twenty-two:
tuesday afternoon

Tomás Loya didn’t know a lick of English. He stood as he was introduced to Trudy and stayed upright, tucking his hands far up into his armpits. He spoke with his head down. Anguish filled the room. Tomás knew Diaz. There was a comfortable familiarity between them.

Tomás poured three glasses of tap water, carefully turning the water off and on for each glass. Trudy liked him instantly. He smiled politely through his nerves.

They were on Teakwood Lane in the Riverside Meadows mobile home park on the west bank of the Roaring Fork River across from downtown Glenwood Springs. Trudy had never seen the mobile home park. At least, she’d never let it register. There was pride in the neighborhood. The landscaping was maintained. Inviting mini-patios were perfect for watching what little of the world came down this way. The interior of the Loya home was bright and smelled of onions and cinnamon. A pot simmered on the stove. A small crucifix was the sole item on the wall above a red-topped kitchen table.

“He’s leaving tomorrow,” said Diaz. They had chatted, Trudy trying to pick up the flow.

“Where?” said Trudy.

“Home,” said Diaz.

“His brother is missing here,” said Trudy.

Diaz shrugged. “There’s not much he can do.”

“Any more brothers or family here?”

Trudy heard “otro,” “familia,” and “aquí” in Diaz’s question.

Their conversation was being watched by two women who sat side by side on a small couch. One was sewing an elbow patch on a jean jacket. The other watched and fanned herself with a section of newspaper.

“Just the two brothers,” said Diaz. “At least, in this country.”

“What does he think happened?”

Tomás launched into a long story and looked like he was concentrating. The Spanish flew. Diaz probed whenever he need clarification.

“He was there,” said Diaz when Tomás was done.

“He was where?” said Trudy.

“Sometimes they fish in the early morning,” said Diaz. “There’s a spot down along the river, by the bridge. They have good cover. They were walking back when Alfredo realized he had left some string and bait back by their spot. Tomás waited while Alfredo went back. Tomás could see Alfredo come back up on the road from their spot when a van pulled up behind him and stopped. There were two men and they grabbed him.”

Tomás watched Diaz while the story was recounted, nodding occasionally.

“A police van?”

“Unmarked,” said Diaz. “He made a big point of this. A blue van. Plain.”

“Sí, azul,” said Tomás.

“New?” said Trudy.

Diaz shot a question at Tomás, who replied carefully.

“Newer,” said Diaz.

“Did they talk to him first?”

It was mid-afternoon and plenty warm outside, close and stifling inside. Tomás’ forehead shined with sweat.

“Not for long,” said Diaz. “A few seconds.”

“And then what?”

“And then the van drove away. It drove right past Tomás, who hid in the thicket along the side of the road.”

“Did Tomás by any chance get a license plate?”

Another rapid-fire exchange. One question, one answer. One follow-up question, another answer.

“The van was going fast,” said Diaz. “And Tomás was of course scared. He looked at the last second. Only half of it, CL9. If not 9, then 7, but he’s pretty sure it was 9.”

“And Alfredo lived here?”

“Yeah,” said Diaz. “Here.”

Trudy felt as ill as Tomás looked. “How is Tomás getting home?” she said.

“There are ways,” said Diaz. “There’s always someone going. People know. Small cash payment here, help out there. Help load, help drive. It’s not hard.”

Glenwood Springs was where she’d been raised, but standing in this motor home with Tomás Loya and the two women on the couch, Trudy had the strange sensation she’d stepped into a parallel universe that coexisted through some trick of intergalactic physics. She couldn’t be standing at a much lower elevation and still be in Glenwood Springs, unless she dug a tunnel under the river.

“He needs to stay and help.” Trudy heard a desperate edge to her words.

“Needs?” said Diaz.

Tomás must have caught the drift. When he spoke, he shook his head with authority.

“What do you think he’s going to be able to do?” The new voice was from one of the women, the one who had been sewing. She put down her work. She stood slowly, as if she hadn’t been fully erect for a week. It didn’t feel like a hand-shaking moment. “He needs to go home.”

Her English was clear but the words were steeped with a thick Mexican accent. Her hair was pulled back in a long braid.

“Sí,” said Tomás.

“One brother is enough,” said the woman, sharpness to her gaze. Her brown eyes revealed warmth but she looked worn down, too.

Behind a closed bedroom door somewhere down the short hall to the bedrooms, a baby fussed.

“Tomás’ daughter,” said the woman. “Three months.”

“Oh my,” said Trudy.

Tomás didn’t budge at the sound.

“Yes. One brother is enough,” she repeated. “No place to go, nobody to tell. Nobody.”

Trudy remembered what it was like to live in a delicate bubble of uncertainty, the years before her ex-husband’s unraveling. Before she had met Allison. Before doctors found the part of her brain that randomly decided to convulse and misfire of its own volition. Those years had been like living in an earthquake zone, not knowing if any moment the earth would crack and you’d suddenly be free-falling toward a hot ball of fire.

“I know it’s hard,” said Trudy. “But there are people here who realize this isn’t right.”

“People are scared,” said Diaz. “Very scared.”

“The hatred gets all the attention,” said Trudy.

“Tomás?” said one of the women, the one sewing. The Spanish flew between them, the woman dominating, instructing. Trudy thought she heard one question in the mix and Tomás paused, pondered a response. Finally the woman turned back to Trudy.

“What are you going to do?” asked the woman. “If he stays?”

Tomás looked as scared as if she was holding a shotgun on him right now. No fully-formed plan had yet jelled, but Trudy knew Tomás’ story was worth more in Glenwood Springs than if he took it with him back to Mexico.

“We need his story,” said Trudy. “We need to tell somebody what happened.”

The woman shook her head. “And who is going to listen?”

“I have to figure that out,” said Trudy.

The baby’s sobs ramped up to full-bore bawl.

“Tomás wants to go home, but he also doesn’t want to leave his daughter,” said Diaz.

A door opened and the volume of the scream doubled. The mother was as white as a freshly painted picket fence. She might be twenty-one, she might be eighteen. She bounced her crying baby carefully in both arms. She came to Tomás’ side as if it was the only place she belonged. The baby wore nothing but a diaper and a pink bow in hair so short Trudy wondered how the bow stayed in place. The pink bow matched the highlights in the mother’s blonde hair. The baby’s skin was a beautiful light chestnut. In one seamless move, Tomás scooped the baby to his shoulder. The baby took two more furtive sobs and decided all was right with the world.

“What’s going on?”

The young mother had a gold nose ring that looped tightly around her left nostril like a clamp. Her eyes were amber, her hair was straight. It was clear she was bonded with Tomás, but there was no ring on her left finger.

The pint-size kitchen felt cramped. Trudy fought the urge to step outside.

“This is Miss Down to Earth,” said the woman. “She’s here to help.”