Percival Everett - The Body of Martin Aguilera

“I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. With the sheriff or otherwise.”

Ignacio leaned forward to see the road better.

“What do you think those men were looking for?” Lewis asked.

“I don’t know. Something bad.”

Lewis nodded.

The men watched the windshield. Headlights from approaching cars seemed threatening and each one turned Lewis’ head.

“I hope your friend will be okay,” Ignacio said.

“Me too.”

The rain was falling harder when Ignacio stopped the truck in front of the morada . There were no torches burning outside tonight. Lewis got out and limped after the younger man, through the mud and into the adobe. Inside, the room was lighted as before, torches on the four walls. Jesus was indeed skirted and on the cross above the altar. There was no body this time. There was a table to one side and at it sat five men, Salvador Alvarado among them. A battery-powered camp area-light sat in the center of the table illuminating their still, solemn faces. Lewis nodded to them.

“Sit here,” Ignacio said.

Lewis sat in a cane chair, one in a row, away from the table. He watched Ignacio as he joined the men. He was the youngest of them.

Their meeting began. Lewis couldn’t make out what they were saying. Words were muttered in Spanish. It did not take long before there were louder utterances, no less understandable to Lewis for the volume. Salvador said virtually nothing. Ignacio remained calm, speaking softly to the older men who yelled at him. There were frequent glances over at Lewis. He tried to keep his eyes on them or the floor, so as not to appear to be gazing upon their secret place. Finally, Ignacio shouted and all were silent. They sat without speaking for probably just a minute, but to Lewis it felt like a long time. He adjusted himself in the uncomfortable chair, tried to put his leg out straight so that it wouldn’t go to sleep.

Ignacio spoke calmly again. There was more discussion and then the youngest was standing, walking back to Lewis.

“Are you ready?” Ignacio asked.

Lewis gained his feet.

Ignacio walked out of the morada without looking at the table. Lewis did quickly glance that way, but none were looking at him.

Outside, the two men trotted to the truck. Lewis climbed in on the passenger side again.

“Well, we talked it over,” Ignacio said.

Lewis nodded.

“You cannot speak of this to anyone, not even your friend if she is alive.”

“Okay.”

“And not to me after this night.”

“I understand.”

“I cannot go with you to get Martin.”

“I wouldn’t want you to, Ignacio.”

The words were not coming easily to Ignacio. He looked at the rain rolling off the windshield. “Martin is buried up Lobos Canyon. Arroyo Azul comes down the middle of it. Do you know where I mean?”

Lewis nodded.

“There is a dirt road between mile marker six and seven. Turn there toward the mountain. The road will stop. About forty yards beyond that is where Martin is buried. The grave is not marked.”

“Thank you.”

“You can take your truck.” Igancio opened the door and started to get out, stopped and spoke without looking back. “Martin was not buried in a box.”

“Okay.”

Ignacio shut the door. Lewis slid across the seat. His whole body ached and the cool night air was stiffening him. He could not see Ignacio cross the yard to the morada , but he saw him when he pulled open the door and the strange light shown behind him.

Lewis started the engine and realized as he pulled away that he didn’t know where he was. He drove back the way they came and travelled the muddy road, looking for anything familiar in the darkness. The clock in the truck read one-thirty. He reached the main highway and turned north toward his place. He needed a shovel and a light.

The road up to his house was a mess. He slipped and slid his way up the dark trail. The rain let up some. He prayed he wouldn’t meet any headlights. He could imagine his heart failing him at the sight. He had never seen his house so dark and it seemed like ages since he’d been there. The vapor lamp on the barn flickered over the corral.

He walked through the rain to the house, stomping mud off his feet as he climbed the steps. He opened the door and stepped in, switching on the kitchen light without pause. He kicked his shoes off as he closed the door. He put water on to boil and went to his bedroom where he found dry clothes and boots. He realized that someplace along the way he had lost his shotgun. It didn’t matter, he figured. It would do more to get him shot than anything else. The kettle whistled.

In the kitchen, he poured the hot water into a bowl and stirred in a package of instant soup. He turned on the radio and ate while he listened to a call-in talk show. People complained and asked what could be done about workers’ compensation, which was not commensurate with the limb lost and missing baggage for which the airlines refused to take responsibility and pit bulls terrorizing a neighborhood. Lewis listened to the host ask for calls and considered picking up the phone. “Hello,” he would say, “my friend’s been kidnapped and will be killed if I don’t come up with a dead old Mexican. What should I do?” He swallowed the last of his tea and laughed. He was losing his mind.

He put on his raincoat over a sweater, grabbed a flashlight and left the house. The rain was light now. As he drew nearer the barn, he could see it. One of the horses stood over something large in the mud. The light on the barn flickered like a strobe. His legs became rubbery as he realized the gelding was standing over the mare. He went to her. Water stood in the mud around her. Her legs were folded awkwardly beneath her body. He shined the light on her. There was a hole in the middle of the race mark on her face. There was no blood; she had been washed by the rain. Lewis vomited up his soup and staggered to the barn door for support.

He didn’t have time to think about this now. He didn’t have time to think. Thinking was a bad idea. He went into the barn and got the shovel and a tarp. He trotted out toward the truck without looking at his fallen animal.

It was three-forty when Lewis turned off the main road and drove toward Lobos Canyon. This muddy road was worse than the one up to his house. He wondered if it had ever seen a grader. The rain had picked up again. He came to the arroyo. It was full and flowing quickly. He hesitated only briefly, then plowed forward. The water was deeper than he’d guessed and the flow stronger. The truck dipped down and the water pushed the back of it, but he made it across. The road ended.

He got out and shined his light up the foot path. He grabbed the shovel out of the back and started to count out the forty yards. If it had not rained, it would have been simple to find the freshly dug grave. Forty yards about. He moved the beam of the light through the trees and over the ground. There was a dead tree not far from him. The ground beside was muddy, no pine needles and grass. In the mud was a discarded can which had contained Vienna sausages.

Lewis started digging. At least the rain made digging easy. He threw the mud and dirt gently as if that made the action less disrespectful. He balanced the flashlight on the log and had it shine down into the hole. The smell hit him, then the shovel caught on something, but it wasn’t hard and he remembered that Martin had not been buried in a coffin. He put down the shovel and dropped to dig with his hands. He found Martin. He grabbed the light and shone it on him. Maggots crawled on his face, in his mouth, around his eyes. Lewis looked up at the sky and screamed, screamed as loud as he could. He tried to throw up, but nothing came. He just dry heaved, the muscles of his entire body pressing to release something that was not there.