Red Lightning (10 page)

                
But wait, Tess thinks.

                
If Tess's whole life is defined by what she
didn't
do,

                
then this fire is impossible. Could not be her fault.

                
Tess's life doesn't have enough substance

                
to give birth to something like this.

                
It's like a math problem. If a, then b, therefore c.

                
If Tess is a) empty, then b) empty,

                
therefore, c) she could not have caused this.

                
With Tess, there is
no content
.

                
You can't sum up zeros.

                
But no: maybe it's like the lightning.

                
Two zeros collide in the air,

                
and they explode.

                
Create something magnificent and huge,

                
like a fire,

                
like a universe.

“It's like tonight's sunset.” Amber stands up and moves to the window, touches the pane with a finger. “It's the dust in the air, isn't it?
Relámpago rojo
.”

Ed steps to the window and opens it. A rush of cool, noisy, rain-filled wind gusts in, carrying with it the smell of smoke. “Maybe the storm will put out the fire? Or maybe it will start a new one. Hard to know.”

“Red lightning. The sky is afire.” My voice is quiet, distant, as if I am in another room. I clear my throat. “The channel of the bolt glows red because of the particles in the air. The channel is, you know, basically a gigantic electrical spark. I heard once that red lightning is a hue of which is never seen anywhere else on earth. Only in the sky. It's rare, this red lightning. I've never seen it in the mountains. Only out here on the plains. Such a strange thing . . .”

Amber glances at me and mutters something along the lines of
Libby said you were always reading, always smart
. The sky lights up again, more dully now, and the clouds start to spit rain. Only now am I understanding: the people I could not find set a signal fire to be found, which means they had been starving or dying of thirst. They were there all along, and they were suffering, suffering enough to do one last call for help, and this wildfire is raging because I failed them.

*

Stick to your life like a bur. Stick to your body like a bur. For just a
bit longer, Tess
. To do that, I focus on the simple motions, which help me stay in my body, especially if I can feel the edge of pain. In washing dishes, for example, how I might run the water a little too hot. Ed is annoyed with me, though, since the plates I'm handing him to dry are steaming, and so he shifts me out of the way and we change positions. His hands are now in soapy water, and I have the towel in my hand.

Amber and Libby are in the other room, mumbling over homework; Ringo is sleeping nearby; and Ed and I shift our weight from one foot to the other, standing at the sink. Outside in the dark, the rain from the storm is now pelting down in wondrous ways—sideways and then lifting and then pouring, lit in the rectangle of the window.

On one plate handover, I see Ed's wrist. One tattoo, a cross. Not right for a gringo like him. It means
I've crossed the border
.

“So, Ed, you gave it up?”

“Give up what?”

“
Levantón
-ing.”

He glances at me, back to the dishes. “Yes. The year you left.”

“They say you never took any money.”

“I didn't.”

“Your name was
Salvador
.”

“Yes.”

“Why'd you do it in the first place? That's a lot to put on the line.” He doesn't answer, so I try again. “Which of the groups did you work with?”

He lowers his voice. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Oh, Ed. Not only did you do it, you moved here because of it, didn't you? I realized that a few years ago. Colorado is a hub. You picked the best possible place to live. You didn't show up in eastern Colorado by accident. You know there are two major routes, and they both come through here.”

“Keep your voice down, Tess.” He starts the faucet, rinses, hands me another plate. “This is one thing we don't share with Amber. Although I'm glad you told your story. I'm glad you were kind to someone out there.”

“Well, who's helping those people now? I assume they still need a savior.”

He hands me a dish. “Not me. I have a child. That's serious stuff with consequences. As you well know. It's gotten so ugly. So dangerous.”

“I did it for the money. You did it for, what? Grace? What is it in your life that you needed grace
for
? What did you need forgiveness
from
?”

He hands me a fistful of silverware, a few suds still dripping down the clean edges. “I suppose we both have some stories.” He pauses to hand me another handful right as the rain picks up again. “I'm not discussing this with you, Tess.”

Like a bur
. The sweetstrange earth absorbs the water outside, my sweetstrange time on earth presses me forward. “Ed? I'll sweep and mop. But first I need to tell you something.” I pause. I'm no good at this. But I must try to get some words out, to share myself. “Alejandra? Who I mentioned at dinner? I taught her your phone number. Actually, I gave your phone number to several people in case they needed a backup. In case they needed someone. It was somehow consoling to
me, to put the burden on you. To use you in that way. I'm sorry. But did any ever . . . call? Did any ever need you? You never heard from Alejandra, did you?”

His eyes shift to something softer. He starts to speak, pauses, starts again. “A few people contacted me over the years. They told me they'd gotten my number from you.”

“Did they all end up safe?”

“Yes,” he whispers back with a tenderness that surprises me. “Listen, there's something I should tell
you
. . .” But then he shakes his head no, purses his lips.

I wait, but when it's clear he's not going to speak, I brace my hands on the countertop, look at my bare feet on the smooth gray floor. “Ed, I have to tell you something else. The fire . . .”

I look over at him. His sandy-curly hair, his sweet innocent face.

“I think . . .”

Clear throat, hold eyes steady.

“. . . that group I was supposed to pick up in Alamosa . . . three days ago? I waited three days. I think they were waiting in White Wolf Canyon. I think they were lost and started a signal fire yesterday. I just heard it on the radio. They think the fire was started by a signal fire. In the same location where I was . . .”

The way his brow furrows. Then he turns to me, and his expression changes, fast as a fist flying at me, and I duckfast, throw my elbow up, shove my palm out. Ed darts back, looks confused, holds up his hands, palms out. At the same time he gives me a look that means,
Tess I wasn't going to hit you
. But he whispers: “No. You're lying.”

“You guys almost done in there?” Libby's voice. Singsongy.

I watch his face. It has only been a few seconds, but in those seconds, I am seeing him wrecked. “Oh, no. No, no.” He flips on the radio, and immediately there is
The fire has increased in size to . . . the winds . . . unstoppable. Again, the worst wildfire in Colorado history . . .

I cock my head to the boom and echo and then roll of thunder. A rush of words vibrates in my bones and comes boiling out. “It's Colorado. It's fall. It's September. Climate change is not
my
fault. All the trees are dead from beetle kill. It hasn't rained in, like, forever. Right? Right? That's what I'm thinking. And why'd they start a signal fire?” I can feel my voice rising, words pelting faster and faster like the rain. Frantic. “I was there. I was at the location. But let's say we had it mixed up. Let's say I had the GPS coordinates wrong. Let's say they were maybe nearby. It can be surprisingly hard to find water in those mountains. So they started a fire. Probably about the same time I drove away and into Alamosa. And the van I had, for transporting them to Denver, was Lobo's. And I knew I couldn't just take off with it, because then he
would
really be mad, have a reason to come for me. So I left it in Alamosa and slept with a guy to get the Greyhound bus ticket to come here. So while I was coming here, the fire was just starting. Do you see? It was just one moment too late. One moment just slightly off.”

Ed's face is still broken, but now he is covering it with his palms, and he makes a long, louder noise that sounds like his throat is constricted. “Oh, Tess.” Then he is pacing, one side of the kitchen to the other. Hands flying in silent gestures. “Oh, Tess. Tess. It's you again. You just leave fires in your wake everywhere.”

“You guys okay in there?” Libby's voice is chirpy, innocent. It breaks my heart.

“We'll be out in a bit,” I singsong at her, because I don't want her in here, don't want to share this news, don't want her to see her husband wildeyed. Lies can be beautiful. I turn to him. I whisper it. “I
didn't know
. Please believe me. I went to pick them up, they weren't there, I left. Simple as that. I didn't know they started a fire. That it spread. Let me spend one more day with Amber. Let me see Kay. Then I'll go. I'll go.” Then I add, “They're probably dead, right? The
pollos
? Oh, Jesus,
Ed. Although someone had to survive to tell the authorities it was a signal fire in the first place. I never meant . . .”

He looks at me, still confused, and starts rambling bits of words. His face looks as human as a face can look. No mask, no fake, no solidness. All of it is hitting him: the fact that I did not pick up people, and now they have likely burned, and so have mountains and deer and homes, and all of this is hitting him, and he keeps saying, “But wait, but wait,” as if that will help stop the truth.

I keep watching him, unable to take my eyes off of him. I watch him suffer, and all I can think is,
Oh god, not him too, he's just a human. He has to fight hard to not split apart, too
. Behind him, in the square of light, the rain suddenly stops, and the silence that follows sounds as hollow as dried-up bones.

Chapter Eight

The sting of stars. The storm has swept the sky. The stars are spattered
by a broad brushstroke, a thick Milky Way that spirals out into little flecks. One lone burr streakdazzles across the sky. The moon is full and also glows a bit red. The soft swishing fabric of the sleeping bag is a louder version of the wind. From the back of the pickup, on my camping pad, in my sleeping bag, I sit up enough to pour another glass of whiskey. Raise it to the sky and make a toast:

                    
To the wildfire, to the mountains,

                    
to the deer and the moose and the elk and the bears,

                    
to the fleeing humans who will never be quite the same

                    
and the ones who died.

                    
To the soulwrenchers that cascade into a body,

                    
to the
thump thump thump
of her heart.

                    
To Tess, who needs to hurry and be ready to go.

                    
To Tess, the spark of a soul, who is outraged to find out that

                    
she can feel.

                    
To the unknown woman in the desert,

                    
a woman and her child who had particular brands of desires

                    
and dreams.

Breathe yourself back in, Tess. So much depends upon a moment. Amber, Amber, Amber, I want to tell you the rest of the story. I didn't finish my story.

Here is the rest, Amber: Five years ago, I was driving them all to Colorado, and the men were in the back of the horsetrailer, and Lupe and Alejandra were up front. On we went. Eventually I had to pee, so I pulled over. I could have stopped one moment earlier or later. But I did not. I stopped right then. There I was, squatting next to the truck, when I decided this was a good place for a drop, where I could leave the gallons of water and shoes and blankets, as I often did back then. I lugged this stuff a quarter mile out from the truck, because if any
pollos
came by, they'd be
near
the road, but not be
on
the road, and they would find this gift—this offering that I mark with a white cloth on a stick—of items that they might need.