New Border Voices: An Anthology

The Window

The Window BRIAN VAN REET Staff Sergeant Fitzpatrick tried to hold the memory, his eyes moving from the menu to his fiancée, to a rusty freight passing through the outskirts of Marathon , dotted with trailer parks and cement factories, into the Chihuahuan Desert . Overhead, the late-morning sun heated a corrugated tin roof, supported at the corners by twisting columns of mesquite. In the distance the train clicked lazily through a crossroads, the sound of steel on steel taking its time to echo and reach the little café where Fitzpatrick and his fiancée, Sadie, sat at a table on the flagstone veranda. “I’ll have the chicken enchiladas,” he said. The waitress nodded at him. He should have gotten a salad, had put on a few pounds since his days playing high school ball, but what the hell. Sadie, more beautiful than he was handsome, remained absorbed in the menu. “I think I need another minute,” she said. “Sorry.” After the waitress left, Sadie set down the menu and sighed in exasperation. “I never know what I want. What’s wrong with me?” “Nothing,” Fitzpatrick said. “Take your time.” He watched her study the selections intently, as if what she ate for lunch today might actually make a difference in the grand scheme, wondering about the contrast between the morbidity with which she regarded this decision, and the spontaneous, joyful proposal she had made a month ago, after only knowing him for the winter. “Okay.” She folded the menu as the long train receded over the horizon, becoming inaudible. A ratty mockingbird landed nearby and approached their table, turning its head from side to side, strutting with avian confidence. Soon the waitress returned. “I’ll have a fajita salad and a beer,” Sadie said. “You want a beer?” “Sure,” Fitzpatrick said. “I’ll have a beer.” ♦ ♦ ♦ They ate, finished their first round, and ordered another. The waitress popped the tops with an opener from her apron and set the bottles on the table. An SUV, one of the newer, hybrid models, mountain bikes racked in tow, passed on the road and pulled into the dusty lot beside the café. The doors opened and ♦ ♦ ♦ The Window ♦ 85 a couple got out. Fitzpatrick chewed his final enchilada and washed it down, observing the approaching twenty-somethings. The driver was a thin guy wearing a large red beard and a stocking cap; his passenger, a woman with pale skin, a bob haircut, and a stud through her nose. They claimed the other table on the veranda. Sadie glanced over while continuing the conversation. “I’m thinking of hiring my cousin for the photography,” she said. “Or is that a bad idea?” “Her stuff online was good. Maybe she’ll give us a deal.” Sadie nodded and made a note in her planner. The waitress arrived to take the newcomers’ orders. The mockingbird followed her to the threshold, and she shooed it off when she returned with the drinks. The tables of sun-bleached wood were large and close. As they drank and talked, Fitzpatrick overheard the guy with the red beard ask after the pierced girl’s brother. What caught his attention was the mention of boot camp. “I don’t hear from him too much,” the girl said. “He never was much of a writer. They’ve only given them phone time once or twice so far. But yeah, I can tell he’s already turning into a real jarhead. The last letter he wrote, he mostly bragged about how many pushups he can do now.” There was sarcasm and resignation in her voice, a mix of lament and attack. She sounded like she regretted everything she was saying immediately after saying it. “I hope he doesn’t make it through. For his own sake. Jesus. Dumb kid— some people need saving from themselves.” Fitzpatrick and Sadie made eye contact. He grinned, a funny half-sneer he sometimes made, squinting at a far-off point in the desert. With a look of beautiful ferocity, she tilted back her second beer and finished it. “Ready.” He nodded and got the waitress’s attention. They split the check and walked past the other table to the parking lot. He started his jeep and pulled onto the road. Sadie frowned out the window at the veranda, the transmission eased into second, and they passed out of view of the café. Fitzpatrick turned on the radio. She turned it down. “I hate that you...