Kind of Kin (20 page)

“Well, you should be,” Kevin said. “You cannot compete with an adorable, brown-eyed ten-year-old.”

She shot him a look. “I thought you only watch
Dancing with the Stars.
”

“Oh, occasionally I might switch over to Anderson Cooper during a commercial break. Speaking of adorable.”

“Anyway,” she said. “It's not about competing. It's about shaping the narrative.” She closed her eyes, almost drowsy, repeating the little mantra aloud: “Never say the word
problem
—these are
challenges
we face. Never use the word
can't
. We are making
positive progress.
It's not reality, Kev, it's perception that matters.”

But this was one narrative that was too hard to shape; there was too much attention, and the mix was too potent: illegal Mexicans, state politics, broken family, missing child. Not to mention the quote-unquote “colorful sheriff.” Nobody could leave it alone. If the story had only fit into one of the preworn narratives, it could have been controlled, but the whole thing was too contradictory, too confusing; it kept everything in turmoil. Who was the villain here? Who was the victim? Every-damn-body had an opinion—except Fox News, who so far had maintained a most disconcerting silence. And why did the kid have to be the kind who, as one of the women on
Headline News
said, you just wanted to hug and take home with you? Maybe something horrific would happen somewhere soon, Monica thought. Nothing so terrible as a terrorist attack, of course, but maybe something like a pretty teenager disappearing on her spring break, just
something
to compete with that kid's grade-school picture. And yes, they would occasionally intercut grainy images of Mexicans sneaking across the border, or an old studio portrait of the kid's grandfather—and why couldn't they use the guy's mug shot instead of that formal suit-and-tie, church-directory type of thing?—but none of that seemed to curtail people's sentiments. In fact, Monica feared, it seemed to make things worse. Then there was that sappy footage of the kid's weepy aunt begging for the public's help, and the hick sheriff and his endless press conferences and . . . oh, everything would have been fine! she thought, draining her drink. Absolutely fine. If not for that kid.

She sat up, held out her empty glass. “What do you say, shall we have another little drink? A teeny little small one. Here, gimme.” And she reached for Sniffy. While Kevin was in the kitchen she petted the dog with one hand, fumbled on the floor beside the sofa with the other. She really, really ought to call Charlie. She located her handbag, pulled it up, and plunked it onto the coffee table, but somehow she couldn't make herself dig out her silenced phone to see how many times he'd called already. She just didn't feel up to listening to him: “Get down there and remind people how this unfortunate situation came about! Or no, not unfortunate—tragic. Don't forget to say tragic. Don't bad-mouth the kid. Don't bad-mouth the granddad. Stay on message: This tragic, truly tragic situation is just one more example of how the unbridled presence of illegal aliens is ripping our country's social fabric apart! Turn the tables, babe. Grab the narrative! Make it about the illegal aliens!” She'd heard his instructions so many times she could quote him in her sleep. She sat stroking the dog, listening to Chet Baker's tender voice, his mellow, raggedy trumpet,
this isn't sometimes, this is always.
A wave of melancholy, or something like it, swept her. Fortunately Kevin waltzed back in: “Here we are, darling. Two tiny little drinkie-poos.”

“Kevin. Those are not tiny.” Nevertheless, she accepted the drink, leaned across the table for the plate of cheese and grapes. “What do the Nichols Hills ladies think about it?” she asked, referring to the wealthy matrons who made up the majority of his clients.

“About what?”

She waved the plate toward the blank television. “This whole . . . deal.”

“I doubt they think about it at all.”

“Seriously?”

He gave her a piercing look. “Why would they? What's it got to do with them? Let me tell you who thinks about it, darling. One.” He ticked off the numbers on his slim fingers. “The story-hungry media. Two, people such as yourself who have some kind of stake in it. Three, presumably, the little boy's family. And four, those poor Mexicans you're so intent upon hounding.”

“Kevin! That is not true.” He met her gaze, his bronzed handsome face inscrutable. “How can you say such a thing? And anyway,” she went on, “
hounding
is such an ugly word.”

“Is it? Come, baby.” He scooped Sniffy off her lap and set him on the floor, where the little dog tottered over to the little doggie pad spread open on the hardwood floor in the hall to do his little doggie business.

W
hen she got home, Charlie was fit to be tied. “
Where
have you been! Why the
hell
didn't you answer!”

“Why, hello, wife,” she said. “And how was your day? And how was the floor presentation, and oh, by the way, dear, did your bill pass by any chance?”

“I know the goddamned bill passed! I'm talking about where you've been all night and why you haven't been answering your phone for the past three and a half hours!”

“I stopped by Kevin's, had a glass of wine on an empty stomach. I needed to eat something before I drove home. We sent out for Thai, it took a while. Look, Charlie, I'm sorry. I've got a splitting headache—”

“It's not just the fact I had to embarrass myself by calling Jim Coughlin at the reception, assuming, of course, that you were there but had your phone off. It's not even the fact you seem to
want
to jeopardize everything by hanging around your little faggot friend. No, it's the fact you are missing everything. Check this out.” He unmuted the mute button. Across from Larry King sat the sheriff with his bulbous nose and his slicked-back hair, saying in his embarrassingly thick Okie accent that the rumors his men had beat a pregnant Mexican woman as well as the Brown kid were just that, vicious rumors, he had no idea where these lies got started, he'd known the Brown family his whole life—

“I know all about this, Charlie. It'll pass, they'll get onto something else. I'm going to bed.”

“Where are your political instincts, girl? You don't get what this is at all, do you?” She frowned at the television. “The sheriff is there, right?” Charlie said. “In CNN's Los Angeles studios. He flew out this afternoon.” So? she thought. “So,” Charlie said, “if that ass is in L.A., who's heading the search mission? Who is here in Oklahoma watching out for the interests of that kid?”

What he was getting at finally dawned on her. “That would be me,” she said.

“That would be you.”

“All right, I already told you I'll go. On Friday I'm going.”

“Not Friday. Tonight. You've got to be down there first thing in the morning, before that idiot sheriff gets back.”

“I've got to be in session tomorrow! I've got my Appropriations Committee meeting at nine!”

“I cleared everything with Coughlin. The press conference is set for nine thirty.” He snapped his laptop shut, unplugged the cord, started rolling it up. “You're going to hold it at the family farm, right in front of the barn where that fool is always blathering. It'll be the perfect contrast, you with your sincere concern for the little lost boy, the sheriff off gallivanting in California.”

“But we're on the same side!”

“Not when he keeps making such a goddamn mess of things. Go pack. We won't have time to do much prep in McAlester. The aquamarine suit, I think. No, wait. Levis. Pack a pair of good-looking Levis, not too tight. And your brown suede jacket. We want it to look like you're down there ready to go to work trying to find that kid.”

“What, you expect me to go traipsing around the goddamn woods?”

“Jesus, Monica. It's about
image.
You know that. What's the matter with you?”

Tuesday |
February 26, 2008 | Morning

Near the Gloss Mountains | Northwestern
Oklahoma

T
he morning
is cold, but Luis is sweating as he pumps the bicycle pedals, standing. His legs
are strong now. The first day on the bicycle his legs hurt very much, and the
second day. Now they feel strong. But the boy grows more weak. Luis can hear the
small thin coughs behind his shoulder; he can feel the seams of his coat pulled
backward as the boy clutches the coat with his good hand. It is necessary for
the boy to rest soon, Luis thinks, pumping hard. He must eat something, drink
water. He needs to be warm. Panting, Luis peers ahead. In the distance the long,
flat-topped hills slice the land north to south. He has been pedaling toward
that shape many hours. Strange to think how important the bicycle has become,
how necessary. Luis could not have dreamed this when he first saw the boy riding
toward him on the gravel road . . .

From inside the barn, all that day, Luis had kept
watch. He had imagined the boy walking to bring him the map. But the hour grew
late and Luis began to believe the boy would not come. Then the boy came,
guiding the bicycle along the gravel road with one hand. The boy stopped in
front of the barn, laid the bicycle on its side, took off the black backpack.
From the pack he withdrew supplies of food, a jar of coins, the map. He showed
these things to Luis, placing them one by one on the straw-strewn dirt of the
barnyard. He shook open the map with one hand, laid it on the ground also,
pointed to the lower right corner.
We are here,
he
said. He pointed to the top left corner.
Gai-mon here. Is
very . . .
He started to open his arms wide to show
distance, but at once he grimaced, pulled his left arm to his chest, supported
it with his other hand. Luis understood then that the arm was hurt.
My sister lives here, in Tulsa,
the boy said, and with
his elbow he pointed to a yellow square on the upper right side of the map.
Is not so . . .
The boy frowned.

¿Far?
Luis said.

Far, yes. My sister is able to
help. I study this. All the night I think this. She is able to know many
mexicans, because her . . . man is mexican. He is . . .
The boy narrowed his eyes, looking to the side, thinking. He shook his
head finally to show he did not know how to say what he wanted to say. Then he
started walking away across the barnyard to the house.

¿Where are you
going?

¡A moment!
the boy
called back.

Luis reached for the map to refold it. He had
prepared the blue truck of the grandfather already, poured in a little oil,
added water to the radiator, left it hidden in the place where he had covered it
with branches after the grandfather and the others were taken. An old truck,
yes, but the indicator showed a good amount of gasoline. His sons would return
the truck later: they would know a person to drive it here from the Guymon town,
they would pay money to the grandfather, and also leave plenty gasoline in the
tank. He would explain all these things to the boy. Luis replaced the food
packages and cans and little boxes inside the black backpack, laid the map on
top, zipped the zipper closed. The jar of coins he left sitting on the ground.
He was glad for the food, although he had not asked for it, but he did not want
to take the silver and brown coins belonging to the boy.

¡Please to help me,
mister!

Luis looked up to see the boy on the back porch in
a thin wine-colored jacket and dark blue cap like the baseball players wear. In
his right hand was the yellow dictionary. His other hand, the left one, the boy
held to his chest.
¡Come here, please!
the boy
called. Luis walked stiffly across the yard. Inside the house, on the kitchen
floor, was a sleeping bag with pictures of the crawling red-and-blue man, the
same blank-eyed spider man pictured on the backpack the boy had carried food in
for Luis the night before. Luis picked up the sleeping bag. The boy motioned him
to the hall closet, pointed to another sleeping bag high on the shelf, a dark
green one. Luis frowned.
Is necessary,
the boy
said
. The house of my sister is very small.
Luis
did not know why the boy said this, but he stood high on his toes and pulled
down the green sleeping bag, hoisted one bag under each arm. The boy ran to the
small table beside the front door for the little flashlight and put it in his
pocket.
¡We go quickly!
the boy said.
My aunt comes
soon, I think.

Outside, the boy unzipped the black backpack and
placed the dictionary and the jar of coins inside—this was not the worn red
backpack with the crawling man, which was still inside the barn, but the clean
black new one with cartoon drawings of automobiles on the sides. The boy talked
very rapidly in english; sometimes he included spanish words:
my sister, my grandfather, your sons.
He turned and
whistled in the direction of the fenced pasture.
I,
he said, and patted his chest.
You.
He pointed to
Luis.
We the two. And also the mare.
He made the
gesture of holding reins, pointed to the pasture where the red mare stood
grazing in the distance.
For the house of my sister.
¿Understand?
With his bruised eyes the boy looked up at Luis. He
lifted his hand to brush his hair aside, and immediately made a face of pain,
lowered his arm.
¿Who has hurt you?
Luis asked, but
the boy shook his head, looked to the gravel road again.
We
go now,
the boy said.
In this moment.

But of course, Luis thought. They would travel
together to the house of the sister whose man is mexican. Luis would be able to
speak with him in spanish, ask the important questions, discover the best way to
go to his sons. Also, of equal importance: he would be able to leave the boy in
a place where they would not bruise his face, or hurt his arm.
Good,
he said. The boy at once turned to whistle for
the mare.
No,
Luis said.
She is
not necessary.

Then he took the boy with him behind the large
smoke-smelling shed and began to uncover the brush and tree branches he had used
to hide the blue truck. The boy seemed confused at first, and then very happy.
¡You!
he said. Many times he said this.
¡All the time it is you!
And he laughed a little,
shaking his head. He seemed to think this was a very funny joke.
¡We go quickly!
He ran to the passenger door and
opened it, but then he released a yip of pain as he reached to climb up.
¿Can I help you?
Luis said, but the boy shook his
head.
No problem. We go.
In the barnyard Luis
stopped the truck, motioned the boy to stay seated as he got out to put the
black backpack and the two sleeping bags in the back. After a moment he lifted
the bicycle also and laid it in the truck bed. The boy protested when Luis
climbed again into the truck.
¡Is not of mine!
he
said. But Luis told him this was necessary, not to leave behind the bicycle, and
the boy said, squinting ahead along the gravel road, Okay, okay
.
¡We go now!

Now, on this cold morning, Luis is the person who
peers ahead along the road—not pale gravel, this one, but a smooth blue-black
ribbon. The sky is thick gray, so thick he cannot see the sun. The land on both
sides, all around, is flat and barren. It is a long time now since they have
seen a house or a building, maybe one hour since the last vehicle passed. The
coughs of the boy are coming more frequent, thin and dry, like the thin air in
this flat land. Oh, why do the tabled hills never seem to draw nearer! Luis
treads the pedals more fiercely. The sleeping bags strapped to the handlebars
make steering difficult. The boy, sitting on the bicycle seat behind him, pulls
hard on the back of his coat.

When they reach the shelter of the hills, Luis
tells himself, then he will stop for the boy to rest, to warm himself inside the
sleeping bag, to eat something, drink a little water. If only the truck had not
failed them! But no, Luis reminds himself. He will not regret. He will not
doubt. How many days have they traveled on the bicycle? Four. No, five. Luis
counts back in his mind. One night driving in the truck and one day waiting for
the sister in Tulsa, and then driving again one more night toward the Guymon
town, until, as the dawn came, the truck began to shudder and thump and boil
clouds of steam. So yes, it is five mornings ago now that Luis put the boy in
the driving seat to steer with his good hand and Luis pushed from behind so that
the truck would slide off the dirt road into the arroyo. Then he strapped the
sleeping bags to the bicycle handlebars, helped the boy to put on the black
backpack, and they rode away in the early morning light, leaving the old truck
with its clouds of steam pouring, the last of the lime-green water trickling
from the radiator hole.

The truck failed them, yes, but Our Lady has not
failed them. This is what Luis reminds himself, pedaling, his breath hot and
harsh in his chest. Our Lady has accompanied them all the journey, from that
first afternoon in the yard of the old grandfather when Luis was thinking only
that if the aunt should come, as the boy said, and find the bicycle, she would
begin to search for the boy; she would maybe find evidence of Luis inside the
barn, she would maybe telephone the police to watch the highways, because of the
missing truck. It was not possible for Luis to understand then that he and the
boy would need the bicycle in the future, and yet he brought it. A little
miracle, he thinks now, standing up on the pedals, pumping hard, watching toward
the horizon. A tiny marvel. The first one.