Kind of Kin

by Rilla Askew

  Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | Night

  In the Gloss Mountains

  Each night since that first night the moon has swelled a little more big. Tonight, looking up, Luis considers that she is almost half. She makes good light in this dark place. He can see the sloping ground nearby, the two low feet of the hillside like two sheltering arms. He looks again at the face of the sleeping boy, wet with sweat, frowning. Now, in his heart, Luis is afraid only. No peace accompanies his fear. He must pray. To pray is difficult when a man feels abandoned, but Luis repeats the words. Sometimes just the rhythm of praying. . .

  OurFatherInTheHeaven

  SanctifiedIsYourNameYourKingdomCome

  YourWillBeDoneOnTheEarthAsInTheHeaven . . .

  He has been too long without the sacraments. It is like an ache in him, how long the time has been. He last attended mass the morning he left Arroyo Seco, so now it is almost three weeks since he received communion. Perhaps this is why he cannot feel the presence of Our Lady here in this dark place. He cannot envision her image anymore. But how could he have attended mass here in the North? And where? Who would hear his confession, offer penance, absolution, place upon his tongue the sanctified host? Forgive me, Father, I have sinned. After he takes the boy to a doctor, if the authorities do not arrest him, he will find a church. He will go to confession. He tries to remember his sins. Theft, yes, he will confess that, make the penance, because the abandoned truck cannot be returned. And when did he swear by the holy names, lose his faith, lose his patience? Maybe he did a wrong thing, to come with the boy. Or to bring the boy with him. Which is the truth? Which way did it go? Him bringing the boy? The boy bringing him? Luis tries to remember. They seemed to decide to go together. They seemed to both hold the same hope.

  When did this happen? At the white jail? Luis had not wanted to go there; he was afraid to be seen by the police, the officials, but the boy could not be persuaded, and so, very late in the night, Luis started the truck beside the cemetery and drove as the boy instructed, bumping along the dirt road until they arrived at a medium-sized town, not so big as Arroyo Seco, with dark sleeping houses and one street of stores, all closed. He stopped on a dark side street where the boy showed him. In the distance he could see the white building—not a prison, as the boy had called it, but a small jail in a not-so-big town, illuminated in the night, with a steel fence around the back and razor wire along the top. ¿How will you see your grandfather? Luis asked. The boy used his good hand to make the shape of a square in the air of the dark truck, then cupped his palm around his mouth as if speaking a secret. ¿A window? Luis said. The boy nodded. Without a word he opened the truck door and jumped down.

  Luis watched the boy walk along the fence, disappear around the corner of the building. He was gone from sight for many minutes, then his small figure appeared at the first corner of the fence, and again he walked along it, disappeared around the corner of the white building once more. Luis did not count how many times the boy did this, maybe five or six. The light was very strong all around the building, shining down from tall poles on every side. The boy was taking too long! Someone might see him. Very quietly Luis got out of the truck and crossed the road to the steel fence. When the boy rounded the corner, Luis stopped him, making a gesture to ask the boy to be careful. The boy was crying. With a hurt wrist and bruised face, the boy did not cry. With cold and thirst, the boy did not cry. Now, however, there were choking sobs in his breath. I cannot speak to my grandfather, the boy whispered. Please to help me, mister.

  Walking rapidly, looking toward the bright parking area, the shadowed street behind them, Luis accompanied the boy around the jail. But in all the square building there were no windows of any good size to let in light and air, only small blocks of thick glass in a few places, sealed inside the concrete walls. Like a cave it must be. Like a tomb. He touched the shoulder of the boy to pause him. They were beside the fence again. I dont see how you will speak to your grandfather, my son, Luis said. I think we must make a new plan. The boy lifted his head.

  Now, as he keeps watch under the glittering stars and sinking moon, Luis remembers the mysterious thing that happened in that moment, the first night of their journey, beneath the arcing lights outside the white jail. He had called the boy my son. At once the boy lifted his face, looked up steadily at Luis. Then the same trust that Luis had placed in the boy already—trust that was necessary, although he had scarcely known he had given it, because the boy spoke a little spanish but knew all the english, because the boy had brought food to him, and a map, and a jar of coins—that same trust seemed to turn and return, like a boomerang, whirling in the air from the boy back to Luis again.

  Yes, okay, the boy said, no longer crying. Plan. Is the same word, in the spanish and english. A new plan. He waited then, looking up at Luis, his face calm, expectant, beneath the dark brim of his cap. Come, Luis said, and he and the boy walked rapidly across the road to the truck.

  Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | 7:30 P.M.

  Brown’s farm | Cedar

  Sweet scrambled sideways down the bank, using her frozen muddy hands to help, squeezed past the Taurus turning white now with sleet. On the bridge the ice was really starting to build. Her boots were impossible. Why hadn’t she thought to change to sneakers when she heard the weather report? It’s not like she didn’t know that the absolute worst thing to wear in this weather is cowboy boots. She made her way across in the middle of the bridge, very slowly, very carefully, crouching a little so that if she fell she wouldn’t hit the ground with too much force. The main thing was to not go sliding off into the creek. The cruiser was stopped at the top of the track with its front end tipped down enough that the headlights helped her see. They also showed her looking like a fool no doubt, scrabbling across with her arms out and her hair plastered to her head and muddy smears from one end to the other. The quick-flashing red and blue lights turned the ice a brilliant violet color, made her sick to her stomach, a little dizzy.

  The lawman was standing outside the car when she got to the top of the bank—a big hulking deputy with linebacker shoulders hunched up to his ears against the sleet. He’d left the cruiser’s door partway open so that the interior light showed another guy in the front seat. The deputy held the rear door open, Sweet scrabbled into the car, and the deputy got in the front and slammed the door against the cold. He reached up to click the dome light back on. She recognized him then as the deputy who’d escorted her daddy away from the break room last—God, how long ago was that? A week? A lifetime. “Man,” she said, trying to catch her breath, “am I glad to see you.”

  “What’re you doing out here, ma’am?” He was too big to turn easily in the seat, so he was looking at her in the rearview. The radio squawked and stuttered with distant voices; she couldn’t make out what they were saying. The other fellow wasn’t a cop, or anyway he wasn’t wearing a uniform but a bulky plaid insulated jacket and a hunter’s cap. He did turn around to look at her. He had squinty eyes and a big mustache. “What was all that shooting?” he said.

  “Well,” she panted. “You’re not going to believe this—hold on.” She held up her open palm. “Let me catch my breath.” She could feel them looking at each other while she gasped loudly, stalling for time. “Well,” she said again, “My, uh, cousins were out searching, you know, and I, I came out to tell them the weather report and I got my car stuck. Then we thought we saw something. I mean we did. See something. A . . . a . . . well, we think it was a bobcat. My cousin tried to shoot it but we think he probably missed.”

  “You sure got yourself in a mess.” The deputy gestured across to where the cr
uiser’s lights showed the whitening trunk and tail fender of Sweet’s poor Taurus. She felt a kind of sadness toward it, like it was a very old dying pet.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Reckon you could call us a tow? I’d just leave her there till this weather’s finished but I got to get my cousins back to the house.”

  “Motion ’em to come on. We’ll drive y’all into town.”

  “Well, no, my cousin, he’s got to get to work, he needs his truck.”

  “Where’s he work at?”

  “Tulsa. I mean, Muskogee. Well, just, you know, one place and the other. Construction.”

  “Ain’t nobody driving to Tulsa or Muskogee either one in this weather, ma’am.”

  “No, I know, we just want to get it out and be ready for him to leave in the morning when the roads clear.”

  The deputy grunted. The ice crystals in his brown crew cut had melted to water droplets now. “I imagine they’re pretty busy, what with roads like they are.” Nevertheless he picked up the radio mouthpiece and made the call. The man with the mustache kept glancing back at her, his frowning face sort of a cross between skepticism and concern.

  Sweet said, “You suppose you could turn off the red lights? They kind of give me a headache.” The deputy reached over and switched them off. At once the flashing, violet tension bled away. The car seemed quiet, though the motor was running and the radio was still spitting its muffled squawks. Sweet pondered the rolls of fat at the back of the deputy’s neck, how they showed through his crew cut, swelled over his jacket collar. Carl Albert had little rolls like that starting. She’d suggested to Terry that maybe they could let him grow his hair out, not keep it buzzed so short, but Tee wanted it short like that, even though he kept his own hair as long and scraggly as he liked. She could feel the pain in her solar plexus starting. “All right, thanks,” she said and reached for the door handle—which was nonexistent. She patted all along the inside door panel. “Uh, could you let me out? I’ll just go tell them yonder what’s going on.”

  “It’s awful cold out, ma’am,” the deputy said. Like she didn’t know. He hoisted himself out of the front seat, opened Sweet’s door. “Bring ’em on over here, why don’t you. We might as well all go back to the house where it’s warm. It’s liable to be a while.”

  “Okie-doke.” She had no such intention. “Thanks so much.” She gave a little backhanded wave as she started the slip-slide scramble back down toward the bridge. The crossing seemed easier without the strobe lights, but when she climbed back into the cab she was both wetter and colder. Juanito had turned off the motor. They were almost out of gas, Misty said. Sweet told them about the tow coming, said not to worry, the deputy didn’t have any idea who was here in this truck; they just had to wait till the Taurus got pulled out of the way, then Juanito could drive straight on out. “Y’all keep going, no matter what happens. If that deputy tries to flag you down, just drive on. When you get to the blacktop, turn right. Don’t go back to town, Misty. Hear me? Just keep going to the next section line road and pull off the blacktop and wait for me there. I’ll take care of the tow operator and come on as quick as I can.”

  “And then what?”

  Sweet shut her eyes. “Then we figure out the next step,” she said, entirely uselessly, but it seemed to satisfy Misty, who rattled off to her husband what they’d be doing next. He leaned forward to see around Misty Dawn and the baby. “Thank you,” he said.

  Sweet nodded. “You’re welcome.”

  The wait was long. The baby was bored and fretful, and it was so cold. The more Sweet rested from her exertion, the colder she got. Her teeth were chattering, her jaw trembling. It didn’t do any good to wrap her arms around herself, her jacket was soaked through. After what felt like hours but was probably more like twenty or thirty minutes, the cruiser’s headlights came back on. Worse, the red and blue lights started flashing again. Uh-oh, Sweet thought. That deputy’s mad I didn’t come back. He’s going to come over here to find out why not. She knew she’d better get out and head him off—but oh, oh, how she dreaded going back out in that freezing rain! Then another set of headlights sawed through the trees, came rolling up behind the cruiser. Oh, thank God. Of course. The tow truck. That’s why the deputy had put his lights on—to flag down the driver. Well, with the tow here, she had to go. “Okay, what’s the plan?” she asked Misty Dawn through clenched, chattering teeth.

  “Soon as your car’s out, we go across and keep going, no matter what, turn right at the blacktop and wait for you.”

  “At the next section line.”

  “Uh-huh,” Misty said.

  Sweet ached in every part of her being as she climbed down and started back across the bridge. It’s almost over, almost over, almost over, she promised herself with each sliding step. Where were the yellow emergency lights on the tow truck? She couldn’t see past the flashing red and blue ones. She climbed the far bank using her hands, squeezed past the cruiser, squinting, shielding her eyes with her hand till she was past the lights and could see the deputy’s big outline, leaning down to talk in the window of the preacher’s little tan Toyota. Sweet’s fatigue zipped right out through the top of her head. No! she screamed in silence to Brother Oren: Don’t tell him! She ran toward them, slipping, calling out, “Hey, hey, hey! Hello!” The deputy stood up from the window, flattening his hand over his head, like that was going to protect him from the sleety rain. Sweet went as fast as she could to the passenger side of the Toyota and got in. “Thanks for coming, Brother Oren! We’re good, Deputy!” she shouted across at the open window. “We’ll take it from here!”

  “I was just telling the preacher—the dispatcher called and said it might be three or four hours yet. There’s folks off the road clear to Hartshorne, she said it’s real bad in Wilburton. Matter of fact, I got to get back. Sheriff called us in, said there’s too many wrecks for just the town officers to work.”

  “No problem!” Sweet chirped. “Really. I appreciate everything you’ve done. We’ll just, uh, Brother Oren can drive me into town.”

  “What about your cousins?”

  “Oh, they’re good. I mean, well.” She looked at the preacher.

  “I came out to help, Darrel. We’ll be fine.”

  The deputy leaned in. “How’d you hear about Miz Kirkendall getting stuck?” Sweet couldn’t see his expression. Was he suspicious?

  “Well . . .” the preacher started.

  “Claudie Ott’s police scanner!” Sweet finished for him. “Isn’t that right? We’ll just back up and let y’all out.”

  “This sure ain’t the best kind of car to be driving on ice in,” the deputy said.

  “It’s got front-wheel drive,” the preacher said. “We’ll be all right.”

  “Thank you, Deputy,” Sweet said. “Really. Thank you so much.” The preacher rolled up his window, braced his arm on her seatback as he put the car in reverse. All through the exchange of positions, while the deputy backed past them, with the mustached hunter in the passenger seat pressing his face to the window to try to see out, and then while the cruiser slowly turned around and started across the pasture, Sweet was afraid to speak. Brother Oren edged his car forward to the top of the slope. “Better stop here,” she whispered. The preacher’s headlights showed up her mired Taurus extremely well. “I got stuck,” she said pointlessly.

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re over yonder.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sitting in Juanito’s truck.” The preacher was silent. “What should I tell them?” She heard him take in a long shaky breath, but his voice was real calm when he answered.

  “Maybe I’d better come with you. Y’all might need somebody to carry the little girl.”

  Tuesday | February 26, 2008 | Night

  In the Gloss Mountains

  The boy talks aloud in his fever, asking questions, but Luis does not understand the english words
. It is well, my son, Luis answers. It is well. Sometimes the boy thrashes about on the cold earth, coughing, pushing down the damp sleeping bag. Sometimes he moves his hurt arm and cries out. Sometimes he grows alarmingly still. Luis repeats the Our Father, the Hail Mary, the Glory Be, the Our Father again; many times over he prays while he bathes the forehead of the boy to make him cooler, or tugs the sleeping bag around his throat to keep him warm. Luis remembers how, when they drove away from the town with the white jail, the boy was completely silent as if he waited for something, or listened. But there was no sound except the loud grumble of the truck motor. Luis, too, said no words. Neither were there any lights of houses, only the black asphalt highway winding before them—a mountain road, similar to the roads near Arroyo Seco, but not so steep and winding, and the dark slopes of hills on both sides were only a little high. After a long time Luis said over the loud motor, When we arrive to the house of your sister, we will ask her to telephone to your grandfather to say you are well.

  The boy did not answer. Luis remembers how he glanced at the boy then, but the truck was dark and he could see nothing except that the boy was still holding his wrist. The road began to descend, going down out of the hills, and soon they arrived at an intersection where it was necessary to turn to the right or the left. Luis waited for the boy to tell him, but the boy leaned down and fumbled inside the backpack on the floorboard. He withdrew the map and the small flashlight, held them out to Luis. I dont know the good streets to go. With the narrow beam Luis studied the map. The boy pointed to the town where the jail was, this road going north that they were on. But now they must choose which way to turn. Luis tried to ask if the big roads would be safer from the migra or the small ones, but the boy did not know, or perhaps he did not understand what Luis was asking. Looking at the map, Luis decided to turn left.