ACROSS HIS KITCHEN TABLE HE’D STREWN PAMPHLETS GATHERED at the recruiting office with Colby, as well as Internet documents he’d printed at the library. It had been two days since he took Luz home. She hadn’t shown up in school, she hadn’t called. His stomach throbbed like some dull-toothed creature had been gnawing it.
But his fear and anxiety did not derive from the idea of fatherhood. There was something vertiginous about the surprise and acceleration of it, sure, but the reality was still a thing he had imagined for himself and Luz. And it wasn’t even the disintegrating of his fanciful vision concerning McBee Auto and some kind of idyllic American future that frightened him, either. Maybe that kind of life just wasn’t meant to be available to them—and that could be okay, as long as their life was vested with purpose. The new responsibility, once it came to be, would shove any questions about the reason for his own being to the periphery. He looked at his brother Bill’s photo on the wall. Jonah, now, would go into the military for his family with the force of necessity—this was a different thing. He wouldn’t be combing the indifferent world for something to fill the void. No, Jonah would construct his own meaning. Do it himself, create it and name it and know it. This was a gift, and with it came great relief.
What did frighten him, however, was Luz’s father. Why hadn’t Luz called? Where had she been? How could he get in touch with her if her father was keeping her locked away?
Jonah was pacing when there came a knocking on the door.
It was Luz, panting, weeping. Jonah had never actually seen her cry before.
“Luz!” Jonah said, letting her inside. “Jesus! Did you run all the way here?” Then, “Should you be running like that?”
She was shaking her head, composing herself. “I ran to and from the streetcar. Jonás—” She leaned into him.
He got her a glass of water. Jonah waited for her to say something. Then, “Are you okay?”
She seemed to be wrestling with the words. “Papá, he . . .”
“Listen,” Jonah said, “no matter how angry he is, we’ll get through it. I’ve got a plan. I’ve—”
“He wants to send me back to Mexico.”
“What?” Jonah said.
Luz wiped her eyes. “He says I need to go back to Las Monarcas. Abuela can take care of me. We can’t afford to keep me here . . .”
“No, no,” Jonah said. “That can’t happen. No. Look, here—”
He started gesturing at the documents on the kitchen table.
“I told him no,” Luz said. “I told him I won’t go. But he won’t let me out of the house. He’s going to make me go back.”
“No, Luz,” Jonah tried to interrupt. She was going on, frantic. “No!” Jonah said. “I’ve got a plan. I’ve been doing research.” He started lifting brochures and printouts from the table. “You’ve got to tell him about my plan. I’m going to enlist, I’ll be able to take care of you and—and the baby. I’m going to.”
“Jonah,” Luz said, her voice falling to a whisper. “Jonah.”
He rifled through the papers. “Right here. I found out that families get extra money for housing. So if we have to go somewhere or whatever. I mean, we’ll have to go wherever they send me, but—”
“Jonah. This isn’t what you want.”
“Yes,” he said. He set the papers down. He reached for her hands. They were hot against his fingers, freezing with nerves. His heart hammered. “We would have to get married.”
Her features jolted.
“To really make the army thing work, I mean. But—but that’s what I want, too.”
Light caught in the water around the rim of her eyes.
“Can you tell your pops that? Tell him I want to marry you and take care of you. He doesn’t have to send you back. You can stay right here.”