Authors: Charlie Price
“Accident, sweetie. These trailers. Happens all the time. Generator. Spark. Gas.”
She heard him walk down the living room into the bedroom, back through into the kitchen. Checking things. At the couch he put his hand on her hip.
No.
He rubbed up along her ribs and over her chest. “Miss you.”
She could feel him looking at her. Worse than the burn.
He wheeled and clomped out.
She could hear the lighter rasping outside, and then a
whoosh
. When she opened her eyes, the outside door was filled with flame. The propane tank by the kitchen could blow any minute. That left the bedroom back window.
Would he stay and watch? She didn’t think so. He’d jam before anybody investigated.
The heat was making her crazy but she had to find the pack. Water. There, on the floor in front of the TV. The fire beat her to it. She gave up and raced to the bedroom. The window beside the bed was too high to kick out. A bat, a club, anything. The closet wall was smoking but she made herself paw the floor. Cowboy boot. Not heavy enough. Ax? Hammer? Both burning in the kitchen. Crawling away from the closet, she scanned the dresser. Above it on the wall, an antelope head, a mounted four-prong buck. She tore it down and swung it by an antler, breaking the glass and then the metal sill. She pushed out the remaining pieces and scrambled after, tucking her head at the last moment, crashing in the sand and rolling. Then clawing, scrabbling, running, until she was knocked off her feet by the explosion.
Debris rattled around her. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe! And then she could, but the sobbing made it hard to catch up. The sand was warm. Something poked her. At the top of her thigh. A rock. She scooted a few inches sideways. Now, lying on her stomach, it was all soft. Soft. She rested her head on her arms.
4
Angel opened her eyes and levered herself over onto her back. Everything hurt. Most, her nose and cheek from the lighter burns. Touching them made it worse. The arms of her thin jacket were torn and crusted with dried blood. Her jeans damp with dark splotches from cuts. She rose to sitting and turned to the trailer. Smoking, black, it was barely recognizable with the kitchen area missing.
The realization took a few minutes. No one came. No one noticed. Maybe no one would even investigate. And then worse. Her mother was probably gone. Scotty would move the body. Make sure she was never found.
Angel watched the ridgeline stars disappear first, fading into a light gray, and the night sky surrendering inch by inch, the blackness leaching out to the quiet glow before sunrise. She knew she should be walking. Walking while the air was still cool. Walking before water became the main issue. Instead she lay on her back and decided whether she wanted to keep living.
She’d fought to live. Why? Look around. Hard to say. What exactly would make this life worth living? She was broken, stupid. No. She didn’t feel stupid. She just didn’t know anything. Homeschooled by her mother. Great. She brushed her eyes.
She knew a few things. “First things first.” She’d heard somebody say that. She liked it because it made sense. And she knew other people. Not knew them, but knew how to read them. From a mile away. Knew what they wanted and whether they thought they could get it from her. And maybe she knew one more thing. You can’t count on anybody. The only one who’ll be there for you is you.
She made an inventory starting with what she wore. Jacket, T-shirt, jeans, underwear, tennies. She felt in her pockets. Small scarf. Piece of emery board. Quarter. Earring. In her watch pocket, a five-dollar bill folded the size of a stamp. Great. What could you do besides laugh?
Really, what did she have? Herself. Nothing. The tears surprised her and the sobs became hiccups. She held her breath, made them stop. She hit the ground with her fist, hit it with both fists. Gave up. Useless. The sun had slipped over the ridge unnoticed. It hit her eyes and hurt.
She gained her feet slowly, letting the different pains stretch into a single dull ache. Water? She walked to the trailer. Any water had evaporated, containers melted. Circling the ruins, she saw nothing that wasn’t charred or stinking. At the end of her circuit she kept moving, following ruts now, west toward the snowcapped mountains, west toward the paved road and Cathedral City.
Weeks had passed since Scotty had picked them up at the truck stop. They’d driven east on 10. Before long the signs had said Desert Hot Springs, then Dillon Road. Scotty took that farther east until he slowed and turned left on a jeep trail, northeast toward jagged ridges. Angel had been looking out the passenger window, memorizing, calculating, like she’d done for years. It was natural. Know the neighborhood, remember streets. You might have to run.
Her mom had been straddling the floor shift and flirting. Scotty made her scrunch back long enough to put the truck in compound low gear. Said he didn’t want the trailer to bob around and pop off the hitch. Half an hour later he found the flat camp at the foot of cliffs that stretched for miles, crumbly, unclimbable, cut with deep ravines. Scotty had unhitched the trailer and parked the pickup facing out. Angel understood: safe hideaway, quick getaway.
Now, walking in the opposite direction, it would take Angel at least an hour to make it back to the pavement. There she remembered houses scattered along the road, remembered the cinder blocks, patched roofs, junky yards; the rusty half-ton trucks with stock rails.
Angel ignored the baking heat, the shadows of birds flying above her, because something was wrong. It took her another mile or so to catch it. She hadn’t brushed her footprints. She looked over her shoulder. Sooner or later Scotty would track her.
“Tortoises, pretty easy. You know their prowl, find their marks, circle till you run into one.” At the kitchen table, wearing gloves, rubbing scent on a snare chain, he’d cut his eyes at her, sensing her interest. “Eagles, though, pretty tricky. Guerrilla war. Got to be patient. High ground, rotten deer. Got to pop a net on them soon as they land.” He had turned his head to look at her fully. “Those, you got to be willing to wait. Got to cover every detail.”
She had seen it in his eyes. Tortoise or bird, her time was coming.
So she knew Scotty would come back, make a last check, but maybe not today. He’d wait to see if anybody was going to sniff around the burn. He’d probably glass the place from a distance. If it was clear, he’d go in and poke through the wreck, looking for her bones. When he didn’t find them, he’d come after her.
She glanced at the sky. Sure. Like it was going to rain. No, her tracks would still be there, around the ruins, heading out along the trail. She had a head start so she needed to reach the pavement before he caught up. Then he wouldn’t know if she’d gone east or west or hitched. If she had water she’d make it for sure. Without it …
She covered her head with her jacket and walked faster.
5
Angel’s tongue was swollen, her throat raw. She had fallen a couple of times, had gravel in her palms, grit in her mouth. Reaching the pavement was a relief but it was rough, no easier to walk on than the sand. Though she was dizzy, not sure she was seeing right, it looked like a house in a clump of scrub trees close ahead. She plodded toward it, made it to the porch, caught a toe on the steps, and limped to the door. She leaned against the wall and pushed the screen open.
An old woman sitting on a plastic-covered couch looked up from her sewing. Frowned. Stubbed out her cigarette.
“¡Mijo!”
The screech was like metal on metal.
Angel wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. Help? Pretty obvious. She sat on the cool linoleum floor and closed her eyes.
A new pain flashed and roused her. Scotty!
The old woman was poking her with a cane.
“¡Levántase!”
Angel shielded her face with an arm.
“Up.” The woman lifted the cane again.
“Okay. Okay.” Angel rolled away and got to her knees. “Water?” Her voice was raspy.
“¿Agua?”
The woman shooed her as if an animal had entered the house by mistake.
“Abuela. Momentito.”
Angel turned to the voice from the front door. A boy? An old man? She couldn’t make sense of him.
“Sólo sed.”
The man continued speaking to the gray-haired woman as he came inside. “
Agua
, water.
Nada más
.” The man, small, bent, had his hands in front of him, placating the woman.
Angel watched, uncertain. She made an effort to stand, but the dizziness returned. She slid a few feet to a large chair and propped herself against it.
The man gave Angel a nod, took the old woman’s elbow, and whispered something as he walked her back to the couch.
Looking past him, the woman squinted at Angel like the girl was a demon.
The little man caught the old woman’s eye and held up a single finger.
Wait.
The woman sighed and picked up her sewing. Found the threaded needle and fitted a thimble to her finger. The man went through an open doorway to the next room and returned shortly with a clay jug of water.
Angel drank till she felt sick, wiped her chin with her arm. “Thanks,” she said. Her mother had shown her Spanish in a Mexican guidebook but she wasn’t comfortable trying it.
“You are hurt.”
Angel shook her head.
“You are lost?”
Angel glanced at the old woman, who continued mending, giving no sign of listening. What would happen if she told part of it? Would he believe her? Would he call the sheriff? If he didn’t, what could he possibly do? Scotty would swat him like a bug.
“Your
carro
?”
Angel closed her eyes.
“You run.” The man’s voice was soothing. “You wish help?”
Angel had heard that before. Social workers. You couldn’t believe anybody.
“You rest. Okay.”
Angel looked at the man carefully. He was guessing. But he was speaking her thoughts. What did he want from her?
“Hey, Tío, Abuela. A man is looking for his daughter.”
6
Angel turned to see a teenage boy holding the screen open. Thick black hair, khaki work pants, UCLA T-shirt. Clean. Only then did she pick up the sound, the low rumble behind him.
The older man was up immediately, moving toward the door. “Tell him no,
no hemos visto
.”
The young man was looking at Angel.
“
¡Aya, Matteo! ¡Dile!
Tell him! We don’t see.” The old man reached the threshold and blocked the view outside.
“You don’t see what?” Scotty. Somewhere beyond the door.
Angel was on her feet, slipping and scrambling through the doorway to the far room. A kitchen. Small fridge, double-burner hot plate, chipped sink, square table set with clay-colored plates, three chairs. If there was a pantry she didn’t see it. No crawl hole to the ceiling. But there was another space. Mudroom. She ran through and flew out the screen door.
No!
She dived back and grabbed it before it slammed.
The rear area had a makeshift corral with a stunted heifer, a few goats, and a pig lying in the dirt at the far end. To one side, a broken coop. To the other, a shed big enough for a stall and a workbench. Scotty would search both. Angel forced herself to keep looking. An outhouse. She’d never fit down the hole. At the edge of the place a dilapidated car sat on rims. The trunk? But he’d check it. She turned back to the house. Propane tank at the corner. Roof? No way up. The water she’d gulped was coming back on her. She wheeled. Corral. She could lie behind the pig.
“Angel, sweetie, time to come home.” Close, kitchen at least.
Out of time. A surge of panic brought bitter fluid to the back of her throat. She sprinted for the shed, circled it, and crawled into the corral to lie as close as she could to the pig without disturbing it. She heard the back screen open.
“Well, nice spread.” Scotty. Friendly as could be. “Got some good animals there,” he said. “We didn’t have a chance to get our stock going.”
Whoever was with him didn’t reply.
“Mind if I see how you did your little barn there? Think I want to do mine the same way.”
Angel kept her head down but she could hear the footsteps. She couldn’t remember if the stall shed had a window facing the corral. Sounded like Scotty and someone following him went inside the shed for a minute or so and came back out.
“That a Pontiac? I used to have one of those.”
She heard him walk past the corral toward the old car, heard it groan when he leaned on it to look in, heard the trunk hinge grind open and the clack when he closed it.
“Good one, huh? They give out, you still hate to let ’em go.”
She heard his steps come back toward the corral. Then silence. Somebody’s boot creaked.
“Goat milk? Make cheese?”
Whoever was with him remained quiet.
“Well, thanks. Mighty neighborly.” He cleared his throat. “You see my daughter, keep her safe. Keeps running away, one of these times she’s gonna get hurt. Hitch with some nut. I told you I got a reward for her? A thousand dollars. You or your family find her and it’s yours.”
Maybe whoever was with Scotty nodded. She heard steps receding but not the sound of the screen. They could be walking around the house to the drive. She stayed put till she heard the faint engine noise, heard it move away, heard it speed up and go through gears heading west toward Hot Springs.
The pig shivered and snorted, dreaming, Angel thought. She rubbed the bristly skin along its shoulder and back. Felt like kissing it thanks. Shook her head. The princess and the pig. She carefully rolled away, scooched under the lowest corral rail, and stood. The yard was smaller than she remembered. All dirt. And in the middle boot prints going in different directions and her size-six tennie marks in a ragged line from the rear door toward the back of the shed. Her tracks. The bolt of fear was like a seizure, spewing water and bile up from her stomach into the dirt at her feet.