by Bella Pollen
‘I’m just saying we should hear him out, okay:’
I stiffen. ‘What do you mean, hear him out?’
‘He’s coming over.’
‘He’s doing what!’ I stare at him aghast.
‘Look, I rang him as soon as the police left. I thought he might know what to do about this Duval character and he does. He’s bringing his investors and a bunch of local people he wants me to meet.’
‘Robert, do you understand who these people are? They’re vigilantes!’
‘Vigilantes?’ He laughs. ‘Now who’s being melodramatic? Besides, he’s bringing a hired car. I’m not driving in that truck of yours again.’
‘Robert, listen to me.’ I lay a hand on his arm. ‘You don’t understand what it’s like round here, who people are, it’s . . . complicated.’
‘Well, actually, I don’t think it is. This is private property. We have every right to defend it. At least the law in this country is on our side.’
‘The law is the job of the Border Patrol.’
‘Then where are they?’ He pushes open the big window and waves his hand at the mountains. ‘I don’t see them out there looking for this murderous builder of yours, do you? Christ alive, Alice, you’ve put so much time and money into this project already. Do you really want to see it all lost?’
But I can’t answer him.
‘It’s all very well putting your head in the sand, but what are you going to do when this place is up and running and a group of these wetback people barge in on your guests?’
‘Wetbacks, Robert? Wetbacks?’ I hold my temper in check. ‘Well, how about we offer them a prize – you know, for the lucky few who don’t die on the crossing – a massage on arrival and the chollo spikes picked out of their toes?’
‘Don’t be flip. Besides, if this man is guilty of murder, if he really has been using our property for smuggling, then don’t you want him caught?’ He looks at me strangely. ‘You seem so . . . not bothered by any of this.’
‘I want you to ring Hogan and tell him not to come.’
‘No, Alice, I won’t.’ He sets his jaw. We stare at each other and it’s as if the Atlantic and its windy waters still stand between us for all the chill in our silence.
It’s still light outside when Jeff Hogan drives up the track in his big Silverado followed by Lane and the weaselly Selby in a hired car. They clatter up to the cabin, shaking hands with Robert, and exchanging backslaps as though enjoying their first college reunion in twenty years. From the safety of the doorway, I throw Hogan a look of utter loathing then compose my features and dutifully fetch beers from the fridge. On the deck I shake hands with Selby, I shake hands with Lane and I even allow Hogan to press his thin lips to my cheek because all that matters now is finding a way of getting word to Duval before the other men arrive.
Robert and Hogan are in prime schmoozing mode. They exchange expansive gestures, mutual flattery and cigars. Hogan is magnanimous in victory. ‘Mrs Coleman . . . ma’am,’ he says, looking up. ‘Don’t mistake my meaning. We’re not saying you haven’t done a fine job so far, but if you want to see a return on your money, then you’re going to have to secure this property once and for all. We throw out a big enough net, who knows what kind of fish we’ll catch?’ He lowers his voice to Robert. ‘I blame myself for not being more forceful. To think of your wife here, in danger, day in, day out. Why, if a man is capable of murder there’s no saying what he’s capable of.’ He shudders. ‘I wouldn’t want someone like that in such proximity to my own dear wife.’ And, in spite of everything, I snort as I picture Duval reduced to a state of priapic longing at the thought of Hogan’s wife, supplicating and twinkling in her rhinestone tracksuit. Hogan mistakes the noise for an exclamation of horror and pats my arm clumsily. ‘That was insensitive of me, I’m sorry. I forget this must all have come as a real shock to you.’
I’m saved by Emmy racing out of the cabin with Jack in hot pursuit. He catches her, puts his hands around her throat and lifts her up by the neck till her feet dangle off the ground like the victim of a rough-justice hanging.
‘OwOwOW!’ Emmy howls.
‘Stoppit, Jack! You’re behaving like a yob!’ Robert thunders.
‘But she’s already had three!’ Jack yells back. Silently, I pluck the bag of cookies out of Jack’s hands and empty it into the crisp bowl on the deck.
Emmy takes refuge in her father’s lap. ‘You’re going down down down,’ she spits at her brother. ‘To hell and back!’
‘Like I care!’ Jack retorts.
‘Say, little lady.’ Hogan bends down, seeking to distract her. ‘What are you going to be when you’re all grown up?’
‘Oh, Godddd,’ she groans. ‘Not again.’
‘Emmy, don’t be rude!’ Robert scolds.
‘Fine!’ she snaps. ‘I’m going to be a teenager.’
Hogan laughs a great big Father Christmas laugh.
‘What about after that?’
‘Divorced.’
‘Oh, come now, you don’t want to be divorced.’
‘Yes, I do.’ She giggles wildly. ‘Then I can sex someone else.’
‘Emmy!’ I say. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Good job on their manners,’ Robert hisses.
‘Daddy?’ She wriggles round on his lap. ‘You know Enunciada?’
‘Is she a friend from school?’
‘No, silly. Enunciada! On Benjamín’s television.’
‘Oh ... I see.’ Robert is unable to keep the disapproval from his voice. ‘Well what about her?’
‘She’s been down there.’
‘Down where?’
‘There.’ She widens her eyes into a blink-free stare and directs them at the ground.
‘Where?’ Robert says.
‘To hell,’ she breathes with awe.
‘Oh. Right . . . well that’s very bad.’
‘No, actually it’s okay, cos Enunciada’s going to get resurrectioned!’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
‘Benjamín says he’s been to hell too. In fact he says he’s been to hell and back.’
‘Really,’ Robert quips acidly, ‘let’s hope he enjoyed it.’
‘Daddy!’ Emmy says, disappointed. ‘You’re not listening. It’s hell, okay? How could he enjoy it? Plus it was probably really hot.’ She eases herself off her father’s lap.
‘Now where are you going?’ Robert sighs.
‘To sharpen my toes,’ she answers coquettishly.
‘Little fireball, ain’t she?’ Selby watches her flouncing off. He helps himself to one of the cookies out of the bowl and breaks it in half. ‘Hey, these are galletas de azúcar. Mexican sugar cookies. My mother had a maid who used to make these.’ He looks at me closely and too late I realize my mistake in bringing Dolores’s biscuits out. ‘Who’s the baker in the family?’
‘Benjamín, probably,’ Robert says belligerently. ‘The man seems to do everything round here except the one thing we pay him for.’
‘You mean the little Mexican with the broken jaw?’ Hogan says. ‘The one that’s supposed to watch the place for you?’
‘You can’t trust a Mexican to watch out for other Mexicans.’ Selby laughs humourlessly.
‘I’d trust Benjamín with my life,’ I snap then immediately adopt a more measured voice. ‘I’d have been lost without him.’
‘Seems to me, he’s the one who’s lost,’ Robert says waspishly. ‘I thought you said he’d be back by now.’
‘He’ll be here soon,’ I reassure him smoothly, but with every passing hour Benjamín’s return looks less likely and I’m thankful for it. Duval must have heard about the murdered guard and kept him in the schoolroom.
‘It’s not like we don’t pay this man a decent wage. I’m sure it’s a lot more than he’d get in his own country, so is it really so unreasonable that we should ask him to account for himself? Because my wife seems to think it is.’
‘Mummy!’
I look up sharply. Emmy’s voice comes
to me so faintly, it might have been the whisper of the cottonwood trees.
‘Mummy.’
There it is again. Jack is kicking a ball around moodily. I touch him on the arm. ‘Jack, where’s Emmy?’
‘Up my bottom.’
‘That’s a good place to keep your sister,’ I say vaguely, then, keeping an eye on the men, mutter something about further refreshments and move towards the cabin. In the doorway I can see a corner of Emmy’s dress, fluttering like a handkerchief held out in surrender, and my heart beats a little faster. Now her face appears around the door frame, serious and pointed. The keeper of grownup information. She puts a finger to her lips and draws me into the cabin and there, gripping her other hand tightly in his own, stands Winfred.
28
The clearing beyond the deck is now packed with SUVs and pickup trucks. There are eight further conscripts in Hogan’s army, including his two hefty offspring, but apart from Bob, the town hall compère, and one of the ranchers from the meeting, the rest are strangers and I can do little more than stand helplessly on the deck and watch as they mill around the open backs of their vehicles preparing for battle.
‘Can’t you talk to them?’ I’d begged Winfred.
‘Mrs Coleman, for one I’m off duty,’ he said indicating his clothes. ‘For two they got your husband’s permission. They’re within their legal right. Nothin’ I can do.’
‘Can’t you radio Duval? Tell him what’s going on.’
Winfred shook his head. ‘Everybody is on the radio today. Everybody is looking for him.’
‘Then I’m going to call Chavez. Tell him about the guard, tell him the truth.’
‘Duval will go to prison anyway. So will Benjamín and it will be bad for you too.’ He glanced towards the deck and I knew he was talking about Robert.
‘I don’t care! Chavez is a decent guy, he’ll put a stop to all this.’
‘No,’ Winfred said stubbornly. ‘No Patrol. It’ll only make things worse. Hey, Mrs Coleman, don’t worry. Duval is smart. Hogan’s men won’t find him.’
‘You have to warn him, Winfred.’ I laid my hand on his arm. ‘Please, you have to do something.’
Winfred glanced towards the deck. The frown between his eyes was fixed and set. ‘I’ll go out there. Take my own car.’ He shot another look towards the deck. ‘Keep them here, Mrs Coleman, long as you can.’
So I had. At the arrival of the troops, my smile had been charm itself. I tied on an apron and, like a Tupper-ware Queen, began tossing steaks and potatoes into a frying pan, opening doors to let the smell of onions and beef create its own temptations, and as the evening dragged slowly and painfully on, Winfred’s window of opportunity had opened ever wider.
But now the dirty plates are in the sink, the crate of beer finished and the men ready for their after-dinner games. Most are dressed in their camouflage. All of them are armed. Hogan thrusts his arms into a padded vest, jamming a flashlight and strips of plastic ties into the multitude of breast pockets stitched onto the front. Into a further drop-down pouch below the waist he slides a handgun, then Velcros the lower straps of the vest tightly over his stomach. On the arm of his shirt, yellow embroidery patches have been sewn, their titles – Operation White Mouse, Operation Tumbleweed – broadcasting the success of previous missions. If Robert is taken aback by the show of fire power, his natural bullishness doesn’t allow him to acknowledge it. He looks from Hogan to the other men as trousers are tucked into boots and floppy hats are wedged on heads. ‘This is quite a show you’re putting on here, Jeff. I’m not sure I was expecting—’
‘Why would you be?’ Hogan comments genially. He hands Robert a pair of night-vision goggles. ‘Seeing as you come from a civilized kind of a country. You don’t have our border issues.’ He waves at one of his boys, who lumbers over. ‘Tucker, this is Mr Coleman. He owns this property here and tonight he is an honorary member of Ranch Rights. I want you to take him to Bob and let him choose himself a decent weapon.’
Bob grabs Robert’s hand and gives it a good shaking. ‘You’re doin’ the right thing, Robert. We’re all neighbours here, local landowners. Trust me, this has worked on my property, it’s worked on other properties nearby. Now,’ he hands him a gun from the back of his car, ‘try this on for size. It’s a high-powered huntin’ rifle, with high-impact bullets.’ He lets Robert handle the gun for a minute before exchanging it for another.
‘This here’s the Bushmaster, an AKA2. It has a nice chrome-lined barrel. Expensive gun. In fact my daddy uses this gun, but some folks prefer the Mossberg Tactical.’ He produces a long-barrelled shotgun. ‘It ain’t as precise as the Bushmaster, but it’s sure a lot cheaper. Go ahead, try it. It’s tricked out with some pretty little features.’ He watches approvingly as Robert discovers the quick-release button. ‘Take whichever floats your boat, pardner.’
‘Cool.’ Jack has made his escape from my side. He snatches at the gun. ‘Let me try it!’
‘Jack!’ I shout after him.
‘Mum, come on,’ he wheedles.
‘Jack, stop being silly.’ Robert lifts the gun out of his son’s reach.
‘Is this what you want?’ I hiss at Robert, the shine on my Best Supporting Wife medal growing more tarnished by the second.
‘Mrs Coleman, please, ma’am,’ Bob says hastily, ‘you’re worrying unduly. We’re dedicated patriots, all of us, and we’re here to secure America’s boundaries and safeguard its good citizens. These guns are for protection, nothing more. Our aim is only to apprehend these individuals.’ He pats the radio in his belt pouch. ‘All we do when we come across one is radio the Border Patrol and get them to make the pick-up.’
‘Dad says we can make a game of it,’ Hogan’s youngest chips in. ‘See who can catch the most!’
‘Cody, that’s enough,’ Hogan warns, joining us.
‘Look, most don’t give you any trouble,’ Bob intervenes soothingly. ‘They’re pretty traumatized and they have respect for a uniform. That’s why we wear it. It confuses the hell out of them. They don’t know who we are but they know we’re authority and that’s good enough.’
‘Hell, some of them even lie down on their stomachs without us having to ask,’ Cody boasts.
‘I want Daddy to catch the most,’ Jack chants. ‘I want Daddy to catch the most!’
‘Go inside, Jack,’ I snap. ‘Right now.’
‘And what about the ones that don’t lie down on their stomachs for you?’ I say. ‘What about Duval?’
‘Henry Duval is another matter,’ Hogan says self-importantly. ‘The man’s wanted on a murder charge and if he’s out there it’s our duty to bring him in. One way or another.’
‘Alice, they’re right.’ Robert pats me heavily on the shoulder. ‘We can’t leave this man on the loose. I mean, think about it. Of course you feel safe now, with all of us around, but imagine if we don’t catch him. Imagine how you’d feel then, in the dark and sleeping alone in your bed. Do you really want to wake up and find this Duval standing over you?’ He looks at me almost entreatingly. ‘Well, do you?’
I go on staring down the path until long after the dust has settled and the noise of engines receded. Jack is surprisingly pliant about bedtime but Emmy decides to stage a protest which quickly escalates into a one-child riot.
‘I’m not tired. I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to stay up till Daddy gets back I want Benjamín I want a biscuit I want Daddy,’ she screams. ‘You’re so mean I hate you. I’m going to rip out my guts I hate you so much.’ And when I move her to my bed to stop her keeping Jack awake, she strikes out at me with her hand, catching me sharply on the side of my face.
I get angry then and we fight for a while. Emmy holds strong but eventually throws herself back against the pillows weeping piteously.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, prising her face off the damp sheets, ‘it’s just that you can’t always lose your temper like that. What will people think of you if they see you losing your temper all the time?’
; ‘They’ll think I’m a bad person.’
‘Not a bad person, no, but they’ll think you’re spoilt and not very nice.’
Her face crumples. Two enormous liquid pear drops roll down her cheeks in faultless synchronicity and I wonder why children’s tears always seem so big and round and single until it strikes me that adults, adept at hiding their misery, cry with their hands over their faces.
‘You don’t see grown-ups screeching and hitting people and beating their fists against the pillow, do you?’ I wonder why on earth I’m bothering with this but it just seems better to go through the motions of normality.
‘But grown-ups are all nearly forty and I’m only five . . . just turned five,’ she whispers.
‘Well that’s old enough to learn to control your temper.’
‘I’m trying to, Mummy, but I’ve only just started and I’m not very good at it yet.’ She lays her head on my shoulder, her face red and raw. ‘I’ll get the hang of it soon. I will. I promise.’
‘Is your face stinging, Emmy?’ I ask. She nods and I fetch a damp flannel and hold it to her eyes. ‘Better now?’ She smiles and settles back against the pillows and I stay with her, holding her hand till she falls asleep.
The night drags on. Restlessly, I pace the room, do my teeth, move objects from one place to the other. I lie on the bed and listen to the ticking of the watch on my wrist, but every few seconds I find myself looking up and out of the big window as though the black screen of glass might spontaneously fizzle and splutter into a picture of what’s happening out there. My stomach dips and steadies as I veer from one extreme to another. Duval and Benjamín will be caught. Duval and Benjamín will slip through the desert like phantoms. Hogan and his vigilantes will never find the cabin. Hogan’s men have night goggles, radios, torches. And there are so many of them – well . . . only twelve. Twelve people spread out over a huge expanse of land. Their net would be thin at best and surely full of holes big enough for two men and one woman to slip through. I look at my watch for the hundredth time.
‘Mummy,’ Emmy calls drowsily. ‘I want to sleep in my own room.’