Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

There was nothing to do but keep moving, try to stay in front of the flames. This proved to be impossible. The fire moved too quickly and finally overtook them in a steep, narrow canyon, roaring and spitting like some bright, burning beast. El Chango lost his nerve. He and the boys abandoned the pregnant girl and her husband and sprinted up the path, not stopping until they no longer felt heat on the backs of their necks. Upon reaching the railroad tracks that cut across the desert there, they sat and waited for over an hour, but nobody else appeared out of the inferno.

El Chango hangs his head and weeps when he finishes. Miguel is embarrassed by the tears. He hasn’t cried in years and is sure he never will again. He stares at the Modelo bottle as the man sobs. The Christmas lights turn it red, then green, then blue.

Papá pulls a map from his pocket and thrusts it at the coyote, demanding he show him where they crossed. El Chango wipes his eyes with his palms, squints down at the map and points to a remote area east of Tecate.

“The same trail as always?” Papá asks.

El Chango nods.

“Okay, then, let’s go,” Papá says to Miguel, and for once Miguel is happy to obey one of his orders.

BREWER SITS AT the picnic table and drinks a celebratory beer. His property lies charred and smoldering all around him, but he’s saved the trailer and the truck, the pump house and the propane tank. Not finding much fuel here, the fire passed through quickly and is now crawling toward Calexico and Mexicali. The smoke has cleared, except for a few white snakes still writhing over shrubs that haven’t yet burned themselves out.

Brewer’s hands were slightly scorched fighting the fire. He rests a plastic bag filled with ice on the blistered skin. His eyebrows are gone too, burned away, and some of his hair, but nothing that won’t grow back. All in all he’s proud of having stood his ground.

“Cassius,” he shouts. “Get your ass out here.”

He last saw the dog cowering under the trailer right before the fire descended upon them. A tickle of worry makes him bend to peer into the animal’s hiding place.

“Cassius?” he calls again, but detects no movement in the shadows.

He tells himself the mutt is fine. Probably holed up somewhere else on the property, still too frightened by the smoke and flames to come out. He forces his mind to move on. There are plenty of other issues to be dealt with. The power is out, for example, and since it might be days before repairs are made, he decides dinner tonight will be the T-bone he’s been saving in the freezer, with ice cream for dessert. He’s in the middle of a mental inventory of the rest of the contents of the refrigerator, dividing it into stuff that will spoil and stuff that won’t, when a watery uneasiness once again creeps up on him.

“Cassius?” he shouts, before finally figuring out what’s bothering him: No birds. They’ve all disappeared in the wake of the fire, and the quiet is unsettling. No ravens bitching, no doves courting. No finches, no jays, no quail. There’s only the wind now, and the distant whine of an engine coming closer. Brewer cranes his neck to look down the road and sees a cloud of dust. Probably the lady cop, expecting the worst. Won’t she be surprised. He stands and tucks in his shirt, straightens his collar.

But it’s not the cop who drives into the yard, it’s the Sharp brothers, a pair of former marines who still favor high-and-tights and camo. They live near Lake Morena with their wives and kids, get by as handymen, and, under the mantle of patriotism, spend their spare hours patrolling the border in search of illegals. The deal is, they’re not allowed to detain the wetbacks or confront them in any way, only to radio their location to the border patrol, but Brewer suspects there’s some wink-wink nudge-nudge going on around that.

Steve is behind the wheel of the Jeep, Matthew in the passenger seat. The only way Brewer can tell them apart is that Steve has tattoos and Matthew doesn’t. Nice enough guys, but he isn’t looking to get any friendlier with them than he already is. He can’t help wondering about the essential qualities of folks who get their kicks fucking with the poor and desperate.

“You made it!” Steve shouts.

“I wasn’t sure for a while there,” Brewer says. “Goddamn thing almost seemed to have a grudge. How’d it go at your place?”

“No problems,” Matthew says. “The crews kept it south of the 94.”

“So everybody got lucky. Good. Say, you didn’t happen to see that old dog that hangs around here on your way in, did you?”

“Nope,” Steve says. “He run off?”

“No, no,” Brewer says. “I just haven’t seen him in an hour or so. Where you guys off to?”

“Ah, you know, looking for trouble,” Steve says. There’s a scorpion on his neck, and rattlesnakes coil up both arms.

“The coyotes are for sure gonna take advantage of the fire,” Matthew says. “They’ll be bringing across as many pollos as they can while everyone’s busy.”

Brewer notices a couple of shotguns in the backseat of the Jeep, and each man has a Glock on his hip. A bit excessive for “observers,” but then again, Brewer can’t imagine that vigilantes like Matthew and Steve are too popular out there in no-man’s-land.

“Well, take it easy,” he says.

“You good?” Matthew says.

Brewer has two ruined tires on his truck and only one spare, but he’ll worry about that tomorrow, walk up the road to where he can get a signal on his phone or hitch into Calexico. It’s always been like that: If he can do for himself, he will.

“I’m good,” he says.

Steve backs the Jeep out and whips it around toward a dirt track that leads to the border, and Brewer is suddenly beat all the way down to his bones. He calls for Cassius a few more times, then walks to the trailer and pulls himself up the step to get inside. Everything hurts when he lies on the bed, everything’s against him. Not even a bird left to sing him to sleep.

THE LITTLE TOWN of Campo is full of fire trucks, and firefighters in helmets and heavy coats wander in and out of a convenience store and commiserate in the parking lot under a sun made sickly by a pall of ashy smoke. More smoke roils in grubby billows on the horizon.

A highway patrolman manning a checkpoint steps out into the road in front of Papá’s truck and waves him to a stop. He asks to see identification, and Papá hands over his green card and driver’s license. The cop bends to peer in the window at Miguel and says, “You too.”

Miguel slides his California ID out of his wallet. Anger and embarrassment keep him from looking the cop in the eye. The guy is barking at them like they’re a couple of wetbacks. He shuffles through the cards, examining them perfunctorily, then passes them back.

“¿Habla inglés?” he says.

“I do,” Miguel replies.

“The road ahead is closed because of the fire,” the cop says. “You have to go back the way you came.” He makes a chopping motion with his hand. “ No más driving. Fuego .”

Miguel translates for Papá, who mumbles ”I understand” in Spanish and backs the truck up. They turn around and drive maybe a half mile before the old man pulls over at a wide spot in the road and shuts off the engine. Miguel’s heart sinks when Papá steps out of the truck, grabbing a red fleece jacket and the bag containing the rest of the burritos.

“We’ll walk,” he says.

“For real?” Miguel says. He’d hoped the old man had given up and that they’d be back in L.A. in time for his rendezvous with Michelle.

“Bring your coat,” Papá says.

Miguel clutches his letterman’s jacket to his chest. “No way. It’ll get messed up.”