I want you to lose that guy. I fucking mean it, Yolie.”
“Screw you, Mando, you’re not my dad. And what about you, you asshole?”
“Me?”
“Yeah, every time you bring your girlfriend over, you’re moaning all goddamned night long like a couple of dogs in heat. No one can sleep, and you send Andy out to count the stupid fucking stars and Ileana wants to know if you’re in pain and whether or not we should check on you and she keeps whispering to me that she thinks you’re really sick and shouldn’t we call a doctor and what the shit am I supposed to tell her?”
“Xochil is none of your business.”
“Eddie’s none of your business, either. Asshole.”
“He just wants to get into your pants.”
“So what if he does? What if I want to get into his? Ever think of that, you pinchi macho asshole?”
They were arguing again. Since the week after his birthday. Since Mando caught Eddie and Yolie in bed. They’d had their clothes on, and they were just kissing. But Mando had gotten really mad. Mad like he used to get mad at Dad. That’s how the arguments started—with Eddie. Just like when Dad was around. The fighting. It was as if they couldn’t live without it. It was as if they’d called a truce, but had decided to call the truce off because the peace was too much for them—so they started again.
Andrés took Ileana out of the house. He had enough money to buy them both paletas. “You want a paleta, Ellie?”
“Piña.”
“Me, too.”
She took his hand.
“Why do they fight so much?”
“That’s how they love each other.” He winked at her.
She laughed, then leaned into him. “Will you always take care of me, Andy?” He thought of his mother.
“Siempre.”
“You promise?”
“Siempre.”
“Say it in English.”
“Always.”
“And we won’t fight like Yolie and Mando.”
“No. Never. We’re not like that.”
“And will you take me back to El Paso? When you’re big enough.”
“Yes. When I’m big enough.”
But wasn’t he big enough now? That’s what Andrés asked himself that night when he lay awake in the courtyard. What was he waiting for?
The breeze was cool, and he was glad that summer was ending. It had been so hot. He tried not to think about school. He wrote on his typewriter every day. He pretended it was his job—to write something. Mando bought him two dictionaries, one in Spanish and one in English, and sometimes he wrote sentences using the new words he looked up. Sometimes, when he got tired of writing, he made some sketches on his drawing pad. They were okay. He was an okay artist, he guessed. The things he sketched looked more or less like the things they were supposed to look like. But he wished he had a teacher.
He wondered why he just didn’t take himself and Ileana back to El Paso. They could find their way back to the Fernandezes’ house. They could cross the bridge and ask for directions. If the Fernandezes weren’t home, they’d wait. And they would beg for forgiveness for having run away. Maybe they would forgive them and take them in. Maybe they would. And he and Ileana could go to school. And Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez could take care of them and buy them the things they needed. And they could be a family, and they wouldn’t have to listen to fighting all the time. Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez—they didn’t fight. They were like him and Ileana. They just didn’t need to fight to feel like they were alive. Couldn’t they just run away, him and Ileana? Why not? And they wouldn’t be in the way anymore, and Yolie could be with her boyfriend, Eddie. And Mando could be with his girlfriend, Xochil. And Mando wouldn’t have to make so much money to pay for everything they needed. But he remembered that he’d promised Mando. And he’d promised Xochil, too. He promised them that they would always stay together because Mom and Dad would have wanted that. For them to be a family. That’s what they would have wanted, Mom and Dad.
That night, he argued with himself. He argued with his dead mother and father. He argued with Yolie. He argued with Mando. So many arguments, and all of them in his head. He made up his mind. He and Ileana would leave. They would take nothing with them—that way they could travel fast. Just get away. He would get on his hands and knees at the Fernandezes’ doorstep if he had to. And they would forgive him and Ileana when they saw he was truly sorry, and they would give them a place to live. But what if Mando and Yolie came to take them away again? And what if he never saw them again? Hadn’t Mando and Yolie taken care of them? Hadn’t they been good? Hadn’t they been a family? Why was he doing this, breaking up their family? “You’ll never be happy with anything.” That’s what Yolie had told him one day. When she was mad.
The next day, he walked toward the bridge. By himself. In the late afternoon. So he’d know the way. He passed some bars as he walked. There were women in some of them who sold their bodies. She had heard Mando and Yolie talking. Whores. Prostitutes. Putas. That’s what they called them. He knew they worked out of those bars. And he felt bad. Because they needed the money. That’s what Yolie had said. But couldn’t they sell burritos or tacos instead of their bodies? And how exactly did you sell a body? He asked Mando about that, and Mando said it was more like renting a body. “You rent your body out so someone else can use it for a while. For pleasure. And you charge by the hour. You get it, carnalito?” Yeah, he got it. Sort of.
So that afternoon, he wandered through the streets and he found his way to Avenida Benito Juárez. And he saw the bridge ahead and El Paso. And he wanted just to walk across. He knew no one would stop him. He would tell the man at the booth that he was an American. “U.S. citizen,” that’s what he would say. He would say that and smile and give him the names of all the presidents he could think of—Washington and Lincoln, and Jackson, and Johnson, two Johnsons. And Kennedy and Roosevelt—two Roosevelts, too. And they would let him back in. And he walked toward the bridge and he wanted to go back to El Paso—run there, run until he was safe. But he couldn’t because he hadn’t brought Ileana with him. And he would never leave her behind. Because he loved her more than anything in the world, more than the stars he counted or his books, more than his typewriter, more than the bicycle his father had left for him, more than his dead mother and father.
He traced his steps back to his house, remembering the names of the streets and the names of restaurants so he would know he was on the right road to go home again. It was getting dark, and as he walked past a bar, a woman smiled at him. “Que lindo,” she said. She said it nice. And he wondered if she was a prostitute. She was dressed up, and she smelled like she was wearing lots of perfume—all dressed up like she was going to a dance.
He thought of his mother and father, and he remembered he hadn’t prayed for them for a long time. So he went to the cathedral and lit a candle and hoped they had found the right road, the one that led to the light. The one that took them into the arms of God.
When he was walking back home, a man smiled at him. It was dark, but he could see the man perfectly from the light streaming from the store window. He didn’t like the man’s smile. The man motioned him to come closer. But he didn’t. He didn’t come closer. “Ven,” the man said. “¿Como te llamas?” He could tell the man wasn’t Mexican. The way he spoke. And then he waved a five-dollar bill in front of him, like an offering. The man came closer. And Andrés couldn’t move. He couldn’t. But finally, when he felt the man’s breath on him, he ran. He ran all the way home.
When he walked back inside the house, his heart was still pounding. He went into the bathroom and washed the sweat off his face and neck. He promised himself that he and Ileana would be gone before the week was over. That night, Andrés dreamed he was waving good-bye to Mrs. Fernandez. She was waving at him and Ileana. And they were walking to school. He was smiling when he woke.
Mando didn’t come home that night. But that happened a lot. He was out. He liked to go to bars. He liked to go out with Xochil and have a good time. Sometimes he was gone for days. One time for a week. It was normal, him not coming home.
“He left us a lot of money,” Yolie said. But the way she said it. As if, somehow, he had left them too much money. She sounded worried.
“Did you fight again?” Ileana asked.
“No. He said he had to do something. But I could tell it was something he didn’t want to do.” And then Yolie stopped herself from saying anything else. She nodded. “It’s late,” she said, “let’s go to bed.” But they all had a bad feeling. So they lit a candle, and listened to the wind. The first cold wind of the season. And Yolie sang a song. And Andrés and Ileana listened, and Andrés thought that maybe Yolie could be a singer. He thought that everyone should listen to her voice, because there was so much sadness and happiness in it, all at the same time. And he knew she could make the world be quiet, and he thought that maybe the world needed to be quiet. That was the problem with the world—it never stayed quiet long enough to listen.
He wanted to tell Yolie that her voice was so beautiful. But he knew that Yolie didn’t like people to tell her things like that.
So he just listened until he fell asleep, listened to the first cold wind and to Yolie’s singing.
In the morning, Yolie was gone. She left them a note saying she would be back in the evening. And she left some money so that they could go to the market. And Andrés thought it was the perfect day to leave. The door was open. They had a chance. All he had to do was grab Ileana’s hand and walk through the open door.
But he couldn’t leave Yolie alone. Not like this. Not when something was wrong. It wasn’t right. Just to leave her all alone in the world. They couldn’t. So they went to the market, him and Ileana. And they bought everything they needed to make dinner. A big chicken and fresh tortillas and avocados. And the house smelled nice with the chicken in the oven. He knew how to make it—he’d watched his mother and Yolie. Easy. God, the house smelled nice. With the chicken in the oven.
That night, Yolie didn’t come home. And so they were alone, Andrés and Ileana. And it rained and rained. And even though rain was a miracle because this was the desert, that night it was not a miracle because the rain sounded like a thief trying to break into the house.
“I’m scared, Andy.”
“Don’t be scared. I’m here.”
She cried, Ileana. She cried and cried. “They’ll never come back,” she said. “Never.”
“They’ll be back tomorrow, you’ll see.”
“No. No, they won’t. It will be just like Mom and Dad. They went out and they never came back. And they left us all alone.”
“No, it won’t be like that.”
“Everyone will leave us. And then you’ll leave me, too, Andy.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll never leave you.”
He pulled her close to him, and she cried and cried until he thought she would never stop crying. And he thought the rain would never stop, either. The rain that should have been a miracle but wasn’t. And finally Ileana fell asleep, too tired to cry anymore. She dug herself into Andrés’ ribs, and Andrés held his sister. His tiny sister. And he didn’t sleep until the rain stopped. And when he woke, it was raining again.
“If I would have just been brave enough. None of this would have happened. But I was afraid.”
“You were eleven years old.”
“But I knew better.”
“Okay, go ahead, take all the credit. It’s all your fault.”
“I know that trick, Grace.”
“I know the trick you’re pulling, too. The trick of taking all the credit.”
“I’m not taking all the credit.”
“Yes, you are. That’s arrogant, you know.”
“I’m tired.”
“That your way of getting out of this debate?”
“Maybe. But I am tired.” He suddenly felt naked revealing something about himself that was so simple and true. He felt awkward and self-conscious, and he was glad he was tired—too tired to worry too much.
Grace looked at her watch. “It’s late.”
“You don’t mind, coming in after hours?”
“I don’t mind.”
“I think I signed up for too many classes.”
“How many?”
“Fifteen hours.”
“What’s your favorite class?”
“My drawing class. The human figure.” He laughed. Nervous, a nervous laugh.
“That’s nice.”
He liked the way she said that. She sounded real and soft in all the right kind of ways.
“Are you okay, Andy?”
“Andy?”
They looked at each other for an instant.
“Andy,” he whispered. “I’m okay. I think I am.” He shrugged. He felt soft just then. He never knew what to do when he felt soft. “I ran into Hernandez. I hate that bastard.”
“Why?”
“I don’t like him because he doesn’t see us.”
“Us?”
“Any of us. I mean, anybody who works under him. He doesn’t see Al. He doesn’t see Judy. He doesn’t see Octavio. He doesn’t see Elvira. He doesn’t see Carla. He doesn’t see anybody. We’re just these numbers that fit into a formula. That’s all. I’d like to take his face and pound it and pound it. And pound it.”
She nodded. There was nothing false about the look on his face as he spoke—almost as if he were imagining himself smashing Hernandez’s face into oblivion.
“You know, Grace, Hernandez should come and see you. He needs to talk to you more than I do.”
“I don’t care about Hernandez.” Grace paused and looked into his coal black eyes. “I care about you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means—” She paused and smiled to herself. “It means we’re hoeing a long row of summer cotton.” She smiled to herself and thought of Richard Garza. “You and I. Andrés Segovia and Grace Delgado. Lots of weeds, Andrés. And we’re hoeing. We’re hoeing as fast as we can. And if we don’t get the roots, then the weeds will grow back. And all our work will be for nothing.”
She could almost see his smile. A sunrise. Breaking the darkness.
He shook his head. “You should have been an English teacher.”
“You should have been a writer.”
He laughed. Like a dam that was bursting. “That’s funny, Grace. That’s very funny.”
And then she saw the tears streaming down his face. And the clenched fist. There was so little difference between a fist that was trying to hold everything in and the fist that was ready to release all its frustration and rage.
She didn’t stop him as he made his way toward the door. Let him have his tears. He’s earned them. He’s more than earned them.
It was dusk when he got home, his apartment stifling hot. He hated the late August heat. May, June, July, now August. Summers beat the hell out of him. He was ready for a cool October breeze. He turned on the air conditioner, took off his shirt, soaked with his own sweat. He wiped his face with the wet shirt and tossed it against the wall. He looked at his watch. Almost eight. He noticed the date on his watch. His birthday. Shit, it was his birthday. Twenty-seven years old. Happy Fucking Birthday. If only he hadn’t looked at his watch. It would have been easier if the day had passed without him noticing. The thought occurred to him that he should do something—celebrate. He’d once heard Al tell Carla that if you pretended to be happy, then one day you’d wake up, and sure enough, you’d be happy. Maybe he’d take Al’s advice and pretend to celebrate.
He thought a moment, then took off his clothes. He stared at himself in the mirror, then averted his eyes. He’d never liked looking at himself, not even his face. He tried not to think it was him he was looking at when he shaved. He pulled on a pair of running shorts and an old T-shirt. He found some old running shoes in the closet. He stepped out the door. He’d run. That’s how he’d celebrate. He’d run and run until his heart burst into flames. And he would become nothing but ash. No body, no heart, no bone, no flesh—just carbon matter scattering in the wind.
He imagined himself a boy riding through his old neighborhood. He ran and ran, up Sun Bowl Drive, the lights of Juárez below and across the river. He ran and ran, stretching the limits of his body, and suddenly, he wasn’t thinking about his past or thinking about what would become of him. He wasn’t thinking of himself at all. He was thinking of his beating heart. He was thinking of his aching legs. He was thinking of his lungs that felt as though they were being punched by the air. And he was glad to take the punches, glad—and almost glad to have a body.