Borders of the Heart (11 page)

J. D. SEARCHED THE SUBURBAN
for loose change, but Maria had taken most of it when she used the pay phone. He found a couple of quarters in the glove box and some change in the ashtray and the rest in the cup holder and under the driver’s seat. He counted out $3.60 to his name.

If he’d had a towel or an oily rag, he would have girded himself with it, but finding none, he walked into the Walmart on Speedway and Kolb wearing his boots and boxers and T-shirt. A newspaper headline screamed, “Benson Doctor Murdered.” There was no greeter at this time of night, but a woman in a blue shirt and khakis sat next to the exit using a nail file and looking over her glasses at him.

“Welcome to Walmart,” she said across the carts, glancing at his thin shorts.

He pulled his T-shirt down a bit and kept going. The
woman probably saw all kinds overnight, people in various stages of dress and undress. From the look of those gathered at the checkout, he blended well with the crowd, but he still felt naked in the fluorescent light.

To the right, past the customer service desk and the McDonald’s, was the sports paraphernalia, the Arizona Wildcats shirts and hats. Baseball caps and shot glasses. He found what he was looking for on a rack marked Clearance. Shorts and T-shirts had been marked down several times and were actually in his price range. He found a pair of gray sweatpants for $2.97. He stepped into them, holding tight to the change in his left hand as he tried to get his boots through the elastic at the bottom of the pant legs. He kicked off both boots and tried again. When he had the sweats on, he took Maria’s ring off and shoved it into a pocket.

At the checkout he grabbed a Snickers bar and snapped the tag off the sweats and handed both to a woman old enough to be his mother. She scanned the tag and tossed it in a plastic trash can, blipped the candy, and told him the total, then reached out to steady herself with a sun-splotched arm. He placed every cent he had in her hand, having to flick off a few pennies that were held by the sweat and grime, and she looked at them like he had given her a handful of mouse droppings.

“Having a rough night?” she said without looking up.

“You could say that.”

She separated out the quarters, followed by the dimes and nickels, then spread the pennies out and took them by fives.

A man came up behind him holding a box of caramel popcorn and a diabetes test kit, which seemed a killer combination. He wore a tattered T-shirt with a skull on it and a dirty cap over stringy hair. A look as vacant as the parking lot. Someone had
pulled the plug on the gene pool and it felt like he and this man were swirling down the drain.

The woman handed him four pennies. J. D. set them by the credit card reader and said to the man, “Help yourself.”

He ate the candy in three bites and tossed the wrapper in the backseat of the Suburban. Only in America could you clothe and feed yourself with stray money from an ashtray. And make phone calls.

He watched the gas gauge float and the dashboard get brighter as he curved his way toward the mountains away from the city. On Old Spanish Trail he passed saguaros and a restaurant—The Bone-In. A coyote crossed the road and loped into a pasture near a sign with a cow on the front and the words
Open Range
.

His eyes were heavy and stinging and he felt himself drifting, so he finally stuck his head out the window as he roller-coastered along the road’s undulations.

He spotted an ominous brown sign:
Fire Danger Extreme
. The word
Extreme
had a red background, which made it seem more apocalyptic. This was a constant through the summer. If weeds didn’t choke the crops, grasshoppers would. Or the wind. Or a drought would dry everything to chaff, or they’d get too much rain and the flooding would take the plants, roots and all. And if not that, fire could ravage the land and smoke would linger along the mountains like dry hope. There was very little belief that a man could actually raise a crop and make a living at farming, but for whatever reason the people who lived close to the ground kept doing it as if they had no other choice.

Past the sign a hill took him down toward a wash and cool air swept over him—just for a second, but it was a hint of
something to come, a ray of hope in the heat. On that two-lane country road he felt there was something new on the horizon.

She came to him as sweet and real as summer sweat, her hair blocking the sun as beams of light shone through golden strands and sutures. Laughing at the power she had over him, at the life she could call forth or leave sleeping, she kissed his chest, warm and supple lips and freckles, the blinding whiteness of her teeth, dark eyebrows, and the hairline tracking the borders of her face. A continent of love.

She moved closer to his lips, his cheek, and rose, a golden shadow.
You sleep enough for two lifetimes,
she said.

That voice, close to his ear, soft as a cloud and fluttering like a tiny bird feathering into the wind. Her breath on his skin, in his mouth. Breathing in, he took it like a whispered kiss from God.

This was what he missed in sleep. This was why he cursed the hot nights with the metal fan, keeping him from her, wrestling with exhaustion, with himself. This was where he wanted to be and no act of will could take him. It was only in surrender that he found her, but surrender was the most difficult. Surrender was submission to the truth.

He reached to touch her again, but she was up, sitting beside him, turned away. Her spine was a series of mountains rising and falling, her skin tight over the range. Too tight and stretched thin, like a drum’s.

It’s time to get up,
she said.
It’s time to sing.

It’s time to sleep,
he said.
The songs are gone. None are left.

She shook her head and the long-flowing hair reminded him of an old folk tune, the color in the morning when we rise.

There are always more songs,
she said. She tapped on his chest
and then splayed her hand out, and he felt the coolness where warmth should have been. Trapped but waiting.

His heart swelled and his breath came more quickly; then his body relaxed, some portal opened, and there was washing like a tide.

Surrender. Bright surrender.

Down by the shores of time and sorrow.

Quickly fading, love’s awaiting, bones and blood called forth.

I sleep with dead reckoning of sunken ships and whaling vessels slipping through the undertow.

I wander at night along the beach of memory.

And I wait.

She is my school. My penitentiary.

The prison I’m locked inside. I will never escape.

I never want to escape.

Words came disjointed and in cascading succession as the night sang to him, crickets and frogs joining the chorus like an orchestra, antiphonal waves of sound and heat rolling across the landscape. Rolling toward him.

Wake up,
she said.
It’s time.

And he did.

J. D. OPENED HIS EYES
and stared at the crack in the steering column and then at the open windows to his left and right. Where was he? How had he gotten here? He looked through the mud-splattered windshield at the barn and the playground and it came back. The drive south and the men at the well. He looked at his sweats and felt the remnants of chocolate and peanuts.

There’s always a song,
he thought, and he looked for something to write on or with but could find neither.
Surrender. Time and sorrow.
Words that stuck from the dream. But what was the use? He would never be able to recall them from the subconscious, where the music played in spite of him. There was something there, something coming to life if he was thinking of lyrics. But these were shadows, black-and-white images
on a wall of memory moving and playing with some fire that had been left smoldering.

A bark scorpion climbed along the seat and he flicked it out the passenger window. In his head he held up his arms to signal a field goal, but he didn’t have the energy. The morning was dead calm and a hazy light shone over the Rincons. Not a cloud in the sky, just the moon behind him and a few lingering stars chased by the sunlight.

He sat up in the driver’s seat and surveyed his surroundings. He had parked on a dirt road behind the barn at the farmers’ market and there was already movement as a truck backed in to unload. The organic coffee roaster with dreadlocks would be there soon, setting up on the edge of the tent. In this heat, people would tear down and head home by one in the afternoon, so you had to get things set up before the sun got too high.

The spice guy would be nearby, selling tins of venison rub and chili powder, recipes his father had sold after his father before him had developed the mixes out on the trail. The man wore a Stetson and played guitar like he meant it. Others could play and sing the songs, but it took something special to mean it. J. D. figured he had some kind of life story that made the words resonate like the strings on his Martin. The peaceful, easy feeling of verse and chorus and back around again that you couldn’t teach.

J. D. had caught most of that as a kid from a three-fingered man who worked at a gas well on his father’s property. J. D. heard he could play and dragged his Silvertone through the bramble to sit near the slush pond on a stump and watch the man pick in a way he had only heard on the radio. Maybe it was easier to follow three fingers, but the man had given him something more than technique in those visits.

The man, Hollis, had said music was something that came from deep within, and even if you didn’t have all the equipment others had, it would find a way out, just like gas and water under the ground.

A Prius backed up to the edge of the tent and Goat Milk Girl exited. She was younger than most of the vendors and moved with a kick in her step, an inner confidence that comes from knowing you’re one of the beautiful people on the planet and no doubt one of the healthiest. J. D. had heard she was an elementary schoolteacher by day and a yoga instructor by night, but those were just rumors. All he knew for sure was that in her spare time she raised grass-fed goats that never touched corn and soy. She sold the fruit of her labors on the weekends in glass jars with hand-printed labels. Happy men went home with a gallon of milk each weekend to the glares of disgruntled wives. She also made soap from the milk, scented with lavender and rose petals. She brought her favorite Nubian, Sadie, with her, a white, scraggly-looking animal that was a hit with the children at the playground who would wander over to pet her or take her for a walk around the barn.

On the other side of the barn were crafters, vendors selling knives, cutting boards, metal signs, Native American jewelry, wind socks, and cactus ornaments. Pulled pork sandwiches and bratwurst and cold drinks for fifty cents a can in an ice chest. There was even a fellow selling ink pens he had made from .50-caliber shell casings.

Inside the barn were more exotic artisans, quilters and leather tanners and sculptors of wood. A few times he had seen an author selling books in a stall like a woman would sell her grandmother’s apple butter recipe. Just words on a page, slathered on and cut straight so they came to the edge and no farther.
Selling books looked like a lonely profession from what J. D. could tell, and it reminded him of the product tables he’d had at venues on the road.

There was also Karl, an older man who reminded J. D. of his father, white-haired and wiry, who walked at an angle because of a bad hip. He sold homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies and tortillas, flat corn pressed out and baked, then shrink-wrapped in packages of a dozen. During the chili festival in the fall he would sell three hundred packs, or so J. D. was told, but most weeks it was only fifteen or twenty. The man really wasn’t in it for the money. You can tell that when people smile while unloading.

He stepped out of the Suburban and stretched, the wetness heavy on his back. How long had he slept? It felt like days, but when he checked his watch, he saw it had been a few hours. Could he have dreamed all of that and made the connection with her so fast?

A hay bale barricade ringed a small playground area with a slide and a couple of swings. Something for the little kids to do while their parents sold trinkets and produce. He walked toward the Rincon Country Store, a mini market nearby that sold only regular gas, then realized he had no money. His body ached for coffee but he would have to hold out for a sample of the organic, fair-trade stuff.

On his way back to the Suburban he heard the low rumble of Slocum’s diesel truck. This wasn’t going to be easy to explain, but he was man enough to face Slocum and try. He hadn’t set out the previous morning to abandon the farm or his obligations. Far from it. He had done everything Slocum had asked and more in the past couple months. But in the course of a life, things work out differently than you plan.

J. D. washed his hands at a spigot by the barn, then walked up behind the truck and began unloading vegetables. Plastic cartons of organic carrots, cabbage, beets, and squash.

When Slocum saw him, his mouth dropped. “Look what the cat drug in.” He shook his head. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ll bet it is.” He stared at J. D.’s sweatpants that didn’t seem to go with his boots. “You know the police are looking for you. They was at the house half the night.”

“I’ve had more than the police looking for me.” He grabbed a carton full of string beans and carried it to a cart. The bed of the cart was beveled with plywood bases on both sides that rose at forty-five-degree angles so shoppers could see what they were buying. People would paw through the produce to get just the right head of cauliflower or broccoli.

The family could easily live on the meat and produce they raised on the farm. If the apocalypse came the next day or in a year, they would survive because they knew how to work the land. But to pay the water bill and have electricity to run the air conditioner that kept them from being boiled to death in that old farmhouse, they had to have cash. Plus, buying the feed and seed and gas for the farm machinery took money they didn’t have, so they sold what they could and raised enough to pay the note and other bills and scrape by.

Slocum followed empty-handed. “If you’d have listened to me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

“I told you if you find a Mexican, call Border Patrol. Why didn’t you?”

“I did. That’s when I thought she was dead, but when she moved, it seemed a little cruel.”

“Cruel? How do you come up with cruel? Somebody breaks the law, you call the law.”

J. D. set up the two tables that would hold the cash box and a scale to weigh produce as he answered. “When I saw her, I remembered that fellow who came through a few weeks ago from Nicaragua. The guy trying to get back to his family. Just crying and wanting a drink and some food.”

“He was breaking the law.”

“Yeah, but the look on his face when they carted him away stuck with me.”

“You wanted to be a hero, didn’t you?”

“She was dehydrated. She’d passed out.”

“It’s her own fault for trying to walk through the desert.”

“She’s not illegal. She had a passport.”

Slocum laughed. “Yeah, right. I’ll bet she whipped it out and showed you, didn’t she. Or was it one of those passports you can show on your iPad?”

J. D. grabbed another carton and lugged it under the tent. This one was filled with onions twice the size of his fist. All golden brown with the husks. “She’s
not
illegal. She’s in trouble. I tried to help.”

“Yeah, that plan went real well. Look what happened to the doctor in Benson. I’ll bet he’s real glad you helped. And that she has a passport.”

J. D. leaned against the cart and crossed his arms. “Mr. Slocum, I’m sorry. I came here this morning to tell you that and give you a hand. I didn’t mean to leave you hanging. I’m a man of my word and—”

“A man of your word? You a comedian now?”

“This thing took on a life of its own. Things happened I couldn’t control.”

“And you didn’t come back because you knew you’d get arrested at the house.”

“Well, I’m not stupid.”

Slocum cursed and said under his breath, “That’s up for debate.” The man took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. “Can you imagine how Win feels? He’s the one who suggested you see that doctor. He feels responsible for his death.”

“He’s not.”

“Well, I’d like to see you try and convince him.”

“That woman I found has a bounty on her head. She’s mixed up in something.”

“So now you’re in over your head. You admit that.”

“I could admit it from the minute I found her, but I don’t just leave people.” The words caught in his throat as he stared at Slocum.

“How about running from the police? Do you do that normally?”

“I didn’t run from them; I ran from the guys with the guns. If she had been arrested, they would have walked into the jail and shot up the place. There would be more people dead.”

“Oh, so you saved half of the Tucson police department?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He stepped closer. “She really got to you, didn’t she? She’s mixed up with drugs up to her eyeballs and you bought it hook, line, and sinker.”

“I’m not saying I did everything right. I just did the best I could under the circumstances.”

“Then do the best thing now and call the police. Tell them what you know. Otherwise you’ll be in more trouble.”

“I can’t do that yet,” J. D. said.

“And why not? What’s so all-fired important about this wetback that you’ve got to risk your neck?”

“I believe her.”

“Believe her about what?”

“That somebody’s trying to kill her. And you can stop laughing because there’s more to it than just some big drug deal. I need to find her and tell her what I found out in the desert.”

“Her passport?”

“No, the case she was carrying. It was handcuffed to her. It didn’t have drugs or money.”

“If it was on my property, it’s rightfully mine. What was it?”

“Something the people after her will want back.”

Slocum shook his head and took out his cell phone. J. D. couldn’t tell if he was dialing or bluffing. “If you’re not calling the police, I will. They think I’m an accessory to the whole thing anyway.”

“Then why did they let you come here this morning?”

Slocum rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to keep me from feeding my family. The only thing that’s keeping us afloat is these markets. And thanks to you, we didn’t get those chickens slaughtered.”

Slocum hung up. J. D. grabbed a carton of red potatoes off the truck and the two worked in silence as the heat rose. They unloaded the freezer and J. D. strung a long extension cord to the barn to keep the meat cool. Slocum had loaded the cooler with enough ground beef and brisket for the whole month, but it was better to have too much than too little.

When other vendors began to arrive, J. D. pulled Slocum aside. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I need your help. I need cash.”

“What are you fixing to do?”

“Find the girl. Help her get back to her home. Or someplace safe.”

“Where did she run off to?”

“She got in touch with somebody who picked her up. Some people she trusted. But the way I figure it, she’s better off with an unknown like me, somebody who isn’t connected with her family.”

“Leave it alone, J. D. You’re in enough trouble.”

“Twenty dollars will get me enough gas to get out of here and find her. That would be a start. And I’ll pay you back. You know I will.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I got some money saved up. I just can’t get to it right now.”

Slocum shook his head and looked off. “I ever tell you about the guy who stayed with us before you? Kid from Oklahoma. Or maybe it was Arkansas.”

J. D. had heard the story more than a few times, but he let the man talk. How the kid had gotten into pills or weed and his work suffered. Then one Friday night while Slocum had taken the family for a rare weekend camping by a lake, the kid stole some money from the cash box and hit the road.

“I would have given him the money. That’s the screwy thing about it. All he had to do was ask. But instead he broke the lock and took eighty dollars and left. The animals survived. We were only gone through the weekend, but the problem was the storm that night. Lightning knocked out the breaker switch to the barn. The two big freezers were full of chickens. About two thousand dollars’ worth of meat went bad by the time we got back.”

“I’m not running out on you,” J. D. said. “I’m not breaking the cash box. I’m just asking.”

“The point is you’ve already run out. You made your decision when you hooked up with that wetback. And don’t give me that look or talk about the passport. I don’t care if she had an invitation from the president himself. This is not your fight. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what kind of spell she has you under.”

J. D. moved closer and lowered his voice. Something deep rose up within him, something he had held back. “I know you think humanity stops at the border. Somebody has browner skin than you and they’re not worth as much. People are people. They’re not wetbacks.”