The Incident at Terlingua

1. Approaching Terlingua Jake Plumb turned his ’57 Ford pickup onto Highway 118. The last leg of a journey of fifteen hundred miles. An inside-out, upside-down trek. Not going to a place, going from a place. Tampa, filled with regret and nightmares. The trip had been a blank beyond the road before him—no sightseeing, no photos or making friends, and no nightmares. Just sitting in the pickup, the asphalt flowing beneath him. On the seat beside him, travel debris: Potato chip bags, Vienna sausage cans, plastic water bottles—all empty and a sweaty straw hat picked up in east Texas. Under the mess, the magazine Texas Scene, with a cover article about Terlingua: “The Town Out of Time.” Just 121 miles ahead. A place free from time—no future, no past. Just now. Stasis. An end to memories and futures. Nothing to haunt a fellow. Before him, a road of long sweeping bends, taking him south while swinging him east and west around the stark beauty of isolated flat-top buttes scoured by the endless windblown grit. Signs of life sparse. An occasional mesquite bent and twisted by wind and lack of water. Skunk brush, tugged by the wind, clinging to a sand hillock. A solitary cactus, roots sunk deep, seeking scarce water. The land bore no trace of travelers beyond the roads carrying them elsewhere. At the road’s edge, isolated single-story homes passed, standing on sand and rocks—nothing green. Built from brick or wood, paint sunbaked dry, blinds on windows closed to sunlight. Trailer homes suggest folks once on the move, going someplace. But the tires flattened, the paint faded, and the occupants settled with the trailer where they were. The scarcity and the spareness of the place dictated separation for survival. No connections between things beyond the dirt on which they stood. No people in the front yard. No kids on trikes. Just empty, useless land under a blazing sun. Jake smiled. He’d fit right in. … Ch 6 The Accident Scene Jake went to the driver’s side of the car. A man’s lower torso appeared from under the roof. He had seen death at the bridge collapse. He fell to his hands and knees, trying to hold on and not throw up. Was there no end to death in his life? Chavez loomed over him. “Deputy, you’re contaminating the accident scene. Puke outside the yellow tape.” Jake staggered into the bush, tripped, and face-planted in the sand. When he lifted his head, a human thumb stuck up from the ground ten inches from his nose. Not a hallucination, an actual man’s thumb standing in the sand like it had lost its hand. A detailed drawing of an animal skeleton lay on the sand, spreading from beneath the thumb. The thumb was standing in what appeared to be the jaw of the critter. Jake jumped up, sand and dust falling from his clothes. That was peculiar. Curiosity drowned his sickness. He returned to the Buick, panting. “A body is sticking out from under the car.” “Aware of that. Note it.” Chavez replied. Jake described in his notebook the scene. “Upper half of a male torso is under the car. The lower body from hips down and both hands are visible on the sand. The left hand is missing a thumb. Shoes point at an unnatural angle, about sixty degrees from vertical. The shoes are beat up, the soles worn through.” Another entry, “Thirty-five yards west, a drawing of what could be an animal skeleton in pink-white powder lies on the sand. Coyote? A human thumb is positioned in the powder at what appears to be a drawing of the jawbone. Is the thumb related to the missing thumb of the torso?” Chavez asked what he was writing about. Jake said, “The body I mentioned. And there is a thumb and what may be a drawing of a critter skeleton where I fell.” “Show me the drawing,” Chavez said, Jake led Chavez to the drawing. Chavez squatted down. “Fascinating. Take photos of the drawing, thumb, and pink-white powder.” Jake began taking photos, knowing the evidence would be gone with the first wind. …