Totaled
Lately, Alwin Brockmeyer drove more cautiously on State Highway 1129, far more cautiously than was his habit. Since he slammed into a deer with his Dodge pickup a month ago, he liked to keep it somewhere around eighty to eight-five on the winding two-lane he knew as well as he knew the back of his own calloused hand.
Who would’ve thought a deer could do that much damage? he grumbled to himself as the mesquite and creosote cactuses blurred past the windows of his wife’s Corolla, a tinny piece of crap his six-three frame felt crammed into like those early astronauts must’ve felt when they were strapped and latched into those capsules back when Alwin was a wide-eyed boy watching in wonder as the explorers prepared for liftoff. Shepard, Armstrong, Glenn. On television, in black and white, no less. In spite of the humiliation of being behind the wheel of a damned Japanese car, as well as the aggravation he felt after his afternoon in Ft. Stockton, Alwin was determined to keep his wits about him no matter what as he bumped and thumped along the desolate stretch of blacktop between the county seat of Pecos County and his new home in Dos Pesos, Texas. New home, my ass, cussed Alwin. It’s been seven years since Sara Jane and I moved into town from the ranch. Seven goddamned years and the ranch was just eight miles out of town.
After two hours of rancorous debate with his insurance agent Alwin knew he had to maintain his cool. He couldn’t afford to lose it on the narrow highway, not in his wife’s wobbly sedan. He didn’t put all that much faith in foreign cars, especially Japanese or Korean. Drive American was his motto, although before he retired his last two tractors had come from Mexico. He took a deep breath on each curve and on every hill as he mumbled what might be thought of as a prayer by anyone who didn’t know the cantankerous rancher. They weren’t supplications, far from it…they were nothing more than crotchety utterances from an old man with too much on his mind.
Sara Jane, bless her heart, had the nerve to tell me that it was my own fault… that that damned deer could’ve been avoided. “My fault,” she tells me. First she says that I drive this stretch too fast, then she says that I don’t pay enough attention to what’s going on around me, then she gripes that I don’t do this right, then, in the next breath, that I don’t do that right. Like I’ve become a doddering old fool. Hell, I’m not about to drive like she does, no sirree, not like some old codger ready for the county home. I’m seventy-three years old, for Christ’s sake, not ninety-three. Sara Jane’s only seventy, yet she pokes along this highway as if it’s the old double-nickel days of Jimmy Carter. Shoot, we’re still in our prime. Both of us. At least I am. She’s the one who’s become such a fuddy-duddy in her later years.
Alwin wanted to be home by sundown; he didn’t trust his night eyes, not after the incident with the buck… and that was at daybreak, not after dark. This is the goddamned desert, he muttered, not the Davis Mountains. Hell, we ain’t even that close to Big Bend. No self-respecting deer has any business bein’ out here in the middle of nowhere. Yet smackin’ into another deer is the least of my worries. When I tell Sara Jane what the insurance company is willing to settle for, she’s going to hit the ceiling. And to make matters worse, she’ll take it out on me, not on Byron Reynolds, that smooth-talking agent with garlic breath and that hideous hairpiece, or on those bandits in the home office of Prairie Life and Casualty.
The former rancher plopped himself down at the kitchen table. Something was in the oven, something that smelled good. He hoped it wasn’t one of Sara Jane’s casseroles. He was a meat and potatoes guy. Casseroles had their place. Obviously. They were dandy for potlucks at the Church of the Redeemer, whenever Sara Jane could coerce Alwin to go along to one of the pathetic soirees, where Pastor Goerdel, an abrasive son of a bitch, if ever there was one, prattled on and on about everything from his precious savior to that rascal in the White House, a rascal to Alwin, God’s gift to America according to the self-righteous minister. A MAGA man of the cloth, Alwin grumbled, whoever heard of such a thing? I’m just glad I’m a Lutheran, born and bred, not a good one, mind you, yet not all that bad of one. My genteel wife’s the holy roller.
“You won’t believe what happened today,” said Sara Jane. She bent and peered into the oven like the proud grandparent of a newborn getting her first peek at a newborn grandchild through the window of the hospital’s maternity wing. When she straightened, she blinked and pursed her lips like a child about to be scolded.
“It can’t be any worse than my day with that damned insurance company,” said Alwin. He removed one scuffed Tony Lama roper then the other, each dropped with a thud onto the hollow kitchen floor. This flimsy house, thought Alwin, we never should’ve sold the ranch. Living in town’s not what I thought it was cracked up to be. I should’ve listened to Sara Jane. She warned me.
“What’s the news on your truck?” she asked.
“It’s totaled,” said Alwin. He sighed. “And since it’s fourteen years old, they’re not gonna give me squat for it.”
“How much?”
“Seven hundred dollars,” said the rancher. “Can you believe it? That truck was in great shape.”
“Until you flattened a deer with it.”
Alwin scowled. “It could be fixed. They just don’t want to bother with it.” He crinkled his nose. Whatever was in the oven did smell good, damned good. He was famished. “They’ll give us the goddamned seven hundred and be done with it. The jerks. Then they’ll jack up our premiums.”
“Can’t we afford a new one?” Sara Jane grinned. “When we sold the ranch we socked away all that money. We could take some out of our savings.”
“That’s not the point,” said Alwin. He tapped his fingers on the oak table, much like Charlie Watts banged away behind Mick Jagger and the boys when Alwin was a teenager, a sure sign that the rancher was becoming agitated, not merely with the insurance company, but also with Sara Jane. “There’s a principle involved. I don’t like bein’ bamboozled by those bastards.”
“It was an old truck,” said Sara Jane. “What did you expect? That they’d fix it up all brand spanking new?”
“It was a good truck, damn it.” He sat up then glared at his wife. “It was my truck.” He ran his fingers through his gray hair, what was left of it. “I thought you’d be the one who’d raise all holy hell about the insurance company.”
Sara Jane winced, took a deep breath then said, “I had a bad day today. Some men came and whisked Leticia Acosta away.” She stopped abruptly.
“What do you mean ‘they whisked her away’?”
“About a dozen men in military uniforms got out of white SUVs and took Leticia away. Those goons handcuffed her or hogtied her, then threw her into one of their cars and drove off.”
“The woman next door?” asked Alwin. “That Leticia? Who were they?”
“I don’t know,” said Sara Jane. “ICE, I guess. They wore masks…and when I stepped out front to see what was going on they yelled at me to get back inside the house.” She bit at her lip. “Poor Isela. She was in a frenzy.”
“Didn’t anyone try to stop them? What about Sheriff Reed?”
“He was there,” said Sara Jane. “He argued with those men but they told him that it was none of his business and that he’d better not interfere unless he wanted to be run in.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I was terrified. Reverend Goerdel was there also. But all he did was talk to the men… like they were old buddies. He didn’t say anything to Leticia… or to Isela.”
“Holy shit,” said Alwin. “That son of a bitch did nothing to stop them?” The rancher stood, then sat down again. “Did Leticia put up a struggle?”
“Not really,” said Sara Jane. “She seemed more concerned about Isela. She told Isela to go back into the house and lock the door.” Alwin’s wife shuddered. “Sheriff Reed talked to poor Isela after the men left. I don’t know everything he said, just what she told me later. At the time I was too frightened to even look out the window.” She paused. “I talked to Isela after everyone was gone. She was beside herself.”
“What did she say?” asked Alwin.
“Isela told me that Leticia doesn’t have papers. It seems Isela’s a citizen but Leticia isn’t.” Sara Jane sat down across from Alwin, put her hands together then shook her head. “Those two women have been together as long as we’ve lived in town, probably longer.”
“Hell,” said Alwin, “they could’ve taken half of this town if they were doin’ some sort of a sweep.”
Sara Jane shrugged then breathed unevenly.
“What did Sheriff Reed tell her?”
“Not much,” said the rancher’s wife. “He told her that those agents are gathering up people all across the country. Willy-nilly. He said he’d do what he could, but those idiots are like federal thugs or goons, that they prey on immigrants. That they’ve got quotas. It was just like we’ve seen on the news in Chicago, L. A., New York.” Sara Jane held her hands out to her husband. “Those two women never bothered anyone. Only Pastor Goerdel seems to have a problem with them.”
“What do you mean they’ve never bothered anyone? How could those two women possibly bother anybody? They’re both so quiet, almost timid. They mind their own business.”
“For crying out loud, Alwin. Surely you must’ve noticed that Leticia and Isela are a little more than roommates.”
Alwin sat up. He swallowed. “Does he know… Reverend Goerdel?” the rancher asked. “About Leticia and Isela? About how they live?” He cocked his head. “Let me get this straight. Are you really tellin’ me what I think you’re tellin’ me?” He took a deep breath. “I’d never really given it much thought. Not until now. I’m not shocked. It just never crossed my mind.”
“You dodo. Everyone in town knows. Everyone but you. If you’d get your hair cut at Rudy’s you’d know more about what’s going on. Every old fart in town—everyone but you—must sit around and shoot the breeze in that barber shop. You could learn a thing or two.” Sara Jane shook her head. “Isela told me that she confided to Pastor Goerdel about her and Leticia.” His wife took a deep breath then stared out the kitchen window. “She told me he had a conniption fit. And she let it slip that Leticia had never applied for citizenship and that she was worried about Letty… what with all that’s going on. That someone might come looking for her or snatch her off the street. Alwin, she went to the preacher for advice, not to get Leticia busted.” She tilted her head to the side. “You don’t think a minister would squeal on a parishioner, do you? About their citizenship? Preachers aren’t supposed to repeat what’s told to them in private.”
“Jesus,” said Alwin. “I wouldn’t put anything past that bastard Goerdel. Those two women are damned good neighbors. I talk with ’em when they’re out doin’ yardwork.” The rancher paused. “Are they really that way?” He nodded eagerly, a little too eagerly. “And, for that matter, I’m not about to fork over fifteen dollars to any barber for a goddamned haircut. Not when you cut my hair just fine… for free.” He studied his wife. “You know, if two men were to shack up together, this town would have a hissy fit, but apparently no one seems bothered in the least by those two, unless folks are as clueless as I am.”
“No one’s bothered by it… no one but the minister… and apparently you.” Sara Jane grinned. “But that’s not what matters. It’s not about two men living together as opposed to two women. What matters is that Leticia was hauled off like some kind of criminal.”
Alwin worked his gnarled fingers into a knot, sat back then cradled the back of his head in his once-blistered palms. Since they’d moved to town his hands had become soft. Too soft. “Damn,” he said finally, “what do you suppose we should do about my truck? We can’t fight ‘em.”
Sara Jane chuckled. “Is that all you care about? Your precious truck? Listen to yourself, Alwin. All hell’s breaking loose in this country, and all you care about is your damned pickup.”
“What can I do? What do you want me to do? I’m just an old coot tryin’ to mind my own business.”
“You served two terms in the state legislature, didn’t you? You must know someone.”
“That was a long time ago, before this part of the state turned flamin’ red. About the only two Democrats in Contreras County are me and Sheriff Reed, and he’s walkin’ on thin ice. I couldn’t get elected to anything. And, hell, I’m a fairly moderate Democrat. Nothin’ like Bernie or some of those others. AOC or whoever. This is Texas, you know.”
Sara Jane glared at him. “I think it’s time for you to call in a few favors. Find out what in the world’s goin’ on with Leticia.”
“What’s goin’ on,” said Alwin, “is that this whole country’s gone rabid. Especially out here in West Texas. We both watch the news. It’s like everyone’s snarling over some damned bone without no meat on it. And now you drop this bombshell on me about our neighbors.”
“Don’t get so excited,” said Sara Jane. “You’re a little old to get yourself all lathered up over our two young neighbors.”
“I’m not getting’ myself worked up over anything.” Alwin shrugged. “I’m just surprised.”
“You shouldn’t be. Not if you opened your eyes. Like I said, everyone else knew.” Sara Jane paused. “I’ve told you that you don’t pay enough attention to what’s going on around you. Even when it concerns two attractive young women. That’s how you hit that poor deer.”
“That deer leaped right out in front of me. I’m lucky to be alive. It had nothing to do with two women living together.”
“You’re better off than that deer… wouldn’t you say?”
Alwin cleared his throat. “I’ll make a few calls. I’ll talk to Sheriff Reed, but don’t expect too much. That’s all I can do. It’s a federal matter.” He hesitated. “I’m not all that sure how I feel about those two women being that way and livin’ next to us. This town’s too small for something like that.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Sara Jane. “You’re far more fascinated than disgusted.”
“Not in the least,” said the rancher. He watched his wife bend to take another look into the oven. “I’ve always been one to not stick my nose into other people’s business. What goes on in their bedrooms is no concern of mine. But when it hits this close to home, I’m not so sure.” Alwin slowly shook his head. “What’s for supper?”
“Tuna casserole,” she said. “Have you forgotten that you agreed to go to church with me tonight?” She smiled. “Get yourself cleaned up so we won’t be late. I hate getting there when all of the food’s gone cold. And change shirts, for Pete’s sake. That one looks like you’ve slept in it.”
“Aw geez,” said Alwin, “I’ll go, but I might just give that preacher a piece of my mind.”
“You’ll do no such thing, Alwin Brockmeyer.” You’ll mind your manners and not do anything that might embarrass me.”
The rancher harrumphed. “When we get home we’ll talk about my truck. Agreed?”
Sara Jane shrugged.
Alwin yawned. “I miss Jimmy Carter, don’t you?”
“What brought that on?”
“I don’t know,” said Alwin. “I’ve just been thinking about him lately. He died recently, you know. I didn’t much like that fifty-five-mile-per hour speed limit, but, all in all, things were better when he was in the White House. People were kinder. That Georgia farmer was a decent man.”
“Better in some ways, yes,” said his wife, “in some ways, no. Things were better when W was in the White House, but you found plenty to grumble about with him. And then there was Reagan. You’re still not over that.” She wagged her finger at Alwin. “Now get yourself ready. I don’t want to be late. We’ll go in my car, if you haven’t made sausage of another deer with it.” She grimaced. “As far as men being with men, what about Toad Snyder and Rick Franklin?”
“On the ranch?”
“You bet,” said Sara Jane, “on the ranch. You never thought those two were a bit overly chummy?”
“They were both good workers,” said Alwin. “There wasn’t anything going on there. They were a just a couple of good ol’ boys.”
His wife raised her eyebrow. “Again, Alwin, everyone knew but you. You don’t pay enough attention to what’s right under your nose. Now go and get yourself ready… and change jeans while you’re at it. I don’t want you looking like something the cat drug in. We live in town now. We’re not out in the sticks any longer.”
~