When he spots me a glow lights his face. We rush for each other and embrace, and for a long time we stay like this, holding each other. We are both shaking.
Then we just stand there amazed that this moment has come. At least I am. Toño looks amazed also.
“Dios mío, how you have grown, hermanito!” he chokes out at last. Me, I cannot speak.
I am fifteen. Almost a man. But linking my arm in his I will not let Toño go. Not for one single moment. Nor he me, it seems, though he is older by seven years. Suddenly my feet become stupid. If on their own they would wander all over this big L.A. without a plan other than to avoid polis. But luckily Toño has one. First thing, he swerves me into a church. When the big doors creak closed we no longer hear the noise of the street.
We hear peace. For inside it is quiet, except for the rustling clothing of a few old women down on their creaky old knees. In this place there is a fragrance of incense and the whispers of all the faithful who have ever entered. There is the coolness of the much-trodden stone floors and of the waxy breath of candles. We two slip one coin each into a little box and light candles of our own. Actually, I get two candles. One for the unknown man at the river crossing. Toño and I do not speak, but I am certain we both light our velas for Mami. And we give thanks for those dear and far away and for the great miracle which has brought us to each other once again.
We kneel. Then we slide into a shaky pew. Lapped by the prayers of years, we sit in silence. In this moment I am overwhelmed by all that has befallen me—and him. And the grace that has reunited us. Toño is grateful also, I know, for on this slab of ancient wood, in this old and holy place, shoulders touching, I can feel my brother weeping.
El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Porciúncula. The Town of Our Lady Queen of the Angels of Porciuncula. A mouthful. This, Toño tells me, is the complete and real true name of the place where I am. Where we are, Toño and I. Together.
“Is not that the most beautiful name you have heard in your life?” he asks me vigorously.
“Sí, it is a name of glory,” I say. The City of Angels. Angels brought me here, I believe.
The Angels. What a place it is. Toño and I leave the church and hurry hurry along the street, eager to call home. I look up. There are buildings tall tall with mirror sides that gleam with sun. Buildings so high they scratch the sky. They touch the clouds themselves. I feel small. Dazed. For a few heartbeats I believe my mouth falls open. Enough for grillos to hop in, if grillos live here. Ay!
I do not for a minute forget that I have sneaked into this country. Like a wild creature, eyes darting darting, I keep checking for trouble. As I did upon my long journey to get here.
Strange trees line the streets. Their thin bare trunks reach up up up into the sky so that I must lean back to see them completely. They are topped with shaggy clumps of great big leaves that look like they might just bend these trees over at any minute. When I see them I gape, up up up.
“Palms,” Toño says with a grin. “A real L.A. thing.”
“Oh,” I say, still gaping.
And all around us blare signs I cannot read. And impossible noise so that we hardly hear each other speak. Cars rushing rushing. Buses snorting out smoke. Motorcycles flaring past. Each time one passes, it is like the roar of The Beast. I cannot help it, I flinch.
In these first Los Angeles moments, fear trembles me. I know I will never be free of The Beast behind me. Or of somebody trying to send me back. But maybe The Angels is a different kind of beast—one that just dazes you to death.
“So, little brother,” says Toño with pride in his voice, “what do you think?”
I cannot think. Truly, I cannot speak.
When we reach where Toño lives the sky-scratchers are gone. Now it is all small houses looking tired and old. Many have roofs of tejas, some already slid off to the ground, leaving gaps. Like teeth gone. These old roofs make me feel the pull of Señor Santos and his tejas, but more the tug of home. Our little adobe. My family. These houses, they are huddled together, so many, so close they are nearly crushing each other. Like the riders of The Beast.
Toño’s is a tiny place in back of one of the squashed-together houses. A bougainvillea bursting with purple blooms climbs up one side of the house, as if holding it up. A bougainvillea, like of our family’s home.
“Wow!” is all I can say. For this is much larger than our little adobe.
“Pretty big, huh,” he answers.
His rented house has one room where he eats and sleeps, one kitchen, and—unbelievable—one bathroom inside. I know I will sleep well in Toño’s home, my brother here with me, a roof of tejas over my head.
My brother, he is not as big as I remember. Like a plant of maíz stretching for the sun, I am taller. But he is still as full of fire as ever. Everything Toño does is urgent, with excitement, as he shows me this place. We must squeeze in many years we have lost. We must squeeze in also the places which are his Los Angeles.
As we walk into his home, comes a solemn moment. With both hands Toño touches my face and looks at me with caring.
“How are you?” he asks.
“I am alive.”
We do not dwell upon The Beast. Too well we both know that story. Once I notice him flicker a look at the palm of my hand. He says nothing, but his eyes go dark. And of my white cloud of hair, the same. He does not blink. He knows how I earned it.
Right away, on Toño’s cell phone, we call our family—together. At the other end the sound is like a great exhaling of worry. At once from Papi, from Abue, from our little brother and sister comes a soft “Gracias a Dios.” Then for a time, from all of us, a small silence—of gratefulness. And then a pure craziness of joyful noise.