Sweet Nothing

by RICHARD LANGE

  SEVENTY YEARS OLD. Someone, some kid, taunts Brewer with this in a dream: “You’re seventy, man.” Brewer denies it, but it’s true. Born July 5, 1944, in Licking Springs, Missouri. Henry Brewer Jr., only son of Henry and Jan Brewer. Born at home because they couldn’t afford a hospital, and no money is also why they left Missouri soon afterward, staggering west.

  Dad loved movies—could quote the stars and sing the songs, could laugh or cry on cue—so Hollywood was the goal. It took ten years to get there, with stops in Tulsa and Houston, Denver and Phoenix, that place in New Mexico with the wasps’ nest, a dusty motel in Vegas. Dad sold cars to pay the bills, sold houses, sold hamburgers. The man could sell anything. He had the right smile, the right spirit. And Mom was his little helper, always there with an encouraging word and a hug, always ready to unpack when they hit town and load up again when it was time to move on.

  Brewer? Well, he figured out early on that he was just along for the ride, one more item to be checked off the list before they drove away: keys returned, car gassed up, boy in backseat. If he ever resented this, he can’t remember. These days, the past seems like a fuse that was lit the moment he was born, one that now burns faster than he can run.

  What he does know is that Hollywood didn’t work out and Dad never got any closer to the movies than buying a ticket every Saturday. But that was fine because Mom kept right on ironing his shirts and laughing at his jokes and rubbing his head when it hurt, saying, “Do that thing from Gunga Din again.” They were more in love than any couple Brewer has ever known, and they barely noticed when he joined the navy at eighteen and moved away for good.

  Out of spite he went the other way across the country: Phoenix and Dallas, Gulfport and Miami. He didn’t have Dad’s charm, so he had to get his hands dirty. He put in twelve-hour days in factories and on oil rigs, pounded nails and welded steel. And he didn’t have Mom to come home to either. There were women, sure, and men, but nothing that lasted. As soon as anyone opened up, he panicked. Their secrets and sadnesses were like a layer of grease on his skin, rank and suffocating. He always felt best driving away from the last place and toward the next one.

  He only brushed up against love once: New Orleans, 1969. A bartender named Charlie Wiggins. He’d have come off the road for that boy if such a thing were conceivable back then. They were friends, lovers, one soul in two bodies, flesh the only wall between them. Charlie liked Shakespeare too. They’d get drunk and read the plays together, the big death scenes—Romeo and Mercutio, Othello and Desdemona—and both end up weeping. An idyll like that can’t last, however. There’s a law somewhere. An icy road, a sudden curve, a tree—that’s how Charlie went.

  And then time flew. The men around Brewer married and had kids and grandkids. They Christmas-shopped and mowed lawns and cried at their daughters’ weddings. Brewer opens his eyes and stares at the wall of the trailer. Seventy years old. He was vain when he was younger, too proud of his strong arms, his handsome face, his thick cock. But all that’s gone now. Damn the quivering jowls and sagging belly, damn the muscles that ache for no reason. He was also proud of his solitude, how even in a crowded room he was still somehow so beautifully alone. And now? Well, he’s still alone, but now he’s lonely too, lonely like never before. So also damn the heart that can’t forget.

  Oh hell, he scolds himself. Get up, old woman. You fought for this life this morning, now get up and finish living it.

  PAPÁ RECALLS THE general direction of El Chango’s route, but the trail itself has been obliterated by the fire. Miguel follows the old man up one rocky hill, then another, then another. When they crest the third, Papá turns to look at where they’ve been, points to the first hill, and says, “That one. I’m sure of it now. We have to go back.”

  Frustrated protests boil up in Miguel’s throat, but he falls in behind his father without a word. He’ll drop dead before he complains again. He’s as tough as the old man, tougher even. Younger, stronger. He plods along in his father’s wake, his mind a hateful whirl. His feet hurt, and the dust makes him cough, but he’s determined to outlast the old man and laugh in his face when he finally stalls.

  They reach the top of the first hill again, almost an hour wasted. Papá crouches on top and squints at the smoking horizon in search of landmarks that have escaped the flames. Miguel is sure it’s hopeless. Everything around them has burned. After a minute or so, though, the old man stands and points out a notch in a ridge up ahead.

  “There,” he says.

  Bullshit; he’s lost. But Miguel follows him silently. They descend and walk toward the ridge. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The rhythmic crunch crunch of their footsteps is hypnotic, and Miguel has visions of Michelle naked and of all the shit he’s seen in pornos that he wants to do to her. He almost bumps into his father when the old man stops suddenly and raises his hand.

  Something big and black is lying on the ground in front of them, the burned carcass of an animal. Something horned and hooved. A shimmering blanket of flies peels away as they approach, revealing gory rents in the leathery flesh where other animals have already begun to feed. Miguel averts his eyes, and they make a wide detour around the remains.

  Miguel asks for a drink, and Papá hands him the last bottle of Coke. There’s barely any left.

  “Is that it?” Miguel says.

  Papá looks up at the sun, then down at his watch. “Another hour,” he says. “After that we’ll turn back.”

  A few minutes later, as they’re making their way across a plain dotted with thickets of charred chaparral, Papá stumbles and goes down hard. He pops to his feet quickly, ignoring Miguel’s outstretched hand, but grimaces and almost falls again as soon as he puts weight on his right ankle.

  Miguel helps him sit, then watches as he unlaces and removes his paint-spattered work boot. The ankle has already begun to swell, and when Miguel moves the foot, the old man endures it, but with gritted teeth.

  “Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath.

  Miguel stands and pulls his phone from his pocket. No signal.

  “I’m going up there,” he says, pointing at the ridge. “To call 911.”

  “No,” Papá says. “I’m fine.” He holds a deep breath and yanks the boot past his ankle. When it’s all laced up, he struggles to his feet. “Let’s go,” he says.

  Miguel can see that he’s in pain. Without a word he moves up beside his father and drapes the old man’s arm around his neck.

  “You’re taller than me,” Papá says, like he’s never noticed before.

  “Didn’t take much,” Miguel says.

  The old man looks ridiculous when he grins, ash all over his face, sweat dripping off his nose. Miguel pulls his arm tighter and starts toward the ridge, forcing him to work to keep up.

  The hot, dusty climb to the notch exhausts both of them. They rest on boulders when they get there, look down into the valley on the other side. The fire burned through here too—the ground is still smoking in places—but somehow a small patch of land was spared. A weathered trailer, an old truck, a couple of sheds, even a bit of green grass.

  Miguel is thirsty. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he’s light-headed. He reaches into the plastic bag for the Coke bottle.

  “I’m going for water,” he announces.

  “Wait,” Papá says. “Let me think.”

  “What’s there to think about?”

  The old man squints at Miguel, hesitant, then stands and holds out his hand.

  “I know what you’re up to,” he says. “You’re not leaving me out here for the vultures.”

  BREWER IS ABOUT to set out in search of Cassius when he spies some sort of fire-spawned beast hobbling and scraping down the road toward his place. Two heads, three legs, filthy clothes, bloodshot eyes festering in blackened faces. It’s a man and a boy, illegals who managed to escape the flames. The wets normally avoid Brewer’s property, sneak on to use his faucets now and then. If these two are coming up the driveway in broad daylight, the
y must be in trouble.

  Brewer picks up the machete he was using earlier to hack away burned brush. He feels a little safer with it in his hand.

  “Hola,” he calls out.

  The kid holds up an empty soda bottle. “Can we get some water?”

  Brewer points to a spigot with the machete, and the kid walks to the faucet, leaving the man he’s with to stand unsteadily on his own.

  “Speak English?” Brewer says.

  “I do,” the kid replies. He twists the handle on the faucet and holds the bottle under the stream of water that gushes out.

  “Picked a bad day to cross, didn’t you?” Brewer says.

  “Cross?” the kid says.

  “The border.”

  “We’re legal,” the kid says, irritated. “We’re looking for someone.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, the man is close to toppling over without the kid’s support. Brewer motions him to the picnic table. “Have a seat.”

  The man shakes his head. “Is okay,” he says.

  “Come on, take a break,” Brewer insists.

  The man limps to the table. He sits facing outward on the bench, bows his head, and rubs his eyes with his palms, exhausted. The kid finishes filling the bottle and brings it to him. The man drinks deeply, then hands the bottle back to the kid.

  “What happened to your foot?” Brewer asks the man.

  He starts to speak, but the kid talks over him. “He sprained his ankle. Can we have more water?”

  “Get as much as you want,” Brewer says. “How long you been looking for whoever you’re looking for?”

  “My cousins,” the kid says. “A few hours. The cops wouldn’t let us drive any farther.”

  The man scolds the kid in Spanish, tells him to keep his mouth shut. The kid snaps off a retort before crouching at the faucet again.

  “Your dad?” Brewer asks.

  The kid nods grudgingly.

  Brewer walks to the picnic table and holds out his hand. “Henry Brewer,” he says.

  “Armando Morales,” the man replies. They shake, and Brewer turns to the kid.

  “Henry Brewer,” he says again.

  “Miguel.”

  “Sorry I mistook you.”

  Miguel shrugs, doesn’t reply.

  Brewer scratches the silver stubble on his chin. Father and son way out here on some sort of rescue mission, searching for family. That kind of devotion makes you look back at your own record. He sits down with Armando at the table and asks where they’re headed, has Miguel translate. Armando is reluctant to say, mumbling something about a canyon that Miguel has to ask him to repeat twice before he can put it into English.

  “I know every canyon between here and Calexico,” Brewer says. “Maybe I can help you out.”

  Armando is interested but still wary, and Brewer understands why. A gringo like him asking questions must set off all kinds of alarms.

  SO SUDDENLY THIS Henry Brewer is all up in their business. Miguel’d like to tell him to fuck off, because he’s pretty sure Papá was about to admit defeat and head back to the truck a few minutes ago, but now the old man is all revved up again, showing Mr. Brewer the map and making Miguel repeat El Chango’s story of last night’s crossing.

  When Mr. Brewer goes into the trailer for a better map, Miguel reminds Papá what he said a while ago about one more hour. The old man lays into him, asks why he never thinks of anybody but himself. If that’s true, Miguel wants to say, why isn’t he home right now, hooking up with Michelle, instead of out here chasing ghosts around the desert?

  Mr. Brewer comes out carrying three beers. He sets one on the table in front of Papá and offers one to Miguel. Miguel takes it without asking the old man if it’s okay and walks over to look at a partially burned tree hanging over the trailer. Let the old man and Mr. Brewer see what kind of plan they can make without him translating.

  “The canyon I think you’re looking for is about two miles away,” Mr. Brewer says.

  “Okay,” the old man says. “We go.”

  “Yeah, but that ankle.”

  Papá stomps his foot twice. “We go.”

  Miguel picks up a singed leaf from the ground and crumples it between his fingers. Dude lives like a caveman out here. It’s hilarious. And this beer: fucking Natural Light, fucking welfare swill.

  “I’ll walk you there,” Mr. Brewer says to Papá.

  The old man is confused. He looks to Miguel for a translation.

  “He wants to come with us,” Miguel says.

  “I was going out to try to find my dog anyway,” Mr. Brewer says, pointing to a hiking pole and a knapsack containing a bottle of water and a windbreaker.

  Papá sips his beer, thinking it over. Miguel can tell he’s taken a liking to this fool and wants to believe that he knows what he’s talking about. He’s not surprised when, a few minutes later, the old man says, “Okay, but we go now.”

  Mr. Brewer disappears into the trailer again, then pokes his head out seconds later and calls for Miguel. “Take these to your dad,” he says, handing over a set of aluminum crutches.

  Miguel carries the crutches to the old man but holds them just out of his reach. “If this isn’t the right canyon, we give up and go home,” he says.

  “Fine,” Papá replies. “But you better show this man respect.”

  Ha, Miguel thinks. Old people are always talking about respect. They demand it from everybody but don’t give it to anyone.

  Papá tucks the crutches under his arms and takes a few tentative steps.

  BREWER HAS HIKED this whole area, followed every jeep road, tried every trail. He doesn’t play golf, doesn’t care for casinos, so walking is how he uses up his days, how he wears himself out and earns his evening whiskey. Sometimes he thinks he quit working too soon. He slept soundly when he was on a job, never once woke at three a.m. with a hundred pounds of sadness resting on his chest.

  He leads the way, calling for Cassius every so often, and Armando and the boy follow. Armando keeps a good pace on the crutches. The actual trail used by the coyotes zigzags through the hills and runs up and down brush-choked ravines, but since Brewer and the pair he’s guiding aren’t trying to avoid the authorities, they can walk the first mile on a good dirt road, to where the steep, rocky canyon Armando described climbs to the railroad tracks on the outskirts of Campo.

  Brewer checks over his shoulder often to make sure the man and boy are keeping up, and after fifteen minutes hollers back, “Still with me?”

  “Yes. Good,” Armando replies.

  The boy says nothing. He’s not happy about traipsing around the desert and can’t hide it. The disdainful looks he was giving his father back at the trailer would have led to blows between strangers. Brewer feels for the kid. When he was that age, Dad would tell one of his stolen jokes and Mom would laugh and Brewer would want to bite his tongue off. Their blood was like poison in his veins.

  He stops for a second to sip water and consult the map. The sun long ago reached its peak and is now sliding swiftly toward the horizon. Armando and the boy will have to hurry if they’re going to check the canyon and get out by dark.

  The Sharp brothers’ Jeep is blocking the road when they round a bend. Both men are outside the truck, Steve studying the burned landscape through a pair of binoculars, Matthew drinking a beer. Matthew spots them before Brewer can holler a greeting, and fear blanks his face. He draws his Glock and points it.

  “Halt!”

  “It’s just me,” Brewer says, waving his hiking pole over his head.

  “Who’s that with you?”

  “A couple of friends.”

  Steve’s pistol is out now too. The guns don’t frighten Brewer, but the men holding them make him nervous. He ambles toward them, a big smile on his face.

  “What is this, the OK Corral?” he says.

  “Levante tus manos,” Steve shouts at Armando and Miguel.

  “Come on now,” Brewer says, but the brothers ignore him. Steve orders Armando and Migu
el to lie on the ground, facedown, and father and son do as they’re told. Brewer reaches out to grab Matthew’s arm as he steps out from behind the Jeep and moves toward the prone figures.

  “You’re over the line,” Brewer says, but Matthew shakes off his hand and continues to advance, his gun swinging back and forth between Armando and Miguel. Brewer has to hold himself back from going after him, from ripping the Glock out of his hand and shoving it in his face to let him feel what it’s like to be on that end of it.

  Matthew bends over Armando and pats him down, then slides the man’s wallet from his back pocket and flips it open.

  “License and green card,” he announces. “Looks legit.” He fingers a bit of cash. “And something like twenty bucks.”

  “Leave it,” Steve barks.

  Miguel hands Matthew his ID. Matthew glances at it, then drops it into the dirt and walks back to Brewer and Steve. “I thought we might have a hostage situation,” he says to Brewer.

  “Is that so,” Brewer replies.

  “What are you all doing out here, with the fire and everything?”

  “None of your fucking business,” Brewer says. He turns to Armando and Miguel. “You can get up now.”

  The pair stand slowly, brushing dirt and ash off their clothes.

  “What’s got you sideways?” Steve says to Brewer.

  Brewer doesn’t answer. He motions to Armando and Miguel. “Let’s go.”

  “Border patrol woulda done the same,” Matthew says, holstering his gun.

  Brewer touches Armando and Miguel on their backs as they pass by, a signal to hurry. Armando’s crutches squeak rhythmically. He and the kid squeeze past the Jeep and keep walking. Brewer waits until they’re on their way before starting down the road himself.

  “Actually, you should be thanking us,” Steve calls after him.

  “Horseshit,” Brewer says without turning around.