I glance at Libby and Ed. “More or less. It’s just that I took good care of her. I took her to the zoo and the mint. I helped Lupe get a job. I cooked for them sometimes. It’s the last time I made a salad, actually. It’s the last time I had a home. I know I’m not supposed to talk about this stuff. But I just wanted to tell you about one person. This Alejandra.”
Amber puts her elbows on the table, picks them up and straightens up, glances at Libby. “Where have you been sleeping since then?”
I shrug. “Oh, here and there. With friends. In a tent. In a car.”
“And where are you gonna sleep tonight?”
I dig my fingernails into my wrist and smile at her. Bless kids for saying what needs to be said. I shrug again, and Libby says, “Tess, you’re welcome here. There’s only the couch, though. It’s probably not long enough for you. There’s also a cot out in the shed that we use when one of the horses is foaling or there’s a good reason to sleep outside. Kay also has extra rooms. Remember Baxter’s old farmhouse? Lots of rooms, lots of beds.”
I glance around the table and settle on Amber. I clear my throat, look past them at the twilight outside the window, back at her. “If you don’t mind, I have a certain penchant for sleeping outside in the back of pickup trucks. Just a roll or a pad and a sleeping bag? If the mosquitoes and bugs are bad, I sometimes stretch mesh over the top. Could I do that? I’m too tired to see Kay. I’ll go in the morning. I sleep really well even with the wind, and the crickets, and the cold. I like to wake up and look at the sky. Out here, I bet the Milky Way is clear as can be. It’s no joke. I really love outside. I know it’s odd.”
“We’ve got mosquito netting,” Ed says. “I can’t say that I blame you.”
Libby stretches her neck one way and then the other, just like I do, but she doesn’t twist hard enough to make it pop. “We have camping pads. That sounds nice. But Kay. You really need to see her.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll find my bravery. Thanks for the vegetables. Thank you all for . . . well . . . this.” I bow my head in what feels like prayer, pull myself back to my body. How unloved I have been. How unlovable I have been.
This is the opposite
of what is raging in Tess’s heart.
It’s simply nice—perhaps a moment of grace—
for Tess to quietly witness the opposite.
It’s Amber’s sharp voice that brings me back. “Look, hey, look!” I glance up to see her pointing outside.
We all stand up to look out the window. For a moment, there is nothing, and then a soft red glow in the distance—one here and one over there, like someone turning on and off a faraway lamp, the clouds fuzzing and dulling a distant storm. Then a streak of lightning cleaves the sky, a red brighter than any mountainflower, any blood, any fruit. A red that pierces the dark of the eye. We gasp at the same time that the echo and boom hit us, and the thunder rolls as the branches of lightning fade from the main channel. For a moment, then, nothing. Then the whole sky lights, as if daytime has surged into the night, and then the sky goes dark again. One last red bolt flies across the dark sky.
But wait, Tess thinks.
If Tess’s whole life is defined by what she didn’t do,
then this fire is impossible. Could not be her fault.
Tess’s life doesn’t have enough substance
to give birth to something like this.
It’s like a math problem. If a, then b, therefore c.
If Tess is a) empty, then b) empty,
therefore, c) she could not have caused this.
With Tess, there is no content.
You can’t sum up zeros.
But no: maybe it’s like the lightning.
Two zeros collide in the air,
and they explode.
Create something magnificent and huge,
like a fire,
like a universe.
“It’s like tonight’s sunset.” Amber stands up and moves to the window, touches the pane with a finger. “It’s the dust in the air, isn’t it? Relámpago rojo.”
Ed steps to the window and opens it. A rush of cool, noisy, rain-filled wind gusts in, carrying with it the smell of smoke. “Maybe the storm will put out the fire? Or maybe it will start a new one. Hard to know.”
“Red lightning. The sky is afire.” My voice is quiet, distant, as if I am in another room. I clear my throat. “The channel of the bolt glows red because of the particles in the air. The channel is, you know, basically a gigantic electrical spark. I heard once that red lightning is a hue of which is never seen anywhere else on earth. Only in the sky. It’s rare, this red lightning. I’ve never seen it in the mountains. Only out here on the plains. Such a strange thing . . .”
Amber glances at me and mutters something along the lines of Libby said you were always reading, always smart. The sky lights up again, more dully now, and the clouds start to spit rain. Only now am I understanding: the people I could not find set a signal fire to be found, which means they had been starving or dying of thirst. They were there all along, and they were suffering, suffering enough to do one last call for help, and this wildfire is raging because I failed them.
*
Stick to your life like a bur. Stick to your body like a bur. For just a bit longer, Tess. To do that, I focus on the simple motions, which help me stay in my body, especially if I can feel the edge of pain. In washing dishes, for example, how I might run the water a little too hot. Ed is annoyed with me, though, since the plates I’m handing him to dry are steaming, and so he shifts me out of the way and we change positions. His hands are now in soapy water, and I have the towel in my hand.
Amber and Libby are in the other room, mumbling over homework; Ringo is sleeping nearby; and Ed and I shift our weight from one foot to the other, standing at the sink. Outside in the dark, the rain from the storm is now pelting down in wondrous ways—sideways and then lifting and then pouring, lit in the rectangle of the window.
On one plate handover, I see Ed’s wrist. One tattoo, a cross. Not right for a gringo like him. It means I’ve crossed the border.
“So, Ed, you gave it up?”
“Give up what?”
“Levantón-ing.”
He glances at me, back to the dishes. “Yes. The year you left.”
“They say you never took any money.”
“I didn’t.”
“Your name was Salvador.”
“Yes.”
“Why’d you do it in the first place? That’s a lot to put on the line.” He doesn’t answer, so I try again. “Which of the groups did you work with?”
He lowers his voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, Ed. Not only did you do it, you moved here because of it, didn’t you? I realized that a few years ago. Colorado is a hub. You picked the best possible place to live. You didn’t show up in eastern Colorado by accident. You know there are two major routes, and they both come through here.”
“Keep your voice down, Tess.” He starts the faucet, rinses, hands me another plate. “This is one thing we don’t share with Amber. Although I’m glad you told your story. I’m glad you were kind to someone out there.”
“Well, who’s helping those people now? I assume they still need a savior.”
He hands me a dish. “Not me. I have a child. That’s serious stuff with consequences. As you well know. It’s gotten so ugly. So dangerous.”
“I did it for the money. You did it for, what? Grace? What is it in your life that you needed grace for? What did you need forgiveness from?”
He hands me a fistful of silverware, a few suds still dripping down the clean edges. “I suppose we both have some stories.” He pauses to hand me another handful right as the rain picks up again. “I’m not discussing this with you, Tess.”
Like a bur. The sweetstrange earth absorbs the water outside, my sweetstrange time on earth presses me forward. “Ed? I’ll sweep and mop. But first I need to tell you something.” I pause. I’m no good at th
is. But I must try to get some words out, to share myself. “Alejandra? Who I mentioned at dinner? I taught her your phone number. Actually, I gave your phone number to several people in case they needed a backup. In case they needed someone. It was somehow consoling to me, to put the burden on you. To use you in that way. I’m sorry. But did any ever . . . call? Did any ever need you? You never heard from Alejandra, did you?”
His eyes shift to something softer. He starts to speak, pauses, starts again. “A few people contacted me over the years. They told me they’d gotten my number from you.”
“Did they all end up safe?”
“Yes,” he whispers back with a tenderness that surprises me. “Listen, there’s something I should tell you . . .” But then he shakes his head no, purses his lips.
I wait, but when it’s clear he’s not going to speak, I brace my hands on the countertop, look at my bare feet on the smooth gray floor. “Ed, I have to tell you something else. The fire . . .”
I look over at him. His sandy-curly hair, his sweet innocent face.
“I think . . .”
Clear throat, hold eyes steady.
“. . . that group I was supposed to pick up in Alamosa . . . three days ago? I waited three days. I think they were waiting in White Wolf Canyon. I think they were lost and started a signal fire yesterday. I just heard it on the radio. They think the fire was started by a signal fire. In the same location where I was . . .”
The way his brow furrows. Then he turns to me, and his expression changes, fast as a fist flying at me, and I duckfast, throw my elbow up, shove my palm out. Ed darts back, looks confused, holds up his hands, palms out. At the same time he gives me a look that means, Tess I wasn’t going to hit you. But he whispers: “No. You’re lying.”
“You guys almost done in there?” Libby’s voice. Singsongy.
I watch his face. It has only been a few seconds, but in those seconds, I am seeing him wrecked. “Oh, no. No, no.” He flips on the radio, and immediately there is The fire has increased in size to . . . the winds . . . unstoppable. Again, the worst wildfire in Colorado history . . .
I cock my head to the boom and echo and then roll of thunder. A rush of words vibrates in my bones and comes boiling out. “It’s Colorado. It’s fall. It’s September. Climate change is not my fault. All the trees are dead from beetle kill. It hasn’t rained in, like, forever. Right? Right? That’s what I’m thinking. And why’d they start a signal fire?” I can feel my voice rising, words pelting faster and faster like the rain. Frantic. “I was there. I was at the location. But let’s say we had it mixed up. Let’s say I had the GPS coordinates wrong. Let’s say they were maybe nearby. It can be surprisingly hard to find water in those mountains. So they started a fire. Probably about the same time I drove away and into Alamosa. And the van I had, for transporting them to Denver, was Lobo’s. And I knew I couldn’t just take off with it, because then he would really be mad, have a reason to come for me. So I left it in Alamosa and slept with a guy to get the Greyhound bus ticket to come here. So while I was coming here, the fire was just starting. Do you see? It was just one moment too late. One moment just slightly off.”
Ed’s face is still broken, but now he is covering it with his palms, and he makes a long, louder noise that sounds like his throat is constricted. “Oh, Tess.” Then he is pacing, one side of the kitchen to the other. Hands flying in silent gestures. “Oh, Tess. Tess. It’s you again. You just leave fires in your wake everywhere.”
“You guys okay in there?” Libby’s voice is chirpy, innocent. It breaks my heart.
“We’ll be out in a bit,” I singsong at her, because I don’t want her in here, don’t want to share this news, don’t want her to see her husband wildeyed. Lies can be beautiful. I turn to him. I whisper it. “I didn’t know. Please believe me. I went to pick them up, they weren’t there, I left. Simple as that. I didn’t know they started a fire. That it spread. Let me spend one more day with Amber. Let me see Kay. Then I’ll go. I’ll go.” Then I add, “They’re probably dead, right? The pollos? Oh, Jesus, Ed. Although someone had to survive to tell the authorities it was a signal fire in the first place. I never meant . . .”
He looks at me, still confused, and starts rambling bits of words. His face looks as human as a face can look. No mask, no fake, no solidness. All of it is hitting him: the fact that I did not pick up people, and now they have likely burned, and so have mountains and deer and homes, and all of this is hitting him, and he keeps saying, “But wait, but wait,” as if that will help stop the truth.
I keep watching him, unable to take my eyes off of him. I watch him suffer, and all I can think is, Oh god, not him too, he’s just a human. He has to fight hard to not split apart, too. Behind him, in the square of light, the rain suddenly stops, and the silence that follows sounds as hollow as dried-up bones.
Chapter Eight
The sting of stars. The storm has swept the sky. The stars are spattered by a broad brushstroke, a thick Milky Way that spirals out into little flecks. One lone burr streakdazzles across the sky. The moon is full and also glows a bit red. The soft swishing fabric of the sleeping bag is a louder version of the wind. From the back of the pickup, on my camping pad, in my sleeping bag, I sit up enough to pour another glass of whiskey. Raise it to the sky and make a toast:
To the wildfire, to the mountains,
to the deer and the moose and the elk and the bears,
to the fleeing humans who will never be quite the same
and the ones who died.
To the soulwrenchers that cascade into a body,
to the thump thump thump of her heart.
To Tess, who needs to hurry and be ready to go.
To Tess, the spark of a soul, who is outraged to find out that
she can feel.
To the unknown woman in the desert,
a woman and her child who had particular brands of desires
and dreams.
Breathe yourself back in, Tess. So much depends upon a moment. Amber, Amber, Amber, I want to tell you the rest of the story. I didn’t finish my story.
Here is the rest, Amber: Five years ago, I was driving them all to Colorado, and the men were in the back of the horsetrailer, and Lupe and Alejandra were up front. On we went. Eventually I had to pee, so I pulled over. I could have stopped one moment earlier or later. But I did not. I stopped right then. There I was, squatting next to the truck, when I decided this was a good place for a drop, where I could leave the gallons of water and shoes and blankets, as I often did back then. I lugged this stuff a quarter mile out from the truck, because if any pollos came by, they’d be near the road, but not be on the road, and they would find this gift—this offering that I mark with a white cloth on a stick—of items that they might need.
I was walking along, looking for rattlesnakes, for cactus, for dangers, when I came across something else.
That was the last moment.
Last moment.
The last moment of the Tess I knew, the last moment of my old self.
There, at my feet, was a human skull. Long black hair and a red barrette. I peered closer. What the fuck? I thought. Wait, what?
I peered for a long time at the gold cap on one of her teeth. Fascia holding her ribcage together. A simple fact: a dead woman, not newly dead, but not there long, either, not yet scattered by bobcats or coyotes.
Oh, Amber, down low, by the pelvis, was an unborn infant. It was curled up, just like in the pictures. It had a huge skull and tiny little fingers and leg bones. Knees bent. Hands curled in. Just like you’d expect. Except the skull was bigger than you’d think, the rest of the bones smaller. A baby ready to be born. A baby never to be born.
It stays on in the mind, you see.
*
I curl up in a fetal position in my sleeping bag, my cocoon, and hold my knees. No no no don’t ever tell Amber that, don’t tell anyone that.
*
I grab my head, dig my fingers into my scalp. But it comes, the deta
ils. Tiny handbones scattered. A shoe. I paused and searched for more—Why? Why did I do that? Why did I look? The arc of two beautiful arm bones, and then another pile of tiny bones, which must have once made up the other hand. But my eyes drifted back to the baby’s skull, right there, perfectly placed in the nest of pelvic bones, waiting for her chance to come into this universe.
What did I do? What have I done? What have I neglected to do? I didn’t kill her. But someone did.
(an economy, a nation, a woman wanting work,
a desert,
a drought, a lack of water)
I knelt down and reached my hand into the ribcage. Into the pelvis of this woman. I touched this baby’s skull. Wanted to pull it up, wanted to free it from the cavity, get it out in the space between ribcage and pelvis. Even if it meant all the other bones would crumble. I did that. I pulled hard. I freed the skull. I cradled it.
At that moment, I thought of pushing my child out of my body. Screaming and yet so happy I’d soon be free of her. She slid from me, sweeping out of my body with blood and slick, slipping away from my nest of bones. I knew I’d check out of the hospital in the morning and flee this life and flee her. And there was a very brief moment when I looked at her damp, bloodslicked fuzz of hair, the back of her head, and I nearly let my heart unzip. Instead I shut it down for good until years later, when I saw this baby’s skull in its nest of bones. There, holding it to my chestbone, my heart snapped open of its own accord, and it is killing me.
When I left that woman and that child, I was different. I went back to the truck, and I stared at Alejandra as if for the first time. As if seeing humanity for the first time. I began to mother her. It’s that simple: the sorrow and beauty of it cracked me apart. The whole thing was like a burst of red lightning that streaked through my body and tore my own nest apart. I was surprised at how fragile it was built, how everything was so loosely linked.
*
I climb out of my sleeping bag with throat closing and vomit rising. I’m not built for this. I am built for happy times, for partying and for strong men with sparks in their eyes. I am built for times other than these.
Red Lightning Page 7