Authors: Daniel Mason
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘you can believe me or not believe me. But I know water. I’ve been able to see it my entire life.’
‘See it,’
said the woman. ‘You mean you guess where it is.’ ‘No,’ said the man, ‘I’m telling you, I see it—like I see you in front of me. Like I see my hand.’
Isabel sat up. The passing country was black. She saw only the distant light of a house.
‘I don’t believe you,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t believe in this magic.’
The man ignored her. ‘There’s a seam running beneath us. Like a ribbon, twisting on itself. It widens there by the cattle fence. It divides out by the pasture and branches like vessels
of blood. Like roots. Like I could thrust my hand into the ground and tear out a great mass of shining roots.’ He paused. ‘There is an underground lake at the base of those hills. Shaped like a dog, a blue sleeping dog.’
The woman interrupted. ‘On my farm we paid for one of your type, and he did nothing but lie. Not one of his wells gave water.’
The man shrugged.
‘What good does it do you now?’ the woman asked, and then grew silent.
Later, as the flatbed rode through a long and empty stretch, Isabel opened her eyes to find the man awake. Sand dunes crept onto the roads, and the wet air smelled of her single memory of the sea. The woman was sleeping.
‘You can see it, too,’ he said to Isabel, when he saw her watching him. She didn’t answer. He repeated, ‘You see it. You see it, don’t you?’
Isabel shook her head.
‘I thought …,’ he said, and stopped. Isabel wanted to tell him about Isaias in the cane fields, but he began again. ‘In the jungle, when we mined the rivers, I could find each trench in the underwater banks, even in the darkness. In the quarries, they sent me in with the drills to keep them from hitting a water seam and flooding the tunnels. In the navy, too, I dove, to search out leaks in the hulls of the ships when others couldn’t find them. I can see in the city: the pipes, water mains, sewers. I can see the rivers that run below the ground. I dove there, too. In the tunnels of the waterworks, like we used to mine.’
She waited for the rest of his story, but he had stopped. She wondered what it was like to live under the water. Somehow,
she imagined it like the truck’s coursing, a terrifying fall through darkness, the cold currents streaming past.
In the morning, she awoke to a gentle shaking. It was the girl. ‘Look,’ she said.
The flatbed had slowed; the side of the road was crammed with zebu cattle. The dark fields shifted like a mirage. Isabel wondered if there had been a fire. Then she saw it wasn’t a burn, but cows as far as the horizon—it was all cows, the dark brown bodies crowding the fields, turning up clods of broken soil, in such numbers that they reminded her of blowflies that covered the meat at home. She was jolted by a wave of nausea. She heard a lowing that she first took to be the engine of the truck. An animal was pushed up against the slats, its face inches away, smeared with green manure. It flapped its tail with nonchalance. There are too many of them, she thought with sudden anger, There is not enough space.
They left the cows. She saw how the land had changed. The earth was wet. They passed cane fields, the stalks higher than those at home. A group of laborers filed along a narrow red path. She remembered stories about this place: it was sugar country, tobacco country, once slave country; the earth was so fertile, they said, you could spit and it would grow a man. They passed a cane-processing plant and the site of an abandoned fairground. Swallows arced and chased each other over the fields.
The girl offered her food again, but she was nauseated with the memory of the zebu. How many days had it been since she last ate? she wondered. She was already confused about how long they had been traveling.
In the afternoon, they stopped at a hot, barren intersection, and a group of people came running from a concrete pavilion.
They piled bags into the back and climbed on. It was very crowded now, and there was scarcely any room to sit. Isabel gave her space to an old woman with a sun-worn face and a rosary made of black and red seeds.
Isabel stood and clung to the metal bar. The air was stagnant and smelled thickly of people. She felt dizzy and looked for someplace to rest her gaze, but everything was swaying. The sun was very hot on the top of her head. She thought: I should have eaten. What if I have to ride like this, standing, all the way? She saw how the wind whipped the hair of the people at the rail, and wanted to be there. She wondered if later they would rotate, how they would sleep. She was thirsty, but she was afraid that if she drank she would have to pee. She had two cane liquor bottles’ worth of water, but they were in her bag, beneath the other bags. She hadn’t touched them.
Farther along the road, a young man fainted, crumpling onto a pile of bags. Then an older man fell. When they stopped next, the driver argued with the passengers. ‘I can’t go carrying sick people,’ he said. ‘It’s not that I am a bad person, but if one of you dies, they’ll take away the truck. I have a family.’ They gave the young man water and he was able to stand. The old man got off with his son at a roadside canteen.
They slowed again, for a family that waited at the side of the road. ‘South! To the south!’ shouted the driver, and the family crowded in. Their children were so small that they seemed to take up no space at all. They stopped again, for a lone couple. She heard grumbling. ‘Hey, driver,’ said a man beside her, ‘what do you think this is? Are we goats?’ The new passengers looked miserable. ‘The last perch was even more crowded,’ said the woman.
They were climbing a low hill, and at each turn the flatbed
swayed. They held tightly to the bars. Isabel felt strangely cold. She wondered if Isaias had been sick, too. She leaned briefly on a woman beside her until the woman shifted away. Her stomach tightened and a bitter taste filled her mouth. It’s good I didn’t eat, she thought. ‘You okay?’ asked a man beside her. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s only my stomach. It will go away.’ She pressed her forehead to the back of her hand. Her head was spinning now, and the voices on the truck seemed distant. She took short, quick breaths, but there wasn’t any air. The truck moved slowly up the hill and she could smell the exhaust. She swayed, and caught herself on the woman’s arm. ‘This girl’s not doing well,’ said a man. ‘I’m all right, I—’ said Isabel, and couldn’t finish the sentence. Somehow she was on her knees, surrounded by legs, and then she felt her face on a shoe that pulled away. The smell was stronger. She heard murmurs and felt hands pulling on her. This girl’s sick, said a voice, and another, See I told you, Someone stop the truck, Move, Give her space, You move, There’s no space, Tell the driver, Stop the truck I said. There was a banging on metal and the truck slowed. ‘I’m fine,’ she said to no one. She heard the creak of the grate and the thudding of feet on the ground outside. A breeze, and a voice. ‘You all right?’ ‘No she’s not, she’s sick. She’s going to make the rest of us sick. This flatbed’s too crowded.’ ‘Bring her up front,’ said the driver. They helped her stand but she stumbled again and they had to lower her from the truck, where she took a step, and fell. ‘You better take her to the next hospital,’ said someone. ‘I don’t need a hospital,’ mumbled Isabel. ‘Just water.’ They brought her a bottle. She drank from it and vomited.
They carried her to the cab. The seats were hot and smelled of oil. She steadied her hand on the door as the driver put the
truck in gear. ‘You don’t need to stop,’ she said. ‘I’ll be fine.’ ‘Still got another day and a half to go,’ said the driver. ‘As much as they talk about the backlander being a strong breed, many people die from the heat. I’ve seen it myself.’ Isabel said, ‘I didn’t eat anything. I didn’t drink anything.’ The road was barren. ‘I don’t want to be left here,’ she protested. She thought of her brother waiting.
Half an hour later they pulled into a small gas station. There was a single pump and a low-lying restaurant. It looked closed, except for a sign on the front door that read
WELCOM
. A dog sniffed its way through the lot. It stopped, snapped at a mange-black leg and then growled at them as if they were to blame for the mange. The driver led her to the door. It was locked. He rang a bell, but no one came. He told her to wait and went around the side of the building.
At the edge of the lot, a pair of carrion birds landed heavily on the ground, their nails scratching at the pavement as they walked. The dog whimpered and ran away, its tail between its legs. The carrion birds approached her, cocking their heads. She hissed at them. She reached down, picked up a broken shard of cement and hurled it. The birds hopped to the side and watched her inquisitively. Wind blew sand off the dunes and onto the lot. She saw the other passengers watching.
The man returned. ‘No one in the restaurant,’ he said. A whirlwind rattled an open shutter. Against the curb, dried leaves gathered alongside the torn cover of a motorcycle magazine and a broken Styrofoam cup.
He led her around to the other side, where a small door said
OFFICE
. ‘Hello?’ he shouted and opened the door. There was a cash register and an empty glass cooler. There was faint music in the background. On the wall was a six-year-old calendar
with a naked girl bent over the back of a red truck. Someone had colored in her teeth; her mouth was gaping and obscene. Again the driver shouted, ‘Hello?’ The music stopped.
In a little room through the back door, they found a young woman alone at a desk, one hand on a radio dial. The shades were pulled, the other door shut. She held a black ink marker in her hand. She had stacks of paper around her, warped with circles of ink. She looked at them slowly. ‘My lord. You’re getting high,’ said the driver. Dizzy from the fumes, Isabel sat on the floor.
‘Do you have a phone?’ asked the driver.
The woman stared at them blankly.
‘This girl is sick,’ he said. ‘Is there a clinic?’
The woman stared.
‘
Child
,’ said the man, ‘where’s the phone?’
The woman closed her eyes and opened them. She sniffed twice and blinked again, nodding toward a phone behind the desk. Isabel could hear the other end of the line ringing and ringing. She hoped no one would answer. She wanted to keep going. She wanted to climb onto the flatbed and sleep.
The driver hung up angrily.
‘It’s just down the road,’ said the woman slowly.
He helped Isabel back into the cab. Down a narrow side road, at the edge of a town, they found the clinic, a low building set at the back of a dusty yard. The truck parked in a driveway with loose flagstones. He helped her to the entrance, where a guard indicated where to wait. Isabel had to lie on a bench.
Finally a nurse came. She had a bored, impatient manner. ‘What’s wrong with this one?’ she asked. The driver stood and held his hat politely in his hands. ‘She was on my truck. Now
she is sick.’ The nurse pinched her skin. ‘She’s dehydrated, of course,’ she said, and added, ‘I’m not surprised.’ The wood of the bench felt cool on Isabel’s head. ‘Come,’ said the nurse. Isabel struggled up. ‘I’m not sick, my brother is waiting in the city, I don’t want to stay here.’ ‘You’ll be okay,’ said the driver. ‘Let them take care of you, you can catch another flatbed.’ ‘I can’t.’ She paused. ‘I can’t pay for another flatbed.’ The driver waited, and then said, ‘Here,’ and counted out a small stack of bills for her. ‘It’s your fare, and there is a little extra if you need it. I have to go, or else everyone will start complaining.’ Isabel wanted to protest, but she only closed her eyes. He left and returned with her bag. ‘You’re very nice,’ she said. He started to walk away, but then he turned. ‘It’s not too often that I get to do something good for someone else,’ he said.
The nurse led her into a larger room. There were five wooden beds in a row. The floor was concrete, the walls made of unevenly laid white tile. In the corner was a metal examining table, piled with boxes. On the farthest bed, a thin shape curled up under a red blanket and convulsed with coughing.
‘Lie there,’ said the nurse, pointing to another bed. Isabel lay down without removing her shoes. The nurse uncoiled an intravenous line, slid the needle into Isabel’s hand and brought her a glass of sugary water. Cold rose up her arm. She drank and thought she would throw up again, but she slept.
When she awoke, it was dark. The needle was gone. The nurse sat at an empty desk and stared at the door. Across the room, the figure was coughing. He was thin, with hollow eyes. A mask had slipped sideways to cover his cheek. He sat up and tried to spit into a small cup, but his cough was dry. He lay back down and covered himself with the sheets. He watched Isabel. He was beautiful in a way, she thought, with
his delicate cheekbones and sunken eyes. Above his bed was a prayer card for Saint Jude. He began to cough again.
‘I think that man needs help,’ Isabel said to the nurse. ‘He won’t stop coughing.’
‘You think I can’t hear that?’ said the nurse. ‘Also, it’s not a he, it’s a she. She cut her hair off—I don’t know why. She’s always making trouble.’
‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Isabel.
‘No responsibility.’
‘I mean, what’s she sick with?’
‘What do you think? Like the rest who go to the city and think they can slut around. Now her family won’t take care of her, so I have to.’
Isabel didn’t understand. ‘I think she’s trying to say something,’ she said.
‘She’s always trying to say something. She’s trying to torment me. She thinks she has the right to make my life hell.’ Isabel stared at the nurse, incredulous. ‘Do you need anything else?’ asked the nurse.
‘No,’ said Isabel awkwardly. ‘I’m better … I have to go.’
‘Go ahead,’ said the nurse. ‘You’re not sick, anyway.’
She rose and lifted her bag as the nurse watched. ‘Can you show me where the bus station is?’
‘I can’t leave. Ask one of the people waiting. They’ll point you on the way. It’s a small town. It’s not dangerous.’
Isabel was dizzy, but she could walk. The clinic was empty. A hallway led into a courtyard. There were no lights, and she almost tripped over a chair. Outside, a guard sat and talked with a woman and a little girl. They wore matching dresses, cotton printed with red trucks. Isabel thought, Like my mother, who cut everyone’s clothes from the same roll of duck. The memory of her mother almost made her cry. I can’t
tell her I was sick, she thought. She asked for the bus, and they pointed to the fluorescent lights of a filling station. The street was dark except for a small light at the entrance to a private hospital, a white windowless building with the name of a brigadier general.