The Far Empty (20 page)

MELISSA

I
t’d been a royal fucking mistake to talk to Duane Dupree.

It had been the whiskey talking, the anger. Mel sat in her car outside Earlys, smoking, sobering up. Her breath turned the cold car hot with Jack Daniel’s. Only her third or fourth day of work and she’d drunk her whole way through it, Duane watching it all. If Chris didn’t figure it out on his own the minute she walked through the door, Duane might tell him . . . or not. It was hard to say with the chief deputy, who’d spent most of the night grinning at her with that awful smile—maybe the only one he had—smoking Lucky Strikes and downing one Dr Pepper after another. The thought of all that sugar, that cold, dark, sweetness wrapped in smoke, made her sick.

For the most part, she’d kept the bottle at bay. There had been moments, here and there, but not many, and not in a while. Not until tonight, in front of Duane. This place really brought out the fucking worst in her. Before tonight, she’d already gone through the inside of
Chris’s truck and his phone; had even driven around once or twice to put real eyes on him, when she finally thought to go back to their computer, the one on his dad’s old desk in their bedroom. She started with his e-mails, then went through the browser history; next just started poking around, when she finally found a file she didn’t recognize, hidden away. He must have forgotten it, abandoned it, that night she woke up late and caught him staring at the computer screen.

It hadn’t made much sense, but after describing it to Duane, he’d explained it easy enough. It was a video file: footage from the dashboard camera in Chris’s truck. A traffic stop where nothing much really happened, just Chris talking to one or two people in a big SUV, and that was all. It was at night and hadn’t meant anything to her, and whatever interest it held for Chris also remained a mystery. But if that damn schoolteacher had been in the SUV, it hadn’t been clear enough to pick her out.

At least
that
part wasn’t a mystery anymore. Following Chris around, Mel had caught him running into that woman from the carnival again, Murfee’s new English teacher, and finding out about her hadn’t been that hard. She was from Austin, supposedly had
history
, which was the town’s polite way of saying she’d gotten into some sort of trouble. But Mel didn’t care about any of that; she had plenty of history of her own. What she did care about was how each time she saw Chris and the teacher together she had to relive that goddamn look on his face, the one he’d shared with the teacher at the carnival beneath the lights—the one that was no longer special or reserved for her.

•   •   •

Duane had said it probably wasn’t a big deal, couldn’t begin to guess why Chris had kept the video or brought it home—it wasn’t like he
was breaking any rules—but didn’t ask a ton of questions about it, either. Instead he’d gone out of his way
not
to ask much about it, telling her all about how he turned that damn camera off in his own truck because it felt like a big ole eye spying and prying on him and he didn’t like that, nicely salting the guilt she already felt about shadowing Chris. In the end, the only thing he did ask, like it was just an afterthought, was if she remembered the time and date stamp on the video. A string of white numbers in one corner—left or right, Duane couldn’t remember which—but all the video shot by those cameras was tagged that way. Duane suggested if he knew the date, he might be able to figure out what Chris had been up to that day, where he’d been . . . who he’d seen.

He didn’t come out and say the teacher’s name, though; he didn’t have to. And then pulling on his coat, he’d smiled, and she’d had the craziest thought there was blood spotting his teeth.

•   •   •

In all the best ways, Chris wasn’t and never would be like any of the other men she had been with. He had strength, a
center
, unlike any man she’d ever known. But men could still act like little boys sometimes, and she’d learned long ago there was natural weakness in all unhappy boys that made them fuck up perfectly good things. But Chris had become
her
center; had been for long enough now that she wasn’t willing to let Murfee or anyone else in it take him away from her. Not yet, not without a fight. And definitely not another woman, not Anne Hart.

And that’s what had her chasing him around Murfee, searching through his things—that’s what’d brought her to their computer in the first place, watching and rewatching the strange video Chris had taken from work. Then revealing it, like a fool, to Duane Dupree.

Because she had known exactly what the chief deputy was talking about: that date and the time glowing bright on the video—the early-morning hours after the carnival. But with Dupree staring at her, waiting, grinning skull-like behind closed lips, she’d hesitated, before flat-out lying that she didn’t remember anything like that at all. He’d winked, unconvinced, but had left it with “Of course ya don’t, darlin’,” only reminding her that if she ever happened to look at it again to let him know. Or better yet, maybe he’d just swing by anyway and take a look at it directly, to see what ole Chris was up to.

Then he’d written his personal cell on a napkin, folded it for her. After that he’d walked her out to the car, waited while she got in, and bent down to peer at her through the glass—leaving his breath against it and a palm print from a hard tap goodbye—before disappearing into the night. She could still see that print there now, smeared, a stain on the glass reminding her of a bloody paw. She didn’t feel sober enough to drive, and couldn’t shake the awful feeling she’d made a real mistake by talking up that damn video to Duane. It had all been in his eyes, the way he’d stared at her, unblinking—his eyes not quite matching the rest of his face, like they were too big and not part of the original design. She still couldn’t quite see the entire shape of her mistake, only its outline, but it was enough. And there’d been no damn need to reveal it anyway: she’d already pretty much made up her mind the video had nothing to do with Chris and the new English teacher.

But
 . . .
but
 . . . it might have something to do with those two agents murdered near Valentine that was all over the news. Not that Chris had ever said anything about it to her, even though she’d read the paper and heard it mentioned a few times around Earlys and the Hi n Lo. They’d been burned in a big SUV, not much different from the one in Chris’s video. Not much different at all. The fact that Duane
hadn’t raised the coincidence gnawed at her; the fact that she couldn’t talk to Chris about it without revealing her sneaking around only gave it sharper teeth. For once, she
wanted
to be mad, needed it—prayed for her old anger and any good reason to be flat-out furious, even though she knew there really wasn’t one. Because anger was better, safer.

Because tonight, right now, she felt afraid, and that was a whole lot worse.

AMERICA

H
e wouldn’t let it go, the thing she didn’t want to hear, so he told her all about his papa, El Juez.

Everything. He told her about a dog named Shep and about a long night on a mountain. He told her they were all in danger. He told her all the things El Juez had done, all the things he could and would do. He told her it was her brother murdered and buried at Indian Bluffs, and if they could prove that, they might be able to put both their dead to rest and really fly away.

Pájaros para siempre.
Birds forever.

He wanted to bring all their suspicions to Cherry, the deputy, but was too nervous to approach him. Instead, they’d go through Ms. Hart. He knew the two of them saw each other and talked. He wouldn’t say how, but she guessed he’d been following the teacher around. He used to do that with her too, thinking she never saw him, but she always did. Murfee wasn’t an easy place to sneak around, and
he wasn’t that good at it. They sat on a bench under red oaks bent sideways by the wind, planted in a line between the school and the football stadium. All the trees and the scattered benches beneath them had been donated by former students and local families and clubs, each with a small plate with the donor’s name. On their bench, that name had been scratched off long ago, so it had become their “place,” if they had a place, and if she let him believe they were a “they”—
una pareja
.

Caleb said they were hiding in plain sight—who would ever pay attention to two students sharing cigarettes on a bench outside the school? He never said what it was they were hiding from.

“Well?”

She sucked in smoke, counted tree branches above her head. He got in close, one leg curled beneath him and leaning forward like he did when he wanted to be serious, and he always wanted her to see him as serious. That was also when his eyes were best, when they were green and blue at the same time—bright, both young and old. Amé had never met Caleb’s mama, not formally, just saw her around school, around town, before she was gone. But those were all her eyes, had to be.

“Try to remember, Amé, anything, anything at all.”

He’d been at this for days, getting her to think back to growing up with Rodolfo, searching for something, anything, they could give to Deputy Cherry: a clue, a bit of Rodolfo’s past that might prove once and for all that the bundle of
huesos
the deputy had found could be no one but her brother. But Rodolfo had been nine years older. There was so much she couldn’t remember, so much about him she didn’t know. Just like there was so much about her mama and papa and their lives over the river she didn’t know, cousins and aunts and uncles who
were nothing more than stories and names: Margarita and Luciana and Juan José and a mysterious Fox Uno, whom her mama did not speak of often and seemed truly scared of.

She’d seen enough TV—the same detective shows Caleb kept going on about now—to know that real life rarely worked that way. She didn’t believe there were answers about her brother in any papers or reports Deputy Cherry might have.

“
No lo sé
. I don’t remember anything. Not now. Not ever.”

Caleb slumped, looked past her. “Dammit.”

•   •   •

However, she did think more and more about Rodolfo’s phone—picking it up, choosing one of its stored numbers. The person who answered it would not care about reports or papers; would not need them to help her do something about Rodolfo or Duane Dupree. But she always stopped herself. Using the phone was as dangerous as pulling the trigger on Rodolfo’s gun; she’d have no more control over what happened next than catching a fired bullet. Still, she found it in her hand more and more often, not remembering how it got there. It had a life of its own, crawling into her fingers as she slept, beating, almost like a heart. She didn’t want to be angry, but couldn’t understand how Caleb made it all seem like a game, so easy.

“First, you
knew
it was your mama. You wanted me to believe it, too. Now you know it is Rodolfo. You don’t make sense. You want all these horrible things and you don’t even know why.”

He threw his hands up, frustrated, almost angry. “And you don’t? You don’t want to know? You don’t want to do anything about it . . . to stop him?”

She pointed at the air. “
Him?
Your papa? Is that what all this is
about? Or is it about you?” She laughed, bitter. “Do I want to know where my brother is?
Sí.
But do I want it to be that thing out in the desert? No,
no lo hago
. No more than I wanted it to be your mama. Don’t you see, we get nothing by being right? It makes nothing better.” There was no easy way to explain how she
needed
her brother to still be alive—to be free, to have escaped and gotten away from all of this for someplace safer, far from here, forever. In her
sueños
, her dreams, again—fewer now, but she still had them—she could almost see him there; clear, bright, waving to her, urging her to find such a place for herself. A place like the cities Caleb had promised her, or the paper beaches taped to her bedroom walls. That’s what she had to believe, had to tell herself, even if it was all no more real or true than Caleb’s TV shows.
Murfee
was
her real life
. Duane Dupree was real life. A gun and a cellphone and money under her bed were real. It was her
vida
and she hated it and there was nothing easy or good about any of it. Maybe it was worthless to hope or dream for better things, but as long as she believed Rodolfo was free, she could also hold tight to the idea,
the hope
, that on some other distant day she could be, too. It might be nothing, but what else did she have? It might have to be enough. She was stronger than her brother, always had been, but she was still too afraid to let that last dream of Rodolfo go. Too afraid it’d mean also letting go of her last small handful of hope . . .
her
last dreams.

She’d imagined once or twice showing Caleb one of Dupree’s pictures, like the one she got this morning that she couldn’t delete fast enough—a black knife held next to his
pene
, daring her to compare which was longer, sharper; begging her to dwell on which one was going to hurt more. What could Caleb do about that, about Dupree? How would someone like Caleb ever stop someone like him?

“I’m sorry, Amé. I just want to help us.”

“No, you want to help
you
. You want this for you. You know
nada
about what I want.” She hurt him, felt it. Those eyes she sometimes liked flickered, dimmed. He pulled back like she’d hit him, lost for something else to say.

She believed enough of the things he’d said about El Juez to know Caleb’s own unhappiness, to feel it for him. But no matter how bad it was, he had a hundred more ways to walk away from his life than she’d ever have to run from hers. Caleb could never understand that; showing him Dupree’s texts and pictures wouldn’t change it. And no matter what he promised, when the time finally came, it wouldn’t stop him from leaving, with or without her.

“It is nothing, Caleb.
Nada
, nothing. Let it go.” She didn’t have to say anything more, but she knew he heard it, felt it, understood it. Not today or tomorrow, but soon.
Let me go.

•   •   •

But he wouldn’t, not yet, so later Caleb came to her again. She thought about pretending she was out, but he knew better. He’d stopped first at Mancha’s down the street and picked up gum and her favorite cigarettes. He peered in her window, tapping until she opened it, one of the few times she’d let him inside. She hated him being in her room now, knowing Dupree had been there as well. He took in all of her posters, her pictures. None were of him. Nothing in her room said they were friends or knew each other at all. If he was hurt by it, he didn’t say anything.

She was embarrassed by all of her magazine cutouts, glossy and bright and taped to her wall—homes and beaches of the rich, the famous. There were several pictures of Rodolfo, one from when he was very young, wearing a cowboy hat, pointing his finger at the
camera. She always thought he looked so small beneath the wide brim, his face lost in its shadow. Caleb stared at that for a long time. He also saw the ragged peacock feather stuck behind her mirror, colors faded by the sun. Finally he took one of the clippings from her wall, a city skyline along a beach—the one she’d written those mysterious phone numbers on—and put that in his pocket. Then he took the picture of Rodolfo in his cowboy hat and put that in her hand. He wrapped his hand over hers, over the picture. His hands were warm, gentle. “Try.”

•   •   •

And that night she did dream of Rodolfo—
un sueño
—the first one in a long time, and different from the others. He’d been so good at
fútbol
, not what the gringos thought of as football but what they played in the dirt streets. Rodolfo had been thin like a reed along the river and could bend like one too, moving with the ball as if it were tied to him on a string. As he got older, there were fewer chances to play. Bigger clubs would not take a Mexican and the high school did not have a team, so Rodolfo gave it up for other things. But for a time there was always a ball at his foot—trailing dust around the house, leaving marks on the walls. There was still a black smudge in the kitchen, one her mama refused to wipe away.

She is sitting in the grass and they are calling his name . . .
Pasa la pelota, Rodolfo.¡Pasa! ¡Dispara! ¡Nadie puede atraparlo!

The sun is so hot and her mama and papa have promised her
helado
if she behaves and she is clapping for her
hermano
.

There is loud yelling and he is next to her on the grass and his eyes are so, so wide, and his arm is in her papa’s hands and his hands are so big and gentle and dark from the sun and so is Rodolfo’s arm but it doesn’t look right
and Rodolfo is holding her hand too tight and she is crying but she does not know why.

She is calling his name over and over again and her hand stings from where he is squeezing and she doesn’t care whether she gets
helado
even her favorite chocolate because Rodolfo is whispering just for her . . .
Estoy bien, pequeña estrella, estoy bien
 . . . and then he is kissing her between the eyes and then he is gone.

Rodolfo.

•   •   •

She sat up in bed with cold starlight on her sheets, Rodolfo’s phone in her hand. She had fallen asleep with the phone or it had slithered from its place under the bed. It was warm, alive. She got up quietly and put it back in its place. The picture of Rodolfo, the one Caleb had handed her, was still on her nightstand where she’d left it, the last thing she had looked at before falling asleep.
Caleb had made her remember, made her dream
. Rodolfo had broken his arm bad, and her papa had taken him across the river to get it set because they could not afford the doctor in Murfee. He’d worn the cast proudly—it was so white—and he would not let anyone color it or sign it as they both had seen others do. She’d been five, maybe six; seven at the most.

He’d worn that cast for a long, long time.

She took Rodolfo’s picture, held it tight, and went to her window. It wasn’t dawn, not quite yet, the moon all but lost and the stars still the brightest things in the sky, as white and faceless as Rodolfo’s cast. They were all she could see outside her window, the rest of the town, the whole entire world, having disappeared. She was alone. But maybe she could tell Caleb about that bad injury, and how whenever it was going to rain Rodolfo used to swear his throbbing arm,
never quite the same, always let him know first it was on its way. Maybe she could tell him about Dupree’s number in her brother’s phone too, but not explain why she knew it so well, knew it by heart. Maybe she owed him that small thing, something, for wanting so bad to help her . . . for helping her remember. Maybe she owed it to herself.

It might be nothing . . .

But maybe for the first time in forever, something was better than nothing.