The Dead Women of Juarez

Hey, man, where the fuck are you? Listen, you need to call me, all right? I don’t know what your deal is, but if you and Paloma decided to run off together… that shit’s not right. You got everybody worried, okay? You get this, you tell Paloma to call me.

And don’t you do nothing stupid like getting married, okay? Just call. Okay, just call me wherever. Okay.

FOUR

CHINALOA WAS SUPPOSED TO TAKE away pain, but it was a cheat because the pain didn’t disappear. Instead it was all put on hold, kept in a secret place, and when there was no room for the pipe or the needle anymore, chinaloa gave it all back because chinaloa was a bitch that couldn’t stand to be jilted.

Kelly hurt behind the eyes and deeply into his skull. His stomach was a knot and he heaved over and over again even though there was nothing in there except something clear and acidic and nasty. His shoulders hurt and his knees hurt and anything that could swell or bend or stab him with shards of broken glass came alive and punished him.

Even smells assaulted him. Kelly hated the odor of his body. He showered six times in a row and scrubbed himself until his skin was raw, but the rot-stink wouldn’t go away. It was the dope working its way out of his blood and through his flesh and seeping into the air he breathed. He could not brush his teeth often enough.

The worst was not being able to think straight. He couldn’t ask himself why and he couldn’t remember anyway. Hot screws were jammed into the base of his skull and he could not speak or dream or even move. When he slept now he slept for relief, because only then could he earn some distance from withdrawal. He was dying.

But no, he wasn’t dying. Dying was easier than detox. He knew this already, had been in this hell already and told himself he would never go back, but he had and he was and it would end when it was damned good and ready and not a day or a minute or an hour before. Kelly wished he were dying; that much he could hold onto.

Footsteps on the landing outside his apartment were thunderous. When the work-whistle sounded at the maquiladora across the way, it broke Kelly’s skull in half. He dreaded a knock on the door because it would tear him apart and he would have to scream. A scream would kill him.

No one knocked. Even the phone didn’t ring anymore. Kelly knew when he got his thirst back that he was going to live. He drank one glass of water after another until his stomach bloated. He pissed like a river through a broken dam. The hurt faded. He put on clothes and even went outside to sit by the heavy bag.

Finally he could eat, had to eat, but he got nothing from the store except rice and corn tortillas in the hope that he could keep them down. He ate and threw up again, but the second time he did keep it down and the time after that, too. Once he finished a bowl of rice and he wept with the bowl clutched between his hands so tightly that his flesh blanched white.

He shaved his face and left bloody nicks behind because he did not want to look at himself in the mirror. His weight was down, but not healthily. His clothes were loose on his frame.

The apartment was filthy. Nothing was picked up and nothing was put away, so the floor was strewn with wrappers and empty plates and everywhere a bottle or a can could be perched it had been done. Opening the windows wide let the smell out, but the mess remained.

He listened to his phone messages again. Once he had to pause and he cried with his hands over his face. He cried because he was ashamed and he was ashamed for crying. It took an hour to get through to the end.

Esteban answered the home phone. It was before noon, but he was awake. “It’s me,” Kelly told him. “I want to talk to Paloma.”

“Paloma? Hey, what the fuck? I been trying to get you for a month, cabron! I come by your place, I call you on the phone… don’t be playing that shit with me now. Where’s Paloma?”

“I didn’t… you didn’t come by here,” Kelly said.

“The hell I didn’t! I banged on your door for a fucking hour. Where’s my fucking sister, pinche? ”

Kelly put his hand on the kitchen counter. He felt off, like the floor was shifted, and he wanted to sit down. “She’s not here. She… she called me a few times.”

“When?”

“I don’t know.”

Kelly heard Esteban breathing on the other end of the line, taking shuddery breaths. Kelly felt cold. “This is not funny,” Esteban said at last. “You tell me where she is.”

“I don’t know. I swear to God, I don’t know. Listen… I fucked up, man. She called me—”

“She was worried about you, bro! We all were. I heard some shit and I don’t believe it: something about you buying horse. Somebody tells me that, I say they’re full of shit because you don’t touch that no more. Paloma says she’ll go see you and then nothing. Tell me what you said to her.”

“I didn’t say—” Kelly began.

“Did you hit her? If you fucking hit her and she ran off, cabron, I will put a knife in you. ?Entienda? I will stick you in the fucking ground, bro. I will fuck you up.”

Kelly’s temples throbbed and he rubbed them. Esteban ranted in his ear. He was dizzy and the floor canted more and more. If Esteban would just shut up, he could think, but Esteban wouldn’t and the torrent covered Kelly over.

“Hey, are you still there?”

He was on the floor by the phone with the receiver still pressed to his ear. “I think I blacked out,” Kelly said.

“I’m coming over there.”

“No. I’ll come to you,” Kelly said, but Esteban had already hung up. He put the phone away and tried to clear up. Two big plastic trash bags were full in ten minutes. Kelly threw out his old sheets. The bedroom still reeked of ammonia. The mattress showed a brown-stained outline of where Kelly’s unwashed body slept and sweated and dreamed chinaloa dreams. It was ruined; Kelly would have to get rid of it.

When Esteban came he pounded on the door. Kelly opened up and Esteban bulled past. “Paloma? ?Paloma, esta aqui?”

“She’s not here,” Kelly said.

Esteban checked the apartment. He came back to the living room and Kelly saw that he’d lost weight, too. Dark grooves cut in beneath his eyes and his hair was unkempt. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. His clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them. Esteban looked as if he was about to cry. “Where is she, man? Just tell me where she went. I promise I won’t do nothing to you if it’s your fault. You broke up with her, she broke up with you… it don’t matter.”

“She’s not here,” Kelly repeated.

“What the fuck do you mean she’s not here?!?” Esteban smacked the phone off its receiver. He kicked the front of the refrigerator and left a dent. Kelly’s few dishes were by the sink, gathered unwashed. Esteban swept them onto the floor. “What did you fucking do to her? Where the fuck did you go?”

Kelly stood by the door. It was still open, and he hadn’t moved even to push it shut. He felt rooted. The shattering dishes didn’t make him flinch. He was aware of his pulse rushing in his ears. “She didn’t come here.”

“You said I didn’t come here!”

“I didn’t hear you,” Kelly said. His throat hurt and his voice pitched higher. “I was high, man. I got messed up. If she came… I didn’t hear her.”

“?Mierda!”

Esteban kicked the refrigerator again and the door popped open. Kelly’s stack of plastic-wrapped tortillas was there half finished. The rest was empty, stained yellow by the little light, and forlorn.