Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  The rest of the afternoon is spent making dozens of unsuccessful attempts to reach his father. In between calls, he wanders outside to sit and watch the desert sun traverse Mexico en route to the Pacific.

  Late in the afternoon, discouraged and hungry, he dozes, to be awoken by a figure eclipsing the sunshine. He opens his eyes and sees Mr. Gassner standing over him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Bronkovsky, but we close at three o’clock,” he says quietly. Shane opens his mouth to protest, but realizes there is nothing he can say.

  “You eaten today?” Gassner asks. When Shane shakes his head, the clerk reaches into his pocket and forces something into Shane’s hand. Shane opens his fist to see he’s been handed a five-dollar bill, and he blinks, suddenly feeling disoriented, unsure of what the money means.

  “You can pay me back when your transfer comes in,” Gassner explains. “There’s a cantina at the south end of town that’s open until eight.” He turns to go back inside. “They have a pay phone,” he adds over his shoulder.

  TEN

  Shane finds the cantina and goes inside. After ordering a cup of coffee and a muffin, which is all Gassner’s charity will buy, he occupies a seat near the phone and makes yet more unsuccessful attempts to reach his father. Eventually the cantina closes, too, so Shane pays his bill, taking his change in coins. To kill some time he takes a walk through the streets. It doesn’t take him long to discover the defining moment in the history of Columbus, New Mexico. He comes across a state park at the edge of the town, commemorating a raid across the border by Pancho Villa a century ago.

  Finding it odd that an American park would be named after a Mexican bandit, he wanders the grounds to learn more. He discovers that Villa, whose real first name was Francisco, was not, in fact, an outlaw, but a highly regarded revolutionary general. The incursion into New Mexico in March 1916, in which eighteen soldiers and civilians were killed and a portion of the town put to the torch, represents the only time since the War of 1812 that the U.S. was invaded. A retaliatory military expedition was launched into Mexico by the U.S. Army, led by legendary general “Black Jack” Pershing, involving ten thousand men and lasting almost a year. The park’s museum houses examples of American military equipment of the era, including airplanes and trucks, that was used for the very first time by the U.S. Army in their campaign against Villa.

  Shane’s foray into the past manages to take up a couple of hours. When he locates a pay phone beside the park’s campground and tries calling again, he is hopeful his father has returned. The operator is just advising him that there is no answer when a woman’s voice comes on the line.

  “Hello?” she answers, breathing heavily.

  The operator asks if she’ll accept Shane’s collect call, and the woman assents with a bright, “You betcha.”

  “Uh, hello, who’s this?” Shane asks.

  “Hi, Shane. It’s Oksana Kravchuk.” It clicks that she is the caregiver his father mentioned, although the name tugs at his memory in some other way, as well.

  “Hey, Oksana. Is my dad all right? I’ve been phoning for hours.”

  “Oh, he’s fine. We’ve been out … just pulled into the driveway this very minute. You’re lucky I made it to the phone in time. Had to sprint.” She laughs. “Whew. I’m out of shape.” There is a pause, then she adds, “Your dad’ll be a minute … he’s just getting to the door now. So, how you doing anyway, Shane?”

  Her voice is warm and concerned. Shane feels a stab of self-pity and has to resist the urge to start crying over the phone. “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies,” he responds.

  “That bad, eh? You hang in there, okay? Here’s your dad now.”

  Shane hears Oksana identify the caller, and then Shane’s father comes on the line, his breathing laboured. “Yeah?” he says grumpily.

  “Dad. Where have you been?”

  “What do you mean, where’ve I been? Out running a frigging marathon. What the hell’s it to you?”

  Shane is about to tell his father to fuck himself, but bites it back in time. He is starting to appreciate just how volatile his anger can be. “I … I was worried about you, Dad, that’s all. I’ve been phoning all day, but there was no answer. I thought maybe something had happened.”

  “Oksana came by to take me to a doctor’s appointment this morning, then we had to drive all the way to Dawson to get my prescription filled because the clinic in Peel’s Crossing couldn’t fill it. You’re lucky she heard the phone ringing outside and got to it in time. Hey, come to think of it, what the hell you calling me collect for, with my money in your pocket?”

  “That’s just it, Dad, there was some kind of a mix-up. They sent the money to Columbus, Ohio, not Columbus, New Mexico.”

  There is a pause as the old man absorbs the information.

  “Damn that Sally at the bank. If she could listen half as well as she can talk, she’d be a manager by now. I know I gave her the right address because I was reading it off the paper where I wrote it down, but she just kept going on and on about you … well, about the mess you’re in, anyway. The whole town is talking about it. Hell, the whole damned country is talking about it. It’s all I see on the news anymore.”

  “I was hoping it had blown over by now.”

  “A man’s dead, son. That isn’t going to blow over so quickly.” For the first time since their conversation began, his father’s bristle disappears, and he sounds sympathetic. It is so much better when he isn’t angry, when he’s normal, Shane tells himself … and then it hits him, like a sucker punch, that people must think the same thing about him.

  “There’s a lot of people on your side, Shane, I want you to know that. Not just here in town, either. Some guys sticking up for you on the TV, too. It’s just that District Attorney in Chicago who’s blustering about charges —”

  His father trails off, as if he realizes he’s not being helpful. “So what are we going to do … about the money, I mean?” the old man asks.

  “Dad, I need the PIN — the number they gave you.”

  “The what?”

  “When you sent the money, they’d have given you this number. It’s like a code we need at this end to unlock the transfer. Do you remember them giving you that number?”

  “How the hell do I know? I recall them taking a hefty service charge, that’s for sure —”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

  “Oh, hell, son. I’m just bitching, that’s all. It’s not about you, it’s about those bandits at the bank. Hang on, then, let me get the receipt they gave me. It must be on there someplace.”

  The receiver drops onto the tabletop, and Shane can hear his father grunting and the walker scraping on the floor as he shuffles around the room. There is murmuring in the background, and he hears Oksana laugh.

  “Had to get my glasses, too,” his father explains when he returns. “Now, lemme see here.” There’s more grunting and murmuring before his father exclaims, “Oh yeah, here it is. Transaction PIN. You got a pen handy?”

  “Crap, no. I got nothing but the clothes on my back and some change in my pocket, and I’m at a pay phone in a parking lot.”

  “Then I guess you’ll have to memorize it. It’s like …” He takes the time to count. “It’s ten digits long.”

  “Oh, God. How am I going to remember that? I’m lousy with numbers.”

  “Bullshit. You got As in arithmetic when you were a boy. Of course, that was before hockey. There weren’t nothing else you paid attention to after that. Anyway, ten digits isn’t so bad, Shane. That’s like a phone number with an area code, right? Come on, I’ll read it to you a few times, then you recite it back to me.”

  They spend five minutes going back and forth until both are satisfied Shane has safely committed the PIN to memory.

  “You best write it down as soon as you can, son. Keep saying it to yourself in your head until then.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I will.”

  There is a brief silence, as if
his father is searching for the right words. “Where’d you sleep last night, son?”

  “Don’t worry. Tammy — that woman you were wiring the money to — she runs this ranch, and she’s given me a place to sleep for the last couple of nights.”

  “You’re lucky she’s helping you.”

  “You got that right.”

  “So … you’re okay?”

  “Yeah. Sure. I will be, I guess … once I get that money. At least for now. Still have to figure out what to do about replacing my ID and stuff. And I don’t even want to think about Kenny Linton and that business with the DA in Chicago.”

  “You can always come home to Peel Crossing, Shane. Might be just the thing for you.”

  “Maybe. Wouldn’t even be able to get across the border now, though.”

  “You got a point there. Well, call me if you need me to vouch for you, or anything. Or just call.” The old man chuckles. “Call collect, if you want. What’s that PIN thingy again?” Shane recites the number. “That’s right. Good boy. Okay, son. Bye for now.”

  “Goodbye, Dad.”

  Shane keeps repeating the numbers to himself as he contemplates his next move. Luckily, the phone booth has a telephone directory for the county, and while there is no entry for Rancho Crótalo, he does locate a number for DEWITT, R. Fishing change from his pocket to feed the pay slot, Shane dials the number, picturing the old rotary phone on the wall ringing.

  It is little Gracie’s voice that answers. “Hello?” she says.

  “Hi, Gracie. It’s Shane … you know, the man who’s been staying at the ranch the last couple of nights.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I talk to your mom?”

  “Mom’s out in the stable.”

  “Could you get her for me?”

  “It’s that Shane fella,” Gracie says to someone who is evidently standing nearby. “He wants to talk to Mama.”

  Abruptly a burst of Spanish cuss words erupts in Shane’s ear.

  “Yolanda! Wait! I sorted out the problem with the wire transfer and this time the money really is on its way.”

  There is a pause. He imagines her glaring at the phone. “You got the money for sure this time? You’re not screwing with us?”

  “I swear to God. There was a mix-up the first time — they sent it to Columbus, Ohio, by mistake, because that’s where I used to live, but now it’s fixed. Really.”

  “Okay. Gracie’s gone to fetch Tammy. You just hang on. But if you’re screwing with us —”

  “You’ll cut my balls off with a machete.”

  “More like a rusty butter knife, but, yeah, you get the idea.”

  Soon Tammy comes in, and Shane can hear Yolanda explaining things.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Tammy. Listen, I’m really sorry about the screw-up in town today.”

  “I figured for sure you were playing us for suckers.”

  “I’d never do something like that, especially, well … to someone as nice as you.”

  There’s a lull while she chews on that last statement. “Well, okay then, I’m glad we got it sorted out.”

  “Listen, can I spend another night at the ranch? I’ve no place to stay.”

  She sighs heavily. “No siree, I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I’m sorry for your troubles, but until I see that money, I ain’t up to trusting you. I’m not a fool-me-twice kind of gal. I’ll go so far as to come to town again tomorrow because we could really use that money you promised us. But that’s about it.”

  “I’ll pay you for another night.”

  He hears more air expel from her nostrils. “Sorry, Shane. You’ll have to find some other Good Samaritan to carry the load for one night. I’ll see you at the Western Union at nine o’clock in the a.m.”

  She hangs up, and Shane feels anger stir in the pit of his belly, like indigestion, but it is half-hearted. He can’t really blame Tammy, especially after this morning’s fiasco. He owes her and hasn’t been able to repay the debt.

  Shane leaves the park, planning to walk back into town, but the road leading in the opposite direction, toward Mexico, catches his attention instead. The sign says the border is only a mile and a half away, and this stirs Shane to try his luck in that direction instead. He occupies his mind by reciting the PIN over and over, adding some musical notes to turn the numbers into a jingle.

  The road transforms into open highway again, surrounded on both sides by desert scrub brush, and Shane studies the landscape with a more discerning eye as he walks. Up ahead, something straight bisects the natural lines of the horizon, and only when he draws closer does he realize it is a fence that runs as far as the eye can see in either direction.

  A phrase comes to mind, something he heard on a TV news broadcast in a hotel room during a road trip — the Great Wall of Mexico. President Trump made headlines during his campaign by proposing to build a wall between the two countries when, in fact, there has already been one for years, albeit not as grand as he proposed. Up closer, he sees that the existing wall is twelve feet high and rides the undulating wave of the terrain, running off into both horizons. It is overhung by a never-ending array of light poles spaced about fifty feet apart.

  There is a gap in the fence where the two border checkpoints stand. On the American side of the wall there is also a staging area for cross-border shipments, with parked trailers and a couple of modest warehouses. Otherwise, the vicinity is chiefly desert. In contrast, when Shane looks over into Mexico, he sees an entire bustling town pushed up against the border, identified as Puerto Palomas, Población 4,300. Many of the buildings carry English signs advertising pharmacies and dental clinics, and Shane realizes that Americans must cross the border regularly to exploit these cut-rate services.

  The sun is slinking below the horizon, and the airborne dust produces a spectacular blood-red sunset that soaks the entire sky. Shane pauses to watch the display, even though it spells the coming of darkness. As the light drops, the temperature does, too, and when the wind picks up, and the blowing grit with it, Shane realizes he will likely be spending this night outdoors. He turns to scout out the border’s buildings for some nook or container to shelter him.

  An unlit warehouse sits at the western edge of the parking area. It almost looks unused, and he wonders if it would be possible — or wise — to sneak inside. Circumnavigating the structure, he finds a small, high window, and with the use of his good right hand and a wooden pallet to stand on is able to pull himself up far enough to snatch a peek. An exit sign provides just enough illumination to see what’s inside. The space has shelving along its walls, but is empty except for a large orange tarpaulin spread on the floor. The doors are all locked, however, and there is nothing else, not even a Dumpster, that can offer protection from the elements.

  Shane feels bone-weary. He collapses on the ground and sits up against the side of the warehouse. He is half tempted to close his eyes and go to sleep on the spot, but the cold wind cuts right through him, and the blowing grit peppers his face. Reluctantly, he climbs to his feet and stumbles around the compound to continue his search. There are several other small buildings in the vicinity, plus a handful of storage containers and truck trailers, but every one proves to be securely locked. As much as he does not feel like walking back to the state park, he sees no viable options for overnighting here.

  When he turns to plod toward the highway, a silhouette transverses a lighted window on the compound’s periphery, compelling him to investigate. As he draws nearer, he recognizes Doc Sanchez’s van and hears someone moving around inside. It dawns on him that he still owes Sanchez money and has already once been threatened at gunpoint by the man, but he thinks he can use the debt to his advantage. Besides, at this point he has nothing to lose. He knocks at the rear door.

  Surprisingly, when the doctor sees who his visitor is, he breaks out into a big smile.

  “Buenas noches, amigo. I was just thinking about you.” Sanchez laughs.

  “Look, Doc, I
know I owe you money, and I swear —”

  The doctor holds up his hand to cut Shane off. “No need. I was just speaking on the phone with the titillating Tammy, and she’s explained the situation. I’ve arranged to meet her at the Western Union office tomorrow. I’ll admit, though, I was curious where you’d be spending the night.”

  “I was planning to sleep in that Pancho Villa park tonight … unless you have a better suggestion.”

  Sanchez breaks out into a giant, deep laugh. “Interesting choice. Come on inside, we’ll talk about it.”

  Shane climbs into the van, relieved to escape the elements. It is as crowded as ever, but he notes that some of the medical equipment has been pushed out of the way, and a small table for two with accompanying bench seats has been unfolded from a niche in the wall. The doctor indicates one of these.

  “Sit down. Relax. Are you hungry? Ha, ha, ha, of course you are. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer, but I’m sure I can scrounge something up.” He opens a mini-refrigerator crammed with medical supplies and extracts a submarine sandwich wrapped in cellophane. Shane’s stomach gurgles at the sight. There is a microwave oven amidst the clinical hardware, and the doctor places the sub inside to warm it up. Then he reaches into a beer cooler behind the driver’s seat, extracts a bottle of Corona, and waves it at Shane.

  “Una cerveza, amigo?”

  “God, I’d love one.”

  Sanchez twists the cap off and places the beer in front of Shane. It is beautifully frosty, and although Shane is still shivering somewhat from the cold outside, he is dehydrated. He nearly drains the bottle in one big gulp.

  Sanchez shakes his head with a chuckle and opens a second beer for Shane. “Go ahead, finish it off. Here’s another to go with your food.”

  Shane eagerly complies, but before grabbing the fresh bottle, a thought occurs to him. “Um, how much you charging me?” he asks.

  That earns the biggest laugh from Sanchez so far, causing his belly to bounce.