Freddy was raised on the border, one foot in each of his countries. Summers were spent in Alpine with the great-aunt who had sheltered his mom during the last month of her pregnancy, winters in Boquillas. By the time he was eight he was ferrying tourists over the river to visit the village. Because he was bilingual he was much in demand. He saved enough to buy an ancient pickup truck, and at fourteen, he was taking tourists who wanted a more pristine wilderness to explore on camping trips in the Coahuilas.
At sixteen he went to live with his great-aunt to finish high school in the States. He went on to college at the university in Alpine and got a BS in forestry. His first job was as a boatman for a rafting outfitter in Terlingua. His second was as a GS-2 seasonal in Big Bend.
Though Martinez never mentioned the drowning incident, at least not in any way the press could get ahold of it, his border activism dated from the body recovery of Gabriela. In 2005 his mother died of a brain aneurism. His father was still living in Boquillas.
Blind to the beauty of the desert, greening with recent rains, flashing past the windows of the car, Anna turned this information over in her mind on the drive back to Terlingua. No great revelations came to her. The trials and tribulations of a river ranger, economically stranded villages and women fording rivers weren’t things she wanted to dwell on but, with her own life in disarray, worrying about events that did not lead to the abyss was a bit of a vacation.
The closer she got to Terlingua the more her thoughts turned to Helena. The day away from infant care had been a relief. Returning to the baby was a greater relief. Anna wanted to see and hold her, make sure she was happy and fed, reassure herself that the spark of life she’d wrenched from the dead flesh of the woman in the river still burned brightly. Its tiny light was, in some incomprehensible way, able to penetrate the darkness that had bored the hole in her soul in a way Paul’s love, her sister Molly’s concern and even the beauty of the Chihuahuan desert could not.
Health and Human Services would take the baby and she would be put into the system. The only way around that was called “kidnapping,” and Anna wasn’t prepared for that battle. Even adoption would be a drawn-out process during which Helena would be in the hands of the state. Anna couldn’t bring herself to think about what could happen if Helena was dropped into the system.
Anna sniffed and turned up the radio, tuned to a Tex-Mex station. It bothered her that she was carrying on with the stunted maternal instinct scenario. It wasn’t as if the little creature was a kitten, for God’s sake. Helena didn’t even have a tail or the good sense to chase a bit of string.
Two cars were parked in front of the Martinezes’ idiosyncratic home. One was Lisa’s Subaru. The other wasn’t Freddy’s truck and Anna wondered if he had been fired yet or if he was sitting in the superintendent’s office being read the riot act for his political activities on park property. A horrible thought stabbed through the possible destruction of the Martinezes’ livelihood; what if the second car belonged to who Anna thought of as the Evil They, who were going to take Helena and drop her into the meat grinder of foster care?
She pulled in crosswise behind the foreign vehicle so it could not be driven out except through the steel bones of the Honda. The trapped car didn’t sport government license plates, but it could be a social worker’s private car. Most state employees didn’t rate government vehicles but charged mileage on their own when on state business. Anna locked the Honda then walked around the offending vehicle, wondering why she was acting paranoid. Wasn’t it possible Lisa had friends? Might they not drop by? Family from Alpine? The Avon Lady? The babysitter? As she disparaged hersel for borderline behavior, her brain was collecting information: silve Chevy Malibu, current year, Texas plates, probably a rental, on th front seat a map of Texas, in the cup holders two thirty-two-ounc drinks in nondescript cups, the kind sold in gas station food store with on-tap sodas.
If these were any of the benign visitors she’d mocked hersel with, they had arrived from a distance in a rental vehicle.
“Damn,” Anna whispered. During the drive from the park she’d been bracing herself for the reality of Helena’s removal by authori ties. Now that it was very probably upon her, she wasn’t ready for it In ways the “authorities” could wrap in red tape and choke on, Hel ena was hers; her mother had given her to Anna to care for with he dying breath. Though the woman had said only, “Take my baby, there was no doubt in Anna’s mind that she was giving her unborn daughter into Anna’s—and, probably, God’s—hands. God might b busy stirring up typhoons or loading clouds with lightning, but Ann was not. Until God got through His “to do” list, Helena was Anna’s.
At least this was what she told herself, in thoughts travelin through her brain at such high speeds they did not form int words but shot straight into her blood and cells, bones and muscl as she walked up the short gravel path to the front door of the Mar tinezes’ home.
The door was open and, through the screen, Anna heard voices Stepping to the side where she would not be seen, she listened.
“Is the child in the house?” a woman asked. She had a sligh southern accent and a well-modulated voice in the lower register still Anna loathed her immediately and found the pleasant sound false and smarmy.
“She is with a friend,” Lisa replied.
Good woman, Anna thought. Maybe it was true Helena was elsewhere, but she doubted it. If Lisa was home she would have the babies with her. The Martinezes didn’t have the money to throw around for babysitters when Mom could do it.
“Where’s this neighbor live?” asked a second voice, this one a man’s, rougher around the edges and not as educated or politic as that of the woman. Anna liked his better; she didn’t have to rationalize hating this one. Whether he sounded demanding or threatening or she was projecting her darkness on an innocent man, she didn’t know. She didn’t care either. Hating him was fun—or at least satisfying.
“Mrs. Martinez, I don’t think you are being completely open with us,” the woman came in smoothly before her male counterpart could say anything more. “Cooperating with us can only serve the client—”
Client
, Anna sneered in her mind. This female was a heartless, bloodless, government whore who cared nothing for small and helpless beings. Hating her was getting much easier and Anna doubted it had anything to do with reality. Again she didn’t care. Hate was a wonderful drug until, like every other wonderful drug, the high turned to acid and burned the addict out from the inside.
“From the reports, this infant is even more in need of expert medical intervention than most newborns. The manner of its birth was singularly traumatic.”
Kind, rational. Anna hated her.
Infant. It. Anna really hated her.
As strong and good as Anna believed Lisa to be, she had a baby of her own to look after and a husband who could lose his job—if he hadn’t taken care of that aspect of things already—if she refused to cooperate with state authorities. That coupled with the wretched bitch from the silver Malibu pretending to be a human being, Lisa might fold if the cavalry didn’t come over the hill in the near future.
Making more noise than was absolutely necessary, Anna opened the screen and went in. Having made an entrance akin to that of Marshal Matt Dillon into Dodge City, or Wyatt Earp—some famous gunslinger with questionable ethics and a penchant for violence—Anna felt a bit silly to find three respectable grown-ups sitting around with cups of coffee on their laps.
“Hey,” she said, letting the stunning anticlimax settle into her febrile imaginings.
“This is Anna Pigeon, the woman who saved Helena,” Lisa said. She sounded relieved and Anna thought the gunslinger attitude might not be such a bad idea after all. It occurred to her that she was spoiling for a fight. Not merely the exchange of heated words and insults but a donnybrook, a brawl, a bar fight John Wayne could be proud of. Since the graphic deaths on Isle Royale she had been running from violence, frightened that she had turned killer because others were frightened that she’d become a were-ranger and, once tasting human blood . . .
When had she gone from fleeing violence to embracing it?
Embracing it
again
?
Anna would think about that ugly possibility later, preferably in Paul’s arms where she could believe she was a good person because he believed she was.
The two social workers stood. Both had on casual clothing but were neat and clean and conservative, she in dark blue slacks and a lime blouse with matching flats and earrings, her short dark hair waving around a pleasantly plump face that was between thirty-five and forty years old. He was in khakis, once pressed but now the crease ballooned out at the knees from hours in a car, a short-sleeved white shirt and a dark red tie. Short-sleeved shirts with neckties were as cheesy as pocket protectors and much less practical. He looked as if he had worn pocket protectors well into his twenties. An overgrown nerd who had discovered the gym and thought it would turn his life around. Or so Anna thought until the light from behind her was deflected from the lenses of the dark-rimmed glasses he wore.
He didn’t have a cold steely gaze but there was a wariness Anna found too sharp for the job he was presently doing, an edginess that suggested he watched for assailants with deadly weapons more regularly than babies with rattles.
Taking children from their mothers might easily result in the deadly weapons scenario, so perhaps he wasn’t so much an oddball as a bodyguard.
An enormous cat Anna had not met the night before, its long white fur weirdly mottled as if a white cat had been standing nearby when a bottle of India ink was shattered, was stretched out nearly the length of the sofa back watching the goings-on through slitted blue-green eyes.
The woman in the lime and navy stuck out her hand and smiled. “I’m Nancy Roland from the child-care division of Health and Human Services out of Midland.”
Perfunctorily Anna shook the proffered hand. Ms. Roland’s grip was firm and her skin pleasantly cool to the touch. This did not affect Anna’s dislike of her one whit.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” Anna said drily.
Nancy cocked her head, her smile glued in place, as if a fish had flapped its tail in her face, and emotion flickered behind her irises. Pure meanness, Anna thought.
“This is Manny Rhoades, he’s new to the office and has come along to observe.” Manny didn’t offer his hand and Anna didn’t offer hers.
“Observe what?” Anna asked with all the innocence of a cougar who had eaten Shirley Temple for lunch.
Ms. Roland allowed herself an audible sigh and a sidelong glance at her compatriot.
“Would you like some coffee, Anna?” Lisa asked.
“That would be great,” Anna replied. Once clear of the living room, Lisa turned down the hall to the back of the West Wing. Edgar and Helena were probably napping in the crib off the master bedroom.
“Why don’t we sit down?” Anna invited politely to keep Roland’s and Rhoades’s attention away from where Lisa went or how long she stayed there.
The two social workers returned their butts to the wildly colored Mexican blanket Lisa used to decorate the couch. The navy polyester stretched over Roland’s ample behind was liberally salted with white fur. Anna nodded at the cat in brief salute. Slowly the cat closed its eyes, acknowledging the tribute.
Anna walked around the coffee table and sat in the chair Lisa had vacated. There were others but she wanted Lisa’s absence to go unnoticed to a certain extent. The best way to do that was to fill the physical space she had occupied so the visuals did not change.
“Long commute?” she asked pleasantly.
“Not bad,” Nancy said at the same time Manny said: “You can’t get here from anywhere.” Nancy shot her apprentice babysnatcher a cold look, which glanced off him without leaving a mark. Either he was indifferent to his boss’s opinion or she wasn’t his boss.
Nancy scooted forward on the sofa, a move designed to suggest the mood was now to be more intimate. Behind her the cat opened its eyes the barest fraction and Anna smiled. White fur would be bunching up in rolls beneath the woman’s buttocks. A small thing, really, but enjoyable for her and the cat.
“Anna,” Nancy began in a lowered and slightly conspiratorial voice, “I’m hoping you won’t mind saving that baby—”
“Helena,” Anna said.
Again the flicker. Anna was willing to bet Nancy had one hell of a temper. “Helena? Someone named it already?”
“Her. Yes. Me.” In truth it was Paul but, according to the rules of engagement and marriage they were now one, so she took credit for the name without any qualms.
For a moment the woman seemed genuinely confused as she put together the pieces of the English language Anna had given her. In a moment she had it. In another moment she remembered where her train of thought had been when Anna derailed it.
“Nice name,” she said. And began again: “I was hoping you would be willing to save Helena a second time.” It was one of those questions like “Do you want to save money?” that phone solicitors come up with, questions only answerable with “yes.”
Anna scooched forward, joining the intimate circle Nancy was trying to create. Putting her elbows on her knees she leaned in, a thoughtful expression on her face. “No,” she said finally. “Not a second time. For one thing cutting women up with knives, even dead women you don’t know all that well, is a drag. And babies are all well and good but if you had seen the rockslide—it’s nearly perpendicular. I mean straight up perpendicular for over a thousand feet. Hopping up from rock to rock like a demented toad with seven pounds of baby meat slung across your chest? No thanks. A second time and I’d chuck it in the river.”
There was a stunned silence.
“But thank you for asking,” Anna said.
Rhoades snorted.