Thursday, June 22: 60 days until I go home
“¡Chuta!”
Frankie’s eyes are huge. He stares open-mouthed at our living room furniture and up the stairs to the second floor. Papá’s house isn’t that big. Sure, it’s bigger than the various apartments where I’ve lived. But many of my friends’ houses are the same size or larger, and Petra lives in a real-live mansion. Even the house my mother and Evan are fixing up without me has a separate living and dining room and bedrooms that can fit more than one piece of furniture besides the bed.
Maybe Frankie’s home is one of those one-room cardboard shacks in the poblaciones. I don’t know how anyone can live there. What do they do when it rains? And he said there are six people in his family. How do they all fit in? Do they all sleep together in one room, boys and girls? Where do they go to the bathroom?
He reads the titles of the books on the floor-to-ceiling bookcase. “I’ve never seen so many books,” he says.
“Don’t you have a public library?”
“Not where I live.” He takes a book from the shelf. I sommersi e i salvati. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know. It’s not in Spanish or English.” I open the cover to the title page. The publisher’s address is in Torino. My aunt said she was in Italy last year, so it must be her book. “Italian,” I say.
Frankie scrunches his face. “Who knows Italian?”
“My grandmother was from Italy, so both my aunt and my father do.”
He returns the book to the shelf and scratches the back of his head. “That’s like my family. My uncle speaks German, but I don’t think he reads it. Anyway”—he runs his fingers along the spines—“we don’t have any books at home. Except ones for school.”
“We always had lots of books. When I was little, my father used to read to me at night.” I rub my cheek where his beard would tickle when I’d sit on his lap. “I learned how to read before I started school, but he’d still want to read to me. Except he’d make stuff up to see if I could catch him.”
“I bet you did,” Frankie says. “Because you’re really smart.”
I smile. That’s what my old papá used to say: I always knew I had a smart girl.
Graciela eyes us suspiciously from the kitchen. Not only is she part of Papá’s “security detail,” so is the older couple next door, who she works for as well. Papá and Tía Ileana have made sure that Graciela is around when I’m home alone. They won’t be back from work for at least another hour.
“Do you want to see the birds?” I ask. “Papá rescues injured parrots.”
“Sure,” he says dully, but then he puts his arm around my shoulders. “Show me the house first.”
In the kitchen I introduce Frankie to Graciela. Avoiding eye contact, he shakes her hand. Graciela doesn’t take her eyes off him. “I’m teaching him English,” I explain before she decides to report Frankie’s rudeness to my father and aunt.
Then Frankie says, “I want to learn the words for things in an office. For a job.”
I lead Frankie down the few steps into Papá’s office. I point out “desk,” “chair,” “books,” “bookshelves,” “pen,” “pencil,” “paper,” and “typewriter.” He repeats each word several times while lifting things on the desk and setting them down again. At first Graciela stands in the doorway, but then she leaves—bored, I guess. Or reassured that he won’t take anything, including my sort-of-already-taken virginity. Frankie taps a piece of paper that Papá left in the typewriter. I peer at a title, a couple of sentences underneath, and a note in my father’s handwriting.
“What does it say in English?” Frankie asks.
In both languages, I read the title aloud, “Policías y para militares. Police and . . . for military people?” It doesn’t make much sense. I read the next lines to myself because Frankie would never understand them in English. Despite the promise of democracy and civilian rule, suspicious acts of violence continue. As usual, they are classified as street crimes.
I guess the article has something to do with the musician that was beaten up, but when I asked her after their phone conversation, Mamá said Papá had no proof. His note in the margin reads, Guerra 1989 + Larranaga 1979, which leaves me even more confused. Guerra means “war.” Larranaga sounds like someone’s name.
Frankie turns to a stack of newspapers and magazines on the daybed. The top magazine is open to an article with the headline, FOR MOTHERS OF THE DISAPPEARED, LIFE DOESN’T GO ON.
Frankie reads aloud the author biography, next to a postage stamp–size color picture of Papá at the bottom of the page, “‘Marcelo Aguilar G. is the host of the weekday radio show Oye, Nino.’ That’s your father’s article, right?”
“If it says so.”
“What’s it like to have a famous father?”
It doesn’t make him happy. Or nice. I’d imagined him showing up with an entourage to meet me at the airport, but he didn’t show up at all. “I’ve hardly seen him since I got here,” I answer.
“Have you read any of his stuff?”
I shake my head. I haven’t read his articles, just those two sentences about street crimes that make me think I shouldn’t be walking around Santiago alone, day or night.
He picks up the newspaper underneath and flips through it. On the next to last page is another picture of Papá, another article, this one called, YOU BROKE THEM. NOW FIX THEM. He reads slowly, running his finger along the column until he gets to the end. I watch his face for a reaction. There’s a tiny curl of the lip, then a grunt, and finally, two quick nods. After setting down the newspaper with the page faceup, he lifts a pencil from the desk and opens the right-hand desk drawer. I see blank paper and some stray paperclips. He takes a piece of paper and writes down the title of the article in neat block handwriting as if working on a school assignment. A smile crosses his face. I wonder if he didn’t like what Papá said at first, but got into it later, as if Papá’s words changed his mind.
I stand between Frankie and the door, in case Graciela reappears. When he’s done, I refold the newspaper and put everything the way we found it. I also make a mental note to read some of Papá’s articles myself because it’s embarrassing that Frankie has read them and his own daughter hasn’t.
“Come on. Let’s go outside.” I step toward the sliding door.
Still at the desk, Frankie writes something else. I squint to see the words: Place item in right-hand drawer. Suddenly, he glances back at me and claps his hand over the note. He folds it three times, presses the edges, and slides it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Gotta show you something, Tina.” He flashes his gap-toothed smile.
“What?” I ask, not smiling back. I thought he was finished with Papá’s writing. And what’s the item in the right-hand drawer? Before I can ask him, Frankie opens the drawer again, reaches way inside, and pulls out a half-full bottle of whiskey.
“Put it back!” I say, trying to keep my voice low and Graciela away.
“Want to see the other places they hide it?”
“No!” I snatch the bottle from Frankie’s hand and shove it back into the drawer. “I already told you he has a problem.” My voice breaks. Right now, I want to kick Frankie out and never see him again.
But then he touches me under the chin, and our eyes meet. His fingers are warm, and his eyes mournful. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I do this at home all the time.”
“Raid your father’s desk drawer?”
Frankie drops his hand to his side. “He prefers the inside of the toilet tank. Mamá makes me do it.”
“Why is it your job?”
Frankie stares at his feet. “If he catches her, he beats her. He can’t beat me now. I’m too strong.” He looks up and slaps his chest. It makes a hard, hollow sound.
I imagine him standing between his parents, defending his mother. I clasp his wrist. My fingers barely go halfway around it. I focus on his eyes and move down to the crooked bridge of his nose. “You are so brave, Frankie. Especially after he hit you.”
Frankie shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, though. He goes out, begs for money, and buys more.”
“It’s not your fault. You can’t make him quit. They have to decide themselves.” I have the Madison Metropolitan School District’s Drug and Alcohol Awareness Program to thank for the advice. I grab Frankie by his jacket sleeve and tug him outside. I don’t want to talk about it anymore; he looks so unhappy. And I don’t want to think about finding another of Papá’s bottles in the tank of the downstairs toilet.
“So where are these birds?” he asks when I flip on the porch light.
“Here.” The wire roof glows in the light, and the bare branches cast jagged shadows onto the ground. Pablo perches on the top rung of a ladder. Víctor flies to the opposite end of the cage. I point to him. “He doesn’t trust people yet.” Then I slip inside the cage. The heels of my shoes sink into mud. “Papá thinks he was abused. And”—I hold my hand toward Pablo—“the previous owner broke this one’s wing so he wouldn’t fly away.”
“That sucks,” Frankie says.
Pablo hops onto my hand, and I stroke his back. His claws tighten around my index finger. “How can people be so cruel?”
“Welcome to my country.”
I want to put my arms around Frankie, let him kiss me like he did the night before last, since the birds haven’t cheered him up, either. But he doesn’t even look at me. “How did your father get the parrots?” he asks.
“This one used to live next door.” I nod toward the house behind us, on the other side of the high fence. All I can see is its terra-cotta roof in the shadows. “He made too much noise, but Papá got him to quiet down.”
“And the other?”
“Graciela’s husband brought him. He’d bitten off his foot.”
Frankie steps into the cage and stands next to me. He and the birds are so quiet that I can hear him breathe. Pablo shakes his tail feathers.
I take a deep breath. “My father has a thing for crippled birds. I think he sees himself in them.”
I expect Frankie to ask how my father became crippled, but he doesn’t—just like he didn’t ask me about Papá’s seizure on Tuesday.
“This parrot can talk,” I say.
Frankie jerks his head toward me. “What does he say?”
“All kinds of things. He knows lots of swear words.”
“In my neighborhood everybody teaches their parrots swear words. They get together and have swearing contests with the birds.” Frankie steps close to me and leans over so his face is level with Pablo’s. “Say something,” he orders.
“Pégame un tiro ya,” Pablo squawks.
“That’s all?”
It occurs to me that Pablo didn’t think up “just shoot me” on his own. My vision blurs, and in my mind is the image of a pistol in Papá’s hand. I change the subject. “I was trying to teach him English, but it didn’t work.”
Frankie kisses my forehead. “So that makes me smarter than a parrot.”
He holds out his finger, and Pablo hops to him. “Say, ‘I like Metallica,’” he says slowly. When Pablo doesn’t respond, he tries again. And again. Víctor circles us and settles on a branch right above Frankie’s head. Frankie twists around and smiles. “You! Say, ‘I like Metallica.’” Greeted with silence, Frankie turns back to me. “Maybe we need to bribe them.”
I’ve seen Papá give his birds grapes, so I go inside for a handful. When I return, Frankie stands nose to beak with Víctor, now on a closer branch. I poke a grape through the wire.
“I like Metallica,” Frankie says, holding up the prize.
“I like Metallica,” Víctor squawks.
I’m about to cheer when Frankie shushes me. I push the rest of the grapes through the wire, one by one. Frankie feeds a grape to Víctor and eats another one himself. Pablo, now back on the ladder, screams, “¡Alfonso, conch’e tu madre!”
Frankie laughs. “Okay, one for you, Mr. Jealous.” He balances a grape on the ladder, and Pablo snaps it up.
“I think Víctor likes me,” Frankie says while we wait in line at the theater to buy tickets for Duro de matar. Bits of paper tumble down the street, blown by the chilly southern breeze.
“Maybe you can come over this weekend and show Papá how you got him to go near you. And talk, too.”
Frankie pops a grape into his mouth and shakes his head. “Forget it. Your old man’s going to be as jealous as that other bird.”
“Pablo.” Realizing I should have borrowed Tía Ileana’s old-lady wool gloves, I shove my numb hands into my pockets. “You think?”
Frankie munches another one of the grapes I snatched from the refrigerator on our way out. “Víctor wants to fly. He doesn’t want to hear all the nasty stuff your father fed crazy Pablo.” He snorts. “Pégame un tiro ya.”
I clamp my mouth shut, but my lip trembles. Pablo’s words and the liquor bottle Frankie found in Papá’s desk drawer tumble through my mind.
“Sorry, Tina. I shouldn’t have said that. But with everything at home, I don’t want to meet your father right now.” Frankie draws me into his body, blocking out the wind. “Okay?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. It’s not like you don’t want to see me,” I answer. Frankie squeezes me tight.
Unlike Gorillas in the Mist, Die Hard doesn’t leave me crying. We get dessert again at the heladería, where I try the manjar and discover that I like it even better than chocolate.
When we get to Papá’s street, Frankie parks his bike at the corner. We walk hand in hand the half block to the house. All the lights are off.
“Good, they’re in bed,” I whisper.
Frankie kisses me. I put my arms around his neck and hold him to me, to feel his soft lips against mine. They taste salty. I press my swirling stomach against his. His mouth, his body, keep me warm in the cold night air.
The light clicks on in the living room, and Frankie lets go. I glance inside at my aunt, standing next to the curtains. My father leans against her, his arm draped over her shoulders.
I grab Frankie’s forearm. “There they are. Look.”
He turns away from the window. “When can I see you again?”
Last night, Papá said he wasn’t working Saturday or Sunday, and he wanted to show me Valparaíso. Tía Ileana is driving us, and we’re staying overnight with some of his friends.
“I have to go out of town this weekend,” I tell him. Three days is way too long not to see Frankie. “How about Monday?”
“No good. But I’m free Tuesday again.”
I sigh. Four days. “I’m going to miss you.”
Frankie plays with the end of my ponytail. After a while, he asks, “So what did you do back home when your friends went away?”
“You really want to know?”
Frankie nods. After stepping in front of him so that he blocks me from the window, I squeeze my thumb and index finger together, hold them to my lips, and inhale.
“Cuete,” he says.
Max, who’s Mexican, calls it mota, but it’s probably the same thing.
“Do you smoke?” I ask him.
Frankie pulls me closer, like he’s going to kiss me again. Instead he whispers, “No, but I might be able to get you some on Tuesday. So you’ll think of me when we can’t see each other.”
“Cool!” I whisper back.
He touches his finger to my lips. “Don’t say anything, ¿cachai? You can get ten years in jail if they catch you.”
“I’ll hide it in my room. Nobody will ever know,” I say. He gives me a final long kiss. When we let go, it feels like I’m still in his arms, spinning through the dark universe. I unlock the gate, but before going inside, I watch him ride away from the corner and into the night.