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"But that's the beauty of their economy." Tatum leaned across the formica tabletop, one hand clutching his burger, fingers digging into the over-soft bun. "We won't need papers. Practically everyone is working off the books." I glanced at Fernanda as she dragged a french fry through the ketchup on her plate. "But what about the long term?" I said. "You'll need a real job. You won't be able to make a living playing guitar on the beach or whatever it is you think you'll be doing." "Well, I can't apply for a visa. Extradition treaty, remember?" He grinned and there was that same eager look in his eyes that I remembered from our shared childhood. It was an expression that conjured memories of smuggled Twinkies, turtles under the bed, and garden snakes in shoe boxes. "Besides, you'll spot me a loan if I need it, won't you?" I struggled against the urge to smile, to become part of his conspiracy. But no, he had finally gone too far. I poked my potato salad with my fork. "I can't. It would look like I condoned-" "Okay. I understand." Remembering the hamburger, squished and oozing in his hand, he took a bite. "Mom will wire me some money if I get in a tight spot." At the look on my face he added, "But I won't." His eyes darted toward Fernanda, who had finished her fries and was noisily sucking the last of her drink through a straw. "Fernanda knows a little Spanish. And she has family down there." "Third cousins," she said, pushing the glass away. She scooted closer to Tatum and snuggled against his shoulder. "Well that might as well be no family at all," I said. "They may be good for a meal now and then, but what if you get sick or get picked up the authorities? What if you get in trouble?" Tatum shoved the last of his burger in his mouth and swiped a paper napkin across his lips. "You worry too much, Aurora." "Accountants tend to do that." "You're my sister, not my tax preparer." The waitress stopped at our table, a steaming carafe of coffee in her hand. "Top off, hon?" I pushed my empty cup toward her. The coffee smelled old and burnt, but it distracted me from Tatum's maddeningly confident smile. "I wish you'd come with us." "Not my felony," I mumbled into my cup. "It's only alleged." "So it's not true?" I forced myself to meet his eyes and this time it was he who looked away. He draped an arm across Fernanda's shoulders.
"Truth can mean different things to different people. It's
not all black and white." "Whatever you like." "Great." I forced myself to take a sip of coffee. It was even more bitter than it smelled. I waved the waitress over and asked for the check. Tatum pushed Fernanda off him and fumbled
in his pocket. "Let me get that." He leaned forward and snatched the ticket out of my hand. "I don't want you feeling like you're aiding and abetting, or anything." He took two tens out of his wallet and laid them on the table. Then he nudged Fernanda out of the booth, stood up and stretched. "Ready to hit the road again, baby?" With a small nod of assent, Fernanda started walking toward the door. As we stepped outside, I paused. "Forgot something," I lied. "Don't leave." "Not unless I see a cop." I ducked into the diner and ran to our table. Taking a credit card from my purse, I swapped it for Tatum's tens and waited impatiently for the waitress to bring me a slip to sign. Back outside, pink and purple neon glowed on wet asphalt and the air was heavy with the scent of recent rain. I found Tatum talking quietly to Fernanda near a telephone pole plastered with damp signs advertising garage sales and lost puppies. I hurried over, then hesitated, unsure what to say. Tatum solved the problem by wrapping his arms around me. "I'll send you a postcard." I leaned into him, wondering if this would be the last time I would hear the beat of his heart and feel the protective warmth that had defined so much of my life. "Be careful out there. It's a mean world." "Don't I know it." To hide the sudden tightness in my throat, I pulled away and gave Fernanda a quick embrace, slipping Tatum's bills into her jacket pocket. "Take care of him, okay?" I watched them walk away down the rain-slick street, their silhouettes first in light, then in shadow as they passed beneath the street lamps. What would their lives be like? And who would I become without my brother's madcap volatility to balance the plodding sameness of my better nature? For a crazy moment I thought of running after them, joining their reckless dash toward the unknown. I could become a seller of poems and flowers on a beach where tourists dawdled over drinks with paper umbrellas. I would spend my days in the sun and my nights wherever darkness found me. Like a true child of nature, I would trust the benevolence of the universe to keep me safe. A buzzing in my purse brought me back to reality and I fumbled for my phone. Everything was a crisis at tax time and with half the office working late, no hour of the day or night was sacred. I punched a few buttons and started walking toward my car. "Yes, of course I'll come in," I said. "Give me a few minutes. I'll be there." ©Ann Pinto 2008 Ann Pino , a writer of flash,
serial, and novel-length fiction lives in Houston, Texas and
works as a university administrator to keep her greedy housepets
fed. Of her three pets - husband, cat and rabbit, Ann claims
the rabbit is the cutest but the husband at least pays his own
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