When Ernesto dropped Naomi and her mother home, Mr. Martinez was already there. “The lousy bums fumbled the ball,” he was ranting. “They coulda got a touchdown, but that lousy butterfingers fumbled the ball. What kinda idiots are they draftin’? Pop Warner kids do better. Can’t even hold onta the football! I’d fire the bum out tonight. Let him drive a garbage truck.”
“Felix,” Linda Martinez told him, “there was a terrible accident on the freeway. We saw it happen.”
“Ah, so what?” Mr. Martinez stormed. “I had a hundred dollar bet goin’ on this stinkin’ game. I don’t care about some stupid fender bender on the freeway. What are you talkin’ about that for? Like I care.”
The familiar look of hurt passed through Linda Martinez’s eyes.
“Daddy,” Naomi said sharply, “the medical helicopter was called. Somebody was badly hurt. It was right at the Washington off ramp.”
Ernesto chimed in. “Some jerk driving an Infiniti was going a hundred miles an hour, and he forced a Ford truck into a Toyota and then another van piled on.”
“Well then,” Mr. Martinez sneered, “I hope the Infiniti cracked up too. Lousy rich bums think they can get away with murder. Like those football players. Make a coupla million bucks a year, and they can’t play worth spit. You think they make them give back their millions when they fumble the ball? I make a mistake on the forklift, and I gotta worry about my job.”
“Felix,” Linda Martinez said softly, “we had such a nice dinner. We went to the Sting Ray and—”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Mr. Martinez barked. “Listen to her. She’s talking about dinner when I lost a big bet on that lousy football game.”
Naomi looked embarrassed for her father. She forced a smile to her lips and turned to Ernesto. “See you tomorrow, Ernie, and thanks for coming.”
“Yes, Ernie,” Linda Martinez added. “It was lovely.” She turned and hurried to her room to change out of her dress-up clothes.
“Uh, Naomi, want to take a walk or some-thing?” Ernesto asked. He hated to leave with Felix Martinez in such a bad mood.
“I’d love to, Ernie, but I promised Mom I’d help her measure the new drapes she’s making,” Naomi replied. Then, when her father went into the kitchen, Naomi explained. “I don’t want to leave Mom with him ranting. Now that Zack doesn’t live here anymore . . . when it’s just the two of them, he can get . . . you know . . . ”
Naomi had three older brothers. Orlando and Manny worked in a Latin band in Los Angeles. Zack had worked with his father in construction until they had a bitter falling out. Now Zack was in Los Angeles too, working as a gofer with the band. Felix Martinez’s bad temper had driven all three boys out of the house. The boys visited and were in touch, but they couldn’t live under the same roof as their father.
“I understand,” Ernesto said. He kissed Naomi and went out to his Volvo.
It had been a pleasant day until they got back to the Martinez house. Ernesto genuinely liked Felix Martinez. He was a decent man, but his rages upset Ernesto. When Ernesto first met Mr. Martinez, he disliked him. He seemed like an ogre. But little by little, Ernesto saw his good side. In fact, Ernesto was instrumental in bringing about a reconciliation between Felix Martinez and two of his sons, Orlando and Manny. After a huge family fight, they had not spoken to each other in years.
As much as Felix Martinez’s outbursts bothered Ernesto, he was still the father of the girl Ernesto dearly loved. Naomi was part of Felix Martinez, and Ernesto had to accept it. Naomi loved her father in spite of everything, so Ernesto accepted him too.
Ernesto sadly recalled what Linda Martinez had said in the Sting Ray. Cruel words leave scars too. Felix Martinez’s words had left a few more scars today.
A ranting Mr. Martinez was one thing. But, in the back of Ernesto’s mind, he had a nagging fear about the Infiniti that had caused the terrible accident. Was it connected to Quino Bustos, his teacher? That couldn’t be, Ernesto told himself.
When Ernesto got home, his mother greeted him at the door. “Oh, Ernie, I’m so glad to see you,” she told him. “I heard about that terrible accident on the freeway, and I thought you were probably on it at that time. I tried to call you on your cell phone, but I kept being shifted to voice mail.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Ernesto apologized. “I forgot to turn my phone on. We saw the accident happen. This silver Infiniti was speeding and changing lanes, and whoever was driving it caused the whole accident. They forced a big truck into a smaller Toyota pickup. It was coming right up the Washington on ramp. They took somebody away in a medical chopper.”
“Somebody’s in critical condition,” Maria Sandoval said. “It just came over the radio.”
At that moment, Luis Sandoval pulled into the driveway. When he came through the doorway, he had a terrible look on his face.
“Dad, we saw this horrible accident on the freeway,” Ernesto started to say. “Dad . . . what’s the matter?”
“Sal Ruiz,” Ernesto’s father responded. “Abel’s dad . . . he was in that accident. He’s in bad shape at the hospital. I just got a call from Abel. He tried to call you, but you weren’t answering.”
Ernesto went numb. Finally, he gasped, “What hospital?”
“Mercy,” Dad replied.
“Luis,” Maria Sandoval said, “we’ve got to be there for Liza and Penelope.”
“Mama will stay with the girls and Alfredo,” Luis Sandoval directed. “We’ll go in the minivan.”
As Ernesto got into the minivan, he called Naomi. “Did you hear—” he started to say.
“We’re on our way to Mercy,” Naomi interrupted. She sounded as if she’d been crying.
When the Sandovals arrived at Mercy, they went to the emergency waiting room. Felix, Linda, and Naomi Martinez were already there. Emilio, Conchita, and Carmen Ibarra arrived just after the Sandovals. In the corner of the room, Liza Ruiz and Penelope sat huddled, their eyes reddened. They clung to each other like survivors of a disaster. Abel sat alone, staring ahead, rigid in shock. When Paul and David Morales arrived, they both went to Abel, hugging him.
“He’s in surgery,” Liza Ruiz told them between sobs. “The nice young doctor came to see us. He said he’d come here when it’s over and . . . and . . . tell us.”
Suddenly Penelope erupted. “It’s not fair!” she cried. “Poor Daddy. He never gets any breaks. It wasn’t his fault. That freakin’ Infiniti pushed the truck into him. He didn’t have a chance. Poor Daddy. He takes lousy overtime on Sunday to fix some freakin’ rich man’s retaining wall. Why can’t he rest on Sunday? Even God said to do that. But he has to work, like a slave—and on Sunday—just to make a few more lousy bucks.”
Mrs. Ruiz was too worried to say anything to her daughter.
Abel was slumped in his chair, his head down. Paul knelt beside him, his hand on Abel’s shoulder. Ernesto walked over and grabbed Abel’s hand. “It’s gonna be okay, mi amigo,” Ernesto assured his friend.
Abel looked up, his dark eyes wet from crying. “No, it’s not,” he cried. “Like Penny says . . . he never gets any breaks. He’s gonna die. He never had any luck. My father never had nothin’. It’s all downhill for him. Now he’s gonna die, his head smashed in a stinkin’ accident. I was gonna make money as a chef. I was gonna take care of him so that he wouldn’t have to work when his back was killing him. And now . . . now I don’t get the chance ’cause he’s not gonna make it, Ernie.”
Ernesto knelt on the floor on the other side of where Paul was. He held tightly to Abel’s hand. “Listen to me, homie. Your dad’s gonna be okay. He’s a strong man. He’s one of the strongest men I ever saw. He’s gonna fight his way through this. He’s gonna grin at you and say ‘mi hijo, I’m back.’”
Abel sobbed against Ernesto’s chest for a few minutes.
Felix Martinez stood with his wife and daughter, his face grim. “When they find the guy who was driving that Infiniti, he oughta be strung up in the barrio. He hadda be a drunk. I could take the guy out myself, I’m telling you.”
“I’m with you, dude,” Paul Morales agreed. “You put the noose around his neck, and I’ll kick the box from under his feet.”
David Morales drew close to Abel. “Abel,” he said in almost a whisper, “it’s not necessarily so bad. When I was in prison, there was a terrible fight between two guys. One guy whacked the other with a cement block upside his head, and they thought he was a goner. But the doctors saved him. The doctors can do amazing things with head injuries. You gotta have faith, Abel. All the prayers and all the love in this room for your dad, it’s gonna work, man.”
Paul Morales was standing now, a dark look on his face. Ernesto looked at him and thought he was just like Felix Martinez right now, gripped by hatred.
When the young doctor came into the room, everyone seemed to stop breathing. He was in scrubs, with a surgical cap on and a mask unfastened at his neck. There was no sound at all. The doctor’s eyes searched the crowd of people until they settled on Liza Ruiz.
“Mrs. Ruiz,” he said in a tentative voice.
“Yes,” Liza Ruiz answered in a faint voice. Maria Sandoval and Conchita Ibarra stood on either side of her, supporting her with their arms. Linda Martinez held her hand.
“Your husband came through the surgery, Mrs. Ruiz,” the doctor told her. “He’s still in very critical condition in the recovery room. He’ll be moved to the ICU in about an hour. It’s much too early to make a prognosis, but it’s encouraging that he survived the surgery. At this point, we are hopeful.”
“When can I see my husband?” Liza Ruiz asked in a trembling voice.
“In about an hour,” the surgeon replied, placing his hand on Mrs. Ruiz’s for a moment. “The ICU nurse will be in touch with you.”
When they were allowed to see Sal Ruiz, he was, of course, still sedated and connected to many tubes and monitors. But he was alive, and that was all his friends and family needed for the moment. The priest from Our Lady of Guadalupe Church came to the ICU to administer the holy anointing. “Through this holy anointing,” he intoned, “may the Lord in His love and mercy help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.”
Ernesto and Paul and David Morales remained with Liza Ruiz in the ICU waiting room through most of the night. Naomi and her mother, Maria Sandoval, and Conchita Ibarra remained too. Liza Ruiz wanted to send Penelope home with Luis Sandoval, but the girl would not leave. Luis Sandoval, Felix Martinez, and Emilio Ibarra promised to return early in the morning to take their family members home.
In the quiet of the middle of the night, the atmosphere of despair had lifted somewhat. Friends were sitting around Liza Ruiz and Penelope when a young man stepped into the room. His hair was uncombed, and his clothing looked as though he’d thrown on anything at hand.
“Tomás!” Liza Ruiz screamed. “Oh, Tomás! Your father was hurt so badly. His head . . . oh . . . and he has broken bones, but there is hope.”
“I came the minute I got your message, Mom,” Tomás cried. He embraced his mother and rocked her gently for what seemed an eternity.
In the very early morning, the surgeon came back to the ICU waiting room to talk to the family. He’d examined Sal Ruiz, and he was holding his own. There was no way to tell yet when he could be upgraded from critical to serious. Complications were still possible, but the outlook was brighter than they were the night before. He didn’t yet know whether Sal Ruiz had suffered any permanent damage.
“Maria,” Liza Ruiz directed, “take Penelope home when Luis comes. Abel and I will stay here a while longer.” Penelope finally agreed to go with Ernesto’s mother, and Conchita Ibarra also went home. Like Maria Sandoval, she had young children at home to take care of.
Ernesto, Naomi, and Paul Morales remained with the Ruiz family.
“You’ve got to eat some breakfast, Mom,” Tomás advised. “You look like you’re going to collapse.”
“I can’t,” Liza Ruiz objected. “I couldn’t get anything down my throat. Not until I talk to Sal and know he’s going to be all right.”
“That’ll take time, Mom,” Abel said.
“Come on, Mrs. Ruiz,” Ernesto suggested gently. “We’ll all go down to the cafeteria here and get you some eggs and coffee. You can down that. You need to be strong for when your husband gets out of here and recovers at home.”
“Just some nice eggs and maybe a little toast,” Naomi urged, gently tugging on Liza Ruiz’s arm.
“Come on, Mom,” Abel said. “If you conk out on us, where’re we gonna be? You’re the strong one, Mom. It’s always been that way. Pop’s countin’ on ya.”
Finally Liza Ruiz stood, and the six of them rode the elevator to the hospital cafeteria.
As she picked at her eggs and toast, Mrs. Ruiz remarked, “We have auto insurance and medical. And, thank God, Sal’s covered for medical expenses. I hope it’s all covered.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Ruiz,” Paul Morales growled, a fierce sneer on his lips. “We’ll get the dude who drove the Infiniti, and you can sue that sucker to his last drop of blood.” The rage deepened in Paul’s face. “Must be a rich creep to own a car like that. Get a really vicious lawyer.”
Abel’s phone rang. It was Penelope. She’d already called Abel on his cell phone five times, and it wasn’t even six in the morning yet. Abel assured her that their father was holding his own. Abel and Penelope would skip classes at Cesar Chavez High today, but Ernesto and Naomi decided to go. They were both in need of a shower, but that would come when they got home from school later in the day. Both of Mrs. Ruiz’s sons were with her to support her. She urged everybody to leave, including Paul and David Morales, who had jobs to go to.
Luis Sandoval swung by the hospital to pick up Ernesto and Naomi, and they headed for Chavez High.
As the drove to the school, Ernesto brought up what was on his mind. “You know, Dad, Quino Bustos, my AP History teacher, he drives a silver Infiniti.”
“Ah yes, Mr. Bustos always parks that car of his in the same spot in the faculty parking lot,” Dad commented. “He uses a corner place where his beloved Infiniti is least likely to be dinged. I always put my minivan right beside him.”
“I’m sure the maniac driving on the freeway yesterday wasn’t him,” Ernesto responded, “but it’s just weird. The last anybody saw of the Infiniti after the accident, it was going down the Washington Street ramp.”
“The guy in the Infiniti caused the accident, but he didn’t hit anybody,” Naomi noted. “How are they going to prove a case against him if his car isn’t damaged?”
Luis Sandoval said, “We may have gotten lucky. I heard that the car clipped a dump truck going off the Washington Street ramp. I’m not sure, but that’s the rumor.”
“Oh, wow! I hope so,” Naomi cried. “To bring so much misery to poor Mr. Ruiz and his family.”
Luis Sandoval was approaching his regular parking spot.
“Look, Dad,” Ernesto gasped. “No Infiniti!” A numbness crept through his body. He saw a brief flash of concern on his father’s face. Mr. Bustos was a brilliant and respected teacher. Surely he couldn’t have been driving so recklessly yesterday, scattering cars like toys. It didn’t make sense. Ernesto got out of the Cavalier as a beige Honda drove into the faculty lot and eased into Mr. Bustos’s usual spot.
Mr. Bustos got out of the Honda, carrying his very fine briefcase from the brand designer Santiago Gonzalez. The briefcase must have cost close to a thousand dollars. Luis Sandoval had purchased his briefcase for thirty dollars at the outlet store.
Mr. Bustos nodded a good-morning to everyone and strode toward his classroom with his usual energy. He always seemed to be delighted to be teaching. He gave the impression that there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing. That was one of the reasons that most of his students, including Ernesto, liked him. The guy loved to teach, and his enthusiasm came on as exciting.
Mr. Bustos could not have been driving the Infiniti yesterday, Ernesto told himself. He was a good, honorable man. If he had caused that nightmare on the freeway yesterday, he would not be cheerfully heading for his classroom. He could not be so eager, as usual, to share his knowledge. It was just a coincidence that a silver Infiniti, like the one Mr. Bustos owned, had been involved in the tragic accident, Ernesto decided.
Ernesto followed Mr. Bustos into the classroom and sat in his usual place. Mr. Bustos looked up at Ernesto, and Ernesto’s legs grew weak. Ernesto saw something in the man’s eyes that he had never seen before. Maybe, Ernesto thought, his imagination was at work, but Mr. Bustos did not look right.
During class, the man was off his stride. Everyone noticed it. He seemed uninvolved in the class discussions, and, for the last twenty minutes of the class, he assigned the students to use their laptops to research recent developments in the Arab world. He said that the Arab countries were reaching for democracy. Some of their leaders, he explained, were consulting early American constitutional government to help them draft their own constitutions.