Habana, but his voice was muffled by the rain and she didn’t come.
They got back to the station and crawled back underneath the counter. The rain played a song in the water and he stared out and was overcome with the notion that before night, he was going to die. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, only that it would. Something hungry and savage would find its way to him and sniff him out and tear him apart with its claws and jaws. Or his fever would explode something in his head and he would fall face-forward into the standing water. Or he would nod off and never wake again because his body and his mind and his heart didn’t want to go through the trouble. Or this goddamn rain would finally erode his brain to the point to where he would simply find a deep hole and stick his head in it and never raise it out. He felt as if he were sitting at the end of the world, in a place that the light had long ago abandoned and undiscovered creatures moved about in the black using their instincts to feed off one another. Somewhere unknown to man and unsafe for man and forgotten by the one who had created it. He was going to die in this place and it wrecked his spirit at first but then this became an apathetic notion. He didn’t know what there was to live for. And he didn’t know what there was to die for. Only that he would die in this forgotten place and be a part of its unaccounted history.
The water ran down his head and face and arms and legs. Under his skin. In his bones.
He looked at the dog and said, “I don’t understand.” He fell over on his side with his arms over his head. Rubbed at the red streak around his neck while the rain fell on him. He was too tired to think. He just lay there, cold and wet, and he fell asleep.
Hours later Cohen woke and sat up. Massaged his shoulder.Wiped at his face with his hands and decided that he was going to get up and walk to that church and get his food. He was going to sit down and eat and drink the bottles of water and maybe the roof was still on the place and he would be able to put on dry clothes. “And when I’m done with all that,” he said to the dog, “we are getting the hell out of here.”
12
MARIPOSA HADN’T SLEPT AND HER jaw was sore from holding it clenched through the worst of the storm during the night. She stood and looked out but there was nothing new to see. There was enough light now, at least, and that was what she had been waiting on.
She had been sleeping with the large envelope she’d found in the bottom of the shoe box. Holding it, dreaming about it, imagining what was inside, not wanting to open it because she knew the reality of its contents would be a letdown. But her curiosity had won out and she had only been waiting for enough light so she could open it and see what it held and she discovered that she wasn’t disappointed.
There was a deed to a house and to land. A marriage license. His and her passport, each with a single stamp from Italy. There was a letter from the state of Mississippi, making an offer for his house and land. There was another letter, dated three months later, from the U.S. government, making a slightly larger offer for his house and land. There was another letter warning him to take the offer or risk losing full rights to the properties. And there was a final letter explaining that the time to accept an offer had passed but he could retain the rights to his house and land but that those rights would disappear once the Line became official, and in the event that the region ever regained its original status, rights would revert to him.
There was a death certificate. There were bank statements from closed accounts. There were letters from insurance companies claiming that, according to recent legislation, they were no longer responsible.There was a letter from a bank in Gulfport that confirmed a certificate of deposit in the name of the child. She noticed the dates on each of the letters or statements and everything went
They got back to the station and crawled back underneath the counter. The rain played a song in the water and he stared out and was overcome with the notion that before night, he was going to die. He wasn’t sure how it would happen, only that it would. Something hungry and savage would find its way to him and sniff him out and tear him apart with its claws and jaws. Or his fever would explode something in his head and he would fall face-forward into the standing water. Or he would nod off and never wake again because his body and his mind and his heart didn’t want to go through the trouble. Or this goddamn rain would finally erode his brain to the point to where he would simply find a deep hole and stick his head in it and never raise it out. He felt as if he were sitting at the end of the world, in a place that the light had long ago abandoned and undiscovered creatures moved about in the black using their instincts to feed off one another. Somewhere unknown to man and unsafe for man and forgotten by the one who had created it. He was going to die in this place and it wrecked his spirit at first but then this became an apathetic notion. He didn’t know what there was to live for. And he didn’t know what there was to die for. Only that he would die in this forgotten place and be a part of its unaccounted history.
The water ran down his head and face and arms and legs. Under his skin. In his bones.
He looked at the dog and said, “I don’t understand.” He fell over on his side with his arms over his head. Rubbed at the red streak around his neck while the rain fell on him. He was too tired to think. He just lay there, cold and wet, and he fell asleep.
Hours later Cohen woke and sat up. Massaged his shoulder.Wiped at his face with his hands and decided that he was going to get up and walk to that church and get his food. He was going to sit down and eat and drink the bottles of water and maybe the roof was still on the place and he would be able to put on dry clothes. “And when I’m done with all that,” he said to the dog, “we are getting the hell out of here.”
12
MARIPOSA HADN’T SLEPT AND HER jaw was sore from holding it clenched through the worst of the storm during the night. She stood and looked out but there was nothing new to see. There was enough light now, at least, and that was what she had been waiting on.
She had been sleeping with the large envelope she’d found in the bottom of the shoe box. Holding it, dreaming about it, imagining what was inside, not wanting to open it because she knew the reality of its contents would be a letdown. But her curiosity had won out and she had only been waiting for enough light so she could open it and see what it held and she discovered that she wasn’t disappointed.
There was a deed to a house and to land. A marriage license. His and her passport, each with a single stamp from Italy. There was a letter from the state of Mississippi, making an offer for his house and land. There was another letter, dated three months later, from the U.S. government, making a slightly larger offer for his house and land. There was another letter warning him to take the offer or risk losing full rights to the properties. And there was a final letter explaining that the time to accept an offer had passed but he could retain the rights to his house and land but that those rights would disappear once the Line became official, and in the event that the region ever regained its original status, rights would revert to him.
There was a death certificate. There were bank statements from closed accounts. There were letters from insurance companies claiming that, according to recent legislation, they were no longer responsible.There was a letter from a bank in Gulfport that confirmed a certificate of deposit in the name of the child. She noticed the dates on each of the letters or statements and everything went
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