The Crossing

"I heard you were back in town. Saw your brother at the market yesterday and he told me you'd come through the mountains on Tuesday."

"Got in Wednesday actually. The roads were worse than I expected. Took an extra day to get around the checkpoint near the border."

"You came through the mountains? That's dangerous this time of year. The patrols have been thick up there since the colonel took command."

"Had to come that way. The coast road is completely blocked off now. They're checking papers at every junction, turning people back if they can't prove residence."

"So you walked the whole way?"

"Most of it. Got a ride on a truck for about thirty kilometers, then walked the rest when the driver said he couldn't take me any farther. He had family to think about."

"How long has it been since you left? Three years?"

"Four years and seven months. Left in May of '41, came back last week."

"Maria said you'd never come back. She said you found work in the city and forgot about all of us here."

"Maria says a lot of things. Always has. I didn't forget anyone."

"Then why didn't you write? Your mother waited every week for something, anything. She'd walk to the post office on Thursdays and ask if there was mail."

"I wrote. Sent twelve in the first year alone. Maybe they never arrived. You know how things are now with the mail service."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're saying that to make yourself feel better about leaving."

"Believe what you want. I'm here, aren't I? That should count for something."

"Being here now doesn't make up for four years of nothing. Your mother died last winter. Pneumonia. She asked about you the day before she passed."

"I know she's dead. My brother told me in his message. That's why I came back."

"Took you long enough. She died in January. It's almost December now."

"I only got word in September. It took time to arrange things, to get the money together for the trip. Do you think I wanted to wait?"

"I think you could have found a way sooner if you'd really wanted to."

"You don't know what it's been like out there. You've stayed here the whole time, safe in this village while the rest of us have been trying to survive in cities that get shelled every other week."

"Safe? You think we've been safe here? They came through in August. Took every man between eighteen and forty for labor conscription. My father went. He hasn't come back."

"I didn't know that. I'm sorry."

"Everyone's sorry. Sorry doesn't bring people back."

"You're right. It doesn't. I should have said something else."

"You should have been here."

"I couldn't be here. I had to work. Had to send money back when I could."

"Did you? Send money back?"

"Every month for the first two years. After that it got harder to transfer anything. The banks closed down, the postal service became unreliable. I tried."

"Your mother never mentioned receiving money."

"She wouldn't have. She was proud. Probably never told anyone, maybe never even used it. You know how she was about accepting help."

"I knew her pretty well, yes. Better than you did these last few years."

"That's fair. You have every right to be angry with me."

"I'm past angry. I'm tired. We're all tired here."

"I can see that. The whole village looks different. Half the houses are empty, the fields haven't been planted properly. What happened to the Dominguez family? Their farm looks abandoned."

"They left in March. Headed south to stay with relatives. Said they'd come back when things settled down, when the fighting moved on."

"And the store on the corner? The one that sold fabric and thread?"

"Closed. The owner was arrested in June. Nobody knows why. His wife tried to keep it open for a few weeks, then she gave up and moved in with her sister."

"This place is dying."

"It's been dying for a while now. You just weren't here to watch it happen."

"If I'd stayed, what difference would it have made? I'd be gone too, taken for labor or conscripted into one of the units. At least this way I was able to work, able to try to help from a distance."

"Help from a distance. That's a nice way to put it. Sounds better than 'ran away and left everyone behind.'"

"That's how you see it?"

"That's how everyone sees it. You left when things got hard. When the soldiers came through the first time and started making their lists, you disappeared."

"I left because I would have been killed. You know what they did to people like me, people who'd spoken out against the government before the war started."

"Plenty of people spoke out. Most of them stayed anyway."

"And where are they now? Dead, or in camps, or hiding in cellars. I made a choice to survive."

"We all make choices. Some of us choose to stay with the people we love."

"Is that what you're doing? Staying because you love this place, or staying because you're afraid to leave?"

"Maybe both. Maybe neither. Does it even concern you anymore?"

"Of course it does. Why do you think I came back? I could have stayed in the city, found more work, kept my head down and waited for the war to end."

"Then why did you come back?"

"Because this is where I'm from. Because my mother is buried here and I need to see her grave. Because my brother asked me to come help him sort out the property, the house, all the things she left behind."

"And after that? After you've done your duty and tied up all the loose ends?"

"I don't know yet. Haven't thought that far ahead."

"Will you stay?"

"Would you want me to stay?"

"I'm asking you what you plan to do."

"And I'm asking if it would make any difference to you."

"It might. It might make all the difference."

"Then I'll think about it. That's the best answer I can give you right now."

"That's a terrible answer."

"It's an honest one."

"Honesty doesn't mean much if you're only being honest about your uncertainty."

"What do you want me to say? That I'll stay forever? That I'll never leave again? I can't promise that. I don't know what's going to happen next week, let alone next year."

"I want you to say you'll try. That you'll at least consider staying, consider helping rebuild what's been broken here."

"I can say that. I can try. That much I can promise."

"Trying isn't the same as doing."

"It's a start."

"We've had enough starts here. We need people who finish things."

"Fair enough. Give me time. Let me settle in, let me see what needs doing. Then we can talk about what comes next."

"How much time?"

"A month. Maybe two. Long enough to figure out if there's anything left here worth staying for."

"And if there is?"

"Then maybe I'll stay."

"And if there's nothing?"

"Then I'll leave again. And this time I'll ask if you want to come with me."

"You'd do that?"

"I should have done it four years ago. Should have asked you then instead of leaving in the middle of the night like a coward."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because I was afraid you'd say yes. Afraid I'd be responsible for taking you away from everything you knew. Seemed easier to go alone."

"Easier for who?"

"For me. I can admit that now."

"Well. At least that's something."

"It's something, yes."

"The grave is up on the hill behind the church. Your brother has been keeping it clear. Fresh flowers every Sunday."

"I'll go tomorrow."

"You should go today. Before it gets dark. The path is harder to find at night."

"Will you come with me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because I'm asking. Because I don't want to go alone."

"You've been alone for four years. You should be used to it by now."

"I am used to it. That doesn't mean I want to keep being alone."

"Give me a few minutes to get my coat. It's cold up there this time of day."