The Best New Horror 2 (36 page)

“You always fight the good fight,” Rich said. “You are always politically correct; I am politically incorrect. You say terrorists, I say freedom fighters. You say freedom fighters, I say guerrillas.”

“Don’t get her started,” Peter said, lifting his head to look away from the lantern. “I don’t want to hear any political speeches tonight. I want peace and quiet, beer and pretzels.”

“Oh, shut up, both of you,” Maggie said. “I’m sitting here trying to enjoy my beer and I’m being attacked on both sides. I stand up for what I believe in, so what?”

Peter waved a hand. “It’s too late, Rich. You’ve started her. She’ll talk about which charities she donates to and why, and which ones you shouldn’t donate to and why. She can tell you about repressed people everywhere. She’s got it all right here.” He tapped his head and grinned.

“The helper of the downtrodden! Patron of Mother Earth,” Rich said, “we bow down to you.” Rich and Peter dropped from their chairs onto the concrete porch and bowed in front of Maggie.

She laughed. “Go away. I’m trying to have a vacation.”

Giggling, they pulled themselves into their chairs again. They sat quietly for several minutes. Rich drained his beer and then finished Peter’s.

“We still don’t know where we are,” Rich said. The light from the lantern made his eyes red.

“I know where we are,” Peter said.

“Mexico is not all that stable, you know,” Rich continued, as if not hearing Peter. “People disappear here, too. Americans. United Statesians. Whatever we are. We disappear, too. They want our credit cards.”

Maggie laughed. Rich stared angrily at her. “It’s all so funny to you.”

“They can have my plastic,” Maggie said. “It’s not really vogue for a political correspondent to carry around such things anyway.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Rich said, covering his mouth.

“Time to go home,” Peter said. He stood up and put an arm across Rich’s shoulder.

“You take him,” Maggie said. “I’m not finished with my beer.”

“Come on, Maggie,” Peter said. “I’ve had too much to drink. You can come back after you’ve dropped us off if you want.”

Maggie hesitated, and then she went inside the smoky restaurant to pay the bill. The conversation died for a moment as everyone stared at her. The cash register rang, and the conversations began again. Outside, Rich vomited on the left rear tire of the van.

Maggie sat at the window of their second story hotel room while Peter helped Rich into bed in his room. Their hotel was at the center of the village. Directly across the street, blocking the view of the ocean, was some sort of government building. Between the government building and the hotel was a statue of a man on a rearing horse at the center of a traffic circle. Some Mexican general. Maggie had read the inscription and then promptly forgotten it. Purple and yellow flowers grew at the back feet of the horse. No cars traveled around the circle now. A single light from the government building illuminated the man and the horse. The two boys who had washed the windows of the van sat on a nearby bench counting their money. Maggie wished she could still hear the ocean.

“He’s almost asleep,” Peter said as he came through the door. “He didn’t want to stay alone. He’s crying.”

“What a baby.”

Peter grabbed the doorknob and stared at her. “Sometimes you have absolutely no compassion.”

Maggie turned from the window and sat on the bed.

“I wasn’t expecting to babysit during our vacation,” she said. “I wanted to relax and have fun.”

“It hasn’t been so terrible,” he said. “He just gets afraid. He’s never been alone. He was married to Jean right out of high school. He feels as though his entire life is crumbling.”

“He shouldn’t drink so much,” Maggie said. “Though at least when he’s drunk he’s slightly amusing.”

“Don’t make fun of him,” Peter said.

“I’ve made you angry,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“And don’t patronize me! He’s known true fear; have you? I don’t see you running down to Nicaragua and El Salvador, or Guatemala or any of those places you write about so eloquently. Perhaps you’re just as frightened as all of us and you won’t admit it. You don’t really care about anything, do you? You just stay on the sidelines and write about it and pretend you’re fighting the good fight.” Peter pulled open the door again. “I’m staying with Rich until he feels better.”

“That could be for the rest of his life,” Maggie said. She sighed. “I want to explore the beach first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Rich wants to leave this place,” Peter said.

Maggie chewed her cheek. “Why am I being made out to be the bad guy here? I want a few days of relaxation before I go back to work. I think I’ve really been very accommodating to your brother.”

“Good night, Maggie.” Peter left, shutting the door behind him.

Maggie took off her clothes, put on a nightgown, and turned off the light. She slid under the covers. They were staying; she didn’t care how Rich felt.

Maggie opened her eyes. For a moment she did not know where she was. The dark room had an unfamiliar smell—kerosene? Peter was not asleep next to her. Someone screamed.

Maggie threw off her covers and ran to the window. Below, at the center of the traffic circle, a woman struggled to get away from two men dressed in uniforms with batons and pistols strapped to their legs. Each held an arm of the woman. They spoke loudly but too rapidly for Maggie to understand. Black hair covered the woman’s face as she screamed. She pulled at her hair, and her cries became desperate whimpers.

“Help me,” she cried.

Maggie stepped back from the window. Had she heard those words in English or Spanish? She leaned forward slightly. The woman kicked one of the men. He pulled out his baton. He was going to hit her. Maggie covered her mouth; she felt ill. The man dropped the baton. The woman screamed again.

Maggie’s heart raced. They would kill the woman if someone did not stop them. The woman had screamed for help and no one had answered. Everyone hid behind closed doors. Everyone.

Maggie had to do something, but she felt frozen in place. The woman went limp, becoming a dead weight in the men’s arms. They dragged her past the rearing horse. The woman screamed again, long and loud, a pathetic wail. “Help me,” she sobbed. They pulled her toward the government building and out of view of the hotel window. The sound of her cries died, and the night was quiet again. A dog barked in the distance. A seagull mewed.

Maggie stared out the window. She had watched two armed men drag someone away, and she had done nothing to stop them. The helper of the downtrodden. Patron of Mother Earth.

She had watched passively.

She backed away until the edge of the bed touched her thighs. She sat on the bed. Her legs and hands trembled.

What if they came after her next? Or Peter? She listened closely. No unusual sounds. Perhaps Rich had been right all along. Perhaps they were not safe here.

Noiselessly, Maggie packed their clothes. Then she sat on the bed and waited for sunrise.

Peter kissed her cheek, and she opened her eyes. Bright sunshine came through the open window. A warm breeze brought in the smells of the ocean.

“Sorry about last night,” Peter said.

Maggie sat up. She was still nauseated.

“Did you hear anything last night?” Maggie asked.

Peter shook his head. “Not a thing. Rich’s ready to explore the beach with us this morning. He’s even hungry after all that drinking.” Peter smiled. “Come to think of it, Rich said he thought he heard something in the night. A scream, maybe. You could ask him. Why?”

Maggie walked slowly to the window until she could just see the place where the woman and men had struggled. The scene flashed before her. She closed her eyes. What if someone had seen her watching, doing nothing? They could report her, arrest her. She breathed deeply. This was all stupid. She was in a foreign country, what could she have done?

“I thought I saw something last night, that’s all,” Maggie said.

“You’ve packed.” Peter put his hands on Maggie’s shoulders. “What’s wrong? You look scared to death.”

“I had a bad night,” she snapped. She shook off his hands. “What did you expect with you in the other room while I was alone in this macho country?”

“You’ve never been afraid to be alone before.”

“I wasn’t afraid! Can we drop this?” Was the woman across the street now in that building being tortured? Maggie should go to the police and
report what she saw. She should do something before it was too late.

She shivered. “I want to leave,” Maggie said. “I want to go home.”

Maggie lay across the back seat while Peter drove. Rich sat next to him looking out the window.

“I hope you’re not leaving because of me,” Rich said quietly.

“It’s time to go home, that’s all,” Peter answered.

Maggie closed her eyes. She did not want to hear them. Peter the peacemaker. Rich the whiner. She wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry. She could have helped that woman last night, but she hadn’t. She knew the woman had been destroyed. Killed, tortured, driven insane, something. All because Maggie had stood there and watched and done absolutely nothing.

She awakened in a sweat, the woman’s screams echoing inside her head. She sat up. There was still something she could do to help. She could go back and tell someone what she had seen.

The idea terrified her. “Are we almost to the border?” Maggie asked.

“Soon, Maggie, soon,” Peter answered.

Maggie was relieved to be in their familiar apartment again. The pictures on the walls, the carpeting, the television set, the view of the city. She ran her fingers across the kitchen table. She did not even mind that Rich had to stay a few days because his plane was not scheduled to leave until the end of the week.

“I’ll make dinner,” Rich said, sounding more certain of himself again. “What would you like, Maggie?”

“Sleep,” she said. She smiled wearily. “I’m tired. You two stay up and have fun.”

Peter turned on the television. Time for the news. Maggie quickly went into the bedroom and closed the door. She rubbed her stomach and went to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water.

“It’s not important,” Maggie said as she looked at her reflection. “Whatever happened, happened; end of story.” She had never seen fear in her own eyes before. It looked unnatural.

She stripped off her clothes and crawled, naked, under the covers. It would all be better after she slept.

She was in her own bed, but the window looked down upon the statue of the horse and its general. Beneath the statue, the woman lay. The horse shook itself alive and pummeled the prone woman with its hooves. Maggie backed away from the window.

“Maggie, Maggie.” Peter’s voice was close to her ear. “You were crying out in your sleep. Are you all right?”

Maggie opened her eyes. The room came into focus. She put her arms around Peter and held him tightly.

“Are you ever afraid?” she asked.

He laughed.

“I’m serious,” she said, pulling away from him.

“Of course I’m afraid,” he said. “Everyone’s afraid. It’s normal. That’s what life is all about. What’s wrong with you? You’ve been acting strange ever since we left Mexico. You hardly said anything in the car.”

“I’ve never been afraid before,” Maggie said. “Rich was right. I was fearless.”

“Ignorant,” Peter said. “You just never really looked at the world.” He smoothed a strand of hair off her face. “Dinner’s ready.” He got up from the bed and left the room.

After a few minutes, Maggie got dressed and followed him out.

She was certain Rich knew what she had done by the way he watched her. He had heard the screams, too, even though he denied it when she asked him. He had done nothing, too. That was part of his character. It was not supposed to be part of hers. She was the fighter. The believer.

Easy to march in protests with all of those people around you, someone had told her once. Easy to believe in peace when no one holds a gun to your head. Who said that? Maggie stared at Rich across the dinner table. He had said it, hadn’t he? During one of his drunken lectures in Mexico. Easy to believe when you are not afraid.

Maggie listened to the sounds of Rich and Peter eating, to the refrigerator sighing, to the traffic in the distance. Was the woman still screaming?

She did not want to sleep. She knew she would hear the screams again. She sat in her study at the typewriter. Maybe she could write about what happened to the woman. Make it part of her column. That would vindicate her. The world would know what had happened.

Maggie shook her head and turned off the typewriter. No, she knew nothing about the woman. All she could write about was her own fear and fall from grace.

She went into the darkened living room and curled up on the couch. She switched on the light and sat with her back to the curtained window. She did not want to hear or see anything as she flipped through the pages of
Vegetarian Times
.

Rich and Peter went to Disneyland the following day. Maggie kept the curtains closed and watched soap operas. She scanned the Los Angeles
Times
for any information about a missing woman in Mexico. She found nothing.

She dozed once in the afternoon and woke herself up quickly before the woman could find her. That night, she drank coffee and read magazines at the kitchen table while Peter and Rich slept.

“Maggie, it’s four in the morning,” Peter said. “Why are you still up? You haven’t slept in days.” He rubbed his eyes and pulled out a chair and sat next to her.

“I can’t,” Maggie said.

“Why?”

Maggie bit her lip. Tears streamed down her face.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

“Of what?” Peter asked.

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “You’d hate me. You’d think I was a coward.”

He shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’ve got to stop this. You don’t look or sound good. So you’re afraid. Don’t you know that everyone is afraid? That’s what life is, Maggie. Living is going on despite the fear. Rich does that every day. He’s terrified, but most of the time he just faces his fears and carries on.”