Halfway Down the Stairs

by Gary A Braunbeck

  The pain fueled his resolve; gasoline to a fire.

  He arrived at the hotel, his heart triphammering in his chest, the image of Ruben’s smile still driving him on. He shot through the lobby and took the stairs three at a time until he reached the fourth floor and saw a figure step out from one of the doorways. Hoping that it was his “Mr. Petey” he ran forward—

  —and Patch pushed out his arms to stop him. “The guy’s gone,” he said. He was shaking and pale, his red eyes puffy and moist.

  Something clogged Humberto’s throat.

  “Where’s—”

  “We have to leave,” said Patch. “We have to leave now.”

  Humberto slapped Patch’s hands away and stepped into room 407.

  Ruben was still there.

  What was left of him.

  Humberto went numb. There was no anger, no overpowering flood of grief, no shudders or curses, only questions as he shambled toward the small, naked, broken figure handcuffed to the bedpost, its face buried under a blood-soaked pillow; questions like: Was he dead before the man finished torturing him? Did he struggle or remain still, hoping that you would come for him after fifteen minutes and put a stop to it? Did he cry out?

  Then the questions ceased as Humberto saw two things: the broken liquor bottle lying on the floor, its neck missing, blood streaking the broken edges of the glass—

  —and the St. Christopher medal clutched in Ruben’s dead hands.

  His legs turned to rubber and began to buckle under him but then Patch was there, arms supporting him, moving him toward the door, talking to him in a smooth, soft, steady voice that held no trace of the tears he’d shed earlier.

  “We gotta go, Humberto, gotta go now, it’s over, he’s dead and the guy’s gone—”

  “—shouldn’t have sent him, I knew it d-didn’t feel right—”

  “—don’t start that now, pal, it ain’t gonna do you any good, c’mon, we have to go, we can’t be here when they find—”

  “—goddamned cops stopped me ... I should’ve left sooner, I shouldn’t’ve waited so long ohgod—”

  “—have to stop this right now, get hold of yourself, get moving or we’re gonna be—”

  Patch’s words were cut off when one of the hotel maids screamed from the doorway behind them.

  In the moment of silence that followed the maid’s scream Humberto found his legs, found his grief, found his pain, found his anger—

  —found his plan.

  He and Patch leapt past the shuddering woman and ran for the stairs. They passed no one on their way down and were followed only by the echoing screams of the wretched woman they’d left alone in the room, her horrified eyes locked on the site of Ruben’s mangled body.

  The lobby and streets were a blur to Humberto: one moment he was standing in the doorway to room 407, then—blink—he was climbing into the back of the van.

  Patch slammed the doors, jumped into the driver’s seat, and wrenched the van into drive, tires squealing as he sped out into traffic.

  “Turn left up ahead,” said Humberto, his voice cold and hollow.

  “Where are we going?”

  “The bus station. That’s where he’ll be.”

  Patch angrily pounded his fist against the steering wheel. “Fuck that, man! How do you know he didn’t just take a cab to the airport?”

  “Because only the tour buses are allowed to cross over the border.”

  “Fine! What’re you gonna do once you find him?”

  Humberto told Patch exactly, precisely what he was going to do.

  Patch’s face went pale and his throat went dry.

  Humberto went to the back of the van, sat down, and wept with more pain and sorrow than he’d known since the night his father had died.

  In his mind his father’s face kept dissolving into Ruben’s, then back to his father’s, then Ruben’s again.

  Then something reptilian slithered forward and took control.

  And Humberto smiled.

  It felt good to smile, this close to the border.

  His father and Ruben smiled back at him from within the reptile’s jaws.

  * * *

  A lizard crept along the grimy tile floor of the bus station until it reached the crushed remains of a spider that it inspected with the tip of its tongue. Then it began to eat.

  From his spot near one of the exits, an old man named Valdez watched the lizard with his one good eye. This was the most interesting thing that had happened all day.

  His name wasn’t really Valdez, people had just started calling him that a few years ago. He didn’t know why and didn’t much care. Drinking had long ago wiped away most of his memory but some mornings he could still remember a car crash, and a fire, and the strangled screams of a woman and child, the stench of searing flesh, and pain—lots of pain—then a few long swallows of liquor made those memories go away.

  If only the drink would give him back his legs.

  He reached out and rubbed the two dirty-bandaged stumps that now took the place of his knees and lower legs. They felt like hard knots on a tree. Between them sat a tin cup with a few coins inside; not a good day. There would be no food or drink tonight if this was all he had.

  He considered the lizard, and wondered how it might taste.

  Then someone stepped over him.

  Valdez looked up at the sweaty man in the dirty white suit. “Could you spare a little something, señor?”

  The man in the dirty white suite spit in the cup and walked away.

  “They are all the same, these americanos,” said Valdez to the lizard. It lifted its head and looked at him with its cold, bulbous eyes. Valdez sighed and reached behind him, rummaging through the debris on his four-wheeled cart until he found the liquor bottle. It was nearly empty.

  As he poured the last of the booze down his throat another man stepped over him. This one was dressed in dark-stained clothes. His hair was slicked back and his nose was broken and seeping.

  Valdez froze.

  This man reeked of violence and death.

  The lizard blinked as if it too had sensed something.

  As the dark man walked away Valdez whispered, “I think he is maybe after the other man, no?”

  The lizard blinked, then turned to look.

  The dark man came up behind White Suit and shoved something into his back, then the two of them quickly turned and came back toward Valdez, nearly stepping on the lizard.

  “I need a room,” said the dark man, tossing a fifty dollar bill into Valdez’s cup.

  Not taking his gaze from White Suit’s terrified face, Valdez replied, “Behind me there is a cleaning closet.”

  “Good,” said the dark man, shoving White Suit forward.

  When they had disappeared behind the door Valdez leaned close to the lizard and whispered, “It is a matter of venganza, I think. I saw it in their faces.” He dragged himself over by the door, happy that no one had noticed the two men.

  Valdez leaned close, and listened.

  There was a wet, tearing noise, followed by the sound of a small splash. Then a cough. Then gurgling.

  The dark man’s voice in an icy whisper: “Did that hurt?”

  A whimper, thick with agony.

  “Good. Let’s see how this feels.”

  Four quick sounds—snick-snick-snick-snick—and then something kicked against the door. Things rattled around with the closet, metallic sounds, as if someone were sifting through tools.

  More whimpering.

  Valdez looked down and saw a thin line of blood trickle out, then begin pooling under the door.

  Another wet, tearing sound, followed by the crack! of a bone breaking, then the dark man’s voice again:

  “Do I have your attention now? Good. Because I’m going to tell you a little story before I finish things. My father always used to say that the greatest gift one man could give another was to tell them a good story at the end of their day, so here’s mine.”

  Snick!

&
nbsp; “My father was always working, working, working, taking whatever pissy-assed job he could get just to bring home a few scraps of meat and some milk and maybe a little extra dinero to save. He’d go away for weeks at a time when I was a kid and when he came back he’d have milk and candy and more money. He’d go on about how El Aleman had taken him and other over the border into glorious, generous America where the people were so kind because they gave him so much. ‘Look, my son,’ he would say to me. ‘Look at how much they pay me.’”

  Thwap!

  “Don’t pass out on me now, I’m getting to the good part. I said don’t”—smack!—“pass out”—smack!—“on me!

  “Good boy.

  “You see, the thing is, I loved that poor, ignorant man. Holding out his chump change like it was some kind of king’s treasure, a big, stupid smile on his face. My mother died when I was four and we lived in this festering shit-hole of a camp. The children sometimes killed dogs that wandered into the camp just so we could have something to eat. It was a fuckin’ block party when two mutts wandered in, let me tell you!” His voice cracked on the last few words and for the next several seconds there was only the sound of heavy breathing.

  “My father kept promising me that someday he’d have enough money so that I could go to wonderful, generous Los Estados Unidos and live the life of a respected man. He hoped that if he could do that for me, I’d forgive him for being a failure. He never believed me when I told him that he was never a failure in my eyes. ‘I can give you something better than this,’ he’d say. ‘It does not matter if I am with you or not. I’ll know that I was able to get you away from el poso del mundo.’ That’s what he called the camps along the border—the lowest hole in the world; the toilet where America so generously shit its turds so we wetbacks could smell it and tell them it didn’t stink.

  “He was killed one night while trying to cross over into your wondrous Promised Land. He and ten others were shot to death and then stripped of everything they had, even their underwear. When the motherfucking Border Patrol found the bodies, they loaded them all into the back of a pickup truck and dumped them in the middle of our camp so people could identify their loved ones. I had to dig through seven different bodies before I found my father’s.

  “You know what I figure? I figure that, in a way, you’re one of the guys who killed him. Guys like you, you keep coming back regardless of what we do to keep you out. Sometimes you kill young boys’ fathers. Sometimes you kill the young boys.”

  Something snapped loudly.

  Then a thump. Then another.

  A muffled shriek.

  “Did he beg you to stop? Did he?”

  The sound of something moist being wrenched apart.

  Another snap.

  Liquid spilling onto the floor.

  “I’ll bet my father begged, too.”

  Spitting. Retching. Gagging.

  A dry, crinkling sound.

  “Would you like to live?”

  Whimpering.

  Snick!

  A high-pitched screech.

  “Too bad, you child-murdering cocksucker!”

  A metallic click!, then several short whistle-spit sounds—snip-snip-snip-snip-snip!—followed by the acrid and smoky stench of gunpowder, then the whump! of weight hitting the floor.

  A puncturing noise.

  A deflating hiss.

  The sharp scrape of metal against tile.

  The widening pool of blood spread outward. Valdez scooted onto his cart and rolled away from it, the lizard in his lap.

  A choking noise and several spluttering grunts from inside the closet made him stop and wait, curious. Whatever was going on behind that door was inhuman but necessary and deserved respect.

  Valdez sat in silence and looked at the lizard.

  The lizard sat in silence and looked at Valdez.

  No one passing by looked at either of them, nor did they notice the blood, nor see when the closet door opened and the dark man came out, wiping something red from his face.

  He walked up to Valdez and shoved a thick envelope into his cup.

  “You didn’t see me, old man.”

  “No, señor. My one good eye is very bad.”

  The dark man smiled and turned away, pulling several items from his pockets and shoving them into a nearby trash receptacle; bloodied pliers, two screwdrivers, a coil of wire, a can of Industrial Strength Drano, a fistful of teeth, and a chunk of slick meat: a human tongue.

  He looked over his shoulder and saw Valdez staring at him. “Use the money well, old man.” Then he knelt down and picked up the lizard.

  It seemed to Valdez that something passed between the dark man and the reptile but it was quickly gone. The man tossed the lizard back into Valdez’s lap and walked away.

  As he counted the money in the envelope Valdez looked at the lizard and smiled. “Tonight, we sleep in a bed, my friend. I’ll buy you lots of bugs to fill your stomach with. Maybe we buy ourselves a whore. Two whores, no?” He laughed. “Two whores, yes!”

  The lizard blinked and turned to watch the dark man leave the station.

  * * *

  Patch said nothing to Humberto, only put the van in drive and drove back toward the road that would take them to Humberto’s house in Matamoros.

  Humberto wiped something from his eye, inhaled deeply, and waited for the pain in his core to lessen.

  He knew he’d be waiting for the rest of his life.

  After a while he picked up his flute, lifted it to his lips, then pulled it away and tossed it out the window.

  “What do we do now?” asked Patch, whose face wore the expression of someone who thought he’d seen all the abyss had to threaten him with, only to see another face whose expression proved him wrong.

  “I hear there’s a bunch of frat boys coming down to Tijuana to bang some whores this weekend,” whispered Humberto. “I ... I bet we could roll them for some—oh Christ!” He buried his face in his hands for a moment, took several deep breaths, then looked up at Patch.

  “Frat boys ought to have a tidy wad of cash. If we get some film for your goddamned camera, we could probably catch a few in ... compromising positions.”

  “I never cared for frat boys,” said Patch.

  “I’ll make some other calls, see if there’s anyone in need of coyotes for border runs.”

  “Yeah, sounds good to me.”

  “Yes,” whispered Humberto, looking out the window at the dust and death of home. “We’ve got plenty of business to attend to.”

  Yes. Business.

  Always there was business.

  Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree

  Introduction by Elizabeth Massie

  Life alienates us from each other by virtue of our individual bodies and the various chemistries of our minds. We’re set adrift to navigate, to do what we can, to fix what we can with whatever tools we have. Joseph picks the handiest tool for the job and is determined to get to the root of his problem and fix it. Who can argue with that? (And thanks for the gut-wrenching chills, Gary! Nobody can do it like you do.)

  Don’t Sit Under The Apple Tree

  "There is no such thing as personal responsibility."

  —Timothy Leary

  Joseph Sandeman discovered the source of all his life's frustration the night after his forty-sixth birthday. He was lying in bed next to his wife who was snoring (again), wide awake because they'd been fighting (again) over the various paths taken by their three children. He drummed his fingers over the flab of his ever-extending waistline as he stared at the ceiling. Finally, unable to endure another ten seconds of his wife's moose calls, he rose, put on his robe, and walked down to the kitchen where he made himself a cold bologna sandwich and stood over the sink, staring out the window into the backyard. Which is when and how he made his discovery.

  The revelation was so sudden and stunning to him that he froze with his teeth halfway through the sandwich, unaware of the ketchup that dripped out and spattered down the front of his
chest as if he'd just cut his own throat.

  He dropped the rest of his sandwich into the garbage disposal and smiled wide as he stood there gawking at his discovery. Then he went down to his workroom in the basement and pulled his new chainsaw down from the wall. He checked the tightness of the chain, oiled it, and thought of his family.

  He was so happy he didn't even notice that he cut a small chunk out of his left thumb.

  Of course his life hadn't always been one of endless frustration that would one day lead to self-loathing; on the contrary, his younger days with the advertising firm had held a lot of promise for a bright future. He'd finished college on the G.I. bill after WWII eventually dropped his ass right into the middle of Anzio where he earned no less than four different medals for valor and heroism. He was given a hero’s welcome by his friends and family upon returning home.

  He'd been able to choose the university he would attend, since virtually dozens of offers had come in on the heels of his much-lauded return. (These were still in the days when a local hero was just that: a hero.) He'd breezed through the various and required industrial arts courses that set him on the path to More Serious Study. Once out of college he quickly found employment as a member of the "think tank" for the state's most successful and prestigious advertising firm, married his high school sweetheart, and found himself firmly set in the niche reserved for those few well-adjusted War Heroes who Easily Fulfilled Their Vast Potential.

  After fifteen years of cruising along without so much as a ripple, the waves came crashing down.

  His wife, Alice, started getting lazy and growing fat after the birth of the twins, Karen and Laura. The firm fell on some hard times which, though they didn't last long, caused him to lose some of the social standing he'd worked so hard for within the community—which was to say he'd had to resign from the country club because its fees were just a little out of his reach. He never rejoined. Both of the girls married badly and often ran up the long distance bill when they called, always in tears, to bemoan the fact to their parents. Somewhere along the line he and Alice had gotten careless, resulting in the birth of Andrew, a Down syndrome child who—though neither he nor Alice would admit it—was a supreme embarrassment to them. Andrew had been injured when he was ten years old and would wear a leg brace until the day he died.