text: How can I justify our - no - my actions? Good God, it was hot and dusty despite it being “monsoon season.” This dirty, sun-bleached southern extremity of Arizona surely contributed to the vortex of madness that pulled us in. I sit in a booth in the corner of a small café with a window view of Morley Avenue. I don’t know how I found this place. The turquoise-colored outside walls decorated with painted desert flowers attracted me subconsciously, I suppose. The reasoning for what we’ve - no - I’ve done, dammit, seems to reorder every time I try to reconcile what happened. My thoughts race. Christ, get a grip. I sip black coffee, close my eyes, try to control my breathing and think - hard. The train from Phoenix to Tucson was noisy and rackety. Every mile of rail sent its vibrations through the wheels and axles into the carriage, up the bench stanchions and into my body. The clickety-clack became a monumental annoyance. I suppose the plan was affecting my moral equilibrium. We’d decided on this course of action out of desperation, I know, and the train heightened my anxiety. Thomas wasn’t happy with my attitude. I could not have cared less about his opinion. Would we ever get there? After some time and more of the damned clickety-clack, Thomas deflected my attention. He said, “Are you having regrets?” “No.” I watched the infinite, unremarkable, cracked land slip by. The regrets, if things didn’t work out, would certainly come. Thomas continued, “We’ll get into Tucson in about thirty minutes. Are you sure your friend will be there to meet us?” “I’m pretty sure she’ll be there. She did respond to the telegram.” More anxiety. Sitting across from me, Thomas stared out the window rather than look at my face. He was initially reluctant to the plan. We’d talked about it two weeks ago. The money would set us up for life, but what would happen to Cameron Hillman would be a proper reckoning. Hillman was scum. After establishing a real estate business in the new metropolis of Phoenix, using questionable practices according to some, inquiries about his family dogged him. His wife, Lillian, had disappeared, taking their daughter with her. Hillman was asked - politely - by his friends what had happened. He told them something about an argument regarding moving to California. It was odd that he didn’t appear upset, or so I was told. The intrigue continued when it was learned that most of Lillian’s clothes were still in Hillman’s house, along with the daughter’s clothes and toys. He was questioned by the authorities, and they seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss, despite the items left behind. I knew Hillman hadn’t been pressed too hard about the matter. When he got rid of his wife’s and daughter’s possessions wasn’t known. Hillman eventually left Phoenix, selling his home for a handsome profit. He went south and bought a black walnut plantation in the hills above Nogales. The neighboring border town is also called Nogales. The locals call both towns “Ambos Nogales,” meaning “both Nogales.” I must have dropped off to sleep because I jerked my head up and was momentarily disoriented as the train rolled into the Tucson station. Thomas and I stepped off the train with our canvas bags and canteens, both scanning the platform for my friend, Hilly McConnell, a young woman I’d lived with in Phoenix. I spotted Hilly right away. She was dressed in a light blue shirtwaist embellished with embroidery and tucked into pants. Her short, red hair made her conspicuous. I ran to her. The hug and bussing of our cheeks brought back good memories. “My goodness, Blush! Don’t you look keen,” Hilly said as we broke from our hug. “Thanks, Hilly. I think I look like a dirty hobo riding the rails.” I giggled at that description. That bit of cheerfulness would be my last for quite some time. “You’re the one that looks keen, Hilly. Nice outfit.” We remarked about our costumes for a couple of minutes. Thomas was polite but was anxious to be on our way. We had a mission to complete. I know Hilly sensed our impatience. She said the car was parked on the street in front of the station. The three of us walked into the blazing sunshine and straight to the 1915 Ford Model-T. Hilly told us the car ran well even though it was only three years old. She admonished us to be wary of the highway to Nogales as it was mostly graded dirt and could have sections of washout. The trip to Nogales would take about three hours. Hilly handed to me a paper bag that contained apples, a small block of cheese and a tin of crackers. Hilly said her goodbye and walked away as we stowed our bags and canteens in the car and Thomas started the engine. The Model-T had an electric starter and, if needed, electric headlights. The dry, desert air would feel good flowing into the car. After an initial jerk as Thomas put the car in gear and we drove south toward our destiny. The stale dry air whipped by and tried to cool us. It wasn’t working. My eyes alternately watered and dried with every passing mile. Miles and miles of flat, arid land marked by scrub bushes, tall cacti, scraggly grass, the occasional wretched-looking tree and sand. The red-rocked mountains in the distance beckoned yet seemed out of reach. Could the Almighty have just pasted them there to tease and torment us? The sapphire blue sky was filling with clouds which at certain points blocked the devilish sun and provided brief moments of relief. Did the clouds portend a thunderstorm? If the skies let loose, it would be tough riding in the car. We could be washed away to either drown or dying in this stinking desert. My eyes were tired. I closed them for a while and slept. I was jostled awake by a rough section of road. We were in the hill country just north of Nogales. Mountains appeared in the distance to the right. We were getting close to our target. Thomas sat rigidly at the steering wheel, his jaw clinched, focusing on the road. The wind whipped up dust that swirled around and into the car. I pulled a piece of paper out of my handbag and tried to decipher my writing, which was not an easy thing to do because of the unsteadiness of the car. I complained and Thomas finally slowed down. The road that led to the Hillman Groves appeared on the right. We almost missed it. Thomas spotted the small sign at the last moment and made the turn without flipping us over. More like a wagon road track, the road wound its way up the hillside weaving among black walnut trees. And, just like that, my senses were heightened. My heartbeat edged upward. The house was nothing like I expected. Thomas stopped the car in front of a one-story, Spanish Mission-style house with dirty beige walls and a non-working fountain in the shape of a bird in front. A low adobe wall in need of repair ran along the front of the property. The house looked down on International Street in Ambos Nogales, the dual border town of about six thousand souls, give or take. The hot, afternoon sun fully illuminated the dusty street. I could just make out a fence running down the middle of it. Hilly warned us there were reports from her cousin who lived in Douglas about tensions between citizens and officials on both sides of the border - especially those citizens of Nogales, Sonora that crossed the border to work. There were a lot of soldiers around too. After a few minutes, Thomas and I exited the car and walked to the faded red front door of the house. A large ornate, lion-headed knocker faced us. I used the heavy piece of iron to announce our arrival. I looked at Thomas with apprehension as we heard footsteps. A latch was retracted, and the door opened. I stood face-to-face with Cameron Hillman, my father. Hillman had at once a surprised and quizzical look on his face. A face more haggard than I remembered. Wrinkles cutting into the flesh and a scraggly growth of mostly gray facial hair made him look old and weak. His eyes held mine. I was sure he thought he was seeing a ghost. “How may I help you?” Hillman said in a smooth and melodious way. Thomas replied, “Do we have the honor of addressing Mr. Hillman?” “You do.” “My name is Thomas Kilcannon and this is my wife. May we come in? We have an important matter to discuss with you. It will prove interesting.” Hillman stepped back and opened the door wider with a gesture to invite us in. He said, “If you please.” Thomas and I walked into an expansive entry hall that opened onto a large sitting room. Hillman showed us to a couch with upholstery of red brocade that was thread-bare in spots. Hillman sat opposite us in an oak spindle chair. “You shouldn’t be here now.” Hillman said. “Trouble is coming. My Sonoran workers have mutinied and won’t be back. There are soldiers on both sides of the border waiting for an attack. I’m facing ruin here as these trees go unattended. No one on this side of the border will work. Tensions are extremely high.” Hillman spewed the words in a torrent as if to have us run out of the house, down the hill and away from him. His face was flushed. After looking at us for a few moments and realizing we weren’t going to run out, he said, “What is it you wanted to discuss? You must be quick.” I looked at Thomas. The time had come. The reckoning had come. “Do I look familiar to you?” I said as I looked directly into Hillman’s eyes. He said nothing. His eyebrows pinched toward his nose as he studied my face. His mouth tightened. Then, his face relaxed and his eyes widened slightly. Panic? He knew me. His eyes didn’t leave my face. Suddenly, I felt my face becoming hot as though his gaze was attempting to burn my features away. A malevolence rose between us. I broke the spell. “It’s coming back to you, isn’t it?” Hillman’s head tilted slightly. He frowned. “You know, don’t you? You miserable son of a bitch.” The heat on my face was real. The malice in my heart rose with every beat. Hillman finally spoke. “You must leave now.” He stood up. “I will hear nothing from you. You cannot come into my home and insult me!” His fists were clenched. Would he really try something against Thomas? It would not end well for him. Thomas sprang from the couch and placed his powerful hands on Hillman’s shoulders. I saw my father wince as he sat down again. Thomas dared him to move. Thomas said, “You’ll listen to what she has to say.” The tone was menacing. Hillman said nothing as he looked at me. I could feel the rage welling within me. “You killed my mother and had her buried in the desert. Your plan didn’t quite succeed with me.” Hillman’s face become stoic. I noticed a small tic in his left eye. “Yes, I’m your daughter, Rosemon. I was pulled from my grave by a savior. The time for retribution has come!” His voice was softer now, but with a slight tremor. “I don’t believe you. My wife and daughter left me years ago and I wasn’t able to find them. What you say is without merit.” “To prove myself, let me tell you something known only to my mother and you,” I said. “My given name is Rosemon, but my mother always called me Blush. You never did. She told me I was named for the pink rose tattoo on her back.” My eyes felt as if they were flaming. Hillman sat back in the chair, his mouth open. He knew now. In a trembling voice, he said, “So, you have come to take my life. You will be caught and punished.” Hillman’s eyes looked beyond me to the courtyard outside. “That may be the final result,” I said. “I want what my mother promised me on the day you poisoned us. She had a silk purse stuffed with money that she’d earned from when she worked before marrying you. She told me you didn’t know about it and she wanted me to have it when I grew up. You must have found out about the purse, of course. And because of your business failures, you decided to get rid of us and keep those five thousand dollars for yourself because you knew mother would never give it to you. Is that what you used to buy this place?” Hillman’s dead eyes locked on me. “You have no proof of any of your accusations.” The rage reached a boiling point. I stood up, took a step toward Hillman and slapped his face with all the force I could muster. He turned his head back to me and said nothing. His mouth formed a sneer. As I drew my hand back to strike him again, this time with a fist, Thomas grabbed my arm. Thomas looked at me, then turned to Hillman, and said, “There is proof, sir! I am that proof. I was there that night in the desert with you and that thug you hired, Clancy. I was the one you never saw that knocked you out. I saw that the girl was still breathing, and I shot Clancy. Unfortunately, the mother was dead. I pulled Blush from the grave, pushed Clancy in, and finished the burial. So, yeah, there is proof.” I looked at Thomas, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. My memory wasn’t cooperating. I vaguely remembered someone pulling me out of that hole and laying me on a blanket. I don’t remember anything else until being aware of another mother - Thomas’s mother - Mrs. Kilcannon. My mind was swirling. Hillman seemed to shrink before us. Before I could ask about having the money returned to me, a man burst into the room. Where had he been? Did he hear what we said? He had a revolver in his hand and pointed it, not a us, but at Hillman. Thomas let go of my arm and we stood there looking at this man. Hillman turned in his chair to face the intruder. Hillman said, “What is this, Mateo? Why are you pointing that gun at me?” Mateo, one of Hillman’s workers from the northern side of the border said, “You are doing us wrong, jefe.” Mateo’s hand was shaking. No telling where a bullet might go. “You favor the Sonoran workers over us. And now all of us have quit. Go to Mexico where you are welcomed. There are no workers here for you.” Mateo was focused on Hillman and didn’t react immediately to Thomas moving toward him. Thomas lunged and his right shoulder hit Mateo in the chest. Mateo landed on the tiled floor with Thomas on top of him. The gun clattered across the floor. Thomas got up quickly and retrieved the gun. Mateo focused on regaining his breath. Thomas handed me Mateo’s revolver and pulled a Colt semi-automatic pistol from his waistband. As this was happening, we hadn’t noticed Mateo getting up and running for the front door. Thomas ran after him. Was he really going to kill the man? Was he afraid of leaving a witness? I ordered Hillman to move his chair to the window and sit. I hoped to see what Thomas was doing. The gradual slope in front of the house ran down to the town. Walnut trees interrupted my sight line. My heart was in my throat. Mateo’s pistol was pointing at Hillman and I was afraid to take my eyes off him for more than a quick glance out the window. I saw a flash of a blue shirt running down the slope. It was Thomas. He was beyond the trees and approaching International Street. The gunshot ended my plan. Thomas must have shot at Mateo. A few seconds later, more gunshots filled the scorching, desert air of Ambos Nogales. What was happening? Surely, Mateo couldn’t have gotten another gun! I was trying to figure it out when Hillman came at me. The revolver in my hand fired. I don’t remember doing it. Hillman fell to the floor at my feet. A scorched hole appeared on his shirt. A red stain followed. He didn’t move. Goddamn! I ran out the door and down toward the town. I found Mateo at the foot of the slope. He was dead, a bullet wound in the head. I made my way into town. There were black American soldiers moving toward and around me. They continued up the hill. They would find Hillman. Good God, what happened here? There were several bodies of men lying in the street. I heard the report of another shot, and the bullet struck a building just to my left, barely missing me. I ducked into a doorway and knelt down. I spotted Thomas’s blue shirt about a hundred feet away. He was on his side in a ditch. When I got to him, I saw that he had been shot in his face. Tears flowed immediately. I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The gunshots continued. I had to get away and find a safe place. I don’t remember which streets I took. I knew I had to stay on the American side. Finally reaching the café on Morley Avenue, I had to come to come to terms with what I’d done and what would happen next. It could take some time. The tears came again.