Bobby Byrd - Lone Star Noir

His wife said: “Let’s take the old road. The freeway puts me to sleep.” She usually wanted to get straight home.

“Sure,” Alex said.

It was a beautiful black night with stars flickering. The old road was a two-lane blacktop that followed along the banks of the Rio Grande and swung back and forth through little farming towns. They came to the place where the road enters a huge pecan grove that stretches for miles. It was early summer, so the trees were fully clothed with leaves. The starry sky disappeared and they were driving through a cool and damp cavern. Alex slowed down to forty and rolled down his window. His wife did the same thing. They were quiet.

Halfway through the grove Alex pulled the car over to the gravelly shoulder and drove until he found a dirt road that ducked even deeper into the canopy of trees. He turned into the road. He turned off his headlights, but kept the parking lights on.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“I need to pee,” he said.

“You and the fat guy,” she said.

They laughed together, and he said: “Yeah, me and the fat guy.”

He was quiet for a few seconds while he navigated the darkness. The road was mostly dry, but the groves where the trees stood were wet from irrigation a few days before.

He said: “Besides, it looks like a good place to pee.” Alex was the kind of guy who took pride in pissing outdoors.

“Sure,” she said.

He stopped the car and turned off the lights and the engine. He opened his door and got out and went searching for a good tree to lean against. He found one that seemed perfect to him. In the dark night it had a thick fleshy trunk and a bowl of dark leaves where the pecans and the stars hid themselves. While he listened to the sound of the pee falling into the dirt, he looked around. There was not much to see, just more darkness and the apparitions of rows and rows of pecan trees going about their business growing pecans. He felt like he was in a church. He was zipping back up when he heard her door open and shut.

She said: “Where are you?”

“Right here,” he said.

Both of them were almost whispering. He could hardly see her. Her face and neck and the half-moon of her shoulders were riding above her black dress. They met halfway between the car and the perfect tree. They wrapped their arms around each other.

She asked him: “Was it nice?”

“Very nice.”

She said: “I took my shoes off. The ground is wonderful. Here, let me take off yours.”

And she kneeled down in the mud and pulled off one shoe and sock and then the other shoe and sock. He put his hand on her head for balance. Yes, she was right-the muddy earth felt wonderful to his feet. She stood up and kissed him. He loved the taste of her lipstick. They walked down the corridor between two rows of trees. They held hands, they kissed each other, they stopped, and he felt her breasts. She had already taken off her bra and panties. She must have left them in the car. Standing up against the rough bark of a pecan tree, they made love in the pecan grove.

The drive home was quiet. They each had their own thoughts. As they turned up their street for the last few blocks before home, she reached over and grabbed his hand. She asked him: “When a man has an orgasm, where does that man go? It’s like he’s dead and somebody else takes his place. Sooner or later the dead man reappears, and he says hello to me. I see the dead man, and I’m glad he’s come home.”

That seemed like so long ago, and now Arcia, who was a young girl, probably younger than his very own daughter, was asking him: “¿Prenda las luces?”

“Por supuesto.” And he asked her, “¿Como amaneciste?” His Spanish was formal and clumsy.

“Bien, bien,” she said.

He reached over and flicked on the light on the table. It was a sixty-watt bulb, but it sprayed off enough light so that her nakedness embarrassed her. She reached up and covered her breasts with her small hands. But then she realized that her crotch with its finely trimmed tuft of hair was also uncovered. She sat up with a start and thrashed around for the sheets. She found them and pulled them up to her chin.

Alex smiled at her confusion. She was like a little girl. She was a little girl. He said: “¿Cuantos años tienes?”

“None of tu beezness!” she said.

“¿Veinte? ¿Dieciocho?”

“Bah! None of tu beezness!” She pulled the sheets over her head.

“¿Tienes hijos?”

“No, no, no, no!” She threw a pillow at him and he ducked, laughing.

She was laughing now too. She said: “¡Cierra tus ojos!”

He grinned at his bashful prostitute and pretended to shut his eyes. But he didn’t. He watched her jump out of bed and scurry around picking up articles of clothing and her purse. Her blouse was on a chair, her bra and black skirt were on the floor, her panties and stockings and shoes were under the bed. Everything was black. She had to get down on her hands and knees to look under the bed. Her buttocks bobbed up and down. He had enjoyed Arcia. They had talked for a while afterward. She told him not to ask her if she was in school. She said that all gringos asked her if she was in school. So they talked about her family. About her mother who worked as a maid on the other side. She didn’t know her father. He went away to Gringolandia and he never came back. Then she had gone to sleep. Or maybe it was he who had fallen asleep. He couldn’t remember.

After she had collected her possessions, she disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the bathtub filling up. He heard the toilet flush. He listened to her bathing herself. She was singing a song in Spanish. She was a little girl. She was his two-hundred-dollar whore. He pulled the drawstring on the curtains, and the sunlight poured into the room. He felt old and mean.

Once, after they had made love, this time in their bedroom, his wife had said to him: “I want to see the face of God.” She had a warm washcloth in her hand and she was cleaning their crotches-first his, then hers. Back and forth. Her green eyes were ecstatic.

“The face of God?” He had reached up and touched her breast. Then he said: “Where is the face of God?”

“I don’t know,” his wife said. “But I think the face of God is right here in this room. I think we’re staring at the face of God.”

“How can that be?” he said.

“I don’t know,” she said, and she continued cleaning his genitalia with the damp, warm cloth.

The bathroom door opened, and Arcia stood there staring at him. She was barefooted. She was wearing only her bra and slip. Her hair was wet and her face was scrubbed clean. She let him look at her but she didn’t say a word. She simply turned and faced the mirror. She studied herself and Alex watched her from his chair across the room. He knew Arcia also wore the face of God. This is what his wife would have understood. His wife had always been wiser than him. Arcia bent down over the hot running water and scrubbed her face some more with a scrub brush that magically appeared. Then she went to work with powder and mascara and eye shadow and lipstick. She carried all of the required tools and ingredients in her large leather purse. He picked up his chair and moved closer to her so that he could watch. She ignored him, but that was okay by him. He just wanted to watch. She worked for twenty minutes crafting her face.

When she was done, she turned and looked at him. She looked ten years older, she looked like a veterana. Her lips twisted into a smile. Or maybe it was a sneer.

She said: “¿Quieres más?”

“No,” he said. He was lying. He could feel warmth in his face and he knew he was blushing. She was beautiful. But she was not the young girl he watched wake up in the darkness only an hour or so ago. “Maybe next month. En el mes que viene. The dead man is dead. You killed him last night. Remember? Pero estás muy guapa. Muy beautiful.”