Stranger (18 page)

We obviously need more girls around here, the father said. He wore a beard with no moustache and this made his face longer but she saw his mouth and it was kind. He winked at his wife, who shushed him. She turned to Íso and said that there was a bed for her for the night. Bient will sleep with his brother.

Katerina's accent was complex but Íso understood and she said that she had to go. Thank you.

You're not going anywhere, Katerina said. You have all day tomorrow and the next. San Antonio? My goodness. She said something in another language to one of her boys. The boy nodded and grinned at Íso.

She joined the family in the sitting room, for she had been invited, and they sat in a circle and listened as the patriarch read a long passage from the Bible and then there was a song, belted out with such great strength that she was astounded and for some reason overjoyed, and suddenly they were all on their knees with their heads pressed into the places where they had just been sitting, and she joined them, sat Meja on the soft chair and pressed her hands down onto Meja's legs, and in this manner, on her knees, she listened to the family pray, youngest to oldest, in a language that was unfamiliar, guttural, a singsong solo rising and falling, and the only indication that one had finished and the next would begin was a hearty amen that arrived as a shout, and it was like a dance where
one steps into a circle as the others watch and nod, and steps out again to be replaced. Even Meja fell into the rhythm of the voices. She clucked and cooed.

And then they were standing and the older boys disappeared back out to the harvest. It was early morning when they returned. She heard them from her bedroom, talking in the kitchen. They were eating once more. And then gone again.

She had bathed the night before. Taken Meja into the bath with her and scrubbed her hair and ears and bottom and feet as she gurgled and spat and sucked on a washcloth. Then she'd plopped Meja on a towel outside the tub and quickly washed herself before Meja pulled her way across the floor towards the door. That night she tried again to breastfeed but Meja wouldn't latch. She kicked and fussed. There was no milk.

At the breakfast table there was Katerina and the youngest boy and
Íso
and Meja. Katerina asked if the baby was feeding.

She didn't understand at first and then Katerina pointed at one of her own breasts and asked again if the baby was feeding. The boy giggled. Íso said that she was trying, but she didn't have milk. Not yet.

Katerina didn't seem concerned. It will come, she said. Skin on skin is the best. Some honey on the nipple. Something sweet.

She spent that day at the farm. She felt safe. She had begun to see that the family had little interest in the outside world and that they were mightily independent. While Meja slept she picked beans in the garden with Josef, and Katerina made soup with potatoes and beans and sausage.
Íso
sat in a wooden lounger on the
porch and gave a breast to Meja, who pulled at it half-heartedly. Katerina arrived and took the baby and disappeared. For an hour, before they went back out to the harvest, the boys played baseball on the yard flanking the granaries. She stood in the outfield with Bient and after the game he brought her a cold glass of water. She thanked him. He said that he had built his own motorcycle. She asked to see it. The machine shed was cool and dim and it smelled of oil and gas and there were tools hanging on the walls and everything was ordered and clean. In the gloom he nodded at the bike and said it was a Norton 650. She learned that he would have to sell it because luxuries were not abided. He asked if he could take her for a ride. She told him that she was afraid of motorcycles. He said that his mother said the same.

It so happened that she stayed the next day as well. It was Sunday, and the men didn't work. She joined the family at church. She rode in the pickup with Bient and Knalls, and she sat in the middle, holding Meja, while Bient pressed his leg against her thigh. She wore jeans. All the women in the church wore long dresses. The older women wore kerchiefs in their hair as well. She sat on the women's side, beside Katerina. The singing was again wonderful and again it carried her away. There was no piano, just the voices. Meja was adored. Íso was adored. Or so Katerina told her that afternoon. Everyone loves you, Katerina said.

Bient, who had taken to hovering, was at the table. His mother told him he could help Íso with the dishes. And so together they washed and dried the plates and cups, and poured boiling water over the cutlery. Bient asked her where her husband was. This was
the first personal question she'd been asked. She said that there was no husband. Bient said that Meja must have a father. She said that there was a father, but he was gone. He nodded at this. He asked if she went to church. She said that her mother sometimes went to church. He said that she was very beautiful and that her hair was amazingly pretty. She thanked him and smiled. He asked if she wrote letters. She said that she could write letters. He was quiet, and then Josef appeared and wanted to show her his sunflower patch.

S
HE
left the following morning. Katerina gave her a ride to the nearest town. She advised against walking. It would be hot, what with the baby. She made Íso a lunch large enough to feed five. There was a bottle of water. Katerina had handed
Íso
her clothes, freshly laundered, and those shirts and pants that had holes had been mended with a fine stitching that was almost invisible. Katerina gave her a few small tops and shorts for Meja. When Íso said goodbye, Josef wanted to hold Meja one last time. Katerina hugged Íso and whispered in her ear. If there is danger, she said, walk the smaller roads. And do not trust strangers.

Íso said she would be careful.

Katerina said that she would pray for her. God keep you, she said. And she kissed the top of Meja's head.

Late that afternoon, on a rarely used side road, she found shade beneath a row of trees that produced a green fruit. She sat in the grass and unpacked the lunch. Ham sandwiches and raw
celery and boiled eggs and cheese cut in chunks. There was a sauce made from crab apples for Meja and there was sliced watermelon and homemade yogurt with fresh raspberries. And a glass jar with cherry Jell-O that had gone to liquid but was taken greedily by Meja. Another glass jar, this one full of honey. After eating, Íso looked around to make sure she was alone and then she removed her top and lay on the grass and settled Meja on her chest and let her lie between her breasts. She noticed that one of her nipples was oozing a small amount of milk. She directed Meja's mouth towards her nipple. Meja tasted. Tasted again. And then latched. She didn't get much save the pleasure of the sucking, and the pleasure might have even been greater for Íso, who marvelled at the muscles of Meja's jaw. Good girl, she said, and she gave her the other breast and when she was finished, they lay side by side on the grass and they slept.

She woke to the sky above and she knew that she had never seen a sky so grand and so large and so deep, and she thought that God above must have great difficulty keeping track of his responsibilities, for even she, Íso, was overwhelmed by her one responsibility, Meja. She thought of her mother, and she anticipated her joy at seeing Meja. She worried for her mother's safety, but she knew that her mother had family and friends, and she knew that her tío, Santiago, would help. He would not let anything bad come to pass.

K
ATERINA
had sewn a sling for the baby and in this way
Íso
could walk longer distances without her arms tiring. Katerina
had provided a map as well, and marked out the smaller roads. Isó filled her water bottle at a Chevron station and purchased some food and walked out into the countryside and settled that night into another maize field. She ate a sweet bun that was dried out. Meja was breastfeeding well now.
Íso
had enough milk for three minutes on both sides. Then she fed her mashed banana. She'd run out of diapers and had taken to using cloths that Katerina had passed on to her. Done up with safety pins. She cleaned the cloths using the toilets and sinks of the gas station restrooms and hung them from her backpack to dry, or laid them atop cornstalks when she and Meja sat in the fields to rest.

She woke early and walked all that day. She found some cattails in the ditch and picked two and stuck them in the side pockets of her backpack. Late in the afternoon, the sky grew dark and it began to rain, a drizzle at first, and then it descended in black sheets. There was no shelter to be had and so she walked with her head down, covering Meja as best as possible.

A vehicle pulled up and stopped. The passenger door opened and a hand gestured. She looked inside but all she saw was the shape of someone, and because the rain was so relentless she made her decision and she climbed in and shut the door.

The man was alone. He was well dressed and he wore cowboy boots and his hair was combed back and he wore a wedding ring. The rain fell slantwise. The wipers were frantic. The sky was black. Look at that mess, the man said. He reached into the back and fished for something and produced a hand towel, green, and offered it to her. Dry off that face, he said. And the baby. She
obeyed. She wiped the water from Meja's head and then cleaned herself up and placed the towel on the bench between them.

The man put on music. He said that she was lucky. As was he. His voice was high and it had a timbre of surprise. He asked her name. She told him. He asked the baby's name. She told him. He touched the baby's head, by the crown, and she felt as if he had touched her without asking permission. He sang along to the radio and his voice was weak and she thought of all those boys singing in the sitting room of the farm where they had kneeled to pray. He said that he was delivering the Cadillac to a dealership in Tulsa. He said that she was a 1979 Eldorado. The car was wide and generous and all of leather and chrome and it was like a boat, and she knew that there was no way to leave the boat. She knew that she had made a mistake.

The man turned off onto another highway and she thought that they might be going in a different direction but she wasn't sure. She saw lights ahead and she said that she would stop there. She pointed. He laughed and said that there was nothing in that place, just a light indicating a spot on the ground. Not safe there, he said. They passed the light and she saw a farmyard and outbuildings and a farmhouse.

Take me there, she said. She was shaking, and she didn't want him to know, but she knew that he was aware, because her voice was tremulous.

He ignored her and turned off the radio. He said that she was young. Good thing I found you, he said.

She spoke then. She said that her child was very young and
she was tired and hungry and if he could take them to a nearby town she would pay him. She reached into her bag and took out her money wrapped in plastic and she held it up for him and said, Here, take it.

Don't want your money, he said.

He sang a little song then. She understood the words, she was not stupid. She knew English, even if the words were vulgar. And then he was singing the same words in Spanish, and she began to cry.

And she stopped. She picked up the towel and dried her tears and she looked at the man and saw his profile with his small chin and she said that she would do whatever he wanted. What do you want? she asked.

No no no no no. That's not how it works. What I want. What you want. In this you have no choice. When you climbed into my car you forfeited any choice. Sweet little Mexican wetback thinks she has a choice. No no no no.

I'm not Mexican, she said.

He laughed. He reached out with his right hand to stroke her face. I know you, he said.

She whimpered, and Meja began to whimper as well. He released her and she held Meja to her chest and whispered in her ear, Okay, okay.

His free hand lay on his thigh now and he drove with his left. Outside the rain was abating and only two vehicles had passed, a transport truck and a car, both heading in the other direction. The clouds scattered and the rain stopped, as if someone above had turned off the tap. The wipers squealed against the windshield.
They flapped on and on. The sun was in front of them to the west and it was bright red and it was setting and in another place it would have been beautiful. She saw the sky and the clouds moving above and the hedgerow to her right and a stand of dairy cows shouldered and circled as if in prayer. Meja slept. The man did not speak. Dusk came and she knew that she would die. And if this were to be, what would become of the baby? She said, Keep my baby safe.

He slowed the car and looked past her into a field where there was a lane. He picked up speed. Slowed again. In a world that asked for haste, he was unhurried. Time stretched out to infinity. He told her what he was going to do to her. He had a list. He laid it out for her in measured terms. He was an accountant tallying up his day's earnings. And for each number on that list, she said that she had a baby and could they drop off the baby in a safe place and then he could have her. You can have me, she said. But my baby.

You're a choir of one, he said. Sing on. He said that the baby was wanted, and that the baby had a price. The baby will be safe, he said. But you, you have little importance. No price.

He'd picked up speed again, but he was still looking for a spot, and she closed her eyes and opened them and she saw Meja on her lap. Look at you, she said.

When he slowed again, to a crawl this time, she opened the door. She heard him call out. The car stopped. Again he spoke, but she did not hear. She felt him reach for her but she was already outside and running down through the watery ditch and out into the field. She put her baby down in the dirt and the grain and she
ran in the opposite direction, out into the field of wheat that lay in the dusk like a grey blanket over the earth.

B
ECAUSE
it made life simpler, Sayed Kalif called himself Sami K. He was a physicist, educated in England, and he'd worked for a time with a research firm in Washington, DC. One day, driving to work, he was pulled over by an unmarked police car. He was blindfolded and taken to a building, unknown to him, where he was interrogated and humiliated for three days. He was fed several bowls of soup during that time, a thin gruel with a few peas swimming in the broth, and he was interrogated at random. He was asked questions to which he did not know the answers, and by the third day if he had been told what to confess to he would have happily done so. And then he was released. Three months after he had been taken, he quit his job and moved to Neodesha, Kansas, where he purchased an abandoned homestead off Route 37. He figured he had enough money in his bank account to last two years. A creek bordered his land. The outbuildings and house were in disrepair. At first he used water from the creek and then he hired a driller, and after four attempts the driller struck water. Electrical lines ran above ground from the hydro poles on Route 37, but he foresaw a limited future and within six months he had set up an off-grid solar power system. He patched the hardwood floors on the main floor of the house. Painted. Repaired and shingled the roof. There was a pot-bellied stove and from a stand of oak he selected his trees and cut them down and worked them into eighteen-inch
logs that he split by hand and stacked by the shed, where they sat to cure for the cold days to come. He drove a Camino with no box, just the chassis, and he'd welded angle irons to the chassis and bolted in two sheets of plywood so that now he had a bed of sorts. He raised chickens for the eggs and killed the chickens when they stopped producing and with these chickens he made a broth that he poured into sealer jars and delivered to the neighbours around Drum Creek. A gesture of goodwill and peace, given to wary folks who were surprised to hear this trim, bearded dark-skinned man speak with an English accent.