123

(Los Angeles, 4/1/72)

Ella missed Dwight.

She told her stuffed animals. She didn’t tell Karen. Plush alligators-Dwight’s gifts to her.

Joan watched. Ella perched the gators on the picnic table and stage-whispered. She was three. She was developing stoic qualities and playing to adults. She’d learn to parcel information soon.

Dina darted into the house. Karen said, “I’ve decided to vanish. Too much has happened here. I’m going to take the girls and just go.”

Joan rubbed her wrists. They were healing. She removed the bandages last night. New scars were forming.

“Your husband?”

“I’ll leave him a note. He’s too self-interested to look for me. He’ll miss the girls for a while and move on.”

Joan said, “I can give you some money. You won’t have to teach.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

The gators were scuffed. Ella was rigorous and assigned them tasks. She didn’t say much. She listened and acted. She was dogged and circumspect. She’d become calculatedly blunt.

Karen said, “I want to build some paper. I’ll keep my first name and concoct a persona from there.”

“Jack can pull mug shots and fingerprint cards. Your name will show up in KA files, but you can limit your exposure.”

Ella snatched her gators and ran inside. Joan looked up at the fallback.

“Is there a genetic link to the virtue of persistence?”

Karen pointed to Ella’s shadow. Joan smiled. Sun shards hit the yard. Karen covered her eyes.

“We’re being surveilled.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Is he harmless?”

“I’m not sure. He’s a convert of sorts, and he tries to be kind.”

“My husband gave me those binoculars. He’d die if he knew where they’ve been.”

“Leave them with the note. They’ll make a good paperweight.”

The light swerved. Joan waved and gestured Come Here.

The girls inspected him. Ella studied him. Dina covered her mouth and ran. Ella ambled and peered over her shoulder.

Karen said, “The coffee place on Hillhurst. You were always there.”

The boy said, “I follow people. I make my living that way.”

Joan heard Dina crying. Karen went excuse me and ducked into the house. The boy was fit. He had small brown eyes and a gray-flecked crew cut. The style was fuck-this-era defiant.

“Your wrists are better.”

“Yes.”

“I hope I’m not bothering you and your friends.”

“You make your living that way.”

He smiled. “I’m good at finding people.”

Joan smiled. “We’ve discussed your prowess before.”

“I’ll find Celia. I’ll get her out and bring her back.”

Karen scolded Dina. Their voices carried. The boy disturbed the child. Dina tossed a fit.

“Maybe I should go.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I’m bringing Reginald back. I may as well bring Celia, too.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know. That’s my way of saying ‘I’m not telling you.’ ”

They walked to the fallback and talked up through dusk. The boy described his craziness in the D.R. She fortified her capsules with Haitian tea. They left the terrace door open for breezes. She took her temperature covertly and counted days.

She put candles down. He said he liked the flame light on her hair. She tossed her hair. He said he saw sparks.

Their feet bumped. She looked at him. The look said Yes, now. He kissed her. It was soft. She kissed him back hard. It said Don’t Be Scared. He popped a blouse button. He put his hands on her breasts.

She pulled his shirt off and saw the scar. He started to tell her the story. She shushed him. It said I know. It brought back all of Dwight.

He pulled off her boots. She braced herself on the floor. Her blouse was up. Her jeans were loose. He ran his mouth over the gap. She arched. He pulled off her jeans and underwear and kicked off his own shoes and pants. Her blouse was half-buttoned. He popped the last three. The floor was cold on her back.

The candlelight and shadows set up something. Their heads converged in a weird way. She calculated the age-space between them. Telepathic tabulation. Eighteen years, four months, five days.

She rolled onto the mattress. Dwight’s smell was still there. The boy kneeled and cramped up. She rubbed his legs and made him stretch and un-jangled him. He kissed her legs. She opened up for him. Little nose rubs parted her. She liked him for that.

A cold wind gave her goose bumps. He got protective then. He wrapped himself all over her. Be safe/be still/I’m here. She eased him back. She let her hands dance.

Her hair fanned as she touched him. He pulled himself up to watch. Be still/don’t look/I’m here.

Her hands played rougher and harder. Their heads clicked in again. He fell back and shut his eyes. He made hurt sounds she’d never heard before.

Candlelight swerved. Shadows formed on the walls. He opened his eyes and saw her profile. Their heads clicked again. We haven’t seen this before.

He tried to roll her. She didn’t let him. She fit herself over him. She let him look and willed his eyes shut. She moved and took them someplace. It went for a while. The candles burned down to nubs.

“You’re determined to do this?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a safe house in Borojol. The small building by the open-front bodega. You might get leads there.”

“I’ve got some addresses memorized.”

“There’s a doctor named Esteban Sanchez. He moves his office around. He and Celia are close. He might know where to look.”

“I’ve got some ideas. I know some people there.”

“Are they bribable?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you some money.”

“It scares me. You know what I saw there.”

“You went looking for it and it found you. It always does.”

“Will Celia know where Reginald is?”

“Possibly. They’re comrades.”

“It scares me. The place itself. It scares me more than anything that might happen there.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Everything.”

“What did you find?”

“A picture of you on a beach and a ticket back here.”

“Was it worth it?”

“You don’t have to worry about me. I know what shit costs.”

“No, you don’t. You can’t run at his pace forever, because one day it just stops.”

“Don’t tell me that. I’m just getting started up.”

124

(Santo Domingo, 4/7/72)

The Zombie Zone, distilled. Plain fucking MORE.

More street rousts, more toxic rodents, more Haitian dispossessed. More sap-twirling fascistas and more skin-color gaps.

More heat. More flying insects. More stump-legged black guys on rolling planks. No casino-build cosmetics. More baaaaad juju and less dissent.

Crutch cabbed into Borojol. He had four hundred K and a silencered piece. Customs let him in easy. He wasn’t red-tagged. He had his memory lists. Joan got him two forged passports: one for Celia, one for Reggie.

Too familiar meets evil. Everything brought back something he tried to forget. He passed the golf course. His X-ray eyes revived. There’s the torture bunker and the electric chair.

The New York Times diverted him. Doofus Democrats and Nixon. J. Edgar’s latest gaffe. A street flash de-diverted him. Surging fuzz crush a leaflet-passing cabal.

He’d spent four nights with Joan. They talked and made love. He’d leave for short stretches, just to take deep breaths. He didn’t mention His Idea. He couldn’t risk the word “No.” He didn’t sleep much. He curled around her and smelled her hair on the pillow. She held his hands to her breasts.