Stranger (19 page)

On a Tuesday in late August he worked in his garden, digging up potatoes and carrots and picking ripe tomatoes. In the afternoon he drove to Coffeyville and picked up milk and bread and butter at the supermarket. At True Value he purchased 2 x 4 studs and framing nails and pink insulation and ten sheets of half-inch plywood, and he strapped this to the bed of the Camino and drove back to his land. Heading north on 169 he encountered a thunderstorm so fierce that he had to pull to the shoulder and wait it out. After it had passed he drove slowly, wary of his load and of the black puddles that caused his Camino to plane. It was dusk when he passed a car stranded on the far shoulder. No hazards. Long and boat-like. He slowed and then carried on. The car was an Eldorado, vintage, and it wasn't from those parts. He would have noted it previously. He slowed and pulled over. Made a three-point turn and drove slowly back towards the vehicle. His headlights revealed nothing save the empty car, slightly akilter on the shoulder. Nose pointing at the ditch. Passenger door ajar. He sat in the Camino and
contemplated. The last light had just been siphoned from the sky. He exited and shut his door. Stood in the gloom. Heard a cat mewl out in the field. He approached the Eldorado. Looked out towards the field. Heard once again the cat, or some small animal. He had no interest in a confrontation, or trouble, or anything that might lead to trouble.

He looked into the passenger side of the Cadillac and saw a backpack and beside the backpack a baby bottle. He straightened and looked out again towards the field. Mosquitoes hovered near his neck and ears. The air was clean, there was a slight breeze, and he could smell clover. The cat mewled once again. He returned to his Camino and reached in behind his seat and pulled out a spade, a tool of cultivation, but it could be used for protection. He walked down through the ditch into the deep, wet grass and by the time he'd reached the wheatfield his boots and the cuffs of his pants were soaked. He went looking for the source of the cries and found a baby lying on the ground, nestled in the wheat. He stooped and picked it up. Wiped the tears off the baby's face. Held it. The baby was acquiescent and pushed against his chest. Thumped its legs as if it was incredibly happy to have found a human.

Who are you? he whispered.

Deeper in the field he heard voices, and he moved forward. He now carried the baby and he carried the spade, and so his hands and arms were full. The noises grew and he recognized them as human voices and he wondered if the baby was more important than the trek forward. He hesitated. He decided to lay the baby back against the softness of the grain. He did so. He built a little nest and made
sure it was comfortable. And then he promised that he would return. The baby said nothing. Its eyes were dark and trusting.

He carried on, following the path of broken grain, and he came upon a man sitting astride a woman. He thought at first that they might be in congress, but they were fully clothed, and he saw that the man was rudely holding the woman and the things he said were rude and he heard her whimper, and then cry, and he saw that this was wrong, and so, fearing for his own existence, and aware of the baby back in the grain, he gripped the spade as if it were a baseball bat and he said, Look at me. When his voice was not heeded, he again said, Look at me, and as the man turned to look, he swung the spade at the man's head.

H
E
didn't know what to do with her. He'd come to this land to escape, to settle and roost like an endangered species that senses the desire of others for its extinction and yet will struggle against that annihilation. He had been fervent in his privacy, and even the giving of gifts to neighbours—the broth from the boiled chickens, thick and lidded with grease—had been a gesture of separation. I will give, but not take. I come in peace. Leave me be. And now here she was, and he was at a loss. They had come up out of the field, running, she holding his hand and he holding the child. They'd left the man akimbo, groaning and mumbling, in the wheat beside the abandoned spade. The swing of the spade had been just hard enough to fell him briefly. A light knock. Sayed was not a violent man.

If she had not had the child he would have dropped her in Morehead, on the main street, or driven her to Coffeyville and booked a room for her at the inn. In the passenger's seat, she kept turning her head to look, as if expecting a following, and with each turn she moaned and then returned to her child and clutched at it. She wept grievously and her whole body shook and even after the weeping had halted she continued to shake.

He asked if that man was her husband.

She looked at him, dismayed. No, she said. No.

You didn't know him.

She shook her head.

He told her that she was safe. That no harm would come to her. But she seemed to be deaf, or not to believe. And so he took her home.

S
HE
slept in an old shed that he converted into a bedroom for her and Meja. There was a single cot and a small wooden table and two chairs and there were two windows that looked east towards the house where he lived. They did not eat together at first. He delivered food morning and evening, and if she was still sleeping, he left it on the stairs by her door. In the morning a plate of scrambled eggs or a bowl of Cream of Wheat, a pot of tea, a piece of bread and some jam. In the evening he might bring her fresh tomatoes and cucumber and a bowl of rice with a rich creamy sauce that was spicy and carried heat, a flavour unlike anything else she had tasted. It was delicious. Or one time, baked quar
tered potatoes that tasted of lemon and rosemary. Baked tomatoes as well. She was allowed to use his bathroom and shower, but only when he was not in the house. The same rules applied to his kitchen, but because he cooked for her, she had no reason to use the kitchen. His existence might have been perceived as meagre, if she hadn't known this kind of reality back in her own village. He spoke little, and when he did speak, it was to offer instruction, or to ask if she was okay. She was. He was very fond of Meja and he took to touching Meja's head or clutching Meja's fist and speaking to her softly. In those moments she saw the kindness in his eyes.

In her nightmares the man killed her, and she woke, horrified, and she lay panting and soaked in sweat. In another she killed him, and bit out his tongue and spit it on the ground. Horrifying as well. And when she woke she touched herself to verify her own existence and she realized that she was alive, and safe. As was Meja, lying by her side. They were in a bed with clean sheets, and the room had a padlock. Sami had shown her how to use it, and so each night when she retired, she slipped the lock into place and slept with the key beneath her pillow.

She heard him talking one morning, when she had risen early and gone outside her hut to walk with Meja. She asked him about this later in the day, and he paused and said that he had been praying. He prayed five times a day—three times silently, two times out loud. He asked if she prayed, and she said that she did.

The first time he left to get supplies, he told her to stay out of sight, and he said that if anyone should come, she was to remain
invisible. When he used the word “invisible,” she thought that he was right. She wanted to be invisible.

When he worked in his garden, she helped as Meja sat on a blanket between the rows of tomatoes. And then Meja was crawling along the rows and reaching for the bright fruit. He thought this was delightful. Let her, he said, whenever Íso tried to save the tomatoes from Meja's grasp. In the mornings she gathered eggs and delivered them to his kitchen. When he slaughtered a few chickens, she helped with the plucking and evisceration. She chopped wood. She asked if she might keep his house clean, and he said that she wasn't his maid. She said that she had to earn her keep. He said that she had nothing to earn.

And then one day, three weeks into her stay, he invited her to join him for the evening meal. Please, he said, come.

His table was set with two plates and two glasses, and beneath the cutlery there were napkins made of cloth that he had folded. She sat and held Meja, who promptly grabbed a spoon and banged it against the wood of the table. She took the spoon away.

It's okay, he said. Let her make music.

She gave the spoon back and the banging continued.

He served a chickpea dish cooked with peppers and onions and he ladled this on top of rice. They drank water. She ate and said that it was very delicious. She set a few chickpeas on the table for Meja, who picked them up carefully and ferried them to her mouth and chewed happily.

He asked what her plans were.

She looked at him and said that she would leave the next day.

Is that what you think I want?

You've given enough.

How much is enough?

She looked down.

He asked where her husband was.

There is no husband.

He was quiet. And then he asked after the father.

She did not answer.

He asked her if she had been heading north or south when he'd found her.

South, she said.

Are you in danger? he asked.

She said that she might be.

Meja is yours, he said.

Oh, yes. Yes. She's mine.

I'm sorry, he said. It's not my affair.

She said that it was okay. He had a right. She was his guest.

She stood and handed Meja to him. He took Meja and sat her on his lap as
Íso
cleared the table and washed the dishes. She was aware of him watching her as she worked.

He said that he was surprised sometimes at the cruelties men were capable of. And then he said that he shouldn't be surprised, for he was a man as well.

But not cruel, she said.

Everyone is capable, he said.

She shook her head and turned to him and said, I don't think so.

They began to share evening meals at his kitchen table. And
then breakfast as well. He liked to scramble eggs with red peppers and onion and he liked a little honey with the eggs. She did the same. Meja especially enjoyed the honey. Sayed sometimes played cuckoo with Meja, hiding his head under the table and then popping up. Meja was terribly pleased with this game.

One morning he asked her where her home was. She told him. He asked if she was returning home and she said yes.

You'll have to cross the border into Mexico, he said.

Of course.

Do you have papers?

She shook her head.

And Meja?

No.

It will be difficult.

I know, she said. But I came here without papers, and I'll return without papers.

The following day he drove to Coffeyville to buy supplies. She washed her clothes and she washed Meja's clothes and diapers and she hung everything in the sunshine, on the line behind her shed. She cleaned his kitchen. Washed her hair. She stood in the doorway of his bedroom, but she did not enter. He was very neat. And he had very few things. He did not smoke or drink and he prayed often and he read his holy book and he sometimes didn't eat for religious reasons. In the afternoon heat she and Meja lay on their bed in the coolness of the shed. Meja slept. A fly buzzed against the window.
Íso
heard a car and then the car stopped in the yard and a door opened and shut and she heard footsteps on the gravel. She
rose and stood at the window and looked out into the yard. She saw a police car and she saw a state trooper walking the perimeter of the yard. The trooper walked up the stairs to the door of the house and knocked. Waited. Then he descended the stairs and disappeared around the side of the house. She waited. He reappeared eventually and walked over to his car and looked about one last time and then climbed in and left. She sat down and breathed.

That night at supper she told him about the police car and she said that she would be leaving.

He didn't seem surprised. He asked how she would travel.

She said that she might go by bus. Or walk. Or catch rides.

I don't think so, he said. She was quick to look up at him but he wouldn't allow her to speak. He said that he would drive her to the place she wanted to go.

She said that it wasn't safe for him. She said that Meja was hers, but others didn't think so.

And she told him. About Meja's birth and how she was taken. And she told him about crossing the border into America and she told him about Gabriel and about Gabriel's mother and she told him about Saint Falls and finding Meja and she told him about the doctor and she said that though he was the father he wasn't really a true father and she said that she had taken her baby back in order to return to her own place. When she was finished speaking he said nothing for a long time. Meja fussed and she lifted her top and offered her a breast. She had never done this before in front of him but at this point he didn't notice. Or if he noticed, he didn't think it remarkable. Or it was very remarkable and he was willing to accept
its importance. He looked only at her face. He said that none of this surprised him. He was aware of the world out there. They are looking for you, he said.

Not me. The baby.

You both.

I did nothing wrong, she said. I only took my baby.

You have no proof that she is yours. No papers.

I have my genes. My DNA. That's proof.

You have no power, he said.

Will you report me? she asked.

No. No. He said that he would have acted as she had. But that he would have had different motives. He could not imagine giving up a child to be raised in a world of unbelief. A heathen world. Her motive was maternal. His would have been religious.

You think I'm sinful, she said.

It doesn't matter what I think, he said.

She said that she was aware of her wrongdoing when she took Meja. And that there would come a day when Meja would ask who her father was. And she would have to explain. A child is not an object that you cut in half and then each takes a share, she said. A child is unaware. She has no choice. This city, this country, this mother, this father. It's fate.