Send Down the Rain(16)

I pulled over. “What?”

“Ants are biting me.”

“Where?”

“My backside.”

I guess if you’re not expecting a seat heater, it can throw you off. I pushed the button twice more, turning the seat heater to low. I tried to explain, “The seat has a heater in it. You can control it here.”

She sat on her palms. For the next twenty minutes she touched the button and raised or lowered the seat temperature, finally settling on medium. After a quiet ten minutes, her face flushed red. She rubbed the back of her neck and a giggle broke loose. It was the first time I’d heard her laugh. It was beautiful. I also heard relief.


I DROVE SEVERAL HOURS through Marion, Union Mills, Rutherfordton, and finally exited the back roads at Tryon onto I-26. We drove south a short while to I-85 and turned southward yet again toward Atlanta.

The kids slept while Rosco stood guard.

As we put the mountains behind us, she opened up. Her parents had owned a small restaurant. Made tortillas from scratch. She’d waited tables. Graduated high school. College wasn’t an option, so she married one of their customers. A man she loved. He’d given her two children. She’d helped him in his dental practice. Learned the trade of a hygienist. He’d taught her to suture. He was a good man. Often didn’t charge for his services. That endeared him to many. To others, it made him a target. He was robbed and shot in the street in front of their home while she stood on the doorstep, the kids at her feet. They’d seen the whole thing.

At the funeral she’d met a man who pretended to be something he was not. Said he was a diplomat and businessman who traveled freely into the States. Had a home there. Offered to take her away from all that and bring her here. She decided out of a broken heart. A bad decision. They’d been paying for it ever since. They’d been in several states. Lived in multiple migrant communities. Cement block homes. Rats. Roaches. Scabies. They had gone hungry, cold, and been left alone a half dozen times. Juan Pedro had beaten her three times. The last was the worst.

She explained about the cookshack, the shootout, the climb up the mountain, and how she’d waited for his eyes to move side to side. She’d herded the kids into the snow and cold and darkness. She did so knowing that none of them would see the light of another day. When he woke and found them—and he would—she knew he’d kill the kids while she watched and then drag her back to Mexico and give her to his men. They’d kill her over the days that followed. She didn’t have a plan, but she was pretty sure that was Juan Pedro’s, and he was just a day or two from acting on it.

I pulled over at a Hilton Garden Inn and paid for two rooms. We ordered dinner and had it delivered to our rooms. Watching them smear tomato paste across their faces, I was again amazed at the amount of food those kids could put away. After five pieces of pizza, Gabriela whispered something to her mom. The only word I could make out was “cream.” Catalina hushed her and said, “No.” A few minutes later Gabriela whispered a second time. Catalina responded in much the same way, though this time with a stern top lip.

Admittedly I can be slow on the uptake. “She want some ice cream?”

Catalina waved me off and did that windshield wiper thing with her index finger. “No.”

Minutes passed, but when Gabriela moved to the window and stood staring down at the red neon sign of the Wendy’s next door, I put two and two together. “You sure?”


I RETURNED WITH FOUR large Frosties, and the sugar rush, mixed with the fat of the pizza, brought with it a pretty heavy crash. When I shut the connecting door to my room, the kids were sound asleep. Rosco lay on my second bed. He had sunk his muzzle into a Wendy’s cup and was pushing it around the bed trying to lick the bottom. When he lifted his head, the cup covered his entire mouth. I stretched out on the bed and he curled up next to me, resting his head on his paws, licking the sides of his face. I spoke both to him and to me. “No, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

A few minutes later, I heard a quiet knock.

I’d been afraid of that.

Catalina pushed open the door and sat across from me on the opposite bed. The kids were asleep. She was almost wearing a terry cloth robe she’d bought today. It was draped across her more than tied, so it wasn’t tough to tell that she wore nothing underneath. The light of the bathroom showered her legs and body. Her dark, shiny wet hair hung down, covering half her face. Her eyes were staring more at the floor than me. Her silence, and posture, said what her mouth did not.

Trust me, I’m a man. She’s beautiful. And I’d be lying to you if I told you that the thought had not crossed my mind. I may be old, but I’m not that old. Problem was, I’d seen the damage we people do to one another. I’d done some myself. Soul-wounds are scars on the inside, etched with permanent ink.

I sat up. “Catalina, you don’t need to . . .”

She said nothing. The robe falling slightly more off one shoulder. The fact that she’d not moved told me that her experience with men had taught her more than my words. And what I’d hoped was getting through to her, was not. I patted her knees. She’d shaved. Her skin was soft. “Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

She lifted her head, pulling her hair behind her, and then sat up straighter, causing the robe to fall completely off her shoulders. This was getting more difficult. She made no effort to cover herself. “You don’t find me beautiful?”