to get some sleep. And in all the hurry, he’d left his hat in the truck. Catalina made the fire as warm and inviting as she could. Juan Pedro yawned, walked outside the cave, and studied the worsening conditions. When he came back, he laid his backpack flat across the entrance to the cave, lay his head on the pack, cradled his rifle in his arms, and closed his eyes.
3
I sat with my legs dangling. Roll of white paper spread beneath me. Shirt off. Young doctor listening through his stethoscope. Degrees and diplomas covered the wall.
“Breathe.”
I did.
“And again.”
Another breath.
“One more.”
He placed his hand on my chest and tapped it with his other hand. Same on my back.
“You’ve been short of breath lately?”
“A little.”
“A little or yes?”
“I live at thirty-five hundred feet.”
“Did you feel this way when you moved there?”
“No.”
“How long have you lived there?”
“Ten years or more.”
“How long you been feeling this way?”
“Couple.”
He pointed at the antacids on the table. “How long you been taking those?”
“Long time.”
He frowned. “And you’re just now coming to see me?”
“Didn’t seem important.”
He crossed his arms. “At one time you were strong as an ox, weren’t you?”
I weighed my head side to side. “I can pull my own weight.”
“Except lately.”
I didn’t respond.
He hung his stethoscope around his neck. “What you’re feeling is not indigestion.”
“What is it?”
“You probably need a few stents. But I won’t know until I look.”
“Any hurry?”
He seemed surprised by my question. “That depends.”
“On?”
“If you want to live.”
I nodded.
He baited me. “You seem like an educated man.”
I sucked through my teeth. “Never finished high school.”
He crossed his arms and gazed at me skeptically.
I studied his various diplomas. “I attended school . . . just not in a traditional classroom.”
He looked again at the clipboard in his hand. “You’re sixty—”
I finished for him. “Two.”
He nodded. “You’ve got some hardening. Probably some blockage. The diabetes can contribute to it. I won’t know what I’m dealing with until I get in there and take a look.”
“What’s this going to cost?”
He did not look impressed. “Does it really matter?”
I shrugged.
He glanced at my chart. “You could get it done for free at the VA, but you probably already knew that.”
“I wouldn’t let them operate on my dead body.”
“Can’t say I blame you.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t you let me schedule you for next week. It’s painless, and you’ll feel a lot better.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Well . . . one of two things will happen. You’ll be dead before you hit the floor, or if you don’t die, we’ll split you up the middle and then crack most of your ribs trying to sew the pieces of your heart back together.”
I mumbled, “Not sure medicine can do that.”
He leaned in. “What’s that?”
I pulled on my shirt. “Next week will be fine.”
He glanced at my shirt pocket. Eyeing the pack of Camels. “You’ll have to quit those.”
“I don’t smoke them.”
He laughed. “And I bet you don’t inhale either.”
I stood and tucked in my shirt. He was an inch or two shorter than me. I looked down. “Doc . . . your bedside manner leaves a bit to be desired.”
He bristled. “How so?”
“Before you accuse a man, you should know his story.”
He was half my age. Young enough to be my son. Maybe it was my tone that convinced him. He changed his tune. “Why do you carry them then?”
“To remember.”
“Remember what?”
“That this hard heart you keep poking at was once tender and knew how to laugh and love and feel deeply. No amount of stents will bring that back.”
4
The percolator gurgled behind me, and the aroma of coffee hung in the air. I filled two mugs, placed one opposite me across the table. Then I lit a Camel unfiltered cigarette and set it next to the second cup, where both steam and smoke trailed up. I closed the worn brass Zippo lighter, flipped it over, and ran my fingertip along the engraving. Remembering. I pricked my finger, checked my fasting blood sugar, which measured 177, then drew out three units of insulin and injected it into the fatty tissue just above my belt line. I swa
llowed four antacids, mumbled something to myself about uppity doctors, and followed them with a glass of milk and a few Oreos.
Outside the wind howled. Downward sleet had turned to sideways snow. On the table sat a Mason jar half full of sharks’ teeth. I spilled a few on the table and picked through them. In one hand, the teeth. In the other, the lighter. Each a memory.
A familiar whining rose up from outside the front door. Rosco had returned. I slid my mug along the table, letting him know I was inside, and the whining grew louder. A moment later a paw scratched the front door. I shuffled my chair and he whined again. Rosco was working me and I knew it, but he’d always done that.
Up here, people pride themselves on their bear dogs. It is not uncommon for a prized bear dog to sell for upwards of twenty thousand dollars. Easy. Rosco was some shade of Rhodesian ridgeback mixed with a little North Carolina mountain mutt for good measure. He was a big dog. Came to mid-thigh, long lanky legs, big paws, big head, could run all day and night and then some, and he had powerful shoulders and jaws. Ridgebacks were bred to fight lions in Africa. But Rosco was a long way from Africa, and he was currently standing out in the snow and he was hungry.
I didn’t own Rosco. He used me for food, a warm bed, to pull the ticks off him come springtime and rub him between the ears at night. Truth be told, he liked to wander for days on end, chasing every female dog twenty miles in either direction, but when he grew tired or hungry or lonely, he was a pathetic pansy with a pitiful moan.
I slid my mug again and smiled. He’d laid his muzzle flat against the threshold and was blowing snot beneath the crack of the door. The whining had transformed to a muffled bark. I pulled open the cabinet, which squeaked, and the tempo of the breathing doubled. I popped the lid off a can, and a rhythmic thumping told me Rosco was spinning in circles, his tail thumping the door at every turn. I dropped the contents of the can into his bowl, cracked two raw eggs on top, covered that with a layer of dry dog food, and then soaked the whole thing in heavy cream. When I finished, I looked out the side window. Rosco was standing in front of the house, facing the door, howling.
I turned the handle, and the howling immediately stopped. I stood in the doorway and raised my eyebrows. Rosco sat spine-straight. Ears trained on me. I folded my arms and he lay flat on his tummy, paws forward, head up. He’d been gone four days—he had to be hungry. A tiny whimper escaped his throat. I stepped to the side and nodded. Rosco stood, walked inside, and sat, his head pivoting on a swivel and his tail wiping the varnish off the wood floors. Staring at me, then at the bowl. Then at me, then at the bowl. I sat, crossed my legs, and nodded.
Rosco devoured his food. When finished, he licked his muzzle and stretched out on “his” bear rug in front of my fire. The wind had picked up, pushing the wind chill lower. In front of me, Rosco snored happily.
My cabin is well insulated, so I crack the window whenever the fire is lit. I telescoped the radio antennae and adjusted the dial. The radio signal strengthened, and her voice sounded through the air. As she welcomed listeners, I finished my coffee. Then I poured out the cold cup across from me and stamped out the cigarette, which had burnt itself down to a butt. I refilled both cups, lit a second cigarette, and snapped the brass Zippo closed on my thigh.
Putting on my reading glasses, I dialed the ten-digit number. Three thousand miles away, she recognized my caller ID and answered. The most widely listened to nighttime radio call-in show in the country. Live on the air. “Jo-Jo!” Her voice dripped. “How are you, baby?”
Every caller was her baby. I chuckled. “Alive.”
“Still surprising to you?”
“Suzy, every day is a mystery, darling.”
“I love it when you call me that.”
I, along with a couple hundred thousand guys like me, could hear her smile.
“How’re things in the mountains of North Carolina?”
“White and . . .” A glance out the window. “Getting worse.”
“You still pouring two cups of coffee?”
A glance at my table. “Yes, ma’am.”
“How many years you been calling in to my show?”
“A lot.”
“And in all those years, and all the times I’ve asked about that coffee, you’ve never explained why.”
“I know.”
“One of these days you’ve got to let me in on that secret.”
“I try to keep my promises.”
“That would make you different from many in uniform.” Her voice had fallen to a low whisper. Like lovers speaking between pillows. Suzy knew her place. While she was an advocate for the silent, which meant she got to stoke the anti-government vibe from time to time, she was also careful not to push it too far, knowing that the same people she was criticizing on the air were the back-channel people she called when the show ended.
I didn’t respond.
She let the dead air filter out across the airwaves. After about ten seconds, she said, “Least you went.”
“I try to keep my promises.”
She laughed. The sound just millimeters from the microphone. Layered behind her voice, her squeaking chair sounded through the radio. “What brings you to my ears this moonlit night?”
“Sharks’ teeth.”
“You’re such a romantic. Still dreaming about that beach, eh?”
“I’ve been called a lot of things. Romantic has never been one of them.”
“Why sharks’ teeth?”
I paused. Looking back. “I knew a girl once.”
“Oh, do tell.”
“Growing up, me and this girl used to walk the beach.”
“Hmmmm . . .” She savored this, and in so doing allowed her listeners to do likewise.
I continued. “I’d lead her by the hand and we’d comb the beach looking for whatever washed up.”
“Any walk in particular?”
The snow was falling heavy now, but the moon had risen so it hung behind the clouds like a flashlight shining behind a sheet. “It was October. Harvest moon. So bright you could see your shadow. When the tide washed over the shells, leaving them wet, the shells would reflect like black diamonds. We filled up a backpack.”
“Was that before you shipped out?”
“A few months.”
“Sounds like a good memory.”
“It was innocence.”
At some point in Suzy’s back-and-forth, she usually dropped an emotional bomb that sent the listener reeling. Like having a Band-Aid ripped off your heart. For me, that bomb was here. But I knew it was coming.
“Did you love her?”
“I’m not sure I remember that emotion, but I do remember feeling something I haven’t felt in a long time.”
In her conversations with guys like me, Suzy liked to walk her listeners up to the wire, stare beyond it, allowing our memories to take over, then retreat to safety. It was her way of forcing us to deal with what most of us didn’t want to deal with. But she was careful. She knew not to push too far. Each of us had a place from which we could not easily come back.
Suzy had mercy. She offered me an out. “It was a long time ago.”
I considered this. “I can still smell the salt air mixed with the smell of her shampoo.”
Suzy sidestepped. “You two have a favorite song?”
“We had a thing for Creedence.”
“Any song in particular?”
“I’ve always felt fortunate.”
Suzy laughed. But didn’t quite let me go. “One more question.” I knew it before she asked. “Whatever happened to the girl?”
The memory returned. I cleared my throat. “She married another.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Probably for the best. I was in pretty bad shape.”
“Did you know the guy?”
“Yes.” The snow was blowing sideways. “He was my brother.”
Rarely does a caller leave Suzy speechless, but I’d just succeeded. She tried to recover. Her chair squeaked, suggest
ing she’d sat up to look at her producer for some help. Like an actor on Broadway, she stayed in character no matter what a caller said. It was how she protected herself from the pain she served on her radio waves. Having undressed me, Suzy peeled off her mask and spoke to me. Just to me. “Jo-Jo, I’m sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have asked that one.”
I let her off easy. “Long time ago. Besides . . . the boy she walked the beach with was not the man who came home.”
Empowered, Suzy strapped her mask back on. “Sergeant?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She spoke to all of us. It’s why we listened. She spoke the words we’d never heard. “Thank you.”
I studied my hand, making and remaking a fist. “If you knew my story, you’d have trouble saying that.”
She chuckled. “I’m not talking about who you were and what you did when we sent you halfway around the world.”
I matched her chuckle. “I’m not either.”
Suzy’s voice reached through the phone and kissed the ears of every man listening: “Stay dry, Sergeant.”
She switched back into her radio voice. “This is for every sergeant who ever fell in love, but signed up anyway.”
I hung up as CCR burst into my anthem. The sound took me back to the beach and the stars and the feel of that tender and trusting hand inside mine.
It’d been a long time since I’d felt fortunate.
5
I snoozed until after midnight, when Rosco appeared next to my bed, his ears trained toward the window. I’d heard it too. I lay in the dark listening. A noise well beyond the cabin echoed faintly. Rosco’s ears were pointed toward the open window. There it was again. This time the hair stood on his back.
I tied on my boots, pulled on my coat, and grabbed my backpack. Live in the mountains long enough and you never walk out the door without a pack. It contained the just-in-case stuff I might need if something went wrong: a hundred meters of rope, compass, emergency blanket, flares, matches, butane lighter, paracord, knife, a second knife, warm hat, first-aid kit, and a dozen other things I might need.
Send Down the Rain Page 3