Trinity

by Kristin Dearborn

  “Can’t you do CPR, or give her a shot or something?” He thought of movies where people were resurrected by an adrenaline shot to the heart. Surely they had something that could help her kicking around here.

  Now she took him into her plump arms. He accepted the hug, standing still and limp, unsure of what else to do. She was warm and smelled medicinal, making him think of all sorts of medical experiences. “That’s not what we do here, love.” She laid her head against his chest, and he wanted to shove her off.

  On the muted television, California Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger smeared mud on himself as he prepared to battle the Predator.

  “You’re going to let her die?” Val asked; the volume and pitch of his voice climbing.

  Orange light from the street lamp in the parking lot shone through the window, casting Venetian blind stripes across the wall, dark in the low light after the bulb had blown. Had he done that?

  Funeral arrangements. Who would he call? Who were her friends? Did she have friends? His T-shirt grew damp as he realized the nurse was crying on him. And what, he’d been putting off checking, was the money situation? He’d sell the trailer and the land as fast as he could, move in with Kate in Santa Fe, but he needed to buy a headstone, a casket, cremation…fuck.

  “I need to sit,” he said, pushing her off and dropping to the chair. She kept a hand on his shoulder and it sat there, warm and moist. Christ, all he wanted in the entire world was for this woman to stop touching him.

  “Is there someone you can call?” she asked.

  Call? For what?

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  “No, I really am fine.”

  “I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through these past few days. You’re a brave boy.” I’m not a fucking boy! “At least you got to say goodbye.”

  But he hadn’t. He watched a crappy old movie and let her die right there. He wasn’t holding her hand when she went, wasn’t telling her he loved her; he was captivated by the alien on TV, picking off the Army guys one by one.

  Asking this woman for help was the last thing Val wanted to do. But he didn’t know. He couldn’t leave her here. He wanted to head to Cochran’s Liquor Store on Main Street, get a handle of tequila, and disappear into it.

  “What do I do?” he asked, his voice a whisper.

  “Poor dear,” she said, and his skin crawled under her sympathy.

  He waited a moment for her to answer him, he didn’t want to repeat himself, didn’t want to feel indebted to her kindness, which infuriated him. “Where do I start?” He racked his brain, thinking of all the television shows he’d seen where someone died. “Calling a coroner?”

  Again, she took him into her repulsive arms. Together, Val and Angelina began to make arrangements for his mother.

  20

  The truck was the only vehicle in the visitors’ parking lot. Not much light came up from Nassar Valley, some streetlights here and there, but most of the housing developments were dark. The sky loomed overhead, and Val wondered what watched him from above. There was a certain inevitability to it, something that could traverse galaxies…could you even try to fight it? Why him? He guessed why Caroline was the more important question.

  Caroline who was dead.

  Val looked in the window of the truck, saw Kate there, curled in an uncomfortable ball on the vinyl seat. One foot touched the window near his face, and he put a hand on the glass.

  He could leave. Then none of this would be her problem ever again. He could disappear into the night, walking across the desert.

  She stirred in her sleep, and he opened the door.

  His mother was dead.

  The sound of the door woke Kate up. She uncurled, stretched like a cat, making a little mewling noise and rubbing at her eyes.

  “How is she?” Kate asked.

  Val was suddenly robbed of his voice. He shook his head, unsure where this emotion came from, where it had been hiding.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He shook his head again, a lump crawling into his throat and nesting there, setting up shop, all comfortable-like.

  Val wanted to get drunk. He bought a handle of tequila at the liquor store, making it in minutes before they closed. He set it on the floor, sealed, until he pulled into the dooryard. He passed the place in the road where the hum began, and it did so, starting with just a tickle, and building to a steady vibration. In the driveway the Daytona mocked him, yellow with its evil load. Not tonight. He couldn’t deal with it, couldn’t deal with the body, the mine, any of it.

  Standing under the stars in the warm night, he looked around, feeling a light breeze on his face. His mother used to have wind chimes hanging by the front door. He was glad they were gone; their hollow, musical tones unsettled him. Unbidden, he heard them and saw a great white light. What was he?

  “I need to go.” His voice sounded like it hadn’t been used for a thousand years. His lips were dry. The tequila would wet them. It would block everything. It would reduce him to nothing.

  “Where?” She sounded startled, and her eyes shot to the yellow car.

  “I can’t do it. Not now. I have to go.” He paused, rubbed at his unshaven face. “Away. Anywhere.”

  “I’m calling Felix.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Please don’t go anywhere.”

  “I got to be by myself. I need to think.” And drink. He didn’t want anything left. He unscrewed the cap, saw her lips purse—she was unsure whether or not to let him.

  “I have to go,” he said again, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking in the fire of the drink. It burned his throat, like the red sea it parted for the lump of grief there, and respectfully went around. He left, touching Kate’s hair with his free hand feeling crazy and free.

  Out in the night, under the mantle of stars, the sky threatened to suffocate him. So big, so black…it was everywhere. Somewhere deep inside he longed for four institution-green walls, eight feet by eight feet of security. They meet your needs in prison. In prison you start to see everything through a nicked, scratched sheet of Plexiglass. When everything was kept at arm’s length, nothing could hurt.

  Had he even loved her? Here was the nexus of the problem. If he could answer yes, then the guilt would melt away. He hadn’t been a good son, and she hadn’t been a good mother. She started it. It wasn’t his fault.

  A second gulp of tequila bolstered him.

  Wasn’t his fault.

  Why was his face wet?

  Aw, fuck.

  He’d been a bad son and now it was over. It sickened him that he was feeling sorry for himself as opposed to his dead mother. In a way he was angry at her for leaving him like this. He was angry, mad at her because he felt so shitty.

  He should be missing her. But you can’t miss something that’s never been there.

  Val wandered, for the first time awake and wearing shoes, through the scrub brush and rocks, onto national forest land. He was not aware that he headed for the Olympus Mine. His current path would not bring him to the entrance, but it did lead him above the deepest shaft. When he got there, he knew it was time to stop.

  He fell to his knees and unscrewed the tequila bottle. It felt like he was deep under water. The hum was all around him, like cotton tucking him into a box for safe-keeping. He held the bottle up to the moon, and saw the worm’s still form bobbing around. He took a long pull and wondered what the point of living was. Common sense suggested lots of reasons, but he elected to ignore them in favor of self-pity. Another slug of tequila and he stared up at the stars. There were a few clouds in the sky, and stars peeked out from behind them, glittering in the night. He exhaled, and it turned into a sob. Fuck. He didn’t want to cry anymore. Too late. Finally alone, away from everything, Val emptied himself spiritually there on the rocky ground, setting the tequila bottle down on a flat spot as he cried and howled and felt pathetic.

  Val didn’t realize he was no longer alone in the desert
. It came on silent paws and sat on tawny haunches. It watched. It flexed and un-flexed its three-foot claws, then put them away, watching, curling its furry crocodile tail around its feet like a cat.

  Finally, when he felt empty and used up, Val raised his eyes. He was too drained to feel afraid when he looked at it, but it registered that this was what had killed TJ and the frat boy. The thing Kate saw.

  Its body was covered in sleek, sorrel fur and shaped like a lion. Thick legs, thick neck. The way it sat obscured its claws, but he could see them, great knives tucked away beneath it.

  Fine. Let it kill him. That would be a peachy end to a great day. He was shit. He’d been a shit son; he was a shit boyfriend; so much so that he went to jail he was so shitty at it. He wouldn’t even taste good to the thing sitting there before him. Shit pickled in tequila.

  “Do you mind?” he slurred at the thing. Space Puma. That was what it looked like. Some kind of freaky mutant radiation space cat from the Alamogordo blasts.

  It cocked its head and opened its mouth in a silent cry. Its mouth was a perfect circle lined with little, nasty teeth.

  “Sorry,” he said to it. “You’re a dream. I can’t even fucking sleep. Let’s have one big pity party for me.” Val took a long slug of tequila. He sighed and looked at his feet. “Do you have the answer?” he asked the thing. It opened its mouth silently again. “You got some ugly teeth, cat.”

  Val talked to the creature and it sat still as a stone, watching him. Protecting him? Presently Val’s talking gave way to more crying, which he hadn’t thought possible, and when he stopped again the worm didn’t have much tequila to float in. He sat in silence, watching his new imaginary friend. He wasn’t sure if it was real or not, but after all this time he was pretty sure it wouldn’t hurt him. That didn’t mean he was going to reach out and pat it, but they had a connection. They were pals.

  It unfurled claws the length of its front leg. He noticed it walked on the outsides of its wrists, that the spots were calloused and black, and its claws looked very sharp, like glistening white bone in the starlight. How did it walk like that? Val was too drunk to be afraid. He was fascinated by the way its joints worked, how could its wrist still be so limber after taking the animal’s weight for running? It had three claws per foot. Its back feet looked more puma-like, more dog-like, really, the short claws didn’t seem to be retractable, and regular wear and tear from walking kept them short. It reached out to him, the claw tips wavering in front of his face. It touched him, a gentle caress that didn’t break the skin.

  He stood up, his joints stiff from sitting for so long. The thing stood with him, and stepped back, looking startled and wary. “Sorry, didn’t mean to jump you. I’d best be going. I’m glad we had this talk. I’ll look you up next time my mother dies.”

  Leaving the animal behind, he stumbled home.

  21

  There was a flat pop as the tire went dead.

  Of course, in the rain. Always in the rain, only in the rain. Gabriela Correa cursed and eased the car to the side of the narrow dirt road, careful to avoid the deep gully which the downpour had filled with rushing water. She didn’t need this. Eddie sat in the back seat, oblivious and quiet. He wasn’t feeling well. Not since the rest area outside Lott. He’d let her drive in peace, no yelling, singing, talking. When she asked him about it, he gave sullen, one word answers. She’d been thankful for the quiet at first, now she felt bad about that. One more thing to worry about.

  The rain didn’t look like it would let up any time soon. She got out of the car, looking away from the headlights, unable to see in the dark after the brightness of the car’s dome light. The rain beat her back with its downpour.

  One of the back tires. Of course it was the one on the edge of the road. She fought back tears as she used the key to pop open the elderly Civic’s trunk. Work-roughened hands pushed aside the trunk’s carpet, revealing the jack and tire iron beneath. Fate told her this was a mission she shouldn’t be taking. But even if she was deported, she’d made damn sure Eddie was born here.

  They’d passed a trailer a few minutes ago, she hoped she could do this herself; that she wouldn’t need to go and wake anyone up to use their phone. She couldn’t afford a tow truck.

  “What happened?” he asked in Spanish, from right behind her. She jumped and knocked her head on the open trunk, dropping the tire iron. It clattered down on top of the spare tire, clanging in the night. He stood in the road, shoulders stooped; his yellow rain slicker unzipped.

  “Get back in the car, sweetie,” she said, also in Spanish, pulse pounding in her ears. “It’s too wet out here.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “We had a flat tire. Go sit down, I’ll only be a minute.”

  The boy didn’t move. Looked past her, down the dark dirt road. Away from Mexico. She went back to the tire, pulling on it, wrestling it from the floor of the trunk. Rain dripped into her eyes, stinging them. She blinked it away.

  “Eddie,” she called.

  The yellow of his slicker caught her eye, yellow against the darkness. “Get back in the car! We don’t have time for this.”

  He didn’t listen. Didn’t stop. Kept walking. Again, she set the tire down, and stepped after him.

  “Eddie!”

  He didn’t even turn his head. Gabriela left the keys dangling from the trunk lid and went after him.

  Gravel from the road skittered somewhere, audible under the sound of the shower. A deer? Did squirrels come out at night?

  She strained her ears, looked out into the wet blackness beside the car.

  Maybe there was more out here to be afraid of than being deported.

  She went back to the car and picked up the tire iron, the metal cold and slick with rain.

  Something stepped out of the rain. It advanced on her son like a tiger stalks its prey, one foot in front of the other.

  What was it?

  What was wrong with its feet?

  “Get away!”

  Her voice seemed so loud, even against the downpour. She ran for her son, who walked on, oblivious.

  It pounced, its feet unfolding, revealing knives in its paws. Knives? Claws?

  They were on her son, but she brought the tire iron down on its shoulder, a blow that strained her muscles. It turned to look at her, its eyes were deep black pools, shaped like diamonds, reflecting the yellow light of the car’s blinker. It opened a circular mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, but didn’t make a sound. She swung again, hitting across its face. It looked at the boy—oh god, so much blood—and back at her, then disappeared in a tawny flash.

  The night was quiet again.

  She scooped her son up in her arms, able to see pink meat under his yellow slicker, so much blood all over it.

  There was a driveway back there, wasn’t there? A trailer tucked back from the road?

  His face was so white, even his lips were white.

  She scooped him up in her arms, tugging the slicker closed over the slices in his leg and his belly. Cradling him like an infant, she left the tire iron behind as she struggled down the road to where she hoped she’d seen a trailer.

  22

  The rain started after he staggered back into the trailer. He didn’t feel drunk anymore, not really, more mystified, empty and sad.

  Kate had waited up for him, but he’d only barely acknowledged her before falling into bed.

  He woke up from a white dream, the room seeming all the more black in comparison. The hum made his head feel crowded and muffled.

  Something struck the side of the trailer hard enough to make the windows rattle. Kate was awake. They both turned towards the sound, and when she turned back he was staring at her.

  “What was that?” she asked. “The wind?”

  It was never the wind. Why couldn’t it just this once be the wind?

  “Doubtful,” Val said.

  And he was right. Wind didn’t forcefully pound on a door, screaming words muffled by a wall and the rain.


  Val stood and pulled on his jeans. “If that’s your goddamn brother…” He opened the drawer of the bedside table. “Damn. Gun’s still in the truck. I guess I won’t shoot him.” Kate followed him into the hall, pulling on a pair of sweatpants.

  “Why is the gun in the truck?” Kate asked, trailing after him.

  “I took it with me tonight. Just in case.”

  “In case of what?”

  Val went to the door, paused a beat. The pounding, accented by the driving rain, continued. He put a hand on the doorknob, took a knife from the nearby drawer, and threw open the door.

  A woman stood on the ground where the steps should have been, drenched and non-threatening, holding a crumpled, bloody, humanoid mess in her arms.

  “Ayúdeme,” she breathed. Kate and Val blinked at one another. He stood there, staring through the screen door.

  “Let her in!” Kate snapped, and Val opened the torn screen door and held it for the woman. Setting the knife on the counter, he took her wrist and helped her inside.

  “Ayúdenos!” the woman brayed, thrusting the mess at Val, a child, an offering.

  Kate swept a few beer cans off the counter, and the woman lay the child down. Val still stood, holding open the door, looking like a deer in headlights. Kate called his name and he let it bang shut.

  “What happened?” Kate asked.

  “Un animal. Con las garras.”

  Claws. Val thought of his new friend. Those were the biggest claws he’d ever seen.

  Lightning lit the sky, followed by a window-rattling crash of thunder. Had the first bang been the woman, or thunder?

  “Puma?” Val asked. He took a step away from the door. The off-white Formica surface of the counter turned pink with blood and water.

  Kate reached for the phone on the wall. The line was dead. Out here the phone went out whenever the wind blew. At least they’d had the sense to bury the power lines. She went to the bedroom and pulled her cell out of the pocket of her jeans. She came back to the kitchen, dialing 911.