Evidence of Things Not Seen
Page 17
Well, it’s a strange story. You probably won’t believe me. Not too long ago, maybe a month, I was south and west of here. I’d just left a farm that had me digging postholes for a new fence. I probably dug five hundred holes. This one was easy, señor.
Anyway, I found a really good place to sleep. There was a tree up above and a deep hole under a ledge. It looked like animals had dug it out or the wind had eroded it. After I got in there, a storm started. I could hear the thunder. The lightning was flashing all around. One time it flashed, I swear I saw a person. About as close as that trash can. The thunder and lightning were right on top of each other. No rain yet. The whole field was filled with electricity and noise. I kept watching that person. I was worried he would get hit by lightning. I yelled at him to come over where I was. He heard me because he looked at me. I swear he looked at me because it was very, very bright. I could see his face. There was lightning everywhere and then he disappeared. I’m not kidding. I ran over there because I thought maybe he was struck by lightning and fell down. But he was gone. I’m telling you it was like he stepped into a closet and disappeared. I swear. I know it sounds crazy. But there wasn’t any trace of him. Anywhere. Nothing. I was scared to keep standing there. Maybe there was an entrance to another world and, if stepped the wrong way, I wouldn’t come back. Then the rain poured down and I ran to my hole. When I looked back, it was raining so hard I couldn’t see a thing. It was like a curtain of water.
Now I’m not sure I saw anything. Maybe it was a trick with the lightning. But maybe it was a spirit or an alien. You know, an extraterrestrial.
Like I said, sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night and people were walking through the fields. At least I thought they were people. Maybe they weren’t. What if I was seeing aliens? What if I was seeing into another universe? It could be, right? You probably think I am crazy. Or that I read too many comic books. Comic books always have aliens. And heroes jumping across space and time to save the day.
Consuelo says spirits walk the earth. She believes there is a time, right after someone dies, when you can see him. Like they haven’t crossed over. She says you can talk to them and they can hear you. She talks to her spirits all the time. She says they talk to her but I’m not so sure of that. Because they only talk to her when she wants to make me do something I don’t want to do. “I can hear your abuelo Juan Pedro telling me you need to take physics or chemistry so you can be a doctor.” Or something like that.
There. The cross is strong. You know, you could leave a message for your son here. On the cross. In case he comes back, so he knows you are still looking for him. People will talk about this cross, I think. They will know about your son. I know about your son. I will look for him.
Every night, when I go to sleep outside, I pray that I will wake up in the morning. I pray I will be safe. I never know when I go to sleep if something might happen. Anything could. Poisonous spiders. Robbers. Mountain lions. You don’t know.
When I wake up, I’m glad to be alive. I’m glad to stand up and keep walking. But you know what? I’m still uncertain. Any minute something can change. A storm. A snake. I thought I would feel safe in the morning. But I don’t.
What I’m trying to say is, it’s hard to live with not knowing. Like you want to know if your son is dead or alive. But it’s uncertain. This life is a mystery.
We have to live each day with the mystery.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In a very real way, this debut novel is in your hands because a whole lot of people said, “Yes. Keep going. You can do it. Wow. Love it.” Bear with me while I try to acknowledge all of them here.
I began this novel while I was an M.F.A. student at that holy place on the hill in Montpelier called Vermont College of Fine Arts. Every lecture and workshop shaped me as a writer, and I am down on my knees grateful for advisers Sarah Ellis, Jane Kurtz, Sharon Darrow, and Julie Larios for their wisdom and coaching and patience. A special kekekekekek goes out to my class of Thunderbadgers.
After I graduated from VCFA, I was lucky enough to fall into the finest clutch of critique mates ever: Anne Bustard, Bethany Hegedus, and Liz Garton Scanlon. Writing is a less lonely business with you ducks quacking along with me.
This novel has grown in size and depth as the result of these readers: Kimberly Garcia, Jim Phillips, Greg Delaney, John Thomas Harms, Brian Yansky, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Meredith Davis, and Rod and Isabella Russell-Ides, as well as the Palacios retreat group: Kathi Appelt, Rebecca Kai Dotlich, and Jeanette Ingold. Thank you for every minute of your time and attention.
A writer needs a cache of people she can call with the odd question. Thankfully, all these folks were willing to pick up the phone and answer my e-mails: Chris Bratton, Rod Davis, Tomas Salas, Susanna Sharpe, Brian Anderson, Tim Crow, Cassandra Ricks, Carol Ann Sayle and Larry Butler, John and Medora Barkley, Paul MacNamara and all the guys at Central Machine Works, Libbey Aly at the Blanco Chamber of Commerce, and Beth Boggess at the National Center of Farmworker Health.
I am the luckiest person to have the biggest support system of nears and dears in the world: that means you. Every conversation has mattered.
Two sections in this novel require specific thank-yous:
In 1997, journalist Denise Gamino wrote a compelling Austin American-Statesman article about Lela and Raymond Howard who wandered away from their home in Salado. Her reporting inspired “The Last Dance.”
A huge debt of gratitude goes to Austin Chronicle editor Louis Black, who believed in me as a writer and sent me to interview Karla Faye Tucker at the Gatesville Prison with the amazing documentary photographer Alan Pogue. “Lost” is the result of his faith.
Finally, I want to express my deep appreciation to Erin Murphy and the community that is EMLA as well as to Joy Peskin and all the folks in the Flatiron Building. Thank you for saying “Yes.”