Point Dume

by Katie Arnoldi

  The Minutemen were another threat. These were crazed American citizens who patrolled the border, searching for migrants, itching to take the law into their own hands. Usually the Minutemen would just hold you at gun-point and wait until the immigration authorities showed up. But Santos said he’d heard of beatings, even a couple of deaths. He told the group that he was an expert at this problem too, nothing to worry about, no reason to be nervous.

  They arrived at the crossing point. Everyone piled out of the van and went off in search of a shady place to await nightfall.

  Felix fitted the straps from his small duffle bag around his shoulders like a backpack. He’d tied together two plastic one-gallon bottles with a piece of twine so he could sling them over this shoulder. He carried the third gallon in his hand. The set-up was extremely uncomfortable and he wished he had a proper backpack like Santos and some of the guys but he told himself it was no problem. Everything would be fine.

  The moon was nearly full. They crawled under a dilapidated barbwire fence, single file, then fell into line behind their leader. There was no trail, no indicator that marked the path to freedom. Felix wondered how anyone could possibly walk in that terrain on nights that were cloudy or dark. Everyone was stumbling over the sharp rocks and twisted roots, struggling to keep up with the surprisingly rapid pace. It was a challenge not to fall or make any noise but Santos had once again reminded them before leaving of the danger and the importance of passing through in silence.

  The straps from the duffle bag were making Felix’s arms go numb. He tried to shift the weight so that the bag rode higher on his back but then the water bottles that were balanced over his shoulders shifted and threw off his gait. It was fine. He just needed to think about something else.

  Argus walked in front of him. Felix had noticed earlier that he had a problem with his knee and already, less than an hour into the trip, the limp was getting worse. He also had one milky eye, the result of a mishap at a chicken farm up north where he’d worked the year before. Argus had been coming across for a few years and had a lot of stories, most of them ugly. If you get hurt up there, he said, no one is going to help. You will be fired and driven off. If you can’t work, you are useless. Be very careful. It’s dangerous but worth it. With the money Argus had made in one season, his family had been able to build their own house. Life was better for his children. It was definitely worth the risk.

  Luz walked behind, the last in line. He was an ugly man, about forty, with a thick neck, lopsided head, misshapen yellow teeth that seemed to be stuck into his gums in no particular order, thick tufts of hair growing out of his ears, and wet blubbery lips. His breath stank and his jack-o-lantern smile looked more like a grimace, or an extreme expression of pain. He spoke with a pronounced lisp and was hard to understand but Felix had worked out that he lived in a village not far from Morelia with his grandparents and cousins. Felix thought Luz might be a little retarded; his observations were somewhat child-like and his reflexes appeared to be dulled. He had a bad habit of sucking on the knuckle of his right index finger and humming tuneless songs but he was friendly. Santos had had to explain the plan a couple of times to him before he stopped asking questions even though there wasn’t much to understand. They were going to walk all night until the sun came up and then find a place to hide and wait until dark, then do it again. Luz had seemed to understand about keeping quiet but he was making a lot of noise now, dragging his feet and constantly blowing his nose. Felix worried. What if Luz attracted problems? It wasn’t fair to the rest of them. Felix wanted to change places in line with someone, get some distance, but there wasn’t really anyway to do that so he tried to block out the clamorous turmoil behind him and just keep going.

  They walked for at least three hours before stopping for a water break. Felix’s t-shirt was soaked through with sweat but once they stopped moving, he found it hard to keep warm in the cold desert air. It was hard to believe that this was the same baking-hot landscape from the afternoon. He unloaded his water bottles and shrugged out of his duffle bag. By now his hands were almost completely numb from lack of circulation so he rubbed them together trying to get the feeling back.

  If he drank water evenly out of the tied together bottles there would be less weight on his shoulders. But if he finished off the gallon container that he carried in his hands, he could drop it, giving him one less thing to worry about. Felix sat down on a low rock and took little sips out of the single container, mindful of Santos’ advice. Conserve the water. If you run out and get dehydrated, you will die. But how much was too much? Felix was thirsty and it was impossible to drink while they were walking. He took a few big gulps and hoped that was the correct amount then capped the bottle.

  Luz was sitting in the dirt making complicated knots with his shoelaces. Who had paid for his crossing? What kind of work would he find? Argus had asked earlier about his plans but Luz was vague, saying something about an uncle in Fresno. Felix watched the simple man struggle to get the ends of his laces to line-up exactly. How would this man survive? Felix picked up his things and walked over to the tree where Santos stood. He would walk at the front of the line from now on.

  The next leg of the trip was longer and harder. They had to cross a small cluster of mountains. It was steep and dark and there was virtually no trail. Several times Felix heard people behind him fall and curse but he never looked back. He just focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Keep going. What did Ernesto do today? Probably chased chickens. And Violeta? No, he couldn’t think of her. Not now. He didn’t have the energy for sadness. Not right now.

  As they got deeper into the desert, Felix noticed more and more trash along the way, discarded bottles, old pairs of shoes, backpacks, books, photo albums, bibles. He knew without asking. People got tired. The things they thought they couldn’t live without suddenly didn’t seem so important when faced with exhaustion. If Felix had had anything extra, he’d probably drop it. His body ached and he was thirsty. A blister had formed on his left heel and he needed to cut his toenails.

  They crested a ridge and headed down into a small rocky valley. There were a few cacti here and there but otherwise it was as barren and cold as the backside of the moon. They walked without speaking. Even at the front of the line, Felix could hear Luz shuffling and sneezing in the back. The moonlight was bright but it was still hard to see clearly. There was a mound up ahead. Felix assumed that it was another pile of discarded belongings but as they approached, he thought he could make out a leg and an arm. Somebody was sleeping out here? For a minute he hid behind the question but then the smell slapped him in the face. He didn’t want it to be true. As they approached, he saw that an animal had torn away some of the clothes and gotten to the stomach and part of the face. It was a man, hard to say if he’d been young or old. It looked like he’d curled up on his side, using his backpack for a pillow, and taken a nap right there in the middle of nowhere. What happened? Who left him here? The group didn’t stop. Felix crossed himself and held his breath as they passed then tried to put it away. He could-n’t think about this, couldn’t let that reality be a part of his life. Instead he let his mind focus on how badly his right big toe hurt and how easily he could fix it by just cutting the nail and that’s all he thought about for the next hour until they stopped for another water break.

  Felix pulled his shoe off and gently rubbed the toe. It was throbbing, painful to the touch. How many more hours could he walk like this? Why hadn’t he thought to trim his nails? Stupid. He was wondering about cutting a hole in the end of his shoe to relieve the pressure when Santos reached over and silently handed him a pair of nail clippers. Felix took the clippers with stunned gratitude and had to turn away quickly because he didn’t want Santos to see the tears that flooded his eyes and ran down his cheeks. This small gesture of kindness was somehow too much. Why was he crying? He never cried. Felix got up and walked away from the group. He sat behind some bushes and tried to pull himself together. This was nonsense. Sto
p. He bent over to prepare his feet for the rest of the journey. He honestly did-n’t know why he was crying. His mind wouldn’t settle on a single thought, there was no single reason. He just felt an overwhelming sorrow. What would happen to him? His family? Where was he? Who abandoned that poor man back there? Why had he agreed to do this? How could he possibly go on? He sat there for a long time trying to control his mind, his emotions. Finally Santos called him. They had to keep moving.

  The next section of the trek was a steep downhill and even though he’d cut the nails, it was agonizingly painful as each step drove his toes into the front of his shoes. He was-n’t really paying attention to anything around him, focusing on his pain and exhaustion, and so missed the first warning sounds. They’d just entered a narrow canyon and were walking single file, as usual. Felix was once again towards the back of the line, ahead of Argus and Luz. Luz was humming quietly, sliding his feet, kicking up a little cloud of dust with every step. And suddenly Santos took off and shouted for them all to run. Felix looked to the left and saw two men running towards them from a side canyon, yelling and shooting their guns in the air. Felix’s mind shut down and his body took over. He would not die out here. He would not be left behind to rot in the desert sun. A fierce rage drove him as he pushed the man in front of him aside, Victor or Javier, and ran with everything his body could offer. He heard more gun shots and Luz’s unmistakable wail but he didn’t stop, did not even look back and neither did any of the men in front of him. They charged down that canyon, flying over rocks and shrubs, and when they hit the open desert they continued running for their lives. When they’d finally put enough distance between themselves and the mountains, and it was clear that they hadn’t been followed, Santos stopped. Felix fell to his knees, his body completely drained. One of the men, Nacho, was retching and Javier cried. Everyone was out of breath and sick with fear. Felix looked around. There were three men missing, Luz, Argus and Victor.

  “We can’t stop,” Santos said. “There could be more of them. Drink some water. We’ve got another couple of hours or so before the sun comes up. I know a place we can hide but we have to move fast.”

  Somehow they continued on and got to the resting place just as the sun was about to come up. It was an area along a dry riverbed where the water had cut deep recesses into the layers of soft limestone creating a series of deep shelves. Felix pulled off his shoes and saw that his left sock was saturated with blood from the blister on his heel. He would lose both his toenails but he didn’t care. Exhaustion rendered him numb. One more night of walking and then they’d be picked up and taken to the safe house. Santos had promised that the danger was behind them now. Felix wanted to believe him. He took a drink of water, then crawled back into his narrow cave and fell asleep just as the sun came up over the horizon. He did not dream.

  ELLIS IN THE DARK

  ELLIS COULD NOT SLEEP IN THE DARK. SHE NEEDED TO BE able to define the space, see the horizons of the room clearly. As long as there was visible logic in the geometry of the area, she could relax. She had a list that she’d composed when she was a little girl:Floor—check.

  Line where floor meets wall—check.

  Wall—check.

  Window—check.

  Line where wall meets ceiling—check.

  Ceiling—check.

  Overhead light (on)—check.

  As a child, she’d lie in bed, very still, with the covers pulled up to her chin, and run this list in order, over and over, waiting for her father to return from those late nights at the bar.

  She had gone through her list last night, kept the light on as usual, even had a couple of drinks and smoked a bunch of that Jupiter Kush, but still she hadn’t been able to sleep. That fear was there, hiding at the edges of her mind, the same muted horror that had haunted her all her life.

  She never told her father how terrified she was when he left her alone in that isolated house on the cliff, never mentioned how the sound of the crashing waves seemed to get louder as the night got darker and how the surf masked a much darker noise, the sound of evil lurking, stalking her, trying to get in. If the ocean would just quiet, she might finally hear what it was. And if she could hear it, maybe she could conquer it. But the waves crashed and the sinister noise was masked, always present but unidentifiable. Ellis would lay there quietly, frozen in her bed, reciting her list. She never complained. Usually he wasn’t interested in hearing from her and she didn’t want to make him angry. From the time she’d been a little girl, her father told her to suck it up. “Don’t show weakness, Ellis. No whining.” Now as an adult, Ellis used the list as a way to relax, to clear her head, to keep things in order. And the light stayed on all night. But still she hadn’t slept.

  She remembered the relief she felt as a girl when she heard the lock slide and the heavy front door shove open. Her father never came down the hall to check on her but she was always awake, there in her bed, listening, waiting. If he were alone, he’d usually stumble down the hallway and go straight to bed. Ellis waited until the house was still then got up and locked the front door because her father never did. Then she’d crawl back into her warm bed and drop right off to sleep, safe at last.

  On the nights that her father brought women home, Ellis would stay up later. The drunken couple usually headed for the kitchen where her father would fix more cocktails. for the kitchen where her father would fix more cocktails. Her father could be a funny man, when his mood was right, and the women always cackled at his jokes. Ellis used to sneak down the hallway and spy on them in the kitchen but there wasn’t really a good hiding spot and she usually got caught.

  “Who is this adorable little creature?” the women would screech.

  Ellis’ father would look up and his face would darken. “Scat,” he’d yell. He didn’t need to say it twice. There was a meanness to him when he drank that Ellis had learned to avoid.

  So usually she would lie in her bed waiting until the pair moved down the hall to his bedroom (sometimes there were three—two women and her father). Each door in the house was fitted with an old-fashioned lock. The skeleton keys to work those locks were long gone by the time Ellis came along so her father installed a bolt on the inside of his bedroom door to insure privacy. But he never covered the keyhole.

  The women always took their drinks and somehow, even with all the kissing and undressing, they managed to finish them. As a very little girl, Ellis assumed that kissing made you thirsty like eating something salty, peanuts or pretzels. A couple of times, when he was the good daddy, Ellis tried to kiss him the way the women did, just to see what it was like, but he always pushed her away. It seemed to make him angry so she stopped.

  Ellis kneeled there at the door, eye pressed to the keyhole, and watched as her father gently removed the woman’s blouse or dress. She was weirdly proud of his expertise. He was so smooth, the women hardly noticed. Then it was the same routine every time: he’d stop kissing their mouths, gently slide the bra straps off the woman’s shoulders, stare at the exposed breasts for a second or two, then look in the woman’s eyes and say, “You are absolutely beautiful. I had no idea. You take my breath away.”

  Same line, every time, no matter the size or shape of the breast and the reactions were identical. The women would come in for more kissing but her father would dodge their mouths and go for the throat, kissing and sucking, then work his way down to the breast, usually the right breast. Sometimes the woman was facing away from the door so all Ellis could see was her back but very often she was facing the right direction and Ellis got the full show. Her father liked to run his tongue around the nipple and all the women seemed to like that. They would arch their backs and moan as he held the breast firmly and made circles with his mouth. They’d reach for him, for his crotch, and he’d let them rub and squeeze but he wouldn’t interrupt his little circles and the more he did it, the louder they’d moan. Then he’d start flicking the tip of the very erect nipple with the end of his tongue and that made the women grind their hip
s and claw at his back. Ellis would reach down and rub her own nipples while watching this. When she was very young there wasn’t much sensation but as she got older the feeling got more and more pleasurable.

  Finally he took the nipple in his mouth and sucked on it. He guided the woman’s hand back to his crotch then together they rubbed his very visible penis through his jeans while he continued to suck on the nipple. And Ellis watched. As her father used the woman’s hand to rub himself, Ellis reached down and touched herself in that same spot. That reached down and touched herself in that same spot. That always felt good, even when she was a tiny girl, and when she got older she figured out how to make herself come, over and over, while she watched her father strip naked and fuck the women as he bent them over his bed or the chest of drawers.

  Ellis tried not to think about those nights of spying on her father now. It was beyond fucked up. And it was really fucked up that it still kind of turned her on. She kicked the covers off her bed, pulled on some jeans and headed for the beach. Maybe a walk would make her feel better.

  The best place to dig for clams was several coves up from Ellis’ house on a point at the end of a long rocky beach. When she was little, Ellis resented that the clams lived so far away. It seemed hard to get there. But even so, she loved those days when the tide was especially low and she and her nice daddy would set off on the long walk, with the bucket and shovels, to find their dinner

  Clams make little dimples in the wet sand when they withdraw their foot. Ellis’ father taught her how to spot the divots then dig with her little shovel a couple inches away so as not to break the shell. You had to move quickly once you started digging because clams take off. It always surprised Ellis how fast they could escape and it seemed the warmer the day, the faster they disappeared into the dark wet sand. It was fun capturing the little white shells and usually, with the two of them working side by side, it didn’t take long until they had enough clams for a big feast.