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The four of them drove west, Jack behind the wheel and beside the old man, and Jo in back with Che. The large engine pulled them along the pavement with a fierce, consistent force. Jack angled the rearview mirror so he could see the backseat, and twice he saw Jo put her lips to the cloned revolutionary, though the man sitting up front had no gun, no weapon to force her. In fact, the Elder spoke only to tell Jack where to turn, and he followed his direction just as Jo did. The sun was edging over the Baboquivari Mountains, and it sent a warm band of light into the car as it fell. In this light, Jo’s hair seemed not only to reflect the rays, but to become a source of light itself.
Jack pulled the visor down and slowed a bit, having to squint. In the backseat, Jo seemed tranquil, caring for Che with saint-like serenity. She stroked his forehead, and gazed down at the man as though she knew him. Did she know him?
It had not escaped Jack that very likely Jo had known some or all of Micah’s true intentions from the beginning. How could it be otherwise? He not only forgave her, however—he felt strongly that forgiveness was beside the point. She was doing what she thought was right, just as his father had done. So he did not want to ask her. He did not want to give her another reason to lie. Jack felt dazed, ruminative, and as though Jo shared his need to witness, to capture something and live, if only for a moment, in isolation of what had come before and what might happen next, she told him to pull the car to the side of the road.
They’d been passing a long green belt of enormous Ash trees growing along an underground river, and when he stepped out of the car to follow Jo toward them, he could hear the soft whoosh of their leaves, though there was no breeze on the ground.
“Jo,” he called.
She kept her back to him, her shoulders jumping up and down as she cried, and it occurred to Jack that she knew about Ben. That she must have been told. Jack looked back at the car, and the old man sat calmly in his seat, staring ahead, waiting. The tall, exotic trees swayed slightly. He listened to them whisper.
“I didn’t know about Ben, Jo. I swear. My father made sure of it.”
Finally Jo turned around. “Your father,” she said. Her eyes were full of tears. “Your father.”
“He didn’t want me to end up like him.”
Jo lifted her arms, palms up, and shook her head. “And yet,” she said.
“I know,” Jack said. “I don’t know.”
“It’s part of you.”
“You’re part of me.”
Jo turned back around but Jack walked up and put his arms around her from behind. He still loved her. He’d always love her. He’d hold her like this until she wanted to be let go.
But she didn’t want to be let go.
Jo cried for a long time—long enough for the sun to move west and, finally, paint only the tips of the Ash into burning embers. Her small, quiet sobs had grown, and her entire body had convulsed so much that Jack had lifted her off the ground to keep from falling himself. When she calmed down he turned her around and held her that way, her face against his chest, his face pressed into her hair. He’d been hoping for Jo to come back to Arivaca with him, to live with him again, and he knew then that she would not come back. She would never come back. He also knew he would not try to change her mind.
“This place is beautiful,” Jo said, wiping her eyes.
Jack agreed. “You don’t expect it,” he said.
They walked back to the car in silence, arms around each other, and resumed their positions. The old man nodded a small hello, and Che wheezed. He’d pulled himself up and propped himself against the door, but as if strained from the effort he seemed to be dozing. Before pulling back onto the road, Jack studied the man’s sallow cheeks and thin, twisted frame. All this energy had been put into getting Che Guevara stateside, and even now that he’d arrived, special care was needed. What would this man do, he wondered. What could he do?
They pulled back onto the empty road and got the car up to speed. Che quietly gasped, though he was breathing more easily now.
“You know,” Jack said, “he doesn’t look much like a hero.”
The old man chuckled.
“I’ve been thinking about something,” said Jo. “How did you know he had asthma? How did you even know it was Che Guevara?”
The old man stared straight ahead, and did not answer. Jack looked at the shiny skin of his profile, smooth despite his age. He was a small man, but sat erect, as though in the habit of exaggerating his height. Presently Jack remembered what it was the man had said near the grave. Jack had expressed his condolences about the boy, and the man had told him that it was the future that killed him. Is this what he’d meant? What future was worth it?
“I think they’ve been waiting for him,” said Jack.
“What?” Jo leaned forward. “Is that true? Have you been waiting for Che the whole time? What about the Busk? You weren’t protesting the Busk Ceremony?”
“Why would we protest a Busk Ceremony?” the old man said. Then he pointed up ahead.
“Take the next left.”
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