Rivers

by Michael Farris Smith

  “No way,” Cohen said. “That thing’s about to go. You can’t even see it.”

  “You can’t see it but it’s there. I been over this one before.”

  “Then why’d it take so long to get to it?”

  “ ’Cause it ain’t my first choice.”

  “We can’t go over that,” Mariposa said.

  “Can and are.”

  Cohen put his hand on hers. Squeezed a little. “You just remember, Charlie, if we get washed away, you don’t get the money.”

  Charlie drank from the flask. Thought about it.

  The U-Haul rocked constantly in the wind. The creek seemed to rise even farther as they watched and no one could see the bridge or the other side of it.

  “We got to wait,” Cohen said. “It’s a goddamn river.”

  “Please,” Mariposa said.

  “Just hold on,” Charlie answered.

  “Hold on, hell,” Cohen said. “Back the hell up and let’s either sit or go another way.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Goddamn it ain’t fine,” Cohen yelled and reached across Mariposa and shoved the old man. Charlie dropped the flask and shoved back and they began to wrestle with Mariposa in the middle and she yelled at them to stop and she yelled at the fierce night. They grabbed and pulled at one another and then Charlie stuck the pistol against Cohen’s ear.

  “Don’t do it again, Cohen. I swear to God,” Charlie said.

  Cohen didn’t move. Mariposa went quiet.

  “Now settle down. Everything’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine,” Mariposa said.

  “Shut the hell up.”

  She wrapped her arms and rocked back and forth and watched the water run across the bridge and the road.

  “Put it down,” Cohen said, the tip of the pistol touching his earlobe.

  “I’m gonna put it down,” Charlie said. “And no more shit. You got it? We’re gonna sit. Watch. And then we’re going across that bridge.”

  He removed the pistol from Cohen’s ear and Cohen sat back. Mariposa leaned over on Cohen and dropped her head in his chest. She began to talk, “God get us out God get us out God get us out.”

  “Don’t do it,” Cohen said with a tight jaw and Charlie ignored him.

  Cohen lowered his head and leaned on her. His forehead resting on the back of hers. His teeth clenched in frustration. Another swoon and the U-Haul seemed to want to give way and Cohen realized he had done it again. He was going to lose another one in a place where she shouldn’t be.

  One side of the bridge railing bent way back, then broke free and disappeared into the current. Charlie turned to him and in the dim glow of the dash light his drunk, crooked grin seemed like something out of the underworld. He raised his pistol to remind Cohen that he hadn’t put it down.

  Cohen shook his head slowly.

  Charlie said, “Hang on.” He shifted the U-Haul into drive and stomped on the gas.

  The truck plunged into the current and they felt the surge immediately. “Goddamn,” Charlie said, surprised by its strength and he dropped the flask and gripped the steering wheel tightly and the truck pushed to the left and toward the missing rail. Charlie stayed on the gas and the engine made a gurgling noise and then the bridge buckled underneath them and the back of the U-Haul dropped and the three passengers were suddenly reclined and looking up, as if someone had pulled a chair out from under them. Mariposa screamed and Charlie kept turning the steering wheel as if that somehow mattered. The back end swung around but the front end was caught on something and kept the truck from taking off downstream. Water poured into the floorboard and the headlights looked up into the vicious sky and Cohen shoved Mariposa back and leaned across and shattered Charlie’s nose with his right fist. Charlie roared like a wounded bear and he dropped the pistol onto the floorboard. Cohen went for it but then the U-Haul bed broke loose from the cab and flipped on its side and was gone with the current.

  The cab fell to the driver’s side and Mariposa and Cohen were on top of Charlie, their bodies frantic and tangled and fighting at one another and Charlie’s nose bleeding freely. The pistol was there somewhere but Cohen went for Charlie instead and in the frantic mass he got his hands around the old man’s throat and he squeezed and Charlie’s arms were pinned by Mariposa’s body on top of him and Cohen’s body on top of hers. Cohen squeezed and tried to hold on as the cab dislodged and floated downstream and then it crashed into something and they all banged against the windshield and dashboard. Cohen’s hands came off Charlie’s neck but Charlie was hurt and spitting and coughing. The rushing water rocked the U-Haul and Mariposa and Cohen fought to get their bodies turned and their heads up and Charlie stayed pinned against the door. Mariposa got her feet on Charlie and stood on him and was down and grabbing at him again when the pistol fired. Cohen reared and expected to feel a burn somewhere but he didn’t and then he grabbed at Mariposa and expected her to tumble but she didn’t. Cohen got on his knees and he reached for Charlie but Charlie’s body had gone limp and he wasn’t fighting anymore. Cohen grabbed Charlie’s wrist and found the pistol in his hand and a bleeding hole underneath his chin. He took the pistol from Charlie’s dead hand and the water rushed into the cab and by the time he and Mariposa pulled themselves together and realized what was going on, the cab was half filled with water.

  Cohen set his feet on the steering wheel and he held Mariposa around the waist. She was panicked and crying and he said be quiet, be quiet, just be quiet. Their heads were at the passenger door and the water was to their waists and rising and Cohen pushed at the door but it wouldn’t open. He said help me and they pushed together, grunting and crying out, but they couldn’t get it open and the water was at their chests now.

  He told her to stop and put her head down and he fired the pistol twice and shattered the window and glass exploded and fell around them and so did the rain.

  “Get out,” he told her and he lifted her by the legs and she climbed up and out of the window. The wind nearly pushed her off and into the surge but she held on. Cohen dropped the pistol and reached down in the water for Charlie. He felt around and pushed open his coat and got his hands on Charlie’s belt and he found the bowie knife. He jerked it from Charlie’s belt and raised up and stuck it into his coat and then he pulled himself up and out. They lay flat across the door, and Cohen realized that the cab was stuck against a fallen tree. Somehow the headlights still shined and he saw that the tree might stretch across to the bank. The water rose around the U-Haul and the rain came like bullets. Mariposa slipped and screamed and was nearly gone and he reached out and grabbed her by her long, beautiful black hair. He held on to the truck door through the broken window and pulled her hair and her legs were in the current and he fought to hold on and she got her hands up and grabbed his wrist and they managed to get her back up onto the cab door. They put their heads down and hooked their arms inside the door and held on like hell.

  Cohen screamed, “Get on the tree! Crawl across!”

  The truck swayed and seemed like it might be ready to go again and he helped Mariposa get to her feet and she fell forward and onto the broad tree trunk. Cohen got to his knees and got up and did the same. That way, he screamed and she turned and wrapped her arms and legs around the tree trunk and began to nudge along. Cohen was right behind her and they kept on, little by little, until they saw the tree roots and the ground out behind them. Jump! Cohen yelled and Mariposa went as far as she could along the trunk and then she got on her knees, on her feet, and dove over the edge of the clump of roots and disappeared. Cohen followed her over and they were not out of the water but they were out of the flood and they helped each other to their feet and they trudged through the knee-deep water. When they came to the end of it, they collapsed, lying on their stomachs, their faces buried in folded arms, waiting for someone or something to show them mercy.

  46

  UNDERNEATH EVAN’S WINDOW WAS WHERE the awning first came loose and with a loud crack and then a metal
groan it ripped from the brick building facade and twisted away in the night. The stragglers outside had run for cover and the wind howled through the square and piece by piece the awning was torn away and it slammed against buildings or flew through windows or shot off into the dark. As if signaled by the rise in the storm, Charlie’s men kicked the door and splintered the frame and came into the bedroom.

  In the passing hours, Evan had sensed the storm gaining strength and he had awakened Brisco. Brisco whined and moaned about it but Evan told him he had to get dressed. Get your shoes and your coat and hat. Don’t argue with me just do it. When the men came into the room, Evan and Brisco sat on the bed, Brisco crouched close to his brother, scared of the storm and scared that Evan had told him they might have to get out of here and scared that Evan couldn’t say where they would go if they had to get out of here. Evan wore his coat and he held his hand inside, gripping the pistol.

  “You ain’t got to get up,” said the man with the birthmark. The other one came in behind him and went looking in the closets and dressers, digging into the pile of clothes in the corner and disgusted to find nothing. He checked the other room while the man with the birthmark stood at the foot of the bed and stared at Evan. He had the stare of the sleepless and his upper lip quivered.

  “Holy hell,” the other man yelled from Cohen’s room. “Hit the damn jackpot.”

  “What you got?”

  “Got rifles and lo and behold a sawed-off shotgun. Holy hell.”

  “Bring them on in here.”

  “Hell, just found a pistol, too.”

  The short man came into Evan’s room holding the rifles and shotgun and several boxes of ammunition across his arms. Cohen’s pistol was stuck in the front of his pants.

  “I damn well knew you had some shit in here,” the man said as he took a Remington and a handful of cartridges and loaded it. Then he held it on Evan.

  Evan hugged at Brisco and said, “Don’t point that thing at him or me. You got what you want now go on.”

  “We ain’t got it all,” said the man with the birthmark. Outside a piece of the awning smacked against the building and busted out a window in Cohen’s room. Brisco shouted and they all jumped.

  Evan sat up and yelled, “Hell you don’t. Go on.”

  “He’s right. Let’s get on,” said the short man and he moved toward the door. The other man grabbed him and said, “We ain’t going nowhere.”

  “You ain’t staying here,” Evan said.

  The rain and wind rushed through the broken window and the man said, “Not going out there for damn sure. Besides you got something else. I saw your boy slide a little something to you. Where’s it at?”

  “I don’t have nothing.”

  Brisco yelled, “He don’t have nothing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Let’s just get,” said the short man.

  “Where is it? A few dollar bills?” the man said and he shoved the rifle toward Evan. The wind howled through the broken window.

  “You damn coward,” Evan said.

  The man with the birthmark looked at Evan surprised, then looked at his partner and laughed. He turned back to Evan and said, “What’d you say?”

  “You ain’t shit without that gun.”

  “Don’t matter what I am without it, ’cause I got it.”

  “Come on, dammit,” the short man said.

  “I ain’t coming on. You got any money?”

  “Charlie’s gonna give us some more.”

  “You and me ain’t never gonna see Charlie again. This boy’s got a wad and I’m getting it,” he said and he aimed the rifle above Evan’s head and fired, a spattering of plaster raining down on Evan as he ducked across Brisco. “Where is it?” the man said.

  Evan stayed across Brisco. Didn’t move or answer.

  The man lowered the rifle closer to Evan and fired again and this time the shot pierced the wall not a foot above Evan’s head. “Jesus Christ,” the short man yelled.

  “Shut up,” the man said. “I don’t wanna shoot your ass with your boy here but I ain’t asking but one more time then I’ll find it on your dead body. Where’s it at?”

  “Okay. Okay,” Evan said. “Just don’t shoot no more.” He lifted his head off Brisco, who was crying now with his face down in the pillow and his hands pressed over his ears. Evan looked at the short man with his arms out like a rack, holding the other guns. The man with the birthmark lowered the rifle a little and the wind howled through the square. Evan sat up and looked down inside his coat and said, “Here, you can have it all.” He then pulled out the pistol and shot the man with the rifle in the shoulder and he fell back out of the doorway, and then he fired on the other man, who was dropping his armload and reaching for Cohen’s pistol. Evan hit him in the rib cage and he went down. Evan was out of the bed and on his feet and the man with the birthmark was trying to get back up and fire again but Evan hit him again in the chest and he went back flat and motionless. Brisco screamed with each shot and tried to burrow into the mattress and the short man got to his knees and was pulling the pistol when Evan shot him again and he fell back with flailing arms.

  Brisco screamed and the storm raged. Evan’s hands shook as he held the pistol on the men. He moved closer and nudged the short man with his foot. He didn’t move. Cohen’s pistol was on the floor next to him and Evan nervously bent down and picked it up. Then he stepped out of the doorway and nudged the man with the birthmark and he was dead, too. Evan put both pistols in his coat pocket and he was shaking and light-headed. He knelt down to pick up the other rifles but he couldn’t calm down, so he tucked his hands under his arms as if to force them to be still. He squeezed his eyes shut and took heavy breaths and hurried to gather himself so he could get to Brisco.

  He only gave himself seconds, and then he pulled out his hands and for some reason blew on them. Then he grabbed the Remington and the other rifles and Cohen’s shotgun and took them into the other room. He set them on the bed and the rain was blowing in the window and glass was scattered across the floor. He went back to Brisco and he sat down on the bed and pulled the boy to him and held on. It’s all right. It’s over. It’s over. It’s all right.

  Then he heard footsteps above. Big, pounding footsteps. Then he heard a door open and the footsteps move to the top of the staircase. A voice yelled, “I don’t give a damn who’s down there but I’m coming and shooting first and asking second!”

  “Don’t shoot!” Evan yelled back. “It’s over!”

  “I’ll decide it,” Big Jim called. He came down the staircase, careful seconds between each step. When he was down on the second floor, he stepped across the men and the slow spread of blood in the doorway and then he looked at Evan and Brisco. Big Jim wore overalls with no shirt underneath and only one shoulder strapped. He held a shotgun pointed from his hip, but he let it down when he saw the boys. He shook his head.

  Brisco sat up. His face was red and he wiped at it with the bed-sheet. Evan started to speak but an explosion-like crash sounded below as the storm hurled something through the large café windows. Big Jim jerked with the big noise and disappeared down the staircase.

  “Stay here, Brisco,” Evan said as he went to get up to go with Big Jim. But Brisco held on to his coat and was pulled across the bed. “Don’t leave me!” he yelled.

  Evan grabbed his little brother, lifted him to his feet, and stood him on the bed. “You got to stop crying. Okay? I ain’t going nowhere I swear it. You got to stop crying and yelling. It ain’t easy but we got to.” He wiped the boy’s face with his hands as Brisco huffed and tried to suck it in. “Don’t look at nothing, Brisco. Just look at me. Look at me.”

  Brisco put his eyes on his brother and Evan told him to count. Start counting and see how high you can go and look at me. Brisco nodded and said, “One.” Then he stopped.

  “Keep going. How high can you get? Count and calm down. Come on.”

  The boy started over with one, then moved to two, three, and he continu
ed. Evan held him by the arms, waited until Brisco had reached seventeen, eighteen, and then let go of him and backed away, over to the dead men.

  “Look up,” Evan said. “Watch the ceiling and keep going. I bet you can’t go to fifty.”

  As Brisco looked up and counted, Evan grabbed the man with the birthmark by the ankles and dragged him through the bathroom and into the other bedroom, leaving a trail of red as if the room had been crossed by a bloody mop.

  “Keep going. Eyes up,” he called out to Brisco as he returned to the doorway. Brisco was somewhere in the thirties and back to the twenties, confused but trying to make it work. The other man was heavier and Evan had to wrestle him around to get turned where he could drag the body, but he managed and laid him next to the other one in a sloppy, bloody mess. He took a blanket from the bed and covered them and then gunshots sounded out across the square.

  In the other room, Brisco lost count and screamed, “I can’t do it no more.”

  47

  THEY LAY IN THE MUD, still and submissive. Mariposa moved underneath Cohen and he lay mostly on top of her, their faces down, their heads rested on folded arms. The headlights from the U-Haul had gone out and all was black. The rain beat them, the wind swooshed through the remaining trees along the creek bank, and they could only hope that nothing came crashing down on them. It was as if they were being returned to the earth, driven into the ground by the force of the storm, their stiff bodies less skin and bone and more mud and root with each passing moment. Mariposa tried to think of colors, of reds and oranges and yellows and greens or anything that would strike against the black canvas of the world that she saw when she closed her eyes or opened them. The colors came and went and she tried to imagine brilliant stars and a crescent moon but nothing would stay.