The Orange Blossom Express

by Marlena Evangeline

  At the passenger counter, Lucy rifled through her purse pulling out a five dollar bill that she handed to the young man, reaching for the toy, unsuspecting, and did not notice the change that had taken place in the few minutes it had taken to walk from the entrance of the airport to where she now stood. A wisp of hair troubled her cheek, and she pushed it away, searching the crowds of people beyond the man’s shoulder, looking for Jackson. The young man grimaced as he took the money, knowing the action diminished him, making him less visible. He handed her the teddy. He hesitated briefly, noticing Lucy’s discomfort, and turned suddenly, his cheeks flushing, walking quickly, and directly towards the security office.

  After buying her tickets Lucy moved to the boarding area. The teddy seemed heavier than she might have expected. Maybe, she thought, it was the pregnancy that had just tired her and made the burden so distinct. Shifting the toy to her other arm did not help, she could not find a comfortable way to hold it. The plane was not yet boarding and the long moments swelled with a shattering elation. Jackson walked by her and nodded and headed in a nonchalant manner to the next row of seats. Lucy felt suddenly dirty as if he had spat on her. A sinking feeling washed over her and she had to fight to maintain her energy. Finally they began to board the plane. Lucy waited impatiently for the gray-haired woman in front of her to quit talking and move through the line, but the woman stood like a barricade between Lucy and the boarding gate. A man came and asked her to step out of line. Please, he said. Come with me. He was not asking. He was telling. Ordering. Uncomfortably, she looked around for Jackson, who had been leaning against the wall, watching, making her feel less than she was. The certain thing about Jackson is that he made her feel less than the woman she knew herself to be. A minute earlier he’d been there. He’d been there the moment that Ibarrio had turned for one last look at Lucy. Ibarrio had liked Lucy’s proud manner, even her self-absorption that kept him distant, how she could not help but call attention to herself. She was not like the women he knew who always wanted more than he had to give. This woman was full of herself; a woman like this would not drain a man but enhance him. And Ibarrio was right about Lucy to a certain degree; however, her self-absorption at that moment had more to do with the danger of her task and less to do with Lucy herself. The drug she was carrying had filled her with its own false energy and informed her behavior. She twisted the handle of her purse; it seemed to her like there was something inside her beside the child that was kicking her inside out.

  Ibarrio, himself, was not opposed to drugs and often found himself in the company of friends who used cocaine. But he usually refrained, being of serious mind and having plans for a future in America. At the university he had studied architecture, but his passion had always been for literature. His small room near the airport was stacked with books. This intellectual curiosity kept him isolated within his culture so he strived for a more complete life; the airport job was a hopeful possibility for his future. One day, when he had enough money he would buy a ticket and go to America to attend the university there. He could see the picture of it in his mind, and sometimes at night, he even dreamt of this departure that would be the beginning of his real life, not this life he lived as a servant. He valued dreams as he valued his books; he always believed them above all else. He dreamed himself learning to have a new life, something that was different from this life. He was young enough to believe in possibility and held it dear. If he saw something in his mind, or woke in the morning with the fresh image a dream upon his eyelids, he would believe it implicitly and without question. And he thought of this future, the future that he dreamed of as he watched the beautiful woman shift the stuffed toy from one arm to the next. He had decided it was jewels. Something as beautiful as she.

  Without thinking of the consequence to her or even himself, he blindly went to the security office to report his suspicion. The policeman thanked him and left the office, walking with decided intent past Jackson Swackhammer, leaning against a wall watching for Lucy to board the plane. Jackson had been there, leaning, watching Lucy, when the officials passed him in tandem. And then, only a few seconds after that.

  And Lucy breathed a deep breath holding the teddy now as the officials took her arm. Senora? Senora? This way. Lucy had seen Jackson too, just the moment before, smiling as if she would be fine. Gone now. Not leaning anywhere. But he had been there, hadn’t he? Surely. The minute just before then. Now her heart pounded, the baby thumped, kicking her inside out, trying to escape, as if in a dream, surely, surely, they don’t know, surely, this isn’t happening, they want something else, surely, surely, she isn’t caught, how could they know, what should she do with the teddy bear? Throw it away, throw it away, quick, get rid of it. Get rid of it. People were staring, people always stare, people always stare at pretty girls. This man is so serious. He doesn’t care. This one didn’t care about pretty. This one was all business. She noticed that now. People were staring. What has she done, they ask? Looking. Pointing. They can’t know. They can’t know this. Can they? Short little breaths, stay calm, stay calm, Lucy. Jackson will know what to do. Yes. He will help. The hallway was enormous, a long, empty, dirty hallway, step after step, down the long, long, hall, short little breaths, stay calm Lucy, calm down now, step after step, towards a door now closed, such a small room, no escape, no place to go, another man waited there in the room, sit down. Sit down. No, no, this isn’t happening, this is a very bad dream, shut your eyes, Lucy, wake up, wake up to something new, and better, wake up to another dream, not this nightmare. Was that Jackson? Yes. Yes. There he was almost running, quickly, heading away, knocking people over, rushing, disappearing in the crowd, away, away? Vanishing before her eyes. The teddy’s on the table, the man brought out a knife, a knife, oh no, not a knife. This man is, oh, so serious. A heart beat loudly, pounding out of her chest. The man slit open the teddy, poor teddy, poor, poor, teddy, sawdust guts spilling, fingers digging in poor teddy’s sawdust tummy, oh, poor teddy bear, cocaine, cocaine, cocaine. This isn’t happening. Where’s Jackson? Where’s Jackson?

  As the man threw each bag of cocaine on the table, he turned and stared at Lucy, then went back to the business of fishing for cocaine, the teddy’s furry hide lay mangled, sawdust guts spilled.

  “Whose is it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s not mine.” And it wasn’t, she knew this, this lie, this white cocaine lie was almost right. It wasn’t hers, not really, but it was, really, and she knew this too. She knew this too, really, she knew beyond all doubts that whether it was hers or not, she was responsible. She had said yes to the wrong thing and all the white lies she could say would not save her.

  “You’re lying. A man is with you.” His eyelids lowered suspiciously, certain, certain that she lied.

  “No one is with me.” She couldn’t say. She couldn’t say about Jackson. Where was he? He’ll be here soon. He has gone for help. Certainly he has. Jackson will help her now.

  “We know a dark-haired American bought three ounces of cocaine yesterday.” He watched her pretty face wince as he said the words.

  “No one I know,” she said. Jackson was caught in her throat, lodged there, she was choking on Jackson, on the thought of being linked to him in the mind of this man, as if Jackson belonged to her, but he did not, and never had, and never would, yet this man linked them together because of this mistake, this muddled mistake. The baby kicked, and tears came to her eyes, tears and mascara, oh baby stop kicking now, she thought, please stop kicking.

  “What will happen?” she asked.

  “You will go to jail.”

  “I can’t. I’m pregnant,” she said as her hand moved to her stomach.

  “Yes. Yes you can,” he said, amused that this American would think that pregnancy would keep her out of jail.

  And of course, Lucy did think pregnancy would keep her out of jail. Beauty and pregnancy had to keep her out of jail. Didn’t they? Of course!

  Yes, just like she thought Jackson woul
d be there—she thought pregnancy would keep her safe—she thought beauty would keep her safe! The truth was that Lucy didn’t think she would ever be caught. She had been so good until now. She had never done anything wrong before. Not really. Not anything bad. Not anything like this. She’d smoked a little grass but that didn’t count, did it? She was pregnant, but that was a good thing, wasn’t it? She’d always gotten good grades. Didn’t that count? Didn’t the other good count for this bad? Couldn’t she take some of that good and paste it here over this bad spot? This big boo boo? Don’t they have Band-Aids for this? She had thought she was as invisible as the air-captain who had busted her. But the rules had changed. This was another time and another country. In this new time her pregnancy would not protect her, nor would Jackson, nor would beauty. The minute she had made the decision to travel, the world had started to slip away from her, and now she could do nothing but accept the conditions of the journey. This rampant energy had caught her in a weak moment, a moment without carefulness, and slipped her along into a dread she had not imagined, yet she was even uncertain, at that moment, that carefulness would have saved her. No, she knew she had traveled too far to find any real comfort; this foreign soil offered no relief. She could barely speak the language and had no way to translate her intentions. She was alone, absolutely. But carefulness would not have saved her. She had already tried carefulness and carefulness had turned on her like everything else. She wanted to make a call to someone more careful than she was, but she was too far away, she would get a call sometime, but not now time, be careful Lucy. Be nice and careful. Be very careful now.

  Lay, lady, lay …

  CHAPTER 13

  Lydia Junction, Nevada

  HANK FELT SUDDENLY INDIGNANT THAT he had to shuffle around the ground like an ant, a drone: he should be in the plane, with Pete. He should have been born with wings, like Icarus, feathers, anything—any mode of propulsion that would allow flight, anything that would allow him the sky herself. He was certain of it. The dust and grit of the world became more annoying each day that passed. He turned the truck onto the dirt road.

  “Postman. This must be it,” he said into the Narco radio.

  “Yeah,” answered Patrick from the other truck trailing in the dusk. “Stone cold desolate. I copy.” Hank drove the truck down to the end of the 4600-foot dirt runway and peered into the afternoon sun skittering to the west. There were no signs of life, except the truck trailing him. A cluster of trailers squatted against the far end of the runway, but at this time of day, in the mid afternoon heat, they appeared deserted, but he had a feeling they were not. Something in the air said that someone watched, but he felt they watched out of mere desert curiosity. One doesn’t find cops or feds in places like this; he was certain of that. He got out of the brown truck and waited for Patrick. “Damn, it’s a hell hole here,” he complained after Patrick had parked behind him and jumped out of the white truck with the silver camper shell on the back.

  “No shit,” answered Patrick. “How can people live in this heat?”

  “Yeah, and in a trailer too,” said Hank, shaking his head at the heat and the misery. “Well, we won’t have to wait. Pete should be here any minute.”

  “I’m gonna have one hell of a sunburn,” Patrick complained, smoothing his balding and tanned forehead. “Just watch.”

  “Well, just remember, you’ll have a very rich sunburn after this load,” Hank said smiling. “After this you can go to Hawaii to tan that head of yours.”

  “Asshole,” answered Patrick. Sweat trickled down his brow onto his nose and he wiped it with his sleeve.

  “Here they come.” Hank motioned to the sky. The Beechcraft Twin Boom cut through the lean desert sky. Pete flew her low and fast. In minutes he had landed the plane on the wide runway and taxied to the two trucks.

  “Too fucking hot,” grumbled Patrick as he walked around the camper and lifted the back window to access his tools. He grabbed a three-eights-inch wrench and the sockets from the Crafstman tool box and went to the plane as a long-legged Pete Bailey stepped down.

  “Hey boys,” said Pete, his voice strong, deep and dangerous. The tall muscled pilot smiled. “I gotta stretch these stumps.”

  “You want the tools?” asked Patrick.

  “Naw, give-em to Tom. He’ll get the seats out. Gotta make room for that Mexican marijuana now, don’t we.”

  “That we do,” answered Hank. “Damn, I wish I were going with you,” he said, admiring the plane and shaking his head.

  “Learn to fly, bro, then you can,” Pete smiled.

  “I’m gonna do it,” promised Hank.

  “Yeah, well no one’s gonna fly if we don’t get those seats out of there pronto,” said Pete.

  “We’re on it,” said Hank, crawling up into the plane with the tools.

  Tom reached for the wrench, and in minutes the bolts were loosed and the seats ejected from the plane.

  “Lots of room now.” Tom Hansen, Pete’s co-pilot, smiled. “Bring on that marijuana.”

  “What do you think you can get back there?” asked Hank.

  “Don’t know, depends on the costales,” answered Pete, who’d walked up to the plane and peered in.

  “Enough,” Hank said. “Enough don’t you think?”

  “That I do,” smiled Pete. “Enough for this plane, and more than we got out of the Cessna on the last load. Then watch, next time we’ll go for a Leer Star, maybe even a Grand Commander.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” said Hank.

  “We just checked out the road,” said Pete. “In decent shape for something so remote. Just a little north, so let’s get the map, and I’ll mark it for you. You’ve done some surveying, right? You know how to read a map?”

  “Yeah, grew up on surveying. My dad was a civil engineer.”

  “Kool. We always need talent out here.”

  “Indeed,” said Hank, almost giddy. They’d talked about it, planned it, but hot damn, this was it.

  “After we dump these seats, we’re outa here. But you guys gotta do your homework. I’m telling you. We’ll be on the LZ in three days. You dig?”

  “Just like we planned,” answered Hank.

  “Not just. Exactly,” cautioned Pete. “Exactly like we planned. You guys stay in place until we come. Bottom line. I don’t give a fuck if you’re hot, cold, thirsty, sick, tired or hungry. You stay until we get there. No trucks, no pot, no pot, no money. You dig?”

  “Yeah,” answered Patrick. “Exactly like we planned. Exactly.”

  “Now get those seats into the trucks. And don’t fuck with the seats. We can’t return the plane without seats or we’re toast,” said Pete. “Fuckin’ toast. Tom’s dad would kill us. Really.”

  Tom leaned his head out of the airplane. “Did I hear my name?”

  “Yeah, just said your dad would kill us if we returned his plane without the seats.

  “Roger,” said Tom. “Indeed he would.”

  “Tom’s dad is a big deal insurance tycoon with a big love of the sky,” said Pete. “He wants Tom to join the business, right Tommy?”

  “Yeah. Can’t stand the inside of a building though,” said Tom, with a large grin.

  “Anyway, he likes to see us fly the plane, he knows what kind of experience I have, but let me tell you, he’d shit if he knew what we were up too.”

  “I’ve always done this,” said Tom. “Flown the family plane. My dad doesn’t suspect.”

  “Well the seats are done,” said Pete, peering into the back of the open camper. “Better cover those up with the tarp; not many people run around with airplane seats in the back.”

  “Sure,” said Patrick, reaching in for the tarp.

  “Once,” said Pete, “I had to drive a whole plane, a little Maule, wings and all, through town, in the back of a truck. I’d just crunched it on a building and had to take it out to the ranch. But you know, in Alaska,” he laughed, “people are always doing crazy stuff like that. It’d be different here. You can bet on it.”


  “Shit,” said Hank, shaking his head. Pete Bailey impressed the shit out of Hank Hardiman.

  “We’re outa here.” Pete went to the plane and crawled in the pilot’s side. Tom jumped in the shotgun side. The airplane whirred to life. “Remember the plan,” yelled Pete. “It’s a plan because it is. If we aren’t there on Sunday, stay fucking put. What’s the radio code?”

  “Two clicks, three clicks, two clicks,” Hank yelled back. Pete smiled and taxied the plane down the runway.

  Hank and Patrick watched the plane bank to the south and disappear.

  “Hey,” said Patrick. “Looks like a store down there. Let’s check it out. I could use a cold one in this scorcher.”

  “I’ll go for that,” answered Hank. The men got in their trucks and drove towards the settlement of trailers. They pulled around to the front of the large building, on the backside of a sign that had Cottontail Ranch printed in large bold letters.

  A doberman pinscher stretched his chain to a taunt posture and barked as the men walked to the door.

  “Sign says open,” said Hank, but he knocked on the door anyway.

  A peep hole in the middle of the door slid open and a wrinkled eye, pale and fierce, appeared, as if a piece of desert sky had frozen between the sun-browned lids. The eye stared. “What do you want,” asked the person attached to the eye.

  “Is it possible to get a cold beer?” asked Hank.