I listened to the Bears vs. Green Bay. The Monsters of the Midway trudged through a rough patch and it was hard not to think of my run-in at the bowling alley with Coltrane and Johnson.
Their eyes ignited when they heard I had dirt on Pelón, but they pulled back fast. Maybe they only pretended not to be juiced on my offer. Maybe their complete blow-off of information in exchange for my money was simply lowballing, a negotiation tactic. But the cockiness in Coltrane’s voice, the look in his eyes, when he said I would serve up intelligence simply because it was the right thing to do? That made me wonder.
I spun circles around it in my mind. The seconds ticked off in the fourth quarter and the Bears resigned themselves to another unhappy ending. I heard a knock at my door.
I jumped off the bed and hustled to my table, where I picked up a steak knife. I moved quietly over to the side of the door. There was no point in pretending I wasn’t home—my radio was on and the volume was up. I put my hand on the lock and asked who it was.
“I’m looking for a hungry man.”
I tossed the steak knife on the table and opened. Xochitl held a pizza box in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. She handed me the pizza and kissed my cheek as she walked past. She placed the shopping bag on the carpet. I put the pizza box on the table. Xochitl removed her coat and held it in her arms. We faced each other in the center of the room.
“You should’ve called. I’d have cleaned up.”
“I wanted to catch the real you.” A purple sweater squeezed Xochitl’s chest. Black leggings outlined her hips and thighs.
I nodded at my hot plate. “I could’ve cooked, at least.”
She gestured at the pizza box. “What’s the matter, you don’t like Father and Son?”
I looked around the room. “Eating at the restaurant itself would’ve been better.”
“Get over it.” She handed me her coat.
I hung it.
Xochitl grabbed two six-packs out of her shopping bag and stacked the beers in my little fridge, except for two, which she handed me to open. She stacked two plates with sausage pizza, and moved with hers to the edge of the bed.
I dragged my lone chair to face her.
Xochitl spoke with her mouth full. “My feet are killing me.” The same black leather boots from the other night wrapped her calves to the knees.
I put my plate down. “Let me help you with those.”
She let me unzip each boot and place it neatly in the corner. She pulled her legs under, Indian-style, on the bed, and had to bend way down to find her beer on the floor. We ate, drank, and listened to the postgame analysis on the radio.
Xochitl polished a Corona, then stood and went to the shopping bag. “Te compré un regalo.”
She handed me a small gift-wrapped box. I put my plate on the table.
“Why?”
“What a question. Open it.”
I unwrapped it. “A tape recorder?”
“That’s what it says.”
“For taping shit off the radio?”
“No. For recording your own voice.”
“I don’t sing, Xochitl.”
“Talking.”
“About what?”
She took the box and opened it. “I already put in batteries.” She removed the tape recorder from the box and rewound. “Listen.” On tape Xochitl recited “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” “I had to test it. You should record those stories of yours. I know you can’t see writing them. Maybe if you hear yourself, it’ll do something for you.”
I examined the tape recorder. “Think I got something to say, Xoch?”
“If you keep it real. The guy at the store said you don’t have to crowd the mic so much. It’ll record from across the room.”
“Sweet.”
Xochitl was on her knees, on the floor, in front of me. I was still in the chair.
“You gonna use the tape recorder?”
“Will you let me listen to the results?”
“What would be the point of doing it if I didn’t?”
A huge smile splayed across Xochitl’s face. “I told you to be honest. But it’s cute that you felt you needed to say that.”
I leaned down to give Xochitl a quick kiss and my cell phone began to ring. I went over to the top of the bureau and checked it. Tony’s name and number popped up.
I hit the reject button.
“Who’s that?” she said.
“Remember that friend I told you about?”
“The one who’s messed up?”
“He’s been calling like crazy for the past few days. I don’t feel like talking to him.”
“Too much drama?”
“He’s always trying to get something, and his mind is not all there. I’m sick of dealing with him.”
Xochitl checked out the view of the skyline. “You can see more than I would have guessed.” She went back in the shopping bag. “I’m glad you have a CD player. Look what I got you.” She handed me a copy of Rumours.
I said, “I haven’t seen this album cover in almost thirty years.”
“Sorry, I opened it,” she said. “I couldn’t resist. I didn’t know what kind of music you were talking about. I recognized some from the radio, though. Number six is my favorite.”
I flipped it over. “ ‘Songbird’?”
She put it on and played it. I felt a very dim, distant recollection. Xochitl stood behind me at the window and put her arms around me. We listened to the entire song. I wondered if Xochitl was trying to tell me something. But I didn’t have the nerve to ask.
“Did you learn anything, Xochitl?”
“Yes. We have different tastes in music.”
I slapped Xochitl on the butt. She giggled. I took her face into both hands and gave her a succulent kiss.
“Is there anything that we both like?”
Xochitl angled her head, and we kissed again and found our way to the bed. I sat her on the edge and kneeled. I kissed her and let my hands travel. Her chest rose and fell. I moved to her neck, then down her neck. When she pulled off her sweater and tugged at her bra, I swallowed her brown nipple. I massaged her in slow circles over the leggings and felt her moisture through the cloth. Her breathing quickened. I kissed her stomach and felt the scar. Then I sank lower, peeled off her leggings and panties, and let my mouth go the rest of the way.
Afterward, we lay in bed, held hands, and stared at the ceiling.
Xochitl squeezed. “You have a soft touch.”
I looked at my other hand. “You think?”
“Not the skin, the skin is tough. I mean your way. Tu manera de ser.”
“Um. Is that good?”
“That strong beat comes in handy.”
“I like your rhythm too, Xoch.”
“So everybody’s happy.”
We listened to the cars on the avenue below.
“Xochitl, I been wondering.”
She didn’t say anything or gesture in any way for me to continue.
“If this is too sensitive, tell me.”
“I will.”
“What was it that made you feel so pressured? With your parents, I mean.”
“Does it matter now?”
“Maybe.”
Xochitl didn’t let go of my hand. “I don’t know. It was never a clear thought.”
I listened.
Xochitl rolled over on her side to face me. She propped her head on her elbow and I took in her full stomach.
“I was an infant when we crossed the border. My father carried me. My mother and her brother carried the belongings.”
“Your old man swam with you on his back?”
“It was supposed to be shallow. There were ten or twelve of us. Halfway, the river suddenly went to their armpits. My father held me above his head. Some people got swept away. The coyote himself went under. Those who made it were scattered along the riverbank. My parents and mother’s brother found each other. They joined other survivors.”
“Thank God.”
“Most supplies got lost. The coyote was gone. No guide in the desert.”
“That’s fucked.”
“They were supposed to meet others who would bring them to Amarillo. My father’s buddy was taking us to Chicago.”
“Underground Railroad.”
“Without a conductor. We wandered in the heat. It was freezing at night.”
“You remember all this?”
“I’ve heard the story so many times.”
“Everybody must’ve been freaking out.”
“Some men fought. Everybody got sunburned. They hunted possums, I think, but there was no water. My father says he thought about his mother a lot. On the fifth day my mother’s brother died of dehydration. They had to leave his body.”
“Poor thing.”
“The next day they found a road. A passing trucker brought them to a hospital.”
Xochitl and I lay on our sides, face-to-face. I brushed the hair away from her brown eyes.
“What a nightmare.” I wanted to make Xochitl feel better, but didn’t know how.
“My whole life, my parents, they lay it on how they came to this country for me. To give me and then my sisters, who were born here, an opportunity.”
“Parents talk like that.”
“My mother has this way. Like you never deserved her sacrifice. Like she might have been something.”
“You felt guilty.”
“She wanted me to. I don’t know, Eddie. I never talk about these things.”
Xochitl’s eyes watered. I pulled her into my chest and kissed the top of her head. It felt good to feel the heat of her breath on my skin. We spent the rest of that Sunday in bed.