Mornings are the only good time. The world seems safe and Amber splashes in the bathtub, and when I try to figure out what was so scary about the noises I heard, or what was so terrifying about my dream, nothing seems dangerous at all. And Amber is a cute, wiggly baby who waves her arms in slow motion, like she’s floating in the air.
You find out a lot about babies when you stare at them all day. Like how she’s learned to bring her tiny hands up to her face and suck at her fist. Like how, in the bath, when her arm or leg touches the water she crinkles her forehead like she’s trying to figure out what that feeling is. She also tilts her head and tries to get some water in her mouth, and I’m always saying, “Now, Amber, don’t do that, you’re going to drown.” I always tilt her head back up, but she always wants to turn her face toward that water, and I wonder if it reminds her of being inside Tess. Maybe she’s fighting to get back to what’s familiar.
Then there’s the rest of the day, which is mostly a lot of work. I do laundry and clean and shop and cook, or if I’m too tired I hold Amber and watch TV or lie on a blanket outside. Every once in a while, I go through me and Tess’s clothes and our back shed, looking for extra stuff to give Miguel’s family. Sometimes I spend a few minutes drawing, and sometimes I flip through magazines. Mostly I’m just tired. Good thing she’s sleeping more, because then I can take naps myself, curled up next to her.
I wait till the clock moves to three. Then I take a shower and get ready for work. I drop her off with Kay and head into town. Then I can breathe for real. Up ahead is a cool store and lots of people. Driving to work seems like the opposite of a dark, long night.
On the way, I watch clouds boil up over the mountains, far off to the west, and hope for rain. Everything is too dusty and pale and brittle, except for the few irrigated sections like Baxter’s alfalfa. It’s like the heat has knocked the whole world flat. Even the people seem tired—everyone complains about it, but in a slow way, like they’ve given in to the heavy, uncomfortable weight of it all. I hear that churches have moments of silence to pray for rain, and that some rancher hired an Indian to come in and do a rain dance, and the news is all about wildfires and thirsty cows. Ed, when I see him, tells me that more of that carbon dioxide stuff has been released into the air in the last thirty years than in the million years before, and that we’ve ruined our sky. I imagine what Derek would say, if we were talking, about how hot it was out on the rig. Baxter worries about the wildlife, and Miguel worries about illegals crossing the desert—not his cousins and girlfriend, who are still waiting at the border, but others—the anonymous, but not anonymous to themselves, since this is, after all, their one life.
The days move on, and to my right someone’s baling a second cut of hay, and to my left someone’s herding cattle. I try to pay attention to what blooms when, and what sorts of birds fly up from the grass at the side of the road. And I wish there was someone to talk to about the deep inside of me, and I wish I wasn’t so scared about life, and I spend a lot of time telling myself, Now, Libby, isn’t this nice? Things will work out, Libby, don’t you worry, something good is coming your way.
GOT JESUS? That’s what the bumper sticker says. And sitting on the bed of his old blue truck is Simon, his feet dangling down in front of his bumper sticker, staring right at me.
He’s just like I remembered. Short blond hair, jeans and a bright rodeo shirt, cowboy boots that are too fancy to be useful, and a belt buckle about as big as a postcard.
As soon as I park, he walks toward me. “There she is.” He bends down and cups his hands around his face and peers in the window of the car.
“What are you doing here?”
“Wow, she’s blond.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow, she does look like me.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Can I hold her?”
“She just fell asleep. Maybe you could let her be for a bit. What are you doing here?”
He says, “Amber. She’s real cute. She doesn’t look like I expected. I figured she’d look like Tess.”
“So did I.”
“I don’t know why I thought that. Maybe because Tess is so strong. Like her genes would win or something. Wow.” He turns around and leans against the car and looks at me. “My parents made me leave for Alamosa. When they found out.”
“They didn’t make you.”
“But I’ve been talking to them. I told them, W-W-J-D.”
“What?”
“What would Jesus do?”
“What?”
“I said to my parents, ‘Well, what would Jesus do?’ And my parents said, ‘Well, Jesus wouldn’t have gotten a girl pregnant in the first place.’ They got a point there. But humans are weak. I was weak. But God’s been telling me not to run from my mistakes, my weaknesses. So I’ve been talking to them.”
“Simon, what are you doing here? What are you talking about?”
“Well, about being involved with this baby. Raising it right. They’ve agreed to help. They want to be a part of this baby’s life. We were all wrong. And for that I am sorry.”
I stand there a long time, squinting at him. I’m so tired today that my eyes feel like broken glass and my brain feels like it’s weighted down with heavy air.
He waits for a bit, and when I don’t say anything, he says, “My parents say, and I agree, that this here isn’t the right sort of situation to raise a baby in. And to have a kid raised half the time with my beliefs, and half the time with—well, what would Jesus do? He would take care of his baby. Raise it right. I don’t want someone else taking care of my mistake, I don’t want my daughter calling someone else Dad. Plus, this house, this place isn’t any place for a baby to grow up.” His face is turning blotchy red, and his eyes start darting all over the place. “My parents were right. Amber deserves more than this. We called a lawyer.”
I blink at him, trying to catch what he’s saying. “What? No you didn’t. What?”
“Yes we did. My parents said the least I could do was tell you that. So I’m telling you. That’s what I’m here to tell you.”
I breathe out, tilt my head, and stare at him. “You’re telling me what?”
“That I’m going to take Amber. Legal.”
He rubs his hand on his cheek and stares behind me, at my car. “I’ll tell you one thing right now. I’ve got legal rights. This baby is half mine. And I’m not going to have her be raised by, well, you, and a drunk grandmother—”
“What?”
“—I have all kinds of things I can use in court when I take you there. All the stories Tess told me about Kay. Try to see it my way. Why would I want my baby being raised here?” He kicks his feet at a cigarette butt buried in the dirt. “It’s not like I want a baby. Holy cow, how’s a single guy going to raise a kid? But I got an obligation. And I got a sort of community that you don’t. My parents are helping me. With her, with the money. Like I say, we’re getting a lawyer.” He nods to himself, proud that he got this all out, and turns and walks toward his truck. Over his shoulder, he says, “So tell Tess that I’m taking this baby, I’m getting her away from you.” He passes right by my car, but he doesn’t stop to look in at Amber.
I can’t open my mouth. Not until he’s gone, at least, and then I yell at the place where he just was. “You never talked to Tess once, Simon, not once, after you found out she was pregnant, you never asked how she was doing, you never came to the hospital, you get the hell out of here, you never come back! If there’s a hell it ought to be for selfish people. It ought to be for people who look down on me like you do! Because at least I was there, Simon. I was there!”
I kick the cement birdbath lying in the dirt, but it hurts my toes so bad that I kick at the marigolds instead. After I get one plant kicked out of the earth and I can see the roots, I stop. Then I reach down and heave that damn birdbath up, and it’s heavy as hell but I get it upright and balanced. It sits there, empty and dusty, and right away it tilts and pauses and falls, and there I am in the
driveway again, my knees on the gravel, crying like crazy and looking at the empty space and trying to figure out what’s going on in someone else’s eyes.
“Amiga, dance with me.” Miguel holds out his hand at the same time I tell him I can’t dance, I really can’t, and I’m still all teary and upset, but Miguel says he doesn’t care, and he holds out his hand. There’s something about his eyes—sad at the edges but still trying-for-happy in the middle—something about all that makes it possible for me to stand up and let him guide me to the dance floor.
We’re at the Big Timber Steakhouse & Saloon because I went to Miguel’s house, crying, after Simon left. I told him about Simon, and I almost told him how light I felt, how relieved I was, that the very possibility of someone taking Amber was at first a surprise that was good, and then bad, but good first and what did that mean? But at the last minute I stopped the words, put my hand at my lips to hold them there—although Miguel was waiting for them, but when the words didn’t come, he said, “Lib, go home and get ready, because we’re going dancing.”
I put on the only thing I have that looks decent, my Rockies jeans and a white shirt that actually fits, and some makeup, and here I am, feeling like this country song is trying its hardest to transform me.
“It’s not you, Miguel, it’s me, I can’t,” I whisper, but he has taken my hand and is pushing me forward in that gentle, listening way that comes with dancing.
“It’s a two-step, see? One-two, one. Ya ves? Sí, puedes. One-two, one. You got it. You can too dance.”
Something about his voice can turn from regular-sounding to more full, and I look up because I can’t help but wonder what’s going on inside him. I don’t know what it is, but it’s a fact that there’s more inside Miguel than in other people.
He’s wearing black Wranglers, Ropers, a white shirt with a narrow collar. He’s a good dancer, weaving us through the dance floor, which is so crowded I figure half of the county must be here. He turns me round and round and something about this makes me feel pretty, which is ridiculous but for this moment I am, and that seems like enough.
As we dance, Miguel talks about Alejandra. He prays for her. He prays for his cousins. The water, the danger, the baby inside her, and when he says the word prayer it sounds more like a real wish, a hope, and it sounds beautiful.
“Did you know, Miguel, that Tess was running illegals? Is she picking up your group?”
He pulls back so that he can consider me, and show me his surprise. “I didn’t know. I guess it doesn’t surprise me, though. Híjole, I hope she’s careful.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.” He says it softly and holds my eyes with his to let me know that he’s sorry for this, and then he sighs and pulls me closer.
After a while of dancing, I say, “I didn’t know about it either. I just found out that she’s involved, somehow. She’ll be bringing your cousins, I bet.”
He’s thinking, and nodding, and I know he’s not going to speak, so I change the subject and ask him the other question I’ve been considering. “Do you think you and Alejandra—how will that be, exactly?” I try to ask it in an off-hand way, like it’s not something I’ve been wondering about for a while.
He shrugs. “It’s going to be however. I don’t know. I don’t need to know.”
“Maybe it will be love.”
“Maybe.”
“And if it’s not—?”
“Then we’ll just wait till she’s a resident.”
“And in the meantime, you’ll raise her baby?”
“Yeah. Juan will be a brother.”
“And it won’t bother you that—”
“No, it won’t.”
“And the real father of the baby?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You can do that?”
“I can. I can for a short while if that’s what happens. And I can for a long while if that’s what happens. I can because I don’t think too much, which is a good thing.”
I laugh. “I know, you’ve told me before. You think us gringos are too cold, too careful.”
“I don’t, I don’t. I just know this is something I want to do.” Then he adds, “You’ll be Alejandra’s friend, okay? Help her feel happy here. You can do that.”
It’s not a question, it’s a statement, so I don’t have to answer. As we swing around, I see Arlene standing over by the bar, holding Amber. I’d called her to see if she wouldn’t mind watching my baby, and she said, “Hon, I got a better idea, I’ll go too and make everybody stop their smoking and dance with that kid and teach her a thing or two about country music.”
It was a good idea, because every woman here, and even some of the men, have been standing over that baby, taking turns holding her, cooing and flirting, and there’s only one grouchy-looking old guy in the corner smoking, turned so that he doesn’t have to see Arlene’s fierce glances.
All that, I see in a second. As we turn, the next thing I see is the windows, how the rain flies down from the sky. People keep glancing outside to watch the sheets of water come off the roof, and the room buzzes with the joy of it, the relief, and also with the echoes of thunder rolling across the earth.
When Derek walks in, then, he’s soaking wet, and smiling because of it. Somehow our eyes meet right away, and I wave to him before he can have a reaction so that my reaction wins, or gets everything out of the way. It’s a happy wave, like, It’s good to see you again, and he winks and waves back on his way to the bar, and then I can’t see him anymore because Miguel has moved us to the other side of the dance floor.
“I built a shrine where you and Shawny used to play,” Miguel says. “In the ditch bank. It’s my way of hoping, of praying.”
Miguel surprises me, how he’ll say something that makes him seem fragile, but how he doesn’t care.
“They’ll come, Miguel. They’ll make it.”
He nods. “Did you know that along the way, through the desert, there are shrines? So carefully tended. I don’t know if you gringos can understand what’s inside those people who cross. The hope, the faith, the whatever-happens-happens attitude.” Then he shakes himself free of this worry he has and smiles. “They work hard, and they play hard. Let’s do the same,” and he laughs and starts dancing with a bit more energy.
Right as the song ends, he leans back a little so he can look at me. “You and Shawny. You grew up together, I know. I imagine you two as girls, making your way through all those years together. I’m sorry I took her from you. She shifted away from you and toward me, I know that. And I’m sorry she left for good. I’m sorry that that’s gone.”
A truth spoken softly like that has so much power. I keep my eyes on the dance floor as we walk off. Because it’s a great kindness for Miguel to say that and for someone, once, to know how much I miss her. But also I keep my eyes down because I’m realizing that this, maybe, is what falling in love is like. For some reason I believed that if you fell in love it was a guaranteed thing that your path would cross with his, and I never wondered how it would feel to fall in love with a man whose future just couldn’t include you.
I can look Derek right in the eye. All these years together and finally we’re dancing. It’s not as smooth as dancing with Miguel, but it’s more comfortable because I don’t care how bad I am. After I tell him about Tess, he says, “I told you so,” and after I tell him about Simon showing up and wanting the baby, he says, “Now that’s a surprise.”
“I never thought they’d want to take her.”
“You know, I saw Simon’s parents just the other day. In Lamar, at Big R.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“No. Looked like they wanted to, maybe. Looked like they couldn’t decide. They knew who I was, though. That I was your boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend. I mean, that I was—”
“The guy hanging around their granddaughter?”
“Yeah. I was getting a crescent wrench and a can of WD-40. They were checking out when I walked in, buying a
whole slew of stuff. Looks to me like they’re fixing fence. They almost came over to me.”
“Almost. The world is full of almosts.”
“Well. They’re probably trying to figure out what good it would do. Some things aren’t worth the trouble.” After a bit, he says, “I’m sorry. About Simon. If you find Tess, you’ll get it worked out. Or at least, that’s the first thing you need to do. Find Tess. And you know what else you need to do? You need to talk to Simon’s parents. From their point of view, which is far off and wrong, you look like an iffy mother.”
“I do not!”
“Shhh. You do. You’re single, and broke, and living with a mom that has—well, a reputation at the bars. Or used to. Just show them. Explain to them. And then they’ll be satisfied, and go away.”
“Derek, today I was feeding Amber and she reached up and touched my cheek. Usually she touches her cheek, but this time she touched mine. I thought, Oh my god I love this kid. Then I thought, I can’t do this, I’m too tired. I’m always worrying about something. Like, is she drinking enough formula? And if she did, then how come she’s crying? Or how come she’s not crying? I’m tired of worrying.”
“You need a friend. A mom friend.”
“I don’t know any.”
“After Shawny, you never had any friends.”
“I did have friends. I had Tess, I had you. And what am I supposed to do? Drive all the way into Lamar and stand around looking for other moms?” I lean my head against his shoulder. I don’t care if he doesn’t want me to, I can’t help it.
He pulls me a little closer as we dance. “I’ve got a story for you. My dad’s horse died a couple of days ago.”
“Really? Old Spirit? That’s terrible. Why didn’t you tell me?”
That last question makes us both uncomfortable, but luckily he ignores it and starts talking. “Listen to this. Old Spirit died right next to where that new banker built his house, and the banker’s wife called, and she said she was so happy to finally be out of Denver and they sure loved it out here and they had such a nice view, but you know, there was a horse carcass out there with birds picking off the flesh and their little dog—one of those little yippy things—came home one night with a chunk of horse skull and was gnawing on it and, well, why was that dead horse there and could it be moved?
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