Evidence of Things Not Seen (4 page)

Marshall rolls up his window. The smell of gardenias fills his nostrils. Even though he can’t see them, Marshall knows the bright white petals have turned yellow. He starts the car and turns around in the field. He thinks he sees a javelina standing stock-still and raises his arm to point it out to Leann. But when he looks again, it’s gone. He lowers his arm and grips the steering wheel. He has no more words.

Leann stares ahead. She doesn’t roll up her window. The wind blows over her. She shivers a little. Her hair whips across her face. She likes how the strands of hair lash at her. Until she sees the moon. Then she reaches up with one hand and holds her hair back so she can watch it float next to them. When it slips behind a cloud, she wishes with all her heart it would come back out.

MAY 13 . NINE DAYS MISSING

MAY 12: ALVIN

Hey, quit shining that fucking light in my eyes.

What? Do I look like I fucking went to a prom tonight?

My license and registration? What for? Is stopping here illegal or something? All I was doing was sitting here. Besides, I don’t have to give it to you. I looked it up online.

My hands
are
on the fucking wheel. I asked you a question, doughnut hole. Why can’t I fucking sit here?

No way. I’m not getting out of my car. I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just sitting here. I swear. What’s the problem with that?

You get to ask all the questions? No wonder people fucking hate cops.

No way. I am not getting out. I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was sitting here. That’s all. No weed. No booze.

Hey wait, you can’t fucking open my door without permission. What are you arresting me for? What the fuck?! Shit. This door doesn’t have a handle. Hey, let me out! You can’t search my car without a warrant. Hey!

Okay, if you fuck with me, I’m gonna—

Ow! Shit! Ow! Shit! Ow! Damnit! Hey, Captain Cruller, I’m bleeding. “Yes, your honor. All I was doing sitting in the pull-out and this cop beat the shit out of me. He kept smashing me in the head. Ow!”

I knew that would make you stop. Hey. Wait. What’s with the handcuffs?

Stop looking at my back. Quit lifting up my shirt. I don’t care if you tie me up, I’ll still bash my head on this door. And with my other bruises, you’ll lose your fucking job.

Hey, wait a minute. Where are we going? You can’t leave my car like that. Please, man. That’s my ride. At least take the keys out of it so no one will steal it. Please. That’s my way out, man. Please. I’ll answer your questions, okay? Please …

Thanks.

Yeah, I’m Alvin Clark. My dad owns the salvage yard. The one and only.

Shit happens. You get banged up working in the yard. It’s not a big deal.

Yeah, he hits me. So what? I was doing something stupid. Who knows? I probably deserved it.

Right. Parents aren’t supposed to hit kids. Not in my world. My old man owns a fucking salvage yard. There’s a two-hour window after he drinks his first beer every day that he likes me. Three beers later, I’m a worthless piece of shit. Maybe some parents don’t hit their kids. But not mine. I’m living a fucking stereotype.

Yeah, I work for him. I pull shit apart that comes in the yard. I know where everything is. I paid him for every bolt on that car. Yeah. I put it together. Two years of working for free to pay for it. Longer. Because it took me a while to figure out when to do the accounts. It couldn’t be too early in the morning because he had a hangover and he’d get pissed and charge me more or tell me I hadn’t worked enough. And it couldn’t be too late cuz then he wouldn’t remember.

Fucking asshole.

Mom? Long gone. I was ten. She disappeared.

Naw, he never reported it. She left and he started doing the cooking.

I used to wonder if he killed her and buried her out back but all her clothes were gone. So she must have taken them. If he killed her, the clothes would still be there or he would have sold ’em.

Because that’s the way he is. Everything needs to earn their way or they are a worthless piece of shit. If the dog doesn’t bark when someone sets foot in the yard, bam! If the cat doesn’t kill the rats, bam!

Oh yeah, it’s Mother’s Day, isn’t it? Happy fucking Mother’s Day.

So where you taking me? Jail? What? We’re gonna drive around? That’s what I was out doing. I stopped at the pull-out because, well, they said that’s where they found Tommy’s bike and I didn’t get to go on all the searches last week. He really liked that bike. I thought I’d stop and see if, I don’t know, maybe there were some clues.

He and his dad bought that bike out at the yard. Tommy came out a couple of times afterwards and asked me to fix some stuff. One time the headlight wouldn’t work. Another time, let’s see … Oh yeah, I had to replace the brake cable and pads. The pads looked like he’d taken a sander to them, but I’d seen the way he drove. Fuckin’ nut. If there was anyone who needed heavy-duty brake pads, it was Tommy. Drove crazy fast and then jammed on the brakes. Not to show off. He stopped and looked at shit. It’s a good thing I sold him the bike with brand-new tires. The old man wanted me to put on used ones but I told him I put on new ones and charged him double. I could lie to him about shit like that if he’d started his second six-pack.

I liked Tommy. I didn’t know him. I mean, we talked when he came out to the yard. He was weird, man. He’d ask me strangest shit. Like I remember one time I was showing him how I organized the yard. All the Japanese parts in one place. By year. It made sense to me. When you’re building your own car, you want to know shit like that. Anyway, he asked me if you lived in a dimension where there was no time, would all the cars work with the same parts. Like there wouldn’t be years and so there wouldn’t be makes or models or crap like that. The dude could think up some weird shit.

He told me that time travel was totally possible. Like through wormholes. He said they already exist on a subatomic level. I told him if that was possible, would he mind looking for a 1980 Trans Am carburetor. I got one from a Chevy V8 and it doesn’t work like I want. He got like really serious and said he couldn’t do it because he couldn’t go back to a time before the wormhole machine was created. So I said, maybe he could figure out a way to jump time without a machine. And he was like, “Yeah, maybe.”

Hey, man, I mean, Sheriff, do you think you could stop and take off these handcuffs? They hurt like shit. I promise I won’t do anything. Hey, thanks. It’s not like I could go anywhere. Where are we? Oh, right, the Simmons place is over that way. You know, you should check that guy out. I don’t think he’s only farming lavender, if you know what I mean. Well, he drives that Super Glide Harley for one thing. Plus, I know his daughter Tara and she says he goes away a lot. Real farmers don’t do that: disappear for long stretches.

I don’t think he went into another dimension like the way kids at school are saying Tommy did. I don’t know if it could happen but sometimes the way Tommy showed up, it was like he dropped out of another time and space.

Like one time, at the yard, he appeared, out of the blue. It was probably six months ago. Maybe more. My old man didn’t even see him. It was a good thing, too. He was pissed. On his third six-pack and using me for target practice. Not really. Every once in a while, he’d make me set up targets in the yard. For kicks. Beer cans. Broken tools. It started one day, years ago, when this fucking tape measure wouldn’t snap back. Pissed him off. He went in the shop and got a gun. Set the tape measure up on top of a barrel. He was laughing like crazy. He got all the other tape measures out and set them up where he was working and then he started yelling at them, “This is what happens when you don’t work right.” Pow. The broken tape measure shot in the air. He shot it again, right where it landed. “This is what happens to lousy tools.” Bam. Bam. Bam. That tape measure had so many fucking holes.

But you know what? That day, my old man was fucking laughing. He never laughs.

He’s a welder. He can make two pieces of metal look like one. It’s tricky. Too much heat and the sheet metal will warp. Too little heat and it’s a weak weld. Somehow he knew the right amount of heat. But if something didn’t work, he’d fucking lose it. That day Tommy showed up, he was losing it bad. A clamp slipped and he torched the edge of a sheet. It was toast. Never fucking occurred to him to drink less. That maybe he was too plowed to tighten the clamp.

I didn’t say that. I think I said, “Maybe that clamp needs a lesson,” and he got this look like I’d told him there was a sale on beer. He went and got his pistol. And bam, the clamp was history.

Oh, yeah, Tommy. When he showed up, my old man was in a shooting frenzy. It started with the clamp but went on to beer cans and me. Oh yeah, I was target practice. He’d never hit me. But it sure made him laugh to see me run.

Like I said, Tommy appeared. I know my dad didn’t see him because he probably woulda shot him for trespassing. And then shot the dog for not barking. I was diving behind this refrigerator when I looked down past all the Chevy body parts and saw Tommy standing there with his goggles on. Then I heard the old man’s gun jam. When I looked back, Tommy was gone and the old man was throwing the gun at my head. I ducked and kept running.

You know what’s so fucking weird? Until that moment that Tommy showed up—actually it kind of seems like a mirage now—I didn’t know how fucked up the old man was. You know, you grow up and it all seems kinda normal. But having one person see what happens and it all looks sick. Like that was the first time I thought, man, my old man is one sick motherfucker.

I wish I knew where Tommy went. I’d guess I’d like to talk with him. As strange as he was, I still liked talking to him. He made me think about school differently. Like my old man thinks it’s a waste of time. But seeing how smart Tommy was and the stuff he thought about, well, I don’t know, I guess I wondered if maybe there was something I could learn that would, you know, help me get me away from here.

Like I built a car, man. I’m not stupid, right? I mean, if I can build a car, I must know some stuff, right? Like maybe I could do good in school. I’m gonna be a junior next year. Maybe I could go to college.

So what are we gonna do? Drive around all night?

It’s okay with me. That’s what I do now. I go home after school and work for a while. Then I make the old man some food. Then I leave. I make up some excuse. School. Car parts. He’s usually blasted. I go home after he’s passed out.

It’s weird. I think of Tommy when I’m sneaking back in. Like my old man’s passed out in some other dimension and I’m stepping back into the one that he’s left.

I also think about Tommy ’cause, with him being missing, I wonder if it’s possible to find my mom. Like if we can find Tommy, maybe I can find her.

I swear I don’t know where he is.

I know he believed all that shit he thought about. Who knows? It could be true. I mean, if I can build a car out of spare parts on a shelf, who’s to say Tommy hasn’t stepped into another reality. I dream shit up to do with metal all the time. He dreams up stuff about time travel and alternate dimensions. If I dream shit up and make it real, why can’t he dream shit up and make it real?

I mean, in my reality, he probably fell in a sinkhole. But in his reality? Who knows?

MAY 14 . TEN DAYS MISSING

THE COMIC BOOK

Maricela hurries along the edge of US 281 until she reaches the wide patch of dirt along the edge of the road. Even in the predawn darkness, she can see a few other workers. Some girls are sitting on the logs rolled under a bank of trees and bushes. Two of them hold lumps of children still asleep in their arms. A few men stand in the center, their heads topped with silhouettes of cowboy hats and gimme caps. Maricela looks for a space on one of the logs. She shuffles toward an opening, careful not to trip in the potholes.

Taking off her small pack, Maricela stuffs it under her legs and sits. Today’s ride is supposed to be a couple of hours. Then they’ll work. Then they’ll find someplace to sleep. Then they’ll do it again the next day and the next day. Once all the fields are planted, they circle back and pick them clean.

Maricela has been planting and picking for four seasons. Before that, she travelled with her parents and stayed out of their way while they worked. Every time she moves, she wishes she could stay a little longer in one place.

A pickup roars by and then screeches to a stop on the highway. Two more workers hop out of the back. One of them trips and swears
. “Chinga.”
The other one laughs. Maricela recognizes Alfredo, the one who tripped. Both of them are loud, and the way their boots kick the rocks, almost tripping over them, Maricela can tell they are drunk. Some of the younger men drink all night to stay awake for the truck and then sleep until the next field. The pickup accelerates down the highway and the smell of exhaust drifts over everyone like dust. Then there is silence. All of them are listening for the sound of the vehicle that will take them away from this waiting place.