So Special in Dayville Page 10

  Marcos drops his gun hand, laughing and slapping the fat man on the shoulder. “Why did you not say so earlier? A friend of Ricky is certainly a friend of ours.” His eyes stay hooded in contemplating Ruiz. “We will make that pickup, yes?”

  When the tall man nods curtly, Marcos and the other man fade into twilight, their laughter faint but insulting.

  Half frozen in anger, Ruiz turns to face Ajeno after the others leave. “I should kill you now. Yes, that is what I should do.”

  “Coulda, woulda, shoulda,” sings the big man, his feet plopping in the alleyway’s dirty puddles as he heads home. “See ya, Ricky.”

  The automatic comes smoothly out of Ruiz’s waistband. He pushes the slide back, dropping a cartridge into the chamber. Regretfully shaking his head, he sights down the barrel. Even in the dark alleyway, it hardly feels necessary with such a large target. But when Ajeno’s orbit is enveloped abruptly by the gloom, Ruiz begins to shake.

  The fat man disappears, even as his large feet are still heard, gleefully splashing puddles. What, wonders Ruiz, is happening to me? He’s always been able to take the shot. Even when it was his own cousin, Pascual, back in Mexico City.

  ***

  On his way home, Ajeno wanders down State Street. Streetlights illuminate the night like artificial suns. He sees that the Dawdlemans are enjoying a quiet night at home. Irene waves at her husband as she steers the baby carriage out onto the sidewalk for a short night stroll before curfew. Frank nods, prepping the work on his push mower, which he’d retrieved just two nights before from the repair shop.

  The Dawdlemans’ front lawn, a green expanse exactly five feet by five feet, is little more than a square carpet of grass, but all the neighbors know it’s Frank’s dream for it to be pristine; to shine, in their concrete jungle, as a lush oasis, a masterpiece, a tapis vert, an epiphany in green—in short, to be the perfect American lawn.

  Frank takes a minute to enjoy his framed bit of nature. To him, it’s every bit as beautiful as the rarest painting. He holds himself erect, shoulders thrown back, as he’s filled with a rightful pride over his immaculate canvas. He knows himself to be artist (though he’d never admit this out loud since artists are notoriously chaotic). But nature herself couldn’t have produced such results. He uses herbicides instead of paintbrushes and fertilizer instead of palette knives.

  Tonight is his night for tool maintenance. This includes sharpening the blade on his push mower. And since Frank’s motto is “A sharp blade makes for a tailored lawn,” he’s had this date circled on his calendar for weeks—ever since the blade’s last sharpening two months before. With the spark plug already removed, he tips the mower over to get to the blade. The tightness of the blade’s single bolt satisfies him even as he grunts, straining to break its grip.

  Ajeno, standing nearby, has gone very still, like a construction tent for sewer maintenance.

  Irene brushes past him, pushing the baby carriage back onto the tarp laid out on the driveway. “Oh, Frank, Bobby and I had such a nice walk. You should’ve come with us. Did you notice how pretty the sunset was? Heavy particulates from the steel foundry made the sky look like it was on fire!”

  Frank grunts from the exertion of loosening the bolt with a long-handled socket wrench. “Huh, didn’t really notice. Been busy with cleaning, oiling, and sharpening the yard tools.”

  In the now blackness, Irene squints disinterestedly. She’s not as fascinated by the strip of grass as Frank is. “I don’t see how you can do anything out here now. The streetlamps went off five minutes ago; didn’t you notice?”

  Frank cranes his head upward with sudden irritation. “Ah, hell, I thought I’d have more time to finish this.” He reaches for an oily rag, but the darkness makes this nearly impossible. Fingers, searching the concrete, finally retrieve it so he can wipe his hands. “Have to finish it tomorrow before work. Lucky I didn’t get the chance to loosen the screw.” He stands. Setting the mower back upright on the tarp, he wipes the metal handle with the rag before stretching. “God, that feels good.”

  Wistfully, Irene looks at his outline. “Frank,” she releases the handle of the baby carriage to wrap her arms around his waist, “do you remember when there was just us—no lawn, no baby, no responsibilities?”

  He grins and, after twirling her around as she giggles, kisses her soundly on the lips. “I remember. Hey, I got an idea—what about you let me put Bobby to bed and then . . .” He lingers suggestively on the word.

  “Oh, I couldn’t let you do that! You’ve been out here working all this time. Least I can do is settle him for the night. . . .” She waits, wanting to be convinced. He answers by wrapping her up in a full-contact hug. Then, each grinning at the delights to come, they reach for a handle to steer their respective burdens.

  Ajeno stares wonderingly as Frank wheels the baby carriage into the garage with Irene steering the mower to the near back door. She laughs, says something that gets lost in the breeze, and disappears through the back doorway.

  Dawdleman, with a lift in his step, quickly jogs the distance between garage and back door.

  The sound of the back door key turning in its lock draws Ajeno to the smaller building. He can barely make out, through moonlight, how the baby carriage is sandwiched between a snowblower and a portable generator. Carefully, he wheels the carriage out of the garage. The baby, who’s been peacefully sleeping, lulled by the building’s smell of gasoline, suddenly pops open its eyes to stare up at the fat man. Frowning, chin trembling, he prepares to wail. But when Ajeno puffs out his own cheeks, holding a finger to his thick sausage lips, the baby falls quiet, staring up at the moon.

  “No worries,” he whispers. “I’m taking you home with me for a sleepover. Crystal will be sooo happy. Now I can give her a baby like she’s always asking!”

  A dark, menacing figure steps out from behind a parked car. “Where are you going with that baby?”

  Ajeno gapes, mouth sagging, as Ruiz steps in front of him. “Hiya, Ricky. Uh, what baby?”

  Not believing how this fool anticipates him, the tall man points to the baby carriage. “That baby.” He reaches out for the carriage’s cheap aluminum handle. “Here, I will take the baby back to the Dawdlemans.”

  “How you know their names, Ricky?”

  Ruiz avoids his eyes. “A friend of a friend knows them.” With difficulty, he tries to wrestle away the baby carriage. “He says I should introduce myself.”

  “Okay, Ricky.” Ajeno’s abrupt release of the aluminum handle sends Ruiz and the carriage careening backward into the road. The baby begins to wail as the fat man turns back to the square house set squarely in a square block. “Let’s do it.”

  “Stop!” commands Ruiz tersely. He’s straightening himself, having easily caught both his balance and the baby carriage. Ajeno turns back questioningly. “We cannot wheel the baby back the way he came.”

  “Okeydoke.” After an agreeable pause, the big man nods his head. “So . . . you wanna throw ’im back on the front porch?”

  “No!” Ruiz frowns. “We will drive the baby carriage around the block,” he pauses appraisingly, “er . . . fifty times, and then we push the doorbell, yes?”

  “Fifty, huh? That’s a lot.” Ajeno sucks on his little finger as the baby continues to scream. “Why so many?”

  Ruiz shoots back, “So the child will be tired and not keep the Dawdlemans awake screaming.”

  “You’re real smart, Ricky,” says the big man, beaming. “But I gotta get home now. You do it for me, ’kay?”

  Pleased, Ruiz concedes with a faint nod. “That is acceptable.”

  Chapter Six

  It takes the tall man the rest of the night to put Plan Dawdleman into effect. He glances sideways. Dawn is breaking, its tiny gray fingers creeping underfoot. On the bed sleeps the Dawdleman child, snoring on the chest of the crack-whore computer hacker.

  Ruiz debated, the night before, whether to involve her. Still unsure of his wisdom, he eyes the woman coldly while punc
hing a number into the burner phone. When a man answers, Ruiz growls, “You will bring me the FRC tonight. No more waiting.”

  “That’s it!” Frank Dawdleman shouts. “I’m taking off the kid gloves, buddy. We’re not buying whatever you’re peddling!”

  “Peddle? What is this peddle?”

  “It means selling, dimwit. Where are you anyway—China? Taiwan? How did our phone number even get on your damnable sales list?”

  Ruiz raises his voice. “I have your child. If you do not comply, he will never be returned—is this understood?”

  “Where do you guys get this stuff?” Frank begins to mock him, “If I do not comply, is this your idea of a sales pitch? Obviously it works in your country, but here it don’t sell beans.”

  Confusion makes Ruiz less sure of himself. “You are missing a baby, yes?”

  “Oh, I get it! You’re hocking some sorta cut-rate fertility treatment, is that it? Well, it ain’t flying here. My wife and I are doing fine in that department. My sperm count trumps your swimmers, pal! My swimmers kick . . . their . . . ASS! Hang them out to dry! Put ’em in the frigging shade, buddy!” Frank raises his voice before slamming down the handset loudly several times, before jabbing the OFF button. “And you can put that in your sales database!”

  ***

  It’s a lovely morning; smog tints the sky pink while the breeze, from a wind turbine (whomp, whomp, whomp) to the east, wafts scents of death, in the form of decaying leaves and summer grasses, over the town. The mayor is driving again down the verdant boulevard of Dayville’s most palatial homes.

  He’s gotten used to its aura of upscale vacancy. The emptiness actually has begun to please him. It does, after all, promise him complete and utter freedom. Lips curling, he pops down the visor to admire himself in his new suit. His fingers brush the vintage, tan polyester and positively tingle in pleasure.

  Puffing out his chest, he pops the visor back in place. Time to refocus on the task at hand, he tells himself. Thirty minutes in the enclave is all it takes. A quick ransack of councilmember homes turns up just what he’s been looking for—a full set of rubber stamps, one for each council seat.

  Lovingly, he touches their brass handles now scattered on the pink leather seat of his Caddy. He can rule this town! Push forward his own agenda, an agenda guaranteed to get him noticed on the national level. Dayville might survive only another day or two, but for however long it lives, he will go down in history as its king!

  ***

  Deep in thought, Crystal takes the Number 2 bus from school to the corner of Los Arroyos and Main. She walks slowly in this unfamiliar part of town. Strange as it is, though, she recognizes it as Dayville. It’s because she can feel the nearness of Broke Mule Canyon. It’s a dizziness that all natives feel when nearing the canyon’s vertiginous rim.

  She sighs, wishing Ajeno had come with her. Can’t he see how important family is to her? Her own parents might be dead, but once they’re married, his parents will become her parents. Automatically, her feet perform a complicated dance of stepping over the sidewalk’s obstacle course of beer bottles. She reminds herself that authority figures such as parents provide a structure to one’s life. They put you in a box, the escape from which forms your soul.

  Crystal feels her eagerness increase. Ajeno was silly for trying to dissuade her. As soon as she has parents once again, she’ll be whole; again she’ll be someone’s child! Fantasizing herself as the perfect daughter-in-law, she practically dances down the street, flouncing in her black skirt and sweater until she’s rewarded by a painted plywood sign.

  It sticks up beside a gravel entrance drive, sandwiched between a used-car dealership and an out-of-business plumbing supply company. Bienvenidos a La Vivienda Temporal Trailer Park, it reads in large red block letters.

  Dark-skinned people milling about the rows of trailers look at her silently as Crystal enters. Gravel crunches beneath her shoes. She jumps as a puff of air swings a rusted metal sign, which creaks abruptly on a crude light post. It’s barely readable but she guesses it to say, “No Vacancy.” She smiles nervously and keeps walking.

  “Excuse me,” she stops to ask a middle-aged woman carrying a baby, “do you know where the Garcias live?”

  Suspiciously, the woman pushes hair out of her eyes. “The Garcias? We have no Garcias here.”

  “No Garcias?” Crystal feels her spirits sink. She had been so excited to meet her prospective in-laws. “Oh, but Ajeno said they live here. Do you know if they moved?”

  “Did you say Ajeno told you this?” With narrowed eyes, the woman leans into Crystal. “You know Ajeno?” When Crystal nods, the woman changes her tone, adopting businesslike crispness. “At the end of this row, turn left. The Garcia trailer is the fifth one on the right. Pink shutters.” Crystal cheerily thanks her, but then stops as the other adds, “But take my advice: when you tell her who sent you, do not be standing so close that you cannot run.”

  The young woman calls out as the other begins to walk away. “What do you mean?”

  Manic laughter caught by the breeze is the only answer. Crystal stands irresolute. Her nerves are again tingling. What had the woman meant? Was it a warning that Crystal should give up this project altogether? Could her future mother-in-law be unstable? Or dangerously violent? This might explain Ajeno’s reluctance to start a family.

  “No!” she exclaims aloud, forcing her feet to move down the row of trailers. “I’ve come this far. I won’t quit now.”

  Soon, to her right, the trailer with the pink shutters comes into view. A young man about her age is sitting on a concrete block near the trailer’s front door.

  Resolutely, Crystal pierces the sweet-smelling cloud of smoke in which he’s hiding. “Excuse me,” she says with practiced loudness. There’ve been more than one or two of her students that have sniffed glue. Altered mental states are something she’s grown used to while teaching in public schools.

  Pausing in his deep inhalation of a joint, the young man, his dark head bobbling, stares up at her as if from some great distance. “Hello to you,” he says very slowly, “pretty lady.”

  “Are you Alejandro?” she asks. “Ajeno’s brother?”

  Giggles sputtering, the young man spreads his bare, tanned arms wide. “By birth, but not, so says my mama, from the womb. . . .”

  “I . . .” Crystal frowns. “I’m sorry, are you saying . . .? Please explain, I don’t understand.”

  The young man looks around for his joint only to find himself holding it. He sucks deeply. Replying shortly, he lets his eyes roll back in his head. “No more than we.”

  “Is your mother here?” She’s now forced to yell, as he appears to be sleeping. A beatific smile, but no words, erupts from the young man.

  Noise starts up from inside the trailer. Its door then flies open so hard it misses the boy’s skull by a hair’s breadth, slamming instead against the trailer’s aluminum siding.

  “Who are you?” A heavyset woman in her fifties stands in the doorway, a skillet gripped in one hand as if she’d like nothing better than to use it. Preferably against someone’s head.

  “My name’s Crystal.” The girl takes a step back. How far, she wonders, can the other woman throw a skillet with any accuracy? “I am,” she takes another step back, “I am engaged to your son.”

  “You are . . . what?” Astonishment widens the other’s eyes. She glances down to the lank figure of Alejandro, who has begun sliding slowly sideways. Gathering momentum against the slick siding, the young man, still grinning, collapses with a faint thump among the weeds. “This is true?” she demands in wonder. “I did not know he could stay sober for so long.” She whirls about and disappears inside.

  Crystal, glancing uneasily about for witnesses, makes to follow through the trailer’s empty doorway. “No,” she says tentatively. Her first glimpse of the trailer’s interior is shadowed by the older woman. She’s now standing in the living area, her expression truculent, arms crossed. The skillet handle protrudes fr
om an inner crease of her elbow. The girl steadies her voice. “I’m engaged to your other son.”

  Maria Garcia lifts her chin; her eyes narrow. “My other son, you say? I have no other son. Alejandro is my only son. He is not much, but he is my blood.”

  “Yes, I understand . . .” Crystal pauses. Outside, the wind has gathered strength. She hears it whistling up the canyon walls. “That there was some confusion about Ajeno’s parentage.”

  “Confusion,” snaps the other. “No, there is no confusion. The one you call Ajeno is not my son. He was never my son. He was a punishment forced on us by the hospital.”

  “But even so,” protests the girl, “you raised him. Doesn’t that make him your son?”

  “You tell me.” Maria Garcia gestures around the trailer’s interior. Crystal now sees how the carpet is worn but immaculate. Potted herbs line a sunny windowsill in the tiny kitchenette. While a threadbare sofa holds a collection of cheerfully-colored cushions that give life to the small space. “Does this look like your Ajeno?”

  Crystal looks doubtful. “But that’s not fair! He lets me do the decorating, so it’s my taste you see in our apartment.”

  The other’s voice becomes impatient. “Yes? And what do you see when you look at him?” When Crystal appears confused, she forces a kindlier tone. “Miss, you have a kind face. I do not enjoy being rude. But you come here as if to tell me something new about Ajeno. You cannot tell me anything I do not know.”

  Crystal shivers. The wind’s begun to buffet the room’s thin walls; this faintly shakes the trailer as if it’s a ship at sea. Dayville residents dread such winds. Rolling up canyon rock, the air surges over the town in a desiccating wave, sucking dry all moisture—puddles in alleys, the dew of backyards, even the tears off a baby’s face. Locals call such winds The Thirst.