One Step Over the Border

by Stephen Bly

  A crowd of men, women, and kids hovered on the sidewalk at the end of the next block. The majority were women. Most wore shorts, T-shirts, bright-colored flip-flops, and sunglasses.

  Hap leaned over to Laramie. “I didn’t know this was such a big deal. Rosa must be related to ever’one in New Mexico.”

  Cheery swerved the car to the sidewalk. Two ladies held what looked like big blank posters.

  “They look so much different in person,” one lady said. She taped a poster to the door.

  “Different than what?” Laramie asked, but Cheery was on the cell phone.

  She pivoted around. “Okay, we’re all set. It’s time for you to sit up on the ragtop.”

  “Why?” Hap asked.

  “For a better view.”

  The boys crawled up in the back. “Hap, what did you get us roped into? You didn’t tell them we were bullriders, did you?”

  “You can leave your sunglasses on, but please smile and wave,” Cheery called out.

  The car lurched into the center of the street to the applause of people stacked deep on both sides.

  The boys grinned and waved.

  The people cheered. Men held children on their shoulders. Ladies shoved sunglasses to the top of their heads. A plucky teenage girl with red hair and a tiny tube top no wider than a belt ran toward the car and blew kisses. “I love you!” she squealed.

  “This is bizarre,” Laramie said. “What are we doing in a parade?” The car lurched forward. Cheery jammed on the brakes when a little boy ran across the street in front of them chasing a Frisbee.

  Hap faced the crowd on the other side. “There cain’t be this many Rodríguezes, even if you count Mexico and South America. And I don’t recollect a parade in the details Rosa gave me.”

  “Did you see that? That lady had will you and marry me? written right on her…”

  “I don’t want to see it.” Hap said. “What’s it say on that sign taped to the car?”

  When they caught up to a junior high marching band playing “California Dreamin’,” they stopped in the middle of the street. Ahead of the band, a big float carried girls in long, formal gowns offering slow waves to the crowd.

  Laramie leaned over the edge. “It’s some kind of advertising sign, I guess.”

  When the band, clothed in starched jeans and white shirts, finished their song, they marched forward. The convertible didn’t move.

  “Cheery, what’s the deal here? We don’t have a clue…”

  “Shhh.” She pressed her red polished fingernail to her red lipstick. “They’re introducing you over the loudspeaker.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, here they are. On their very first trip to New Mexico. In just two short months, these recording artists have taken country music by storm. Ladies and gentlemen, you’ve seen them on TV. You’ve heard them on radio. You have their CD in your rig right now. I present to you… Tom Boone and Charlie Crockett… of the rocketing duo, Boone and Crockett.”

  “Stand up, boys,” Cheery prodded.

  “But we ain’t…”

  “I said, stand up!”

  Laramie and Hap stood.

  And waved.

  “Sing us a song,” a teenager with brunette hair down to her waist shouted.

  “Folks,” the announcer continued, “Boone and Crockett have a contractual agreement with their record company that forbids them from singing here today. So don’t ask.”

  A young girl with a glimmering turquoise blouse and long brown ponytail called out, “What one of your songs is your favorite?”’

  Hap glanced at Laramie, then back at the girl. “You cain’t beat the one that starts out, ‘Ain’t it funny the turns life puts you through,’ but we love ’em all, darlin’.”

  The girl screamed… then fell flat on her face.

  Hap choked. “She fainted?”

  The car lurched forward past a crowd three rows deep on both sides. Some clutched balloons, cotton candy, or snow cones. A couple of young ladies raised posters with scrawled phone numbers.

  Two blocks later, Laramie grabbed Hap’s arm. “How are we going to get out of this?”

  “I’d be tempted with a cyanide capsule, but I left mine in my other suit.” Hap noticed a familiar face rush toward them. “Rosa?”

  “What are you doing in the parade?” she hollered.

  “We thought we were comin’ to see you.”

  “I waited and waited for you at St. Mary’s.” Rosa jogged beside the driver. “Did you know these two are not Boone and Crockett?”

  “Yes… I suspected so. But they’re close enough.”

  “You knew it?” Laramie asked.

  “Not all blondes are naïve and dumb.”

  “How do we get out of this deal?” Hap asked.

  “I’ll take care of it.” Rosa kept jogging by the car as the boys waved at the cheering fans. “When you get to the end, pull over in front of the fountain at city hall. I’ll have an exit plan ready.”

  Hap slumped behind the steering wheel as they rolled north on Interstate 25 out of Socorro, Rosa next to him. Laramie flopped his arm on the open window.

  “That ain’t exactly what I call an ideal exit strategy,” Hap grumbled.

  Rosa patted his knee. “It worked. It snuck you out of the crowd.”

  “You ever try to put on a two-man donkey costume in the back of a VW van?”

  Laramie rubbed on his beard. “Well, it did get us through the horde without being mobbed by our adoring fans.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t have to be the donkey’s tail end.”

  “They would have stoned you if you told them the truth,” Rosa said. “You definitely want to live long enough to meet the other Juanitas.”

  “Tell me about them,” Hap said. “I need to get my mind off this morning.”

  “Maybe you could wear that donkey suit when you visit these Juanitas. That should impress them,” Laramie said.

  “I’d toss you out of the truck right now, but I don’t know how I’d explain it to Annamarie.”

  “What time does her plane come in?” Rosa asked.

  “Two o’clock tomorrow,” Laramie replied.

  “I look forward to meeting her.”

  “She’s a lot like you,” Hap said. “Only tall, French/Vietnamese/Texan, a nurse, and has a different personality.”

  “We’re practically twins.”

  “But she doesn’t have a mark under her right ear.”

  “Few women do.” Rosa pulled out her notebook. “As far as Aunt Paula could remember, there are three Juanitas left in my family that fit the age range.”

  “I thought you said only two?”

  “Juanita number three lives in Tulare, California, with her chief-of-police husband. She has four boys and runs the YWCA preschool. I didn’t think you wanted to go there today.”

  “You know, three months ago I’d have written down her address and made plans for California. But now, I’m ready for the search to end. Maybe the Juanita in Santa Fe will be the right one.”

  “She’s Juanita Marta Muñoz. She grew up north of Albuquerque along the Rio Grande. Of course, Santa Fe’s not on the Rio Grande, but her childhood home was.”

  “Okay, now we’re gettin’ there.”

  “She’s an artist. She paints and sculpts… mostly pueblo scenes.”

  “An artist? Didn’t I say she might be an artist?”

  “Or a lawyer, or nurse, or teacher, or missionary,” Laramie added.

  “Aunt Paula mentioned this Juanita went to art school in New York and studied for a while in Europe. Her works are featured in galleries in Scottsdale, Arizona; Jackson, Wyoming; Aspen, Colorado; and at her studio in Santa Fe.”

  “Hmmm, I’m feelin’ the attraction already. Do you have a picture of her?”

  “No, but I do know she always wears a black hat.”

  “Are you kiddin’ me?” Hap slapped the steering wheel. “A black hat. I’ve worn a black hat since I was… twelve. I had a black hat on the day I m
et Juanita! Is that a sign from heaven or what?”

  “And she has The Mark.”

  “Sounds like a curse, or somethin’,” Hap said.

  “Just the opposite. Aunt Paula calls it ‘The Mark of God.’ She says God was so pleased with his creation that he reached down and touched his finger on each of these special Rodríguez girls.”

  “She didn’t come down to the family reunion?” Laramie asked.

  “No, she never attends. She’s quite busy with her work, which usually means she doesn’t associate with the humbler, poorer side of the family. But I shouldn’t say that. What do I know? I’ve never met her. Aunt Paula hasn’t seen her in years, either. She wants me to write a full description.”

  The rhythm of the highway sang harmony to the rambling conversation of the three in the front seat of Hap’s Dodge pickup. They filled the diesel tanks and grabbed ice cream bars in Albuquerque. Back on the freeway, the early September heat faded with the setting sun. When they reached Santa Fe, at more than six thousand feet elevation, they slipped on their jackets.

  They left Luke, Tully, and the horse trailer at the home of a friend of Laramie’s brother near the rodeo grounds and found a motel on the freeway, just north of town.

  Rosa knocked on the boys’ half-open door. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” Laramie called out. “Hap’s out on the balcony. I’m trying to find football scores.”

  “Did he phone her yet?”

  “No. I think he’s fueling the flames and waiting for a head of courage.”

  Rosa scooted between the double beds, retrieved the telephone, then dragged it to the open sliding patio door.

  “Can I join you?” she asked.

  Hap jumped up and pulled up the other plastic chair. “Yes, ma’am. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Were you sleeping?”

  “I was contemplatin’ the sunset.”

  “It’s beautiful, even if it is pollution that gives it the red glow.”

  She plopped down in the chair and set the phone on the floor between them.

  “I reckon sunsets are my favorite,” Hap mused. “I like mornin’s and sunrises, but there is always so much to do ahead of me. It’s a time to get body, soul, and spirit wound up tight to meet the challenges. But in the evenin’… I start to relax… to think through the day… you know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do. I enjoy being outside at sunset even in the winter. No matter how cold, even if the sky is cloudy, I like to go outside and watch.”

  “One thing about ranchin’ jobs, I get to enjoy a lot of sunsets.”

  “I hope you aren’t contemplating too much.” Rosa reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “I don’t want you to hold a grudge for the donkey costume.”

  Hap patted her hand. “No, I was thinkin’ through the whole dadgum summer. The air’s startin’ to feel like fall. We’ve got to be back at the ranch by the fifteenth.”

  “Has it been a good summer?”

  “It’s been a crazy kind of good. Pushin’ cows can be so routine. There are spring chores, summer chores, fall chores, winter chores. Then the cycle repeats itself. You can go for a season—shoot, you can go for a whole year and not have to wrestle much in your mind. That’s not to say it’s borin’. Ranch work, or rodeo, or horse trainin’ has never bored me. But this summer was sort of like sit-tin’ in one of those dunkin’ booths at a charity event. You know sooner or later someone will hit the target and you’ll plunge into the water.”

  “Have you taken a lot of plunges?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I have.”

  “Are you going to call Juanita Marta Muñoz?”

  “I’ve been contemplatin’ that, too.”

  “Does it feel like you’re about to get dunked into cold water again?”

  “Sort of.”

  Rosa stared down at the phone, then licked her lips. “Would you like me to phone her?”

  “I keep wonderin’ if I don’t have the nerve to phone her, how can I expect her to be the right one? I got a friend who used to run marathons. He said somewhere about twenty-two or twenty-three miles into it… he’d hit the wall. At that moment, he couldn’t figure out why he was pushin’ himself. He lost all motivation to keep goin’.”

  “Have you hit the wall? You thinking you want to skip this one?” Rosa asked.

  “I can’t make myself quit until the job is done, but she seems a little… eh…”

  “Too talented?”

  “That’s not what I had in mind, but it works.”

  “I don’t think you should skip her. I think you need to finish your quest knowing you gave it your best shot and checked on every prospect. It might make your Wyoming sunsets even more peaceful this winter. Shall I phone?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Rosa. You’re a pal, that’s for sure.”

  She punched in the numbers, then tucked the phone receiver between her cheek and her shoulder. “Hi, Juanita Marta. This is Rosa Rodríguez Tryor. Aunt Paula gave me your number. I’m in Santa Fe with some friends and we wanted to stop by for a visit. You might remember, I’m the distant cousin you donated that signed print to for the women’s safe house in Gallop? You said it should bring five hundred dollars, but it brought in twenty-one hundred. Anyway, if you’re in town, I’d appreciate a call back. Thanks.”

  Rosa left the hotel number and hung up. “If she doesn’t phone back, you can drive away without regret.”

  They gazed over the top of the motel parking lot at flat, tile-roofed houses to the southwest. The shadows blotted out the last streaks of sunlight. With no wind, the leaves of the trees hung motionless like a painting.

  “What if this Juanita is the one, Hap? What will you do if you find her?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “My dream always ends with us livin’ happily ever after.”

  “So, you think your Juanita has been pining for you all these years?”

  “One of the signs of the real Juanita is that she will want to be with me as much as I want to be with her.”

  Rosa reached behind Hap and rubbed his neck. “What are the other signs… you know, besides ‘The Mark.’”

  He dropped his chin to his chest. “I didn’t know I’d have to tell you all this.”

  “We’re just visiting, waiting for a return call. What does the right Juanita need to be?”

  “She has to allow me to do things for her.”

  “So, you don’t want an independent woman. You like the retiring, compliant type?”

  “No. I want her to be independent enough to not need me at all, but then choose to allow me to do things.”

  “I like that.”

  When she massaged her pointed elbow into the middle of his back, he squirmed. “And I reckon I’ll let her do things for me.”

  “Really?”

  “I need to learn. Cowboy pride and independence can be lonely companions.”

  “What else?”

  “I need her to teach me things she knows that I don’t, and learn from me in things I know, but she doesn’t.”

  She continued to stroke his arms, shoulders, neck. “I like listening to you, cowboy. I’ve never heard you be so serious. But you didn’t mention family and all. When you consider your perfect Juanita, do you envision children?”

  “Oh, yeah. I want twelve daughters,” he declared.

  Rosa’s hands dropped to her side. “What? You…”

  The ringing of the telephone interrupted her protest.

  “Yes. Bein’ with them little darlin’s last weekend convinced me to have twelve daughters.” Hap grinned. “End of questions. You answer the phone.”

  “Hello? Eh… yes, this is his room. I’m Rosa, a friend of Hap’s and… oh… Annamarie. Laramie talks about you all the time. Yes, he is…”

  “Hey, partner…” Hap called back into the room. “It’s the tallest, purdiest nurse in North America and she wants to talk to you about a heart transplant.”

  Laramie scurried over to the phone, then dragged it into th
e bathroom.

  “Looks like the sun’s disappeared,” Rosa said. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, discussing you and Juanita’s children. You haven’t told me how you will convince the perfect Juanita to have twelve daughters.”

  “I won’t have to convince her of anything. She’ll love me so much…”

  “Hap, you are living in the wrong century. There’s no woman in this country who would want to give birth to twelve kids when she’s thirty-one years old.”

  “Eight?”

  “Two-point-five, max.”

  “She’s on her way,” Laramie called out. “Annamarie caught an earlier flight and just landed in Albuquerque. She’ll catch a commuter to Santa Fe. We can pick her up in an hour. I told her she could bunk with Rosa. I need a shower.” He pulled off his shirt.

  “Then I need a walk,” Rosa said. “This is fun having Annamarie come in.”

  “Laramie, the keys to the truck are on the nightstand. I’m taking a walk with Rosa.”

  “What if Juanita Marta Muñoz returns my call?” she asked.

  “That’s another reason to go for a walk.”

  Laramie paced in front of the baggage carousel, one eye fixed on the ramp leading down from the arrival gates. Clusters of people shuffled and tapped their way across the polished floor. Lights flashed. Buzzers sounded. Baggage circled like prisoners in a tiny exercise yard. In his right hand, green florist paper enclosed twelve long-stemmed red roses.

  He scanned the arrival monitor and felt his heart fall when Flight 2106 from Albuquerque showed a ten-minute delay. He circled his arm trying to alleviate the pain in his right shoulder and glanced outside where taxis and hotel shuttles jockeyed for position.

  Finally, he slumped between a uniformed sailor asleep with his mouth open and a small gray-haired lady with a lap full of pink crochet. He stretched out his long legs.

  “She’ll like the flowers,” the lady said. Her hands, sprinkled with age spots, never missed a stitch.

  “I feel kind of foolish, “ Laramie admitted.

  Her thin lips held only a trace of light pink lipstick. “You look a little foolish.”

  “You think I shouldn’t give them to her?”