Michael Smith: Rivers

From inside the truck, Mariposa and Brisco yelled for them to come on, come on. The rain came hard and the others crept closer and the gunshots sprayed.

“Right now, Evan,” Cohen screamed. “We gotta go now.”

“He’s gonna get us,” Evan yelled back.

“No, he ain’t. Right now.”

Evan fired several more quick shots and then he jumped out of the window, rifle in hand, and he crashed on top of the truck cab. He fumbled the rifle into the bed and scrambled after it as shots from across the square pelted around him. He lay flat in the bed and counted to three and he jumped out and raced into the cab with Mariposa and Brisco.

Cohen rose and fired his last shot into the café ceiling and they shrank away. Mariposa pushed open the truck door and he sneaked around the front end and then darted to the door and one more shot sliced through the storm and it caught Cohen and he buckled and fell against the side of the truck.

“Cohen!” Mariposa screamed. Evan climbed out and ran around and tried to get Cohen to his feet. More shots missed them and smacked the truck and dropped people coming out of the café toward the truck. Evan got Cohen’s arm around his neck and raised him and Cohen held his hand to his side and half-crawled, half-walked with the boy. The shotgun was left behind and Cohen called for it but Evan didn’t stop. He dragged Cohen to the passenger side and Mariposa pulled him in the cab. Evan slammed the door and ran around and got behind the wheel. The crowd waited no more and came running at them out of the café and from up and down the sidewalk, several more being dropped by the hidden gunman but the crowd without fear now and intent on getting that truck.

Evan shifted into drive as they pounded on the hood and sides, savage rain-drenched faces and bony fists and mouths open and screaming. He went hard on the gas and some of them fell away but others clung to door handles and the tailgate and another had managed to get one leg into the truck bed and was dragged along as the truck cut through the flooded street.

“Evan!” Mariposa yelled as she turned and saw the man trying to claw his way into the truck bed and the other hands and heads at the tailgate. At the end of the street, Evan cut hard left and slammed the gas again and the man was thrown from the bed and the heads disappeared from the back, but four clinging hands remained on the edge of the tailgate. When the others saw Evan turn, they began to splash across the square, trying to catch up and hopeful the truck would turn again. Evan did turn again, another hard left, and now the hands were gone and the bodies rolled. Mariposa said, “That’s it, don’t stop. Don’t stop, Evan, keep straight and don’t stop.”

He stayed straight and got away from the square, away from the chasing crowd and the scattered bullets. Brisco had curled himself on the floorboard and though they had shaken free, Mariposa looked around frantically to make sure there was no one else attached. Cohen had collapsed against the door, his cheek against the window. They drove on and left the square and the crowd behind and now there was only the rain and they needed much more than that.

Cohen leaned forward and doubled over and Mariposa pulled at his coat and said, “Where is it? Where is it?”

“Holy goddamn,” he said and he couldn’t catch his breath and he moved his hands from his side. She pulled Brisco up from the floorboard and put him next to Evan and she helped Cohen off with his coat and the bullet hole was just above his stomach. He lifted his shirt and the blood ran from the nickel-sized hole like water.

“Oh Jesus,” Mariposa said and in a panic she looked around for what to do but she didn’t find any answers.

“What?” Evan asked and he started to pull over.

“You can’t stop,” Mariposa screamed.

“Goddamn,” Cohen said again.

“What!” Evan yelled.

“What do you think?” Mariposa yelled back. “His stomach. Gimme something.”

“Give you what?”

“Drive,” Cohen said and he bent over and vomited a little on the floorboard. He held his hands over the hole and his fingers and hands and stomach and everything was turning red. Mariposa got out of her jacket and took off her top shirt. She wadded it and helped him back against the seat and she pressed the shirt against the hole.

“What the hell?” Evan yelled.

“Drive,” Cohen said again. “And don’t stop.”

“Where? I don’t know where.”

“Jesus, Jesus,” Mariposa said.

“Tell me something,” Evan said.

“Just go as fast as you can,” Mariposa said and she was pressing the shirt on the wound.

“Fucking where?” Evan said and Brisco repeated his brother and the child reached his small hand around Mariposa and put his hand on Cohen’s leg. Evan drove as fast as he could, which wasn’t fast in the strength of the rain and wind and the water-covered road.

“God,” Cohen said and sweat gathered on his lip.

Mariposa smacked his cheek and said, “Come on! Come on!” She pressed the shirt and her hands were bloody. Cohen’s head fell back against the seat and he smacked his lips. She began to plead with him to sit up, look at me, hold my hand, think about the sunshine, don’t be a quitter, look at me Cohen I said look at me, we’ll get somewhere, don’t think about it, I know it hurts but it won’t forever we’ll get somewhere so hold on.

He lifted his head and stared at her blankly.

Evan cussed and drove and beat at the steering wheel and the storm wouldn’t stop. Mariposa moved one hand away from the shirt and wiped the rain and sweat from Cohen’s face with the back of her hand.

He stared at her and they drove the impossible highway. Blood filled his pants and his strength began to leak away. A half hour passed and they kept north and Cohen tried not to slump, tried not to show what he was feeling, but he knew he was slipping. His forehead against the door window and his eyes wide open and his hands on top of Mariposa’s hands which pressed the shirt against the bleeding hole. He stared out the window and he heard Mariposa pleading and he heard Evan and he heard the rain and the thunder and the rush of the water under the tires. He heard it all, felt it all. He stared out at the suffering land and then there she was.

She walked along the stone street on the clearest day in Venice. The men turned and watched her long stride. The women outside the shops noticed her as she passed. She walked toward him and sat down at the table for two outside the café. The sun cut across the alley and she moved from the light into the shadow and looked at him and said I don’t want to go. On the table was a mask he had bought for her at a kiosk on the Rialto Bridge, purple and black around the eyes and a teardrop on its left cheek and burgundy around the mouth and trailing up in a devilish smile. She picked up the mask and covered her face and her eyes danced and she said I’m getting used to this place. Like I belong here. And he could see that she might belong somewhere like this but he didn’t care where she was or where she belonged as long as he was there.

I don’t want to leave, she said again and she removed the mask and her face fell, the insinuation of something going away.

“Cohen,” Mariposa said and she touched his cheek. “Head up. Come on. Head up. Jesus Christ, come on.”

His eyelids were heavy but open and he saw the waiter come out of the café and he brought them espresso. Elisa watched the people along the street and he watched her, the Venice air filled with the chatter of another language and the tink of espresso cups and saucers and somewhere an old man singing. It’s weird, she said without looking at him. Me and you have been at the water our whole lives but it feels different here. You are surrounded by the water. She pressed her lips together and he asked her if that was good or bad and she said good. You’d get used to it, he said. And she shook her head and turned to him and smiled and he felt the peace in her.