A Wrong Turn

By Steph

The little Chevy huffed and coughed as it continued along the empty road, as if it knew before I did that it had taken a wrong turn. I knew I should never have stopped at that little village, never should have turned off the main road. Now, here I was, lost in a Sonoran Desert. In the distance, mountains mocked me while the noon sun bore down on the Chevy, threatening to melt its passenger despite the weak attempt of the car to blow cold air.

The air conditioning no longer blew cold air. Instead, a warm breeze tickled my bare thighs, better than no air at all. Even with all four windows open, the heat oppressed me, made me tired and unable to focus clearly. I reached for my bottled water lying in the passenger seat and finished the last warm drop, then looked into the back seat to assure myself that I had not finished the bag full of plastic water bottles that I had purchased in Hermosillo.

Another cough and the Chevy shuddered. I looked for shadows and saw none, not of the car, the scrub or the tall cactus that grew not far from the two-lane road. How could the sun still be at its apex, I wondered, when so much time had passed since the air conditioning stopped working, since I first opened that bottle of water. I kept looking for signs on a straight road with no signs. Finally, I decided I had to turn around. Those mountains had to be in the east and since the sun refused to move, I would turn and head west, back towards the sea and the road to Hermosillo.

Then, out of nowhere, the sign appeared. Gas 15 k. A gas station fifteen kilometers away seemed like a better idea than another endless drive along this shadowless road. I pressed on the gas pedal and, with a protesting choke, the Chevy lurched forward. Every few moments, I glanced at the speedometer, three miles, four miles, five. With a twist that threatened to pull a back muscle, I retrieved another bottle of water and the bag of oranges from the back seat. Seven miles, eight, nine miles passed and the only thing I saw was desert; scrub and cactus and tiny skittering rodents looking for shelter in their holes in the ground. I wished I had a hole in the ground.

I drove fifteen miles, then sixteen, and still, I saw nothing but the mountains looming ahead. They seemed so much closer, so much larger, and still the sun followed as if stalking me. After awhile, the heat deadened my sense of time completely, and the feeling that I had entered some other world grew. How else could the sun make no shadows?

The Chevy coughed and sputtered, and coughed, and choked, and backfired until all it could do was wheeze as it came to a slow rolling stop in the middle of the empty road.

If I thought it would help in any way, I would have cried. Instead, I opened the door and stepped outside, nearly dropping to my knees from weakness, my energy drained by the unbearable heat. Once I steadied myself, I saw, to my relief, my own shadow, stretching towards the mountains. It must have been my eastward position, I thought, and my own weariness. I took a bottle of water out of the car and squeezed it over my head so that, for a few refreshing seconds, it cooled my face and neck. I drank more, grabbed rags from beneath my seat and started towards the front of the car. After cursing at the hot metal, I pulled the hood open. The engine hissed, but after slowly opening the radiator, I saw no need for water or coolant. Next I reached to check the oil.

I heard a bird cry out, maybe a raven. I wasn't sure. A rodent's squeal reached my ears and the flapping of wings. Then there came another sound, ching, ching-ching, ching. I cleared my throat and shook my head. I was alone out here, except for the wild life and would have heard a car approach. As I pulled on the dipstick, the sound became louder, ching ching, ching, ching, like the sound from a movie, I thought, wiping the stick clean and shoving it back into its hole. Like spurs, I thought, as the sound's beat changed, slowing.

I turned my head to the left in time to see the black neck of a guitar case settle to the ground. Startled, I stepped back as a deep voice said, "¿Un problema, Señorita?"

He wore tight black pants and a short black jacket over a simple white shirt. He had pulled his hair back but several thick locks fell out and shadowed his dark and handsome face. Dirty and unkept, I thought, noting the silver spurs on his worn leather boots, but the most handsome man I'd ever seen in person. I couldn't speak. All I could do was stare at him, his athletic frame, angular face and wary dark eyes that still waited for an answer to his question.

"¿Habla usted español, Señorita?" he asked.

I coughed and stuttered like the Chevy, looked down at my feet, then pointed at the engine. "Sí," I said, "lo hablo." Then I told him that my car just stopped and he watched as I checked the oil, and discovered that it was empty. I showed him. He nodded, but when he didn't do anything else, I dropped to the hot ground and slid under the car. Sure enough, there was no plug in the oil pan and I wondered where I'd lost it. I stood up, cursing and wiping my greasy hands on my denim shorts. "The engine's probably seized up," I said.

"Probably," he answered.

"Do you know anything about cars?" I asked the stranger.

"Not a thing," he said. He lifted one of the rags I'd left on the radiator and came towards me. I backed away until he said. "Its okay, you've got a spot on your cheek."

I remained still while he rubbed my cheek with the rag. He rubbed my forehead next, and said, "Do you have any water?"

"Sure." I climbed into the back seat and pulled out another plastic bottle, which he took and nearly emptied in one drink. "How far is it to the nearest town?"

He squinted into the sun, then turned and looked at the mountains. "Pretty far."

I opened the trunk and pulled out my backpack. He moved to stand behind me and I tensed, not knowing what he wanted or what kind of man would be walking through a desert with nothing but a guitar, not even a bottle of water. He is crazy, I decided, and I turned to meet his eyes, still wary, of what, I couldn't know.

"Who are you?"

"Just a musician," he said, "going to the next town to look for work." He gave me a crooked smile but the look in his eyes belied any pretense of light heartedness.

I pulled on my backpack and started to close the trunk. His hand covered mine, stopping the action.

"We might need that tent," he said.

"We?"

"Unless you want to look for a town alone?" Without waiting for my answer, he pulled the tent out of the trunk, revealing a guitar case beneath it. His jaw tensed and he reached. Without asking, he unsnapped the locks and opened the case. A sigh of appreciation escaped his lips and he stroked the fine wood and inlaid carved bone. "You are a musician?"

"No, it's a gift for my son. He's a musician."

"This is a fine guitar. If you leave it out here, it will be gone by the time you return." Slowly, he closed the case and pulled it out of the trunk, leaving my clothing and the pottery I'd purchased inside.

I filled my pack with the rest of the water and the oranges, took my son's guitar from him, then followed him to the other side of the car, where he had left his guitar case. With the tent over his shoulder, and my back bent under the weight of my pack, we started towards the mountains.

"So you're a musician," I said, walking slightly behind him and keeping my focus on the back of him. "A mariachi?"

"Yes," he said, "but I haven't worked for a long time."

"Sounds like the musicians I know," I said. Then we both fell silent.

Our shadows had grown long, and my relief at finally seeing them had turned to fear of losing them to the night. The stranger frightened me; his sudden appearance out of nowhere, his haunted dark eyes and his apparent poverty. On the other hand, I had a hand-made guitar that would sell for no less than $2,000 American Dollars, a pocketful of cash and a backpack full of credit cards. He could slit my throat in an instant, or worse.

"What's wrong?" he asked and I snapped out of my daze. He had walked further ahead. My feet seemed to be planted firmly. As he turned back and came closer, I noticed how he moved, like a hunter, a big cat, in control of every muscle, fearless and tense with the anticipation of the chase.

I wanted to run but I had never been one to panic. I blinked to clear my faulty vision and took a slow, deep breath.

"I'm coming," I said, and met up with him, continuing until I had taken the lead, my back straight beneath the backpack's weight and my ears straining for every sound in the dusk that would quickly give way to darkness.

"Hey," he called. I turned and saw him standing akimbo, his case at his feet. "We should camp. Here is as good as anywhere."

I looked past him in the fading twilight and saw the endless road, but not my car. From this point, I saw an obvious incline in the road, though I had not previously noticed anything beyond my own heat exhaustion. The next thing I knew, he had begun erecting the tent on a clean spot of dirt between cactus and scrub. I stepped off the road and it seemed the last of the light disappeared by the time I reached him.

"It gets dark quick here," I said.

"In the mountains, yes, but not here." He helped take my pack off of my shoulders and untied the sleeping bag, then opened it out to cover the vinyl tent floor. A moment later he pulled his guitar case close and opened it.

I found a flashlight from the pack and turned it on.

"Turn that fucking thing off," he hissed, grabbing it from me and shutting it off before I could answer.

"What's your problem?" I demanded.

"We don't want uninvited guests."

"Coyotes attack people in Sonora?"

"You never know," he said, closing his guitar case and stuffing several pieces of jerky into my hand. "How about some water?"

I shoved another bottle into the dark air, letting go when he grabbed it as if he could see in the dark. He pushed his guitar case on his left side. I pushed my guitar case on my right side, and we fell asleep with only inches of space between us.

I heard the sound of crushed gravel as clearly as I had heard those spurs, the slow roll of wheels, accompanied by the hum of an expensive engine. The mariachi had lifted his head and shoulders, his tension so tight that I knew instinctively not to make a noise or movement. The shape turned to me. I felt his breath as he whispered. "Move very slowly, silently, behind me."

He pushed his guitar case through the tent door then crawled through, hands and toes. One couldn't spring and run from knees as quickly as from toes. As soon as he had moved out of the way, I pushed my case through, mimicking him, and moments later, I moved quickly behind him, further away from the road until we found scrub to hide behind.

We saw it, a long car, probably a limousine, moving slowly down the middle of the road away from the mountains, searchlights shining from both sides. We saw how their light shined, mostly on the ground, but sometimes just straight into the desert's depths. When the light came closer and closer to the tent, I held my breath. The mariachi opened his guitar case.

I looked up and saw that the waxing moon would not illuminate us, though my eyes had adjusted quite well to the dark. Then he stood and I saw the guns in his hands, large pistols, which he held with comfort and familiarity.

"You need a guitar to be a mariachi, you know," I whispered.

"I know," he said.

"And you can't have mine."

"That's fair."

"What are you going to do, kill them?"

"Only if I have to," he said.

The light moved toward the tent like a torpedo towards its target. My hands clenched and my eyes narrowed. I would have wet my pants if I was the kind to panic.

But I wasn't. Instead, I dropped to one knee, felt in the case with my eyes never leaving the spotlight, and found a pistol small enough for me to lift. "Is it loaded?"

"Probably," he said. "Do you know how to use it?"

"Probably."

The spotlight hit, but only the scrub on one side of the tent. Still I held my breath. Still, the mariachi crouched ready, his weapons like extensions of himself. As soon as the spotlights were only dots sliding along land in the distance, the mariachi started back to the tent, with me following close behind.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he pulled the tent down and began folding it. After waiting uselessly for an answer, I pulled on my backpack. Then it occurred to me "My car."

He said nothing until he pulled the tent over his shoulder and lifted his guitar case, then he said, "let's go."

"But its dark, and I'm exhausted. And, are you a criminal?"

He moved close. "Did those guys look like cops to you?" He took my free hand with his and pulled me along.

We didn't stop until after dawn. By then, my exhaustion had turned me into a walking zombie, bent from the weight I carried. Twice I wanted to leave the guitar behind, but the musician wouldn't allow it. We had walked into the mountains in the dark, guided by him while I felt like a blind person. The worst part came as we rushed across a long stretch, the first pass into the mountains, with nowhere to hide and hardly a star above us until one side of the mountain or the other dropped down below the road. Only then did the mariachi slow down, and allow me to slow down.

I stumbled often that night, but hit the ground only once. He didn't complain of my clumsiness, or his tiredness but I began to wonder if I would have been better off walking in the opposite direction, alone.

Then at dawn, he heard water and dragged me off the road.

We made our way down a pathless side of the rocky incline, sometimes sliding on our rears to keep from falling forward. To me, it all seemed a dream, my exhaustion had so overwhelmed me, and I hardly noticed the change of landscape, from brown to green, as I sat down to rest. I don't remember lying down at all.

When I woke, I lay beneath the shade of a low tree, extended by the tent flap, and held up by sticks, strings and stakes. The rush of water sounded cooling and reminded me that I needed water. I raised my head and saw the mariachi's wet clothing spread over a bush. I sat up and scanned the land, but found only that he left an orange and a bottle of water close to me. Then I heard splashing and peered towards the water, most of which was hidden by bushes along its bank.

The splashing persisted until I saw him emerge between two bushes. He stopped only a yard from the bank and shook his long hair, then pulled it back tightly, tying it with the leather he temporarily wore as a bracelet.

I couldn't avert my eyes. They followed his broad shoulders and tight pectoral muscles, the thin line of hair between his ribs that crossed his flat belly and joined a dark mass of curls surrounding his genitals. When he turned to check his clothing, I realized that his pants, though tight, only outlined an already well-muscled figure. But this Adonis body had more scars than could be called normal. I recognized several as knife wounds, but others were far worse.

"You should swim and wash your clothes," he said, apparently deciding that his clothes had not dried sufficiently. He moved to my side and sat down, his knees up. "You'll feel better." He tapped my bare leg. "You're burned."

I looked at my white-turned red legs and sighed. Then I reached for my pack and lotion. He took the lotion from me.

"Go swim, then I'll help you with this." He gave me that crooked smile and raised an eyebrow. This time, his eyes held amusement and challenge.

"All right," I said. I kicked off my sandals and stood. At once, my head spun and I reached out to keep from falling down. I felt his hands on my hips while I leaned a hand on his shoulder. "Got up too fast," I said, and he nodded his agreement.

My head cleared and I walked slowly into the cool water. It felt so refreshing that I smiled. When the water reached my neck, I turned and started back, removing blouse and bra, shorts and panties as I emerged behind the bushes. When I turned to dive back in, I heard him then saw him, splash into the water.

"It's just too damned hot," he said, grinning at me. "Nice body."

"Thanks," I said and dived in before my nice body turned ten shades of red from embarrassment. I emerged and swam upstream, leaving the mariachi behind. I should have a nice body, I thought. I spend enough time at the gym to get it. I thanked God that I had returned to the gym, or I never would have made it this far in all that heat. I wouldn't have been able to breathe. All that healthy living paid off, I told myself as I floated back downstream. And when I emerged from the water and saw him drying in the sun while rolling a cigarette, I said, "hey, you know, those things can kill you."

He glanced up and shrugged.

"Got an extra?"

He smiled and handed me the cigarette than began to roll another from his small supply.

It looked like a joint, and I reminded myself not to take a huge hit if I didn't want to choke to death right here because I was used to filters. With it hanging from my lips, I pulled my thick hair back and tied it with a piece of leather offered by the musician. I sat cross-legged in the shade on the sleeping bag and peeled an orange.

We ate oranges and smoked cigarettes in silence.

"Do you know where we are?" I asked after awhile.

"The foothills of the Sierra Madres," he said.

"Do you know where the next town is?"

He shook his head no. "Never been this far east."

I had lifted another orange to peel. Instead, I dropped it back into my pack. "How much jerky do you have in that case?" I asked.

"Enough," he said.

I held the stub of the cigarette between two fingertips and puffed on it like a joint. He threw his stub towards the water. I did the same and said, "do you think there are fish in that river?"

He didn't answer, so I turned my head to look at him and found my eyes locked by his. He turned onto his knees, leaned towards me and kissed my shoulder. "What are you going to do? Go fishing? It's time for siesta. Even for the fish." His deep voice mocked me, but softly, a tease.

My legs uncrossed as he gently pushed my shoulders onto the sleeping bag. My lips parted as his breath touched them. His hands played over my body, caressing me as reverently as he had caressed the guitar in my case. His mouth covered mine, and our tongues played, tasting and tickling. It seemed that he would devour me. I became his willing meal.

When I woke, his left hand cupped my right breast. He was staring at me, worry in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"Maybe we shouldn't get so close," he said.

I touched his face with my fingertips. His hand left my breast for my hip.

"What are you worried about?"

He turned onto his back and I leaned on an elbow to look on him.

"I'm bad luck," he said.

"How so?"

"People who get close to me get killed." He stared at the sky for a moment, then sat up and reached into his boot for his papers and tobacco.

"Everyone who gets close to you gets killed?" I asked, appalled.

"Well, not everyone. Carolina got a Hollywood agent and just took off, but just about everyone else is dead."

"And how do they die?" I asked, fearing the worst.

"Usually they are shot or knifed to death."

I sighed with relief and he looked at me. "I thought you were going to tell me you had some dreadful disease." I took the cigarette he finished rolling, lit it and puffed, then handed it back to him. "Listen, honey, I'm not planning to get that close to you. I just want to get to the next town."

His lips closed into a very sexy, not-quite-a-pout. I touched those lips with my fingers and they parted magically and sucked the intruders in.

I smiled. "I don't mean to hurt your feelings, and I should tell you, you really are the best looking man I've ever seen, despite all those scars, but, well, musicians are a little too unreliable for me. Been there, done that, you know?"

He leaned over and kissed me, pushing me down with the action. He started to toss the cigarette away, but I caught his hand and took it from him. "No waste," I said, before he kissed me again, then sat back.

"Maybe we should just stay here tonight," he said. He stood and walked towards the water. I watched his erect form set off until, once again, he disappeared into the water and the bushes hid him.

"Wow," I whispered, "this guy is something. Be careful girl, or he'll hook you in." I put the cigarette out and placed the stub on the toe of his boot, then lay back and closed my eyes, replaying every touch of his breath and tongue, the feel of his fingers playing over me, the way he filled me so perfectly. Ay, what a man and I wished I could take him home with me.

"Señora, Señora!"

The shaking woke me. Everything was a blur and the heat seemed to keep my eyes from clearing.

"¿Señora, necesita ayuda?"

I finally cleared my eyes and saw the glint of light off the badge on the uniform. My legs and back stuck to the seat of the car, the water bottle lay on my lap.

He opened the door and helped me out. My legs could hardly hold my weight. Speechless, I allowed the officer to help me into his jeep where the air conditioning began to cool me off, while he told me in Spanish that he would take me to the hospital in Hermosillo. It looked like I had suffered heat stroke. He retrieved my belongings, then began to drive.

I thanked him and said little else as we drove west along the flat road. I drank water, and thought my thirst would never be quenched.

Then, in the distance, I saw a man walking west. He wore tight black jeans, a short black jacket and a simple white shirt. His hair had been pulled back tight but several locks fell loose, shadowing his dark and handsome face. In his left hand, he carried a guitar case. He barely looked up as we passed.

"Who was that?" I asked in Spanish. I looked back to watch him fade in the distance. He blew me a kiss.

"Who?"

"That man we just passed," I said.

The officer looked in his rear view mirror and said, "what did he look like?"

"Didn't you see him?" I demanded. "He was carrying a guitar case." Already, his figure was gone.

"Ah, El Mariachi," said the officer. "Some people see him on these roads. It's said he's haunted by the many people he's killed, and the death of his one true love. Some think he's dead, but we still get reports about him, about his, uh, work. We just leave him alone."

I opened my pack for more water and noticed the orange peels, and, at the bottom of my pack, a neatly rolled cigarette.

I looked at the officer, "got a light?"