Chapter Thirteen

The next morning, Sunday, Monica, Laurita, and El Pintor cleaned up the mud and paint in the passageway. The night before, the three of them had put away the half-emptied cans and the brushes. Sopa had appeared from nowhere and watched the nighttime activity with cautious interest from the safety of the back steps. Monica threw Sopa a glance. “Showing off how smart you are,” she said under her breath. “You knew right away El Pintor was back, didn’t you?” When they were done with the paints and the brushes, Laurita suggested that they drive “the Beemer” (she learned quickly) onto the front lawn close to the porch and that they leave the bright porch light on.

César arrived at Monica’s back door bright and early that morning. “I figured you’d need my help,” he said. “My mother and father think I’m at church, but I figured helping you is just as good.”

Laurita raised her eyebrow. “It is? Bueno, bueno. We’re about through with breakfast. How good are you at washing dishes?”

César shook his head vigorously. “Not dishes! I mean the paint mess.”

“The paint?” Monica asked swiftly. “How did you know about that?”

“Easy,” César said with a grin. “Everybody knows at my house. We all woke up because Licha was howling, Papá was shouting and my mother was crying—and praying. Well, praying doesn’t make any noise, but I know she was because she always does. Anyway, that’s how I know.” His black eyes widened as he added, “Licha really got it. Papá gets kinda mean sometimes.”

For the briefest of moments Monica felt sorry for Licha. But that feeling was quickly traded for annoyance at the fact that César knew what had gone on here the night before. César, she was sure, would tell the story to everyone he saw on Lucia, and, without knowing the reason why, she knew that the prospect of that made her extremely uncomfortable. But had she really expected to keep it secret? She shrugged and turned to Laurita. “Maybe,” she said, averting her eyes from César’s because she knew her impish intent would show in them, “maybe César could carry the paint cans back to his house. I heard Licha say they were her father’s.”

César stared at her for an instant. “Not me,” he said, edging toward the back door. “I gotta get to church.” He flung open the door and raced down the steps.

A few minutes after César’s abrupt departure, the telephone rang. Monica hurried to it and was surprised at her disappointment when she heard her father’s voice. In the ten or twelve steps it took to get from the kitchen to the hallway, she had convinced herself it would be Rob at the other end of the line.

“Dad,” she said, trying to show enthusiasm, “how are you? It’s about time you called.”

“I called yesterday, honey. Laurita told me where you were. Didn’t she mention it?”

“I guess. But, in all the excitement of finding El Pintor, I completely forgot.” And also in the excitement of an almost graffiti attack, she thought, making a decision not to tell him until later.

“You found him?” her father said. “That is news. Tell me about it.”

Quickly, she gave him the details of their search and their return home. “He still can’t remember anything,” she ended. “It’s kind of sad.”

“These things take time. Don’t be impatient.”

“You sound like Laurita.”

“Well, that’s not all bad, is it? Look, honey, I’ll call you again tomorrow and let you know how things are going at my end.”

Monica hung up. From the kitchen came the clink and clang of dishes and pans. Laurita was cleaning up the breakfast mess. She went in to help her. After they did the dishes, Laurita said that she was going to church and that Monica was welcome to go with her, if she wanted. Monica thanked her and said no, and later watched Laurita’s little Volkswagen tear down the street. She stood at the door, taking in the Sunday silence. Oh, there were sounds, all right—voices in the house next door, a screen door closing, a church bell ringing—but they were hushed and sleepy. Even the birds’ songs seemed muted and serene. She wondered if most people on Lucia made a habit of going to church on Sunday. Her father had never insisted that she go, but Rosa, shocked at his casualness, had smuggled her into mass as often as she could. At Raeburn, Courtney and she never attended chapel; instead, they slept. She wondered about Rob and decided he was probably sleeping. After all, moving a refrigerator must have been a tiring job.

As she watched, two women came out of the house next door. They wore bright summer dresses and high-heeled pumps and tapped briskly past her house toward Dennison. They were followed by two little girls, both in pink dresses, pink socks, and sandals. Everyone, it seemed, had somewhere to go. She felt at loose ends. After the excitement of Saturday, the hours of this day stretched out long and empty.

In a moment she closed the door and went to make her bed. She threw back the blankets, but instead of going on with the bed-making, stretched out on the floor to check on the coffee can that held El Pintor’s letter. It was there, back in the far corner where she had pushed it. She made a reaching movement toward it and then drew her hand back. No. As much as she wanted to read that letter, she had to wait until she talked to El Pintor. His memory had to return soon. Hadn’t the doctors said so? In any case, it was good to know that the letter in its rusty old can was still there. She grimaced as she saw the dust bunnies around it. Their message was loud and clear: it was time to run a vacuum and use a dust cloth.

Rosa had taught her how to clean, even though it had never been a real responsibility. But now somebody’s got to do it, she thought, and went looking for cleaning supplies. By the time Laurita returned from church, Monica had dusted and vacuumed her father’s bedroom and hers and the living and dining rooms.

Laurita threw up her hands in mock surprise. “You’ve been cleaning,” she said. “You must have known you were going to have company.”

“I am? Who?”

“Toni. She’s talking to El Pintor at his door. She waved and said she’d be right over.”

The first thing Toni said when Monica opened the door for her was, “He doesn’t remember anything or anybody! Not even Sopa.”

Toni’s face was so mournful, her voice so broken that Monica hurried to comfort her. “It’s not as bad as all that,” she said. “In a funny kind of way he remembered me.”

“Yeah, I heard. Cristina. A lot of good that does.” Toni stepped inside. “Anyway, that was way back when. I want him to remember me now.”

Laurita, at the kitchen door, said, “No le busques tres pies al gato, Toni.”

Toni laughed. “I never could figure out that old dicho. What do you mean, ‘Don’t look for three paws on a cat?’”

“Come on, come on,” Laurita said. “I thought you’d grown up with these sayings. It means, don’t look for what isn’t so or is not possible. So, have patience. He’ll remember all of us eventually.”

“Except me,” Monica said. “He didn’t ever know me.”

“He knew you as a baby,” Laurita said. “He’ll remember you, all right.” She disappeared into the kitchen.

“It’s strange,” Toni said with a sad shake of her head. “All my life El Pintor’s been there. He helped everybody on Lucia. When someone needed something translated or if there was a form to fill out, everyone went to him. Even with homework. Just last month he helped me with a paper for English Comp. Funny. He’s here, but he really isn’t.”

“That must feel weird.”

“It sure does.” Toni shrugged in a resigned way. “Oh, well. He looked relieved when I told him I knew where he kept everything. Papers, and all that stuff. I’m going over later to show him.”

Toni plopped down on the couch and looked around the room. “Hey, this place sure looks different than when the Valenzuelas were here. You know, your last renters? But I guess you wouldn’t know. El Pintor took care of all that, didn’t he?”

“I guess.” She sat on a chair facing Toni. She tucked her legs under her and said, “Were you friends with the people who lived here?”

“Kind of. They had a daughter about my age. Teresa. I thought we’d be friends, but pretty soon I found out she had some dumb ideas. She wanted us to start a girls’ gang. At first it sounded like it might be fun. You know, like a club of our very own. And then she showed me her collection of … of stuff. She had a pair of the ugliest-looking knives you ever saw, some heavy rocks in a long sock—she had a name for that; I don’t remember what—and, would you believe it, a gun?” Toni shook her head as she went on. “Even Rob, when he belonged to a gang, didn’t have anything like that.”

Monica’s attention sharpened. So Rob had belonged to a gang. A gang out of which El Pintor had undoubtedly pulled him. “How long was Rob in a gang?” she asked.

“Long enough to turn my mother’s hair white, so she says. So no way, even if I’d wanted to, was I going to get into one. Terry—Teresa, that is—blew up when I told her. She had other girls lined up, including César’s sister, Licha, but it seems it was me she wanted. Go figure.”

“That’s not hard,” Monica said. “She was after Rob.”

“Maybe,” Toni said, giving her a sharp little glance. “What Terry really wanted was to go after The Green Street Gang. That’s where she’d lived before, and the guys there wouldn’t let her in with them. So she was going to show them how tough a girls’ gang could be. It didn’t happen, though. Next thing we knew Licha was sent for a long visit to her cousins in Mexico, and the Valenzuelas, after living here only six months, moved away.” Toni looked out the front window for a few seconds. She turned back to Monica and said, “I don’t think all that just happened, if you know what I mean. I think someone kept an eye on what was going on and pulled a few strings.”

“Who? Sounds like coincidence to me.”

“Maybe. All I know is that my father says that when he was growing up, El Pintor used to sit outside on that bench of his for hours at a time. Like he was keeping watch on the street and the kids. I haven’t noticed him sitting on those benches lately, but I know he sits at that table by his front window a lot.” Toni shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Right,” Monica echoed, “who knows?” And then, “The closest thing to a gang I ever belonged to was my Girl Scout troop. They weren’t wild like Josie or your friend Terry, but just as crazy. We were all just about thirteen when I left for Washington, and two of the girls were already into pot. About a year later Candice—she was the smartest and prettiest of all of us—ran away from home and was missing for a couple of weeks. I was gone already, so I don’t know how that ended.”

They were silent for a moment, and then Toni said, “I guess we grew up in two different kinds of places. Except that, in some ways, they aren’t all that different.”

Monica found it hard to say anything to that. Maybe kids did get into trouble all over, but neighborhoods weren’t alike. Certainly, this sad little street was nothing like Parkview.

“Talking about problems,” Toni said, “I hear you gave Josie a bath last night.”

Monica grinned. “Not a very nice one, but it was that or have the studio and my dad’s car trashed. Which reminds me, where’s the nearest car wash? The one you all use, I mean.”

Toni looked at her with surprise, then said good-humoredly, “The nearest car wash is the hose you used last night. The ones we all use are attached to our houses. Most people on Lucia can’t afford to waste money on car washes.”

Monica swung her legs out from under her and placed them firmly on the floor. “I see. Or waste money on moving refrigerators either. I got a sermon on that last night.”

“That had to be Rob,” Toni said. “Don’t pay any attention to him. Or to me.” She leaned toward Monica. “Besides, it’s easy to wash a car. Grab some rags and let’s go do it.”

“Would you?” Monica jumped up. “I’ll go see what rags Rosa left us. They’re in the back porch.” She was already in the dining room, Toni close at her heels, when there was a loud knocking at the front door.

“That sounds like trouble,” Toni said.

“Why? It’s probably just César with more neighborhood news.”

“Uh-uh. Kids on Lucia know to use the back doors. Sounds like an angry neighbor to me.”

Monica walked quickly to the front door and swung it open. Standing there was a short, barrel-chested man. He had thick, unkempt gray hair, and his face, with a day’s growth of beard, was set and serious. Hiding behind him stood a limp, worn-looking Licha.