Call the Devil by His Oldest Name

by Sallie Bissell

  He got back in Ruth’s small pickup, glad he’d given her his Chevy. As expertly as Ruth handled breast-feeding and political rallies, when it came to auto maintenance, she sucked. Though she nicknamed her little Toyota “Whirlaway” and always kept it clean, she neglected to change the oil or the water or even fill the gas tank beyond a quarter full. He’d topped off her tank and in­flated the tires before he left Little Jump Off, but the clutch was living on borrowed time. He’d warned her about it fifty times, but she couldn’t seem to break the habit of riding it as she tried to get accustomed to the steep grades and twist­ing curves of mountain driving.

  “Okay, Whirlaway,” he said as he started the engine. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The engine caught like a champ. Shoving the gearshift into reverse, he backed away from the creek, his tires slipping a little on the mud. He turned on his lights to illuminate what the For­est Service laughably called a road, then he headed back up the mountain. He drove quickly, trying not to get bogged down in the mud, un­til, without warning, Whirlaway balked. Jumping and bucking like a horse, the truck stopped moving. Though the engine hummed as steadily as before, it went not an inch farther as a bitter, burning smell flooded the cab.

  “Aw, fuck!” he cried. He opened the door, watching the truck’s rear wheels as he gunned the engine. The burning-rubber smell grew stronger, but the wheels just quivered instead of turning. He turned off the motor and lay his head against the steering wheel, breathing in the acrid air. Here, in the cold and the dark, in mid­dle of this sinkhole in the mountains,Whirlaway had given up the ghost. The clutch that his wife had for months abused had chosen this particular moment to die.

  “Shit!” He thumped the steering wheel with his palm and tried to figure out what to do. He could wait here and hope that Clootie Duncan showed up, or he could get out and walk to the little town of Murphy. Since he hadn’t seen a single car since he’d pulled off Route 129 two hours ago, he doubted any kind of cavalry was going to come to his rescue. Murphy was at least fifteen miles away. If he left now, he could get there before midnight, but everything would be closed, and he really didn’t want to pay for a mo­tel room. Paying for a new clutch would be bad enough. Better to stay here, get some rest, and hike out around dawn. That way he’d reach Murphy by the time the parts store opened. He could get his clutch and maybe persuade some­body to give him a lift back here.

  “Sorry, Lily,” he said aloud, reaching in the back for his cooler of food. “Daddy’s coming, but not for a little while.”

  Eleven

  PAZ LAY ON the floor of the van, his arms cradling his head. A bright moon cast shadows upon his face as he listened to the beats of a thudding drum. THUMP-thump-thump-THUMP. The Indians had kept at it for hours, unremitting, until he felt as if everything—his heart, Ruperta’s heart, the trees outside the van windows, even the Scorpions who followed them—were all locked in the same incessant cadence. He’d tried to cover his ears, but it did no good. Go, got to Go, got to Go—all creation seemed to throb with that message.

  So far, things had not gone well. He’d hoped for—no, he’d counted on—Gordo’s unwitting participation, allowing Ruperta and him some privacy, turning his attention away from them for five minutes, perhaps even closing his eyes and nodding off to sleep long enough to allow them to slip away. That had not happened. Gordo had been happy for them to sack out in the back of the van, but he had remained wide awake in the driver’s seat, pecking away on Señora’s fancy laptop computer, fattening his face further with chocolate candy.

  Mierda, thought Paz. Now they had to get away, not only from the Scorpions, but from Gordo too. Gordo was going to steal that baby, and soon. Bad enough that they were ilegalidads. But if the American cops caught them and accused them of being secuestradors too, then they may as well turn themselves over to the Scorpions.

  But what to do? The drums had lulled Ruperta into a deep sleep. He could not leave without her, and even if she were awake, he could not slide open the door of the van without alerting Gordo. Paz squeezed his eyes tight, thinking hard, going over everything he’d heard and seen Gordo do. Then, all at once, the drumming stopped. At exactly the same instant, an idea occurred to him. Though it seemed as ludicrous as one of Ruperta’s silly afternoon TV shows, it just might work…

  Gordo, like most Americans, spoke only English. If Paz could wake Ruperta up and tell her what to do in Spanish, they just might be able to get away. They would not get to leave with their belongings, but they might at least escape with their lives. It was not what Paz had hoped to do, but it was all he could think of. He took a deep breath in preparation for the worst nightmare of his life to begin.

  “Madre Maria!’’ he screamed, batting at some invisible monster over his head. “No, no, no! Por favor, NO!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Gordo jumped as if someone had stuck him with a pin.

  “Paquito!” Ruperta bolted upright, blinking. “What is wrong?”

  “Ruperta, listen,” Paz shrieked in frenzied Spanish. “We’ve got to get away from Gordo. He’s going to steal that baby! Come and calm me down, then say you have to go to the bath­room!”

  “What?” Ruperta gaped at him as if he’d gone mad.

  “Pretend to wake me from my nightmare!”

  Paz shrieked at her like a lunatic, though he gazed into her eyes with absolute clarity. “Then say you have to pee!”

  She looked puzzled, then, to his great relief, she caught on.

  “Calmate, querido,” she cooed, putting her arms around him. “You’re having a dream…’’

  “I’m not kidding,” he whispered desperately, burying his head against her shoulder.

  “Everything okay back there?” Gordo sounded hesitant, as if Paz’s outburst might indicate some serious mental condition.

  “Sí.” Ruperta answered. “Sometimes, in strange places, Paquito has bad dreams.”

  “Me, too,” muttered Gordo, turning back to his computer. “More often than I’d like.”

  “Wait one minute,” Paz whispered in Ruperta’s ear. “Then ask to use the bathroom. Ask in English.”

  She rocked him in her arms. He pretended to grow fully conscious, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

  “Did you have one of your nightmares, Paquito?” she crooned softly.

  “One about snakes,” he lied. His real nightmares were not of reptiles, but Scorpions. “And babies.”

  “Are you feeling better now?”

  “Sí.”

  “Good for you.” She gave his back a final pat.

  “But now I have to pee.”

  “Can’t you hold it?” This time he faked his usual irritation with Ruperta’s midget-capacity bladder.

  “Not till morning.”

  “Ai-yi-yi.” He sighed wearily, winking at his beautiful, clever wife. “Come on. I’ll take you to the baño.”

  They got to their feet, both listening for any protest from Gordo. But he remained focused on the computer screen.

  “Señor, Ruperta needs the bathroom,” Paz told him. “I’m going to walk with her.”

  “Scared the piss out of her, did you?” Gordo chuckled, not lifting his gaze from his work.

  “I suppose so.” Oh, Holy Sweet Maria, Paz thought as he slid back the heavy door. This is going to work. He hopped from the van, then raised his hand to take Ruperta’s. She looked at him with frightened doe eyes, but stepped to the ground beside him.

  He turned. The van of the young lovers sat still and quiet, ten feet away. Fifty feet beyond that stood a square wooden structure that held showers and toilets. They would walk in that di­rection until they passed the van, then they would run up the hill and into the woods. They were small and quick, like jackrabbits. Fat, limping Gordo could never catch them.

  “When I say run, run,” he whispered in Span­ish as he and Ruperta moved toward the latrine. “Up
the hill, as fast as you can.”

  They crept forward, holding their breath, lis­tening for any sound from Señora’s van. Noth­ing. Apparently Gordo was staying at the computer, trusting that they would return. What a fool Fatso was, to think they were stupid just because they spoke English poorly. Soon he would learn how clever they truly were. But not yet, Paz reminded himself as they drew closer to the van. Just get into the shadows. Eight more steps. Then you can congratulate yourself.

  Suddenly they heard a noise behind them.

  “Paz!” Gordo’s voice struck him like a bullet. “Stop!”

  Ruperta froze as if she were a soldier under Gordo’s command. Paz kept moving forward, tugging her along with him. “Come on,” he cried in Spanish, “if we get to the shadows we can beat him up the hill!”

  She gazed at him, teary-eyed, not knowing what to do. Behind them, Gordo was moving toward them, brandishing a dark object in his right hand.

  “Run, Ruperta!” He tugged her harder. “He’s got a gun!”

  “A gun?” That terrified her further. Her mouth began moving but no sound came out; she couldn’t budge her feet at all.

  “Come on!” He tried to pull her with him, but she lost her balance and fell, sprawling, to the ground. Paz stood there staring at her, open­ mouthed, as Gordo limped up, pointing a pistol straight at him.

  “You’re kind of antsy to get to the ladies’ room, aren’t you, boy?”

  “We got mixed up,” Paz sputtered, smelling the stink of his own sweat. “We couldn’t remember the way.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Gordo poked the gun into his ribs. “Then how about she just pisses here? And how about you let me have this?” He reached down, lifted Paz’s pants leg, and pulled the cuchillo from his sock. The blade felt cool sliding against his skin as Gordo withdrew it.

  The fat man thrust his face close and spoke in a whisper. “If you think I don’t know about you, mi amigo, you’re mistaken. I know all about you. I know you’ve got no green card, I know you’re running from the cops, I know somebody made your chest look like a salt map of Mexico.” Gordo pocketed his knife and gave him a sour grin. “I also know that unless you and your little esposa here don’t do exactly as I say, I’m going to turn you in. Maybe to Immigration, maybe to those asesínos who’ve been hanging around Señora Templeton’s property for the past week. You comprende, compañero?”

  Paz felt as if he were tumbling into some black pit. What a fool he’d been to assume Gordo did not know Spanish just because he chose not to speak it! All this time they’d called him Gordo—Fatso—thinking it was a great joke he did not understand. Numb with fear, he nodded.

  “Okay, then,” said Gordo. “Ruperta, do your business. Then we’re going back to the trailer and talk about what you two are going to do tomorrow.

  Paz stood there helpless while his wife lowered her jeans and squatted on the ground. In a moment she stood and pulled her pants up hastily, trying to hide her bare bottom from Gordo’s bold stare. When she turned back around, she kept her eyes lowered, her stricken face turned away.

  “Let’s go, amigos.” Gordo pointed his gun toward the van. “We have a lot of ground to cover tonight.”

  By noon the next day, they had covered it. Paz sat in the front seat of the van, wearing a red SOB T-shirt Gordo had stolen and an official­ looking identity badge that Gordo had forged on his computer. Ruperta sat hunched on the backseat while Gordo inched the van along with a thick crowd of Indians, all of them heading toward the stage. Most were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, but a few wore tribal outfits, resplen­dent in buckskin and feathers. The tall, muscular ones who wore mostly nothing were there, too, raising angry fists to the encouraging cheers of their friends. Drums again beat their insistent tattoo, occasionally drowned out by the whump of the police helicopters overhead.

  “Remember what you’re going to say?” Gordo prodded as they crested the hill.

  “I’m Joe Little Bear,” Paz repeated for the thousandth time, his mouth dry as a cracker. “A Navajo from New Mexico. I served with Johnny in the Army.”

  “Jonathan,” Gordo corrected.

  “Jonathan. Ruth wants me to bring the baby Lily to her. To be with her on TV”

  “And?”

  “And I’ll bring her back in just a few min­utes.”

  Gordo eyed him suspiciously. “That’s good. Think you can remember it?”

  Paz nodded, numb. What choice did he have? This man had Ruperta and his knife. His great escape plan had failed, like everything else he’d tried in this miserable country.

  They rolled past the stage and up another, smaller hill. Gordo pulled off the road and turned off the engine. Despite the drums and the helicopters, Paz could hear only a great whirring wind that seemed to rush like a gale through his ears.

  “Okay.” Gordo looked around. “Get going. Hurry, but don’t run. Ruperta and I will wait for you here.”

  “Sí.” Paz’s voice came out in a raspy whisper. He turned to look back at Ruperta, wishing he could kiss her, wishing he could tell her how much he loved her, how sorry he was for all this. “Paz…” she began, her dark eyes mirroring his own fear. She said something else, but Paz opened the door and jumped out of the van hastily, slamming the door and shutting her words out behind him. There was no point in talking now. He should have pushed her into the darkness last night and tried to slash Gordo’s throat. At least one of them might have gotten away. Now they had to do what Gordo wanted.

  Later, he promised himself. If I don’t get killed stealing this baby, I will make sure that Ruperta goes free.

  On rubbery legs, he followed the path down to the creek. The water sizzled like grease in a skillet, while high in the pine trees a blue jay scolded him.

  Holy Mother, Paz prayed, knowing the bird was announcing his intrusion to everyone within earshot. Please don’t let these people kill me before I can save my Ruperta.

  With his head down and his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans, he walked past the first, newer trailer and on to the second. He saw no one, but frenetic guitar music seeped from inside. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he said a silent Ave Maria and stepped up to the weathered screen door.

  “Hello?” he called, trying to sound Southern, like the people back at Señora’s. “Anybody home?”

  “In here,” answered a gruff voice.

  He peered through the screen. In the dim light he saw the woman he’d seen the night be­fore sitting on one of the two cots inside the trailer. A tall man with a ponytail sat on a little stool at her feet, his hands clutching the waistband of her jeans. Both looked annoyed, as if he’d interrupted them.

  “Hi.” Paz smiled broadly, hoping their music might conceal his accent. For a moment he could not speak; the words he was supposed to say were zooming around his head like gnats. “I’m Joe Little Bear,” he finally blurted, his voice reedy and high. “I was in the service with Jonny-than.”

  “He ain’t here.” The man on the stool was looking at him with a flat, hostile stare.

  Mother of God, thought Paz. Now what? He plunged ahead, repeating what he could remember of Gordo’s words. “Ruth sent me down here for Lily. Ruth wants her to be on TV.”

  “Ruth’s going to be on TV?” The girl’s eyes glittered, envious. “Then maybe I’ll take the baby down there myself.”

  Paz shook his head, near panic. This girl was not part of the plan, and Gordo had not covered this contingency. He clenched his fists and willed himself to speak with more coherence. “I think she wants only the child.”

  “She would,” the girl replied sullenly. “Ruth always has all the fun.”

  Grinning, the ponytailed man slid his hands down her thighs. “You go wrap that kid in a blanket, honey, and I’ll show you more fun than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

  The girl looked at him a long moment, as if trying to decide between him an
d the possibility of being on television. Finally she gave a small sigh and moved over to the baby’s crib. As she began to bundle the child up, the man turned back to Paz.

  “Where’d you say you were from, buddy?”

  The man’s eyes bored into him.

  “New Mexico.” Again, Paz repeated what Gordo told him. “I’m Navajo.”

  “You sound more like you’re from old Mexico”.

  Smiling, Paz shrugged again, praying that the girl would hurry up with the baby and this man would ask him nothing more. As he stood there he heard more drumming from the rally, then the sound of many people cheering. At last, she lifted a pink bundle from the crib, as Ponytail held open the wobbly screen door. “Walk slow,” she ordered, thrusting the sleeping child at him. “If you’re real lucky, she might not wake up.”

  Paz took the baby in his arms. She felt much heavier than the newborns he occasionally carried at Señora’s. He held his breath as the baby nestled against him, then he looked up at the couple and nodded. “I’ll bring her back soon.”

  “Take your time, Joe,” said the man, winking as he wrapped his arms around the girl. ”We ain’t going anywhere. Knock first, though, if the blinds are pulled down.”

  “Okay.” Paz kept his smile frozen on his face as he turned from the camper. Although overhead the sun was bright and warm and a more sedate cardinal had replaced the raucous jay, he felt as if the earth were breaking in two. He, Paz Carrera Gonzalez, the pride of his parents, of the good Sisters and Father Ramon, had just stolen a baby away from her mother. He was committing the worst of crimes; he was beyond re­demption. He should stop now. If he were any kind of man at all, he would give the baby back and just tell Gordo he would not do it. But he kept hurrying along the path, the word destino echoing mockingly in his head, pulling him back to Gordo and the van. He realized then that he and Ruperta were truly no better off than the child in his arms; their fates were inextricably bound one to the other. Whatever harm befell this child would surely befall them, too.