by Rilla Askew
“It’s not just the fact I had to embarrass myself by calling Jim Coughlin at the reception, assuming, of course, that you were there but had your phone off. It’s not even the fact you seem to want to jeopardize everything by hanging around your little faggot friend. No, it’s the fact you are missing everything. Check this out.” He unmuted the mute button. Across from Larry King sat the sheriff with his bulbous nose and his slicked-back hair, saying in his embarrassingly thick Okie accent that the rumors his men had beat a pregnant Mexican woman as well as the Brown kid were just that, vicious rumors, he had no idea where these lies got started, he’d known the Brown family his whole life—
“I know all about this, Charlie. It’ll pass, they’ll get onto something else. I’m going to bed.”
“Where are your political instincts, girl? You don’t get what this is at all, do you?” She frowned at the television. “The sheriff is there, right?” Charlie said. “In CNN’s Los Angeles studios. He flew out this afternoon.” So? she thought. “So,” Charlie said, “if that ass is in L.A., who’s heading the search mission? Who is here in Oklahoma watching out for the interests of that kid?”
What he was getting at finally dawned on her. “That would be me,” she said.
“That would be you.”
“All right, I already told you I’ll go. On Friday I’m going.”
“Not Friday. Tonight. You’ve got to be down there first thing in the morning, before that idiot sheriff gets back.”
“I’ve got to be in session tomorrow! I’ve got my Appropriations Committee meeting at nine!”
“I cleared everything with Coughlin. The press conference is set for nine thirty.” He snapped his laptop shut, unplugged the cord, started rolling it up. “You’re going to hold it at the family farm, right in front of the barn where that fool is always blathering. It’ll be the perfect contrast, you with your sincere concern for the little lost boy, the sheriff off gallivanting in California.”
“But we’re on the same side!”
“Not when he keeps making such a goddamn mess of things. Go pack. We won’t have time to do much prep in McAlester. The aquamarine suit, I think. No, wait. Levis. Pack a pair of good-looking Levis, not too tight. And your brown suede jacket. We want it to look like you’re down there ready to go to work trying to find that kid.”
“What, you expect me to go traipsing around the goddamn woods?”
“Jesus, Monica. It’s about image. You know that. What’s the matter with you?”
Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | Morning
Near the Gloss Mountains | Northwestern Oklahoma
The morning is cold, but Luis is sweating as he pumps the bicycle pedals, standing. His legs are strong now. The first day on the bicycle his legs hurt very much, and the second day. Now they feel strong. But the boy grows more weak. Luis can hear the small thin coughs behind his shoulder; he can feel the seams of his coat pulled backward as the boy clutches the coat with his good hand. It is necessary for the boy to rest soon, Luis thinks, pumping hard. He must eat something, drink water. He needs to be warm. Panting, Luis peers ahead. In the distance the long, flat-topped hills slice the land north to south. He has been pedaling toward that shape many hours. Strange to think how important the bicycle has become, how necessary. Luis could not have dreamed this when he first saw the boy riding toward him on the gravel road . . .
From inside the barn, all that day, Luis had kept watch. He had imagined the boy walking to bring him the map. But the hour grew late and Luis began to believe the boy would not come. Then the boy came, guiding the bicycle along the gravel road with one hand. The boy stopped in front of the barn, laid the bicycle on its side, took off the black backpack. From the pack he withdrew supplies of food, a jar of coins, the map. He showed these things to Luis, placing them one by one on the straw-strewn dirt of the barnyard. He shook open the map with one hand, laid it on the ground also, pointed to the lower right corner. We are here, he said. He pointed to the top left corner. Gai-mon here. Is very . . . He started to open his arms wide to show distance, but at once he grimaced, pulled his left arm to his chest, supported it with his other hand. Luis understood then that the arm was hurt. My sister lives here, in Tulsa, the boy said, and with his elbow he pointed to a yellow square on the upper right side of the map. Is not so . . . The boy frowned.
¿Far? Luis said.
Far, yes. My sister is able to help. I study this. All the night I think this. She is able to know many mexicans, because her . . . man is mexican. He is . . . The boy narrowed his eyes, looking to the side, thinking. He shook his head finally to show he did not know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he started walking away across the barnyard to the house.
¿Where are you going?
¡A moment! the boy called back.
Luis reached for the map to refold it. He had prepared the blue truck of the grandfather already, poured in a little oil, added water to the radiator, left it hidden in the place where he had covered it with branches after the grandfather and the others were taken. An old truck, yes, but the indicator showed a good amount of gasoline. His sons would return the truck later: they would know a person to drive it here from the Guymon town, they would pay money to the grandfather, and also leave plenty gasoline in the tank. He would explain all these things to the boy. Luis replaced the food packages and cans and little boxes inside the black backpack, laid the map on top, zipped the zipper closed. The jar of coins he left sitting on the ground. He was glad for the food, although he had not asked for it, but he did not want to take the silver and brown coins belonging to the boy.
¡Please to help me, mister!
Luis looked up to see the boy on the back porch in a thin wine-colored jacket and dark blue cap like the baseball players wear. In his right hand was the yellow dictionary. His other hand, the left one, the boy held to his chest. ¡Come here, please! the boy called. Luis walked stiffly across the yard. Inside the house, on the kitchen floor, was a sleeping bag with pictures of the crawling red-and-blue man, the same blank-eyed spider man pictured on the backpack the boy had carried food in for Luis the night before. Luis picked up the sleeping bag. The boy motioned him to the hall closet, pointed to another sleeping bag high on the shelf, a dark green one. Luis frowned. Is necessary, the boy said. The house of my sister is very small. Luis did not know why the boy said this, but he stood high on his toes and pulled down the green sleeping bag, hoisted one bag under each arm. The boy ran to the small table beside the front door for the little flashlight and put it in his pocket. ¡We go quickly! the boy said. My aunt comes soon, I think.
Outside, the boy unzipped the black backpack and placed the dictionary and the jar of coins inside—this was not the worn red backpack with the crawling man, which was still inside the barn, but the clean black new one with cartoon drawings of automobiles on the sides. The boy talked very rapidly in english; sometimes he included spanish words: my sister, my grandfather, your sons. He turned and whistled in the direction of the fenced pasture. I, he said, and patted his chest. You. He pointed to Luis. We the two. And also the mare. He made the gesture of holding reins, pointed to the pasture where the red mare stood grazing in the distance. For the house of my sister. ¿Understand? With his bruised eyes the boy looked up at Luis. He lifted his hand to brush his hair aside, and immediately made a face of pain, lowered his arm. ¿Who has hurt you? Luis asked, but the boy shook his head, looked to the gravel road again. We go now, the boy said. In this moment.
But of course, Luis thought. They would travel together to the house of the sister whose man is
mexican. Luis would be able to speak with him in spanish, ask the important questions, discover the best way to go to his sons. Also, of equal importance: he would be able to leave the boy in a place where they would not bruise his face, or hurt his arm. Good, he said. The boy at once turned to whistle for the mare. No, Luis said. She is not necessary.
Then he took the boy with him behind the large smoke-smelling shed and began to uncover the brush and tree branches he had used to hide the blue truck. The boy seemed confused at first, and then very happy. ¡You! he said. Many times he said this. ¡All the time it is you! And he laughed a little, shaking his head. He seemed to think this was a very funny joke. ¡We go quickly! He ran to the passenger door and opened it, but then he released a yip of pain as he reached to climb up. ¿Can I help you? Luis said, but the boy shook his head. No problem. We go. In the barnyard Luis stopped the truck, motioned the boy to stay seated as he got out to put the black backpack and the two sleeping bags in the back. After a moment he lifted the bicycle also and laid it in the truck bed. The boy protested when Luis climbed again into the truck. ¡Is not of mine! he said. But Luis told him this was necessary, not to leave behind the bicycle, and the boy said, squinting ahead along the gravel road, Okay, okay. ¡We go now!
Now, on this cold morning, Luis is the person who peers ahead along the road—not pale gravel, this one, but a smooth blue-black ribbon. The sky is thick gray, so thick he cannot see the sun. The land on both sides, all around, is flat and barren. It is a long time now since they have seen a house or a building, maybe one hour since the last vehicle passed. The coughs of the boy are coming more frequent, thin and dry, like the thin air in this flat land. Oh, why do the tabled hills never seem to draw nearer! Luis treads the pedals more fiercely. The sleeping bags strapped to the handlebars make steering difficult. The boy, sitting on the bicycle seat behind him, pulls hard on the back of his coat.
When they reach the shelter of the hills, Luis tells himself, then he will stop for the boy to rest, to warm himself inside the sleeping bag, to eat something, drink a little water. If only the truck had not failed them! But no, Luis reminds himself. He will not regret. He will not doubt. How many days have they traveled on the bicycle? Four. No, five. Luis counts back in his mind. One night driving in the truck and one day waiting for the sister in Tulsa, and then driving again one more night toward the Guymon town, until, as the dawn came, the truck began to shudder and thump and boil clouds of steam. So yes, it is five mornings ago now that Luis put the boy in the driving seat to steer with his good hand and Luis pushed from behind so that the truck would slide off the dirt road into the arroyo. Then he strapped the sleeping bags to the bicycle handlebars, helped the boy to put on the black backpack, and they rode away in the early morning light, leaving the old truck with its clouds of steam pouring, the last of the lime-green water trickling from the radiator hole.
The truck failed them, yes, but Our Lady has not failed them. This is what Luis reminds himself, pedaling, his breath hot and harsh in his chest. Our Lady has accompanied them all the journey, from that first afternoon in the yard of the old grandfather when Luis was thinking only that if the aunt should come, as the boy said, and find the bicycle, she would begin to search for the boy; she would maybe find evidence of Luis inside the barn, she would maybe telephone the police to watch the highways, because of the missing truck. It was not possible for Luis to understand then that he and the boy would need the bicycle in the future, and yet he brought it. A little miracle, he thinks now, standing up on the pedals, pumping hard, watching toward the horizon. A tiny marvel. The first one.
Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | 5:15 P.M.
Baptist parsonage | Cedar
There was nowhere else to turn. She couldn’t think of anyplace. Anybody. Sweet tapped on the parsonage storm door. She waited, listened, snapped closed her jean jacket against the cold. After five o’clock on a wintry Tuesday evening, it was almost full dark, the temp dropping toward freezing. Behind her the street was empty, the Senior Citizens cooks and Heartland Home Health workers gone home now. No news vans. No reporters. She pulled open the storm door, knocked on the wooden inside door. It was obvious nobody was home, but she couldn’t make herself give it up. She had to get those kids out of that coal mine—tonight. She pounded on the wood. Where was Vicki anyway? The preacher’s wife was almost always here. Sweet rattled the metal storm door, let it fall to. She glanced at the empty church porch next door. Maybe Brother Oren was over there in the Pastor’s Study.
She came down off the concrete steps and started around the house toward the Fellowship Hall entrance. That’s when she saw the preacher sitting inside his old Toyota inside the dim, cold carport. Well, not so much sitting as lying—leaned back almost prone in the reclined seat, his pale, thinning hair mussed, his eyes closed. Was he sleeping? Or praying. Or, God help us, the way things had been falling apart lately—was Brother Oren maybe laying there in the driver’s seat dead?
The preacher reached up with one hand, eyes closed, and scratched his nose. Thank you, Lord. Sweet let go of the breath she’d been holding. She rapped on the car window. Brother Oren jumped like a rabbit. He closed his eyelids a second, opened them, blinked at Sweet; then he popped the seat forward, cranked down the window. “Evening,” he said, like it wasn’t strange, him sitting outside in the dark car.
“I need to talk to you,” Sweet said.
“You sure startled me.” His voice got excited: “There’s news about Dustin?”
Sweet shook her head. “Reckon we could go inside a minute? It’s cold.”
“Vicki and the boys are at her mother’s. I just got back from running them over to Stigler.” No further explanation needed. A preacher couldn’t invite a woman inside his house if his wife wasn’t present. A smart one wouldn’t even counsel a female member in the Pastor’s Study unless there were other church members around and he kept the door open. “Let’s go in Fellowship Hall,” Sweet said, and left the carport, hurried along the angled sidewalk toward the glass doors leading to the prefab addition attached to the side of the old church. She stood shivering on the dark walkway while the preacher got his keys and came on. The warm blast of central heat made up for the ugly fluorescent glare when Brother Oren flipped on the lights. Sweet crossed to the long table nearest the kitchen counter and sat. Then she got up and went into the brightly lit kitchen and started making coffee. The lowest nick on the inside of the forty-eight-cup urn said twelve cups, so that’s what she made. The preacher stood on the other side of the counter looking baffled, and awkward, and worn out.
How to start? Sweet asked herself. How to start. She clamped the lid on the coffeemaker, plugged it in, and remained facing the outlet, her back to the preacher. The lights buzzed overhead, the kitchen sink dripped a slow quiet plink. After a moment the coffeemaker began its low burble. Sweet turned around, crossed her arms, rested her tailbone against the kitchen counter. “I need your help,” she said. Hisss, gurgle, glub went the coffeemaker. The preacher’s bland hazel eyes asked her to please not ask anything more from him, but Sweet opened her mouth, and the words poured.
The story was all jumbled, out of order, not even half explained—those kids had to come out of there tonight, she said, there was freezing rain in the forecast and the creek was probably down by now which was good but that made it worse really because that made it more likely somebody might go out there where she’d had to hide them because Misty Dawn showed up in the middle of the night with her husband who got deported last fall and maybe Tee had turned him in too like he’d turned in Sweet’s daddy, which was only part of it really, and she’d been meaning to talk to the preacher about that because she knew divorce did not really go with Baptist doctrine but ther
e were plenty of divorced Baptists, all you had to do was look around, only she just hadn’t had time to make an appointment but she was going to do that just as soon as this mess was finished and the truth of the matter was she’d like to wring that khaki-headed woman’s neck she really would but the biggest problem was the ice storm headed this way those kids couldn’t just stay out there in it but they couldn’t stay at her house her yard was also crawling with reporters—and the whole time she was rattling on, Sweet watched the preacher’s young-old face to see if she was making sense. She must have been, she decided, because Brother Oren sat down at the nearest table and buried his face in his hands.
A minute passed. Two. The coffee machine burped behind her, went silent. A click told her the red light had come on. Still the preacher sat motionless with his hands covering his face. Quietly, as if not to wake him, Sweet opened an overhead cupboard and got down two stumpy white mugs and set one under the black spigot, flipped the handle forward. She poured both mugs full, came out from behind the counter, set one in front of the preacher, seated herself on the opposite side of the table and a couple of chairs down.
When Brother Oren finally uncovered his face, he looked at his watch. Then he pulled the mug toward himself, sat with both hands wrapped around it. “Which woman is that?” he said quietly.
“What? Oh, that carpetbagger from McAlester. That Monica Moorehouse.”
The preacher looked confused at first, then relieved. “Ohhh. Right,” he said. Uh-huh, Sweet thought. The preacher had been at the farm this morning; he’d seen how she acted. Brother Oren stared down at his coffee, nodding. “I’m sorry. I thought you meant Terry was . . . Well, that’s good. Okay.” He blinked, rubbed his palms up and down over his face. “I’m not sure I got this all straight. Whose baby are we talking about?”