Rust (31 page)

“Everything is changing,” Rosalita replied. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“I mean for the better.”

“Open your eyes, Rico,” Rosalita said. “It’s late. I have to get up early.
Que sueñes con los angelitos, mi amor.
” She kissed him quickly on the lips. “See you when you come in.” Then she walked off toward the house.

Rico watched her go. She wore a loose dress, the kind she slopped around the house in after she had her bath, and Rico could see the shape of her body swaying a little from side to side under it as she walked along the path. Sitting there, paralyzed with frustration, he felt as if he’d suddenly been locked up in a coffin. It was easy to blame Rosalita, to see her as the one who’d slammed down the lid and bolted it shut. As a way of simply doing something new and different, Rico decided to sit there in the citronella glow and try very hard to see this conversation from her point of view.

She had reduced his quest for intimacy with her to a mood that would pass, and she had added that she could predict his “forget it” response. He had wanted an opening and had received a closing down, or so he felt. But staring into the black sky, knowing that it encompasses all the stars and planets of the universe, it hit him that it could be possible that a closing was really an opening, and that Rosalita’s responses—while frustrating—might actually help him find his way if he looked at them in the right way. Despite everything, he trusted her, and he believed in her good will toward him.

He picked up two little pebbles from the ground and put them in front of him on the table. In the dim moonlight they looked like bone fragments because of their pale color. One could signify: “It means you’re in a mood. In fifteen minutes you’ll know me,” a Rosalita idea; and his was “Forget it.”

Rico was puzzled, but he had the crazy idea that he held the answer—or at least some clues—right in his hands. He had the sudden urge to phone Margaret for help, but since it was ten-thirty it seemed too late to call—especially since he’d also have to drive to the shop to find the slip of paper with her phone number. It occurred to him that he could swing by her house to see if the lights were on. It was, literally, one minute by car from her house to his shop, so maybe, just this once, if it looked like she was up, he would ignore the lateness of the hour and call.

Putting the two little stones in his pocket, he got up from the table, hopped into his truck, backed out of the driveway, and took off up Riverside Drive.

B
Y
THE
time Margaret concluded her business at the Motor Vehicle Department and returned home, it was after two. The sun was high and intensely bright in the sky. Just feeling the rays on her shoulders as she walked from the car to her house made her instantly sleepy, and she made a beeline for the futon couch in the living room. Magpie came and settled on the floor next to her, and Margaret trailed her hand over the side of the couch to rest it on her best friend’s head. Her last thought, just as she sank into sleep, was that she needed to bring plenty of fresh water on their trip farther into the wild west. She had a few plastic jugs, but, probably because she had seen so many western movies, she felt the need for a canteen, too. She remembered being in the movie theater with Donny, who loved westerns more than anything, and whispering, “He doesn’t have enough water,” as the lone cowboy, outlaw, or lawman scanned the empty desert that stretched way past the horizon. “It’s just a movie,” Donny would whisper back. “There’s a catering truck filled with water parked nearby. Don’t you worry.” But for her own venture into the wilderness, she wanted to be extra sure.

Nancy had told her the boxes for the client were expected late the next afternoon, a Friday. There was no great rush on it, so Margaret planned to head out on Saturday or perhaps even Sunday. The directions Nancy had given her relied heavily on the odometer: Go west for 2.7 miles and take a right onto the dirt road. After 9.1 miles, you come to a Y. Bear right. Drive straight 28.6 miles and then start to look for a fence post on the left with an old Chock full o’Nuts coffee can nailed to it. There was a notation under that: “Bullet holes in coffee can make it hard to see.” Reading that, Margaret had let out a little bleat of laughter.

“What’s funny?” Nancy had asked.

Margaret read her the note.

“They got nothing better to do out there,” she said. “They’re living like a hundred years ago: no water, no electricity, no nothing.”

“Really?” The idea of no simple home conveniences was hard to compute.

“Poverty’s terrible, too,” added Nancy.

“Doesn’t it seem strange that somebody living like that has the money to pay a courier service to come out there once or twice a year,” mused Margaret.

“Go figure,” Nancy had said.

Margaret slept on the couch for two full hours and woke up wondering if she’d continue on straight through the evening and night if she just rolled over. She had slept more in her seven weeks in New Mexico than she ever had in New York. Maybe I’m really tired, she had thought when the daily naps began. Maybe she had years of stress to make up for. Later, she recalled a documentary she’d once seen on Death Row prisoners, in which the narrator mentioned that they often slept up to eighteen hours a day—about the same amount of time that Magpie probably logged. Maybe, in the temporary absence of pressure, Margaret was reverting to her own animal nature.

She made herself get up, though, and shuffle into the kitchen, open the fridge, and assemble the ingredients for a grilled cheese and tomato on whole wheat. When it was toasted to a golden brown on both sides, she poured herself a glass of sparkling water, added a dash of cranapple juice, and went outside. Drawn to the concrete pad under the elm tree, she stood amidst the rusty parts and simply studied them as she slowly ate her sandwich from one hand and sipped her drink from the other. The old engine parts, gears, screws, and everything else could fit together in a million ways; and no one, including Margaret, knew where they would end up until they were welded into place once and for all.

Perhaps that was what she liked the most about being an artist—that ability to stand, stare, and see things that weren’t there just as clearly as the ones that were. Margaret felt at home on that edge between what was and what wasn’t yet. In many ways, she felt she belonged there, suspended in those moments of pure potential. Yet, the drive was always toward form. She was thinking, as she stood there, about how a great actress can indicate the complexities of a character’s personality by nothing more than a look that passes quickly over her face. She wanted her creation to have a face that could be read just as easily as a great actress’, even if it was composed of rusty parts. The question was how to capture that hidden quality. Finally, she squatted down and began a new round of assembling. She had no plan. Furiously, she worked, part by part. Hours passed before she finally stood up again.

She went into the house to find Magpie’s leash and started toward Eighth Street. Just one block north of her house was a ball field with a half-mile track circling it. Magpie liked to take a spin around it in the evening, pausing every few feet to sniff out whatever it is dogs seem so obsessed with. A Little League game was in progress and there, standing at the edge of it, was Benito. He saw Margaret, waved, and began to amble

toward her.

“Hey, Benito,” she said. “You got a kid in the game?”

“The umpire,” he said, and Margaret’s eyes followed his and came to rest behind home plate on a boy in a wheelchair. She turned slightly toward Benito, who added, “He got hit by a car. Drunk driver.” Instantly, Margaret felt tears sting her eyes and was glad she had on sunglasses.

“I’m glad to see he’s still in the game,” she said, and Benito nodded. A few beats passed. “Hey, thanks for sending me to Roadrunner. I’m doing a job them,” she said.

“Yeah? Where to?”

“Somewhere on the Navajo rez,” she said.

“Sucker,” he responded, and they both laughed.

“Did you ever make that run?”

“Once. Nobody does it twice. You lose money.”

“How?”

“Keeps you from taking other jobs for that whole day, for one thing. You don’t rack up very many miles considering the time it takes.” Benito’s eyes traveled back to the game for a few seconds. “Then there’s the wear and tear on the vehicle. You ought to have Rico check out your car before you go. Road’s pretty rough out there.”

“That’s a good idea. Maybe I’ll see if he has any time tomorrow or Saturday,” she said.

“Oh, he’ll make time for you, trust me.” Benito said as if there were another meaning underneath the words. Margaret chose to ignore that subtext, looking away, as if she needed to check on Magpie.

“Well,” she said, “I’m on my way. Enjoy the game.”

Benito smiled. “See you around the
barrio
.”

Margaret and Magpie did the loop around the ball field and went home, where Margaret immersed herself in one of her library books on welding for over two hours. Then she opened her sketchbook and added details to the drawings she had done at motor vehicle. Just when she was about ready to get into bed, the phone rang. She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was quarter to eleven. She crossed to the phone but let the machine pick up.

“Margaret, it’s Rico. Sorry to call you so late,” he said.

She reached down and answered it. “Rico, hello. What’s up?”

“I’m sorry to call you so late,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t normally do it, but I just drove by your house to see if your lights were still on and they were, so I figured you were still up.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Where are you?” He sounded breathless, as if he had just run in from outside.

“In my shop. I had to come over here to find your phone number.” Rico was sitting in his office chair with his feet up on the desk. There was enough ambient light from outside to dial the phone, and now he relaxed in the semi-darkness. He hadn’t been in the garage at this hour in years, and he was surprised by how quiet it was.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No. I . . .” He reached into his pocket for the two little stones and rolled them between his fingers. “I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Now?” Margaret said. She carried the phone to the living room and flopped down on the couch. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“Probably, but . . .”

“Okay,” said Margaret, “What is it?”

Rico could barely remember what had propelled him into his truck and ultimately into this late-night phone call. He had the two little stones in his hand, which were a reminder, but now words failed him. What could he do? Recount the conversation with Rosalita and ask Margaret for an opinion? Confer with her about what to do when the communication door got slammed in your face just as you were attempting to wedge it open?

“You’re a good listener,” he finally began. “I wanted to ask you how you do that.”

Margaret laughed. “Really? That’s why you called?”

“
Sí
, that’s it,” replied Rico.

“Okay, just let me think for a minute so I can give you a serious answer. Hold on.” She placed the receiver on her chest and closed her eyes. To Rico, on the other end, it sounded like the waves of the sea were sloshing in the background. “Two things,” she said, when she got back on in about half a minute. “One, you can’t be planning what you’re going to say the minute the other person shuts up. Two, you can’t already have an idea of what you want to hear.”

“I’m writing this down,” Rico said, even though he wasn’t. He knew he would not forget what she said.

“But remember,” she added, “I hardly ever talk to anyone, so I like to savor what I hear. Other people probably hear too much and have to tune stuff out. Who knows how it works.” She said nothing else for a few seconds.

“
Gracias
, Margaret,” said Rico. “I knew you’d give me something to think about.” It wasn’t until right then, in this moment, that he realized he’d really called because he simply wanted to hear her voice. A whole day had gone by, and he felt thirsty for contact with her, parched.

“
De nada
, Rico,” she responded. “Anything else?”

“No.
Buenas noches
,” he said.

“G’night, Rico,” she replied, and they hung up. No sooner had she replaced the phone in the cradle than she realized she’d forgotten to ask him if he could give her car the once-over in preparation for her trip to the rez. “I’ll stop by and ask him tomorrow,” she said out loud to Magpie.

Meanwhile, Rico sat in the dark for a few more minutes before he locked up and headed home. He slipped quietly into his bedroom, where Rosalita was sound asleep, undressed, and climbed into bed.

1991