Then She Vanished

Thirty-Seven

Tola lay against me, damp and big pupiled, her hair dark on the pillow and her eyes pale green in the minor light.

She rose on one elbow, checked her phone, then put it back under the pillow. “Things,” she whispered.

“What things?”

“Don’t worry.”

“Why would I worry on a night like this?”

“You’re my rock. And my roll. I wish you were mine.”

I stroked her hair and listened to her breathing. Through the window I could see the same waxing crescent of moon that had led me to Natalie Strait the night prior in the dark, wind-rattled desert. Natalie in camouflage, part of the gang. The tunnels. The wall of masks. Where did they make the bombs? Who was mailing them? Where was Jackie O?

Even making love to Tola Strait couldn’t prevent the riptides of the last weeks from pulling me back out to sea with them. Dread and darkness, treading through the undertow.

While she slept I went to the kitchen, got a roll of duct tape from a drawer and tore off two short strips.

Outside I stood for a moment beside my bullet-riddled F-150, which stood alone in the chill spring air, as beloved a vehicle as I’ve ever owned. I felt her pain. The bullet holes were dull silver against the black paint. The divots were mild, due to the velocity of the 5.56mm rounds from the M4. The bullet-resistant glass — $50 per square foot — and the angle of attack had left the windshield intact and without holes. It had only been a few months since I’d had six bullet wounds operated on by the body shop. A long story. Today’s miracle was no damage under the hood other than a punctured radiator hose, and two ruined tires. I’d limped my baby to the nearest tire store in Ramona, Burt riding shotgun, literally. An hour later we were on our way.

Standing beside my truck I touched the driver’s door, mumbled thanks and a short promise of vengeance. Thought I should name the truck after all we’d been through. My first idea was Vivian and I liked it. Sprightly and unusual. Of or related to life.

I pasted the tape over the rear left taillight of Tola’s Jeep. All night I’d sensed her departure, but I had no idea to where or why.

When I got back into bed she was awake.

“Wanna hear the story of Kirby and the baby gorilla?” she asked.

How do you say no to that?

“He was fifteen and some of his older friends were animal breeders and dealers. You know, exotic stuff for the pet trade, mostly from Mexico and Central America. Well, Kirby loved creatures of any kind, so he’d clean cages and run errands for these jaspers, get to hang with the animals and make a little pocket money. So, the dealers take a baby western lowland gorilla in payment for something. No brains, no headaches for the dealers, right? She’d been delivered by cesarean section and weighed less than five pounds. Name of Tumaini, which is Swahili for hope. Of course she stopped drinking her formula around strangers, so they sold her to Kirby for a hundred dollars and he snuck her into his room.”

Tola kissed me lightly on the lips, checked her phone again.

“That gorilla was cute as a bug, Roland, had this soulful little face and beautiful eyes and this straight-up black hair like she was surprised or something. She looked so old! Little white diapers. Kirby cleaned out a bottom dresser drawer and made a bed for her. The first day he showed her to me she was clinging to him like Kirby was her mom. Animals always loved him. She started drinking from the bottle again. He bought her a big plush gorilla that cost him a fortune but Tumaini really liked it.

“This was when Mom was off and wandering and before Kirby’s fight that ruined Dad. So, Dad being distracted by Mom’s adventures and gone all the time running Better Burger, everything was cool for a week. He couldn’t figure why Kirb spent so much time in his room. The truancy calls from the school got Dad riled enough to raid the bedroom and find the gorilla. Dad laid waste to Kirby and raided his exotic-animal friends. Charged them a grand for his trouble and the gorilla’s room and board. Gave them some Better Burger discount coupons. Gave Tumaini to the San Diego Zoo and made a publicity stunt out of it. So Dad.”

Feeling her breath on my chest, I said, “Amber Hunt covered it for San Diego News. Your dad got permission to use Tumaini’s image for advertising and named a veggie burger after her.”

“The Gorilla Gobble. It never took off. Ahead of its time.”

Tola’s warm breath turned liquid on my skin and I felt her hard-fought sobs.

“It’s good to remember,” she said. “Even when you want to forget.”

No more truthful words than those, I thought.

Family stories.

I told her about my sister, who was still traveling the world as a professional surfer. Janine is one of the few female big-wave riders and to watch her compete at Mavericks or Cloudbreak puts my heart in my throat until she comes striding up the beach with her board under one arm and that dazed smile on her face.

I went on and on about my brother, Jack — a bright and troubled man — who travels with Janine as an assistant, trainer, companion, and fellow surfer after his grueling years as a SEAL.

Tola recounted brother Dalton’s run for high school junior class president, his defeat and his bitter protest of rigged ballot counting. He’d made such a big issue of it with a local paper that the principal had duly questioned the election committee students and found that one of them had in fact counted her own vote for Dalton’s opponent twice because Dalton had passed over her in favor of Natalie Galland of Ramona. One vote being enough to change the outcome. She’d had no idea it was that close. Dalton had happily taken office. And, not long after, taken his baseball bat to older brother Kirby, staking his claim to Natalie once and for all.

Then the stories tailed into silence and I listened to the heartbeat of my home and the woman in my bed. Moon and a breeze through the window screen. Thought nothing about anything. Amazing grace.

We made strong love and in the afterglow Tola’s phone buzzed. She listened and hung up.

“I don’t need you on this,” she said.

“I’ll help.”

“I don’t need it.”

She carried her overnight back into the bathroom and emerged shortly in a trim black business suit, a tastefully low-cut black blouse, low-heeled leather boots, the elegant chartreuse satin duster I’d seen that night in Sacramento draped over one shoulder. Hair in a ponytail, tight and out of her way.

We walked to her Jeep in heavy silence.

“Sure you don’t need me?” I asked.

“I got this one.”

She kissed me hard, then tossed the duster onto the front seat, climbed in and rolled down the window.

“Roland, I love you like a twister loves a trailer. But don’t follow me and don’t wait up.”

“I’ll leave a light on for you.”

Down the drive. I waited a moment, then got into sweet, battle-scarred Vivian and followed.