Jack was on a three-on, four-off schedule at his station. On his off days, he would run in the evenings, circling the park. After, he’d bike to Deep Eddy Bar or the Horseshoe Lounge. He was working on a project of some sort, judging by the building materials in the garage, the tarp-covered stack of wood on the side of the house. He ate at odd hours, she thought, drank too much. When his daughter wasn’t there, he’d often turn all the lights on in the middle of the night, as if the house was bustling with activity. She heard him playing the piano sometimes at night, though slowly, ploddingly, as if he’d just picked it up and didn’t have much of an ear. A few times she’d braved the backyard and crouched in the honeysuckle that had taken over his fence line. The new perspective, its distances and proportions, excited her blood and made her dizzy. She could see the blur of his head in the frosted bathroom window, when he was showering. Once, she saw him masturbating in a nice mid-century chair in his bedroom. She didn’t turn away.
Now, in the long living room window, she can see paint cans, drop cloths, a toolbox. He’d apparently taken off the old paneling recently and replaced it with maple bead board. Painted the walls sea green, sanded and stained the wood floors a dark pecan. Framed photos hung in the hallway. She could see a senior-year photo of Jack’s daughter, Samantha.
Later, she’ll think how her body knew before her head did. Crouched low in the honeysuckle, her legs began to tremble. It took her several seconds to realize she was looking at a replica of her old living room.
36
JACK FEELS ALONG the nylon search rope in his head, fingers the knots he’s remembered to tie at intervals, finds the girls.
You should call Kate, Elizabeth says.
I’m afraid.
She’s not getting any younger, Zadie says.
I keep thinking things will get better, that I’ll snap out of it.
All that smoke and water makes your head soggy, Elizabeth says.
When I was in sixth grade, Jack says, we moved to Temple, Texas. I was just miserable. Didn’t know anybody. I used to run away from school every few weeks, head out into a cotton field past the field house. Hide there in the irrigation ditches until school was out, making up another life in my head.
We know just the place, Meredith says.
Tell us a story, Zadie says, in Jack’s daughter’s voice.
I liked the ones about the Texas explorers, Jack says. Coronado in the panhandle. Cabeza de Vaca living with the cannibals.
Everyone naked and mosquito-bit, Elizabeth says. She shudders.
What kind of parent names their child Cow Head? Meredith says.
Tell us a story, Zadie says. One we’ll remember.
Cabeza de Vaca is shipwrecked on Galveston Island, Jack says. Almost all his men lost. The Karankawa find him and three others there on the beach. They weep at the men’s suffering. Then the Karankawa enslave them for two years.
Sounds like theater work, Zadie says.
Cheery story, Meredith says. When do they get eaten?
Galveston, oh Galveston, Elizabeth sings.
Cabeza de Vaca and his men stoke the smudge fires for the Karankawa to keep mosquitoes away. Soot in their nostrils and eyes all night long. Their skin dried, blackened.
Barbecue de Vaca, Zadie says.
Then one day, a day that will change everything, Cabeza de Vaca, he saves one of the Karankawa. Makes an incision in the injured man’s chest with a knife and removes an arrowhead pressing against his heart. The Karankawas’ eyes widen in amazement and fear. But before Cabeza de Vaca stitches him back up, he’s shocked to see other things in the man’s chest cavity. An opal class ring Cabeza de Vaca’s wife, Maria, had lost years before. A flesh-colored hearing aid. A stick of her pink coral lipstick. Her ivory-handled seam ripper. Cabeza de Vaca, always the showman, holds the objects from another world in his hand for everybody to see.
Zadie and Elizabeth cover their mouths in mock surprise.
Meredith rubs the scar along her abdomen.
After he’s stitched up, the Karankawa man opens his eyes. Rises. His dark skin shimmers with grease and soot. The air around him vibrates with a future he almost didn’t have.
The sun hammers Cabeza de Vaca’s bare chest until it shines like armor.
Meredith fans her face. Quite the hottie, she says.
One of our mothers isn’t sleeping much these days, they all say. She’s waiting.
The Karankawa, Jack says, gather around Cabeza de Vaca, their faces tight, and demand to know whether this is a good thing or a bad thing.
Tough crowd, Elizabeth says.
You know how to whistle, don’t you? Zadie says to Jack in her best Lauren Bacall. You just put your lips together and blow.
37
THE HIDEOUS MAN set fire to Hollis’s car. He couldn’t say exactly when this was. All his lovely things, gone. Books and maps and photos of the girls. All his talismans. In the backseat, Hollis had propped up his sleeping bag and pillow and blanket like the figure of a sleeping man. He’d hidden in the woods and waited. The fire, fueled by his possessions, was very bright.
38
ON THE PHONE, the caller said he’d read Rosa’s column. He said he thought he might be able to help. Might be able to identify the men on the DVD she’d found. He’d been in the shop that day. Could he see the video? The caller wouldn’t leave his name. He seemed young and distracted. At points during the conversation his voice seemed to fall off a cliff. Hello? she’d say. And then he’d fetch it back.
He told her a rambling story about an airplane crash. A baby cried in a field. Someone was lost. Someone came back. It made no sense.
Sir, she interrupted, can I ask you something? Why now? If you were in the shop, why wait until now to come forward? Have you called the tip line?
The caller said he was a father now and often thought about the girls. Then he said something that tumbled into the void, a tiny thing way down there.