Ronny brought his .22 for Daren. Daren's only fourteen but he's a crack shot. Ronny's been hunting all his life; he's a good shot and show-off to boot. We stopped to pick up a fresh can o' Copenhagen, a case o' Coors Light, and a dozen Slim Jims then headed out to the old gravel pit, east of town.
When I was a kid, I'd ride up here with my dad in his Willy's Jeep to get manure. Sweet peas grew out from under the floor mats and the passenger door flew open sometimes. We'd spend half a day shoveling manure onto a long trailer.
There used to be a meat packing plant next to a big feedlot here. Then it was a gravel pit. Now it's just a dump. Dry rotting tires hunch over the ground like farmers at a corn roast. Broken washing machines and rusty refrigerators stand guard over desiccated arroyos. Shiny brass bullet casings and red and green plastic-jacketed buckshot shells litter gravel canyons. Decaying dogs testify potently to lazy flies.
Behind our rust-specked pick-up truck, Ronny and Daren jostled for positions and targets. After a while, I wandered off, searching for
pretty rocks, anything to occupy my time until their beer or ammunition
ran out.
Looking down on the antiquated packing plant, I noticed a little terrier snuffling around piles of debris, its nose, covered with white sheet rock dust. Its long wiry hair gray with rusty orange patches, like a 70's faux-fur handbag. A wild sneeze shook its furry body. It looked right at me, turned tail and trotted off.
I determined to follow it. Mantraps made rough going through unearthed concrete, broken studs, and ragged insulation. As I picked my way around I spotted a slapped-together door on the dilapidated side of the plant. When the plant closed, I remember, all the doors were removed, and the rusted fences broken down into tangled heaps of wire, and pipe.
I knocked at the door, I don't know why. No one would live in this desolation and dirt. I pushed the door aside. Squinting into the dim slaughterhouse, I gradually discerned an ordered living room. A large orange shag carpet scrap sprawled across the splintering gray
floorboards. An off-level wooden table squatted awkwardly in the middle
of the carpet. Two old chairs leaned on either side of the table. A
battered china hutch with cracked and broken panes leaned against a wall, its dusty shelves supporting chipped dishes and old-crocheted doilies gathering insects. In the right rear corner of the room a small greasy window lit the doorway to an open storage closet.
As I peered in, an elderly woman turned suddenly, grabbing her chest, "Ahhh-gh," she screeched.
I yelled, backing away from the closet quickly,
holding my hands up. "I didn't know you were in here." I offered.
"Fique fora, sair!" She screamed.
"I won't hurt you, I won't." I promised.
"Meus filhos são mortos, a sair, a sair, não há ninguém aqui para cuidar de mim," light from the window cubed the panic carved into her face. She dropped her bucket. She grasped a corner of her dirty purple apron wiping her face in it.
Silver-gray hair curled only around her face, as if she couldn't reach to do the back anymore. She wore stained and threadbare clothes. She wasn't dirty, just unkempt, neglected. A small propane cook stove sat on the table.
"I'm leaving," I said, stepping backward.
She moved toward me, "Você não pode dizer quem eu estou aqui?"
I gaped, not understanding a word she said.
Was there a pot on that stove? I thought there was a pot.
"Você não pode dizer é que vai?" She took a step toward me, her eyes, unblinking, wild.
"I'm so sorry I frightened you. I'm sorry."
"Sim, sim," she said softly. "Não tenho ninguém, ninguém aqui para cuidar de mim." She moved closer.
Still backing away, I pointed to the little dog. It snorted, still clearing dust from its nose. "I followed the dog, the dog, you see?"
"Meu amigo pouco, o meu bebê," she looked at her dog, tears brimming in her eyes, her face eerily calm.
"I'll go, I'll just go, Please don't be afraid."
"Ninguém sabe, estou aqui," she whispered, "Tenho todos os bons refũgios," One corner of her mouth smiled.
"I'm sorry. No habla. I can't understand what you're saying."
"Sei irmã, eu compreendo, mas não posso confiar em você. Você poderia dizer sobre mim," she chirped moving closer.
As I turned to walk out, crushing pain exploded inside my head. The pot clanked to the floor beside me. Darkness engulfed my mind. I fought for consciousness. She tied my hands and feet, and stuffed a nasty doily in my mouth. I gagged. She dragged me by my coat collar. My coat zipper tore at my neck and ears. I could hear Ronny calling faintly.
"Je-na...Jena. Baby where are you?" I wished he'd brought his gun.
"Larrrt-mmrrr-grrr" I grunted through the muddy rag.
"Shhh ... um pouco de calma," she said softly, "Ele não pode ouvi – lo mesmo assim."
I pleaded, cried, and strained against the rotted rope. She turned her sweaty face away. We reached a little closet in a dim corner, she rolled me into an open hole in the floor. I fell lumpily, each limb caught at the wood at the edge of the hole, then fell, heavy and disconnected. She covered me with a thick-stinking blanket of damp insulation, scooped on shovels full of dirt, then replaced the floorboards blotting out my last sliver of light. I heard the dog bark faintly. Maybe Ronny would find me, take me out of this hole. I like shooting. Why didn't I just stay and shoot?
"Jena, are you in here?" Ronny's voice was muffled.
"I am alone here mister, I don't see nobody but my little dog," the old woman offered in broken English.
Ronny's footsteps thumped into the closet. I'm here. I'm down here! "Aggggh-ooonnn-ahhh." I gagged through wet rag. The dog protested. Ronny would never find me. It wouldn't matter if he did. He could search and search, and find nothing, nothing but a crazy old woman, alone with her dog, squatting in a run-down meat packing plant.
Joy Raab-Faber attends the University of New Mexico where she studies English and Creative Writing. She earned an Associate of Applied Science in metals technology through Albuquerque CNM. She is also a recycling artist. To view some of her work, go to recyclesantafe.org. She has work forthcoming in Slow Trains. Joy would like to thank Terry Brown Davidson for her help and support in bringing her stories to you.
[The comments on this page have been locked due to spambots —Ed.]