“I’m sorry, Xoch.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“You are a little.”
“It’s great what you’re doing, T. I’m proud of you. You have every right to go for it—”
“My God! You do, too, Xochitl!”
“Fine! But you do not get to judge me for making this choice.”
I look out at the road. Headlights approaching slowly. Then shooting past in a blur. I think about all the years Manny was gone. Mami and Papi were going downhill. And I was lost. Xochitl’s singing was the one thing we had. The one thing that made us special.
Now who are we?
Who is she?
She’s the person fighting to hold everything together at home.
And failing.
I close my eyes and try to sleep.
Xochitl starts again.
Tengo un pobre corazón
Que a veces se rompió
It’s Alejandra Guzmán, her heart breaking, but never surrendering. Xochitl doesn’t sing it like a power ballad this time. She sings it like a lullaby. She sings that song over and over until I’m out.
MONDAY, JUNE 15, 2009
A honking eighteen-wheeler shakes me awake.
I check on Manny again. Jostle him till he makes sounds.
I turn to Xochitl. “It feels late. What time is it?”
“Two thirty.”
“Are you lost? You said Delano was close.”
She just stares at the road.
“How far is it, Xochitl?”
“We have a ways to go.”
“How far?”
“A few hundred miles.”
“We’ve driven a few hundred already.”
“It’s a few hundred more.”
I gasp for a breath. I try to talk but nothing comes out.
“You wouldn’t have come, T.”
Then it comes out loud. “Is Delano in Texas? Mexico?”
“Your geography sucks!” she says.
“Liars suck worse, Xochitl! And you’re a liar.”
She tells me Delano is in Southern California.
My head starts throbbing as my mind is flooded with images:
My manager yelling at me at Vince’s.
Bashir waiting for me at the library, checking his watch.
Me bussing Caleb’s table at Vince’s. He’s wearing a U-Dub sweatshirt, stuffing his face with pizza, going on and on about how great college is.
Wendy alone in the Powell’s mystery section.
Wendy graduating from the University of Washington without me.
Dr. Wendy Martinez at the altar, kissing some tool surgeon named Brad.
Manny’s fist popping through the wall. Grabbing me by the shirt, pulling me into his room through the hole.
I fire off f-bombs. Coil back into the seat. Explode a kick into the glove box. “Stop the car, Xoch!”
“We’re in the middle of nowhere!”
I kick that box over and over. “I gotta get home! Stop the car!”
“Manny’s sleeping,” she says. “Don’t make me do this.”
I keep kicking. Keep yelling at her to stop, stop, stop!
Xochitl stomps the brake and throws us into a fishtail skid.
We slide in the gravel till the brakes catch and Sally stops cold.
My belt grabs me at the waist.
My torso shoots forward.
My head pops the dash.
Manny’s body slams my seat.
Then the ricochet and my head smashes back into the headrest.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
I touch my face.
Boom-boom. Boom-boom.
There’s blood.
And a hammer tapping my skull.
I look up and see so many pairs of lights for the one car coming our way.
Manny’s in the well between the front and back seats.
Xochitl asks him if he’s okay.
“I’m awesome, Xoch. We stopping?”
He felt nothing. He felt nothing.
“T has to pee,” she says. “Go back to sleep.”
She jumps out the car. Flings my door open. Yanks me by the arm. Pulls me out and stands me up against the fender. Grips my shirt with a fist to keep me from falling.
“I need you, T.”
“My head’s busted, Xochitl.”
“You’re fine,” she says.
“You keep lying to me,” I say.
She yanks my arm again. Walks me away from the car. I stumble because the ground keeps moving. “I’ve got you,” she says.
“Where we going?” I say.
“Away from Manny.”
The crunch of gravel and dry grass. Crickets so damn loud. A semitruck rumbles past. A hurricane blast of heat and dust.
Xochitl pulls a yellow wad of paper out of her jeans pocket. Unfolds it. Shoves it in my face. “Read fast,” she says. “Before Manny gets up. Read it!”
I fight the throbs and blur till the writing slips into focus.
Dear Mami and Papi,
I want you to know that this is no one’s fault. Nobody could have done anything any different. I saw too much over there. I did too much. I learned how to be a way that I can’t stop being. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I been trying SO HARD. I’ve been fighting to get me back, but it’s impossible because the old Manny died in Iraq and nothing is going to change that. I’m so tired I can’t fight anymore. This is relief. I’m free now. I’m with Grandpa Tito, playing poker and drinking tequila. I’m not fighting the noise every second I’m awake and every second I’m asleep. The noise is gone. I’m all right now. I’m not going to hurt anyone. This is peace. I want you to be at peace, too. Mami and Papi, please be all right with this. Give my love to T and Xoch. Tell them they’ve got their brother back. Tell them to be good to each other.
With all my love forever,
Manuel
Xochitl checks the car. Makes sure he’s not coming.
She grips my shoulder. “He was quiet in his room. For a long time,” she says. “I got freaked and I barged in there. He was at his desk. He tried to slide the paper under something. It flew off and he dove for it, so I dove for it.”
I bend at the waist. Press the paper onto my leg, trying to iron out the wrinkles and creases with my hand, like it’s some important document. I stop and shove it back at Xochitl.
“He tried to wrestle it away from me, but—”
“That’s enough,” I say.
“You need to hear this, T.”
She says Manny figured out she wasn’t giving the note up, so he ran for the door. And she tackled him. Hauled him to the ground. He tried to get away, but she wouldn’t let go. And she swore to him she wouldn’t ever let him out of her sight. And she was never gonna let him do it.
“He finally let loose and he sobbed, ‘Don’t tell Mami or Papi. Don’t tell T.’ I promised him. I promised I wouldn’t tell you.”
Another honking semi. We’re lit up and blinded. More dust as it goes.
“Now you know, T. But Mami and Papi don’t. You cannot say a word.”
I look back and try to pull the car into focus. The pain pulses in my head. I close my eyes to stop the spinning, but an image pops up. It’s Manny on the basketball court at Puget. He’s standing still in the middle of a raucous postgame celebration. He’s got a pistol. His eyes search the crowd. He finds me. Looks right at me. Points the gun to his head.
I wanna run to him, but I’m stuck in place.
I can’t save Manny.
More pictures. We’re in the car after teacher conferences. Manny’s got the gun again. He trembles and says, “That was too much, T.”
I’m screaming, “I’m sorry, Manny! I’m sorry!” And I lunge at him, but it’s too late.
Xochitl shakes my shoulders. “Look at me, T.”
I look at my sister.
“I was losing hope. But a few days after, Manny thanked me for getting in the way. And he tried to get himself right. He’s doing it the Luca
s way. But he’s trying. He’s trying, T. Manny is fighting again.”
She grabs my face with both her hands. “We cannot leave him alone, T. You understand? He can’t do it if we’re with him. He won’t do it.”
My head bobs yes because I don’t know and I got nothing else.
Back in the car, Xochitl pulls an alcohol pad from a tiny first-aid kit. Wipes the blood off my face. Presses some gauze on my forehead. “Hold that there.”
She hangs over the seat and wrestles a belt around Manny. Then she sits herself in place, takes a big breath, and turns the key. The engine rumbles to life. She slams the stick into drive and pegs the gas to the floor.
I close my eyes and go to a place in my head where I can be with my brother. And I repeat it over and over. I’m with you, Manny. I’m with you, Manny. I’m with you.…
MONDAY, JUNE 15, 2009
Xochitl wakes me in a Delano convenience store parking lot. My head throbs. I check my phone for the date and time because I don’t have a clue. I pop whatever pill from the first-aid kit.
I call Caleb and tell him about the funeral. He says he’s sorry about our cousin and he’ll try to get my shift covered for tomorrow. “Be safe, brother,” he says.
We get Manny upright and out of the car. He stalls at the convenience store door. Tries to keep us from going inside. It takes a lot of prodding and encouragement, but we manage to get him in there. We clean up in the restroom and change into our least smelly clothes. Then we drive out of town on a farm highway. We pass massive trucks and tractors. Fields scattered with bent-over workers, bandanas protecting their mouths from poison dust as they pick weeds and thin vegetables in the scorching sun. Just like Papi used to do before he met Mami. Before a friend of her friend introduced her to Frank O’Brien.
We turn into a dirt lot. The church is a huge, converted metal shed.
Manny’s all right getting out of the car.
But again, it’s a long time at the door. He does his breathing. He bends over, hands on knees. Says he’s getting back in the car.
Xochitl tells him he’s going to be okay and she takes her place on one side of him.
I take my place on the other.
Xochitl rubs his back and says, “We’re going to walk in real slow.”
“It’s like my head…” he says.
“Yeah, Man?” Xochitl says.
“My head knows I can go in. But my body is screaming at me, telling me not to.”
“I know, Manny,” she says. “That’s why we’re going to do this together. See, by my count we got three heads and two bodies telling us we can do this. All together that’s five to one. Your body loses. I’m sorry.”
It takes a lot more convincing, but eventually, we walk in like that, me and Xochitl each holding an arm, the three of us connected.
We take our seats with Rudi’s friends and family.
The preacher talks about how great Rudi was and how long he’s known the family. About watching Rudi run around the church when he was a little kid. How Rudi took a leadership role in the youth group as a teenager. How he left to defend the country he loved.
Then the preacher says, “No one knows why God called Rudi so young. Nadie sabe. Nunca vamos a saber. La única cosa que sabemos—the only thing we do know—is that Rudi lived his life with Jesus Christ in his heart. If we all do the same, we’ll see Rudi one day.”
I’m still holding Manny’s arm. He’s shaking all over. His face is white ash. Skin wrinkled. It’s the first time I notice how thin his hair is. And his eyes. Manny is someplace else.
Looking at him, that God talk gets to me bad.
Because God did not do this. God did not call Rudi. God did not kill Rudi. The God I would like to believe in doesn’t start wars or kill or mess up people’s brains or make them lose their jobs and lose their homes. God doesn’t tear families apart.
I wanna jump up and scream at the top of my lungs: Don’t blame God! People did this to Rudi! People did this to my brother!
I do not jump.
I do not scream.
I just squeeze Manny’s arm tight.
He looks at me. And for a second, he’s all there with me—I swear he is—and he’s saying, Me too, brother. Me too.
* * *
We’re at the front of the church in the receiving line of dread.
Elena’s first. She’s short. A round, wide face. Black hair in a long braid down her back. Xochitl steps right up and says she’s offering condolences from Rosario and Daniel Avila in Washington State. “Lo siento tanto, Elena,” she says. “No hay palabras.”
Elena cups her hands to her mouth. “Xochitl Avila.” She hugs my sister and looks over at me. “Teodoro.” My turn for the hug. Elena looks her eyes into mine. Says she can’t believe we’re here. She says how much I look like Papi the first time she met him.
She turns to Manny. Takes his face in her hands. “Manuelito.” She tells him she and Mami have been keeping in touch. “Se que estás pasando un tiempo muy duro, bebe.”
It’s crazy, but that’s the first time I’ve heard anyone say the obvious to Manny’s face. I know you’re having a rough time. Elena says it like it’s nothing. Not nothing. She says it like it’s important, but like it’s not a scary thing to say to Manny.
She tells him they’ve been praying for him. Then she wipes the corners of her eyes with a tissue and thanks him for coming. “Gracias, mijito. Gracias por venir. Todo será mejor.” Then she grabs Manny and buries her crying face in his chest. The crying turns to sobbing and it’s impossible to look away.
Manny holds Elena as tight as she’s holding him. He mumbles. Tells her that Rudi died fighting for something. Elena cries harder when he says it. Manny can’t handle it, and he lets loose, too.
I look at Elena’s hand sticking out from a black sleeve. White tissue stretched tight around her fingers. Fingers clamped on to Manny. Tissue between her thumb and Manny’s skin. Her nails digging into his arms. Not letting him go. Manny’s arms around her. Holding her up. His eyes closed. His chin on her head. Not letting her go.
And all I can think is, This it it.
This is the reason we came all this way.
* * *
Despite Xochitl’s promise, we do not go straight home after the funeral. Elena talks us into going to her place for the reception and says we should spend the night there.
I call Caleb again. I tell him there’s no way I’m gonna be able to cover my shift. He tells me not to worry. I tell him I owe him forever.
I tell Bashir I’ll pay him even though we can’t meet.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You all right, man?”
“Yeah. Fine. We’re all good.”
He can hear the lie in my voice. “You be safe out there, Teodoro. Okay? And all the best to your family.”
“All the best to you guys, too. I’ll call when we get back.”
Outside Elena’s front door, we go through the routine again, trying to get Manny to walk inside. It takes forever but we finally make it, Xochitl and I holding him up until he gets as comfortable as possible.
There’s a bunch of people at the house. Some of them are our distant aunts and uncles and cousins. They trickle out of there till it’s real late.
Elena sits on the sofa for hours. Her husband, Leo, on one side of her. Manny on the other. She clutches Manny’s hand. Not letting him leave her side.
She and Leo are exhausted. But they won’t go to bed. They have to stay up talking. It’s like if they go to bed, something will end. And they don’t want the new thing to start.
Elena talks about Mami. She’s got all kinds of stories about the time she spent living with Mami’s family in Yakima. Elena’s mom and dad worked farms all over the country. She and her brother worked right alongside them. Her parents wanted her to have a stable senior year of high school, so they sent her to live with Abita and Papá Tito and Mami.
Elena goes on about all the “trouble” she and Mami got into at school and w
orking at the Kmart. And she tells her version of the Mami-meets-Papi story. Elena tells it like Mami swept her up in the excitement of the whole thing. Made her a part of it. She tells the story like she and Mami needed each other. Mami needed someone to help her get through the waiting. And Elena needed to see someone—to see Mami—believe in something so hard it came true. Elena looks in Leo’s eyes and squeezes his hand. He squeezes hers right back.
Looking at them makes me think about Wendy’s ideal.
And that makes me think about us.
We’re not so different from Mami and Papi when they first started loving each other. We’re not so different from Elena and Leo when they were young.
Elena grabs a framed photo of the three of them—Rudi in his uniform, and she and Leo looking so proud. She wipes dust off the glass with that same tissue she’s been gripping the whole night. And she and Leo stare at the photo hard, like wishing they could crawl inside it.
I can’t stop thinking this thing. I can’t stop thinking that if you try to be more than friends with someone, and if you try for as long as you possibly can, it’s scary as hell where that can take you.
Elena and Leo start in with Rudi stories. They talk about silly stuff he did as a baby and as a little kid. Even stuff about how Manny and Rudi were two peas in a pod when we stayed with them on that road trip down the coast way back when.
The stories trail off after Rudi leaves for Iraq.
Soon, Elena falls asleep, leaning against Manny. And Manny falls asleep leaning against her. Leo says we should leave them like that because Elena hasn’t slept in days.
He shows me and Xochitl to Rudi’s old room. Xochitl takes the bed. Leo brings me an inflatable mattress.
It’s creepy being in his room, and the mattress keeps hissing, slowly deflating.
TUE JUN 16 1:38 A.M.
T: Can’t sleep.
T: The funeral was today.
T: So sad. And infuriating.
T: Remember U-Dub? You said all
that nice stuff about Manny?
I can’t tell you how much that
meant to me.
I blow up the mattress and try to sleep.
It’s not happening.
I tiptoe through the living room, past Manny and Elena, out the front door. And I walk.
American Road Trip Page 11
