be careful, do well in school, marry a nice gringo and have lots of gringo babies. He told her never to go to Ojinaga or Cuauhtémoc or Delicias; to stay on this side of the border,
always on this side of the border
.
Then he was gone.
• • •
That’s what I know, what I suspect. It’s everything I’ve pieced together from the things she’s said and the silences in between. And she really believes he is coming back, talks about it more than anything else. She thinks he’s going to come for her and drive her away toHouston, in a car far classier than that damn Charger, which was cursed anyway. Amé once said her mom was a witch—a
bruja
—who won’t teach her any magic. I think she believes in that stuff, spells and spooks and curses, just like she believes Rudy Ray’s coming home.
And because I wanted to believe right along with her—so badly wanted to help her—I once risked raising it to my father. I asked if he or Duane Dupree or anyone in the department knew anything about Rudy Reynosa.
We were eating dinner and I broke the silence with the question. My father had looked at the ceiling, claimed he didn’t remember Rudy
specifically
, so couldn’t really say one way or another anything about him, but thought Duane may have ticketed him once or twice in that Charger, ugly as sin and running way too fast out by the stadium. Then he wanted to know why I cared so much about a damn beaner, staring me down with a beer parked halfway to his lips. I let it drop.
I didn’t believe him. Dupree knows Amé’s family, and my father has always known everything and everyone in Murfee, but still, that was the extent of my bravery—one fucking question.
I wonder if Rudy Ray ever saw the ocean?
She believes he is coming back.
I never talk about my mom coming back, ever.
• • •
When Amé finally asked about the body at Indian Bluffs, she was really asking about
me
. Asking but not asking. Watching without watching—her eyes dark as spring wells, bottomless behind the smoke of another one of her ever-present cigarettes. I know from Miss Maisie that Deputy Chris Cherry sent the body to Austin, so I’ve been waiting along with him, just like everyone else.
Miss Maisie tells me stuff because she’s old and likes me and doesn’t know any better. She’s worked radio dispatch as long as I’ve been alive, and is the only reason I know a damn thing at all about what goes on inside the sheriff’s department, my own father’s kingdom. Miss Maisie, and the local newspaper.
The
Murfee Daily
’s done one story and will do another. That first featured a black-and-white photo of Matty Bulger standing over a slash in the ground and a loose piece of yellow evidence tape trapped beneath his boot, his hands raised and captured right at that moment in a “Why me?” gesture. It was accompanied by a photo of Deputy Cherry next to his Big Bend County truck, awkward and uncomfortable in his uniform, looking away at something or someone in the distance. I don’t think the picture was even taken out at Bulger’s place, probably staged later, like a lot of things in Murfee—they feel staged, close to real, but not quite. Deputy Cherry comes off as decent, different from the other deputies and definitely no Duane Dupree, but he hasn’t been back in Murfee for long and I don’t know how close he is to my father. I’ve been nervous to talk to him, much less ask him anything about Indian Bluffs.
But when Chris Cherry gets his answer back from Austin, all of Murfee will finally know what I’ve believed from the beginning—it was my mom he found buried out there.
So that’s what I told Amé when she asked me about the body as I took the cigarette from her and finished it off. My mom has lain there for the past year, lost, waiting; waiting for someone . . .
for me
. . . to finally find her.
And Amé didn’t ask anything else, just went back to watching the wind pull and tug at streamers on
always on this side of the border
.
Then he was gone.
• • •
That’s what I know, what I suspect. It’s everything I’ve pieced together from the things she’s said and the silences in between. And she really believes he is coming back, talks about it more than anything else. She thinks he’s going to come for her and drive her away toHouston, in a car far classier than that damn Charger, which was cursed anyway. Amé once said her mom was a witch—a
bruja
—who won’t teach her any magic. I think she believes in that stuff, spells and spooks and curses, just like she believes Rudy Ray’s coming home.
And because I wanted to believe right along with her—so badly wanted to help her—I once risked raising it to my father. I asked if he or Duane Dupree or anyone in the department knew anything about Rudy Reynosa.
We were eating dinner and I broke the silence with the question. My father had looked at the ceiling, claimed he didn’t remember Rudy
specifically
, so couldn’t really say one way or another anything about him, but thought Duane may have ticketed him once or twice in that Charger, ugly as sin and running way too fast out by the stadium. Then he wanted to know why I cared so much about a damn beaner, staring me down with a beer parked halfway to his lips. I let it drop.
I didn’t believe him. Dupree knows Amé’s family, and my father has always known everything and everyone in Murfee, but still, that was the extent of my bravery—one fucking question.
I wonder if Rudy Ray ever saw the ocean?
She believes he is coming back.
I never talk about my mom coming back, ever.
• • •
When Amé finally asked about the body at Indian Bluffs, she was really asking about
me
. Asking but not asking. Watching without watching—her eyes dark as spring wells, bottomless behind the smoke of another one of her ever-present cigarettes. I know from Miss Maisie that Deputy Chris Cherry sent the body to Austin, so I’ve been waiting along with him, just like everyone else.
Miss Maisie tells me stuff because she’s old and likes me and doesn’t know any better. She’s worked radio dispatch as long as I’ve been alive, and is the only reason I know a damn thing at all about what goes on inside the sheriff’s department, my own father’s kingdom. Miss Maisie, and the local newspaper.
The
Murfee Daily
’s done one story and will do another. That first featured a black-and-white photo of Matty Bulger standing over a slash in the ground and a loose piece of yellow evidence tape trapped beneath his boot, his hands raised and captured right at that moment in a “Why me?” gesture. It was accompanied by a photo of Deputy Cherry next to his Big Bend County truck, awkward and uncomfortable in his uniform, looking away at something or someone in the distance. I don’t think the picture was even taken out at Bulger’s place, probably staged later, like a lot of things in Murfee—they feel staged, close to real, but not quite. Deputy Cherry comes off as decent, different from the other deputies and definitely no Duane Dupree, but he hasn’t been back in Murfee for long and I don’t know how close he is to my father. I’ve been nervous to talk to him, much less ask him anything about Indian Bluffs.
But when Chris Cherry gets his answer back from Austin, all of Murfee will finally know what I’ve believed from the beginning—it was my mom he found buried out there.
So that’s what I told Amé when she asked me about the body as I took the cigarette from her and finished it off. My mom has lain there for the past year, lost, waiting; waiting for someone . . .
for me
. . . to finally find her.
And Amé didn’t ask anything else, just went back to watching the wind pull and tug at streamers on
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