Six Feet Over It (24 page)

I let myself smile.

“… and then my mom is all, ‘Reincarnation!’ which is why we don’t eat meat, but I don’t know if I can really get behind the idea of mastering some spiritual caste system by eating soy, even though karma makes sense, but … I don’t know.”

“So it’s what? Nothing?”

“No, not
nothing,
” she says. “But I think I’ve decided to be okay with sort of … not knowing, maybe
hoping
everything will be the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Huh.”

“But the thing is, I’ve never known anyone who’s died yet.”

“How is that possible?”

“My mom’s parents died before we were born. Dad’s mom is still alive. She lives in Oregon. Just no one yet.”

“Wow.”

She nods.

“Wade says there’s nothing. Blackness and nothing forever, and that’s why you can’t be lazy because this is it, our one chance for everything.
Anything.
He gets so mad when we sleep in.”

“Oh jeez,” she sighs, rolls her eyes. “That’s just stupid.”

“But what if it’s true?”

“Well, first of all, if it is, then we’ll never know so it won’t matter anyway. But second of all—no offense, but is he on glue?”

The road speeds beneath our feet. Trucks thunder by, passing us left and right.

“Elves are immortal,” she says after a while. “Says the Dungeon Master. ‘Their life span is that of the world,’ unless they’re killed by a human or dwarf or something. But sometimes they live so long, they get tired. Too worn out to go on anymore. Or they could be lonely, or one could have a broken heart. And then they go to where the spirits of the dead go, to the halls of Mandos in Valinor, which I’m not completely positive but I imagine is an island. In the ocean. They sail west to the Undying Lands.”

“With the hobbits?”

“Well no, it’s for elves. They let a few hobbits in, I guess. Couple humans. A dwarf maybe. But it’s for the elves to go to rest. Eventually you can’t see them anymore, but they’re there. I’m sure you could feel them if they were near. Peaceful spirits. Safe and content at sea.”

My throat hurts. Her voice is Bob Ross soothing.

She hangs her arm out the window. Lets her hand ride the current.

“
And the ship went out into the High Sea and passed into the West … white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.
My parents made us memorize it like Bible verses.”

“It’s pretty.”

“And fun at parties.”

The road noise drones comfortably. Fills a long silence.

“Leigh,” she says. “Emily is
not
nothing. She could never, ever be nothing. You know that.”

I clutch the wad of Denny’s napkins.

“And I’ll tell you something else: if you
are
a patron saint of death, you really should have figured all this out by now.”

“You’d think.”

Cars pass us. I change lanes. Hay trucks barrel by, yellow straw flying everywhere.

She offers me a York, the very last in the bag.

THE SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA SUN
has pushed the clouds aside. We roll the windows all the way down, the sky smog hazy but still so blue, air
so
warm. Soupy.

“What time is it?”

Elanor pushes her sleeve up past her watch. “Quarter to one.”

My stomach is getting tighter with every mile. So far inland, not even an ocean breeze to lean into, all this urban sprawl unfamiliar. Scary.

Elanor wrestles out of her tights, her long-sleeved shirt, fans her face with the maps.

What have I dragged her into?

“Almost there,” she says. “Have we talked about how much Placentia sounds like placenta?”

“Uh, no. But
gross.
You’re staying in the truck, right?”

“Sure.”

“Promise?”

She laughs. “Yeah, I promise, but I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s the middle of the day! We go in, we get them, we leave. Just some friend’s house, right?”

“I guess.”

“Here,” she says. “Turn off here.”

No more I-5. Street to street the neighborhoods all have a bland sort of sameness: oil-change places, fast food, playgrounds, graffiti, nice houses, junky ones. Grown men riding children’s bikes. Lots of chain-link fencing around postage-stamp-size scrubby yards and no trees other than a few sidewalk palms.

Dario would never put me in danger on purpose; there are people around, lots of cars. Traffic.

But the staticky bad phone connection. Voices in the background. How many people will be there, and who are they? I
think
he said it was a friend’s house. I don’t remember now. He spoke for all of thirty seconds, just the address, please come get him. Them.

My hands could not be sweatier.

The nearer to Placentia, the bigger the houses, the wider the streets. Sort of. I can’t tell anymore.

Elanor studies the map.

We are quiet.

“Okay,” she murmurs, and looks up. “Here. Here, turn here.”

Another long street of low houses. A dog trots by unattended, no leash. No collar. More chain-link fencing. But people are walking by, there are sidewalks, and cars pass. Just a neighborhood.

Elanor narrates the house numbers under her breath until—

“Here. This one, this is it. This is it!”

I make a wide U-turn, find a tiny patch of shade provided by an inflatable bounce house across the street. No one in it. The party is over or has not yet begun. I shift into park, set the brake.

Silence after hours of highway. We unlatch our seat belts and close our eyes for a minute.

“Looks okay,” she says, craning her neck around me to check out the house.

The
house.

Small gray stucco. The front yard is full of sparkly white rocks, and cement frog and mushroom figurines guard the mailbox. A cactus here and there. Kind of run-down but not scary bad—sort of has the curb appeal of the mobile homes in Gold Country Villa.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Looks good.”

We sit. A car passes, booming bass so loud the truck windows rattle.

“Okay,” Elanor says. “So let’s … shall we?”

I frown at her.

“Fine,” she says. “Shall
you
?”

I inhale as deeply as the grimy hot air will allow. Step down to the street. “Lock the doors.”

She presses the knobs obediently.

“I’ll be right back. Roll the windows up.”

“No way!” she yelps. “It’s a thousand degrees in here!”

“Just
some.
”

She rolls them up halfway. Then a little more. “Go,” she says. “Hurry.”

I shake my tingly legs, pins and needles in my numb feet. Walk.

Just a house. Just a neighborhood in the middle of the day. I’m being totally ridiculous, just picking up a friend from his friend’s place, that’s what he said. I’m sure that’s … probably what he said.

I turn back once more to Elanor. She waves. Smiles. Dying in the heat.

Through the chain-link gate, porch, my hand to the door. Knock.

Dogs bark inside. Men’s voices.

The door opens.

A woman. Older. She wipes her hands on a dish towel and pushes three or four little yapping dogs off her and back.
“¿Sí?”

I make myself smile. “Hello!”

She just stands there.

“Um. I’m here for … is Dario here?”

She turns back into the dark house. “Samuel!” she yells. “Someone here to see you!”

“Oh,” I call to her retreating form, “sorry, no, I’m looking for Dario. …”

“Hello!” Another voice comes from the depths of the house. The sun is so bright, my eyes cannot adjust, but he is in the doorway, a man, younger than the woman.
“¿Cómo puedo ayudarte?” How can I help you?

“Hello,” I say. “I’ve come for Dario.”

He smiles.
“Sí,”
he says.
“¡Dario!”

“Yes.” I smile back.

“¿Y Ana, también?”

“Yes, Ana also. Dario and Ana.”

We smile at each other.

“Sí, está bien,”
he says.
“Dario y Ana.”

More smiling.

“So,” I say, “are they here?”

He frowns.
“Lo siento, no entiendo.”

Oh Jesus.

No English.

I’m going to get us all killed.

Your Spanish is beautiful.

Sure, Dario. If I’m discussing interment options.

I don’t think. Just speak.

“Mi nombre es Leigh. Estoy aquí para recoger a Dario y Ana. ¿Están aquí? Tenemos un paseo largo por delante.”

He laughs.

My face, already pink with heat, flushes.

What did I say wrong?
My name is Leigh. I’m here to get Dario and Ana, and by the way are they here because we’ve got a long drive ahead of us,
subtly moving toward a “Let’s get this wrapped up” vibe. I know every word was right; what is this guy’s problem?

“¡Adriel!”
he calls over his shoulder.
“¡Ve la blanca!”

My wrists pulse with the blood and adrenaline thundering through my veins. What the hell? I’m “the white girl” his pal needs to come see?

Adriel is younger still, Lakers jersey and basketball shorts; he pokes his head around the corner, steps in the doorway. Smiles. Which pisses me off even more. Except his eyes aren’t smiling. At all. So now I’m mad
and
scared.

“¿Por Dario?”
he says.

Samuel nods.
“¡Preguntale algo!”
he goads.
Ask her something.

Adriel leans in the doorway. Looks me up and down.
“¿No estás caliente en esos jeans?”

“¡Sólo piensas en una cosa, hermano!”
Samuel laughs.
“¿Un poco flaca, pero no me importaría si podría ver las piernas, eh?”

For a second—just half a moment—I am terrified.

This is a Dateline “Danger Is Everywhere!” reenactment where a voice-over says, “I should have listened to my instincts. I knew right then I should have turned and run, called the police, gotten out of there. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. …”

But the moment is eclipsed by both a startling, ill-timed joy and my fully bloomed, impatient fury. First of all, Elanor is right; it’s the middle of the damned day! If they had guns, wouldn’t they have shown them by now? I have driven eight hours. I have come here to do one simple thing. I am not leaving until Dario and Ana are in that truck.

Oh, and the joy.

I understand.

No effort, no need to turn their words inside out to English and back, because I understand the straight-up Spanish. Too bad it’s
these
guys’ Spanish, but still.

Yes, Adriel, if that is your name, I
am
hot in these jeans. I am very hot. I’m sweating to death. But it was cold in the place I left this morning, and who are you in your stupid basketball shorts to pass fashion judgment? You don’t know me! Jeez! And
you,
creepy Samuel. Seriously?
I’m kind of skinny but you’d like to see my legs anyway?

“All right,” I say, done screwing around, infused with my new power.
“Escucha. Mis piernas no son un tema que vamos a discutir hoy. Estoy aquí por Dario y Ana. Por favor sacarlos aquí, porque tenemos un horario ajustado y necesitamos irnos. Ahora mismo.”

Loosely translated?
Listen up. My legs are not an issue we’re going to discuss today. I’m here for Dario and Ana, so please get them out here because we are on a tight schedule and we need to go, right now.

Smile time is over.

Maybe flexing my bilingual guns with these fine gentlemen wasn’t the smartest thing.

Adriel disappears into the dark house.

Samuel steps out onto the patio. Stands close to me.
“¿Cómo sabes Dario?” How do you know Dario?

I swallow. Glance across the street. Elanor’s face is pressed to the half-down window.

Please just stay in the truck,
I think.
Don’t be a hero.

“Trabajamos juntos. ¿Y tú?”
I answer.
I know Dario from work. And how do you know him?

“Amigo de un amigo.”

Right. I’m sure Dario is friends with tons of shifty guys like you, pal. I think this but I don’t say it, because now I am outnumbered by “friends.” Adriel has dragged yet another guy out here with him, none of them much taller than me, but all three unhappy—owing, it seems, to my obvious grasp of both languages. Hard to tell how much English they know, and I’d have thought they’d appreciate the Spanish effort, but instead it’s making them circle the wagons.

My heart is pummeling my ribs.

Not so many people walking by on the sidewalk. The sun is pulsing, everything too bright. I get the sick feeling something is definitely not right.

Maybe Dario isn’t here.

“Si Dario no está aquí, me voy,”
I say. Stern. Matter-of-fact.
If he’s not here, I’m leaving!

And I do. I turn and walk. A gamble.

“¡Chica!”

“¡Señora!”
I shout back.

Peals of laughter. I keep walking, praying they don’t call my bluff.
Oh God, what am I doing?
Elanor is hanging out the window like she’s about to lose her mind.

“
Señora, espera. Vuelve. Él está aquí, lo juro a tú, ambos están aquí.” Okay. He is here. They are here.

I turn back.

“Then go get him!” I call.
“No tengo tiempo para esto. Tenemos que irnos. Ahora.” I don’t have time for this. We need to leave. Now.

Samuel walks out into the sun, through the gate, and stands with me at the curb.

“¿Dario te explicó cómo funciona?”

Did Dario explain how
what
works? I come, I pick him up, we go home. That’s “how it works.”

“Yes,” I say. “I understand. I’m here to get him.”

Samuel shakes his head.
“¿Te dijo acerca de la tarifa?”

Tarifa?
No, he did not tell me about a
tarifa,
I scroll through all the nouns I know.

A tax? A fee.

Irony doesn’t translate well, and also I am back to being scared to death; otherwise I would congratulate this creep for doing such a great job of strengthening stereotypes.

“Quieres dinero.”
I sigh. Unbelievable.
You want money.

People nearly die getting to America, and then this jerk pretends he’ll help, but all he’s doing is working with the stupid coyotes, one last chance to screw people over. He’s a living cliché.

If I was furious before, I’ve got some rage happening now, luckily still cut with a healthy dose of fear to keep it in check. Just barely.

“It’s a fee,” he says, “for services.
Estamos aquí para ayudar.
”

Yeah. He’s here to help. The service of holding people for petty ransom. I’m terrified, but I also want to punch him in the face—him and the jerks still standing on the patio guarding the dark doorway.

But what can I do? And where is Dario?

“Verlos primero,”
I demand.
“Ambos de ellos.”

Samuel shakes his head. Money first, he says.
Then
I see Dario and Ana.

“We’re done.” I spit. English. “No way.”

I walk blindly once more to the truck, pushing tears of frustration off my face. Elanor unlocks the door, shoves it open, and moves back so I can climb in.

“What was
that
?” she whispers. “Who are those guys, are you okay, where is Dario, do they have guns, do you think they have
guns
?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper back. “I don’t think so. They’re just acting like punks. Hold on a second. …”

“Lady!” Samuel runs to the truck. Right on cue.

“Lock the door!” Elanor screeches, full voice.

“¡Señora!”
Samuel says through the open window.
“¿Tienes el dinero?” Do you have the money?

“No,” I growl. “No! Not until I see Dario and Ana.
No hasta que veo Dario y Ana.
”

He drops his head back, his arms in the air.

“Okay! Okay,
ambos. Ambos equipos al mismo tiempo, tú nos mostrarás el dinero, yo te mostraré Dario.
”

What the hell is this, showdown at the O.K. Corral?
I show him the money, he shows me Dario?

“Dario
and
Ana,” I bark.

“
Yes,
sí, por supuesto, Ana también. Dario y Ana juntos.”

“Fine,” I say.
“Los trae afuera.” Bring them out.

He nods, all smiley and amused, then pushes past the two “friends” still dicking around in the doorway, back inside the house.

Elanor looks really, really pale. “What’s going on? What’s he saying? What are we doing?”

I grab my bag, tucked behind the Last Supper. “Money,” I whisper, grabbing the Pre-Need envelope of surplus icing-on-the-cake cash.

“How much?”

“I don’t—Oh God, I don’t know, he didn’t say!”

“You didn’t
ask
?”

“I didn’t think. I’ve never paid a ransom before!”