“Get Brisco,” Cohen told Mariposa as they grabbed at the door handles and hurried out.
Cohen pumped the tire iron at the café as he moved underneath the window and someone called out, “That ain’t shit!” There were maybe twenty of them bunched in the café and twice that many along the sidewalk and they immediately began to creep toward the truck.
“Throw me something!” Cohen said and flung away the tire iron. Evan dropped the sawed-off shotgun out of the window just as Mariposa screamed as two women had come up behind her and snatched the back of her coat. Cohen turned and fired into a piece of twisted metal awning that was lodged in the café window. The women let go and dove back into the café. He waved the shotgun at the rest of them and they held still.
“I got the doors jammed up with everything up here and we can’t get out,” Evan yelled down.
“Jump on the top of the truck,” Cohen yelled back.
Mariposa climbed onto the hood and then on top of the cab and held out her arms for Brisco. No no no, he called out, but his feet appeared out the window and then there he came and he fell right into Mariposa. She lost her balance and they slid down the windshield and landed on the hood. She grabbed Brisco around the waist and got them down off the hood and into the truck and then there came the thwack thwack of bullet holes into the tailgate of the truck.
“Back there,” Evan yelled and Cohen turned to see a handful of men coming at him around the truck bed. Evan fired three quick shots and one of the men went down and another grabbed his arm and the rest covered their heads and ran. But it seemed like in every direction the crowd was gathering to rush Cohen and in the roar of the rain it was damn near impossible to see who was coming from where. Another thwack and Cohen ducked in front of the truck.
“Corner building,” Evan called and he fired across the square at the building where he had seen the white flashes. Cohen’s back pressed against the truck grille and he pointed the shotgun at the café.
From inside the truck, Mariposa and Brisco yelled for them to come on, come on. The rain came hard and the others crept closer and the gunshots sprayed.
“Right now, Evan,” Cohen screamed. “We gotta go now.”
“He’s gonna get us,” Evan yelled back.
“No, he ain’t. Right now.”
Evan fired several more quick shots and then he jumped out of the window, rifle in hand, and he crashed on top of the truck cab. He fumbled the rifle into the bed and scrambled after it as shots from across the square pelted around him. He lay flat in the bed and counted to three and he jumped out and raced into the cab with Mariposa and Brisco.
Cohen rose and fired his last shot into the café ceiling and they shrank away. Mariposa pushed open the truck door and he sneaked around the front end and then darted to the door and one more shot sliced through the storm and it caught Cohen and he buckled and fell against the side of the truck.
“Cohen!” Mariposa screamed. Evan climbed out and ran around and tried to get Cohen to his feet. More shots missed them and smacked the truck and dropped people coming out of the café toward the truck. Evan got Cohen’s arm around his neck and raised him and Cohen held his hand to his side and half-crawled, half-walked with the boy. The shotgun was left behind and Cohen called for it but Evan didn’t stop. He dragged Cohen to the passenger side and Mariposa pulled him in the cab. Evan slammed the door and ran around and got behind the wheel. The crowd waited no more and came running at them out of the café and from up and down the sidewalk, several more being dropped by the hidden gunman but the crowd without fear now and intent on getting that truck.
Evan shifted into drive as they pounded on the hood and sides, savage rain-drenched faces and bony fists and mouths open and screaming. He went hard on the gas and some of them fell away but others clung to door handles and the tailgate and another had managed to get one leg into the truck bed and was dragged along as the truck cut through the flooded street.
“Evan!” Mariposa yelled as she turned and saw the man trying to claw his way into the truck bed and the other hands and heads at the tailgate. At the end of the street, Evan cut hard left and slammed the gas again and the man was thrown from the bed and the heads disappeared from the back, but four clinging hands remained on the edge of the tailgate. When the others saw Evan turn, they began to splash across the square, trying to catch up and hopeful the truck would turn again. Evan did turn again, another hard left, and now the hands were gone and the bodies rolled. Mariposa said, “That’s it, don’t stop. Don’t stop, Evan, keep straight and don’t stop.”
He stayed straight and got away from the square, away from the chasing crowd and the scattered bullets. Brisco had curled himself on the floorboard and though they had shaken free, Mariposa looked around frantically to make sure there was no one else attached. Cohen had collapsed against the door, his cheek against the window. They drove on and left the square and the crowd behind and now there was only the rain and they needed much more than that.
Cohen leaned forward and doubled over and Mariposa pulled at his coat and said, “Where is it? Where is it?”
“Holy goddamn,” he said and he couldn’t catch his breath and he moved his hands from his side. She pulled Brisco up from the floorboard and put him next to Evan and she helped Cohen off with his coat and the bullet hole was just above his stomach. He lifted his shirt and the blood ran from the nickel-sized hole like water.
“Oh Jesus,” Mariposa said and in a panic she looked around for what to do but she didn’t find any answers.
“What?” Evan asked and he started to pull over.
“You can’t stop,” Mariposa screamed.
“Goddamn,” Cohen said again.
“What!” Evan yelled.
“What do you think?” Mariposa yelled back. “His stomach. Gimme something.”
“Give you what?”
“Drive,” Cohen said and he bent over and vomited a little on the floorboard. He held his hands over the hole and his fingers and hands and stomach and everything was turning red. Mariposa got out of her jacket and took off her top shirt. She wadded it and helped him back against the seat and she pressed the shirt against the hole.
“What the hell?” Evan yelled.
“Drive,” Cohen said again. “And don’t stop.”
“Where? I don’t know where.”
“Jesus, Jesus,” Mariposa said.
“Tell me something,” Evan said.
“Just go as fast as you can,” Mariposa said and she was pressing the shirt on the wound.
“Fucking where?” Evan said and Brisco repeated his brother and the child reached his small hand around Mariposa and put his hand on Cohen’s leg. Evan drove as fast as he could, which wasn’t fast in the strength of the rain and wind and the water-covered road.
“God,” Cohen said and sweat gathered on his lip.
Mariposa smacked his cheek and said, “Come on! Come on!” She pressed the shirt and her hands were bloody. Cohen’s head fell back against the seat and he smacked his lips. She began to plead with him to sit up, look at me, hold my hand, think about the sunshine, don’t be a quitter, look at me Cohen I said look at me, we’ll get somewhere, don’t think about it, I know it hurts but it won’t forever we’ll get somewhere so hold on.
He lifted his head and stared at her blankly.
Evan cussed and drove and beat at the steering wheel and the storm wouldn’t stop. Mariposa moved one hand away from the shirt and wiped the rain and sweat from Cohen’s face with the back of her hand.
He stared at her and they drove the impossible highway. Blood filled his pants and his strength began to leak away. A half hour passed and they kept north and Cohen tried not to slump, tried not to show what he was feeling, but he knew he was slipping. His forehead against the door window and his eyes wide open and his hands on top of Mariposa’s hands which pressed the shirt against the bleeding hole. He stared out the window and he heard Mariposa pleading and he heard Evan and he heard the rain and the thunder and
the rush of the water under the tires. He heard it all, felt it all. He stared out at the suffering land and then there she was.
She walked along the stone street on the clearest day in Venice. The men turned and watched her long stride. The women outside the shops noticed her as she passed. She walked toward him and sat down at the table for two outside the café. The sun cut across the alley and she moved from the light into the shadow and looked at him and said I don’t want to go. On the table was a mask he had bought for her at a kiosk on the Rialto Bridge, purple and black around the eyes and a teardrop on its left cheek and burgundy around the mouth and trailing up in a devilish smile. She picked up the mask and covered her face and her eyes danced and she said I’m getting used to this place. Like I belong here. And he could see that she might belong somewhere like this but he didn’t care where she was or where she belonged as long as he was there.
I don’t want to leave, she said again and she removed the mask and her face fell, the insinuation of something going away.
“Cohen,” Mariposa said and she touched his cheek. “Head up. Come on. Head up. Jesus Christ, come on.”
His eyelids were heavy but open and he saw the waiter come out of the café and he brought them espresso. Elisa watched the people along the street and he watched her, the Venice air filled with the chatter of another language and the tink of espresso cups and saucers and somewhere an old man singing. It’s weird, she said without looking at him. Me and you have been at the water our whole lives but it feels different here. You are surrounded by the water. She pressed her lips together and he asked her if that was good or bad and she said good. You’d get used to it, he said. And she shook her head and turned to him and smiled and he felt the peace in her.
I will bring you back one day, he told her and he reached for her hand.
“Stay here,” Mariposa screamed and she had his face in her hands and was shaking his head back and forth. He looked at her but didn’t look at her. “Stay here, Cohen. Stay here, come on and stay here. Come on!”
“What is it?” Evan yelled. “What’s happening?”
“Look at me. Look at us. We’re getting there. It’s all behind now, Cohen. It’s all behind,” Mariposa said, her voice wavering and his face in her hands and the rain and sweat and blood in tiny rivers down her fingers and wrists and she could see that he was somewhere else. “Cohen. Look at me. Please come on. It’s all behind I swear it.”
Maybe next time we’ll have a stroller with us for you-know-who, Elisa said and he smiled and asked her who she was talking about. It’s coming and you know it’s coming. We can wait a little while longer but you know that, right? And you might as well get ready but you’ll be good at it. Her eyes changed again, from peaceful to confident and excited for the years before them. She grinned and said don’t be scared.
I’m not scared. Those things are little and I’m pretty sure I could win in a fight.
A young girl in sandals and a long white skirt came along the street holding an armful of roses. She stopped and held them toward Cohen, said something, nodded at Elisa. He held up two fingers and the girl pulled two from the bundle and gave them to Cohen. He paid her and she nodded and moved on and Cohen held the two roses out to Elisa.
One for the Venice water, he said. And one for the Mississippi water.
She took them, smelled them. Touched her fingertips to the petals.
From a distance, he heard someone calling him but he wasn’t sure who it was or where it was coming from and he didn’t try to answer.
The sun moved and their shadow had disappeared. The Venetian sunlight brushed the side of Elisa’s face, her arm, her leg. She seemed to him like something made of marble, her beauty perfectly sculpted and preserved.
49
MARIPOSA SAT IN A BUS station in asheville, north carolina. The bus station was a twenty-minute walk from the shelter that they had called home for months and she sat in the same spot where she sat each time she waited. Her legs were folded and her bag was next to her on the wooden bench and the ceiling fans clicked as they circled overhead. She thumbed through the pages of a newsmagazine, fanning the pages, enjoying the fluttering sound that they made. A woman with glasses sat behind the ticket counter and talked on the telephone and two men who looked like brothers sat on the other side of the small waiting room. One of them flipped a coin until the other guessed heads or tails correctly and then they swapped and the record was four misses in a row. Outside Evan and Brisco picked up rocks and tried to hit a garbage can they had moved out into the empty parking lot.
A denim jacket lay across the bag and Mariposa wore a sleeveless shirt with ruffles around the neck. The late spring was muggy and windy and there was little need for a jacket during the day but the nights remained cool. She uncrossed her legs and set the magazine on the bench. The magazine cover was a photograph of a man in a suit standing on a sun-soaked podium, red, white, and blue flags flapping in the wind behind him. He made a fist with his right hand, seemed to speak with indignation. She picked up the magazine and turned it over and slid it to the end of the bench.
She looked at the round clock on the wall behind the counter and there was another ten minutes to wait if the bus was on time but no one was certain of the chances of that happening.
She moved her jacket from the bag and opened it. She took out a folded sheet of paper and counted the places she had been. Huntsville, Birmingham, Roswell, Augusta, Athens. The names of thirteen more towns and the addresses of thirteen more shelters remained on the list and she was making her way east for the first time, heading for Winston-Salem. The shelters on her list held thousands of people and stretched from Alabama across to North Carolina, up into Kentucky and Virginia. There were more across on the other side of the Floodlands, over into Texas and Arkansas, but that would have to wait and hopefully she wouldn’t need to get across. The shelters functioned out of high school gymnasiums or National Guard armories and served as a way of living for most. Children went to school at these shelters, job training was provided at these shelters, mail was delivered to these shelters. And she was going to go to each one on her list until she found someone that she knew. Somewhere she had a mother and cousins and aunts and she was ready to find them.
She looked out of the glass doors at Evan and Brisco. Thought of the place where they had buried Cohen, somewhere off the road in northeast Mississippi, after they had driven almost three hours with him dead against the door, nobody in the truck wanting to let him go. The rain had eased the farther north they had gone, and they turned off the highway and drove along a side road where there were no lights and they went out into a field.
In the truck bed, Evan found a shovel and he used it to dig a grave while Mariposa sat on the ground with Cohen lying across her lap. Brisco stood strangely quiet and watched his brother dig. When Evan was done, with the truck lights shining on them, they lifted and carried Cohen to the grave and set him down gently. Then they stood there in silence until Mariposa turned and walked away and Evan and Brisco covered him with the dirt. After Cohen was buried, Evan turned to look for Mariposa but she had walked out into the dark and he let her be. He sat with Brisco on the tailgate and they were chilled by the wind but it felt different than the chilled wind of down below. He and Brisco talked and Evan heard her crying out there in the dark but when Brisco asked is that Mariposa, Evan said no. It’s only the wind.
After an hour she returned from the dark and they began again.
They had driven east until noon and wound up in Asheville at a shelter that occupied an old department store. A group of women were standing outside the front doors smoking when the three of them got out of the truck. Filthy, exhausted, hungry, skinny. Bullet holes and dents in the truck. Bloodstained clothes. The fragile gait of the weary. One woman had dropped her cigarette at the sight of them. Another said what in God’s name is this.
Mariposa folded the paper with the list of towns and stuck it back in her bag.
She rested her hand
s on her stomach and hoped for a kick. The little kicks helped the day go by and kept her spirit alive and she pushed some to see if that would get them going and it did. A handful of kicks and she talked to him as they came and went, and then he settled again.
The woman at the counter hung up the telephone and she announced to Mariposa and the two men that, believe it or not, the bus would arrive any second.
Mariposa got up from the wooden bench and as she rose the baby kicked again and made her oooh. Her eyes got big and she put her hands on the sides of her stomach and said, “Easy, little man.” She took a deep breath and walked to the glass doors and went outside. Brisco and Evan were arguing over the score of whatever game it was they were playing.
There was another kick and she thought of Cohen and the dream that she had in Ellisville about him leaving and not coming back. Thought of the way that he assured her that it wasn’t going to happen. I’m not going to leave you, and you have to promise not to leave me.
It was the only dream left to focus on as she had stopped having them altogether, her subconscious nights replaced by sleeplessness, lying on her back, staring at the exposed metal beams of the shelter ceiling, trying to figure out what had been real. She had conjured up his life based on the remnants of it—the trinkets and tokens and letters and his expressions when he was forced to talk about it. But then the illusion she had created succumbed to the intensity of the real man. She had talked with the real man and slept with him and bled with him and she wondered how far he had come toward her. All the way?
She couldn’t decide.
Mariposa arched her back and felt the breeze. She was ready for the bus. Ready to go and look again. She folded her arms across her stomach and looked into the passive sky, tangled between all that had been lost and all that had been found.
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