Page 28 of The Delivery

Well it is. I eventually fell in love. Sort of.

His name was Dale, and he was from Annapolis. He grew up in a

military family, but he got the social justice itch just like I did and became a documentary filmmaker. After Pathways folded, I went to work for him. I did key grip and catering, make-up and editing. I also did some easy camera work and dialogue writing, and I temped on the side whenever Dale was on the downside of funding. We lived together in an apartment near Venice, we had a cat named Kitty and three different kinds of mustard in the fridge at any given moment. Pretty good life you’re thinking?

Sure, it was. And I can tell you all of this because I’m writing it from my kitchen.

Dale and I have agreed to never get married because we’d rather spend the money on things that are important to us. We like to watch foreign films together and give foot rubs and eat take-out. It’s not like we don’t fuck because every once in a while it happens. But Dale and I are like brother and sister that fight over legroom and keep separate finances. I don’t do Friday night drunks anymore, and I stopped my misuse of the random penis. We’re a better team than we are a duet, better partners than lovers.

Well, if Mozey got married did he do it for love? If I’m with Dale, where does the whole story go?

Let me assure you when Mozey left Pathways, it wasn’t the last time I’d see him.

And to answer your question—the story goes south. It goes all the way to Mexico.

THE DELIVERY: PART II CHAPTER 14

It’s six when the phone rings. I happen to be awake and packing coolers because Dale is shooting in East LA today. I’m making lunch for him and the entire crew, which consists of Dale, an intern and his buddy Jim from film school. They’re doing a piece on transient workers and had to be out shooting before sunrise because that’s when the men arrive to line up for manual labor jobs.

I’m slapping cheese and salami onto squares of bread, and I check the caller ID in case it’s them calling because they forgot something. I don’t recognize the number, so I just let it go to voicemail and continue slapping down slabs on the eight, white squares in front of me.

At first I don’t recognize the voice speaking on the message. Why am I lying?

Scratch that.

I recognize it immediately. But it’s been such a long time since I heard

it it’s hard to believe that it’s really him calling me.

“Lana?” he says, and my heart does a summersault. “It’s Moisés de la

Cruz.” My heart does a back flip. “Maybe you don’t remember me.” My

heart takes the gold in the all-around. “Hopefully you do. Well, I was

wondering if you could help me.”

He says some other things or at least I think he does. Then he’s rattling

off numbers. The mustard knife hits the floor, spraying me with yellow. I

turn to stone, a life-size statue, frozen stupid in the kitchen. I’m thinking I

should run and grab the phone and not lose this chance. But I can’t remember where the phone is, let alone how to move my feet or even breathe. I’m standing here stunned because something inside of me just

said, Lana, this is the part where your whole beautiful life begins. Mozey Cruz, it appears, has gotten himself tucked away inside a border

detention site. It looks as if he never took the time to straighten out his

papers, and now it’s caught up to him, so many years later. And if he’s

calling me, I quickly deduce, that means he’s got no one else to call. It

means he’s alone.

I drive the sandwiches to East LA, and when I arrive on the set, I let

Dale know I can’t work with him today because I need to look into how you

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