Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

PAPÁ RECALLS THE general direction of El Chango’s route, but the trail itself has been obliterated by the fire. Miguel follows the old man up one rocky hill, then another, then another. When they crest the third, Papá turns to look at where they’ve been, points to the first hill, and says, “That one. I’m sure of it now. We have to go back.”

Frustrated protests boil up in Miguel’s throat, but he falls in behind his father without a word. He’ll drop dead before he complains again. He’s as tough as the old man, tougher even. Younger, stronger. He plods along in his father’s wake, his mind a hateful whirl. His feet hurt, and the dust makes him cough, but he’s determined to outlast the old man and laugh in his face when he finally stalls.

They reach the top of the first hill again, almost an hour wasted. Papá crouches on top and squints at the smoking horizon in search of landmarks that have escaped the flames. Miguel is sure it’s hopeless. Everything around them has burned. After a minute or so, though, the old man stands and points out a notch in a ridge up ahead.

“There,” he says.

Bullshit; he’s lost. But Miguel follows him silently. They descend and walk toward the ridge. Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The rhythmic crunch crunch of their footsteps is hypnotic, and Miguel has visions of Michelle naked and of all the shit he’s seen in pornos that he wants to do to her. He almost bumps into his father when the old man stops suddenly and raises his hand.

Something big and black is lying on the ground in front of them, the burned carcass of an animal. Something horned and hooved. A shimmering blanket of flies peels away as they approach, revealing gory rents in the leathery flesh where other animals have already begun to feed. Miguel averts his eyes, and they make a wide detour around the remains.

Miguel asks for a drink, and Papá hands him the last bottle of Coke. There’s barely any left.

“Is that it?” Miguel says.

Papá looks up at the sun, then down at his watch. “Another hour,” he says. “After that we’ll turn back.”

A few minutes later, as they’re making their way across a plain dotted with thickets of charred chaparral, Papá stumbles and goes down hard. He pops to his feet quickly, ignoring Miguel’s outstretched hand, but grimaces and almost falls again as soon as he puts weight on his right ankle.

Miguel helps him sit, then watches as he unlaces and removes his paint-spattered work boot. The ankle has already begun to swell, and when Miguel moves the foot, the old man endures it, but with gritted teeth.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath.

Miguel stands and pulls his phone from his pocket. No signal.

“I’m going up there,” he says, pointing at the ridge. “To call 911.”

“No,” Papá says. “I’m fine.” He holds a deep breath and yanks the boot past his ankle. When it’s all laced up, he struggles to his feet. “Let’s go,” he says.

Miguel can see that he’s in pain. Without a word he moves up beside his father and drapes the old man’s arm around his neck.

“You’re taller than me,” Papá says, like he’s never noticed before.

“Didn’t take much,” Miguel says.

The old man looks ridiculous when he grins, ash all over his face, sweat dripping off his nose. Miguel pulls his arm tighter and starts toward the ridge, forcing him to work to keep up.

The hot, dusty climb to the notch exhausts both of them. They rest on boulders when they get there, look down into the valley on the other side. The fire burned through here too — the ground is still smoking in places — but somehow a small patch of land was spared. A weathered trailer, an old truck, a couple of sheds, even a bit of green grass.

Miguel is thirsty. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and he’s light-headed. He reaches into the plastic bag for the Coke bottle.

“I’m going for water,” he announces.

“Wait,” Papá says. “Let me think.”

“What’s there to think about?”

The old man squints at Miguel, hesitant, then stands and holds out his hand.

“I know what you’re up to,” he says. “You’re not leaving me out here for the vultures.”

BREWER IS ABOUT to set out in search of Cassius when he spies some sort of fire-spawned beast hobbling and scraping down the road toward his place. Two heads, three legs, filthy clothes, bloodshot eyes festering in blackened faces. It’s a man and a boy, illegals who managed to escape the flames. The wets normally avoid Brewer’s property, sneak on to use his faucets now and then. If these two are coming up the driveway in broad daylight, they must be in trouble.

Brewer picks up the machete he was using earlier to hack away burned brush. He feels a little safer with it in his hand.

“Hola,” he calls out.

The kid holds up an empty soda bottle. “Can we get some water?”

Brewer points to a spigot with the machete, and the kid walks to the faucet, leaving the man he’s with to stand unsteadily on his own.

“Speak English?” Brewer says.

“I do,” the kid replies. He twists the handle on the faucet and holds the bottle under the stream of water that gushes out.

“Picked a bad day to cross, didn’t you?” Brewer says.

“Cross?” the kid says.

“The border.”

“We’re legal,” the kid says, irritated. “We’re looking for someone.”

Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, the man is close to toppling over without the kid’s support. Brewer motions him to the picnic table. “Have a seat.”

The man shakes his head. “Is okay,” he says.

“Come on, take a break,” Brewer insists.

The man limps to the table. He sits facing outward on the bench, bows his head, and rubs his eyes with his palms, exhausted. The kid finishes filling the bottle and brings it to him. The man drinks deeply, then hands the bottle back to the kid.

“What happened to your foot?” Brewer asks the man.

He starts to speak, but the kid talks over him. “He sprained his ankle. Can we have more water?”

“Get as much as you want,” Brewer says. “How long you been looking for whoever you’re looking for?”

“My cousins,” the kid says. “A few hours. The cops wouldn’t let us drive any farther.”

The man scolds the kid in Spanish, tells him to keep his mouth shut. The kid snaps off a retort before crouching at the faucet again.

“Your dad?” Brewer asks.

The kid nods grudgingly.

Brewer walks to the picnic table and holds out his hand. “Henry Brewer,” he says.

“Armando Morales,” the man replies. They shake, and Brewer turns to the kid.

“Henry Brewer,” he says again.

“Miguel.”

“Sorry I mistook you.”

Miguel shrugs, doesn’t reply.

Brewer scratches the silver stubble on his chin. Father and son way out here on some sort of rescue mission, searching for family. That kind of devotion makes you look back at your own record. He sits down with Armando at the table and asks where they’re headed, has Miguel translate. Armando is reluctant to say, mumbling something about a canyon that Miguel has to ask him to repeat twice before he can put it into English.

“I know every canyon between here and Calexico,” Brewer says. “Maybe I can help you out.”

Armando is interested but still wary, and Brewer understands why. A gringo like him asking questions must set off all kinds of alarms.

SO SUDDENLY THIS Henry Brewer is all up in their business. Miguel’d like to tell him to fuck off, because he’s pretty sure Papá was about to admit defeat and head back to the truck a few minutes ago, but now the old man is all revved up again, showing Mr. Brewer the map and making Miguel repeat El Chango’s story of last night’s crossing.