Big Maria

by Johnny Shaw

  “I could break your leg in the wrong place.”

  Harry shook his head so hard it looked like it hurt. “You’re thinking too much. There ain’t no right place. A break is a break is a break. When it’s time—and that’s some drinks away—you’ll bring that snakeskin boot down and the pieces will fall where you break ’em.”

  “Damn crazy, you ask me.”

  “Crazy’s been working for me lately.”

  “Stupid’s a close second. What if I won’t do it?”

  “I’d respect that. Kind of a sissy move for an Indian, considering I’m on the receiving end. I can head down to some bar or street corner and find someone that hates me or some meth-head. Either way, the one bone will be two bones by morning.”

  “And you won’t go to the hospital after?”

  “Can’t. Got to act like it’s been like that the whole time. Like it was something they missed last exam. It’s only twelve hours. I’m going to get serious drunk. Ain’t no amount of pain I can’t take for that long with the right amount of booze in me.”

  “They’ll know it’s a fresh break.”

  “As long as it’s in the same spot, I’ll tell them that’s the way it’s been. Can’t prove otherwise. They’ll got to believe me.”

  Frank shrugged. He didn’t want to break Harry’s leg, but they needed the money for the boat and scuba rental. If Harry was crazy enough to break his own leg for the sake of the treasure hunt, Frank shouldn’t talk him out of it. Hell, he admired the man’s conviction. He just didn’t want to go to hell for something sinful that someone asked him to do.

  He tried to remember his Ten Commandments. Flipping through the list, Frank confirmed that there was no commandment against hurting someone, let alone breaking the leg of someone that asked. As long as you didn’t kill no one, assault appeared to be allowed by God.

  Harry sat back in the chair in his cramped trailer and held up his bottle. “So have a drink with me. It’ll make it easier on both of us. Might even be fun.”

  Frank tipped his glass and gave Harry the worst fake smile since his eldest daughter’s wedding to that Republican.

  Three hours later, Harry was slurring, staggering, and prepped for a severe leg injury. Frank hadn’t come close to keeping up with Harry’s pace, but he was a little drunk. It had been a while. It felt dangerous but good to lose even a little control. He felt younger and—in a good way—stupider.

  “I love you, Frank. You’re like my Tonto. I’m the Lone Ranger and you’re my Tonto. Tonto’s horse’s name was Scout. Get ’em up, Scout. Used to watch that show. When I was a kid, I’d sit on the floor, eat baloney out of the packet. Watch all the black-and-whites when shows weren’t color. Used to be in not color. You’re an old guy. Probably watched the old TV shows on the radio. I love you, Tonto.”

  Frank smiled. He was a couple minutes from breaking the man’s leg. Let him have his ramble. Nothing lonelier than a drunk with no audience. Least he could do was give him an ear. Although he could do without that Tonto crap.

  “My name is Harold Frederick Schmittberger. But you know what everyone calls me? Shitburger! Or sometimes Shitty or Shits or the Shitburglar. Why are people mean? My name is Harry. Harold. What about Hal? I’d settle for Schmitty. When we find that gold, nobody’s going to call me Shitburger anymore. Or Baron Von Shitburg. Or Shitter McShittington. Or Shitsburgh, Pennsylvania. It’s going to be Mr. Schmittberger, sir.”

  “That’s right,” Frank said, not convinced.

  “You’re my friend. And Ricky, too. The big, dumb kid. My friends. I love the hell out of you guys. I even like your grandkids. They scare me, pretty sure they want to scalp me, but I know if I got to know them, if they’re kin of yours, then we could find mutual interests, things to talk about. I’m sure that I could be friends with them, too.”

  “They’re good boys.”

  “They like to golf?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “See. There you go. I don’t like golf either. Hate it. Don’t like playing. Well, I don’t know if I do, never tried it proper. Took a dump in one of the holes and passed out pants-down in a sand trap on the municipal course on one of my rougher nights. I thought it was funny, but the cops got no sense of humor. That’s why I hate golf. Rather sit in a park and get drunk. All that pretty grass, none of the work. And I can play with my balls in a park, too.” Harry laughed his nauseating laugh.

  “It’s time.” Frank felt he had done his duty. Harry’s rambling gave him a headache, and he had to get his granddaughter’s car back before she got off work at Pollo Loco.

  “Time for what?”

  “Your leg.”

  Harry looked down at his leg. “Oh, yeah. I was—we were having such a good conversation. Bonding and all. Almost forgot.”

  His eyes got red and wet. He stared at the limb like he was kissing his sweetheart good-bye. He nodded his head.

  “Let’s do this.”

  The trailer offered little room to maneuver. Harry took the stained mattress off his bed and leaned it against the far wall. He pulled out one of the pine slats and set it to the side. He took off his pants, folded them, and chucked them to the side. He sat on the edge of the bed with the length of his lower leg running over the gap between the slats.

  Frank stood over him. He lifted his boot just above the leg.

  “Wait,” Harry shouted. Frank rested his foot. Harry found a pencil on the ground and put it between his teeth. He clutched the Saint Christopher medallion around his neck and mumbled something.

  “What?” Frank asked.

  Harry took out the pencil and said, “I’m ready.” He bit back down on the pencil.

  Frank nodded, lifting his foot.

  “Wait,” Harry shouted again, spitting out the pencil. “Is this the right leg? I mean, this is my right leg, but is it right. Or my left?”

  “How should I know? You said you had a cast. Which leg was the cast on?”

  Harry stood up and took a few steps. He mimicked a limp with his left, then his right. “Definitely the right.” He sat back down and got his leg in position. He returned the pencil to his mouth.

  “You ready?” Frank lifted his boot for the third time.

  Talking through the pencil and drooling, Harry responded, “You going to count to three or ten or something? You can count down like the space shuttle. Like ten, nine…”

  Frank brought his boot down onto Harry’s leg. The snap of the bone and the pencil harmonized. Harry screamed.

  Harry’s bone was visible through the top of his leg, a splintered pink and white shard. A trickle of blood dripped toward his ankle. Harry’s mouth froze in a scream, but only a gurgling sound came out. Tears rolled down his face.

  Harry fumbled for his bourbon. He tried to take a drink but poured most of it down the side of his face.

  “I’m sorry” was all Frank could get out, staring at the wound.

  “Why?” Harry said to him when he was finally able to speak.

  “You asked me to.”

  “Why? Why’d you break my leg?” Harry tried to stand but screamed in pain the moment his foot hit the ground. He fell back onto the bed slats. His rubbery, broken leg bled and dangled off the edge.

  “I’ll take you to the emergency room. Come on, let’s get you to the hospital.”

  For a long few seconds, Harry said nothing. The look in his eyes told Frank that it was time for him to go.

  “You broke my leg, old man!” Harry lunged at him, but was too far away to do anything but fall off the bed.

  Frank got out of the trailer, taking each step as carefully and quickly as his old bones would allow. He heard Harry behind him rummaging through his stuff. It sounded like he was dismantling the trailer from the inside.

  Frank old-man-ran to his granddaughter’s Volkswagen. He looked over his shoulder in time to catch Harry at the trailer door. He had found a crutch and was maneuvering down the steps. In his other hand was a long samurai sword.

  “Aw, hell,”
Frank said, fumbling with the keys.

  “You broke my leg! I break you!”

  Harry tried to hop down the last two steps on his good leg, but tripped and landed weird on his bad leg. The sound he made sounded like a pterodactyl getting strangled.

  Frank unlocked the car door but stopped to see if Harry was okay. He was worried that he may have landed on the sword.

  “You okay?”

  Harry’s pain-contorted face looked like he was transforming into some kind of monster. With the help of the crutch, he rose.

  “Yeah, you’re fine,” Frank said. He got in the car, locked all the doors, and started the engine.

  When Harry reached the car, he crawled onto the hood. Frank punched it in reverse, causing Harry to slide down the sharp arc of the Beetle. His chin hit the front bumper with force. Landing on his bad leg again, pain outranked anger. He threw the katana to the side and cradled his leg like a dead pet.

  Frank rolled down the window. “If you scratched Emma’s car, expect to pay for it when you’re sober.”

  “You were supposed to be my Tonto.”

  “You still want a ride to your doctor’s appointment?”

  Harry looked at his leg and his sword. He nodded. “Pick me up at eight thirty.”

  FOURTEEN

  When Ricky woke up, he couldn’t open his mouth. Half asleep, panicked, and confused, he irrationally convinced himself that his lips had been sewn together in his sleep. Clawing at his mouth, he quickly realized that dried blood had congealed and sealed it shut. He pried his lips apart and licked at the red crust, feeling it melt on his tongue.

  “You tried to run,” a deep, familiar voice said.

  Frank sat on a chair. The dogs were gone.

  “Where’s the dogs?” Ricky asked. His tongue felt like a soaked sponge.

  “They’re dogs. They need to run around. Do dog things. They’re outside.”

  “They bit the crap out of me.”

  “That the dogs’ fault? That’s what dogs do. Your fault for testing the reach of your tether.”

  “Definitely the dogs’ fault. It was their teeth. Your grandsons slept through the whole thing.”

  Frank smiled. “They love their weed. Makes for deep sleep. Like the way those boys talk. Makes them sound like movie Injuns or retardeds, but it’s the mota. How you feeling? You need stitches? A transfusion? A hug?”

  “I’m ready to go home.”

  “I been in your home. Ain’t much of one.”

  “Why you doing this?”

  “It would bother me when I read your obituary, thinking I could’ve done something. Can’t watch you quit yourself.”

  “Then don’t watch.”

  “Too late. You’re my project now.” Frank stood, knocking dust off the thighs of his jeans. “Get up.”

  Ricky stared at him but didn’t make him repeat it. He stood up slowly and painfully. His legs barely held underneath him.

  “Where we going?”

  But Frank had already walked out the door.

  “He was pretty mad last night. Not sure what to expect,” Frank said. “Best you go in, test the waters.”

  Ricky gave Frank a lifted eyebrow. They sat in the Volkswagen in front of Harry’s trailer.

  “How mad?”

  “He attacked me with a samurai sword.”

  Ricky breathed a short laugh.

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’ll go so long as you know I ain’t your slave to do whatever you say,” Ricky said. But he was all protest and no fight. He got out of the car and walked to Harry’s trailer, a limp in both legs that made him walk like he had crapped his pants.

  He knocked on the side of the trailer, the tin clanging loudly. He waited, inspecting the tooth marks on his withered arm. The shriveled flesh and atrophied muscles reminded him of chicken skin. He couldn’t look at it for long without getting this weird feeling that it wasn’t his arm. He banged harder, and when he got no response, he turned to Frank and shrugged. Frank made a turn-the-knob motion with his hand.

  Ricky tried the door. Unlocked. He hollered Harry’s name as he entered.

  Harry was sprawled on the floor of the dark, trashed trailer. There were clothes, bottles, and books everywhere. Ricky watched Harry until he saw discernible breathing. He gave Harry a soft kick in the thigh with his boot. Harry’s eyes popped open. Ricky flinched, taking a step back.

  Harry slurred a series of sounds that were meant to be words.

  Ricky acted like everything was normal. “Frank’s out in the car. Told me to come get you.”

  “Time is it?” The words were garbled but there.

  “Almost eight.”

  “Got doctor.” Harry sat up. “Lights.”

  Ricky found the switch and turned it on. The first thing he saw in the fresh light was the bone sticking out of Harry’s leg. The area was bruised black and covered with dried blood. Yellow fat poked through like the foam in a torn cushion.

  “Your leg.” Ricky tasted last night’s tacos in the back of his throat but kept them down.

  “Frank broke it.”

  “Old man don’t mess around, does he?” Ricky said.

  “Help me get my pants on.”

  As Ricky got closer, he caught a hard whiff of the earthy rank of Harry’s leg and his hundred-proof sweat. It was a nauseating combo pack.

  Ricky did his best to get Harry dressed. But he only had one good arm and Harry couldn’t sit upright. It made for a lot of clumsy fumbling. Finally, frustrated and impatient, Ricky disregarded Harry’s whimpering and jammed his legs into the pant legs.

  Frank could hear Harry’s screams from inside the car.

  After Ricky helped Harry down the trailer steps and into the front seat, he slid in the back himself. The three men sat in silence in the small car. Harry and Frank turned slowly to face each other. Harry took a long pull from a fresh whiskey bottle and belched.

  Frank spoke first. “You asked me to. I hadn’t wanted to. I tried to talk you out of it. I let you have your one-time fit, because you were drunk and hurt. But try something again, you’ll be plenty goddamn sorry.”

  “If I weren’t still drunk, maybe I’d be mad. Screw it, I’ll let it go. Be the bigger man. You don’t even have to apologize.”

  “Good, ’cause I don’t make a habit of apologizing for things I ain’t done wrong. Way I see it, I was helping a friend.”

  “Hurt like hell.”

  Frank nodded and shrugged. “Bet it did at that. I might have come down on the leg a little hard. I got anxious.”

  “The way luck works. It’ll all balance out down the line.”

  “Everything happens for a reason?” Ricky asked.

  Harry took another drink. “Yeah. Something like that, but not.”

  “Don’t Indians call it karma?” Ricky asked.

  Harry laughed, liquor running down his chin. “That’s the other Indians. From India. Like here’s a for example, used to see it down the prison all the time. Guy’s doing ten years ’cause he robbed a place and shot a guy or something else stupid. He’s in prison. But because he’s in this bad place, a good thing happens. He finds God or Allah or himself. If the guy wouldn’t’ve been sent down, he’d never got saved.”

  “But what about the guy who got shot?”

  “Exactly. Because he got shot, he probably ended up getting a handie from a hot nurse or something. Don’t know exactly, but there is a balance. A natural order.”

  “What if the guy that got shot died?”

  “Not in my scenario. That’s a different thing,” Harry said, battling to keep his eyes open. “Chuckawalla is medium security. Nobody that killed nobody is in there, ’cept drunk drivers or manslaughterers.”

  Frank shook his head. “I don’t know much, but you don’t have a damn clue what karma means.”

  Harry shushed Frank loudly. “It’s like this. Bad things been happening to me a lot and all my life, even worser than usual lately, but there’s always something comes out of it.
And to get where we’re going—heck, we’re looking for hidden gold—more bad’s going to happen. That’s a good thing. ’Cause the way it’s tracking, we need to go through the bad and tons of it, if the good is going to be the kind of good that’s really good. Ricky knows what I’m talking about.”

  “No, I don’t. Far as I can see, bad leads to more bad.”

  Harry shook his head. “But it don’t. You’ll see. My whole life, all the horriblest stuff, it’s been leading to now. Or else, it wouldn’t be fair. I’m due. It’s all leading to something good. Something great. All the truly awful pain I’ve had to take, that’s the balance on the one end of the scale. The good’s got to be equally big. It’s got to be as big as a gold mine.”

  Harry smiled, his two front teeth still missing. Frank smiled, too. It was possible. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.

  FIFTEEN

  “Where are we going?” Ricky asked.

  Frank had dropped Harry off at the Imperial Valley Regional Medical Center, and now they were driving through El Centro. The impractical, tall palms that lined the dusty streets offered little shade and no beauty. The emptiness of the downtown felt unnatural, like a movie set in decay.

  After Frank parked, he turned to Ricky and head-nodded for him to take a look across the street. Kids were at recess in a playground. Girls and boys in white shirts and black pants or skirts ran and laughed. High-pitched Spanish and English filled the air.

  Through some instinctual imperative, Ricky’s eyes found Rosie immediately.

  Ricky ducked in his seat. “No. Let’s go.”

  Frank didn’t say anything.

  “Come on, Mr. Pacheco. Frank. Don’t do this.”

  Frank kept his eyes forward.

  “She’ll see me.”

  Frank grabbed Ricky by the back of the neck. He leaned in close, their noses almost touching.

  “Do you see now? What it’s about? It’s about that little girl. You don’t get your past back, but you got a shot at a future. Not yours. Her future. That’s still out there. You got to let that bus crash, the drinking, the self-pity, let it go and start doing right by the people you owe, living people. Debts to the dead don’t mean a tinker’s damn.”