The Last Karankawas(45)

I scratched my nails lightly on the concrete step. I looked into his eyes and wished it into him, what was in my mind. I hoped he’d see how I still wanted the desert; how I preserved it in a dark, secret corner of my soul. But I wanted the life I had here with you, on la isla de mi vida, more. And I had chosen you.

He turned his face away and sniffed. I lifted my hand to touch his cheek. I stopped again. Afraid my hand would pass through him, and just as afraid it wouldn’t.

He pushed off the steps onto the sidewalk. When he moved, he made no sound, sabes. I have to go. I’m sorry. He sounded as if he meant it. He faced me, straightened tall as I sat on the step. The sun glinted on his dark skin, caught the light off his hair. But I could see it, if I angled my eyes—el humo y la sal. He cast a shadow across me.

Bye, Mama. He didn’t reach for me; he was afraid, too, I realized. We both knew there would be no more visits.

Que te vaya bien, mijo.

He took a few steps, then stopped. Se volvió.

You’ll tell her I was here? That I was asking for her?

Sí, mijo, I lied. I don’t know if he could sense the lie, the ghost of my son. I will never tell you this story, as good as it is, as true, because you will not believe me.

Right now, ves, you are angry. I watch you from my seat here by the window of my room. A hazy day, and here in League City, miles away from the water, I feel the hurricane blooming. If I squint, I see it, sparks like electric currents to the southeast. And there you are, in the parking lot, still sitting in Jesusmaría’s truck. You run your hands through your hair and shout while his mouth moves, and I chuckle because he is surely trying to calm you down without saying Calm down—smart boy knows better than to say that to women like us. I sigh. I thought I had more time; the smell of smoke hasn’t quite disappeared from the room. Esa Mrs. Reyes must have called you immediately and told you of the blessing fire. I tried but couldn’t complete it. I will, though. I kept some palms hidden, though I will not tell you that, either.

You shake your head once more and climb out of the truck. Frustration and temper smoldering around you. Before you slam the truck door shut, I see the bags, the boxes, and close my eyes for a moment. So you are leaving after all, evacuating. Ah, ni?a. With both of us gone, who can say what is to come for la isla? You bring a battle with you; in a few moments, we will throw words that hurt at each other, as we have done so many times in your life, these tempers of ours colliding. But this one will end with you going, leaving me here, for the first time. Both of us gone. I think of the palm fronds tucked in my dresser, bundled in my pantyhose. You will stay safe, my girl. Despite another fight, despite another leaving. Maybe I cannot save Galveston, but I will keep you safe. Because you are the only one I have left, and I can.

You stride toward me, coming through the heat rising like a mirage from the asphalt, and I remember the ghost of your father that day years ago, walking away from me. I thought he would vanish—a shimmer in the light, or a slow fading. But he simply walked. Hands in his jean pockets, head turned down. No sound as he moved except the cars honking on Ferry. I watched him put one foot in front of the other, as you do now. I watched him walk down Albacore, past our house and those of the Alvarezes, the Jacksons, the Suayans, past the palm trees and the oleanders, the stray gatito you liked to feed sometimes, the corner where you skinned both knees racing Jesusmaría when you were ten. He walked all the way to where Albacore met Marine, and then he turned left in the bright white sunlight y ya se fue.





TELL ME A STORY


Carly

It takes longer than Carly expected for the guilt to get there. Perhaps it’s the distraction of the city—the snarl of traffic, the rush of speed, how those two manage to come together in a uniquely Houston way. Speed, stop, speed up again. Go fast even in gridlock. If so, she is grateful for the delay, the headache of Houston driving. She has dodged and weaved for an hour, heading north on I-45, braking, cursing, merging. She is eighteen, experienced behind the wheel now; she hoped by late morning this rush hour traffic would dissipate, easing her escape. Dumb, she thinks now. Three years of driving, on the island and off, and still the city screws her.

She flexes her fingers on the wheel of her new Corolla. “New” to her, not to the world. A 1997 Corolla, five years old, but hers, all hers, thanks to the money she painstakingly saved from working at Whataburger part-time, from picking up side jobs after school or on her days off babysitting and helping Magdalena at the library. Its AC is on the fritz, and some of the black paint is peeling from its hood, but it is her chariot, her wild horse carrying her away. Together they pass the construction zones and chain restaurants of the Bay Area, watch the downtown exit ramps spinning out like whirlpools from the interstate, out and down—in the shadow of the city skyline, the Aquarium’s electric-blue Ferris wheel. She drives through the stretch of intersecting overpasses north of Bush Intercontinental Airport, when Houston should be over, should be done. But still there is Spring and The Woodlands, still Conroe, the sprawl sprawling farther, endless. Taquerias, billboards, parking lots. It is nearly two hours before she and the Corolla emerge from Houston’s last concreted, strip-malled gasp into—.

Trees. Tall trees, towering, skinny ones, shimmying thick green skirts high above her. Where there were just gyro shops and discount furniture stores, there are now trees lining the interstate like chorus girls. And grass, spread out to blanket the sides of the road. She cracks the windows, takes a deep, long breath of the wind whipping past. Warm air, tinged with asphalt and diesel. But no salt, no tang of the Gulf. This feels, smells, like the woods—or should she smell pine? Are there pine trees out here?