Hydraulic Level Five

by Sarah Latchaw

  “I’ve already got your overnight bag, briefcase, and laptop packed and ready to go!” chirped Molly.

  Tonight would be rough. I missed those crickets.

  Chapter 12: T-Rescue

  When a kayak capsizes, a second kayak

  maneuvers perpendicular to the first.

  Hydraulic Level Five [working title]

  Draft 1.12

  © Samuel Caulfield Cabral

  The Weeping Lady

  THEIR EMPTY HEADS are filled with his sister. All the gangly, pubescent thirteen-year-old boys in Bear Creek who wake to a sticky mess in their pajamas dream of Maria. They talk about her now, his baseball team, as they tromp along the gravel road toward the cemetery.

  Caulfield wants to vomit.

  It is May twenty-third, his birthday. His aunt wakes him with “Las Mañanitas.” She invites his entire team to spend the night after their game. They eat arroz con leche and Mexican birthday cake that looks like a baseball wearing a sombrero, open presents, and break a piñata. They put on a movie no one watches, bashing each other with giant beanbags in the basement instead. Now it’s nearing midnight and his parents have long since gone to bed. These are the days before Caulfield’s family moves out-of-town to the foothills, and there is an entire nighttime world of parked cars, lawn gnomes, and rolls of TP at their disposal.

  But all his friends yap about as they weave around dew-coated graves in Bear Creek Cemetery is Maria. “Shut your face.” He shoves at the ball players, their flashlights bobbing across time-weathered tombstones. “She’s my sister!”

  “Oye! You can score her panties for us!” exclaims a pig-eyed pudge who habitually gave Caulfield swirlies a couple years ago. But Caulfield is now a head taller than most of them, a welcome development in recent months. He can stare them down like a Rottweiler if he chooses, save for Esteban. It is Esteban who beats Caulfield to the tackle. He sends the pudge flailing across the ground, freshly-mown grass clinging to legs and arms.

  Caulfield trudges through the dark, leaving behind the skirmishing boys. If he is honest, he also aches and strains for a girl—a friend of Maria’s from school. She is a frilly redhead with barely-there hips and breasts, and her lips are perpetually glossed with cherry ChapStick. He’s never physically hurt for someone like this before. He follows her around the house when she visits, shyly averting his eyes if she catches him watching while she and Maria do homework or paint their nails. Aspen notices his crush after he stands her up. She angrily bikes over to his house, pink banjo slung over her scrawny shoulders, demanding to know why he keeps bailing on their music sessions. Maria’s friend smirks down at Aspen through thick eyelashes, asking Caulfield who the kid is.

  “This is Aspen, the girl who lives down the street.”

  After an argument in which Aspen calls Caulfield a barnacle-brained wombat and Caulfield laughs (which incenses her even more), he convinces her he can have crushes and still be her friend. She watches him through coarse eyes, arms twined to her childish frame.

  “Just don’t kiss her. That’s gross.”

  Caulfield wrinkles his nose. “I’m not going to promise that.”

  “Well, at least promise me you’ll wait a long, long time.”

  “Whatever. I’ll wait.”

  She smiles a victor’s smile, and Bear Creek is a brighter place.

  He never did kiss Maria’s friend with the cherry ChapStick lips. But, three years later, on Halloween night, he did kiss Aspen.

  The boys still toss each other around several yards away, behind a cracked marble obelisk. Esteban cusses at the pudge, forcing him to take back what he said about Maria’s panties. Good. He wants a chance to see the stone woman before the others do.

  They are supposed to be hunting for the Weeping Lady—a life-sized statue of a woman draped in robes, near one of the more prominent crypts. Like every small town, Bear Creek has its ghosts. Legend is, she weeps for lost love, stolen from her before life had barely begun.

  Even in the dark, across the cemetery, he sees two worn streaks where thousands of tears drip from her eyes and slip down granite cheeks. Hers is the expression of a tender mother—the way mothers should look at their children. He obsesses over her expression.

  In daylight, Caulfield examines her cold, beautiful face countless times, silently probes her dead eyes with the fingertips of a blind boy. He logically determines that she cries because rain and dew collect in the hollow gouges of her eyes and spill over. It is just science, nothing more.

  He and Aspen test his theory. He hands Aspen his water bottle, wraps gangly arms around her legs and gives her a boost, bringing her eye-level with the Weeping Lady. She streams water over the stone woman’s head, and sure enough, tears gather and spill over her cheeks, just like he expects. Aspen’s own face falls.

  “It’s just…I didn’t want to know. I like that she cries because it makes her real. Now she’s just…cold. Made of stone.”

  Caulfield frowns, hard-pressed to figure out why she feels that way. “Aren’t you happy she’s not suffering all the time? I mean, being around forever and crying is kind of miserable. I hate to think of her like that.”

  “No. If she’s crying, at least it means she feels something. Now I could kick her or hug her, and it’s sad because she won’t feel a thing.”

  Caulfield works a lump back in his throat, biting his lip, finding a pain that is sharper, more immediate than the cracks spreading through his chest. He can’t comprehend why the Weeping Lady affects her the way it does. The Weeping Lady is just a statue. But Aspen has a soft, sensitive heart. He is a complete ass. A selfish bastard for ruining her fairy tale. Would it kill him to let her believe, a little longer, the Weeping Woman cries tears for the loss of an idyllic love, an idyllic life? He gave her cold, ruthless reality, and now he can never take it back.

  Gathering her up in his arms, he embraces her tightly, willing her to be happy. “Firecracker, I believe she’s real. I think she can feel, and see, and hear everything we say and do. And I bet she enjoys our visits.”

  Her face is pure sunshine for him, warming his chest, searing the web of cracks closed. He will give her fairy tales, pages and pages of fairy tales, in exchange for her sunshine.

  He should have just lied in the first place.

  Samuel, don’t you DARE start this self-loathing metaphorical prose garbage on me again. Are we going to have to hash this out like we did with The Last Other? Because if I wanted to feel pointless pain, I’d just smash my fingers between copies of War and Peace. First of all, thirteen-year-olds don’t call themselves “selfish bastards” (which is cliché, by the way). Second, why are you sending this to me at four thirty in the morning? The LAST thing you want to do is start with the late nights again, in the middle of a BOOK TOUR AND MOVIE PROMOTION, of all times. You are driving me INSANE.

  ~Caro.

  Caro, I’m sorry about the tour and promotion. I know this means more work for you. But I’ve got to mend some fences first, and the rest will have to come second. Please be patient.

  ~SC

  SC, fine. It usually does come second. It usually does mean more work. And yes, you are an ass (but a damned gorgeous one, and there’s my weakness).

  In the back of Molly’s lime green Subaru, cruising roads after midnight on the way to Lyons, I finally spilled my guts about my trip to New York. Danita fanned the fire, cornering me from the front seat with the fury of a windstorm.

  “All right, Kaye. I haven’t done this yet because you and Samuel actually seemed to be getting along, though I don’t know why stupid pranks work so well for you two. But you better start talking about your top-secret New York excursion, right now.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…I can’t.”

  “Because he was screwing a woman and snorting coke in New York?”

  “Danita!” Molly barked.

  My eyes went wide. “How…how do you know about that?”

  Molly gawked at me i
n her rearview mirror. “It’s true? No, you’ve got to be kidding! Sam? I don’t believe it.”

  “That’s what I said,” Dani grumbled.

  “Wait, when did you go to New York?” Molly’s face was rife with bewilderment.

  My heavy skull fell back against the headrest. I’d have to spill. There was no getting around it, now. “This does not leave the car, understood?”

  They both agreed.

  “Remember that this happened almost seven years ago. And it was all really fast, so some of it’s jumbled.” I sighed. Here goes nothing.

  “After Samuel packed a bag and left, I wasn’t doing very well. Sofia called every night, checking on me, making sure I went to classes, prying information from me about what went down between the two of us. She and Alonso hadn’t heard a thing from him—did you know that, Danita?”

  “They asked me if he’d been in touch. Keep going.”

  “I was really frightened. So was Sofia. And my head…I wasn’t sure what I thought, then, my mind was scattered marbles. When he left, I was convinced it was just a big misunderstanding, that he was mired down in stress. His job, new marriage, finances, things every post-honeymoon couple has to work through. But when he didn’t call, and no one else heard from him…

  “Then, finally, Samuel phoned Sofia. He told her not to worry and gave her his address because he wanted some of his belongings shipped. The minute I had that address, I flew into action. I printed a Google map, threw some things in a backpack, yanked our savings and bought a plane ticket to New York.”

  “Where was he living?” Danita asked.

  “He had some writer acquaintances from his Colorado University days who attended NYU, and they shared a brownstone in the East Village. I’d only met them once or twice. They really weren’t friends of ours—kind of spoiled rich kids.”

  “Yeah, I remember a few,” Danita muttered. “Togsy was a piece of work. Used to saunter around campus with a joint between his fingers, like he was daring security to do something about it. Artist asshats.”

  A nail crept into my mouth, and I yanked it away. “Anyway, I got into JFK late at night. The subway was…interesting. I’d never even been to New York City before, let alone on the subway. It was dark, grimy, smelly. A scattering of bizarre, ragged people stared at me. I should have just gotten a cab, but I couldn’t afford it after dropping so much money on the plane ticket. It was scary, but I kept telling myself once I got to Samuel, it would be okay. I needed to keep plowing forward, keep moving. I got off at the wrong stop, doubled back, hopped a different line—I ended up at NYU, then walked until I found the brownstone in the East Village.” My voice crept higher. I took a deep, calming breath.

  “People were going in and out of the house, so I followed them in. It was so crowded…people everywhere, students maybe, I don’t know. Shabby furniture, stacks of garbage. Pot hung heavy in the air, broken glass and stale booze. I stalled in the foyer because I knew I couldn’t be at the right place. I felt like a stupid, lost little girl. But then I saw one of the guys from CU. He was startled to see me, but he took me up to Samuel’s room anyway. ‘You Cabral’s wife? Damn, this should be cracked,’ he laughed.”

  I pressed my palms against my eyes, not wanting to relive any of this. My stomach churned violently at the memory.

  “Kaye? You can’t just leave us hanging!” Molly cried. “What happened?”

  “There were more men and women in the upstairs room, straddling laps, shirts hanging open, groping each other…I’m not sure how many, I didn’t look closely. There were a few candles on the floor, and the rest of the room was dark. There weren’t curtains on the window, so the moon cast odd shadows from all the limbs…of all the details to recall, huh? I started to panic, scared the CU guy had lied just to get me upstairs. I asked where Samuel was, and he pointed to this old metal bed in the corner, the only furniture in the room except for a desk. I stared at the corner, not seeing him. There was just a half-naked man hunched over, all sweaty. And a brunette woman, nearly naked, too. His nose ran up her torso, and I thought he was smelling her at first. But then I saw white powder blowing across her skin and sticking to his fingers, rimming his nostrils, and I realized it was a coke line.”

  “Oh no, not Samuel,” Molly murmured. Danita was stone-silent.

  “But the way he was touching her…so greedy and demanding, his hands tugging her skin, her lace bra…it wasn’t him.” My voice cracked. “‘I don’t see him,’ I told the CU guy. He rolled his eyes and pointed directly at the corner. It took me a full minute to understand the man in the corner wasn’t some random, horny coke head.”

  “What did you do?” Molly asked.

  I fought to keep my voice detached so I could finish my story. “I said his name, several times. The other people in the room stared at me. I felt my knees go weak, so I hung on to the doorframe for support. Finally, his head shot up. His eyes found mine. They were so…wild. Brittle. That’s what frightened me the most, I think—seeing the warmth missing from the blue. I know it was because he was so high, but still…” I shuddered. “He told me to get the hell out of his room, said I wasn’t supposed to follow him. ‘Go home to Colorado, and don’t you ever come back here again, Aspen Kaye. I fucking mean it. You think this is a joke?’ His voice was snarling, harsh, just like his eyes. I didn’t know what to do. My knees finally gave way.” I pressed my fingertips to my temples, as if they could shove the memories from my brain.

  “It gets really vague from there. A couple of the people in the room helped me off the floor. A woman took me across the hall, to a bedroom. She settled me onto a bed—a wicker bed—then pulled out my cell phone and saw all the missed calls…”

  My phone call to Alonso played through my mind. Relief was in his voice when he’d answered…

  “Kaye! ¡No hubo heridos graves, gracias a Dios! Sofia has called you all day and you weren’t picking up. She’s on her way to Boulder to check on you—”

  “Alonso, something’s wrong with Samuel.”

  He paused. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m in New York. I think he’s high. He’s with this woman—” It didn’t even sound like my voice. This voice was edged in hysteria. “You need to fly out here, now. Something’s wrong.”

  I heard shuffling and doors slam through the phone, as Alonso tore through the house. “Tell me in detail what you saw, even the little things. Did you call a doctor?”

  “No, I called you…” Fingers of exhaustion crawled through my mind.

  “Kaye?” Alonso commanded. “Focus please, mija. Describe what you saw.”

  I told him there was a woman. I told him Samuel had wild, angry eyes. “Do I need to call a doctor?”

  “I will send somebody—an old friend from my Boston days. Can you sit with Samuel until he gets there?”

  “I’ll try…”

  I did try. I banged on his door, crying and pleading for him to let me in. My face dripped with tears and snot, streaked across the sleeves of my hoodie where I’d wiped them across my nose. I remembered being trapped in the tree house so long ago, scared and soaked through, how Samuel left me there with his Keep Out sign. He wouldn’t open the door. Alonso’s doctor friend came, felt my heartbeat pulsing in my neck and peered into my eyes.

  “Get her to bed, she’s as white as a sheet.” He spoke to the woman next to me, I hadn’t noticed sitting there until now. “He’ll be fine, Mrs. Cabral. I’ll take good care of him until his father arrives.”

  I tried the door, one last time. “Please, Samuel. Let me in.” Locked.

  So I burrowed into the strange wicker bed in the strange, pitch-black room.

  Time passed…

  Ages later, a thin, firm hand shook me awake. Samuel. I peered into the dimly-lit room and saw not Samuel, but Alonso. He helped me sit, then wrapped two strong, fatherly arms around me. I think I hugged him back.

  “Oh, Kaye,” he lulled, smoothing my hair down as silent tears slid from my eyes. Heaviness lifted from my
mind, leaving only panic in its absence. I clung to his neck.

  “How is he? What’s wrong? I want to see him!”

  He pulled away, troubled brown eyes meeting mine. “He’s fine now, Kaye. My son was high on cocaine, probably a few other things. I’ve had a talk with him, and I’m going to stay out here for a while.”

  I nodded. “Do you want me to look into hotels online?” I peered at my surroundings, searching for a computer. Mauve walls, flowered curtains fluttering over the window, the wicker furniture, a shelf packed with books and tiaras and knickknacks. Such a pretty room, so incongruous compared to the rest of the house. But no computer.

  Alonso had the look of a man who’d just stepped off a New York red-eye. “No, that’s fine. Kaye…I’m fairly certain the drugs have been going on for some time.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not possible. I would have known.”

  “We’ll discuss it later. For now, I think you should go home. You have school on Monday.”

  “No! I want to see him.”

  Alonso rose from the bed and turned to the window, dragging a hand through his glossy hair, so wrong in the grime of this city. “He asked me to put you on a plane back to Colorado. I think that’s the best thing.” His voice begged me to understand.

  I was too weak, too young to fight back.

  I didn’t get to see Samuel. We never discussed the cocaine. I barely remembered saying goodbye to Alonso at JFK, or being in Sofia’s arms at Denver International.

  Three days. Three long, wretched days, and nothing. At last, I emptied my backpack, knowing I wouldn’t be summoned back to New York. A letter fell out, carefully tucked away in my hoodie. I tore open the envelope. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew what I was hungry for. I wanted the sweet lie: I’m sorry. Come back. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t me. I want you. I love you.