Trapped on Tile Island

A one-shot based on the book "The Tortilla Curtian" by T. C. Boyle.

And then he felt himself lifted up from behind by some monstrous uncontainable force and he dropped the gun and clutched at the frame of the stooped over door of that pathetic little shack, staring in amazement into the lamplit faces there – his Mexican, that was him, at last, and a girl he'd never seen before, and was that an infant? – and the shack was spilling behind him until it fell to pieces and the light was snuffed out and the faces were gone and Delaney was drawn so much closer to that cold black working heart of the world than he'd ever dreamed possible.
P352

The perfect conditions for a mudslide. Hadn't he'd noticed that earlier, carelessly, blinded by hate? It made Delaney want to laugh. Then a wave of muck swept over his head, and Delaney struggled and kicked his legs as hard as he could while gripping the stolen pallet until blood trickled down his left hand, and he suddenly surfaced, gulping air. Elated, his grip loosened and he submerged again; the pallet speeding away into the valley. He couldn't think. He was going to die. But still he struggled, helplessly, hopelessly, his lungs bursting until he was lifted – by chance? Was this God? – and saw two figures, sitting upon the water – no, upon, upon…

One of the figures grabbed his hand, pulling Delaney onto the roof of the post office. It was the Mexican he had run over. Delaney could have hugged him, but stood frozen as the other man looked at him suspiciously and moved away, towards his companion, who was only a girl, really, and crying. He'd never seen anyone cry like that before, and turned his eyes away in discomfort, blindly staring at the dark water speeding past in every direction. They were trapped.

Trapped until they were rescued by the police, which could mean a whole day – or more! – in conditions such as these. Delaney tried to think of the reaction time for the last Californian mudslide and realised he didn't know as the roar of water increased, drowning out the sobbing Mexicans on the other side of the roof. He shivered and looked up. The sky was an impenetrable tangle of fiercely falling rain; he was isolated on a tile island, ringed by dirty water so high that it was impossible to pick out any landmarks.

They could have been anywhere in America. Delaney glanced at the other couple, then back to the murky water, and drew his knees up to his chest. They could be anywhere in Mexico. He was bone-soaked cold, his raingear waterlogged, his boots ruined. He hoped the house was okay, that the wall had held. A sudden seizing feeling clutched his heart as he thought of Kyra. Was she okay? Had she got back in time?

He turned back to the Mexicans, breathing hard. They were watching him carefully.

Delaney flushed. "Thank you," he said, gesturing at the water. The woman shrunk backwards, and Delaney suddenly wished that he had taken Spanish instead of French at high school, his cheeks and forehead strangely heated despite the ceaseless torrent of rain caressing his body. He shivered again, pushing the thought away and drawing his knees closer, hiding his face between them. Then he forced his chin up, ignoring the bleak nothingness that surrounded the roof and the crushingly private hell for the three of them. They didn't live in Mexico. This was his country. Why should he learn another language to live in it?

He gazed at them while contempt, familiar and comforting, exploded like fireworks under his skin. What did they want with America? What could they offer their children? Living like dogs, stealing… he would never, could never, raise Jordan like that. It wasn't right. The baby could end up dying from weather like this, Delaney raged; righteous fury against irresponsible parenting and disrespect for the natural environment seething in his chest.

He gazed at the two of them again with hate - then slowly, achingly, closed his eyes. After an eternity of ticking seconds, he opened them with a silent. Needless query, and mimed a baby. The women burst into fresh tears; the man looked at him, then the water, with dark eyes. Delaney felt paralysed in the rain, teardrops rolling like a second skin.

Then he pulled off his raingear and stepped forward. The other man rose to meet him, suspicion in every pore. Delaney held his coat out, an offering for his weeping companion, who was only wearing a dress. For a moment, Delaney thought he would refuse, hit him, spit in his face. But he finally took the coat with a nod and backed away without saying a word, and Delaney concentrated on keeping himself warm as they whispered in Spanish.

The rain eased sometime in the night and the police came moments behind the first rays of dawn; the whirling, head-splitting noise of a helicopter jolting Delaney out of delirious thoughts of his next column and sex on the sofa. They brought him into shelter first, a hard faced officer offering him a thermos of hot coffee and hovering while he drunk it. The Mexicans joined him minutes later, following another officer's initially gentle, then sharp, urgings in English.

"You have health insurance, Sir?"

"My card's up the valley," Delaney confirmed, babbling. "But I know the number off my heart."

"Your address, Sir?"

"32 Pinon Drive. The Arroyo Blanco Estates."

The police exchanged a glance, settling upon a swift decision without words. "We'll take you to hospital then."

One officer started up the helicopter, where it flew, wobbling, across the dismal, mud streaked landscape. The other one with remained in the back, alternatively firing questions about their activities and letting his hard face dissolve with what might have been worry as he looked at the survivors. Delaney had just finished explaining between yawns that he was a naturalist and liked walking in the rain.

"And your companions?" the officer asked sharply, perhaps sensing a lie.

"Who?"

The officer nodded his head at the Mexicans, and Delaney looked into their deadened faces. The girl was starting straight out the window, tensed, long tendrils of hair snaking over the shoulders of his rain jacket. She was so young; she couldn't have been more than 18. And the man – the man who he had run over, the man who had just saved his life – was leaning against the leather seat, emanating despair. The sag of his shoulders spoke of resignation, but his flickering eyes, his thin twisting mouth, his teeth gnawing at his lips under his thick mustache, spoke of something else – of hatred, fury, helplessness? He looked straight at Delaney and Delaney looked away, shivered despite the pulsing heat in the helicopter.

"You know these people, Sir?"

It was over, Delaney realised. The police would contact immigration, and the Mexicans would go back, over the border, where they belonged.

"No, Officer," he said. "No, I don't know them at all."