Border Crossing

ABSOLUTELY AMAZING eBOOKS

Published by Whiz Bang LLC, 926 Truman Avenue, Key West, Florida 33040, USA

Copyright © 2013 by John Leslie.

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BORDER

CROSSING

PREFACE

Although Marfa, Texas, is no creation of my imagination, readers familiar with it will have no reason to recognize it in these pages. If some think they do, I can assure them it’s purely coincidental. The same can be said for the characters I invented and placed in the town that lies some sixty miles above the Mexican border.

For the six months I crisscrossed the country driving a big rig for C.R. England out of Salt Lake City, I passed through Marfa on occasion, usually hauling tomatoes from Mexico to California by way of Laredo. Driving SR 90 between Del Rio and Van Horn, Texas, I was enchanted by the desolate Rio Grande landscape where the seeds of this novel were sown. I wondered what it would be like to live around there, to have grown up in Marfa. Del Ray Gunn, my story’s protagonist, comes as close as I can get to answering that question.

RAMSTEIN, GERMANY 2003

CORPORAL GUNN, YOU HAVE A VISITOR.

From where he sat, looking at the new buds on the oak trees that dotted the grounds beyond the window, Del Ray Gunn turned toward the nurse who stood just inside the door. He was wary of visitors. Flown in severely wounded from Bagram Air Force Base in Afghanistan, he had been in the hospital just over a week. A constant stream of doctors and nurses had filed in and out of his room the past few days. He was worn out.

Who is it? Del asked.

Master Sergeant Muldoon. He said you’d know him.

The nurse stepped into the room and Muldoon tilted through the doorway on crutches, his right leg missing just above the knee. Del couldn’t believe his eyes, unsure if he would have known Muldoon without an introduction. He gazed at the shell of the man with whom he’d once shared a truck when they were hauling supplies into northeastern Afghanistan. His shaved head and pitted face more resembled a crater than a human visage. A drooping eye that barely opened wouldn’t have made identification any easier. And apart from his missing leg, Muldoon had also lost a lot of weight.

The nurse paused at the door a moment before retreating. Then Del did remember the voice, and it gave him his first taste of pleasure since Lord knew when.

Hello, Cowboy, I heard you were here.

Del stood awkwardly, wondering whether Muldoon had been having similar thoughts from looking at him, with his left arm in a cast immobilized with a steel pin to hold it away from his body. His shoulder bone had been shattered in two places and some nerves were severed. The best he could hope for, doctors had told him, was a limited range of motion. After the cast came off, he’d have to have reconstructive surgery, then weeks of therapy. The sight of Muldoon, however, told Del that could have been worse.

Hello, Master Sergeant. I wasn’t expecting you.

Muldoon laughed. At ease Corporal. From the looks of you, you’re on the way to civilian life too, so fuck the formalities. Not that you ever paid any attention to them anyway.

Del grinned. No matter what shape the Master Sergeant was in, he was plain glad to see the man alive. A few weeks ago, that would have been beyond belief for both of them. Sitting back down on his chair, he watched Muldoon gimp to the foot of the bed and slump onto it.

They drape a medal on you yet, Cowboy?

Del shook his head.

Well, they will. You’re the talk of the town. Or at least Bagram Air Force base.

Shit. I didn’t do anything.

No, but you had it done to you, that counts just as much.

You’re full of it, Del thought, actually laughing to himself. What about you? he asked. Did they decorate you?

Oh, yeah, they got me. The shitbirds couldn’t wait to stick that little ribbon on my chest.

You’re a war hero. His voice became flat as a dried up cow pie in a Texas pasture in the middle of August.

Muldoon smirked. I’m going home. At least as far as Walter Reed. They’ll give me a new leg there and teach me how to walk. I’m a goddamn baby is what I am.

The last time he’d seen him, Muldoon had been sitting in the passenger seat of their truck, with Del behind the wheel. He couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about, maybe nothing. He’d only learned later that Muldoon survived the IED blast and had been captured by the Taliban.

The thought of that made him wish he had a beer and a joint. Something to smoke, anything to take his mind off the other stuff.

How’d you escape? he asked.

The army, how else? They flew in the Apaches and attacked the cave where they were holding us.

What about Garfield? And Cooper?

Muldoon nodded. Cooper lost his head – literally. Right in front of us while some turd filmed it. They decapitated him with one blow of something like a machete and made it clear we were hostages. Bartering chips, and the same was in store for us if they didn’t get what they wanted.

What was that? Although he hadn’t known Cooper all that well, the thought of what happened to the poor kid left an ugly feeling in him. Del had never felt anything quite like it, some kind of crazy hostility that shook him up.

Who the fuck knows what they wanted, Muldoon replied. Money, I guess. Isn’t that what they all want?

I think I heard the choppers going in after you from where I was. He spoke the words but they seemed to come from a distance, as if from someone else, and his voice remained flat with sorrow.

Garfield didn’t make it either. I don’t know who got him. It might have been our guys. I was the lucky one, I guess.

Yeah, I guess you were. Del guessed that he too was lucky, but luck didn’t make much sense anymore. Not when he thought about Cooper and Garfield.

Del had come into Afghanistan one person and left there someone else. That’s how much he’d changed in a matter of months, almost as if the first person had died and another been born in his place. What did luck have to do with it?

We thought you were dead. Muldoon’s voice too came from a long way away, as if he were in another room.

Maybe I was, Del heard himself say. Maybe I’ve been reincarnated.

You think so? What passed for a smile crossed Muldoon’s face. Well, you could fool me. You damn sure look and sound like Del Gunn, that young cowboy from Texas I knew. Marfa, Texas, right?

Yeah, but I was getting used to the idea of being somebody else.

Muldoon nodded. I can relate.

It’s a bitch.

You’re alive, you’re young. They didn’t shoot you in the balls, did they?

How the hell would I know? I haven’t had much chance to test that part of me.

You will. Before you know it. Where they sending you?

Same as you, Walter Reed.

Great! We’ll have a reunion. You, me and all the others going home crippled. Maybe all those nurses will take pity on us.

You reckon?

I do. You’ll be in good company, Cowboy. We’ll get a poker game going, get drunk together. Hell, maybe I’ll even get started on that book I told you about. Before they spit us out onto the streets. A bunch of half men.

Del heard the bitterness in Muldoon’s voice. For a time it hung in the room like the taste of curdled milk until Muldoon laughed. It was a beautiful country, wasn’t it, before it got fucked up?

Unsure whether the Master Sergeant was talking about Afghanistan or the U.S.A, Del agreed that it was beautiful. It didn’t really matter. He’d forgotten that Muldoon, an English major from Wichita, Kansas, wanted to write a book. Del’s background, a cowboy from that Marfa nobody’d ever heard of in southwest Texas, fascinated him. Maybe I’ll write about you, he’d said.

Shit. Del gave not one damn about any of that. What the hell was there to write about him? In three weeks, on July 4 th , he’d be nineteen years old. He was going home too. He wondered if his mother knew that, and where Carly was. It seemed unlikely that Carly’d still be around, waiting for him. Surely they both thought he was dead.

After Muldoon left, Del went back to looking out the window and remembering, or trying to. All he could think about was where he’d come from, and how he’d gotten to this place – and even that not very well.

Nothing else seemed to matter much.

CHAPTER 1

THE DAY HIS FATHER DIED, Del Ray Gunn turned sixteen. Early that morning they were at a truck stop between Denver and Cheyenne. Johnson’s Corner. Del had a cinnamon roll the size of a hubcap in front of him, icing dripping over the edges of the big plate. Beside him at the counter, his father was eating scrambled eggs with sausage and biscuits. It was the fourth of July. Despite their solitary life on the road and the lonely existence of long-haul truckers, as the first true light crept in beyond the eastern-facing windows Del couldn’t imagine feeling any happier. For days he’d been buffeted around riding shotgun in the big rig, without a care in the world. It was the promise of freedom that such a life conveyed, and he was happiest in the summer when that promise was fulfilled. He had no control over his life, he could just let things happen and he was content to do just that.

Got a surprise for you, Del, his father said, after taking a sip of coffee. Jerry Gunn with his chiseled face and two-day growth of beard, the oil- and sweat-stained yellow bill cap pushed back on his head with CAT in bold letters written across its front, looked not unlike most every other man in Johnson’s Corner – all of them teamsters.

It was the way Del spent his summers, had been for the last several years, crisscrossing the country in his Pop’s eighteen-wheeler, since his mother had left. A shy boy from Marfa, Texas, Del had gotten his growth, disappointed that he probably wouldn’t make it to six feet. In looks he took after his mother, a nice bit of gentleness in his demeanor, but no one would ever think him weak. His green eyes held steady on whoever confronted him. Shy maybe, but no lack of confidence.

The surprise Jerry Gunn had for his only son, indeed his only child, was a pair of Tony Llama cowboy boots boxed up beneath a bunk in the truck. Jerry had six pair of his own, spit-shined, lined up in the closet in the sleeping compartment. For all these years, Del had to make do with Justin’s because his growing feet didn’t deserve the luxury of Tony Llama’s, Jerry told him

But the surprise of the Tony Llamas had to wait. Del could see in his father’s nervous fidgeting that something bigger was in store. Just by the way he kept hunching his shoulders, a sure sign the surprise, whatever it was, didn’t please him.

Just remember, you don’t have to do it, Jerry mumbled. Entirely up to you.

Do what? Del couldn’t imagine what his father was talking about.

Your mom called. She wants to see you. His eyes down, Jerry stirred his coffee, even though nothing doctored it.

Del dug into the moist center of his cinnamon roll. Then chased the sweetness with a sip of his own coffee, mingling the tastes: sweet and bitter; hard to know which this news was, he thought.

Where is she? His voice sounded thin.

In California. Where else? In that Where else , Del could hear Jerry’s edginess turn toward anger. Until now he’d had no idea where she lived. The last eight years had gone by without a word from her. Not wanting to, he remembered all too well the night she’d left home for good.

So what d’ya think, Del? It’s up to you. Jerry didn’t waste much breath on words. Cut and dried was the way he saw things.

Well...

A hole in the ground. Don’t get lost in it.

I guess I just don’t know.

Okay, think about it today. But I need your decision by tomorrow.

Del tried not to look at his father, whose hair was going gray. He was puffy around the eyes from lack of sleep. His paunch was expanding. Again, the same physical traits that most every trucker in here displayed. A steady diet of road food and no exercise. It went with the territory, Jerry had always said. You want good food and a gym to work out in and regular hours, get a nine to five.

Del didn’t know what kind of work he wanted to do. He had another year of school to get through anyway. He liked being on the road, but he saw what it was doing to his father. Jerry was pushing him to stay in school, get an education. But beyond reading books which he liked, Del couldn’t quite see the advantage. He didn’t want a nine to five. He was a loner and sometimes just lonely. And here he was, sixteen, on his way to becoming a man. A man who had to make a decision.

This was going to be a hard one. On some intuitive level, he knew his father would be hurt and he didn’t want to do that. He adored his Pop. But at the same time some curiosity about his mother had already set up a struggle inside him.

Eight years ago Jerry had come home one night unexpected, driving his rig into the yard around two in the morning. They lived outside Marfa on a small horse ranch with lots of dogs, mostly mutts, all tended to by a Mexican family who lived half a mile down the road from them.

The outside spotlights came on when Jerry drove in. The barking dogs woke Del who got up and looked out the window at his father illuminated in the headlights of his truck as he walked toward the house. A pistol hung from his right hand.

Del’s mother shrieked. Jerry! What are you doing?

Get him out of the house, Raye, Pop barked.

Now stop! Don’t do anything crazy.

Where’s Del?

In bed, asleep.

He know that Tommy Hicks is shacking up with you?

No. Tommy isn’t shacking up with me. Now put that gun down.

Del rubbed the sleep from his eyes, his heart beating like the rain during a summer night’s flash flood. Tommy was the farm equipment sales rep who often came around. It wasn’t unusual to see him, but he’d never been here at night, at least not that Del ever saw. Still, his pickup was parked at this very moment in front of Pop’s truck.

Get him out here now, Raye!

I’m here, Jerry, a man’s voice said.

Del couldn’t see him, but it was Tommy all right.

Pop had stepped out of the headlights. Walk on over here, he said.

For God’s sake put the gun down, Jerry, Raye said, still walking toward her husband.

Get back in the house, Raye, and make sure Del’s out of the way.

Jerry, don’t do something you’re going to regret. Her voice edged toward a whine.

Jerry held the gun up without really pointing it at anyone. Go on now! he shouted at Raye.

She turned back toward the house. Del could see Tommy now, shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans, walking toward Pop.

Get in the truck Tommy.

Tommy opened the passenger door with the company name printed in white: Jerry Gunn and Son, Trucking. Even at eight, Del took pride in being that Son who one day would drive trucks like his father.

Get away from the window, Del. But there was nothing threatening in his mother’s voice so he stayed where he was, unable to move, guessing she understood that neither of them could stop themselves from watching whatever terrible thing was about to happen. Raye put her arms around him and together they stared out the window, without seeing or hearing the two men who’d disappeared inside the truck. Suddenly, the engine came on. Del heard the gears grind, and the cab bucked forward, the big chrome bumper crunching against the driver’s side of Tommy’s truck until the little pickup was rolled on its side. Pop backed up, then shut off the motor. A minute or two later Tommy climbed out, naked as a nail, and began walking toward the lights of Marfa in the distance. Jerry stood in the yard, watching him go. His mother sobbed and tightened her grip around Del. Our world’s going to be turned topsy-turvy. I’m sorry. Your dad’s a good man. Don’t blame him. Don’t blame either of us. Someday you’ll understand. Always remember that I love you.

Three days later Raye was gone. Del felt the loss of her, as if a part of him had been cut off. Anxious and uncertain about who he was, he shut down, crawled into a hole inside himself and hid from the world. It took a year to claw his way out, with the help of Pepe and Juanita Gonzalez, the Mexican family who helped raise him while Jerry was gone. All he had to look forward to it seemed, was the glorious summer when Jerry Gunn and Son were on the road, the time when he was most content.

Until today Del had never heard Pop mention his mother’s name.

≈≈≈

After breakfast, while Jerry showered, Del walked across the dusty parking lot jammed with trucks. Close to five hundred of them maybe, their engines growling like a swarm of angry bees in a tin can, their a/c’s on to keep the cab interiors cool while the drivers slept. Parked side by side with only inches to spare between them. He got to their truck, a two-year old red Peterbilt – the only make Jerry would drive, his company name on the doors, and the number 9 painted on both sides of the engine cowling. On his previous truck, the one he’d used to plow over Tommy Hicks pickup eight years ago, Raye’s name had also been on the cowling.

Why the number nine? Del once asked.

Because it’s the trinity, Del. Multiplied by three, and it’ll never betray you. It didn’t make sense to Del but, knowing that it had to do with the end of their family, he wouldn’t pursue it. Jerry always said that his religion was a personal matter. Between him and his God, and he never pushed it on Del.

≈≈≈

Del was about to climb into the cab when the door in the next truck opened and a slender young blond girl got out. With only about a foot of space between the trucks Del had to stand up on the running board to make room for her.

Hey, she said. Hot enough for you?

Feeling stupid, he managed to mumble an affirmation. He’d always been nervous around girls. This was more a woman than a girl, but not by much.

In Marfa he’d had a girlfriend off and on throughout high school, but she was mostly tomboy and they spent their free time riding horses down along the Alamito, a mostly dry tributary of the Rio Grande. More than once he and Carlotta had fumbled around together in a thicket of willows near the stream while the horses were tied up, their reins draped loosely over the branches of Mexican Pinyon. But other than kissing and a little fondling, nothing ever came of it. Carlotta, a Tex/Mex with silky black hair and dark eyes, had befriended Del after the Tommy Hicks episode when he got a lot of razzing from the other kids. She was friendly with Pepe and Juanita. Maybe they put her up to it, sensing how lonely he was after Raye left. It didn’t matter. He liked hanging with Carlotta.

One time out in the willows they heard splashing near the stream. Three Mexicans were bathing in the shallows. Neither Del nor Carlotta recognized them and, by the way they talked, guessed that they must be illegals. They clung to each other while the nearby horses had their ears back, but Del and Carly were out of sight and remained calm as the Mexicans bathed. As evening came on the Mexicans continued their journey west on foot. Where do you think they’re going? Del asked.

California, probably, Carlotta replied. That’s where they all go.

They climbed on their horses and rode back to the ranch in silence.

As the blond woman passed so close to him that he could smell her over the diesel fumes, Del felt a rush of blood, suddenly horny, and remembered that outing with Carlotta.

Weak-kneed, he climbed into the cab of old number nine and went back to the sleeping compartment to lie down on one of the two bunks to read To Kill A Mockingbird , an old paperback he’d picked up in Marfa. The story of the six-year old Scout and her brother Jem raised by their widowed father, Atticus Finch. Del identified with the kids and admired their relationship with their father who was defending a black man charged with rape.

But when he stepped through the leather curtain divide, he saw a box with his name on it on his bunk. Happy Birthday, Del. Pop , printed on a card. Inside was a pair of snakeskin Tony Llamas that Del coveted. Forgetting about the book, he quickly shucked out of his worn Justins and pulled on the new boots. The soft, dark leather fit like a fine pair of gloves against his feet. He puffed up with pleasure.

When Jerry returned, Del was sitting in the cab, one booted foot over a knee, admiring his birthday present. Thanks, he said, beaming. Jerry laid his arm across his son’s shoulders. Let’s hope those feet have stopped growing, he replied. Del could tell that his father’s edginess was gone.

≈≈≈

Highway I-25 connected Denver with Cheyenne to the north. Jerry Gunn was picking up a load of rodeo stock in Cheyenne bound for Billings, Montana. The early morning sun’s blinding brightness filled the cab. Del felt the great sense of adventure that always sparked when they started a new run together. It didn’t matter that he’d been to most of these places in previous summers, there was always something new in the experience. Not even the surprise Pop had sprung on him earlier could affect the way he felt. Whatever he decided to do about his mother would be clear in time. Right now he didn’t want to think about it. Jerry, too, seemed ever more relaxed. They were moving. The Peterbilt’s a/c was cranking cold air, the mountain sky was blue as a jay’s feathers, and on the radio Marty Robbins was singing about a cowboy on the streets of Laredo.

Del had ridden in some rodeos, bareback and saddle broncs, a few small town events around Marfa, but his father had made him promise to stay away from bull riding at least until he was older – if then. Broken down saddle bums, Jerry called rodeo performers. That life will ruin you before you’re old enough to know better.

Of course Del didn’t listen. He wasn’t much interested in team sports, being too small for football or basketball. The adrenaline rush that came from climbing on top of a bronc in a narrow chute, before calling for the gate to open was like nothing he’d ever experienced. Getting bucked off after a few seconds of thrills was a lark, while making the eight-second ride to the cheers of a local crowd was awesome. Never mind a sprained wrist or ankle now and then – he’d never broken anything, and at the age of fifteen felt indestructible. Carlotta came, Pop when he was home, his Mexican family. Afterwards they celebrated. If his father wasn’t there, a bottle of Dos Equis from Juanita and Pepe who, after all these years, were like stepparents.

Del Ray, Jerry said as they ate up the miles toward Cheyenne.

Del knew there was a serious conversation at hand whenever he used that middle name.

Jerry turned down the volume on the radio that broadcast twenty-four hours, sports to news to music, no matter where they were in the country. The selections Jerry wanted were programmed to the country/western channel, sports and gospel. And CNN. Ready to air with the click of a button.

Del waited, thinking they were going to be having another discussion about his mother.

You’ve got one more year of high school. What are you gonna do after that?

Not the first time this subject had come up, but