Angel smiled in spite of herself. “Sometimes,” she said, looking at her lap.
“What?” Norma asked, turning to face Angel directly.
Angel searched her memory for a decent example. “Ruined all my mom’s lipsticks when she said I couldn’t wear any. Stole money from her purse,” Angel said, noticing a growing sadness as she thought about being her mother’s child.
Norma drew in a dramatic breath like those examples were impossibly naughty. “My dad would kill me if I stole,” she said, making her eyes comically wide.
“That’s not funny,” Angel said, regretting it. She didn’t need to make this girl feel bad.
Norma looked away, then down, seemingly sorry she didn’t please the older girl. She stayed quiet for a minute. “My dad hit my mom last night and made her mouth bleed,” she said.
* * *
ANGEL TRIED TO BE FOCUSED DURING LUNCH, offering kids more milk when their cups were empty, replacing dropped napkins, getting another half sandwich for anyone who was still hungry. She wasn’t going to eat, but her growling stomach was entertaining the kids at her table so she downed a sandwich. She reminded herself that she’d need food for when she took off. The kids talked and laughed with one another, didn’t speak to her. Norma, she noticed, sat at the place Rita saved at a table with all girls.
After lunch, story time, after that, nap. Angel spaced on the story, looking back over her own childhood and the times she saw a man hit her mother. So many times. When the children were either sleeping or eyes closed, quiet, Rita motioned for Angel to join her in the kitchen.
“Thanks for helping me with Norma,” she said, sitting on a high stool so she could see the children as they rested on the mats in the other room. “That girl’s got a load to pull. Dad’s in counseling for domestic violence with the wife and sexually abusing Norma’s older sister. He may have already gotten to Norma. Mother was in the refuge down in Brawley for a month and came back to the guy when she got out. Norma sees what goes on. What can she make of this world? Everybody’s a target for her rage, every child’s afraid of her, and she is so desperate to be liked … to be loved. It breaks my heart.”
Too much. Too many feelings. Angel stood and left without speaking.
* * *
BEFORE SHE WALKED BACK TO RITA’S to search for a map, Angel wandered nearby looking for places she could take cover on a moment’s notice. The good thing about Salt Shores? There were thousands of places to hide: sheds, empty trailers, crumbling boats. In the middle of a vacant lot next to the school sat a rusted yellow bus with broken windows, and perpendicular to it an old delivery truck somebody had lived in. Close beside, a couple of dead cars with rotting upholstery and flat tires. Any of them could provide quick shelter.
As she sized them up, she did not imagine that four other vehicles were similarly parked fifty miles north in a paved lot near a Cathedral City gun shop. A locksmith’s panel truck, a ratty Chevy Suburban, and a silver Cadillac rested while the drivers stood around a camo-colored pickup and hatched a plan with their occasional business partner.
* * *
THAT EVENING ANGEL HELPED RITA wash the dinner dishes. Least she could do for the meal. “Norma cried most of the afternoon. Thought she drove you away,” Rita said, standing beside Angel, drying plates. “I’m not telling you to make you feel bad. I’m just saying what a strong effect we have on these kids.”
Angel continued her silence. Didn’t break it till after dark when she asked Rita if it was safe to go for a walk around the streets.
“Vincente don’t like it when I do that but he’s driving for the next four days. Go ahead. People don’t close their doors or windows. Yell if you need something. You stay in the open, you should be fine. I have to walk sometimes, too.”
By day, ghost town, by night, village. Angel took the right that led past Head Start and continued east toward the sea. Some ramshackle houses were completely dark, probably empty, but many others showed dim lights, flickering TVs, once in a while yelling or laughter. Angel noticed the deserted places, made a mental note to come back tomorrow and check them for usable supplies.
As she neared the Marina Club parking lot she could hear a jukebox mixed up with noise from a TV program and snatches of talk, occasional hoots like somebody scored or won a bet. On the beach at the end of the lot she was puzzled by a line of cars and SUVs parked beside walls that looked like reed huts. Closer, she could tell these were partially enclosed campsites occupied by couples or families out on a cheap holiday.
Could you swim in this sea? Was it polluted? Were there fish? There were birds. A silent glide of pelicans drifted by, wings intermittently reflecting shore lights. A heron looking like an unemployed butler stood patiently at the end of a sandbar. Must be something edible in there.
She continued south along the water’s edge past empty-looking fabricated buildings, storage or perhaps an abandoned plant of some kind. Taking the next street west toward the highway, she reentered the residential section and methodically worked her way back and forth till she believed she’d seen the whole town.
Rita was in the living room reading when Angel returned. “Work it out?” she asked.
Angel shrugged.
“Find what you were looking for?”
Did Rita suspect? Probably. She seemed like a hard woman to fool.
“Would you do something for me?” Rita asked. “You got no reason to. You don’t owe me anything. I’m just asking.”
Angel dreaded moments like this. Way easier to be alone than to have somebody want something of you. Her mom had bled her dry. All she could do now, if she could even do that much, was save herself. She didn’t have a thing to give to anyone else. Not even if they deserved it. Norma flashed to mind and she fought away the image.
“Give me the rest of the week,” Rita asked. “Work and the kids … keep me company, help me out till Vincente gets back. I know you got big trouble chasing you, but I think you’re safe here. What do you—”
Crying from another room interrupted her and she rose to see who’d had a nightmare or fallen out of bed. If Angel had had a chance to talk, she would have refused, but the interruption seemed like fate. Okay, just a few days. And by doing that she felt like she could ask Rita to help her find traveling supplies.
13
The next day by morning snack time, Angel was helping with the children. After snack she joined the show-and-tell and at her turn produced the piece of emery board she still carried. “When you get older you use one of these to keep your fingernails smooth,” she told fourteen unimpressed children and a rapt Norma, who hadn’t taken her eyes off Angel since she’d arrived.
When it was time for games, the only one Angel remembered was checkers. She set up the board and sat waiting for a partner. No one came. Norma was in a corner playing alone with blocks. After a few minutes Angel noticed a blond boy edging closer to her but every time she looked at him he stopped moving and looked away. Angel glanced at Norma. Norma was homed in on the boy’s advance and getting to her feet. Uh-oh.
And then Rita was in the block corner towing Norma to Angel’s table.
“I wonder if you could teach this big girl how to play checkers?” she asked Norma.
“Everybody knows how to play checkers,” Norma said, looking away toward the windows.
“Maybe,” Rita said, “but maybe not everybody remembers.”
Norma darted a look at Angel. “You?” she asked. “You ’member?”
“She hasn’t played in a long time,” Rita said. “Would you help?”
Norma sat.
At lunch Norma joined Angel’s group. And offered her an apple slice. And at story time she sat almost near enough to touch.
During nap time Angel and Rita again sat together in the kitchen. “She looks relieved,” Rita said, munching on a celery stick.
“She told me she and her mom and sister are going to win a million dollars,” Angel said. “Told me her mom bought a lucky ticket yesterday at the
StopShop.”
“Did you ask her what she would do if she won?”
“No, but she told me. Go to Disneyland. Live there.”
“Oh, me. She’s why we need an after-school program when kids start kindergarten.”
“How about a pistol? Shoot the dads. Be cheaper.” Angel was surprised by her rage. Better keep a lid on it. People might think she was crazy.
Rita adjusted her butt on the stool so she could see the children better. “If all of us shoot the people we don’t like, will there be anybody left?”
Angel stifled a bitter reply. Asked instead, “Would it really matter?”
Rita went on, “Sometimes when I’m pretty low I don’t think it matters. Misery don’t care. But when I’m feeling loved, or when I look at my kids and these children, it matters.”
Feeling loved? Angel knew she was her mother’s only friend. Thirty times a day her mom needed her for something. But it sure didn’t feel like love. Real love was a fairy tale.
Angel looked across the room where Norma was sleeping, curled, arm over face, still as the moon. She hoped Norma would have a decent life, would have a better life than she had today, but that didn’t mean she loved her. No, Angel didn’t love anybody. Didn’t know how. From nowhere Abuela came to mind. Abuela thought up the escape; the change-clothes thing at the church that knocked Scotty off the trail. Kind of amazing, really. Old, smart, tough in her own way. And Ramón, strong and kind. Rita, the same. If she ever had the chance, could she love people like that? Could they ever … she made herself stop.
* * *
DINNER THAT NIGHT WAS A COUPLE OF DRY TORTILLAS and a couple of tablespoons of refried beans for each person. Nobody complained, but Rita’s youngest boy kept staring at Angel’s plate as if wishing he could add it to his own. No comparison to the feast at Ramón’s. Angel decided that tonight on her walk she’d also look for cans and bottles she could trade in for a candy bar she could give to the kids. After she finished drying the dishes she left while Rita put the kids to bed.
The streets were quiet except for radio music coming from the garages where men worked or drank beer with their friends. A faded brown house looked gray in the sliver of moonlight, and Angel walked the overgrown path to the front door, which stood open a couple of inches. Inside, two dining room chairs faced each other, table missing. Plastic garbage and food wrappers covered the floor. Looked like homeless occasionally used this place. Probably nothing left of value.
Out the side door a carport was walled by torn bamboo shades and tarps. Inside were empty oil containers, greasy rags, and a rusted push mower. In back, under what was probably once the workbench, she found a screwdriver. Weapon. You never know. Just having it in her jeans pocket made her feel safer. Scattered here and there were some unbroken glass bottles and aluminum cans. She gathered them in a discarded plastic shopping bag and continued her search down the block. If she could fill that bag and one more she might be able to cash them in for a Hershey.
* * *
WHITE MOTHS SKITTERED AROUND the StopShop’s neon sign. Parked near the front door where light was brightest, a pale blue clunker served as a bench for five or six teens in shorts and tanks, no one Angel had seen before. The two girls leaned against their guys, drinking beer and giggling. What would that be like?
Angel was careful to stay out of their sight line. She brushed at the flies cruising around the Dumpster and braced herself against the sour smell. The lid creaked when she opened it but not loud enough to attract attention. Near the top of the pile beneath some paper soda cups and crushed milk cartons she found two old sandwiches still in their wrappers. Opened one. It didn’t stink and the mayo and mustard were in foil packets. Could be okay. She stuck the food inside her shirt to try later. Deeper, she spotted a treasure. A small nylon gym bag with wrinkled shorts and stiff socks that must have fallen out of some car and gotten tossed. She shook the underwear into the receptacle and inspected her find. Not bad. Now she could carry a little water and a change of clothes when she took off.
She could see a case of empty brown beer bottles on the bottom but she couldn’t reach it and she didn’t want to climb in and totally stink up her clothes. While she searched she was dimly aware of the occasional buzz of cars passing on the highway a hundred feet west beyond the parking lot. The all-night safety light on a tall pole at the edge of the blacktop hummed, and the Dumpster creaked with her weight as she shifted position, but over those sounds she picked up the low rumble of an exhaust pipe. She knew that sound. Ducking behind the receptacle, she watched a heavy camo pickup roll into the lot and park next to the clunker. She leaned over and coughed a thin gruel of refried beans onto the blacktop.
14
Angel burst in the front door breathless from running. First thing she noticed was the silence: no soft radio, no snores from the kids’ rooms, no noise from the kitchen, where Rita would be preparing food or putting together things for school tomorrow. Did he come here first?
Angel made herself open the door to the room Jessie shared with her sister. The beds were empty. Tried the boy’s room. The same. Angel raced to Rita’s bedroom and found her throwing clothes in a daypack. Frantic. Angel cleared her throat and Rita jumped.
“Ramón called,” Rita said, glancing at her and then turning back to her packing. “Matteo’s missing.”
“Matteo?” Angel thought about the Gomez boy in the UCLA T-shirt who had been so obviously irritated at her intrusion a couple of days ago. Wanted to give her up to Scotty.
“He didn’t come back last night. Hasn’t phoned and no one’s seen him. Tío spoke to Ramón, said the boy may have gone over to their home to get some things for school. Your guy may have caught him there.”
A wave of guilt washed Angel against the door frame. She should have warned them better. Poison. Everyone who came near her was going to get hurt. She gathered herself and approached Rita.
“Stop.” She put her hand on Rita’s arm to still the packing. “You can’t go. You got your kids.”
“They’re with friends. He can’t find them.” She cast around the room, spotted a flashlight standing on her night table and tossed that in. “Ramón said the guy could know about me now,” Rita said, rushing, distracted. “None of the Gomez family ever visited, so Matteo couldn’t tell him much more than my name and the town, but that guy’ll find out where I live as soon as he asks. Everybody knows me.”
“He’s already here,” Angel said, hating to bring worse news. “At the StopShop.” Angel grimaced, remembering Scotty’s oily charm. “Won’t take him long.”
“Get the lights.” Rita raked the room with her eyes one more time before she shouldered the daypack. “You go out the back. Go through the yards to the school. I’ll pick you up in a couple of minutes.”
Angel wanted to argue but there was no time. She’d learned that. Scotty was too quick. Moving through the kitchen, Angel took a second to open the fridge. Water. She wouldn’t forget again. But Rita didn’t buy water. Angel gave up and bolted outside.
She climbed through a broken fence into the neighbor’s place and, despite dogs barking in a couple of houses, made her way to the side street. Seeing no people, nothing moving, she stayed low and used parked cars and tall weeds to cover her two-block run to the school. In less than a minute Rita’s Toyota barreled down the street and slowed enough for Angel to jump in.
“I got an idea,” Rita said, making a hard left at the next block and then another, heading back toward the street she lived on.
“Don’t!” Angel yelled, fighting a swirling panic. “He’ll see us. He’ll hurt you.”
“Hang on,” Rita said, concentrating on driving with her lights off. “I know a place to watch from.”
Angel was sorry she had gotten in the car. Rita would be better off without her. Angel reached for the door handle.
“Don’t even think it,” Rita said, slowing and turning into a driveway. She pulled into an empty garage, jumped out, and ran around to move a rickety
gate closed enough to hide the vehicle. Angel was still in the front seat, locked with indecision, when Rita opened the car door and took her hand. “If we don’t see headlights, we’re crossing the street.”
Angel tried to tug away but Rita’s grip was strong. “No way,” Rita said. “Help me spot him.”
They ran to the corner and crouched behind thistles looking toward Rita’s house a block to their left on the cross street. No headlights, nothing moving. Rita put her arm around Angel, stood, and started across the intersection. “Act natural,” she said. “We’re going to that empty white place.”
Angel could hardly stand it. This was so stupid. They had to run. Run! But she walked with Rita, her body agreeing to what her mind refused. When they reached the weeds by the front porch, Angel’s knees gave way, as if going against her strongest instincts had paralyzed her.
“We can get on the walkway from the backyard,” Rita said, hauling Angel to her feet and sneaking along the side of the building.
Rita’s words made no sense. Angel needed to gather her strength to break free.
Behind the house were more weeds and the tumbled remains of a brick barbecue. But along the far edge of the yard sat a tall rusted metal staircase that wound in a spiral toward the top of the house. “I think this is the tallest platform in town,” Rita said, as she led Angel to the very steep steps that disappeared in the dark above the roofline. “Don’t stand when we get up there. Crawl to the front edge,” Rita said. “We can see everything from there.”
Angel’s resistance faded. Things were so messed up it was hard to keep trying. Matteo. Soon maybe Rita, too. Angel wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth the trouble she was causing. It felt like something inside was crumbling, washing away. When Rita told her to climb, she did without argument. A fall was as good a way to die as any.
The railing was gritty, hard to hold. Even in the darkness Angel could see her hands were getting filthy. When she looked down, Rita was inching up right below, close enough to catch her if she slipped. Why is she risking all this for me? Because I’ve trapped her.
Desert Angel Page 5