Andrés learned how to connect all the dots. It was like finding the Big and Little Dippers. Once you saw the constellations—once you found them—everything was perfectly clear. He knew now that Yolie worked for Homero. He would find men who would pay to sleep with his sister. He understood that, and he hated Homero for doing that to his sister, and he hated Yolie for letting it happen.
One night, Homero came by. He said both he and Ileana should get dressed, make themselves look nice. So Yolie helped Ileana get dressed, and she looked so beautiful, and Andrés wore a nice shirt and Homero took them out to dinner, and it was nice to be taken out to dinner. They hadn’t been out to dinner for a long time. Not since their mother and father had died. Not since then. And Andrés and Ileana ate and ate. Like they’d never eaten before. And afterward, Homero took them to a place. He said it was a private club. But Andrés thought it was just a bar. He’d seen them from the outside, but he had never been in one. The club was quiet, and Homero told him and Ileana to sit at the bar, and he ordered a Coke for both of them—with cherries.
Yolie was angry with him. “Why did you bring them in here?”
“They have to begin learning. How many times have I told you that?”
“They’re too young. Leave them alone.”
Yolie told them to go home. “Go on,” she said. “Just go home.”
Homero didn’t like it, that Yolie was sending them home.
“Finish your Cokes,” he said. He didn’t say it in a nice way.
“Take them home, Homero. Now!” Yolie was angry.
“Callate, Puta,” that’s what he said. And he raised his arm like he was going to slap her. But he stopped himself. Yolie looked at him, and Andrés swore her eyes were knives and she was cutting him up like he was a piece of paper. And right then, at that moment, he loved Yolie, loved her with all his heart.
Yolie nodded at them. “Go home,” she whispered.
Andrés took Ileana’s hand. “C’mon, let’s go.” He wanted to hug Yolie and to kiss her and tell her that they should all go back. But he knew he would never go back to El Paso without her. So they were all stuck together now. No matter what happened.
Stuck. Together.
On their way home, off Calle Mariscal, he saw them. On a quiet street, Silvia and Amanda. They were standing at a doorway to a bar with a blinking neon light that read, “La Brisa.” They were laughing and smoking cigarettes and wearing high heels and red dresses. He waved at them. And they made a big fuss over him and kissed him and kissed Ileana and told them they were beautiful, and they wanted to know why they were out. “It’s not safe,” Silvia said. “Where’s Yolie?”
“She’s with Homero,” Andrés said,
“Ese hijo de la chingada,” Amanda said. “Your sister should keep away from that man.”
“Shhh,” Silvia said. “Anyway, it’s too late for that. C’mon, let’s take you home. It’s not safe.”
They walked Andrés and Ileana home, Silvia and Amanda, and Amanda whispered to him that he should keep away from Homero. Silvia gave Amanda a look, but she said if they ever needed them for anything, they could always go to La Brisa, and someone would know where to find them.
“You trusted them?”
“Sure I did. It’s funny, isn’t it? Two fake women were the most real things I encountered on those streets.” I might have even loved them.
One night, when Yolie was out, Homero came by the house. Andrés was reading a book to Ileana. “That’s nice,” Homero said. But Andrés could see that Homero was a fake. Nothing real about his smile or his words. “Yolie won’t come home until very late,” Andrés said. He wanted Homero to leave.
“I know. I just wanted to come by and visit you. Just to make sure the both of you were all right.”
“We’re fine,” Andrés said. But he said it through his teeth.
“Oh, so you bark like a dog?”
“I bite like one, too,” Andrés said.
“You have your sister’s fight.”
“I don’t want you to come here anymore,” Andrés said.
“You’d have starved without me. Ask your sister, she’ll tell you. I own her. I own you, too.”
“Get out,” Andrés said.
Homero smiled, then nodded. He wasn’t angry, not really. Andrés knew Homero wasn’t afraid of him. Who could be afraid of a boy like him? He got up to leave. He put a ten-dollar bill on the table. “This is your first paycheck,” he said.
“Take your money,” Andrés said.
Homero smiled and walked out of the house.
“I should’ve left. Right then and there, I should’ve left.”
“But you couldn’t leave Yolie, could you?”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“So you hate yourself. For loving her.”
“I’m not that virtuous. I was just afraid.”
“Maybe you are virtuous. There’s a thought.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I don’t know many men who aren’t threatened by transvestites.”
“It’s not a virtue to trust good people. Transvestites don’t hurt anybody. Men who look normal, who dress normal, who talk normal, they hurt people. Homero was a well-dressed, more or less educated man. He looked like a man is supposed to look like. Big fucking deal. We should all be afraid of normal-looking men. Transvestites? They’re nothing to be afraid of.”
“Knowing who to trust is a virtue, Andrés.”
“You’re bound and determined to make me out to be a decent guy.”
“That’s my job.”
“You’d be better off selling shoes.”
A few minutes after Homero left, there was another knock at the door. Andrés thought it was Homero again, but when he went to the door, his heart beating, he relaxed. It was Silvia. “I saw him come in here,” she said. “I don’t like it that he comes here when your sister’s not here. What did he want?” She was angry. She knew all about him. Andrés showed her the ten-dollar bill he’d left on the kitchen table. “He said it was our first paycheck.”
“Your sister has to get you out of here. Where is she?”
Andrés shrugged. “She’s out.”
“Never mind. I know where to find her.” She shook her head. “Lock the door. And don’t ever open it for anyone.”
The next morning, Andrés told Yolie what had happened. After she was awake and drinking coffee and smoking. “I know,” she said. “Silvia told me everything.”
Andrés looked at her. “What if he hurts Ileana?”
“He won’t. You worry too much.”
But she was as worried as he was. Andrés could see that. But he could also see she didn’t want to talk about it.
Things went normal for a little while. Normal for them, anyway. Yolie worked almost every night. Sometimes she had a night off, and she would cook a meal and go to bed early. Silvia and Amanda checked in on them every night before they went out. One night, Andrés heard Silvia arguing with a man right outside their door, on the sidewalk.
The man called her a puta, an hija de la chingada and everything else that was bad in the world, and he told her he was going to kill her. Andrés didn’t like it, that the man was calling her those names. He opened the door and watched them yell at each other. “Te voy a matar!” he yelled.
“Si puedes,” she yelled back, “Yo soy mas hombre que tú.”
That’s when he slapped her. She fell against the wall, then slipped on the sidewalk, her heels coming out from under her. Andrés jumped in between them when he saw the man was going to kick her. “Dejala,” Andrés said.
The man clenched his fists and jaw, deciding whether he should hit Andrés or not. He shook his head in disgust and walked away. He helped Silvia up.
“Don’t ever let a man touch you like that,” she said. Then she laughed. “Hombrecito,” she said. “Eres mi hombrecito.”
He didn’t mind, that she called him her little man.
That night Andrés understood that everyone had troubles. Silvia and Amanda—troubles. People looked at them, hated them. He knew they were transvestites and prostitutes, and he knew that meant trouble. And Yolie, she was a prostitute, too. And that meant trouble—especially because she worked for Homero. He was supposed to protect her. That’s what Silvia said, but no one needed that kind of protection. She called Homero a cabrón and a pinchi and an hijo de la chingada. She hated him. Everyone had troubles. But his mother and father and Mando, they didn’t have troubles anymore. He hadn’t prayed for Mando. He’d prayed for his mom and dad, but he’d forgotten to pray for Mando. Maybe he took the right road. Maybe he found his mom and dad. Maybe they were living in the light now. Maybe people didn’t fight anymore when they spent their days in that perfect light. Maybe Mando and his dad would be happy and talk like men were meant to talk.
He hoped the dead couldn’t see the living. He hoped his mother couldn’t see what was happening to them. She didn’t deserve to see this.
A few days later, Homero came to visit again. He talked to Yolie, who was getting ready to go out. They talked on the sidewalk. They argued. But they argued in whispers, so he and Ileana couldn’t hear. When Yolie came back inside, she looked numb and afraid. She was shaking when she lit her cigarette.
“What’s wrong?” Andrés asked.
“You ask too many questions.” She kept smoking and smoking. “Ileana’s going with me tonight,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing’s going to happen to her.”
“She’s just a little girl,” Andrés yelled.
“Nothing’s going to happen to her.”
“I won’t let you take her. I won’t let you—” He felt the slap of her hard hand against his face. The force of it made Andrés fly across the room. He didn’t say anything when he looked up at her. He picked himself up and walked into the courtyard. He sat there trying not to think about anything. Before she and Ileana left, Yolie walked into the courtyard. “A man will be coming. Do you understand? Do what he tells you to do. If you don’t, Homero will hurt Ileana. Do you understand?”
Andrés nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Andrés looked away.
The man came. He wasn’t old. He was a gringo. He was thin and well dressed and handsome and had a nice voice, and he wasn’t too old—it was hard for Andrés to know how old he was. Older than Mando had been—but not so very old. “Did someone tell you I would be coming?”
Andrés nodded.
The man lit a cigarette.
“I won’t hurt you. I like you. Don’t you know how much I like you? Can’t you see? Come here. Sit by me.”
He thought of Ileana. He thought of what Homero might to do her. If he didn’t do what the man said. So Andrés sat next to the man.
“What’s your name?”
“Andrés Segovia.”
“Really?”
Andrés nodded.
“Andrés Segovia. That’s a beautiful name. You’re named after an artist.” The man placed his hands on him as he talked, “A guitarist from Spain. Did you know that? That doesn’t hurt, now does it?”