Over

Back in Joe’s, the Yellowtail burned. Lard-filled smoke veiled the air as Joe looked everywhere for Aggie, hoping she was somewhere inside. The door was still open a crack and through it came the wails of Steve and Rhea calling Aggie’s name over and over and over until their voices cracked. The fat man turned the stove off. No one found Aggie. It was nearing three o’clock.

Panama drove slow on the partially paved bumpy desert road that led Northeast, toward the border. He didn’t want to rush things, didn’t want to get to the crossing until it was dark; it made him feel less anxious – that and the Medusa weed buzzing his head. But it was the praying that got to him. It knocked him off his high, made him lose his cool.

“Please God.” The little girl said an hour into their journey. Her clear voice startled him. He looked at her. The churro he’d given her was lying in her lap, uneaten. The sunroof was still open. She held her hands up to the sky. “Please.” She prayed, “I want to go back now.”

In Spanish he told her to leave God out of it, that he was there to help her. “No no no. Dejar a Dios a solas.” He told her.”Yo voy a ayudar.”

Finally she let him know what he’d failed to figure out. “Mister I don’t know Spanish.”

Panama looked at her again, seeing her really for the first time. She was blond. She didn’t speak Spanish. Hays had said they were taking poor little Mexican girls–

She put her hands together again and looked up at the sky. “Dear God…” she began but he cut her off, “You don’t have to pray. You don’t have to get God involved, I’m going to help you. I’m going to get you a room of your own.”

“I don’t want my own room. I want to go back.”

He drove on. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to be. He didn’t want to figure it out, didn’t want to know. He opened a window and lit a joint, pulling hard, letting the smoke fill his head. He blew it out the window and sprayed a tin can of air freshener all over him. And he drove on, ignoring Aggie. She rode in silence, for awhile. Then looked out the window and mumbled,

“Too far. You went too far.”

The fuck was she talking about? He sucked harder on the reefer; sprayed a little more freshener; drove a little bit faster.

“Too far. Too far. Too far.” She said softly, precisely and over and over and over until it pierced his brain.

He pulled over, skidded in the sand off the road, turned to her.

She looked him in the eye. “We went too far.”

“Now you listen to me–”

“Now you listen to me.” She interrupted him, “We went too far, now how will my sister find me?”

His mind started racing,”… She has a sister? Is she looking for her? Could she even drive? No, she’d have to be a kid, too. They were poor. No car. Did they have a car? He could leave the little girl here. Someone would find her. Maybe not. Maybe she’d die. Not good. Yes, he should take her over. She’d be happy. And he’d get to keep using the van. And he’d get a few hundred bucks. And… she’d be happy. He thought for a second, “You want to leave her a note?”

“OK.”

He found a pen in the glove box and a receipt. He gave them to her. “Here. Write it on the back.”

“I can’t write good yet.”

He snatched them back. “OK. OK. Dear– ” he looked at her. “What’s your sister’s name?”

“Rhea.” She told him. “Rhea Porter.”

“Dear Rhea Porter,” he wrote on the back of the receipt then looked at her again.

“I am here.” she said. He wrote it down. As he opened the door, she told him to also write, “From Aggie.”

He added that to the note then got out of the van, stuck the note under a big rock, got back in the van and drove them on.