“But that’s exactly the kind of person they’d use as a contractor.”
“Contractor?” The gringa’s tone grew loud, shrill. “You mean contract a killing?”
Evangelína pulled the receiver a foot away from her ear but could still hear the outburst. She had a hard time following, but she got the last sad part. She pressed the phone back to her ear and said, “Don’t hang yourself.”
“Okay, I won’t. Scout’s fucking honor. So let me ask you something else. Say I came by some money. A lot of money. Cash. I want to know if I can keep it.”
“More than ten thousand dollars?”
“Yeah.”
“You come by it legally?”
“Well,” Smith said, “I don’t know. Ray left it to me.”
“Is there a will?”
“If there is, I’m not in it, that I know of.”
“Well, if you go to deposit the money, a bank must file a Currency Transaction Report on anything over ten thousand.”
“Used car dealer was just telling me the same thing. It’s close to two hundred thousand.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“Any next-of-kin?”
“Does the fetus I’m carrying in my fucking belly count?”
“You’re pregnant?” When Smith didn’t respond, Evangelína cleared her voice, with difficulty, and said, “Legally, no. Not now. But children born after the death of a parent—probate law calls them after-born—are entitled to a share in their parent’s estate. But because all fetuses don’t come to full term, the right to inherit’s only realized after birth.”
“After-born, huh. Not sure this one’s gonna get born, least not in one piece.”
Evangelína got the sense that the gringa was trying to upset her.
“The daddy,” Smith added, “Early Bird, was Airborne.”
Again there was the crunching sound, as if the pregnant woman—contemplating abortion or suicide—was crushing chicharrones in her wet fist. It made Evangelína feel loco. She swallowed hard, hurt, then reminded herself she’d been warned about this: sensory triggers. The reminder calmed her enough that she could hear Smith say, “He’s got—had, fuck—a mother and a couple brothers.”
“Early Bird does.”
“Did. Ray.”
“They know about the money?”
“No.”
“I imagine it’d be hard to be excited, given the … well.”
“Excited about what?”
“Having a baby.”
“Come on.” A moment passed in stiff silence, and then the gringa said, “You still trying to have one?”
“How did—”
“You mentioned it, at the hospital. You and me had a real female bonding moment, very sisterly, at Vassar Brothers. I was there, you know, for your attack.”
They shared another silence broken by Smith launching into the story of the mauling and her role in saving Evangelína’s life. It didn’t feel like Smith was telling it for Evangelína’s benefit. The telling felt mean, but when it ended, Evangelína—hurt, unsettled—was grateful for the telling. A hole had been filled, partially, and Evangelína wanted to ask questions, but she hadn’t yet formed them.
Smith was saying: “I’m a bit bummed you don’t remember me as your Florence Nightingale. Thought my use of tampons was mighty clever TCCC. That’s tactical combat casualty care for you civvies.”
“I won’t ever need another tampon,” Evangelína said. “Can’t get pregnant either. Surgeries made sure of that. I’ve some eggs in deep freeze. Paying to store them, which I don’t think I can afford. Not covered by insurance. You wouldn’t want to buy an eight-acre plat overlooking the Pacific in southern Costa Rica? I’d give you a deal. Two hundred thousand?”
“Maybe. What’d you pay?”
“Thirty-five,” Evangelína admitted. “That was ten years ago. Bought it imagining an early retirement, that I’d build a house. Eased adoption laws down there. Saw myself taking care of my aging mother by the sea. What better place than a Spanish-speaking country with no army. That was the dream anyway. The reality’s poor old Mamí taking care of me. But you don’t want to hear mi cuento triste. That’s sob story for you gringas. The money, you mind paying taxes on it?”
“Taxes provided my way of life in the Army, way of life I’d take back in a second.”
Evangelína advised Smith that as long as she didn’t mind paying taxes, the government wouldn’t care. Found money, when declared, was taxed as income. Same as gambling earnings or a lottery win. On 200k, 33 percent was the federal rate. Plus state tax. “State of residence, not the state where you found the money. You’ll keep about sixty percent.”
“Still a lot of money.”
“Know what you’ll do with it?”
The crunching stopped; a scratching sound started, followed by a whining. “Need to go,” Smith said. “Other reason I called’s because I’ve some information you might be interested in. Information Ray came by. Don’t know what it means. Don’t know if I should take it for what it is or if there’s some other explanation. Makes me worry I never knew him. Makes me not want to have his baby. But that’s neither here. Where should I send it?”
* * *
In Kingston Smith pulls the Jeep into the Planned Parenthood lot. No protesters wave posters of butchered fetuses, and inside she spends the better part of the first day in a group waiting room, watching hour after hour of an infomercial for Xpress Redi-Set-Go, a kind of knockoff George Foreman Grill. She comes to think this kitchen appliance is a Planned Parenthood sponsor. Before she meets with a healthcare tech, she sits through a gruesome counseling session with a social worker, who starts by saying not to worry, abortions are very common. When Smith asks what’s common, she’s told that one in three American women have an abortion by age forty-five. This makes her feel worse. She’s told she has options, and notices the woman doesn’t say choices. When asked when she last had her period, she says they haven’t been regular, but the last one was early November maybe.
If she’s right, she’ll need an in-clinic procedure, and they don’t do them there.
When Smith asks about adoption, she’s told there are two kinds: open and closed. Open adoptions happen when the birth mother and adopting family have contact. She asks what if the adopting family’s a single woman, a lesbian, living with her mother.
Agency adoptions have more restrictions, but with an independent adoption, where she knows the person, whatever that person’s proclivities, everything’s handled through a lawyer. You should have your own lawyer to represent you and your interests, no matter how much you trust this woman and her mother. In an independent adoption, you can still receive counseling and guidance through a local adoption agency, if you want.
She’s told that during her pregnancy, she has the right to decide on adoption and, even after the baby’s born, to change her mind. If you choose adoption, you will have to sign official relinquishment papers after the baby’s born. “If you don’t sign, you can keep the baby with no repercussions. If you do sign, there’s no going back.”
Outside with Foxtrot, she makes herself a deal. She’ll call Evangelína. If the woman wants the baby, Smith will carry and deliver it for her. If she doesn’t, Smith will abort.
* * *
When Evangelína answered, Smith said, “You get my care package?”
“I did. Thank you. I owe you tremendously. I might owe you everything.”
“Don’t forget I also saved your life.”
“Yes, I do forget. Thank you for reminding me.”
“Want to pay me back?”
“How?”
“Take this baby. Because if you don’t want it, I’m gonna get rid of it.”
“Where are you?”
“Depressing motel in the Catskills.”
“How far along are you?”
“Twenty weeks.”
“Ay ay. Hold on. Give me a second. Lot has happened since we talked last. If I say yes, what
will you do?”
“Part of me wants to reenlist. Be much easier if you took this baby off my hands. I helped you, now you help me.”
“When’s the latest you can have the…?”
“Abortion, you can say it. Got four weeks to decide, but I can’t wait that long.”
Trembling, Evangelína tried to conduct herself the way she would during a business deal, hopeful but noncommittal, wanting to believe. “Tell you what,” she said, “you think about it for a week or two. Try to imagine delivering a little boy or girl—”
“Got a feeling it’s a girl.”
“You getting morning sick?”
“Morning, noon, and night.”
“Mamí says bad morning sickness is sure sign of a girl. Imagine delivering a little girl, getting a look at her, and then saying goodbye. If in a week or so, you think you can go through with it, you call me. I’m interested, very. Give me a call either way.”
After filling her prescription for prenatal vitamins and opening a checking account, Smith signs a two-year contract with a cell-phone carrier that comes with a slick-glass smartphone. She’s reentering society, and it makes her anxious. On her phone, she types in a Google search while sitting in the AT&T store—travis wallace devils elbow—and the top hits are newswire sites all running the same story:
The Strip Club Shooter, Travis Wallace, of Devils Elbow, confessed to accidentally shooting and killing Ray Theodore Tyro, of New Jersey, a former US Army Ranger. Wallace avoided trial on a murder charge by pleading guilty to involuntary manslaughter. Under the plea agreement, Wallace would be required to serve at least five years in prison and could receive up to seven years.
* * *
A week to the day, Smith texts Evangelína: U still want it?
Evangelína calls, and when Smith asks how she’s doing, Evangelína tells her that she’s better than she’s been in years. “Not allowed to talk about it—signed a nondisclosure agreement—but I can say that after my lawyer saw your package, we filed a whistleblower disclosure. IRJ settled in two days after some hard negotiations. Held out as long as I could. Wanted to see my old boss squirm. It paid off, in more ways than one. Thanks to you, so long as I’m careful, I’ll never have to work again.”
“And about this baby?”
“You tell me.”
“When I left my husband and my post, only thing I regretted was not taking Foxtrot with me. My dog. Afraid this, not taking my baby, could be infinitely worse. If that’s true, I won’t make it. But I don’t know.”
Evangelína says, “What if we get things started. I’ll pay for all the legal work. We’ll proceed with adoption plans, and when you have this baby, boy or girl, if you get a look at it and want to keep it, you do it, and you raise it the best you can.”
“Okay.”
“In the meantime, what’ll you do?”
“Keep being pregnant,” Smith tells her. “After that? Don’t know. Know it’s crazy, but part of me can’t stop thinking about going back to my unit. Try to make up for deserting them. Or do something else along those lines. Become a UN Peacekeeper—I don’t know. There’s a volunteer program in Jordan I’ve been looking at. Working with disabled children. I’d have to pay to go, which seems shady. But I’ve got the money and the time. Been in contact with my unit. Waiting to see if my discharge gets upgraded. Got support letters from people who knew me in the service, so I’m hopeful. That doesn’t work, I could try the National Guard, maybe go active over time. Other thing I keep thinking about is Fort Irwin.”
“In the Mojave?”
“My outfit trained there before I shipped out my first time. Almost all outfits do. National Training Center.”
“I know the area some. One of the IRJ subsidiaries, Clark Nova Energy Group, is building a huge solar installation there.”
“Been thinking,” Smith tells her, “maybe I could do what Milt did. Vets of these wars would get more out of a halfway house in the desert. At the NTC, they simulate the Mideast to get troops ready. We should use the desert as a jump point back into civilian life. Been thinking I might be able to find a defunct motel close to Fort Irwin, convert it to a home for vets. Want to help me?”
“Help you how?”
“We could go in on it together. Be partners in a nonprofit. You and your mother could help me raise my baby.”
“Sounds nice, like a storybook, but I don’t think so. I could help you find a property though. Help you make an offer. It’s what I do for a living—what I did.”
* * *
At the Standard, new No Trespassing signs have been posted, but there’s nothing stopping Smith from pulling up the winding drive.
She parks in front of leaning Standard Tower. Leashed Foxtrot pulls her toward the Alpine village, where smoke rises from the cook fire. A person, not wearing an alpaca hide, tends a giant kettle. She hopes it’s Vessey, worries it’s a stranger.
As she nears, she recognizes Wisenbeker. Leaner and taller, his hair higher, his beard longer, he’s got a cauldron boiling. Smells like laundry.
Wisenbeker says, as if their conversation were interrupted by nothing more than a sneeze, “Been selling scrap. You know the Zaborskis? Stan and Gary? Stan’s coming by this week, and Gary next. Hate each other. When Gary split off from Stan, who kept the family business, Gary went and opened Stan’z just to fuck with his brother.”
Smith unleashes Foxtrot, who sniffs around the jammed door of the Kosher Konditorei. “Stan did.”
“No,” Wisenbeker says, “Gary.” Then he says, “You must’ve found a home, got on the path. Gotten fat.”
“Pregnant.”
“How far along?”
“About four months.”
“Doing the arithmetic here.” Wisenbeker squints, tapping his thumb on the fingertips of one hand. “It Milt’s?”
“Vessey still here?”
“Milt’s dandy lawyer come by telling us to vacate, handing out checks. Best eviction notice I ever got. Recouped all my disability. That, plus what I’m planning on getting for that bell, I’ll be set. Pound of scrap brass is going for a buck fifty. That thing’s supposed to weigh close to forty tons. You got the math to figure that out?”
“Tell me.”
“We’re talking 120k. Even if I pay a crew 25k to come in with a crane and a flatbed to hoist up both halves, I’m still making out. Someone should, now that Milt’s gone.”
She realizes Wisenbeker’s stealing and selling scrap that belongs to the company that bought the Standard; she’s tempted to help him. “You hear anything about the other boys?”
“Little here and there. You hear Luce died?”
“No.”
“Found him in a cattle car. Bet you my balls it was a hit job. Botes reenlisted. Stone’s in Coxsackie. Prison a little further upstate. Story goes that after he left here on the day it rained bats, he went to a firehouse in Neversink. From the payphone out front, he called the firehouse. Ordered a sixpack of Coca-Cola. Reverend told him it was some code for a drug buy, and poor Stone was hard-up enough to believe it. Whole fire company stormed out and started beating on him. He pulled a knife and stuck one of them before the cops got there. Took a serious walloping. Hear he aint the same Samuel Stone. Judge threw the whole shelf at him in addition to the book. They’re seriously protective of firefighters in this state since 9/11. Got twenty years.”
The sentence is nearly four times what Travis got for killing Ray.
“Luckson made a rap CD,” he says. “Calls himself Hazard Us. I got one here somewhere if you want to hear it.”
“It any good?”
“Nothing to play it on. STD’s been seen in the city.”
“At a shelter?”
“Times Square. Hands out tracts. Got God or God got him. He’s a deacon for the Seventh-day Adventist Church in Harlem. Ephesus it’s called. They think Saturday’s the seventh day of the week and the Second Coming’s coming any day now. They’re even vegetarian.”
“And Vessey?”
“He still eats meat.”
“He still here?”
“Somewhere. What about Reverend? He hasn’t been up at his camp.”
From the pocket of her leather jacket, she pulls the small ceramic urn.
“Hell’s that?”
“His remains. Portion of them.”
“Get out.”
“Taking them up to his camp to scatter them.”
When Wisenbeker asks what happened, she whistles for Foxtrot, who comes bounding over. “Merced?”
“Went back to Hoboken. Apparently the dude did have a wife and kids. Came up here and carried him off. Kind of an intervention.”
“And the cougar, any sightings?”
“Big search party gathered here. Before they come through, we had a couple of foresters spray-painting orange Xs on trees, but Merced and me, before his wife abducted him, we went in right behind them with cans of olive drab and painted over their Xs. Slowed them down. Property went into foreclosure before they could start cutting. Then surveyors came in a day after the sale. Day after that it was a bunch of crowd-sourced grassroot environmentalists. Auctioneers are next. After that, maybe demo. Who knows. Why I’m trying to score a buyer for the bell while things are in-between and the new owners are none the wiser. Couldn’t stand downwind of those treehuggers and not smell weed. They were furious about all the illegal snares, threatened lawsuits. Told them, Hard to sue a dead man, but not impossible. They turned up scat, some tufts of fur that were probably bobcat. Before he left, Merced spent a month hunting it. Setting traps. Swears he came close. But me? I’m convinced it don’t exist—that you, Vessey, Merced, and that little Tex-Mexican—you all fabricated the cougar after some crazy psychosexual foursome gone wrong. That Luce witnessed the whole deviant thing, so you offed him. Am I warm?”
* * *
On Slawson Mountain, the yurt still stands. Its walls are slack, its domed roof sags, the flue pipe tipped at an odd angle. The flap that replaced the hide of E. Prince hangs by a catgut cord. The camp looks inactive, the fire pit washed out by the spring rains. Foxtrot finds the little dammed basin, and he drinks for a minute, the hike up hard for him and her, she having to stop to rest, to pee, half hoping the exertion would bring about a miscarriage.
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