The Son

Chapter Fifty-four. Diaries of Peter McCullough, AUGUST 8, 1917

Hot. Blew two tires driving fast on the rocks. Half a day lost; believe we will reach Torreón tomorrow. Sullivan and Jorge Ramirez are with me. Jorge knows the area somewhat. He is very nervous — if we get stopped by the Carrancistas it will be a dice roll on whether we live or die.

I do not particularly care. It feels as if someone might push a finger through me. There is nothing inside.

AUGUST 9, 1917

From some workers along the road Jorge acquired sombreros and proper clothing, which we change into, giving the men our own. Anger at Americans high here especially given Pershing’s recent expedition (la invasión, they call it). We pass donkeys dragging lumber and mules laden with pottery and thick-footed men padding slowly in the heat, all in white except for the blankets across their shoulders. There are children wearing nothing but hats and ragged blankets that barely reach their waists and we stop often for herds of sheep and goats and bare-ribbed cattle that see no reason to move out of our way.

I asked Sullivan and Jorge if they thought it possible that Phineas had María hurt or worse. Sullivan vigorously denied. Jorge silent. I pressed him and he said no, he did not think so.

Sullivan pointed out that Phineas is preparing to run for governor, and Sally’s father is an important judge. Suggested it was probably because of those reasons they wanted María gone. I pointed out there were other reasons as well.

In Torreón, which is bigger than I thought, we drove until we found a cantina Jorge judged to be safe (what logic he used is beyond me) and spent a few hours sitting in the back corner (after $150 bribe to owner) while Jorge went out to scout. We were both wearing the soiled white shirts and pants of workers, reeking of the sweat of other men. Sullivan kept his.45 on one empty chair and the carbine on the other. I had my pistol under my shirt but doubted I would have the energy to use it. Sullivan sensed this and it angered him.

When Jorge had not come back for several hours, Sullivan pointed out, though he said he had promised himself he would keep quiet, that ten thousand dollars is a lot of money. Enough to start an entirely new life. I am nervous here, boss, to tell you the truth. The longer we stay here, the lower our odds of staying above the snakes.

Am not sure what I am supposed to feel. Jorge finally returned and we ordered food. He had found us a good hotel.

Did María know this would happen? Was she waiting for it? I find it unlikely — she just as well expected to be led into the brasada and shot.

But it is the unstated question for the rest of the day. There are no signs of her that Jorge was able to detect — she might have come through last night, or might not.

I watched as Sullivan and Jorge silently pondered what they might do with ten thousand dollars. Five years’ wages. They would leave me, certainly. I see it on their faces about María. I cannot explain the situation. No longer certain I know it myself.

That she was desperate remains unsaid; that she had everything to gain and nothing to lose also remains unsaid. That she is ten years my junior and beautiful; no one mentions that, either.

AUGUST 10, 1917

Car stolen. Barricaded in hotel room. Waiting for Phineas to wire money for a new vehicle. They now know Jorge’s face and it is dangerous even for him to go outside. Strangely we see a European photographer walking around in the streets; no one seems to harass him in the slightest.

AUGUST 11, 1917

Phineas and my father apparently making calls: chief of police this morning brought a suitcase full of pesos and a 1911 Ford he is willing to sell. I point out that his price is the same as for a new Ford on a dealer lot. Sullivan and Jorge give me a look to shut the hell up.

Jorge’s arm nearly torn off by the starter handle, but we get police escort out of town. They encourage us to make the most of our journey today, it being Sunday, as the people will be taking their leisure. No one seems to know anything about María.

AUGUST 13, 1917

Drove to San Antonio to talk to Pinkertons.

“You want us looking in every city in Mexico.”

“Yes,” I told him.

“That is impossible. It is financially impossible and it is logistically impossible. There is a war going on there.”

“Give me a figure.”

He put up his hands. “One hundred thousand dollars.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I am taking you at your word when you say you want us looking everywhere. There are ways to do it for a tenth as much.”

“Will that get me the same result?”

“Either way, the result will likely be the same.”

“Let’s do it,” I told him.

He looked at the desk. “Everyone knows your family, but…”

“My family is not to know a word about this.”

“What I was getting at is that we will need the money up front, Mr. McCullough.”

I took out the checkbook, the money I have been socking away for myself, all I have ever put aside. I thought: I will never be free if I write this.

“I can give you eighty thousand today. The rest I can bring you next week.”

“Just so you know, you are wasting your money. Villa is still running around in the north, Carranza and Óbregon have the middle, and Zapata has the south. Even if she is still… in good health, finding her will be extremely difficult.”

“I am well aware of that.”

I wrote the check. A drop of sweat smeared the numbers.

“Are you sure you want me to take this?” he said.

AUGUST 18, 1917

Sally asked when I was going to accept the reality of our situation. I told her I said prayers every day that she would roll her Packard into a ditch. She laughed and I pointed out I was not joking.

After she collected herself she said she was willing to spend only half the time here, and half in San Antonio, just for appearance’s sake. I didn’t answer.

This afternoon she returned to my office with a bottle of cold wine and two glasses. Admitted she had not been perfect, though I had not been either. She wants to start over. A second marriage, of sorts.

I told her I did not want her around, now or ever, that I would sooner lie with a rotting corpse.

“You were with the girl a month,” she told me. “It is time to grow up.”

“That is the only month I have ever been happy.”

“Well what about the boys?” she said.

“The boys do not respect me. You have taught them that. You and my father.”

She smashed the glasses and stood leaning in the doorway, as María used to do. After she left I looked at the jagged wineglass and wondered what it would be like to push it into her neck. Then I was nearly sick. Follow your footprints long enough and they will turn into those of a beast.

I think about María. I tell myself she was a luxury, like fruit out of season, lucky to have but temporary.

AUGUST 19, 1917

They have buried me alive.