The Border

by Steve Schafer

  I place the jug to my lips and chug. Screw conserving. I fill my stomach like an empty sponge. Water has a flavor—it’s sweet, like I’ve never noticed before. It’s a primal taste, like a chupacabra’s thirst for blood. I gulp it down like a savage animal.

  I pull my mouth away and a small drop dribbles down my chin. I wipe it with my wrist and lick it, leaving a glistening trail. My wet tongue against my skin feels almost icy. I lick my lips just to feel the dampness inside my mouth.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Marcos asks. It’s a different tone. One I don’t know from him. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile at me.

  “We couldn’t find you. We’ve been looking… We have to get Arbo!”

  “Okay. We’ll talk about it later,” he says. “Where is he?”

  “I can show you.”

  He moves, as if to stand.

  “No, we’ll go. You should stay here,” Gladys says.

  I look at the bloody cloth draped over his leg.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “I had to cut the spine out,” Marcos says.

  I notice the bloody knife at his side. It’s flanked by small chunks of sandy flesh and a piece of cactus spine as long as the tip of my index finger.

  “We’re going to get Arbo and come right back,” Gladys says.

  “I can walk,” he says.

  “I know you can. So can we. You’re still bleeding. Press,” she says, motioning to the cloth on his leg.

  Reprimanded, he nods slightly. Gladys and I stand. I grab the water and we run back toward Arbo. I scan the horizon, searching for our tree.

  I don’t see it. I stop, breathless.

  “Where is he?” Gladys asks.

  “We were beneath a willow. It has our clothes hanging in it, for crying out loud. How can I not see it?” I shake my fist so hard I nearly drop the jug of water.

  “There!” Gladys yells.

  She’s points off to the side from where I was looking. I can’t believe how easy it is to get turned around out here.

  She sprints once more and I follow. We find Arbo in the same position I left him in. On his back, pale-skinned, he looks dead.

  “Is he okay?” Gladys asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. We just didn’t have any water. We were… No, I was stupid. We never should have gone. And we definitely shouldn’t have gone without water.”

  “Is he alive?” her voice breaks.

  Again, I put a trembling hand to his mouth. I don’t feel anything at first. My own heart feels like it nearly stops. But as I cup my palm closer, I feel his breath.

  “Yeah. He’s alive,” I say. “Come on, Arbo. Please. Hang in there. We need to prop him up.”

  Gladys helps me pull his shoulders up, and I slide farther underneath him, so that his upper body curls into my stomach.

  “Arbo?”

  He lets out a grumble so faint I can barely hear it.

  Gladys hands me the water, and I tilt it to his mouth. I split his lips with my fingers and slowly pour. He doesn’t devour it like I did. He lets it slide in. Then he coughs and water spews back out.

  “We’ve got to do it slowly. He’ll throw it up if it’s too fast,” Gladys says.

  I give him a few more tiny sips, then set down the jug.

  I look at Arbo and run my fingers through his hair. I know what’s in it and I don’t care. It’s thick and coarse—almost exactly like my own—but on him, it’s a strange sensation, like touching a part of your own body that has fallen asleep. I realize that I’ve known him for sixteen years and I’ve never touched his hair. I’ve never thought about this until now. And I get why. It’s intimate.

  Gladys grabs his shirt from the tree. She moistens the cloth and presses it to his forehead. She pulls it away, lets the damp trail evaporate, and then repeats the drill.

  “I used to help with Marcos’s soccer games. Guys would overheat. I’ve done this before.”

  She pulls the cloth away and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “It takes a little while, but they bounce back. I’ve seen it before.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am,” she says.

  I lean my head onto her outstretched arm.

  “Pato, believe me. I wouldn’t lie to you. We got him in time.”

  I nod. I want so badly to believe what she’s saying.

  “And you’re alive,” she says, leaning her head in so that it touches mine. “I still can’t believe it. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I really thought you were dead.”

  “I thought about you too.”

  She pulls her arm away, shifts, then leans over and kisses me. And for one, invigorating moment, everything else around me fades. I’m pulled into the delicate clasp of our chapped lips, gliding across each other as if they were forever moist and silken.

  She pulls away and stares at me. Her dark pupils are wide, soaking up the soft light around us.

  “Do you want to see something?” she asks.

  “Okay.”

  She presses her eyes tightly shut for a moment and draws in a deep breath, as if searching for final motivation. Then she reaches for the bottom of her shirt. She lifts it up and hooks her finger around the lower rim of one side of her bra. Her left breast rolls out with a gentle wobble.

  Her eyes drift upward, like they don’t want to meet mine. Not that I’m looking at them.

  I freeze. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, but I don’t reach for it. That doesn’t feel right. That’s not her intent. I just stare. It’s only for a second or two, then she tucks it back in.

  “If I can show a boy in a bookstore, then I can show you.”

  I guess we’ve all had too much time on our hands to think. I lean in and kiss her softly once more.

  “Can I admit something?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “That was my first kiss ever.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t yours, was it?”

  I shake my head no. It was my third. “Could you tell?” I ask.

  “No.” She pretends to push me. “Whatever. You’re the second boy to see my boob.”

  I smile, as much as I can right now.

  She moistens the cloth and again spreads it across Arbo’s forehead. I follow with the water.

  “I still can’t believe you’re alive,” she says. “You have no idea how much we cried.”

  “Both of you?”

  “He isn’t a bad guy, Pato.”

  “I know.”

  “He’s serious. But this is serious.” Again, she dabs Arbo’s forehead. “We started walking a couple of hours ago, hoping we might see you. He could barely stand. But he kept going. He kept saying that you didn’t take any water. It was all he could think about. He looked for you with that cactus spine in his leg until he couldn’t go one more step.”

  “Did he cut it out himself?”

  “Yeah. I don’t think I could have done it. I’ve never heard him scream like that.”

  I nod.

  “But I’m glad he did,” she said. “You heard it. If he hadn’t screamed…” She pauses and looks down at Arbo. “Well, we’re lucky that he did.”

  There it is again—luck. I love the way she looks at life. Actually, I think I just love her. All of her.

  “I’m telling you all this because I think you think he’s some kind of jerk. And I know he comes across that way sometimes, but he’s not. You should have seen him at home. He was such a different person than the guy out on the soccer field. You know the prickly pear, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They bloom in May. He used to gather the flowers every year and bring them to my mom. For weeks. She’d have dozens
inside…everywhere. She loved it. And he knew it. So he did it.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “And really, I’m happy he’s here. He’s good for us. I’ll give him another chance.”

  As if on cue, we hear his voice. Alone, with night approaching, questioning whether we’re out here. Gladys looks out toward the sound and hands me the bottle.

  “Arbo is going to be okay. Just keep giving him sips of water. You should drink more too.”

  “You’re going to make a great doctor someday,” I say.

  She kisses me, then disappears into the desert.

  Arbo and I are once again alone, under the tree.

  And I wait.

  And wait.

  Sip after sip, he stays the same.

  At last, his eyes open. Not wide. Just a sliver. Enough for him to see me hovering over him.

  A tiny smile forms at the corner of his lips.

  “Arbo?”

  “Paat…”

  Half my name has never sounded so beautiful.

  • • •

  It’s nearly dark. I hear footsteps. They’re heavy and coupled with low grunts.

  Marcos and Gladys emerge from the brush. He has an arm around her shoulder, hobbling step by step. They collapse next to us.

  “How’s he doing?” Marcos asks.

  “Ask him,” I say.

  Arbo’s eyes remain closed, but he raises a hand from atop his chest and gives a thumbs up.

  “So… What happened?” Marcos asks.

  “We couldn’t find you,” I say.

  “Well, we didn’t move.”

  “Were you shining the flashlight?”

  “Too much. How far up did you go?”

  “Farther than we wanted to. I kept thinking we were near the top.”

  “So how far?” he asks.

  I look down. I can’t face him, even if I’m only staring at a shadowy form.

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  “What? We said fifteen minutes.”

  “I know.”

  “So you probably walked two or three kilometers. No wonder. Even a little turn on the way down would have put you a long way from where we were.”

  “But we walked around for hours looking, and we shouted.”

  “At night, in the wind, when you had no idea where you were going.”

  “We also walked this morning, and I walked again this afternoon, for hours, looking down here for you.”

  “Pato, we’re probably five kilometers from where you left us last night. Once you got turned around up there, you didn’t have a chance. You drifted. And even if you had come across us this afternoon, you wouldn’t have seen us. I built a shelter. We kept our clothes on.”

  I don’t respond. There’s nothing to say. He’s right.

  “You know what? Don’t kick yourself. I might have done the same thing. I hate giving up.”

  All this time together, and this is the first real connection I’ve felt with a guy who’s going through the exact same thing I am.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No more splitting up,” he says. “No matter what. We stay together.”

  We all nod.

  “I can take over,” Marcos says, sliding next to me. “It’ll help me take my mind off my leg.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You should get dressed,” he says. “There’s only one of us here who wants to see you in your underwear.”

  We switch places, and I put on my clothes.

  Gladys holds Arbo’s watch in her hands and shines the soft, bluish beam on his face while Marcos guides the bottle toward his mouth. Knowing how it feels to cradle Arbo’s head, it’s strange to watch Marcos do it. He does it fine, which is what’s odd. I’m not used to seeing him like this.

  Maybe Gladys is right.

  Sip by sip, Arbo improves. One syllable of my name turns into two. Other words appear. Sentences form. The lights come back on.

  “You’re not going to try to kiss me, are you?” he asks, as Marcos leans over to tilt the bottle to his mouth. His voice is raspy, like the first words spoken after a deep sleep.

  “Oh yeah. I never knew you had such a great body until I saw you in your underwear,” Marcos says.

  “More water please,” Arbo opens his mouth to exaggerate the command.

  “Last one, then you hold it.”

  For a little while, it’s almost like we aren’t where we are.

  “Let’s eat something and rest,” Marcos says. “Maybe we can walk some before dawn.”

  We open a can of tuna and a roll of cookies, and we pass them around.

  Mota

  “It’s a little after four. We can walk for a few hours in the dark, then once sunrise hits we’ll have a couple more hours. Can you do that?” Marcos asks, directing the question to Arbo.

  Arbo’s energy has returned in ways I didn’t think possible, and Marcos claims his leg feels better. The swelling has gone down and the area around the wound doesn’t look as red, so we’re hopeful the infection is retreating.

  I’ve slept some, but not much. Enough to trudge along in the dark.

  We decide to follow the contour of the mountain. It’s not due north, but it’s close enough, and climbing seems like too much to take on without a clear reward.

  Our marching order flips. We don’t discuss it, it just happens. Arbo trails Marcos, then it’s Gladys, with me at the end. Gladys reaches back for my hand periodically, holding on to it for a few uncomfortable steps, then releasing it when it becomes too physically awkward to maintain.

  I catch glimpses of Arbo waddling ahead of Gladys. It’s hard to believe that a mere eight hours ago, I thought he was dead. He and Marcos speak in low voices. We shouldn’t be talking. We should be quiet. But, like Marcos said, you need to know when to break the rules. And I’m enjoying listening to them. I thought we’d die in the desert long before I ever heard the two of them banter back and forth.

  “So, I have to ask a question,” Marcos says.

  “Okay.”

  “Why do you smell like piss?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out,” Arbo says. “I think I was lying near where somebody peed back at our camp.”

  “No, you smell like piss.”

  “It must be my clothes.”

  “No. It’s you. You smelled like piss naked. You sat in my lap for an hour. It’s not the clothes.”

  Arbo sniffs his arms, then at his chest. I chuckle, loud enough that he can hear.

  “Why are you laughing?” Arbo asks.

  “No reason.”

  “You know. I know you, and that’s the sort of thing you say when you know. Why do I smell like piss, Pato?”

  I laugh harder. It even slows my walk.

  “Pato,” he says.

  “What?” I ask. I can barely get the word out.

  “What is it? What happened?”

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Okay. You saved my life. Whatever it is, please tell me. I’m not going to get upset.”

  We’ve all stopped walking now. Marcos swings the blue light toward me.

  “Well, the thing is…”

  “Oh, come on! Just say it.”

  “You were passed out under the tree, and I was trying to think of ways to cool you down. And we didn’t have any water, so…”

  “Are you telling me you pissed on me?”

  I try to hold back my snickering. I can’t.

  “You pissed on me. Where?”

  I laugh harder.

  “It was my head, wasn’t it? You pissed on my head!”

  “Mostly,” I say.

  I’ve never heard Marcos laugh before. It’s a deep belly boom. It overwhelms Gladys’s giggles next to me.

  Now I start to f
eel bad. Just a little.

  “I really am sorry,” I say, though my sincerity is crippled by my continued laughter. “But you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, thanks a lot for that,” he says. “Well, I guess that means you and I have something in common then.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’ve pissed all over both of us now. You think I didn’t notice that you hosed your pants in the backyard?”

  I stop laughing.

  “I mean, really, is there anybody here who didn’t notice?”

  Neither Marcos nor Gladys says anything.

  “You reeked all night.”

  “The situation was a little different,” I say.

  “No. You have a problem with urine. Admit it.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Who here is scared that Pato is going to piss on them?” Arbo asks.

  “Me,” Marcos says.

  “Me too,” Gladys says. She pokes me in the side.

  “Stop,” I say. I’m talking about the poking, but I don’t think Arbo or Marcos can see it.

  “Or what, you’ll pee on us?” Marcos asks.

  I’m the butt of the joke, but I’m fine with it. I’d take it ten times over to give us another moment like this. Just for now, it feels like we’re not us. Like we’re not orphans, not on the run, not lost in the desert, not odd pairs forced together by tragedy. We’re just friends who know how to make each other laugh.

  “You’d better sleep with your mouth closed,” I say.

  We start walking again, but they keep it up. I pick up a nickname: P-P-Pato. I hope it won’t last. Then again, there are worse things that could happen. I know them well.

  • • •

  We watch the shadow of the mountain retreat over several hours while we continue moving forward. As Marcos predicted, his leg has made a swift recovery with the cactus spine now removed. He’s still limping, but less and less. We make more progress than any of us expected. I estimate that we cover nearly fifteen kilometers this morning. Our pace sweetens our already rejuvenated mood, giving us the opportunity to feel good about resting for the day.

  “I think this should work,” Arbo says beneath the low branches of a willow. It reminds me of where we sat the day before. I’m not the only one who thinks this.

  “I agree, but keep your pants on,” Marcos says, then turns to me. “And don’t pee on anyone.”