Out There: a novel

by Sarah Stark

  “Her mom was from Chihuahua, I think,” Jefferson said, thinking now that he should have asked his grandmother about that before he’d taken off on this journey, about whether she thought they had any relatives living there still, since he’d be traveling through.

  “She learned how to read as a kid, but she didn’t become a real reader until I went to elementary school and needed help. She helped me learn to read, and that’s when she really started loving books.” Jefferson thought about this for the first time. It was true. His grandmother was a real reader, the kind of woman who always had a stack of books on her bedside table and fell asleep each night with one facedown on her chest. “If I had to pick one, I’d say her favorite writer is Kurt Vonnegut Jr.,” he said. “But she also really, really loves Eudora Welty.”

  “Ah . . . ,” said the old man, his keen eyes on the ground. “Claro.”

  “But she hasn’t read One Hundred Years of Solitude,” Jefferson said apologetically. “Not that I know of, anyways.”

  “Ah, sí,” said the old man.

  “I’m gonna work on her, though. I mean, not that you need any salespeople. Not that you need any help—you know what I mean? But for her, you know? I want her to read One Hundred Years for her. Because, you know, it would change her life.”

  He talked, and the old man listened. At some point his stories about his grandmother turned into something else, and Jefferson found that he was talking about Ms. Tolan and the tears she got in her eyes when speaking the words Gabriel . . . García . . . García Márquez. He was telling about RT and the three Iraqi girls and their father, driving away in their little Toyota. About beautiful, plentiful Tajia and their passion among the bags of pancake mix and vats of canola oil. About the angry soldiers yelling at him that last time in the dining hall. All this went on for what must have been hours while the old man listened. He did not interrupt to ask questions or try to get ahead to where he felt the story might be headed. He did not fidget. He did not cross and recross his legs. He did not seem to have to fight off drowsiness. Occasionally he nodded, and a few times he raised his eyebrows.

  Until finally the cocks were crowing all over the neighborhood and a man down the block was wheeling his trash cans down to the street, looking at Jefferson and the old man and the dogs and the birds in a funny way. They walked back toward the old man’s compound, talking about the grass and the flowers and the sky as they went, and as they neared the street where the old man lived, Jefferson said how much he’d enjoyed meeting him and that he planned to be in town a few more days (the truth was, he had no real plan) and that if it was okay, he would be waiting by the back gate, the turquoise gate carved with the visions of the cosmos, in the wee hours of the next morning, just in case the old man was free to go on another late-night walk with him.

  “Sí, bueno,” said Gabriel García Márquez. “Perhaps.”

  And then, because he did not want the moment to end, Jefferson explained that he had one more thing he wanted to share with the old man. Just a little something.

  They were standing at the corner of Calle Miércoles and Buena Vista, the turquoise gate in view, when Jefferson began to chant. It seemed the right time to share the collage he’d been working on all that time. If he was honest, he’d begun the collage even before he’d set out on this journey, from the time he had started collecting favorite lines in his mind and in his heart. True, it was the kind of project that could go on a lifetime, forever being refined, but for the moment Jefferson believed it was good enough to share. And besides, here was the great writer standing before him as the first light entered the new day. It was Saturday, mid-December, and the morning had a luminescent mistiness about it that reminded him of the possibility of angels.

  Jefferson took a half step back from the old man, into the middle of the narrow street, and he filled his lungs with hope. He closed his eyes, and lifted his chin to the heavens, and began to chant the words that came to him now as if they’d been imprinted forever on the canvas of his mind.

  He began with what was really the title—Out There—and he chanted that a few times to warm up his voice and to make it clear to GGM that he was serious. The old man stood perfectly still, his chin slightly cocked. And then Jefferson launched into what was in that moment his favorite line, revised to fit the collage, among the Forty-One All-Time Best Quotes.

  It rained for more than three years, and many months and two days.

  This too, Jefferson chanted a number of times before going on.

  And then,

  A radiant Wednesday brought a trickle of blood,

  Out under the door,

  Crossing the living room,

  Running out into the street.

  My heart’s memory stopped,

  Replaced by a viscous bitter substance.

  Someone dead under the ground,

  Dark bedrooms,

  Captured towns,

  A scorpion in my sheets.

  Conservatives and Liberals, all of them wearing funny underwear.

  The smell of dry blood.

  The bandages of the wounded.

  All of it,

  A silent storm.

  Me, left out there.

  Dying of hunger and of love.

  He stood in the street, chanting each word as if it were its own unique memory, holding the paper on which he’d written and scratched out and rewritten just in case he forgot a line next to his chest. If he had to say, it was one of his best-ever efforts as an individual, if only because he had worked so hard on the collage, and he felt it was better than trying to explain in normal sentences to Gabriel just how important the words were. One of his favorite stanzas was about the big world Jefferson had experienced “out there,” a world he believed was best described by García Márquez’s language—parrots reciting Italian arias, hens laying golden eggs to the sound of tambourines, men making gold fishes, children discovering ice. How great it was to sing a collage to the original creator of these ideas.

  Although Jefferson knew that he’d taken a few things out of context, he felt as if GGM wouldn’t mind. In fact, didn’t it prove that the novel was even more universal if Jefferson could read a paragraph about falling in love with a woman and transform it into a tribute to falling in love with a book?

  He chanted on, peeking out from under his closed lids to see if the famous writer seemed to be enjoying himself, and more importantly, if he seemed to be understanding all the connections.

  Then I found it.

  Gigantic and sturdy.

  Almost enough to drown me in a cistern.

  Its soft whispering,

  A mineral savoring

  Of love.

  I hung my hammock between almond trees and made love to it in broad daylight.

  I gave thanks to it.

  He chanted the bit about being too young to see the things he’d seen, about finally being able to hear music again, about the hope of one day being able to smell oregano. He chanted the bit about the blessing of living beyond devastation.

  That I would go on living,

  Human and nostalgic,

  Remembering without bitterness,

  Multiplying all that is good,

  Softness in my heart.

  By the time he had finished, the sun was in Jefferson’s eyes, but that did not keep him from seeing the old man’s smile or from hearing his words or the heavy clap of his two hands together.

  “Bravissimo! Bueno!” the old man said.

  “You liked it?”

  “Who’s the writer, now, huh?”

  The two of them stood facing each other a few moments, no words left to say, the day breaking warm in the distance. Jefferson’s ears were beginning to play that hallelujah song, and he was considering singing it softly for GGM, just to make the perfect moment that much better, when the old man turned and began shuffling away, offering a quiet but certain “Hasta luego” as he disappeared behind the turquoise gate.

  44

  Jefferson had spe
nt the day exploring the sunken gardens and, later, drinking coffee under the umbrella of a café stand, replaying his moonlit walk with the great writer. The idea pulsed all around him—the idea that he, Jefferson Long Soldier, had lived to tell his story to Gabriel García Márquez.

  No one else in the whole world knew. He passed laughing children in the park, and he wanted to tell them. He passed old men reading newspapers, and he wanted to interrupt with his news.

  Late in the day he began to get excited, eating a messy plate of beans and rice as slowly as he could manage and asking for five refills of iced tea as he began to anticipate his second encounter with Gabriel. He thought the sun might never set.

  But.

  Eventually.

  Night.

  Came.

  And there Jefferson sat, against the posole-covered wall, giving thanks for a multitude of things, so many people, so many devastatingly beautiful experiences, and waiting. It was just past midnight, probably at least several hours to go before GGM would come for his newspaper through the turquoise gate again, and so Jefferson did his best to organize his thoughts. Sleep would come later. He would sleep once he was back home. For now he had some thinking to do, some prep work for his second visit with Gabriel. The first one had been amazing on many levels, it was true, but Jefferson had realized during the course of the day that he’d failed to mention so many important things to his hero. So many things to remember. And stories. Jefferson began to list the things and the stories he would share on this, his second night with the great writer.

  For starters, there was the list. He had alluded to it, but he hadn’t read it to Gabriel. Tonight he would read it. He was sure that would make an impact. And then there was his plan to say thank you, which had somehow gotten lost in the first visit. He’d muttered the two words, but they had come out garbled, and so Jefferson felt that after having come so far, it was worth another try. Saying thank you was not a thing that could be overdone. Then there were his favorite lines. He’d sung the collage, but that was different from reading the actual list of Forty-One All-Time Best Quotes, which he planned to do tonight. That was so important. How could he have forgotten it?

  The paperboy threw the newspaper short of the sidewalk again, the thing landing in almost exactly the same spot in the street as the previous morning.

  Soon enough a hint of light came, and the scratching of birds on the other side of the gate was soon followed by the shuffle of steps Jefferson had been awaiting. Gabriel was coming. Jefferson could hear his footsteps.

  Much as on the previous evening, he got up and dusted himself off, but this time he stood out in front of the gate, holding the newspaper he’d picked up, ready to present to his friend. Remedios the Pup waited at attention by his side.

  Just as on the previous night, the heavy handle began to turn, and soon the turquoise gate was swinging out to reveal the famous writer in his pajamas, his little dog and the guinea hen at his feet. The old man had a look of disequilibrium about him this time, though, his eyes unnaturally glazed and his gait off-kilter, so Jefferson stepped forward to offer his assistance, telling Gabriel “Good morning” and “How are you doing?” and “Here’s your newspaper, sir.”

  The old man looked at Jefferson anew, as if his old eyes had taken a moment to focus upon the young man standing before him, and then he smiled an old man’s smile, saying, “Why, thank you, and how kind of you.” He took hold of Jefferson’s elbow and proceeded with his shuffle away from the turquoise gate, asking him his name, and whether he’d like to join him in a walk by the light of the moon, and whether he had any stories he’d like to share.

  45

  It was the end of the fifteenth day, and with Mexico City fading behind him, the climb of the high desert plains ahead of him, and many miles to go on the tired Kawasaki, Jefferson began to think of everyone he needed to thank. He started with the entire country of Iraq, thanking all those citizens of that distant land for all their sacrifices. And then the US Army, his Tenth Mountain Division and the men and women who’d shared his living space. Thank you, Rock Guns, he said in his mind. He’d met a famous writer, his very own Gabriel, and while it had not changed everything, it was an accomplishment. How many people could claim it? Some people thought miracles changed everything, and that was missing the point. He was grateful for the trip and for the time he’d shared with the old writer, and he was thankful for all the miracles that had happened along the way, even for the bergamot woman who had chosen to spare his life.

  Gabriel García Márquez was still Number One, but after him a long list followed in Jefferson’s mind, beginning with Esco, who he knew was responsible for so much, much of which he would never know. He guessed he probably would have died of diaper rash or curdled milk in his bottle or that a flash flood would have whisked him away in his stroller or that he would have been devoured by red ants if it hadn’t been for her. He needed to find Josephina Maria C de Baca, and he wanted to write to Tajia, and then there was Ms. Tolan and, of course, Nigel. He’d go see Dr. Monika in a few days, tell her some new stories, and later he’d begin a list of a whole lot of other people he needed to thank, some of them teachers, many of them strangers.

  Jefferson rode slow and easy on the way back home, taking the time to stop along the way whenever there seemed a good reason. By the time he made it back to that roadside spot near the little town of La Parrita and saw the lone man still standing on the edge of the road, he already knew he would stop. Though their conversation was brief and bare, a mix of Spanish and English, Jefferson learned the story of the man’s difficult adolescence, and of his love of nature and his hope for mankind too. Every day, the lone man told Jefferson, he waited on that roadside until one person stopped to say hello. Some days he waited all day. Some days the first passerby stopped.

  In the end, it took Jefferson almost eleven full days to reach Santa Fe. It was late afternoon on Christmas Eve—the best day of the year in his hometown, he had always thought—by the time he took the off-ramp onto St. Francis Drive. Even though he imagined his grandmother had been cooking all day, he bought two dozen tamales at Posa’s on the way home. When he walked through the front door to surprise his family, there they all sat, playing Scrabble and listening to Nat King Cole, Esco’s favorite for the holidays. It was as if he had never left, all over again—only this time the sameness, the coming home, proved to be a comfort.

  After all the hugging and a short dance sequence from Nigel over in the corner and a flurry of questions about how his trip had gone and how had it worked out with the famous writer guy, and how Remedios was as a traveler, Esco told him that the C de Bacas would be joining them for dinner, and did he know Josephina’d had a little baby? She’d decided to be a single mom, had moved back home with her mom because the baby’s father was good for nothing, and, oh yes, she asked about Jefferson from time to time. Esco had thought it was the nice thing to do to include their family for Christmas Eve. She hoped it would be okay with him—she would have asked him if she’d known he was coming home. Jefferson had no words to answer his grandmother, because everything she was saying struck him as so ordinary and good. His eyes began to be aware of a bright light in the corner of the room, sparkling against the ceiling and letting off a soft, warm glow. He could hear the opening few chords of the hallelujah song. It was a little difficult to have a conversation when his gifts were in full swing like this, so he just let an easy smile wash over him.

  After he’d talked a little more and gotten the pup some food in the kitchen, Jefferson went down the hall to the bathroom. He closed the door on the festivities and let the warm quiet pinkness of the space, these old tiles, hold him. Esco had a vanilla votive burning on top of a washcloth on top of the toilet tank, giving off a smell like all the holidays he’d ever had. He ran hot water and washed his hands and looked over his skin in the mirror. It was clear now, though he could see some scarring from before. He felt a slight sadness over this fact, as he’d always worked so hard to have
clear skin, but it was Christmas Eve, and he’d made it home on time, and Josephina and her baby would be coming over soon, so he shook away the small vanity and allowed himself to look straight into his own eyes. They looked good, he thought, as he leaned in real close and stared, just a minute. If someone had seen him, they’d misinterpret, think he was studying his own surface. Really Jefferson just wanted to see for sure. Yes, his eyes were brown—just as they’d always been, he guessed. They didn’t look so tired, considering all that riding. There was even a little holiday sparkle to them, the part of them that could see extraordinary light overlaid on what might appear as darkness to someone else, this quality he swore showed itself now in the mirror as the best part of wisdom.

  “Oh, you look so good,” Esco said when he walked back into the kitchen.

  And there it was. Finally Jefferson could say what he’d wanted to say for so long.

  “It’s really good to be home, Esco. It’s really so good to be home.”

  Out There

  By Jefferson Long Soldier

  In tribute to Gabriel García Márquez

  It rained more than three years, and many months and two days.

  And then

  A radiant Wednesday brought a trickle of blood,

  Out under the door,

  Crossing the living room,

  Running out into the street.

  My heart’s memory stopped,

  Replaced by a viscous bitter substance.

  Someone dead under the ground,

  Dark bedrooms,

  Captured towns,

  A scorpion in my sheets.

  Conservatives and liberals, all of them wearing funny underwear.

  The smell of dry blood.