WHEN MY ALARM SOUNDED AT 6:00 a.m., Mom cut it off and informed me school was closed because of what happened. I was asleep before she stopped talking. Not good sleep, only what my body demanded.
It was almost noon when I dragged my butt from bed to shower and I still felt drained. A note on the fridge said Dad was at work and Mom had gone grocery shopping. It also said to be home by four. Conference call today (moved from yesterday because I hadn’t been up for it).
Seriously, Bertram? Rescheduling just so I can answer your stupid one-to-ten questions? Ass.
Searching the net, I found the only Cruz residence listed in Stepton. I pasted the address into Google Maps. Reya lived on the west side, in the center of the crappy neighborhood I rode through a few weeks ago.
I grabbed my jacket. Time for a return trip.
Reya’s block rushed at me fast, and the surrounding houses looked just as sketchy as last time. A couple of guys lounging against a telephone pole eyed me hard when I turned onto Granger Avenue, Reya’s street. I nodded to show respect. They looked liked they’d eat me if I fell and broke a leg.
I kept pedaling, spotted Reya’s place about fifty yards ahead, well before I could read the numbers on the mailbox. Her lime Beetle was like a flare in this gloomy neighborhood. Three cars blocked her in while another half dozen lined either side of the street. A couple of Latino guys and a very pretty—very pregnant—Latina crowded the porch. The guys wore dark slacks, dress shirts, and loosened ties. The girl sat in a flowing teal maternity skirt that stopped midcalf. I felt like an underdressed jerk in my jeans, sneakers, and bomber jacket, but I was here now. “Is this the Cruz residence?”
A long moment passed with no one acknowledging my presence. I willed myself not to look at my shoes. Only the girl seemed to notice me, offering a half smile. I pressed on. “I was a friend of Eli’s.”
Someone screamed.
Both men turned toward the house, where rapid-fire Spanish followed the shriek. The pregnant girl stared at the ground. Inside, the voice was high and shrill. A woman. I plucked a few familiar curse words from the air.
A deeper male voice sounded, attempting to cut across the woman, but she wasn’t having it. The storm door swung open on squealing hinges, and a short, bulky man with brown skin emerged, shoving aside the two guys on the porch and sidestepping the pregnant girl, who was suddenly on her feet.
From my initial impression I thought the young guys might retaliate—violently—at such rude behavior. Didn’t happen.
The old guy came at me like I was a ghost he couldn’t see. I stepped aside to avoid being run over. He went for one of the cars at the curb, a freshly waxed Jaguar, and fishtailed onto the main drag, smoking skid marks the only evidence he’d been there at all.
This seemed like a bad time, and I would’ve left if one of the guys hadn’t spoken in such an exhausted, defeated tone. “If you want to go in, go in.”
Pregnant Girl stared after the car as it screeched around the corner, then flopped back down on the stoop like her legs had given out.
I moved past them all and entered the open front door. Stepping inside the house was like stepping through a portal. Outside was the definition of hood, decrepit and barren camouflage. Inside was like something on HGTV, one of those makeover shows. Marble foyer, fresh paint, thick carpet leading deeper into the house. All well kept.
Inside, a dozen people were packed in a tight circle with their heads lowered, creating an oven with their body heat.
“. . . sea tu nombre. Venga tu reino. Hágase tu voluntad en la tierra como en el cielo. Danos hoy nuestro pan de cada día . . .”
I hovered at the back of the crowd, unsure and uncomfortable. I was witnessing a prayer, that much I got. Strange, after the screaming from like five seconds ago.
This was private. Sacred. I turned to leave, quietly and without incident.
A hand fell on my shoulder.
The owner of the hand sidled next to me. Three black teardrop tattoos dotted his face beneath his left eye, and a puckered slash ran from his temple to jawline, curling at the end like a candy cane. His hair was like peach fuzz, coating his scalp with no definitive hairline, as if the barber handled the clippers with prosthetic hooks. The suit he wore could not hide how ripped he was. I’d seen his type plenty when I was a kid. He couldn’t have been home from jail for long.
The closed circle in the living room continued muttering, “Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia: El Señor está contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres . . .”
I found myself facing the group again, my new buddy beside me now, his heavy hand still on my shoulder.
He whispered, “It’s a Rosary, little homey.” An answer to a question I did not ask.
“What is?”
“The prayer for Little Cuz. It’s what they say when someone dies.”
Eli never mentioned being related to felons. Come to think of it, neither did I. “Them? Not you?”
He flashed a row of precious metal teeth, pointed toward the ceiling. Beyond the ceiling. “The Big Guy might find it funny coming from me.”
The Rosary continued for a while, long enough for me to contemplate a quick dash to the door, or a flying leap through a nearby window. I’d been in this sauna for five minutes, had yet to be introduced to anyone, and was being courted by a fresh parolee. I should’ve stayed in bed.
When the Rosary ended, the members of the circle broke apart as if awakening from a trance. An elderly woman with her silver hair in a bun sensed me at her back. She turned, her expression suspicious. “Who are you?”
Her question drew the attention of the others in the room, all Latinos and Latinas of varying ages, heights, and sizes. I spoke quickly, afraid of what might happen if I didn’t. “I was a friend of Eli’s. I’m sorry.”
My new big homey steered me into the packed living room. The crowd parted for me, creating a path to a love seat where a tiny woman with smudged mascara waited. Eli’s mom, I guessed.
“Are you Nick?” she asked.
I was surprised she knew my name. “Yes, that’s me.”
“He talked about you. He never talked about people from school.”
Something in me shrank, thinking her next words would be a string of accusations. That she thought I had something to do with her son’s death. Then I’d be torn apart. Scanning the room, reading the characters in it, I had no doubt about that.
“You’re the one who found him, aren’t you?”
My stomach cramped so hard I thought I’d double over. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Did he—” Her voice cracked, and a plump lady rushed to grab her hand. Mrs. Cruz waved her off. “Did he look peaceful?”
Oh God. I thought back to the moment I walked into the J-Room. Nothing in there looked peaceful. I caught sight of the ex-con who’d ushered me in. He gave a slight nod.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, not meeting Mrs. Cruz’s eyes. “He did.”
Her face folded and fresh tears watered her cheeks. She motioned for me to come closer. I hesitated.
“Please, Nick.”
I got so close I could smell the soap on her skin. She stood and planted a light kiss on my cheek. “Gracias. For being a friend to my boy. I know he didn’t have many.”
What do you say to that? Before I could force words, Mrs. Cruz said, “You must be hungry.” She yelled, “Reya! Preparale un plato de comida.”
She’d called Reya. But the rest could’ve been a scene from Scarface for all I knew. Reya, bring the chainsaw.
I heard her voice from deeper in the house, in English. “Well, Mami, tell whoever it is to come in the kitchen.” Her voice grew in volume as she drew nearer. “I’m not letting anyone else spill food on the—” Reya saw me and went mute.
In her silky dress, hair in curls, makeup done—she was the polar opposite of how she had looked at my house the night before, and I lost my words as well.
“Do you know Nick?” Mrs. Cruz asked.
“We’ve met,” Reya said quickly. “Come with me, Nick.”
She disappeared around the corner and I followed, throwing out a few nice-to-meet-yous on the way.
Serving trays wrapped in foil covered every horizontal surface in the kitchen. Reya had her back to me, holding a sectioned paper plate and grabbing a chicken breast with some tongs.
“Reya—”
“Save it. You decided I’m not crazy. We’ll talk more in my room.” She faced me, annoyed. “Do you like rice?”