Sand Trap

 Henry glanced up at the darkening sky as he hurried across the unnaturally green grass. There had been a lull
in the rain, but the clouds were heavy and ominous, threatening to unleash further torrents of cold, soaking
rain.

 The sky wasn’t the only thing contributing to his bad mood. He had awakened that morning from a bad dream, one he couldn’t seem to stop having. In it, he was back home in southern Arizona on a cool spring morning, in the shade of the Chiricahua Mountains. He could smell the wildflowers, the sweetbush, scarlet beeblossom, and desert lavender; he could hear the faint hum of the bees waking in their hives. He stood in front of an old, rusted out pickup truck that had been abandoned there so long ago it had become part of the landscape. Henry and his little brother Bobby had played on it as kids, taking endless imaginary road trips, mostly to California, which they imagined as a sort of border-to-border Disneyland. But in this dream they were no longer kids, and the truck loomed, forbidding, and deadly. Yet his bare feet carried him closer, over the rocky, weed-strewn ground, toward the slumped over shape visible through the space where the windshield used to be. And, as he always did in this half-dream, half-nightmare, he walked to the driver’s side door and pulled. It opened with a screech of tortured metal, showering the ground with flakes of rust. He didn’t want to see what was inside but he was helpless not to look. As always, he was hit by the coppery, meaty smell, took a moment to wonder why the ancient cracked upholstery was soaked with what looked like motor oil, and then he reached for his brother’s shoulder—
 “There you are.” A man’s voice startled him from his reverie. He turned to face Mr. Phelps, the head groundskeeper who had hired him about a month before.
 “Yes, sir. I was just looking for you.” He spoke in the bright, chipper tone he assumed his employer wanted to hear from his underlings.
 “Henry, I need you to help Rodolfo swamp out the sand trap on nine.” He looked from his ever-present clipboard up to the clouds, a troubled look on his face. “I sure hope this shit clears out by tomorrow."
 “I didn’t think it rained this much in California,” Henry said. “I had always heard it was sunny all the time.”
 “Not this far north.” He was already walking away. “Rodolfo should have an extra bucket.”
 Henry watched him for a moment before heading to the ninth green, thinking about how far north he had ended up. His original plan had been L.A., but once he got there he just kept driving. There was no place to stop in LA, not a single highway exit that looked like it led somewhere still and quiet where he could catch his breath and think over his plans. So he kept going north until he hit Mendocino County, and there he came to rest. This had been the first job he applied for. The application process had consisted entirely of Mr. Phelps asking him, “Are you a U.S. citizen? Can you prove it?” Henry had produced his Arizona driver’s license and that was that.
 He came over a rise and saw Rodolfo, wearing his waders and the mandatory blue vest that identified the groundskeeper’s staff, hunched over in the sand trap in a knee-deep puddle of water, bailing water with an intense, steady rhythm.
 “Buenos dias,” Henry said.
 Rodolfo glanced up at him and nodded, his Mayan features and dark eyes impossible to read. Henry had been nothing but respectful and polite, hoping to win over the man’s trust, but he had no idea if it was working.
 As a trainee on probation, Henry had neither waders nor a vest. He stopped on the edge of the grass to strip off his shoes and socks, roll up his pant legs and grab a plastic bucket from the bank. He waded into the ice-cold water, hissing a little from the shock of it, and started bailing, sloshing the water out in an arc over the grass. He tried to lose himself in the repetitive physical nature of the work, but his mind roved of its own accord, still stuck in his dream of that awful morning a few months before he had left Arizona, ruminating over the consequences of what Bobby had done, still trying to figure out why he had done it.
 He felt an acute pang of homesickness, imagining his mom as he had last seen her, sitting at the kitchen table, clutching the rosary beads she had brought with her when she emigrated from Mexico, her lips moving soundlessly, her black hair uncombed and wild. He saw his dad, burly and bearded, tending to the hives, his bare arms crawling with bees, a permanent frown stamped into his features. For a moment he wanted nothing more than to be there with them, in their small adobe house in a field of wildflowers. He missed seeing the jars of honey on the shelves in front of the window, the amber sweetness of the fall’s crop, the unfiltered spring honey, crunchy with sugar crystals. He and Bobby used to test each batch, dipping in wax honeycombs and chewing thoughtfully as their dad stood nearby, waiting to hear their reaction. He encouraged them to free-associate, to say the first thing that popped into their heads as they experienced the taste and texture. Sunflower, Henry might have said, while Bobby was more likely to say something like, Batman, just to make them all laugh. The truly clever and descriptive words might make it onto the labels that their mother carefully hand-glued to each jar.
 “Once I found a Rolex in this sand trap,” Rodolfo said out of nowhere.
 Henry straightened up. His hands had gone numb. “A Rolex?” He hadn’t been sure the guy even spoke English.
 “A very expensive watch.”
 “I know what a Rolex is. You found one here?”
 Rodolfo stopped bailing for a moment and looked out over the trees. “Imagine that,” he said. “Losing something so valuable and not returning to look for it.”
 “No one ever claimed it?”
 “To the man who lost it, it was not worth claiming.”
 “Did you get to keep it?”
 “Yes.” He leaned over and resumed bailing.
 “Did it still work? I mean, didn’t the sand mess it up?”
 “I took it apart and cleaned it. Then I sold it and paid three month’s rent.”
 Henry let out a low whistle, suddenly hating the guy who had lost the watch. “Fuckin’ rich people,” he said.
 “California,” Rodolfo said, as if that explained everything. And maybe it did.

 He had the nightmare again that night. Arizona, the morning light, the wildflowers, the bees, the truck, the shape behind the wheel, the rusty creak of the door hinges. He woke up covered in sweat. It was raining outside.

 The next morning he joined Rodolfo to help swamp out the sand trap again. It was another cloudy morning but the air seemed brighter and maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t an exercise in futility.
 Henry straightened up, put his hands on the small of his back and stretched, wincing. “Don’t you ever get tired of this?” he asked.
 Rodolfo shrugged and kept bailing.
 “How long have you worked here, anyway?”
 “Five years. Since I moved from Guatemala.”
 “Wow, you’re a long way from home. I’m from Arizona, myself. I got here a month ago, but I’m still homesick.” He picked up his bucket and got back to work. “Do you still miss Guatemala?”
 “It’s a very dangerous place. Many murders. My own brother was killed.”
 A chill went up Henry’s spine. “Your brother died?”
 “One day there was a knock on the door of our family home. Someone had left a box on the step. When I opened it, I saw his face looking up at me.”
 “Oh, my God. That’s awful.” He suddenly found himself near tears and he wondered how Rodolfo could be so calm about it. “Why? Why did someone do that to him?”
 “There is much injustice in my country. He spoke out against the wrong people so they sent us all a message.”
 They bailed in silence for several minutes.
 “My brother died, too,” Henry said, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t shake. “He shot himself. A few months ago. We never figured out why.”
 “I’m sorry.”
 “I was the one who found his body. It was the worst day of my life.”
 “Yes.”
 Henry’s bucket scraped against sand. The trap was almost empty of water. “You know what the worst part is? I can’t stop seeing it. Every time I close my eyes, I see his dead face. I can’t sleep without dreaming about him. I thought moving here would help, but it hasn’t.” He kicked at the wet sand, sending some flying. “How do you handle it? How does the thought of it not drive you crazy?”
 Rodolfo thought for a moment before answering. “It hurts to remember him that way.” He upturned his bucket and sat down on it. “So when I think of him, instead of remembering his face in death, I remember it in life.”
 “What do you mean? How do you do that?”
 “He was going to marry a beautiful girl named Olivia. He was a very serious young man, but she always made him smile. That’s how I choose to remember him. When I start to think about opening that box, I change the picture to see him happy.”
 “Does that work?”
 Rodolfo made eye contact with him for the first time. “I miss him every day,” he said. “But I can’t be scared of my brother. I loved him.”
 Henry let out a long, shaky breath. “Yeah,” he said. “I loved my brother, too.”
 Mr. Phelps appeared on the edge of the grass. “Looks good, fellas. Probably as good as it’s gonna get. The sun should take care of the rest.” He consulted his clipboard. “Rodolfo, I need you to take care of a dead possum on six. Henry, you’re on litter. Somebody’s been smoking behind the clubhouse.” He shook his head. “Some people.”
 They clambered out of the sand trap and headed in different directions.
 “Henry,” Mr. Phelps said.
 He turned around.
 “Your probationary period is up. The job’s yours if you want it.”
 Henry smiled. “Cool.”

 In his dream that night, he stood facing the old truck, smelling the flowers, hearing the bees. His brother was in there, a dark form behind the wheel. As he walked toward it, he realized he was ten years old again, wearing his favorite pair of patched overalls, his hands grubby from playing outside all day. He felt a surge of relief. If he was only ten, then everything was still okay. He saw motion behind the wheel and, as he pulled open the rusty door, he saw his eight-year-old brother in the driver’s seat, bouncing as the truck went down the imaginary road.
 “Come on, Henry,” he said. “Get in! We’re going to California!”
 “Let’s go,” Henry said. “Scoot over. I’ll drive.”