Red Glass

by Laura Resau

  An hour passed, and another, and I started wondering when Marta would get tired. Earlier, I’d asked her what she did for a living and she’d said, “You know, a little of everything. I sew. Made this shirt. Took me forever to sew on these tiny sequins.” Then she changed the subject to her good-for-nothing boyfriend, who stayed out with a different woman every night and staggered home drunk in the afternoons for naps. Until she got the dogs, that is. After that, he only sometimes stumbled to the gate, begging and pleading and swearing he’d give up his evil ways. Once in a while, if she was in the mood, she held back the snarling dogs and let him in.

  Every time I blinked, my eyes wanted to stay shut, but I didn’t have the heart to interrupt her. Eventually, she started yawning. “Oh, look at the time, Sophie. Wait here while I get your bed ready.”

  On the talk show, a large woman was bashing a skinny man on the head with her purse and the security guards were making a halfhearted attempt to hold her back. It looked staged, but still made me chuckle sleepily. Rodrigo stared at me. “My aunt was right. Your eyes are amazing. Your dad must be a thief.”

  “What?”

  “Is your father a thief?”

  That was what I thought he’d said. Why was he asking me that? Juan would never steal anything. Then I wondered if he meant my real father, who could be a thief for all I knew. A thief wasn’t too far from a drug dealer and child abandoner. But I decided he wasn’t my real father anyway. Juan was.

  “No,” I said finally.

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Then who stole the stars out of the sky and put them in your eyes?”

  I wished I knew how to say cheese-ball in Spanish. I fake-laughed. “Ha ha ha.” I remembered Ángel’s hand on the blue tablecloth that night in the restaurant. I know exactly what color your eyes are, Sophie.

  “If you get cold tonight,” Rodrigo whispered, “my room is right across from yours.”

  “Don’t count on it, amigo.”

  “Here’s your room, Sophie,” Marta said, fluffing a limp pillow. She’d put fresh sheets on my bed, and a fuzzy brown blanket with a picture of a tiger on it. I doubted I’d need it. The air, even at this time of night, was like a sauna.

  She showed me how to unknot the mosquito net that hung from a hook on the ceiling, and placed a glass of water beside me. “Good night. Dream with angels.”

  I got under the covers and even though there didn’t seem to be any mosquitoes, I let the net fall around me. The fabric was wispy thin, like fairy wings or spiderwebs. I remembered Ángel’s dream about me.

  Even though I was tired, I couldn’t stop thinking about Ángel. In the corner of the room, an altar glowed with three candles flickering in red glasses. Light reflected off the framed saints and Virgins. I got up to go to the bathroom and nearly stepped on Marta, who was lying on a palm mat on the kitchen floor.

  I’d taken her bed, I realized guiltily. She opened her eyes as I passed. She looked homely without her makeup—completely eyebrow-less, but nice. “Everything all right, Sophie? You warm enough?”

  “Why don’t you sleep with me, Marta? There’s room in the bed.”

  We argued back and forth a bit, but I insisted, and finally she got into bed. Once the mosquito net had settled around us, she giggled. “Who’s going to believe I slept with a gringa?”

  I focused on the tiny woven squares of netting, rubbed the gauze between my fingers. “You know, Marta,” I whispered. “Rodrigo isn’t my boyfriend.”

  “Of course he’s not. I was just kidding. Of course you must already have a boyfriend.”

  “His name is Ángel. But he’s not exactly my boyfriend. I want him to be, though.”

  She patted my hand. “Well, I’m sure he will be. Now dream with angels, Sophie. With your Ángel.” Her laugh was soft and kind and soon turned into light snoring.

  I watched red light flutter on the pearly rosary beads, on the Virgin standing on the sliver of moon, wrapped safely in her sequined halo. The same iridescent sequins as Marta’s halter top. I pictured Marta with her eyebrow lines furrowed, holding a needle and thread, sewing the sequins one by one onto the shirt, and one by one onto the Virgin’s halo. Then I slept. I dreamed I was floating inside a golden oval that dangled from thousands of threads held by angels. And all of us were heading to Ángel.

  The next morning, I woke up with the song “Following the Moon” in my head, and then I realized it was on the radio, blaring from the kitchen. I changed into my white dress and coconut jewelry, and wondered what Ángel was doing at this precise moment.

  Marta was in the kitchen, making breakfast and dancing around in a patch of sunlight. She’d already painted on chile red lipstick and thick lavender eye shadow. Her eyebrows had turned back into distinct black lines. Her feet were squeezed into spiky high heels with straps wrapped far up the ankles, digging into fleshy calves. A few blue veins webbed her thighs below her skirt’s hem. They made me think of Pablo sitting on Dika’s lap, tracing his finger over her comfortable map of veins.

  “Buenos días, Sophie!” She set a chipped mug of chamomile tea in front of me. And then a plate of steaming scrambled eggs and beans and a pile of tortillas. “Eat, Sophie, eat!” She presented me with a small plate of quartered limes. “I got up early and bought them for you at the market on the corner.” She looked so pleased.

  I drenched the food in lime juice. Then I slipped the moonstone ring off my finger. “For you,” I told her, “to thank you.”

  She shook her head. “Absolutely not. You are our guest.”

  Before I left, I sneaked into the bedroom while she wasn’t looking and set the ring on the altar between the still-flickering candles. I hoped it would at least fit onto her pinkie finger.

  “Stay with us more time, Sophie,” she cajoled when we stood in the doorway saying goodbye. “You haven’t met my sisters yet. They won’t believe me unless they see you.”

  It was tempting to stay here, this place that already felt like home after one night. “Thanks, Marta, but I have to find Ángel.”

  “Bueno, Sophie, but remember, here you have your house. Always.” She gave me a final hug, so tight my bones crunched together, so saturated in perfume I sneezed all the way down the block to the bus station—a big dirt lot filled with old school buses painted crazy colors. Rodrigo instructed me where to change buses at the next big town.

  “Too bad you have a boyfriend,” he said.

  “Yup.”

  “A kiss?” he asked me, tilting his head and puckering his lips.

  I kissed his cheek quickly and got on the bus.

  Nearly everyone held bundles or children or babies in their laps. A few held chickens. People squeezed inside the bus, four and five people to seats that were made to hold two or three schoolchildren. This bus was not as luxurious as the one I’d taken here, not by a long shot. This one had torn plastic green seats, ragged curtains, no AC, and no action movies. The bags were strapped onto the top of the bus. I hadn’t wanted to part with my backpack, but there wasn’t enough room inside. It was still early morning and I was already sweating. I ate one of the bananas Marta had packed for me. Outside, mist rose off trees and green hills, like steam over a cup of tea.

  After a half hour, I got off at the town where I’d have to transfer buses. It wasn’t much of a town as far as I could tell—just a mosaic of mud and dust and colored tarps strung over wooden market stands heaped with fruit and vegetables. Vendors fanned flies away from raw meat and wet cheeses and bowls of bubbling soups. Through air thick with odors of overripe fruit, people called out to one another, kids screeched and laughed, cumbia music pulsed. Sweat poured down my cheeks and plastered my clothes to my skin.

  I realized, suddenly, I’d forgotten to get my bag off the bus. But now I couldn’t remember which bus was mine—there were seven or eight buses parked in a stretch of dirt, all old and painted crazy colors and packed with bags on top. What did I have in my backpack anyway? I mentally rummaged through the bag. There were clothes, but a
t least not my white dress—I was wearing that. Soap and shampoo and moisturizer and sunscreen, which I could replace, although it wouldn’t be hypoallergenic. The Little Prince book—dog-eared and underlined and worn—a little piece of Pablo I’d brought with me. Still, I could buy a new one back home. What was in the outside pocket? My passport! My stomach jumped. How would I get back into Mexico? And Mr. Lorenzo’s and Ángel’s papers. How would they get back?

  I started aimlessly weaving through the exhaust and yellow buses, scanning their roofs. That was when a young guy in a threadbare T-shirt and flip-flops worn down to the paper-thin soles jogged toward me. He held out my red backpack. “Gringa, is this yours?”

  I felt like hugging him. “Thank you!”

  “No problem,” he said, and before I could say anything else, he disappeared into the chaos of smells and sounds and colors.

  I wondered what it would be like to live here. It seemed very random that I ended up born in Tucson instead of here, instead of anywhere for that matter. And very random that my clothes were brand-new while the guy’s shirt had looked about fifteen years old. If I lived here, he could be my friend. Marta could easily be my aunt. Dika could be Rodrigo’s great-aunt. Anyone could be anyone else.

  “Ahorita, gringuita.” Any minute now, little gringa. That was the answer all the vendors gave me when I asked what time the next bus to San Juan would leave.

  I waited a few minutes and ate another banana and watched two little kids chasing each other around the market stands, squealing and slipping on mango peels. They wore filthy clothes about three sizes too big for them. WORLD’S GREATEST GRANDMA, one of the T-shirts said. The other had dancing pigs on it and said I LIVE 4 AEROBICS.

  Ten minutes passed, but no bus. I had to pee badly.

  I asked another vendor, “When will the bus to San Juan leave?”

  “Ahorita, gringuita,” the woman answered.

  “Do you know when exactly? Five minutes? Forty-five minutes?”

  “Yes, señorita.” She smiled reassuringly.

  “But which one—five or forty-five?”

  “Ahorita viene.” Any minute now.

  A half hour later, still no bus.

  I peeked over into a ditch to see about peeing there, but there was a drunk guy passed out by a tree.

  I returned to the woman’s fruit stand. “Is there a bathroom here?” I asked her. With an apologetic shrug, she pointed to a cement building with BAÑOS spray-painted on the side.

  I opened the door and walked inside. In seconds, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. Mounds of crap were piled up inside the toilets, on the toilet seats, on the floor next to the toilets. Thick clouds of flies buzzed everywhere. The stench was horrible. For a germ freak like me, this was straight out of a nightmare. I froze, afraid to breathe. I looked down and saw, on the floor, brown liquid that could have been mud or worse. And it was all over the soles of my sandals.

  I couldn’t move. My heart stopped.

  I opened my mouth, but instead of a scream, a laugh sputtered out. And another. Uncontrollable belly laughter overtook me. I was doubled over, laughing and laughing until tears streamed down my cheeks. I’d spent my whole life worrying about germs, and here I was in the mother lode. And, well, I wasn’t dead. I tiptoed out, careful not to splatter the puddles.

  Still laughing, out in the sunshine, I gasped the sweet air and ran down to the ditch past the drunk guy. I hoped he wouldn’t regain consciousness any time soon. I peed in the midst of dirty diapers and plastic bottles and cans faded from the sun. I peed, then laughed some more while I examined the brown stuff on my shoes. I thought of Dika with her head thrown back, shrieking with laughter, because what else could she do? Because she was alive.

  “No, no, of course the bus is fine,” the driver reassured passengers while sipping his beer. The hood was up and two guys were peering into the engine. People streamed onto the bus—women clutching the tiny hands of their children, some children with babies strapped to their backs, guys in baggy jeans and T-shirts and baseball caps, older men in once-white oxford shirts with graying collars and woven palm hats.

  Once we were all settled in our seats, a man in grease-stained clothes told us to get off again. We watched the men tinker underneath the hood for a while until they shrugged and declared it okay. I wondered if it really was okay. Then I smiled because of course if a crash was going to happen, it would happen in an ancient secondhand school bus speeding along dirt roads with a beer-drinking driver. No, it was not an ideal situation, but the best option at the moment.

  A boy on a ladder tossed my bag up top, and then I got on the bus. This time, more passengers rushed onto the bus, packing the seats. I had to stand in the aisle, my feet apart, bracing my hands on the seat-back and the bar overhead. A few men offered me their seats, but I said no thanks. Plenty of other people were standing, and if they could do it, so could I.

  I felt glad I was standing, because I felt taller, as if my whole life, I’d let fear cram me into a small box, a space so tiny I was always curled over, my shoulders hunched, my back bent. That box had seemed too strong to break through, so I hadn’t tried before. But maybe, all along, the box was just flimsy cardboard, and all I had to do was stand up, punch through the top, and climb out.

  Kindness of Strangers

  It rained on and off during the bus ride. The flat landscape wrinkled itself into hills, with mountains poking up in the distance. We bumped along valleys as showers pattered the windows, then around a curve, up into brilliant sunshine. I needed to figure out where exactly to get off the bus, so I looked around, trying to pick out the most trustworthy face. Most people were staring right at me. A woman in a matching flowered skirt and top at the back of the bus waved. “Gringuita! I’m getting off the bus at the next stop. Take my seat.” I scooted into her place, next to a woman with two girls.

  The woman was an explosion of color, draped in a thick, boxy cotton blouse with thin rainbow stripes, tucked into a wraparound skirt. Two little girls, about six and eight years old, were dressed like her, their hair braided with ribbons. The sour scent of woodsmoke clung to them, an ancient, warm smell that made me think of Ñola and Abuelita. The girls were eyeing me, their hands cupped over their mouths, giggling and whispering together in another language—a Mayan dialect, I guessed. Mr. Lorenzo had told me there were lots of Mayan groups, each with their own way of speaking and dressing.

  The mother lowered her eyes and gave me a timid smile. Here was someone even shyer than me, someone I could trust. I gushed to her about how cute the girls were, and asked where they were going. The mother spoke softly in accented Spanish—short, choppy syllables. She said they were headed home, to San Juan.

  “That’s where I’m going too!”

  She looked at me with surprise and seemed about to say something, but then closed her mouth. We chatted about the food and weather and plants in Tucson, and soon the girls warmed up to me. Each girl took one of my hands and sang an English song they’d learned in school: “Pollito chicken, ventana window.” And on and on, rhythmically translating a strange collection of words.

  Finally the mother, whose name was Juliana, looked at me and lowered her voice. “What are you doing all the way out here, señorita?”

  “Visiting a friend.”

  “What time is he expecting you?” Juliana asked.

  “He’s not.”

  She gave me a strange look. “How will you know where to go?”

  “I have the address.”

  Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Our town is not safe. People with money are kidnapped and held for ransom. There are gangs, bandits. If they see a gringa alone, they will see a victim. Do you understand me?”

  “Well, I’m just bringing something to my boyfriend and then coming right back with his father. And maybe with him, too.” I looked closely at her face. Her lips were full, with a beauty mark hanging above the corner of her mouth, just like a model’s. Her eyebrows were wrinkled in concern. “It’s all right,
” I said. “People have been nice to me, helping me out.”

  “True, but it only takes a few bad people.” Juliana moved closer. “The gangs recruit boys, and the boys can’t say no. You’re with them or against them.” She had a lot to say, once she got started. But her voice dropped even lower now. She didn’t want anyone else to hear, that was obvious. “That’s how it was, too, when I was a girl, only then it was the army and the guerrillas.”

  “Who were they?” I moved my head closer, trying to hear her whispers over the rumble of the bus.

  “The guerrillas were revolutionaries who fought for rights of poor people. At first poor people were happy about this. Then came the army. They tried to stop the guerrilla movement. In the end it was the people—like my family and neighbors—who suffered. Guerrillas forced us to give them food, and then the army came and punished us for helping the guerrillas. They killed people. They burned our houses and our crops and stole our animals. And even though the government tells us the fighting is over, la violencia has stayed in the hearts of some people.”

  Had Ángel seen la violencia? Was that why Ángel’s mom disappeared?

  “Señorita,” Juliana said. “It is dangerous for you to be here alone.”

  But it was too late to go back. I was so close to seeing Ángel, only an hour away. “Señora, I need to see my friend.”

  “Well, if you must go, we will take you to him,” she said.

  When the bus let us off at the roadside, we walked along a road littered with plastic bottles and broken glass. Under branches of flowering trees, the girls found small mangoes scattered on the ground, inspected them for bruises, and handed the best ones to me until my backpack overflowed.

  “Our town is not beautiful,” Juliana laughed, “but it does have a lot of mangoes.”