13
Jack read his report. More than half the aliens had made it across. This made the show more accurate, historically speaking, but to depict immigrants breezing over the border wasn’t giving quite the impression he was expected to provide. If they weren’t able to reverse this trend, he’d have to rig the game.
He stepped outside to watch the tourists walk single file down the visitor tower stairs, their bulky, awkward bodies rebelling at every step. In their midst, Jo and Micah seemed almost to be standing still, their comparable youth and grace bringing to mind the silent center of a storm. Micah’s hand was on Jo’s shoulder. Jack thought of his moment alone with her that morning, as she slept. He’d crept into his bedroom and stood over her, over her smooth face pale in the first light, her red hair flaring over light blue flannel. He’d missed her more in that moment than he had in the last five years, it seemed to him at the time. At least, more than he’d let himself. In truth, he was beginning to suspect he’d covered something over, not killed it. He returned to his office.
Jack saw them again less than a minute into his post-show spiel. He couldn’t muster much enthusiasm that day, and had feared there wouldn’t be enough questions to keep the session going, but this was worse. It had always made him uncomfortable when Jo listened to his little speech, and now here she was with her friend, her accomplice. When Micah corrected Jack’s admittedly softball answer about immigrant families he should have been annoyed, but he was instead strangely relieved to have someone else hold forth. The man was obviously comfortable speaking before a group, and Jack pictured him standing before a crowd of true believers, people like the kid who’d been here yesterday, idealists and misfits ready to welcome the second coming of Che Guevara.
Jack took a question about the famed water stations set up by sympathetic ranchers and aid groups along the state side of the border in the olden days. This time he didn’t soften the answer, and he hoped Jo would notice.
“They were probably a good idea at first,” he said. “It was mostly religious groups behind it, and they convinced Pima County they’d save money on account of not having to haul off so many dead bodies. But it didn’t take long for the border groups to catch on. They’d look for the stations, stake them out, and where there weren’t any they’d put one. What began as a gesture of kindness wound up as a trap.”
The woman who’d asked looked crestfallen, but it was the truth, and it felt surprisingly good to say it.
“Let that be a lesson to you,” he added, winking, “next time you want to do someone a favor.”
He tried to make eye contact with Jo—hoping to share the irony of his sentiment—but she was looking out the window at the few men who’d gathered outside, waiting for the postmortem. She was looking for Angel, no doubt, but he wasn’t among them. He’d been wrong to use that man against her, Jack knew. Angel wouldn’t judge Jo, or if he did it would be hidden. Jack wondered whether an inscrutable face was a sign of strength or weakness.
As the tourists moved on to the gift shop, Micah stepped forward and thanked him for the show but Jo held back, clasping her hands before her like she had last night in their hotel room. She looked tense. Jack cleaned up a little in preparation for the meeting, and avoided Micah’s eyes. He sensed that Micah was going to approach him about Che again, and this was not the time or the place for that conversation. He tried to picture the man down there, underground, moving north slowly, slowly but with resolve. It angered him, actually, Micah’s tactless drive, his unembarrassed advances, as though he were asking to borrow a cup of sugar. How had Jo ended up with a man of so little subtlety? He was oafish, blunt, the kind of man they used to make fun of together. He let Micah and Jo stand there and watch him sweep paper cups into the center of the room until his team started coming in. When he finally looked up they were gone.
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