burned to write about it. Force the people back home to see the disaster these children teetered on the edge of daily. But he knew the truth. The people back home didn’t care and his stories wouldn’t change anything, and so he’d just nail one post after another after another until the damn fence was done. And he’d go back to the hotel at nights and drink away the uselessness of it all.
He wiped a bit of salty sweat from his eyes and started to hammer again but a voice stopped him. “You’re doing it wrong.”
The little girl was maybe seven and she seemed to be the leader of a small group of even younger children, one of whom kept his thumb in his mouth as he stared at Donovan like he was some sort of devil.
“I probably am,” he acknowledged with a sigh.
“If you don’t hold the nail straight it will bend when you hit it, and then it won’t go in right and it will rip our clothes like this.” She held out her what used to be white Madonna t-shirt to show him the long rip across the bottom.
“You should come play with us instead,” she said.
Donovan searched the yard for salvation, but it was empty except for the chickens running around in the dirt and the sheets blowing in the wind. No kids. He’d made that clear.
He forced his voice to stay steady. “I’ve got to get this fence up or....”
The little girl put her finger to her lips and looked at the four smaller children behind her as if to tell him he was an idiot for speaking.
“You could play soccer with us first.”
Donovan wiped the sweat off his forehead and squinted at the girl.
“How about I finish the fence then we’ll see.”
She sighed and turned back to the others. “I told you,” she said and led them away. They followed, but the thumbsucker stared back at him as they moved across the yard. Relief flooded him as they slunk away from him.
A few minutes later a heavy thunk, thunk, thunk interrupted his work. He searched for the sound and found the source of the thunk. All five kids attempting to play soccer with a ridiculously flat ball. Geez.
He tried to ignore their solemn looks and continued hammering nails, making sure they were even with the wood so they wouldn’t catch on the kids’ clothes or skin.
The flat ball rolled toward him and the little girl ran over to get it.
“We’re not supposed to talk to you. I guess you’re a bad man.”
Truth.
Donovan tried a glower and kept hammering.
“You must not be too bad or Tia Carlita wouldn’t have brought you to us. She told Maria you’re a haunted soul. You need to see the curandero. She’ll put an egg under your bed and bless you and you’ll be better. Then you can play soccer with us. They might take Manuel away tomorrow. They found his father under the bridge last week.” She pointed to where the youngest of the bunch stood watching them, his thumb back in his mouth.
Donovan wiped sweat from his eyes. He’d heard about the bridge. The men found there were more body parts than bodies. No telling what they’d done to get on the wrong side of the cartels.
“Manuel’s grandpa lives in Texas. Maria says God will keep Manuel and the rest of us safe. Do you think she’s right?”
No.
Donovan kept his answer to himself and continued hammering.
“We have grape Koolaid. You want some?”
“Sure, kid,” Donovan said. Anything to get the girl to go away.
She smiled and picked up the ball. “Isabel,” she said before walking away. “Not kid. I’m Isabel.”
Donovan felt like a jerk as she ran away. From the laughter of the others, he figured they’d dared her to talk to him like he was some sort of Boo Radley.
Appropriate.
A few minutes later she carefully brought him a cup of the grape Koolaid. He thanked her and sipped the sweet drink gratefully, trying to wash away the hurt balled up in his throat. The liquid reminded him of long ago summers spent with the Jenkins family. Camping trips, street football, fishing. God, he’d
He wiped a bit of salty sweat from his eyes and started to hammer again but a voice stopped him. “You’re doing it wrong.”
The little girl was maybe seven and she seemed to be the leader of a small group of even younger children, one of whom kept his thumb in his mouth as he stared at Donovan like he was some sort of devil.
“I probably am,” he acknowledged with a sigh.
“If you don’t hold the nail straight it will bend when you hit it, and then it won’t go in right and it will rip our clothes like this.” She held out her what used to be white Madonna t-shirt to show him the long rip across the bottom.
“You should come play with us instead,” she said.
Donovan searched the yard for salvation, but it was empty except for the chickens running around in the dirt and the sheets blowing in the wind. No kids. He’d made that clear.
He forced his voice to stay steady. “I’ve got to get this fence up or....”
The little girl put her finger to her lips and looked at the four smaller children behind her as if to tell him he was an idiot for speaking.
“You could play soccer with us first.”
Donovan wiped the sweat off his forehead and squinted at the girl.
“How about I finish the fence then we’ll see.”
She sighed and turned back to the others. “I told you,” she said and led them away. They followed, but the thumbsucker stared back at him as they moved across the yard. Relief flooded him as they slunk away from him.
A few minutes later a heavy thunk, thunk, thunk interrupted his work. He searched for the sound and found the source of the thunk. All five kids attempting to play soccer with a ridiculously flat ball. Geez.
He tried to ignore their solemn looks and continued hammering nails, making sure they were even with the wood so they wouldn’t catch on the kids’ clothes or skin.
The flat ball rolled toward him and the little girl ran over to get it.
“We’re not supposed to talk to you. I guess you’re a bad man.”
Truth.
Donovan tried a glower and kept hammering.
“You must not be too bad or Tia Carlita wouldn’t have brought you to us. She told Maria you’re a haunted soul. You need to see the curandero. She’ll put an egg under your bed and bless you and you’ll be better. Then you can play soccer with us. They might take Manuel away tomorrow. They found his father under the bridge last week.” She pointed to where the youngest of the bunch stood watching them, his thumb back in his mouth.
Donovan wiped sweat from his eyes. He’d heard about the bridge. The men found there were more body parts than bodies. No telling what they’d done to get on the wrong side of the cartels.
“Manuel’s grandpa lives in Texas. Maria says God will keep Manuel and the rest of us safe. Do you think she’s right?”
No.
Donovan kept his answer to himself and continued hammering.
“We have grape Koolaid. You want some?”
“Sure, kid,” Donovan said. Anything to get the girl to go away.
She smiled and picked up the ball. “Isabel,” she said before walking away. “Not kid. I’m Isabel.”
Donovan felt like a jerk as she ran away. From the laughter of the others, he figured they’d dared her to talk to him like he was some sort of Boo Radley.
Appropriate.
A few minutes later she carefully brought him a cup of the grape Koolaid. He thanked her and sipped the sweet drink gratefully, trying to wash away the hurt balled up in his throat. The liquid reminded him of long ago summers spent with the Jenkins family. Camping trips, street football, fishing. God, he’d
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