He shot his wife in Mexico. Some small town over the border near El Paso. Never said where he buried the body. All kinds of bare land around there. Maybe he dumped it in the river. Hard to say.

She was young. A Mexican girl no more than eighteen. He drove down there from Oklahoma specifically to marry her. The girl’s parents sent him pictures. Said it’d cost him $500 American. The middle aged man sent letters to her and the family. Saying he’d be a good man. Said he’d take care of her.

I got picked up in Carthage by him. Thumbing a ride to Dallas. He told me all about her. Told me he was in love.

We drove through the night into Texas. Crossed the Red River. The fat man pulled over at a rest area. We talked. Said he’d been married before. A blonde woman from Missouri. Joplin, I believe. He confessed that he’d killed her. Said she got on his nerves. Said she cheated on him. There was a paranoia about him. A mistrust in people. Women in particular.

But, he told me he liked talking to me. Said my listening put him at ease. I don’t talk much.

I left in the early morning before sun up. I was back on the highway . Hitching by day break. Didn’t think of him again until I saw a news story about a year later. About some American accused of killing his bride. Didn’t need to see a picture. I knew who it was. I knew.