by Hannah Ross
Finally, the two of them came back to the kitchen, and Rebecca gave a bright smile. "Well, Nell dear, it's all settled. You're going to stay with us. Would you like to have a shower before supper?"
"Oh, yes. Very much."
"Great," Daniel said, rubbing his hands. "Tim, you'll stay for supper too, won't you?"
"And maybe overnight?" Rebecca added. "I don't like the thought of you driving in the dark."
"No, thanks, Mrs. H. I'm alright driving at night. I would love some supper, though." A huge rumble of his stomach corroborated the statement.
"Well, that's great," Rebecca said. "I have a big chicken stew just about done, and I thought I went overboard and made rather too much for just the two of us."
* * *
The farm had its own well that in former days was probably operated by an electric pump. But it would be many years before electricity would run again to all the distant areas beyond the Boundary. The Hursts solved the problem of a shower by a simple but ingenious contraption – a big plastic water tank attached to the ceiling of the bathroom. Water ran through a rubber hose to a hand-held shower attachment or straight down into the bathtub, which remained in excellent condition despite its advanced age, for a relaxing soak.
"There you go, dear," Rebecca said, pouring another bucketful of hot water into the tank and gingerly feeling its side. "Should be about right now. Not scalding hot, but…"
"It's perfect," Priscilla assured her, and meant it.
Minutes later, water ran through her hair, over her face, and down her shoulders and back, as she picked up a simple bar of soap and smiled at the thought of how the pale, cracked thing would be tossed aside in disdain a week ago. Now it was her friend. She vigorously scrubbed herself, erasing every trace of sweat and dirt from helping Dustin's mother all day.
After a hearty and delicious supper, which Priscilla would have appreciated more if she didn't almost fall asleep at the table again, they all said goodbye to Tim. Then Rebecca led her upstairs to her room. Priscilla smiled at the cozy loft, small and simply furnished, with a sloping, freshly painted ceiling, small fireplace with a faded rug before it, and a wide, low bed with clean, fresh sheets.
"Our son Ben sometimes sleeps here when he visits, so I keep the bed made up, in case he decides to drop by. It isn't much, I know, but you shouldn't be too uncomfortable."
"It's great," Priscilla said, resisting the urge to hug her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hurst."
"Just call me Rebecca, dear." She bent and lit the fire in the grate. Soon, the room was filled with the shifting orange glow of dancing flames. "This won't burn too long, but it will get the room nice and warm while you undress and get under the quilt. There are some extra blankets in the chest over there. If you need anything, dear, Daniel and I sleep downstairs. Just come and knock."
When the door closed behind Rebecca, Priscilla sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief. The room was filled with the delightful smells of burning wood, crisply ironed bedding, and the faintest trace of fresh paint. She wanted to stay awake for a few minutes to look around her, and to think, but it was impossible. She was too tired and could feel her eyelids drooping. Grateful for Tim's help, her new friends, and their soft bed, she climbed under the blankets, blew out the candle, and was asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow.
10
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Wednesday, March 26
Miguel Hernandez reached for an upper shelf, and in the process of doing so, the sleeve of his white lab coat swept away a couple of tubes. He heard the sound of broken glass and, looking down, saw glittering shards scattered all over the floor.
"Mierda," he muttered through clenched teeth.
The laboratory was small, crowded with equipment, and extremely inconvenient to navigate. He wondered where the promised extra funding went, and had a shrewd guess – into the pockets of his supervisors. The knowledge left him bitter. I must talk to them about this. I can't work without decent conditions. I need space to move around and to store equipment. And I need a bigger team. The oaf they assigned to help me isn't anywhere near enough.
The oaf presently walked in, sweating, cursing under his breath, and carrying a heavy box. "Hi, Miguel. This shit is heavy. What's in here, bricks?"
"Batteries. Be careful where you step, Barry."
The big blond man glanced at the glass shards and raised an eyebrow. "You're like a bull in a china shop."
"What?" Hernandez snapped. Whenever he was annoyed, his proficiency in English dramatically declined. "I wish you were in China. Just mind your step and put that over here."
Happy to comply, Barry placed the box on a table and wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "It's nearly six o'clock. What do you say to cutting out early and making a detour to La Roja? I told the girls I know a shy, handsome fellow who'd love to make their acquaintance."
Miguel made a face. Nobody but Barry could have so naturally suggested a visit to La Roja, the sleaziest establishment in the entire downtown of Tampico. The place was officially dubbed a cabaret bar, but everybody knew what kinds of services were offered in the back rooms. "I don't think so, Barry."
"Well, then, how about a couple of beers at the docks? The heat is killing me. I tell you it's going to be one blast of a summer this year. It's only April and my shirt is sticking to my skin." For emphasis, Barry pulled the collar of his T-shirt aside and blew upon his massive chest.
Miguel couldn't disagree. People who didn't grow up in Tampico often found it difficult to get used to the heat and humidity. Still, annoyed and frustrated, he found it hard to commiserate. "I need to clean this up." He indicated the broken glass. "And I still have a lot of work to do."
"Give me a break. The work won't be done tomorrow, or in a month, or even in six. And Ramona can clean up."
"Ramona isn't coming in until tomorrow afternoon. I can't just leave this mess lying around for people to get cut on. Go have fun, Barry."
To Miguel's surprise, Barry didn't leave, but remained standing there with his hands in his pockets. He gave Hernandez a curious look. "It's funny," he said, "You remind me of someone I used to know. He even had almost the same name. Michael."
"Oh?" Despite everything, Miguel found himself stopping to listen. This was the first time Barry ever voluntarily alluded to his past. "And what was it about this Michael that was so like me?"
"He was a goddamn pain in the ass and liked being one."
Miguel refused to be goaded. "Listen, Barry, I'm not bossing you around more than I have to, am I? You were hired to do stuff like hauling boxes and filing papers, and as far as I can recall, you were pretty happy about it back then. You get fair pay, enough to fund all your little detours to the pubs and bars down at the harbor. And I don't tell you what to do after work hours. I just said I don't want to go to La Roja and gape at pole dancers. Or go drink beer at the docks, or to one of those trashy movies they have on tonight. I had a long day, I have a headache, I'm tired, and I just want to go home and rest."
Barry nodded. "Michael was like this too. Always spoiled all the fun."
"So what happened to that friend of yours?"
Barry scowled. "He was no friend of mine. I'm off to La Roja. Happy cleaning, Hernandez."
* * *
It was past eight o'clock and the sky was almost completely dark by the time Miguel locked up the lab. To a newcomer like Barry, the heat seemed oppressive, but Miguel was a native and found the evening mild and pleasant. He sauntered down the sparsely lit streets, enjoying the soft breeze on his face and looking forward to a quiet hour on the balcony of his parents' home, playing chess with his father, and sipping cool lemonade.
Though the Great War affected the entire world, Mexico was relatively fortunate, having retained more of its population and resources than many other countries. Miguel often reflected on how ironic it was that the patrol at the border, which used to keep illegal Mexican immigrants from the United States, now often acted in the reverse. During the
War and immediately after it, the Mexican government had to adopt some ruthless measures to prevent an influx of homeless refugees from America.
Still, even with all their losses, the United States was a force to be reckoned with, and Miguel knew his current project, proposed and funded by the White Tower, might make his career.
He approached the modest three-story building where he lived throughout most of his life. When he accepted the proposal of working for the Americans, they provided a private apartment for him, but Miguel still spent half his evenings with his aging parents, knowing he was their only comfort.
As he knocked on the door, he was enveloped by the familiar, comforting smell of his mother's cooking. Nothing could beat her enchiladas with meat and beans.
The door opened and his mother, beaming with happiness, stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. Even though they still saw each other almost every day, every time he came for dinner she treated him as though he just returned from a long, perilous journey.
"Miguelito! How late you are, mi hijo. Come in, your father is waiting for you." She turned and called, "Esteban, Miguel is here!"
They sat down to a late dinner, and for a long time, comfortable silence reigned. His mother kept refilling his plate. "You should eat more, querido. I was shocked when I saw that little kitchen of yours. No room to move, and hardly any food in the refrigerator!"
"I didn't have time to shop that week, Mother," he said as he helped himself to more enchiladas. What he did not say was that he could not bother with cooking, and subsisted on sandwiches, coffee, and the occasional take-out.
"And you should clean a bit more thoroughly, too. I'm sure the dust on your bookshelves is enough to make you sneeze if you get too close. What will your friends say when they come to visit? Or that nice girl you told me about?"
Miguel blushed. In fact, the "nice girl" was only a fib he came up with to appease his mother, who kept making increasingly frequent declarations of her desire to see him settled in life.
"What is her name? Felicia?"
Miguel nodded, unsure of what he told his mother last time. I ought to start keeping notes.
"Let the boy eat in peace, Ines," his father said with a wink, and since his wife could pose no argument against it, Miguel enjoyed the rest of the meal undisturbed.
After the dishes were cleared, the chess set was taken out to the balcony, along with a jug of cold lemonade and two glasses filled with ice cubes.
Miguel and his father were halfway through their second game, and Ines had just refilled the jug and retreated to bed, when Esteban looked up from the chessboard and fixed his son with a penetrating stare. "How are things going at work?"
Miguel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was not supposed to discuss his work with anyone, but complete withholding of information would make his father suspicious. "Fine, papa."
"You are making progress?"
Miguel nodded, staring down at the board and pretending to contemplate his next move. His father kept watching him.
"Why do you seem so worried, then?"
"There's a lot of pressure. Deadlines."
"Los gringos have no patience, do they? Well, you just put them in their place, son. I know how much you're putting into this work. No one could do more."
"Thanks, papa."
"You know, even when you were little, I knew you'd do great things. Your mother wanted you to learn a trade, said higher education wouldn't have much value after the War, but I knew better. You wanted to be a scientist, and you became one."
The pride in his father's voice made Miguel even more uncomfortable, though he couldn't very well explain why. "Yes. I have a good job now."
"And it pays nicely, too. But it's worth nothing if you're unhappy."
Miguel felt his heart sink. His father never missed a thing. "I'm not unhappy. It's just that…there are some things to adjust to, and—"
"Hijo." Esteban reached across and put a hand on his son's shoulder. "Don't be offended, but I have to ask you something. This job. It's a proper one, isn't it? A clean one?"
"What do you mean?"
"You aren't doing something illegal, are you?"
Miguel was startled. "No! Of course not! It's funded by the White Tower, I told you."
"Why, then, aren't the gringos doing it up north?"
"Because it's a highly confidential project."
Miguel knew it was a feeble excuse. In truth, even he didn't know exactly why the White Tower chose Mexico. Surely there were laboratories and scientists up north. But he wasn't hired to ask questions. He was hired to find answers and keep quiet about it. And he kept quiet.
"Right." His father nodded, but it was clear he was only partly appeased. "Well, hijo, I suppose it could make your fortune. Just be careful. Check-mate."
* * *
The streets were almost empty by the time Miguel began his solitary walk home. As always, his mother fretted about the walk and the lack of public transportation, and offered him his old room for the night, but he needed time to be alone and think.
The night air was now brisk and fresh, with a cool sea breeze. Miguel still heard his father's words resounding in his ears. You aren't doing something illegal, are you?
No, I'm no criminal. But legal does not necessarily mean just. Sometimes this project seemed like something out of an old science fiction movie. What will happen if I actually succeed? Power. Almost limitless power, concentrated in the hands of a few. His head shook. And I'd be the one to deliver it to them. But I signed up for this and it's too late to turn back now, even if I wanted to. And you know you don't really want to. The project is too interesting, too challenging.
11
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Thursday, March 27
Miguel unlocked the lab just after six o'clock, looking forward to several hours of uninterrupted quiet to study some equations before his assistant arrived at nine or ten or whenever he decided to come in. He enjoyed the silence for almost thirty minutes before the door swung open and Barry walked in, looking tired but pleased with himself.
"Morning, Miguel. You're here early. The sun's not even up yet. You missed out on a lot of fun last night."
Miguel spared him half a disdainful glance as he noticed the boxes in Barry's arms. "You're here early, too. What are those? I don't recall any order was supposed to come in today."
"It isn't. It's my stuff," Barry said, affecting nonchalance. "Is there a corner where I can store them for a while? Someplace out of the way."
"Your stuff? This is a lab, Barry, not a storage shed. There's no room to move in here as it is."
"Don't be a prig, Miguel, it's only a couple of boxes."
"I didn't know you were moving, anyway."
"I'm not. It's only for a few hours. Stuff someone is supposed to pick up this afternoon."
Miguel's eyes narrowed. "What kind of stuff?"
"A bit of this and a bit of that. Nothing to be concerned about. You didn't see anything, right?"
Miguel straightened up and gave the big blond man a look of mixed disgust and indignation. "Are you dealing with smugglers again, Barry?" He almost asked if he was dealing with Los Lobos, but preferred to think even Barry wasn't stupid enough to mess with them.
"Don't be melodramatic. It's just some loot from the abandoned cities up north."
"You mean the polluted cities."
Barry made a derisive noise. "Give me a break. I lived in one of the ruined cities for years and…" he spread his arms wide, "…as you can see, I'm in perfect shape."
Miguel's curiosity was sparked against his will. "I know you were one of the outcasts."
"I was an orphan, a nonentity, a citizenshipless scum of the earth according to the government. There were days when I wasn't sure I'd see the next morning. But look at me now. Living a nice life here in Tampico, working for the very same White Tower that declared I'm a worthless little piece of shit and kicked me across the Boundary. Who would have believed it?"
&n
bsp; "This nice life won't last long if our supervisors find out what you're up to."
"Oh, come on. As long as we're loyal, those types at the Tower won't mind the little business I'm doing on the side. They are sensible folks."
Miguel decided not to comment on that. "How did you cross the border? I mean, I know how you stole down south. You told me that story. But I wouldn't think you'd dare to do that again."
"Almost everything is possible if you know the right people. And practice makes perfect, you know."
"But how exactly…"
Barry threw up his arms. "Alright, alright, I'll tell you everything. But only if you agree to go out for chilaquiles and chorizo."
"What? Now? You just arrived."
"So what? I didn't have breakfast yet." He shoved his boxes under a table. "Vamos, Miguelito."
Miguel sighed. "Fine. I could use another coffee. Let me just lock up here and we can go. But none of those cheap dock places, alright? You'd lose your appetite for three days if I told you what goes into their chorizo. You know, people say they saw stray dogs—"
Barry cut him off with a laugh and a clap on the back. "After what I've been through, Miguelito, it would take more than a couple of dog-chorizos to make me lose my appetite. But I know a nice place where you can peek into the kitchen and see just what they put in your food. It's always full, though, so we better get going."
"Alright, then," Miguel said, hanging up his white lab coat. "Maybe I'll get some huevos rancheros, too."
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Priscilla's eyes fluttered open as she engaged in a luxurious stretch, happy the pulled muscle in her shoulder relaxed overnight. The mattress she slept on was springy and comfortable, and the bed so inviting she could hardly believe it was already morning. She felt like she only closed her eyes for a wink, but the bright sunlight streaming through the loft window made clear it was a new day.