Andrea Mauk. “His Bones.”

Shane checked the stick-on compass he bought at the auto parts store, then took a drink. “We are. You’re probably smelling the Palo Santo growing in the distance.” Shane had to make this run every time his father got a rush tool order from a client at his machine shop. He knew the way to and from the supplier in Laredo in his sleep, and he could describe a vivid picture of what it looked like during the day. Miles of barbed wire fence supported by fallen branches turned upright and dug into the ground and brittle sage brush hiding nature’s pharmacopeia that grew on both sides of the border.

As the road snaked through the darkness, Marty Robbins’ voice suddenly blared from the radio with enough clarity that he could have been sitting between them. “Down in the West Texas town of El Paso…” Shane sang along.

 “Don’t you have a cassette tape or something?”

“Look in the glove compartment.”

Kenny’s hand felt through a mess of papers that were wadded in no particular order. “What if we did get stopped? How’re you gonna find your registration in this heap of a mess?” Kenny’s fingers kept rifling through the papers until he felt something hard. He pulled with caution so as to prevent the entire contents of the compartment from spilling out onto the floor of the truck. He pulled the cassette close to his face, but it wasn’t marked. He slid it into the cassette player hanging underneath the dash. Norteño music spilled out across the desert. Kenny froze, then wiggled his head as if something didn’t compute. He quickly pressed the eject button.

Kenny looked at Shane for quite a while before saying anything. “Why you got this shitty Mexican music in your truck?

“I like it.”

“Wha?…  What am I hearing? You’re telling me that you like to listen to this wetback music? As far as I’m concerned, the music and the people who understand it should stay on their side of the border. I thought you wanted to make America great again.”

“You know this is my dad’s truck.”

“Well, why does your daddy have a tape of co-rridos in his glove compartment? What’s going on here?”

“He probably drove the housekeeper home across the border.”

“Oh, Lupe. Loopy Lupe. I forgot about her. She basically raised you, huh? So, inside, you’re a little bit like a Mexican.”

Shane lifted his beer and drank the last mouthful. He held the can for a moment before squishing it with his fist and throwing it behind the seat. “Are you really that much of a bigot that you have to find fault with every person of Mexican descent? You know that this was once Mexico.”

“So, they say. But we won it from them, and it’s been ours now for a long time. All that is just forgotten history. Not important. I mean, importante.”

“You’re a dick.”

Shane and Kenny didn’t say a word to each other for several miles. In the distance, a flickering light danced, the only noticeable movement in an otherwise solitary stretch of road. “Do you know what that is up there? Up ahead?”

Shane didn’t answer. He’d never noticed the lighted sign before. Somehow, he felt like he was in one of those horror movie scenes where the characters somehow get transported to an identical but spookier dimension. How could he have missed these old, abandoned buildings every time he traveled? 

“C’mon, man. Talk.”

Shane kept driving in silence as Kenny cranked his neck this way and that to try to read the sign. “I think it says, ‘diner,’ or something that ends with an ‘r’. The truck began making a pinging noise. “What’s that?”

Shane smiled, “I bet you were hopin’ that sign read, ‘gas.’ “

“At this point, I’m hopin’ it says, ‘24 hours.’”

As Shane pulled off the two-lane highway, the sign only read, “er” in flashing neon because all the other letters had burned out. He noticed that the lights inside the diner weren’t on. The windows were cracked, the fissured blacktop crumbling, and the parking lot disserted. The pickup sputtered and wheezed as it rolled into a parking space on fumes.

“Dammit, Shane. We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere. Dead phones because your dad’s cigarette lighter doesn’t work. We’ll probably get eaten by whatever animals are out here.”

            The wind suddenly picked up, whistling as it rustled through the branches. Walking across the parking lot of the shuttered hotel next door, a man in a strange getup appeared out of a cloud of dust.

“Buenas noches, señores. Which way are you heading tonight? Are you traveling into Mexico or are you returning to Tejas?”

Kenny looked the man over carefully. His clothes appeared to be some sort of uniform that soldiers may have worn long ago, very long ago, in the days of the Alamo. Thick, gold stripes ran across his chest, and frayed tassels hung from epaulets at his shoulders.  His skin, when it was in full focus rather than transparent, was dark and weathered. He smelled like an antique store, or maybe like a home left empty after the grandparents pass on. Shane wasn’t focused on the man in uniform. He hopped into the back of the truck and straddled the boxes of machine tools they had picked up in Laredo to work on opening the black toolboxes that hugged each side of the bed.

“Excuse my poor manners. My name is Juan, and I am looking for a ride to San Antonio.”

“Do you have papers, Juan?”

“Kenny, shut the fuck up with your Trump bullshit. You’re not funny. My dad always has a gas can, and if for some reason he doesn’t, in the morning, I’ll call AAA, when I can walk to someplace where there’s reception and a place to plug in.” Shane jumped out of the pickup bed and brushed himself off. He shook his sandy hair out of his face and offered his hand to the man before him. “If we can get the truck going, I’ll give you a ride to San Antonio, Juan.”

“Where I come from, we used to ride horses. They rarely broke down.”

“Good point, Juan. Where you from?”

“I come from where I am going.”

“San Antonio?”

“Walnut Springs.” Juan nodded. “What is the problem with your truck? Why won’t the engine work?”

“We ran out of gas because Kenny over here wanted to stop at McDonald’s and then at the convenience store to buy a twelve-pack of beer.”

“You have a brain, Shane. You could have stopped for gas no matter what I said. Or was it the money? Didn’t your daddy pay you enough money to make the trip?”

Juan walked around the truck once, taking in every detail. “I think this no es un problema muy grande. It is not such a big problem.” Juan cast his gaze between the diner and the hotel.

“Oh, no. Forget that. I’m not sleeping at no creepy closed hotel that has ghosts in the beds.” Kenny made a face.

“Why the displeasure, sir? I am not in bed right now, and this has nothing to do with the hotel. What is your name, son?”

“Kenny… and that’s Shane.”

“Well then, Kenny, I would like for you to walk around the building and see if you can find a stretch of garden hose that is in good repair.” Juan reached in his pocket and produced a knife. “Cut about four feet of it and meet Shane and me behind the buildings.

“Why does Shane get to go with you, and I have to go by myself?”

“Because Shane and I are warriors, and you complain too much. You need to learn some discipline.”

Shane let out a cackle while Kenny trudged off grumbling about having to walk the perimeter of the buildings.  As Juan led the way, Shane noticed that his posture was good, no, impeccable. He stood like a soldier. Like a commander. Like a boss.

“So, here we have a Chevrolet. I am assuming that a Ford and a Chevrolet can use the same fuel? I don’t know this for sure, since as I said, I traveled by steed.”

“Of course, but when was the last time this car was run? In the 1950s? It probably won’t start.”

“You are starting to sound like Kenny. Be ingenuitive, Shane, if you want to win. Do you see that old milk carton next to la basura?”

Shane turned to look. “Yeah.” Juan cocked his head to tell Shane to bring it. “It’s awfully dirty.” Shane turned the spigot that leaned against the diner. Water flowed.

“No, no! Don’t put water in it. Just blow the dust.”

Kenny came plodding back carrying a length of hose. “Is this what you need, Señor?”

Juan took the hose from Kenny’s hands and examined it carefully. “Perfecto.” He twisted the cover of the gas tank on the yellow and white 1954 Chevy Bel Aire and inserted one end of the hose. With his free hand, he motioned for Shane to come closer. “I want you to fold the hose como así, and then you are going to let go and suck as hard as you can. When you smell the gasoline fumes coming towards you, place the end of the hose into the carton.”

“He’s dressed like an escapee from the Mexican Revolution, and he has MacGyver skills. Go figure.”

Juan puffed his chest out and stood even taller, “This is not the uniform of the Mexican Revolution. Have you not studied history?” He waved his hand grandly before their faces, his thick dark hair matted into some bygone style. “Don’t answer. “The youth who don’t know their history depress me.”

With a plastic milk carton full of gas, they walked back to the old Ford Ranger and poured the gas into the tank using the hose. Shane got in and turned the key. After pumping the petal a few times, the engine turned over.

“Where shall I sit?” Juan asked.

“You can ride in the back,” Kenny’s suggestion brought a groan from Shane.

“In the middle.”

“That will be fine.”

Back on the highway, Shane still had little to say to Kenny, but Kenny was never one who could keep his mouth shut for long. “So, what war is the uniform from then, Juan?”

“Do you not recognize it? Has everyone forgotten? Do you not remember the Alamo?”

“All those men in the Alamo died, or wait, I guess not the ones from Mexico. So that was Mexico’s uniform at the Alamo? Are you a reenactor?”

“No, Kenny, that’s the uniform from Texas back when Texas belonged to Mexico. All the men from Texas died at the Alamo.” Shane rolled his eyes, trying to express to Juan an apology for Kenny’s ignorance.

“I did not die at the Alamo.”

“That’s because you weren’t at the Alamo, Juanito. If you were, you’d be, like, over 200 years old. What do you think I am, stupid?”

“Two-hundred-and-fifteen to be exact, that’s how old I would be if I wouldn’t have unfortunately succumbed in 1890.”

“So, where in San Antonio are you going, Señor Juan? Where is Walnut Creek?” Shane drove on, unphased by Juan’s calculations while Kenny’s eyes bulged.

“Shane, stop the truck. I want to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to stop the truck, Kenny. We are riding down the highway on gas stolen with the help of a dead man. I don’t want to press our luck.”

“So you know he’s dead? You understand that, and you’re just going to drive him to San Antonio?”

“I can leave you here if you’d like, Kenny.”

Kenny folded his hands on top of his lap and looked straight ahead. The night remained as dark as his worst nightmare, and the radio still cackled between stations now and again.

“So, Juan, where exactly is Walnut Creek?”

“It’s not called that anymore. Now, it is called Seguin.”

“Seguin, Seguin, why does that sound so familiar… oh… my… God. You are Juan Seguin? The real Juan Seguin?”

“Who is Juan Seguin?” Kenny was lost.

“You have to excuse him, Juan. He never paid attention in high school. He was always out back of the football field getting high. Kenny, Juan Seguin was…um…er…is a hero. He led Texas to victory over Santa Anna in the Battle that lasted only 20 minutes.”

“You are correct.”

‘Shane raised his hand in feigned anger, “Remember the Alamo!”

Juan followed, “Remember Goliad!” Juan’s chin jutted forward with pride. His eyes grew distant as if he was somewhere else. Shane supposed eve ghosts can reminisce. We made them retreat. We captured Santa Anna. I gathered the bravest men I could find. We took them by surprise during their siesta.”

“I remember.”

“Not too many people do. Alas, it’s been a long time since. And now, explain to me, what is this battle you have going on about the wall? Who are the soldiers? What is there to win?”

            Shane flashed a harsh look at Kenny. “Let’s not talk about that. It’s all political. So, tell me, why are you going to Seguin?”

            The night sky started to turn lighter as a red hue filled the darkness. They were approaching the interstate. The radio popped on clearly, playing a commercial for a local car dealership. Juan sank into the seat as the noise filled the cabin. Shane reached over and turned the radio off.

            “Please, Juan, tell me. Tell us.”

            “I could have transported myself, but in 1974, they came to Nuevo Laredo and they took my bones.”

            “I thought ghosts didn’t need bones.”

            “I thought the same. It turns out I was resting peacefully until that time. When they removed my bones, my spirit began to ache so terribly that an entire bottle of mezcal couldn’t dull it, not that ghosts can drink.” Juan’s perfect posture was an anomaly, an impossible feat, one of many he had performed.

“That’s a sad story, Juan,” Kenny sniffed as he drank a beer. “I’m beginning to like you.”

“Well,” Shane acknowledged, “that’s a miracle.”

            It was almost dawn when the Ford Ranger pulled into the town center at Seguin. There, standing tall, was a statue of Juan mounted on his loyal steed. Everywhere Shane looked, he could see Juan’s last name. He had spent a fleeting few hours with a hero. As they crawled out of the pickup, the sun’s rays were beginning to tickle the horizon. The roosters were crowing in the distance. It would be just another day in the town of Seguin, and no one would know that at 5:46 A.M., Juan Seguin’s spirit slipped quietly into the grave where his bones awaited. He was finally able to rest. He was finally home.