The Last Karankawas(26)

* * *



After Labor Day, the season dies down. The tourists and campers drift away, back east to the big cities, to traffic and Red Lobsters and stories-high overpasses. Luz doesn’t miss the many hours renting out tubes and canoes, slinging snorkels and Off to an onslaught of tourists. She spends time instead doing the books, reading a paperback romance in between the occasional visit from someone looking for a cabin rental, a quiet weekend for their family. Carlos is busy showing around a team of developers from Houston who have big plans for the area, he says, a great new vision for what Concan could be.

A hurricane called Rita forms, miles away, out on the Gulf. Luz doesn’t miss caring about hurricanes; around here, farmers speak of needing one good hurricane and the downpour it would bring to the crops. No worries of evacuation, of flooding or wind damage: rain the only element of a hurricane, and an always desirable one. But Rita shifts her path to Galveston. Carlos calls his parents, ensures they are evacuating, and then Carly calls, and a day later she and Jess and her grandmother, Mrs. Castillo, arrive.

At midnight, Luz watches their headlights pull into the drive. Jess rubs his face wearily before he climbs out of the car. Carly is red-eyed, Mrs. Castillo half asleep still. It should have been a six-hour drive; it had taken them eleven, inching along I-10 in bumper-to-bumper traffic, then Highway 90, north through the back roads and winding paths studded with occasional whitetail or armadillo. Inside the cabin, she lit jasmine-scented candles, warming the guest room where Carly and Mrs. Castillo would sleep, beside the pullout sofa made with extra pillows for Jess.

Se?ora, Luz says, reaching a hand out for Mrs. Castillo. Let me help you.

She supports the woman with an arm around her stiff back. Ah. Gracias, mija, Mrs. Castillo murmurs as Luz helps her to the guest bed. Gracias. You’re a good girl. She pats her cheek, stares into Luz’s eyes for what feels like far too long, until Luz pulls away.

You look good, Carly says in the living room, after Carlos passes out glasses of Jack on ice and he and Jess head outside to smoke cigars. She swipes a strand of waving hair out of her face, raises her bourbon. You seem better, being home.

I am. It’s been good for me.

Luz’s phone chimes, lights up with a text. Josh. She hopes Carly doesn’t notice the way she shifts it out of view, but Carly’s tired eyes flicker, sharpen. She sips bourbon. They both fidget, aware of the new, viscous space between them. The next day they order food from the Prod, and though Luz insists she can get it herself, Carly goes with her to pick it up. Josh is waiting at the bar with their order. Goddamn it. He eyes her, shakes Carly’s hand; they smile too brightly, talk about being old friends too loudly. Carly says nothing until the car doors close, and then she sighs. Luz, you bitch. She sighs again. Fuck. There’s no heat in it, only something sorrowful, something like grief.

Luz wants to scream. Snap, What right do you have to judge me, what could you possibly know. She wants to explain cycles, circles. How what she has lost made her this way, this brittle, hollow thing. What would she know, this girl who has only ever been on the island where she was born? Who has never left or been left, never had to weigh her own wants against the world?

But she drives on in silence. Carly turns her face to the window, out toward the river running, and Luz bites her lip against the sudden prick of tears. The pain startles her. How sharp, how deep, this loss of Carly, whom she had not known was so dear a friend.

They leave the next morning, after the news shows Rita veering away from Galveston, heading northeast to the Louisiana border instead. Mrs. Castillo pats Luz’s cheek again, climbs in the backseat of the Corolla. The hug Carly gives Luz is perfunctory, for show, her arms stiff and brittle. When she puts her arms around Carlos, she holds on. Carly rests her chin on his shoulder and stays, so long he laughs and Jess makes a joke about being jealous, but she hangs on anyway.



* * *



All for nothing, que no? Carlos’s father laughs, and even over the phone his laughter is booming, a cheerful sound. Carlos’s cell is on speaker, resting on the kitchen counter as he scrapes leftover barbecue and salad into containers, scoops uneaten dill pickles back into the jar. Rita turns anyway. Pobrecito Louisiana. Beside him, Luz replaces the throw pillows on the couch and plumps them carefully. She has stripped the sheets and pillowcases from the guest bed and couch, carried the bundle to the laundry room. She will wash, dry, fold tonight. She will put this back the way it was.

Such a hassle, Carlos’s mother says loudly. Luz visualizes her leaning over to shout into the phone. We went all the way to your brother’s for nothing. Pero at least we went early and didn’t get stuck like your friends. Gracias a Dios. At least they made it.

What a terrible drive, his father says. He snorts. They tell us to evacuate, and we do, y por qué? So we can boil in our cars on the freeway, and run out of gas, and not move for hours. So the storm can turn and miss us altogether. We should have stayed.

Carlos shakes his head, and frustration rises in Luz’s throat. She reaches for the phone. We can’t think like that, Roy. You were lucky this time. Look at New Orleans, not even a month ago. Choices, storms, genes: it only takes one bad one, she wants to say. We were lucky.

Roy starts to respond, but Irene speaks over him. Sí, mija. Her mother-in-law’s voice is strong, sure. You’re right. You’re right, she repeats. And Luz hears—or imagines she hears—the iron agreement, the knowledge they share that their men do not: Things can go wrong, and will, and this world is cruel, but we move through it anyway. Maybe the next one will not swerve to Mexico or Louisiana, but head right for us. Diosito, Irene swears, what a storm that will be.