Page 88 of In a Far-Off Land
When we pulled in at Salt Lake City, he turned his shiny face to me. “I didn’t get your name, sweetheart. I’m Frank Malone.” He stuck out his hand.
I hesitated, then took his hand. “Minnie.” I said, “Minnie Zimmerman.” My real name felt foreign on my tongue, but I was done with Minerva Sinclaire. Done with lies. Frank said goodbye and pulled a canvas bag from the overhead rack. I let out a breath of relief and closed my eyes.
At ten that night, I got off in Ogden. The Great Northern, the one I’d be on all the way to Odessa, didn’t leave until morning. I saved the cost of a motel room—cash I didn’t have—and sat dozing in the diner, nursing a cup of coffee until morning, when the cowpokes came in for their breakfasts and the bus honked. After that, I had plenty of time to think about what was behind me... and what lay ahead.
Across the long stretch of Wyoming, nothing broke the view but scattered low ridges and the occasional herd of antelope. Dirty snow clung in patches to colorless land, the sky low and dingy. Thetowns—what there were of them—had unlikely names in the drab landscape: Green River, Purple Sage, Red Desert.
My thoughts turned with the drone of the engine and rhythmic beat of the tires against the road. What was Lupita doing now? How were Roman and Angel? And Oscar? He was a decent man, a good man. Sanchia... well, she had tried, in her way. I wished I’d been able to say goodbye, maybe even thank them for what they did for me.
Shadows lengthened and the horizon disappeared. Darkness curled around me, cold and damp, and I wrapped my arms around my body. The headlights shone on the ribbon of road, sometimes flashing on a charcoal copse of trees or a pale house with lead-gray windows.
Shades of gray, just like in the pictures.
It isn’t that easy, I wanted to tell someone. It isn’t easy to tell black from white—right from wrong—when so much falls between the two. Somewhere in the dark prairie, I tried to pray. I was pretty sure God was done with me, but maybe he’d hear my prayers for others. For Oscar and Lupita. For Roman, and the hearts he’d break before he settled down. For Angel. Even for Sanchia. And as the darkness deepened, when everyone around me slept and the only light was the tiny, far-off moon, I prayed for Max. A jumbled sort of prayer to a God I hoped was listening.
I sent out a silent plea to Max, too, as if he could hear me. A wordless wish for him to be happy. To understand, somehow, that the last thing I wanted was to hurt him.
I heard his voice as the sun came up over the prairie—so close I could feel the warmth of his breath.I was in love with you... I still am.It helped, in those dark hours, to believe that Max really did love me. Honestly, if it made me feel less afraid—to picture his face, to remember his voice—I couldn’t see the harm in it.
I felt about as ill as I ever had in my life—sick and achy and weak—but I guess that was only what could be expected. I hadn’t eaten since somewhere in Wyoming, and my head felt strangely light and disconnected from the jerking and swaying going on around me. At the service station in Cheyenne, I caught sight of a girl with dull hair, bruised eyes, and skin the color of parchment. She could have been pretty once—beautiful, even—and I wondered what had brought her so low. I blinked and realized the girl was me, staring back from the ladies’ room mirror.
I climbed back onto the bus, took my seat, and laid my face against the cool glass of the window. This was not how I’d seen myself returning to Odessa. But there was nothing for it now. I’d made my bed and all that applesauce.
The bus slowed as a town appeared on the horizon. “Pierre, South Dakota,” the driver called over his shoulder.
Pierre. And after that, Odessa.
I pulled my cloth jacket more tightly around my shoulders as the bitter wind seeped through the bus window. What would I do when we pulled into Odessa, without a coat or a way home? I had made it this far. I’d walk if I had to. I had to get to Papa... and I knew what I had to say.
I’m sorry, Papa. For everything. I’m sorry. I don’t even deserve to be called your daughter.
After that, I didn’t know what would happen.
OSCAR
Oscar sat at his favorite table in the corner. Raul brought him a bottle. The voices around him were a familiar rumble, the sharp scents—tequila, dust, and hard-working men—a comfort. He should be happy. Minerva Sinclaire was out of his life—it hadbeen a blissful five days without her presence in his house or on his mind.
Five days ago, they’d celebrated Roman and Angel’s return. The boys had turned their capture into a tale that grew with each retelling. What really happened was less dramatic. Max had gone with him to the repatriation office, where the money had changed hands quietly, and the boys were released without a hitch. Mamá and the boys were safe. The rent was paid for another month. And yet he was not at peace.
It was Lupita’s fault. Lupita’s and Max’s.
There had been Max yesterday, pounding on his door and looking like he’d run all the way from the Garden of Allah. “Where is she, Oscar?”
His cousin could only mean oneshe. “Don’t look at me. I’m no longer her keeper.”
“Have you seen her? Heard from her?”
Oscar let out a frustrated breath as Max invited himself in. “Is she not on Western Avenue?”
“That’s the thing.” Max fell heavily onto a chair. “Lana, she said Mina wasn’t feeling well. Wouldn’t let me in to see her. Today, she told me straight: Mina’s gone.”
“No, no,amigo.” Oscar shook his head. He wasn’t getting involved. Not this time.
Max ignored him and took off his hat, pushing his hand through his hair. “I went to Norb at the Derby, Central Casting. Nobody’s seen her. I even checked with that dog at the Rose.”
Oscar jerked up. “She didn’t go back there?”
“No, thank the Lord.” Max clenched his fist. “But I let him know what I thought of him. He won’t be breathing through his nose for a while.”
