by Ronald Malfi
“A little.”
“He ever say what he carried in the trucks?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“Sure.”
“Frankenface didn’t tell you?” And he seems pleased with himself for coming up with the name.
“I just assumed drugs,” I said. “Or guns. Something like that.”
“Do you know who did that to his face?”
“No. He never said.”
“It was Pinto,” Diego says. “Used his big fists.”
For whatever reason, this upsets me.
“They sure banged him up pretty good,” Diego continues. “Had a B.A.G.”
“What’s that?”
“Busted-Ass Grille.”
“Let’s drop it.”
Something flickers just to the left of my line of sight. My breath catches. Immediately my mind returns to the dreams, and to the shapeless beasts that scale the highways. Chupacabra. Goat-suckers.
“What?” Diego asks, sensing my sudden unease.
“Chupacabra,” I say. “Martin used to scare me with stories of the chupacabra when I was little.”
“He raise you?”
“Our parents died when we were young, yeah.”
“So now you feel you need to pay him back? To finish what he started?”
I roll my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“This is not the business for that, bro.”
“It’s just this one time.”
“Christ.” Diego sinks down into the passenger seat. “Chupacabra’s a myth. They’re coyotes. Your brother saw coyotes.”
“I saw something large and hairy dead on the side of the road coming down here. Looked too big to be a coyote.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Diego says.
Am I? Because I am thinking of the horror stories Martin used to tell me when I was younger and he’d return from weeks and sometimes months on the road. He would tell me of the chupacabra and of the way they drained the fluids from livestock and how, sometimes, they drained the fluids from people, too. Of course, I know now that there are no such creatures, but seeing the dead coyote along the side of the road and thinking, too, of Martin instill within me a certain disquiet. Suddenly, I feel like turning around and driving the hell home.
It is late by the time we pull into Debajo Canyon. It is nothing more than a sandstone bluff overlooking a scrub grass valley, milky in the oncoming darkness, interrupted at intervals by ramshackle hovels and peeling, sad-looking campers. I have no idea what to expect from Diego’s associates, but I can sense an urgency in Diego the moment we cross onto the rutted gravel roadway leading toward the semicircle of campers. In the distance, a small bonfire winks at us. The sky is dizzy with stars.
Diego has unraveled a worn slip of paper and looks at it now the way an explorer might scrutinize a treasure map. Says, “Pull off to the left here, Gerald.”
I pull off to the left. Say, “Which one is it?”
Diego points past the windshield. “Straight ahead. One with the lights on.” It is a beat-up trailer with automobile tires nailed to the roof. It is one of the few with lights in the windows.
Diego pops the passenger door and climbs down from the ice cream truck. For the first time, I catch a glimpse of a pistol butt jutting from the waistband of his dungarees, hidden beneath his shirt. “Let’s shake a tail feather, bro. I got things.”
I pop my own door and hop down, kicking up dust with my sneakers, and follow Diego to the trailer. Diego mounts the two abbreviated steps to the door then knocks and waits. Knocks again. My discomfort increases and I take a step back. Across the sandstone courtyard, very few lights are on in any other homes, and even the distant bonfire has disappeared. I scan the horizon for a sign of civilization beyond the trailer park, but I am kidding myself. We are alone.
The trailer door opens and we’re suddenly scrutinized by a barrel-chested Mexican in a wife-beater, his thick, hairless arms as red as the sunset. His matted, corkscrew hair informs me we’ve just woken him from a nap.
Briefly, Diego and the man exchange pleasantries in Spanish. I understand very little of what is said. It isn’t until I recognize my brother’s name that I feel I am included in all this, and the big man in the wife-beater grins bad teeth at me.
Inside the trailer is like being in a coffin. The air is stale and palpable. It is a home for papers and paperwork, of overflowing manila folders and spools of adhesive tape, an ancient reel-to-reel recorder that blindly stares, and the like. Unwashed plates are stacked like ancient tablets in the sink. The whole place smells not of a structure of human residency and occupancy but, rather, of mildewed library cellars and wet paperback novels and discarded and forgotten towers of time-yellowed newspapers.
“Aquí,” the barrel-chested man says, and quickly directs me to stand against one wall. Suddenly, I am looking across the cramped trailer at the lens of a digital camera. The man rattles off a succession of photos then, moments later, perches himself in front of a computer monitor.
Startled by movement in a darkened corner of the trailer, I squint to find a set of dark eyes staring back at me. An ancient Mexican woman, nearly skin and bones, watches me from a Barcalounger across the trailer. She has a knitted afghan pulled over her legs, and her hands, like the talons of a prehistoric bird, sink into the divot of her lap. Like a ghost, she watches. I suddenly taste my own heartbeat.
Then she starts cackling.
“Here,” says the barrel-chested Mexican, stabbing a freshly-minted driver’s license in my direction. He has something else in his other hand—something that quickly steals Diego’s attention. It’s marijuana, a few ounces of the stuff, in a Ziploc bag.
“Hey, Frodo,” Diego says. “Go wait in the truck.”
Cold, uncomfortable, I climb back into the truck and punch off the headlights. I sit in the simmering quiet of a desert night. I wait for decades. Soon, Martin is seated somewhere behind me in the truck, whispering my name. He makes me promise to be careful and to not ask too many questions. I call him an idiot and tell him I’ll be home soon. He asks if I’ve seen the chupacabra and I snort…but deep down inside I am that lost, little boy again, fearful of the goat-suckers, of the desert vampires. You know they don’t exist, Gerald, right? he soothes me now. Yet I frown and tell him it’s too late, damn it, that he has already poisoned me with his stories, years of poisoning, years of waiting in my own sad little trailer for him to come home and raise me and act like a responsible adult. Is it fair that I should have to act like the responsible adult for both of us now? Is it?
It was an accident, he whispers. I drove a truck into a river. Then: They did me real good, for driving the truck into the river. They did me real good, bro.
Sure they did.
Sure.
Across the bluff, Diego spills through the trailer door. He staggers to the ice cream truck and motions for me to take down the window, which I do.
“Hey,” he says, “you know where you’re going, right?”
“I have the map.”
“Yeah. Uh, I’m gonna crash here, all right?”
“I don’t need to drive you somewhere?”
“Take it easy, Gerald.”
I spin the wheel and pull back onto the main road, this time heading north. I drive for nearly forty-five minutes, the only living creature among miles and miles of desert. And when I think I see something shapeless and black moving alongside the highway, I can’t help but slam on the brakes and straddle the highway’s center line like a tightrope walker. And I think, Chupacabra! I am breathing heavy and sweat stings my eyes. Behind me, somewhere in the darkness, I hear Martin assure me that the chupacabra are not real. Vampire devils. Goat-suckers. His face, he says—what they did to his face is real, but the goat-suckers are not.
It is always brighter the moment you step out of a vehicle in the desert, no matter how dark it is. Now, it is cold, too. When people think of perishing in the desert they usually don’t i
magine themselves freezing to death, but that is the truth of it.
I step around the side of the ice cream truck, my ears keying in on every desert sound. The chatter of insects is deafening. I cannot seem to get my heartbeat under control. With one hand tracing along the body of the truck, I move to the rear of the vehicle and peer through the darkness. I am not shocked when I see the reflective glow of two beady eyes staring back at me from the cusp of the highway; rather, a dull sense of fatigue overwhelms me.
It is a coyote. I see it clear enough as it turns and scampers further down the shoulder of the roadway. And while I am relieved, I am quickly accosted by a delayed sense of fear that causes my armpits to dampen beneath my sweatshirt and my mouth to go dry. I turn and begin to head back to the cab when I hear a sound—some sound, some thump—echo from the rear of the truck. From within.
My footfalls are soundless on the blacktop of the midnight highway. There is no lock on the rear doors—just a simple bolt slid into a ring. Unhinging the bolt, I peel the doors open and stare into the black maw of the truck. The sick-sweet stink of decay breathes out. I climb into the rear of the truck. There are coolers affixed to the floor and metal boxes on shelves. There are a number of cardboard ice cream boxes lining the shelves here, too, but they are empty and so ancient that a slick, brown mildew coats every box. Looking down, I expect the coolers to be locked with padlocks, but they are not, and I am surprised.
Chupacabra? I wonder, and open one of the coolers. The hinges squeal and I fumble around my jacket pocket for a pen light. Shine the light into the cooler.
At first, it does not even register with me. And even after it does, I do not fully understand what I am looking at.
There are a number of them, bronze-skinned and wide-eyed, staring up at me, pressed so closely together that they are indistinguishable from one another. They reek of fear and sweat, their expressions just as uncomprehending as my own. Their clothes are filthy, their faces greasy with perspiration. So many of them, it is a wonder they can even fit. Finally, before I ease the cooler lid down, one of them says, “Muchacho.”
“I’m sorry,” I say…although I am unsure if I am actually speaking or am just hearing the words funnel through my head. And I hear Martin saying, They did me real good, for driving the truck into the river.
It is a long, quiet ride back across the border.
All the Pretty Girls
What do you know?
He knew where he was, for one thing. The day was hot and without wind, the jagged sandstone bluffs cresting like whitecaps above the darkened line of ponderosa pines. Sniffing the still air, Pablo Santiago could smell trout from the river, metallic and fishy, like ointment. Before him, Chama River Canyon lay undisturbed and contemplating, as if deep in thought. The hot sun beating down on his shoulders, Santiago fondly recalled the days of his youth fishing along the cusp of the winding river. On many occasions he’d trekked through the pinon-juniper woodlands, ensconced in the scenic hug of Apache plume and cliffrose and fendlerbush, only to arrive exhausted but content at the El Vado Lake Dam. In his youth, he’d spent many evenings watching the sun deteriorate beyond the horizon, bruising the sky with a multitude of pastel hues while sipping dandelion wine and smoking Pall Malls.
What do you know?
He knew about the car, too. And in many ways, despite all his years living off the land—despite the countless elk and coyotes he’d trapped and killed and eaten; despite his unwavering respect for the land itself—he knew the car was most important. How he’d come across it no longer mattered (anyway, he couldn’t remember) and how it had gotten there, wedged between the blue-tinted firs along the cusp of the valley like a forgotten relic, was not important. What was important—what genuinely mattered—was what the car really was.
What do you know?
A lot, Pablo Santiago thought. Over time, he’d come to know a lot.
On the outside, it was a 1962 Mercury Comet S-22 Coupe with a two-tone black and red paint job, rusted and scored and pocked by the elements. Its windshield was grimy and covered in bull’s-eye cracks. Its tires were flattened and flaking with rot and, over time, had become part of the earth. Its Mylar door panels were pitted and ruined, the bucket seats and loop carpeting torn and cancerous with mold. The front grille, with its busted-out quad-headlamps and deluxe chrome, was a mouth crowded with teeth, rusty and sharp for biting.
This day, in the hot sunshine, Santiago crossed down into the valley, the rising, rocky tumult of Albiquiu behind him, and paused beneath a tall stand of firs. They provided much shade in the summer, and he stood there for several moments while he mopped his brow with an oily hand towel. He thought of the trout in the river and the smell of them in the air. From where he stood he could not see the car, but some animal part of him could sense it. Santiago was not a stupid man, nor was he irreligious: he knew divinity when confronted with it. It was a power, he knew, which was even greater than the power of the land.
Leaving the stand of firs, Santiago advanced toward the lip of the canyon. From here, he could hear the din of the river and could smell brine in the air. Knowing the water was so close was enough to cool and refresh his body, and he found his legs suddenly pumping stronger and harder than they had just moments ago. Earlier in the summer, it had been a difficult hike with the equipment—the shovel, the spade, the rake, the pickaxe—but he’d soon gotten accustomed to his work and began stowing his tools in the Comet’s back seat. The fresh earth smell left behind by the tools smelled better than the car’s interior anyway, and it was easier for Santiago to breathe when seated behind the Comet’s steering wheel. Smelled better than the stink from the trunk...
Ahead, a clearing opened up and Santiago could see the Comet’s grinning grillwork behind a thin veil of kudzu. Shade from the surrounding firs made it look dull and dusty. Hitching up his dungarees, Santiago approached the vehicle, his eyes tracing the lines of the exterior, running over the chassis, hunting for a glimpse of reflected sunlight in the chrome. But there was none this day; there was too much shade beneath the trees.
If I could get you to run, Santiago thought, we would not be so limited to Chama Canyon. He thought, We would not be limited to the grasslands up north and the Rio Grande and Albiquiu. If I could get you to run, he thought, we could travel and not be limited to any single place.
But there was no way. Pablo Santiago was not a mechanic and knew nothing about getting old cars to run. The 6-cylinder engine beneath the Comet’s hood could have been a birdcage or a ball of yarn or a series of intertwined coat-hangers. Often, Santiago found himself staring at the dead engine, one bronze and meaty hand propping up the hood, examining the intricacies of the object like a mathematician scrutinizing an equation. The engine, he knew, was the heart. If only he could get the heart beating again...
He shook his head and took a step away from the vehicle. He’d been staring at his mottled reflection in the grimy driver’s side window. Beads of perspiration had broken out across his upper lip. He removed his hand towel from the rear pocket of his dungarees and blotted his face. The towel reeked of motor oil and dirt and something like copper and he quickly stuffed the towel back in his trousers.
Sometimes the car bled motor oil. In a black trail, it would slide down through the rocks toward the edge of the cliff. If he didn’t blot it up in time, it would spill into the river below. And that wouldn’t be good. Santiago did not know why he thought this, but he knew it just the same as he knew his own name. Something about that oil spilling into the river would be muy mal.
If I could get you to run, he thought now, I wouldn’t have to worry about this river.
He stepped around to the rear of the car, one hand fisted around a tree branch for support, and examined the ground. There was no oil. He felt a wave of relief wash over him. Peering over the cliff, he could see the extended branches of shrubbery down the cliff-face, and could see the layers of colored rock, stacked like textbooks, dipping down toward the river and the canyon floor.
The river looked black and like gasoline in the sun.
What do you know?
He knew what to do. And he would waste no more time.
Santiago carried a slender metal prong on a key ring. He removed this device from the pocket of his pants now, examined it briefly in the hot sun, and moved toward the Comet’s trunk. Here he paused, as if waiting for a signal. Listened. In his head, he counted: seven days. Always seven. He ran his eyes over the trunk. His reflection stared back at him from the black paint, dusty and pierced with tiny dents. Santiago ran two fingers over the trunk. Even in the shade of the firs, the steel was hot, warmed by the midday sun.
He slid the metal prong into the trunk’s keyhole and maneuvered the prong around until he felt the lock give. There was a hollow metallic clang. Absentmindedly, he remained with one hand on top of the trunk, holding it down against the force of the springs. The trunk wanted to open, but the springs were weak with age and Santiago held the trunk down without difficulty.
There will be many black bears here before the summer is out, he thought without interest, his eyes focused on the wealth of trees and shrubbery through which he had come. There will be plenty before the days get shorter and the nights get colder. I can remember all this land before it was government land, and how my father and grandfather had shot many black bears along this ridge. The bears, he thought, they are smart, smarter than we think, and if you shoot them and don’t kill them, they will run for the cliff and run off and fall into the river and die. They will die either way but they do not want to die and bring satisfaction to the one bringing its death. They are noble that way.
He thought he felt something thump against the bottom of the trunk and that made his heart skip in his thick chest. But no—it was all in his head, and he uttered a skittish, almost girlish laugh. Then opened the trunk.
At this point, something always overtook Pablo Santiago, and that was good. Not a spirit or any such thing but, rather, a certain drive, enabling him to function almost without senses: practically blind and deaf and without touch or smell. Like a long-distance runner. He operated like a machine, if only for the time it took to remove the carcass from the Comet’s trunk and dump it to the earth, but that was time enough. That was the hardest part. The hardest part was always opening the trunk and seeing those dead eyes staring up from the black maw of the trunk...the gray cheesecloth look of the skin...the lips, always pulled back in a frozen snarl, the gums purple...fingernails shorn away...