Page 33 of The Delivery

“I think you really hurt his feelings. He could barely even talk about it.”

Well, shit, fuck. Shit, fuck. SHIT, FUCK, FUCK! I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I just want to love him.

“Lex, I didn’t mean it. I’ve been here every night researching how to get him an extension. My feelings toward him make me feel uncomfortable. But that’s my own issue. I certainly didn’t want to come off as an asshole.”

“Well, great job. What a shitty way to leave it. You two were always crazy for each other, and now you totally ruined it.”

“I’ve got a whole packet for him. I can run it down today. Some other legal options, immigration advocates, the whole bit. I’ll apologize, I swear. I really want to help him.”

Lex is silent on the phone, and I chew my nail well into the skin.

“He left, Lana. The ship’s gone. It sailed out to sea.”

Everything shuts down, my breathing and my nervous system. My tear ducts dry up, and my eyelids scratch as they bang down like tarps over my fear filled eyeball. His words ping pong around my head until they stop making sense. What did you do, Lana? What did you do? How many times can you fuck it up with this man?

“What do you mean he’s gone? I told him to call if they moved him! Where is he now?”

“In Texas. In Laredo, or Nuevo Laredo—whichever is the Mexican side. They dumped him there yesterday. He’s only got so much cash and a backpack of spray paint.”

“No. That can’t be true. They removed him without a trial. I researched the misdemeanors and moral turpitude charges. He’s got right to representation. His son was born here.”

“I think it’s just like a one day you’re in the next you’re out. It’s a random process. Like winning the backwards lottery. Your card gets pulled —the winner gets tossed out. I got an advance on my paycheck last night. I wired him the money—he said he’d pick it up in Tijuana. He wants to go look for his sister and then find his family in Mexico City.”

“Do you have an address for him, a cell number? Some way to reach him?”

“Nothing. Just the Western Union code for the transfer I sent him. They’ll notify me when it’s picked up. But he could be anywhere.”

“Give me the tracking number. I’ll drive down there. It’s not too far. I can find him. I know it.”

“He wants to go. There’s nothing left for him here. His ex won’t let him see his kid. He wants to start over fresh. I doubt you’ll find him. But if you do, he might not want to see you. He might not want to come back.”

“And that’s fine if he doesn’t. Let me at least find him and run through his options, and he can decide where he wants to go. How’s he planning on getting south without any money? Hop one of those limb-chewing death trains? Walk? I could at least drive him to the capitol.”

“So you want to go find him, give him your folder and deliver him to Mexico?”

CHAPTER 16

I’ve never been to Mexico before, unless you count spring break in Cancun my senior year of high school. It was a sponsored trip with multiple chaperones, and I got to go because of my grades and my standing as president of the debate club. I don’t really do sun because of my complexion so I holed up under a palapa, read a book a day while I took advantage of the drinking age and binged on fresh lime margaritas. But the Mexico I’ve seen of late on the news and in magazines doesn’t match up to my beach vacation. All I hear now are reports of a drug war of epic proportions with beheadings and mutilations especially along the border.

I don’t speak a lick of Spanish. I can barely order a beer. You’d think I would have gotten that together in all my years as a social worker. But my mom only speaks Russian, and I never learned that either—so there you go —I’m a lingual deficient. A tongue-tied, stubborn, single language speaker.

When I get back to the apartment, the first thing I do is borrow Dale’s Rosetta Stone still wrapped in the packaging. I’ll learn the language on the way there, and by the time I get there I’ll be fluent in Spanish. Or maybe at least that way I’ll be able to ask for the basics. Then I borrow his old GPS. It’s really not stealing. I got him a brand new one for Christmas, and the old one is just sitting around wasting space in the closet. I leave Dale a note asking him to watch my plants and my fish. I should tell someone where I’m going but I’m too scared to call home. At least Lexi knows the best way to track me.

I grab my phone charger and my computer, then think twice about it and put back the computer. I pack a suitcase with clothes, some sheets and a blanket. I put in candles, a southern California road map and box of energy bars.

I’m hoping the phone will ring and someone will tell me I can’t go. I’d even take Dale calling to tell me he wants me back, I’m so afraid of the unknown. This is the first time I’ve ever done something so risky. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m risking, but it feels daunting and huge. I could find him, and he could tell me to get lost. Or more likely, I’ll go down there and get myself killed. But somehow my body has a mind of its own, and it drags my stuff out the door and jumps into the car. I blast music to distract myself as I fill up the gas tank. Vintage Public Enemy to really get myself riled up. Inside the gas station, I buy a hot dog that’s probably been rotating under heat lamps since 1997. I cover it in relish and gobble it down. I don’t even like hot dogs. It’s all proof that I’m losing my mind. But I eat it like it’s my last supper because who knows what the hell lies ahead.

California Interstate 15-S is clear, and I’ve heard about this drive from everyone else on the planet, including Dale, but I’ve never done it. I put in the Rosetta Stone CD and listen to common Spanish phrases and some verb conjugation.

I’ve got five hours of driving to explain to myself why seeing Mozey for five minutes could end my relationship with Dale and set me off on such an impulsive mission.

I wonder how much of my attraction to Mozey is born out of some sort of warped fantasy about saving him. But Mozey has done fine for himself since he left the program. He might not have a great job or a lot of money, but he stayed out of jail and supported his family. The crimes that got him deported weren’t real crimes in my eyes. I’m all for public and political art —especially if it’s as poignant and practiced as Mozey’s.

The sexual attraction is there, at least on my side it is. Is this because it was forbidden, am I just a gross pervert? Or maybe all women are sexually attracted to him. He’s beautiful and muscular, and his artistic flair makes him seem like he could do wonders in bed. My mind drifts to the moment in Detroit when we painted with him pressed to my back. His hard cock, his warm body, his strong arm flung across my hip. I blush thinking about his body and his scent. I’m instantly turned on, and I squeeze my thighs together and try to concentrate on the road.

What if Mozey only wants me for the conquest? Because he struck out before? Sometimes it feels like ninety percent of men’s desire is wrapped up in the chase. Then after you consummate it, do the deed and all that, you’ve got ten percent left over for the rest of your relationship. Ten percent is nothing, and then you have to start worrying about where the hell his other ninety is focused when it’s no longer in your bed.

I take the Rosetta out of the player and toss it on the seat. I can’t stand the repetition; it’ll make me go insane. I put in a mixed CD Dale made me when we first met and push play. A sentimental singer songwriter croons into my ear. I can hear the breath in her singing voice and it makes me grit my teeth. I eject the CD, roll down the window and toss it out into the street.

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