Echoes of a Distant Summer

by Guy Johnson

  Elizabeth shifted her weight to one side, folded her arms, and said with a trace of impatience, “Go on! That’s what I’m interested in: the persona. I can see you. You’re not totally unpleasing to the eye. Provide all the personal detail that you dare.”

  Jackson was a bit cautious as he said, “Okay. I am a man who’s interested in the pursuit of excellence and doing what’s right. I attempt to avoid hurting people; sometimes through negligence, ignorance, or stupidity, I cause someone pain. If I do, I try to remedy it. I value niceness. I know some people think that’s weak, but they don’t understand how valuable niceness is. I believe in investing energy and time in our young people. Since I never had a normal family, I know the value of one.”

  “That’s confusing to me,” she said. “I’ve met several members of your family here today. They appear quite normal.”

  “Ah, they are masters of camouflage and deception. For short periods of time they may appear almost like regular humans, yet under the surface they constitute a major dysfunctional unit. I have often thought that my family should run a blood bank because we are so good at squeezing the blood out of everything we touch.”

  A frown flashed across her face and was replaced by a contemplative look. “That’s a grisly metaphor but it leads us back to your description. I take it that you don’t consider yourself a causal factor in this situation.”

  “It began long before I was born.” Jackson smiled sadly. “I’m just a spoke in this wheel of pain, trying to stand as straight as I can.” He gestured toward his grandmother, who was making her way slowly in his direction. “Here comes one of the primordial hubs from which we spring. Ask her why the wheel is bent.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head to the side as she looked at him and asked, “Are you always so morbid? Particularly with strange women?”

  “Only when they bring up the subject of my family. Anyway, I don’t know you well enough yet to classify you as strange,” Jackson replied quickly, then after a moment’s thought shrugged. “I might just be saying this because my family gives me terrible gas pains.”

  Serena stood patiently a few feet away, waiting to be recognized. Her magisterial presence could not be ignored.

  Jackson asked, “Did you want something, Grandmother?”

  “Yes, if you have a moment, I’d like you to walk me to my car.”

  “Surely, Grandmother,” Jackson answered with resignation.

  “I don’t believe I’ve met your young lady.”

  Jackson mumbled awkwardly, “She’s not my … uh. She’s a—”

  “We’ve met, Mrs. Tremain,” Elizabeth said, rescuing Jackson from the need to explain. “You were with your other grandson on the far side of the stage. I’m Elizabeth Carlson, Wayman’s godmother.”

  “You’re right, Miss Carlson. Please forgive me, but when you get to be my age, the mind gets a little fuzzy with facts. Do you mind if I steal my grandson briefly?”

  “No problem, Mrs. Tremain.” Elizabeth flashed her a quick smile. “I should go and find Wayman. It’s getting late.” Elizabeth stuck out her hand. “It was nice meeting you, Jackson Tremain.”

  Jackson shook her hand and spoke into her ear, filling his nose with the smell of her body and her perfume. He whispered, “I’d like to see you again.”

  Elizabeth smiled at him and said, “Good.” She turned and walked into the milling mass of people.

  Jackson was surprised at how fragile his grandmother had grown. She leaned on him steadily as they made their way across the plaza to her car. They were halfway across before any words were spoken.

  “Is it your intent to spend the rest of your life hating me?” His grandmother’s voice was raspy from exertion.

  “I don’t hate you, Grandmother, I just don’t love you.” For reasons that he never understood there were never any moments of laughter or gentleness shared between them.

  Serena Tremain paused for a moment and stared at her grandson. When she started walking again, she said, “Word games make poor answers to serious questions. If you don’t hate me, can we call a truce in the war between us?”

  “How can you call a truce when your ally has sworn to outflank me?”

  “I want peace! I have had two sons killed in the prime of life, watched my husband turn into a bloodthirsty killer, and had my dreams destroyed as I watched. I have paid dearly for my mistakes. Now, my time is growing short. I wish to set aside the hostilities and the anger. I wish to do what is best for what is left of my family. This is why I have come to ask you to represent the family’s interests. Don’t let your grandfather give the wealth that has been accumulated over the years to strangers. Our family has shed blood for all that he owns.”

  “Although you seemed to have developed manipulation to the level of an art, I won’t be your instrument,” Jackson said, shaking his head slowly. “I’m not old enough to set aside my memories and forget. I guess I’m not close enough to meeting my Maker, nor am I attempting to atone for a life of cruelty.”

  “Is that how you truly see me?”

  “I don’t pretend that I can truly see you. You image has always been distorted. The person that I see when I look at you may, in truth, be gone now. I say, who cares? The person you were is still alive and breathing to me.

  “Let’s be clear, I don’t want anything to do with my grandfather either. I don’t want his blood money and I don’t care who he gives it to. That’s final.”

  “If that is to be your final decision, let me warn you—”

  “Ah, the threat; the other shoe drops.” He shook his head as he helped his grandmother down the steps of the plaza. “This is what I have been waiting for. Your return to character.”

  “It is not me who threatens you,” his grandmother chided him. “It is the life that your grandfather lived that threatens us all. He has made many enemies and though none would dare to stand face-to-face with him in his youth, they crowd around like jackals and hyenas at the death of an old lion. They seek not only his death, but all the territory that he controlled as well.”

  “Let them have it! The old lion lived by the law of the jungle; it is only fitting that he should die by it.”

  “Hmm,” his grandmother said, stopping to stare at Jackson. “That is a coldhearted assessment. Your grandfather taught you well.”

  “I learned coldness from you, Grandmother. Grandfather taught me anger.”

  “Touché,” she said, suddenly looking older. She leaned heavily on Jackson as they continued down the stairs. “Suppose we take the metaphor further,” she posed in her raspy voice. “The jackals know that they can never truly possess all that the old lion controls without first eliminating his offspring. Even if you do not go down to Mexico, they will come for you and Franklin. And after you two are gone, they will come for the rest of us.”

  “Why should they? That doesn’t make sense. All they should care about is his business and his money. What more is there?”

  They were now standing beside his grandmother’s car. Her driver opened the door for her and assisted her in entering. “The answers lie in Mexico,” she said from the interior of the car and motioned for the door to be closed.

  Jackson felt a coldness seep into his heart that he had not felt in nearly twenty years. It was a feeling that he had known well in his youth. It was fear, and he could not force it back into the vault from which it sprang.

  “Congratulations, Rhasan,” he said to no one in particular as his grandmother’s car drove off. “What kind of world did we bring you into?”

  July 1954

  The air was thick with dust. It seemed to rise up and form shapes while floating on the warm gusts of air. Eight-year-old Jackson stood in the shadows of the bus depot, watching the hot afternoon sun desiccate everything in its path. His grandmother, dressed in black, stood silently a few feet away. They were waiting for his grandfather.

  Jackson was in a storm of confusion and pain. His father was in the grave barely three months, the victim of a violent
crime. Jackson’s whole world had exploded and imploded at the same time. He had no conception or words for the emotions that he was feeling. He was a frightened little boy, yet no one reached out to calm his fears or explain what was expected of him. He was left to struggle through his heartrending confusion by himself. Jackson kept brushing his face to keep what seemed to be millions of flies from landing on his eyes and mouth.

  His grandmother was luckier; she had a black veil which she had pulled tightly over her face before they left the house in San Francisco and had kept it down for the full duration of their trip. It was an unnecessary barrier, for she had always been a forbidding figure. He had no relationship with her. If his grandmother had smiled at him, he would have rushed to her side, but she did not even talk to him unless circumstances required it.

  Tecate was a smudge of a town ten miles south of the California–Mexico border. Most of the buildings were single-story wood-frame constructions. Other than the huge brewery on the edge of town, there may have been two buildings in the whole community which were three stories tall. Tecate lay nestled in the arms of two hills which opened to the eastward breeze. A film of red dust covered everything in sight. Up the street from the depot, there was a neon taco sign flashing in green and red over a small, dingy restaurant that had an old, dented pickup parked out front. Across the street, a small-time concessionaire sold chalupas from a wooden cart. Jackson was hungry but he didn’t dare say anything.

  Sweat dripped down his face. Even in the shadows of the depot, the heat was oppressive. It was worse inside, where the air was as still as a tomb and the flies sounded like jets zooming over a control tower. When they had first arrived, Jackson’s grandmother had parked her rented car and had attempted to wait inside the depot. However, after twenty minutes in the ovenlike atmosphere she had to abandon it for the porch. Since everything outside was covered with dust, she found no acceptable place to sit, so she chose to stand. Jackson quietly followed her example. A half hour passed without a word being exchanged. Eventually, Jackson sat down on his suitcase.

  There was no movement in the shimmering heat of the street, except for a couple of timid mongrels who paused hungrily for a few cautious sniffs. Another fifteen minutes passed and Jackson’s grandmother began to pace methodically back and forth. She was wearing high heels and the prolonged standing was beginning to hurt her feet. She looked at the rented car but realized that waiting in it in this heat would be unbearable. She continued to pace.

  Jackson did not remember when he first noticed that a man was standing in an alley down the street from the depot, staring at him. The man was dressed in a red shirt and jeans underneath a dirty serape. He wore a black, high-domed hat with a wide, flat brim and had a black-tipped white feather stuck in its band. The man started walking slowly toward the depot, casting glances both right and left. As he came closer, Jackson saw that the man had shoulder-length straight black hair, a brown face, and glinting black eyes. When he reached the stairs leading up to the depot, he stopped and said, “Hola, señora.”

  Jackson’s grandmother watched the man silently. She was not in the habit of talking to strangers.

  He said in halting English, “We have come for the boy.”

  “Where is King?” she asked evenly.

  “He no come, many enemies. Send me to get boy.”

  “If King didn’t come then we’ve wasted a trip down here. Tell King to arrange to come in person. Then he can have the boy.” His grandmother turned with an air of dismissal and said, “Come, Jackson.”

  The man mounted the steps quickly, stepping in between Jackson and his grandmother. “Boy stays!” he said emphatically.

  Jackson’s grandmother put her hand in her purse and answered in a calm, steady voice, “If you try to stop me, you’ll need a priest.”

  The man saw her hand grasp something in her purse. He raised his hand in a motion of surrender then pulled an envelope from his pocket and started toward her. “El Negro said to give you this.”

  His grandmother took two quick steps backward. “Put it down on the floor and step back.”

  The man placed the envelope on the floor and stepped respectfully backward.

  “Jackson!” his grandmother said in firm voice. “Bring that envelope to me.”

  Jackson did as he was told and then waited while his grandmother ripped open the envelope and read it contents. She crumpled the papers in an unusual show of anger. Through gritted teeth she asked, “It says there are two of you; where’s the other one?”

  The man gestured off into the distance with his hand. “With the truck.”

  She nodded her head as she registered this information. She took the keys to her rented car from her purse and said, “You tell King to bring him back to San Diego. I won’t cross the border again.” With that she turned and walked away. There was no word of good-bye. Jackson was left standing with a man he did not know.

  The man stepped out into the street and waved his hat over his head. A pickup truck which had been parked outside the dingy restaurant started up and came rolling toward them. Jackson realized that the truck had been there the whole time he and his grandmother had been waiting. Jackson’s bag was thrown in the back and he was ushered into the center seat.

  The man who was driving looked like a younger version of the man in the hat. He was handsome, in his early twenties, and his brown face had not yet become wrinkled and weathered like his older companion’s. The driver greeted Jackson with a smile, the first he had received since leaving San Francisco. The truck rocked back and forth as it was driven on the rutted dirt roads which led south on the Baja California peninsula. The two men carried on a sparse conversation in Spanish. Jackson sat in the middle and said nothing.

  They had been in the truck for about an hour when the driver broke out a canteen of water and had a drink. He offered the canteen to Jackson, who had not had anything to drink for a couple of hours. Jackson accepted the canteen and promptly drained half of it. He would have finished it had the older man in the hat not taken the canteen from him. After about three hours of steady driving, the truck abruptly pulled off the road.

  The sun was low in the western sky and there were long shadows cast across the land by the San Pedro Martir Mountains, which formed the backbone of the northern part of the Baja California landmass. The landscape was dotted with saguaro, stunted madrona, and sagebrush. The two men got out and urinated on the side of the road. Jackson reluctantly followed their lead. He didn’t know where he was and he didn’t want to stray too far away from the truck. The older man in the hat squatted beside the truck and rolled himself a cigarette. It was still warm but the heat had dissipated considerably. Jackson leaned against the truck and thought about hamburgers and fries. He had not eaten since the morning and now he was hungrier than he could ever remember.

  On the other side of the truck, the driver was chewing on some jerky. Jackson tried not to look but his hunger overcame his willpower. He unconsciously began to stare. The driver noticed him. He averted his eyes. The driver walked around the truck and offered him a big piece of the jerky. Jackson thanked him and grabbed the offered food. The dried meat was tough and chewy, but it made his tongue spring to life. Jackson finished the jerky so fast the driver laughed and called out in Spanish to the man in the hat. The man in the hat came over to the truck and asked Jackson, “You hungry?”

  The desire to eat overcame Jackson’s fears and self-restraint. He nodded his head vigorously. He could not remember ever going all day without eating. He had no real awareness that there were many places in the world where people routinely did not eat every day. All he knew was that the refrigerator was always stocked and he could help himself at any time. He watched the man in the hat go to the back of the truck and rummage through various bundles.

  The driver tapped his chest and said, “Carlos.” He tapped Jackson’s chest and made a questioning gesture.

  Jackson understood him and said, “Jackson.”

  Carlos po
inted to the man in the hat and said, “El Indio.”

  Jackson repeated Carlos’s and El Indio’s names and received a smile of approval from Carlos.

  El Indio gave Jackson a dried fish and a couple of tortillas. Jackson accepted it gingerly. He wasn’t used to eating food while its eyes stared at him. Seeing his bewilderment, El Indio cut the head off and showed him how to skin it. The fish and the tortillas were gone in minutes. As Jackson was loaded back into the truck, the two men laughed briefly about the boy’s appetite. Carlos even made a joke in Spanish about Jackson’s mouth being open as wide as a fledgling’s.

  Two and a half more hours in the truck and they drove into a small town lying on the edge of the Sea of Cortez. Jackson had fallen asleep on Carlos’s shoulder. He was shaken awake by Carlos, who watched him try to slough off the bonds of sleep by peering at everything with wide-eyed looks. The sun had set and there was just a band of purple above the dark outline of the mountain ridges to the west. The lights of the little town shimmered off the waters of the sea. El Indio parked the truck and several minutes were spent collecting Jackson’s suitcase and various bundles from the back of the truck and then the three of them walked down to the docks. The sound of music and the smell of grilled fish greeted them.

  There was a waterfront honky-tonk blaring Ray Charles songs out over the water. It was a one-story, white stucco building with a flickering yellow neon sign written in cursive that read Mary’s Bar. Next to the honky-tonk there was a small store that sold cigarettes, sodas, candy, and related items. Both buildings were part of a pier. In front of the store there was a man grilling fish. El Indio and Carlos spoke rapidly in Spanish, then El Indio took the bags from the truck and headed off into the night.