Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection (7 page)

"Who knows what the codes are nowadays." I hadn't spoken to Jules Morten in at least a dozen years. He and I had worked together at TrueMed in the billing department. That was thirty years ago. "I'll give him a call."

***

Jules Morten sounded warm and generous when I phoned him the next morning. We talked about mutual friends we'd had, some of whom had passed on, some who had retired to Mexico. When I approached the subject of William's cul de sac and the garbage and rats, he stiffened up. "You know, Ash, there's little I can do to twist Burton's arm. They have a tight leash on sanitation and water. Now if your son had a little extra something for someone over there, I may be able to get it to the right person."

On the kitchen counter, the leaves of my little windmill palm waved slowly up and down like a hand. "Are you serious?"

"It's the only way nowadays, Ash. But that would help his situation, I'm sure of it."

"Look, he has an infant, they have no money. They're struggling," I said.

"We all try to get along as best we can," he said.

I told him I'd think about it.

***

I called William back and urged him to come to Phoenix for Christmas. No one would blame them for staying with their mother a few weeks, I said, maybe even a month. But he wasn't having any of it. Emma's job wouldn't allow her the time off, even during the holidays when office buildings were closed and no one dirtied the toilets. And things were a bit better, he said, he and his neighbor Ethan went out at night and clubbed a few of the rats with shovels. The biggest ones were dead. They poured bleach into the garbage bags and that not only deterred the rats but it made everything smell a little fresher.

After we hung up, I went downstairs to the warehouse and bought a box of contractor bags and a disposable phone and made a package to send to Sacramento. At least my son would be able to call his wife in an emergency or when his child was ill.

When I came back from the mail desk, the son of the Guatemalan couple was standing at my door. Stocky, short, reddish tan. His eyes were permanently bloodshot and both his hands had blue rashes. He wore a strange, almost formal hat, something I remember from ancient pictures of Frank Sinatra. "Help for me?" he said.

He led me downstairs to the back service door where a sagging twin mattress was propped up against a storage fence. Why I, at seventy-five, agreed to carry it, I don't know, but it had handles and was surprisingly light. We made our way into the service elevator and went up to the sixth floor in silence, then carried the mattress clumsily down the hall to his parents' apartment. They were out. The curtains were closed and a small screen in the corner flashed commercials for local restaurants and used cars. The sofa had a rumpled blanket and pillow. The breakfast bar held the bones of a fried chicken.

I forget his name and was working to remember it as he shifted aside a dresser and we lay the mattress on the floor by the window. Just as it occurred to me his name was Hector, he stood up, faced me in a squareish way and said, "Are you alone at Christmas?"

***

I was never really alone at Christmas although I guess I should have felt that way. There was always William and Emma and now Charger in a wonderfully long telepresence visit I enjoyed. We drank and ate and watched It's a Wonderful Life. Emma always cried at the part where the tough Italian guy takes over Martini's and I always cried when Jimmy Stewart was saved by friends. After the movie this year, Emma was out of frame for a while putting Charger to sleep. William and I chatted. I didn't want to bring up the garbage topic but I was worried about the rats biting Charger. In a nonchalant way I asked if anything outside had changed.

"Not really," he said, "unless you count the spray paint on our door."

"Oh, brother, what is this about?"

"Well, Charger's been colicky and crying a lot at night -- loudly."

I thought of Will at age two screaming his head off as Ty carried him away from a patio fire pit. "What, are kids foreign to them?"

"Kind of. No one else has kids."

"No one at all?"

"Little kids. One house has a twelve-year-old and a fifteen-year-old -- and they're particularly creepy."

"Maybe they did the paint?"

"No, I don't think so. This was too sophisticated for them."

"Like what was on the door? A word or what?"

"You don't need to know."

"That makes me want to know."

"Mom, don't worry about it."

I watched him drink from a glass of water. He always conserved by drinking half in the morning and half in the afternoon.

"So did Burton ever pick up?" I said.

He swallowed. "Let's just say the problem's as big as a house now."

I wiped my eyes. I could feel my heart beating in my chest. I imagined little Charger and his rubbery delicate arms. "Just don't add to it anymore, Will, stay out of the whole thing now."

"I am. We started our own garbage area in the backyard. Look, Mom, Emma and I, pretty soon, we may be out of contact for a while."

He tapped his fists against each other in some small act of avoiding my eyes. When I didn't respond, he said, "We might look for work in San Jose."

"Why in the world San Jose?"

Silence.

"What job could they possibly have for a history teacher? I mean, maybe there's a job tutoring rich kids..."

"Not me, Emma. There's a cleaning outfit that's hiring."

"Are you sure of it? Or is this a rumor?"

"It's a tip, but I think it's a good one."

"A tip from who?"

He rubbed his mouth.

"From Ethan, your friend?"

"Yes, from him."

"And can you trust him? I mean, that's a big move. You can't be giving notice on the lease..."

"Well, nothing's for sure, I don't know when we will. But I know there are openings in at least two school programs for personal training, I'm sure of that, which could get me a good job in a Valley corporation."

"You don't know anything about body building."

"I work out, and I know nutrition."

I realized my forehead was creased. I was frowning. I didn't want to frown. I wanted to be supportive and cheer on my child but to leave a gated community was a risk. "Do you need money?" I said.

"No, I have some. I've been saving."

"You have? How much?"

"Enough."

"But how much? You'll need three thousand just to move and get started for a few months."

"I have enough. Look, I don't want to say too much online, you know?"

His virtual eyes gave me a loaded stare.

"Alright," I said. "But you'll need a gun."

"I don't need one."

"Yes. You do. There's at least 120 miles between Sacramento and San Jose -- on the highway, where desperate people live."

"I know, but I have other protection."

"Don't pay anyone in advance."

"I know, I'm not."

"Buggie, why don't you just charter a train car here? I can prepay from downstairs. Costco has a new kiosk for just that kind of travel. You can figure things out here, save money, stay for a while, at least until someone says something."

"I'm not going to get you thrown out!"

"But just until someone says something."

"Like the patrol? No, it's not debatable. I'll be in touch after we get settled. We're preparing. We'll be fine."

"Oh, Will, please don't go."

"Mommy, we will come see you -- when the time is right. It's just not the right time now."

***

After we blew kisses and said goodbye, I went down the hall to the Guatemalans’' apartment. I brought an angel food cake. I knocked. There was a commotion behind the door though I knew they were expecting me in the evening for dessert. There was some thumping and shushing before finally the tiny bent mother opened the door. Her face was lined, her hair white. The father stood from an armchair, his barrel chest with its gold cross preceding him, and shook my hand. They nodded as they smiled. A bottle of guaro was on the coffee table. Their saints candles were lit. The son watched a soccer match on the screen. The mother and I went into the kitchen nook to cut up the cake. The father asked Hector in Spanish if he wanted cake. Hector said nothing, he watched the match from a stool positioned a foot from the screen. The parents and I sat down at the card table by the wall. A stained, bright yellow cloth lay across the middle of the surface. The mother poured a coffee so strong I almost spat. I took cream. The father spoke some English and we chatted in a broken rhythm about the Coyotes baseball team. The warm Arizona wind blew on our forearms as we cut off cake pieces with our forks.

After a few minutes, the mother rose to fetch napkins. I heard a squeal, or a scream, I wasn't sure which and out of the bedroom came a child, about two years old, African. He plopped down on the mattress by the window, then grabbed the sheet and threw it over his head as if playing a game. A young woman, her head covered by a scarf, darted from the bedroom after him. She lifted his wrestling body in her arms. Someone yelped. Someone cussed. A man in a ripped T-shirt came from the bedroom and grabbed the woman by the wrist to yank them out of view. The door slammed.

I looked at the Guatemalan mother. She'd stood up from her chair and been motioning to the young parents. At seeing me, she sat down and folded her hands.

"Are there more?" I said.

She shook her head. "Please, we work hard. We take no money. I give you money."

"Don't," I said. There was a chunk of cake on my plate, a small piece on my fork, another small piece on the plate. I set down the fork. "I should go."

The father rose and touched the back of my hand. His fingers were heavy, dry. "Please," he said.

"Don't see me and I won't see you," I said. I went to the door and left the room where Hector was still mesmerized by the players running around in random circles on the field.

***

The next day my perspective changed. I went downstairs to buy a few supplies. Inside the warehouse, there were hundreds of people, maybe thousands. Who could tell who was living where? There was one card per family. And the staff was so accommodating and nice at check out that I returned to my apartment feeling a little bold, a little hopeful.

At first, I tried William's tablet but realized that was dumb since he wouldn't be online for days, maybe weeks. Then I remembered the phone I'd sent him and dialed the number.

Five extended rings passed before a man answered with a brusque "What."

I meant to speak but uttered and uhmed and finally said, "William, is William there?"

"Who?"

"William Hunter. Is this Ethan?"

"Ethan? Who are you, lady?" he said. "What are you up to? Is this a sales call?"

"No, my son, I bought this phone for my son, and he's supposed to have it. Where is he? Are you in Sacramento?"

"Hey, back off, I bought this piece from a guy named Gilford."

"But it can't be yours, my son is supposed to have it. Is he there?"

"No."

"Where is he? Did you steal this from him?"

"Steal? I bought this fair and square for fifty bucks. I shelled out good money. Look, I don't know any William, I don't know any Ethan, Gilford's the guy I bought it from. It was fair and it's mine now."

"Is this Gilford tall? And has hair that's kind of brownish blonde? He has …" I was about to say a Fu-Manchu moustache but then realized William had shaved it off and this young person wouldn't know the reference anyway, so I said, "he has brown eyes, very handsome."

"Who the hell are you?" he said, "What do you think I am?" He clicked off. I dialed again. He didn't answer.

***

For three days I called that phone before the guy threatened to call the police and I gave up. Occasionally I tried William's tablet but couldn't connect and then every few days I tried both the phone and the computer but there was never any connection.

Early on the morning of Valentine's Day, I heard voices. Around lunchtime when I left to get groceries, I saw the building manager roaming the hall, directing workmen. The Guatemalans’' apartment door was open. I heard a vacuum, and hammering. Men were ripping out the carpeting and installing new. I closed the door, no longer feeling like going out. I went to my laptop to rent a movie, maybe The Hobbit, Ty's favorite where the dragon's brought down, but the screen was in saver mode: photos of Helga and Ty and then William on my lap as a baby. I couldn't turn away. I watched the rotating images one after another until the setting sun reflected off a mirror and created a glare on my screen. I got up to close the curtains but when I reached the window, the sun had dropped behind the mountains. A soft orange light glowed against the dark jagged terrain. Below in the neighborhood, the signs on stores and gas stations had not yet turned on, nor had the streetlights, and the hills and roads and buildings all muddied together in a large shadowed mass that grew and grew until it seemed to devour me with its senseless black presence.

PHIL PADDOCK

Confluence

GORDON NIM WASN’T MUCH of a talker. Even as a boy his speech was ponderous, the reflective and analytical faculties canceling the spontaneous and impulsive ones. He didn’t use the tactics of posture or gesture to his advantage either. He didn’t lean in close or raise his eyebrows in conspiratorial winks, didn’t vary the tone of his voice, or pinch an arm to punctuate his message. It was a problem both of conviction and idealism- the noble expectation that people ought to listen to one another. As he learned the world didn’t work this way, he ceased to expect to be heard. Because of this, Gordon seemed smaller than he really was. A small and indistinct blur.

When Gordon was in his twenties his convictions made a brief revolt. His voice emerged and used it to declare love and to declare war. First there was Patty, a waitress at the Bella Vita restaurant where he layered lasagna, simmered scaloppini and piccata sauces; and later, after that ended in a clatter of accusations and shattered dishes, an artful girl named Miranda. He chased her to Australia and when she said she wanted to but was afraid because of Joe, Gordon declared war on her oppressive ex and shut him up with a decisively quick first strike at the throat.