Sunland: A Novel

23

• • 154 • • I fiddled with my watch. As I explained to her the break in the fence, the open lane across the border, the lines beside her eyes hardened. I gave her Danni’s reasoning. People crossed every day. As human beings, people were meant to move from one place to another. I would just be helping people out. It was really nothing, I assured her. I watched Mona assume her best game face, but her feelings filtered through. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, pulled down her lip, squeezed her nose, and scratched her forearms. “Moving people over the border,” she said. “That’s the gist.” She breathed in a slow, deliberate lungful of air. Then she re-looped the bag’s strap over her shoulder. “How big was the bolt that came unscrewed in your brain?” she asked me. “Pills I can handle. Pills, sure, but this?” She pushed me aside and went for the door. “You’re leaving?” I asked. “The residents have puppy therapy in the morning anyway. I like to be there.” “You can’t leave.” “I can’t?” She tilted her head. “I own these two feet,” she said. We were not square. We were several Benjamin Franklins away from ever being square. The balding old bird owed me hundreds of dollars, but now there was a professional compound bow in her kitchen, not to mention a Nubuck quiver full of razortipped arrows, and it was clear to me the old woman was not well. “The meeting only lasts an hour,” I explained and watched her eyes slide away. “These meetings will help.” “I don’t know,” Ms. Wetherbee said. “That kind of thing’s not for me.” She rocked back and forth in her puffy armchair, the queen bee of her messy hive. Pink lipstick gleamed wetly on her teeth. I stepped around a ceramic reproduction of the Little Mermaid. “You can come on your own or I’ll pick you up and carry you. You must weigh— what?—a buck and a dime?” “Some choices.” “Either way, you’re coming with me.” Eyelashes fluttering, Ms. Wetherbee squeezed her hands. She looked at her mantel and the portrait above it. There she was, posed in a velvet chair and backed by her two sons. Oh, I would have loved to get them alone in a 23 • • 155 • • room. It would only take an hour—one hour behind a locked, soundproof door. They never helped her. I knew her elder son was a lawyer, and her other, an architect, was always busy, always too, too busy. “Time’s ticking and I’m not in the mood for arguments,” I said. “My new girlfriend left me. So I’m fresh out of patience.” Ms. Wetherbee put her foot down and stopped rocking. “Let me get my coat.” “Fine.” I’d just about had it. These old-timers! With their coats and hats and special socks and woolen gloves! Ms. Wetherbee went to her bedroom while I rooted around the horrible magnificence of her apartment. A fly lit on a large purple glass egg and rubbed its tiny hands. All around were boxes and boxes of useless stuff. Where did she get the money? I knew serious debt could be in her future. With my other clients, money moved through channels with safety measures. Lawyers, family members, and dpas gave out monthly allowances. But Ms. Wetherbee spent hers like it was her job. I waited. She remained in her bedroom for a suspiciously long time. When she didn’t answer her door, I tried the handle. She was in the middle of a California king, perched amid piles of orchid-patterned pillows. And she was holding a smoky-orange pill bottle. The lid was off. She was reenacting the crying routine again. “I swallowed three,” she said. “You told me you stopped.” “I fell off the wagon.” “You promised.” “Can’t you see that they make me feel delightful?” she said. “They make me not feel anything.” I examined the label on the bottle. Thirty-milligram scored tabs of morphine sulfate. They looked new. I could use them, re-bottle them, but I wanted to set a precedent. I marched the pills to the toilet. While dumping them out I noticed a sticker attached to the bottle. It was the image of a black bull. A bull. A black bull. Ms. Wetherbee was on her side, sucking her finger, when I returned. “I’m soorrrrry,” she said...