“So when are you heading out?”
“There’s a caravan leaving tomorrow morning. Salvage merchants. I signed on as a guard. They’re headed north to Wyoming, then west across Idaho.”
“Isn’t that the same path as the Oregon Trail?”
“Close to it, yeah.”
I heard a rustling to my right and turned to see Sophia sitting up in her bedroll, hair tousled, face puffy with sleep. “What time is it?” she asked.
I glanced at my watch. “Just after eight.”
Her eyes scanned the two of us in the gloom, then settled on Mike’s belongings arranged on the floor. A few still seconds passed before she stood up, stepped around us, and opened the front doors. I winced at the invasion of harsh yellow light.
She said, “I’ll make breakfast.”
FORTY-EIGHT
Later that morning, Tyrel met us at our place. He walked with us to the caravan district, formerly known as the Colorado Springs Country Club.
Gone were the expensive manicured grass, sand traps, and putting greens. All trod under by boots, hooves, and off-road tires. Where golfers had once whiled away afternoons and weekends whacking away at little white balls, traders and merchants now camped surrounded by trailers, horses, jeeps, Toyota Land Cruisers, 4x4 pickups, wagons, RVs, and even a few Humvees.
One of the Humvees belonged to Mike, parked along with several other vehicles and a collection of pilfered U-Haul trailers. He had agreed to take his payment in the form of diesel, and would follow the caravan as far as I-5. There, he would turn north to begin his search.
We stopped outside the caravan’s picketed area and waited while Mike went to talk to the trail boss. The camp was abuzz with activity, rugged-looking men and women rolling up sleeping bags, striking tents, cleaning cookware, packing things away, and a few teenagers fueling up the vehicles. A couple of minutes passed before Mike came back.
“Bossman says they’ll be ready to go in ten. I better get my gear squared away.”
Sophia wiped her face and put her arms around her father’s neck. “You take care of yourself, old man. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“Don’t you worry, darlin’,” he said, hugging her back. “With any luck, me and your momma will be home by Christmas.”
I am sure Sophia knew it was wishful thinking, but she smiled anyway. “Just be careful. I love you, daddy.”
Mike’s big arms bunched as he squeezed tighter, eyes closed, mouth curved in a beatific smile. The wrinkles and stress lines on his face relaxed, and I got the feeling that for a bright, happy moment he let the pain fall away, held his little girl, and was a man at peace.
It’s what I like to tell myself, anyway.
Finally, he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.”
Tyrel and I shook his hand, said our goodbyes, and used silence and steady eye contact to say all the things men hate saying to each other but feel nonetheless. This unique language has a way of baffling women, but men understand it perfectly.
“Y’all look after each other, now,” Mike said, stepping toward the camp, his voice harsh. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
We waved as he walked away.
*****
“So how are Lola and Lance doing?” I asked Tyrel.
We were walking westward on Acacia Drive, back toward our little corner of the refugee camp. People walked by us on the other side of the road, some going to work, others headed to the market or the commissary. There were no shouted greetings, no festive atmosphere, and precious few conversations occurring, ours among them. A woman in her early twenties brushed past me, eyes fixed straight ahead, feet wrapped in strips of thick red cloth bound with shoestrings.
Tyrel rubbed a hand along is jaw. “Things, uh … things didn’t work out between us.”
I looked at him. “Sorry to hear that, Ty.”
“It happens.”
“She doing okay?”
“Yeah. After we parted ways, she started shacking up with some Air Force type. A captain, I think. Lives on base with him now.”
I thought about asking him what drove the two of them apart, but decided against it. Instead, I asked, “What about you? Where are you living?”
“Over in Tenth District, just south of the university.”
“Oh. So you’re not far from us then.”
“Nope. Sorry it took so long to track you down. You know how long it takes the intake center to update the roster.”
I nodded. The ‘roster’ he referred to was a central directory of refugees who made it to Colorado Springs maintained by the people working at the refugee intake center. They also kept a list of the missing and deceased (M&D), all gleaned from information taken from refugees upon arrival. Any day of the week, the former department store housing the roster was awash with worried relatives anxiously searching for the names of loved ones on the refugee list, and if not there, the M&D list. It was a place of joy and tears. But mostly tears.
I remembered reporting my father, Lauren, and Blake deceased when I arrived, speaking in a dead monotone, vaguely hoping Tyrel or one of the others would see it. “Did you find us on the roster?”
“Yeah. You, Mike, and Sophia anyway. When I didn’t see the others’ names, I checked the M&D.”
I swallowed and cleared my throat. “So you knew before you came to see us.”
“Yeah. I took it pretty hard at first.”
“At first?”
His skin color darkened. “Sorry, Caleb. I waited a while. Two weeks, in fact. Had to get my head straight. Didn’t want to show up a blubbering mess.”
I wondered if I should be angry, but then decided I did not have the energy for it. “It’s okay, Ty. I understand.”
We said nothing else about it.
The street parted ahead of us. An Army Humvee came rolling slowly through with a gray-haired, stony-faced general sitting in the passenger’s seat. There was a livid scar above his right eye, and as the Humvee passed, I could not help but feel like I had seen the general somewhere before. Dismissing the thought, I said to Tyrel, “So what are you doing for work these days?”
He watched the Humvee drive away. “I was working with a salvage crew for a while, but they disbanded. General partners had a falling out, split up the business and went their separate ways. So I filled out a resume at the intake center and took a job with one of the volunteer militias. That was about three weeks ago. What about you?”
I grimaced. “Civil Construction Corps.”
“Shit. You’re not working on the wall, are you?”
I nodded.
He shook his head angrily. “Caleb, that ain’t no kind of a job for you, and you know it.”
“What else am I supposed to do? Join the Army?”
“It’s not a bad option.”
I glared at him from the corner of my eye. “No, Ty.”
“Well, what about the militias? You’re perfect for that sort of work.”
“Like hell,” Sophia said, speaking up for the first time since we had left the caravan district. She slipped her hand into mine. “I’d rather have him dead-tired than just plain dead.”
Tyrel gave her a hard look. “Did you ever bother to ask him what he wants to do?”
She ground her teeth, but said nothing. I let out a long sigh. “Okay, kids, no fighting. Today’s been hard enough without you two going at each other.”
By Ty’s face, I surmised he remembered Sophia saying goodbye to her father less than twenty minutes ago. He had the good grace to look chagrined. “Sorry, Sophia.”
“Don’t be. I’m in a mood today.”
“And you have every right to be.”
We walked a little farther in silence, then out of curiosity I asked, “Ty, what happened to your hair?”
He chuckled. “Head lice. You believe that shit? My first week in the field with the salvage crew, and I come down with fucking head lice. Had to shave it bald and douse my head and all my clothes with powder. Had to buy a new bedroll too.”