Steven Havill - Bag Limit

The next time I awoke, the clock announced 5:12. I stared at it for some time, trying to will my eyes into focus to make sure that either the numbers weren’t lying or my tired brain wasn’t scrambling the signals. For a die-hard insomniac, a full night’s sleep can be a rare thing.

The house was dark, and if the children were up to mischief, there was no way to hear them through the thick adobe walls and the massive wooden doors. I turned my back to the clock, enjoying the silence. I tried to imagine what early morning was like in a busy city like Veracruz. The place probably never went to bed at all. Traffic up and down the coast, or inland to Cordova, would be as constant as the flow on any inner loop in any large city. The Guzmans couldn’t sit out on a patio in the evening and expect to be wrapped in such companionable silence.

I knew I was kidding myself, of course. My bedroom was surrounded by two feet of dense adobe. If I got out of bed and went outside to my own patio, what I’d hear would be the traffic going by on the interstate a quarter of a mile away.

I grumped in disgust and rolled back over, swinging my feet to the cool tile floor. I slipped into a robe that Maria always folded over the back of the chair at the foot of the bed. She had high hopes of civilizing me. Normally I wouldn’t have bothered, but the house was full of people.

The single light over the kitchen range didn’t broadcast light down the hall, so I snapped it on and went about the routine of preparing the coffeemaker. When I was sure it was working hard enough to push water past its calcium-plated innards, I returned to my end of the house, showered, and got dressed. I hadn’t worn a uniform since I’d accepted the appointment to the sheriff’s post the previous spring, and the green and brown flannel shirt with heavy brown corduroy trousers looked like a good choice for the fitful autumn weather.

By 5:40 that Monday morning, I was standing in the kitchen again, fully dressed, a cup of steaming coffee in hand. The pull of my normal routine was powerful-to slip out the front door and spend the early morning hours cruising the highways watching the county wake up. This time of year, the sun would sneak around the northeast end of Cat Mesa, striking diagonally through the tawny prairie grasses, hunting shadows. Dawn was a few brief moments when everything in the county stood out in sharp relief.

I sighed. I cherished every soul in the house at that moment, and didn’t begrudge their visit one iota. But I liked my own company and I liked my own schedule. With six o’clock coming up, I was already several hours behind. Hell, half the county would be up and at ’em before I was even out of the house.

After refilling my cup, I stepped out the back door, closing it gently behind me. The air was crisp and still, the thermometer by the kitchen window touching thirty-eight degrees. I stepped away from the house, away from the light in the kitchen, and looked up through the cottonwood limbs. A billion or so stars looked back, just beginning to fade as dawn worked at the horizon.

I heard the doorknob rustle and turned to see my grandson.

“Hey, there,” I said. Tadd was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt, and no shoes. “There are goat-heads out here, by the way.” He stopped short, aware of the awful pain that those little, triangular seed spikes could inflict. I ambled back to the patio and gestured with the cup. “There’s coffee.”

“Smells good,” he said, and stretched. “And five minutes, by the way.”

“Until what?”

He grinned. “The boys are awake. I could hear them talking and plotting.”

“Ah. Thanks for the warning. Is your dad up?”

“Yeah. He’s in the shower.”

“How about breakfast out,” I said. “The Don Juan opens at six. My treat.”

Tadd frowned. “Well, I was gonna do pancakes, if you didn’t mind.”

I laughed. “Why would I mind, Tadd? I was just trying to save you a little work. You’re supposed to be on vacation.”

Tadd shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bite in the air “Francisco said he didn’t think I knew how to make ’em. In his mind, only his mother knows how to do ’em right.”

“That’s how it goes,” I said. “Is there anything you need from the store? They’re open by now.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t have any syrup, but we got some yesterday.”

I regarded my grandson with affection. “You’re good at this planning business, you know that? I don’t know what I’m doing from one minute to the next. Come on inside, before you freeze.”

Opening the outside door to the kitchen was the signal. “Padrino!” Francisco shouted at the top of his lungs. He rounded the corner of the kitchen island and collided with my legs. I had enough warning that I was able to hold the cup well away, only a minimal amount of coffee hitting the tiles.

“Easy, you little brute,” I said. “Where’s your brother?”

“C. G. went to wake up Mama and Papa.”

“I bet they appreciate that.”

“He always does,” the little boy said, as if that’s just the way the world turned.

“As soon as everyone’s up, we’re going to make some breakfast. What do you think of that?”

“That will be okay,” he said, and transferred his attention to Tadd, who was rummaging in one of my cabinets. “My mama will show you how to make pancakes,” he announced. He crouched and peered into the lower cupboard, one hand resting on Tadd’s shoulder.

“I know how to make pancakes, Frankie,” Tadd said.

“No you don’t. And my name’s not Frankie. Use that bowl there.” The two of them emerged with a large mixing bowl in hand.

“This ought to be something,” I muttered. “In case of emergency, the number of my insurance agent is right there, above the phone.”

Tadd grinned. “Under control, sir.” And I guess it was, since the seven of us sat down promptly at seven around the large kitchen table. Francisco and Carlos looked on wide-eyed as Tadd showed them the proper way to construct a pancake sandwich, a mammoth thing that combined eggs, pancakes, bacon, butter, and syrup in meticulous order. All that was missing was green chile, but I didn’t mention that.

I had cut a forkful of pancakes that reduced my stack to exactly half, following Francisco’s instructions on how to preserve the symmetry and integrity of the stack, when the telephone rang.

Tadd was up at the moment, returning to the table with the coffeepot.

“Shall I get that?”

“Please,” I said, and sighed. I had enjoyed a pretty good run-a decent night’s sleep and half a breakfast without interruption. “After Tuesday night, I’m just going to pull the damn phone jack out of the wall,” I muttered.

Tadd answered the phone in his usual efficient style, listened for a couple of seconds, and nodded. “Just a moment, sir,” he said, and turned to extend the phone toward me. “It’s Deputy Wheeler at the Sheriff’s Office, Grandpa.”

With one hand on the table and the other lightly on top of Francisco Guzman’s little head, I rose to my feet and maneuvered my way around to the phone.

“Gastner.”

“Sir, we’ve got a bad situation down south involving some hunters. Undersheriff Torrez has responded, but he asked that you come into the office ASAP.”

“I’m on my way. Give me about four minutes.”

I hung up and turned to look at the six faces. “Sorry about that,” I said.

“Anything we can do?” Buddy asked.

“Nope. Well”-and I stopped in my tracks-“there is. Show Dr. Francis the back acres. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Regal?” Estelle asked when our eyes met.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”