“Gracias a Dios,” Papi says.
“Yeah,” I say, “And Xochitl’s good.”
Mami says she’s still mad at Xochitl for taking me away before she and Papi could say good-bye. They were both on their way home.
So everyone knew but me.
Mami says she knows I had my job and my studies and she thanks me for taking time out to help Manny for the summer.
“I’m sorry I moved out,” I say.
“We know it was hard,” she says.
I tell her I’d been scared to let them know exactly how hard I was trying and how well I was doing, because I was convinced I’d eventually fail. I tell them I almost did fail and then everything got better and I got two As and, if I can keep up the improvement, I’m applying for U-Dub next year.
I have to hold the phone away from my ear because Mami’s screaming, “Ay, Teodoro, that’s the way!” Then she tells me how much she and Papi are going to miss us this summer. Turns out Xochitl already called and gave them the update.
“You’re doing a good thing for Manuel,” Papi says.
“Thanks, Papi.”
“You listen to your tío. And be good.”
“Love you, Mami.”
“We love you, Teodoro. Say hi to Wendy for us.”
“I will.”
“You respect her, mijo.”
“Geez, Papi.”
“She was always so cute,” Mami says.
“All right, you two. I gotta go.”
THURSDAY, JUNE 18, 2009
Rebecca O’Brien sits between me and her daughter at the breakfast table. She doesn’t look at me one time. She just talks at Wendy about trust and phone calls home and being smart.
A last gulp of coffee and she taps my shoulder. “Let’s step outside, Teodoro.”
Rebecca tells me she’s got a flight to catch. She has to work. She says she wishes she could stay longer.
“I think that would be nice,” I say.
“I bet you do,” she says.
Then she tells me she’s grateful that—because of me—Wendy’s not going to San Francisco. She won’t be attending her father’s art parties with his alcoholic art friends and she won’t be checking out art schools, “And whatever other art plans he has for her.”
Rebecca calls Wendy’s dad a boy who never grew up and never took responsibility for anything. She says she’s positive he’s undiagnosed bipolar, like most successful artists.
“And whenever Wendy comes back from visiting him, she’s absolutely incorrigible.”
“That sounds really bad.”
Rebecca goes on about her own ancient history with Wendy’s dad and says, “So you understand how I’m feeling about this situation with Wendy.”
I’m thinking, What situation? Then it hits me. This conversation has been less about Wendy and her dad, and more about Wendy and me.
“So if things between you and my daughter get serious—and you know what I mean, Teodoro—for God’s sake, pay a visit to the drugstore.” She hands me a twenty-dollar bill. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that.”
I tell her she doesn’t have to worry, and I try to give her the cash back.
“Keep it,” she says. “You’re a nice boy. But I don’t want Wendy to make the same mistake I made with her father.”
Whoa, that was the tiniest compliment followed by a powerful kick in the nuts.
I breathe deep. Then let it go. “Rebecca, you did a great job raising Wendy. So you can trust her to make good decisions.”
“Oh, Teodoro.” She gives me a cold, quick hug. “Just be good.”
“You, too, Rebecca. Bon voyage.”
* * *
Wendy plops a stack of math materials on an old workbench. “So, mister…”
“So, mizz…”
She looks around the dusty shack, swipes a spiderweb, and says, “Here we are!”
“Here we are,” I say.
Then the hug happens.
The kissing happens.
It’s fast and wild for a second. Then it slows way the hell down. And it’s personal. That sounds dumb, but, like, the slowness deepens everything. Like we’re talking with kisses. And we’re telling each other important stuff. Like kissing to tell each other Florence was real. Kissing to tell each other all those months of texting were real. U-Dub was real. Everything about this crazy situation is real.
When we’ve said everything we can with kisses, we’re just standing there, arms wrapped, belly to belly, eyes on eyes.
“My mom give you a hard time?”
“Your mom was … awesome.”
“Please don’t tell me how awesome she was.”
“I will not.”
Wendy steps back and laughs. “I can’t believe any of this, dude. I mean, here we are, right? You and me? In a farm shack? In New Mexico? And I’m your tutor?”
“What happened with your dad, Wendy? Your year in San Francisco?”
“Um … okay. Going down there seemed like the right thing. And then it didn’t.”
“If you’d like, you could be more specific.”
“Once when I was little, I drew a duck. My dad thought it was brilliant. Ever since then, our relationship has been about drawing and hunks of clay and museums.”
“Are you an artist, Wendy?”
“Oh, Teodoro.” She kisses me on the cheek. “He’s never even asked me that! And he set up all these tours of art colleges this summer. It’s so stupid because I am so not an artist.”
She takes my hand in hers and we lock fingers. “When you left Florence, I asked myself what I was trying to accomplish going to San Francisco. And I realized I was going down there to change him. And that’s stupid. I mean, he can’t change me.”
“I hope not, Wendy.”
“I can’t change him. And it’s not even worth trying.”
I tell Wendy it makes sense. And she looks into me so serious and kisses my cheek so soft and says, “Teodoro, I can’t make him love me the way I should be loved.”
That feels heavy as hell.
“So here you are!” I say.
“Here I am, Teodoro.” She reaches out and touches my forehead. “How’s that little volcano? You all right?”
“It was a crazy trip, Wendy.”
“Tell me about it. On the plane, this old guy falls asleep with his head on my shoulder, slobbering on me, snoring in one ear. And in the other ear, my mom’s going, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, young lady’—the whole flight! Oh, and our connection from Phoenix was delayed for, like, two hours.”
I tell Wendy I think our trips were crazy in different ways.
“I’m kidding, Teodoro.”
“Ha ha, you spoiled airplane flyer.”
“Spoiled? It was a nightmare! The peanuts and the Southwest flight attendant comedy were totally stale.”
“Oh … okay. You win. That does sound like a nightmare.”
We laugh till it’s quiet. I thank Wendy for the conversation the night of the funeral. “I was losing it. You helped me see the good stuff.”
“You’re the good stuff,” she says.
“You’re the better stuff,” I say.
“I have an almost uncontrollable desire to kiss you more. However…” Wendy grabs a pen and a notebook. She dusts off an old wooden bench and takes a seat. Motions for me to do the same. “We are here to prepare you for pre-calculus and physics this fall. And we have a shack to build. So it’s time for ground rules.”
“You’re right. We need rules.”
We talk over the situation real mature. We decide that each morning we’ll set teaching and learning goals. If we both agree that the goals have been met in a professional manner, studying may be followed by a period of kissing. After lunch each day, we will set shack-building goals. Once again, if and when we are successful, a period of kissing may follow.
Then Wendy brings up the slippery slope. Like how—if you’re not intentional about it—kissing can be a gateway drug to more awesome
forms of kissing … and potentially, more devastatingly problematic forms of kissing.
“To be clear on this,” she says, “we have a long way to go—like a looooong way—before we go there or anything approximating there. Teodoro, if we do go there someday, it will be a decision we make together after a lot of conversations. It won’t just be a dumb, thoughtless slide down a stupid slope. We’ll both know exactly what’s going on and when it’s going down. Deal?”
We shake on it. And I act supercool about it. Like the deal is a good deal but not a huge deal. But the truth is, that deal is the biggest relief ever.
Don’t get me wrong, I have fully daydreamed and night dreamed of sliding up and down that slippery slope with Wendy.
But dreaming is one thing.
See, I have all kinds of dreams. Like this recurring one where I’m jumping a motorcycle over the Grand Canyon. In my deepest REM sleep, I soar on my Kawasaki for an impossibly long time, flying over that beautiful, unbelievably wide canyon. And I stick the landing every single time. I stick it and there’s a huge roar from the crowd followed by mad applause. Then a hot, smiling lady hangs a flowery lei around my neck. She kisses my cheek as I take off my helmet and thrust a fist in the air, cuz I’m a freaking moto badass.
Then morning happens. And in the light of day, I know that no matter how real it seemed, it was just a dream. And the obvious truth is I have as much knowledge, experience, and confidence about long-distance motorcycle jumping as I do about having actual sex with an actual other person. So, yeah, I’m a dude with the natural dude urge to jump motorcycles. But for now, when that urge hits, I’m more than happy to take a deep breath and a cold shower and stay away from motorcycles until Wendy and I are both good and ready to jump.
In the meantime, it does not hurt to dream.
Because of the catching up and the ground rules and the not-going-there talk, we decide it will be enough progress just to set up a good tutoring spot and figure out our work schedule. We decide to study in the mornings, break for lunch, and work on the stand in the afternoons.
* * *
We walk into the dry, midday New Mexican sun and into the house. Wendy says she’s going to power nap before she eats. Tío Ed took Manny to see Doc Fuentes again and then to meet his support group. Tía Luci is at work. Xochitl’s alone eating at the kitchen table.
She sees me and points at the fridge. “Tortilla. Cheese. Green Chile.”
I heat my tortilla over the flame on the gas stove. Pinch it and flip it. I tuck in the chile and cheese and join Xochitl. Turns out we both got cross-examined by Wendy’s mom. “Tío Ed did, too,” she says. “So you better not mess this up, T.”
I tell her not to worry. Wendy and I have it all figured out.
I ask about her morning in the fields.
“We’re pulling weeds. Adjusting drip lines. Spotting bad bugs. Just like Tío Ed said.”
“Sounds like the worst kind of hell.”
“It’s exactly what we need.”
“And Manny’s good with it?”
“Yeah. He’s working hard. You should see him.”
I bite into my tortilla. The chile stings so sweet I jump out of my seat. “Damn!” And I point at my plate. “That is perfect food, Xochitl!”
“I know, T!”
“Chile tastes good at home, but this is…” I take another bite. “Damn.”
“Close your mouth, T.”
“I can’t chew this and not say damn.”
“Please don’t do that in front of Wendy.”
Xochitl says she has some news. Turns out Tío Ed told Manny he could stay down here after summer’s over, after the harvest, for as long as he needs. He even said that in a few years he’ll be too old to farm. And when that time comes, Luci wants to move to a city.
“So,” Xochitl says, “if Manny likes it here, and he likes farming, Ed says he can take the farm over.”
“Whoa. What does Manny think about that?”
“I think he’s actually considering it.” She takes in a deep breath. Exhales. “Tío Ed has Manny thinking about a future.”
“That’s great, Xoch.”
“It’s everything, T.”
* * *
Afternoon comes. Wendy and I pick through rusting old equipment, beat-up leather saddles, sand-caked window frames, and piles of garbage.
“Can you see it?” I say.
“Can you?” Wendy says.
I hesitate and she goes, “Come on, Teodoro.” She points at a wall. “We’ll put a counter there. A little cash register. Hang ristras. Shelves over here. Old pictures of the farm.”
“That sounds cool. What else?”
“You what else?”
All I can think about is Tío Ed and Luci’s house. It’s not that big. But high ceilings and all those windows and light make it feel like it’s got space. And you wanna be in that space.
So I say, “How ’bout we bust out all the siding on this front wall and we replace it with some of those old windows over there. We’ll leave a big opening in the middle for an entrance.”
She points out some canvas tarps lying in a corner. “We could use one to cover up the entrance at night.”
We pull a tarp off the pile, unfold and stretch it. It reaches the length of the shack. We decide we’ll frame it and attach that frame to the shack on hinges. The framed canvas can cover the entrance and protect the windows at night. And during the day we can prop it up as an awning for shade.
And since we’ll have shade, we can get a couple tables and chairs. Serve limeade and horchata, Cokes or whatever. Chips and homegrown salsa. We’ll make it a spot where people wanna hang out and spend some cash.
We talk until the words stop and we’re standing real close, pumped on our ideas—looking at each other, smiling—not saying a thing. Just the sound of the breeze between us.
And pretty soon we’re not saying a thing for so long it’s obvious we’re both saying the same exact thing.
“Um … Wendy? We haven’t met our goal yet. Have we?”
Wendy looks deep in my eyes, smiles wicked, and says, “That is so professional of you, Teodoro.” She hops off the bench. Slips on work gloves. “You ready to bust this wall up?”
“I think so, Wendy.”
She grabs a big ol’ sledgehammer and drags it across the dirt floor by its wooden handle. “I believe this is the correct tool for the job, sir.”
“You could smash the crap outta stuff with that, ma’am.”
“I’m going to need you to take a step back for safety.” Wendy pulls the handle off the ground, swings the hammerhead forward, then back, gut-shouting as she loops it up and over her head in a windmill arch before it falls and explodes through the wall with a thundering CRUNCH!
It’s silent for a second.
Then Wendy starts giggling, still holding the hammer handle in a cloud of dust.
“That felt fantastic,” she says.
“Do it again,” I say.
“I’m doing it again,” she says, readjusting her gloves.
She picks up the handle and throws the head out and up to loop it over her shoulder. But this time she stops midloop. “Come here!” she says, grimacing, full-body shaking, holding that hammer head in the air. “Fast! Feel my muscle!”
I run over and squeeze it. “You are strong, lady!”
“YEAH!” She lets the hammerhead swing down and around, then up and over again. A crash. Splinter sound. Flying dust. “BOOM, BABY!”
We decide right then to take out the opposite wall, too. Double awnings. Double entrances. And double destruction.
We sledgehammer the hell outta those shingles. There are karate kicks. Whoops and high fives. We yank and twist ’em off and toss them in a pile as we bust up two walls and a whole barrelful of teenage sexual tension.
When we’re done, we hammer the tarps up where the walls used to be—at some point we’ll take them down and frame them for real.
“Did we meet our goals, Wendy?”
/> “I believe we did, Teodoro.”
“Well, then, may I?”
“Uh-huh.” She makes a fist. Pulls it back and flexes. “Put the first one right there.”
“On your muscle?”
“Yup.”
“That thing is pure steel, Wendy. I’m worried it might break my lips.”
“I’m willing to risk your lips, Teodoro. Kiss it.”
I kiss it and cover my mouth with my hand, wailing in agony. “They’re broken! Your muscle broke my lips!”
“Oh my God! I’m a monster!” She puts a finger to my lips. “A monster with beautiful biceps I never knew I had.”
I wince.
“You poor thing. I promise to always love you, even if—”
“You promise to what me?”
Her face turns red. “I mean, Teodoro, I promise to like, adore and like, like you even if your lips can never heal back to their full kissing strength.”
“Serious, Wendy? You’ll like, like me, even with these hideous, unkissable lips?”
“Yes, Teodoro. It will be very, very, extremely difficult. But I will.”
“That’s some pretty serious like.”
“I guess it is … that sort of like.”
* * *
In bed after a long day. It’s time to turn out the lights, but I got this need to talk to Manny.
“Sweet beds, huh, Man?”
“Pretty good.”
“I know, right?”
“Yeah, T.” Manny pats his pillow and burrows his head in.
“What about these summer plans, Man?”
“I don’t know,” he says.
I ask him what he doesn’t know.
He stares at the ceiling. Breathes out hard. “The doctor thing … the group thing.”
I tell him Dr. Fuentes sounds pretty good. “And those sleeping pills … not bad, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But the other stuff makes me feel off. I have to see Doc every couple days. He wants to make sure I’m reacting right.”
He closes his eyes, like he’s gonna sleep.
I’m not ready for that, so I say, “What’s Tío Ed’s group like?”
“It’s a bunch of old guys who been through what I been through,” he says.
“What do they talk about?”
“Their war experiences. And they say I have to talk about mine. Oh, and I have to see that counselor, Dr. Chapman, in a couple days.… That’ll be more of the same.”
American Road Trip Page 14
