He felt queasy. The prisoners stared at him as he drove slowly past tanks and soldiers and laser-beam monitoring machines and sound and motion sensors. Some of the women, children, and men were confined in chicken-wire cages. Others were milling around in a larger cyclone-fence enclosure. A few more, a dozen or so, had their backs turned to him and were lined up against a wood fence.
He guessed it was some kind of temporary holding facility for Mexicans caught crossing the border illegally but it looked too much like a military war encampment with the jeeps, armed guards, military personnel, and white trailer offices. It scared him.
He watched as a canvas-covered Army jeep pulled into the encampment and was inspected by the guards at the gate, which was swung open by guard-tower sentries and allowed to enter and park. He watched as inmates of all ages—the men all handcuffed—were led out of the back of the truck and escorted into a separate fence yard.
What the hell is going on, he wondered as an ICE helicopter shattered his thoughts, patrolling overhead. Then it flew off, trailing armed guards in a machine-gun jeep that drove out to the desert.
Once he passed the Army operations base, he locked cruise control at eighty, lowered his window, and relaxed. Twenty minutes later a group of Mexicans rose like roadside ghosts in the shimmering heat. Beyond the road shoulder, dehydrated and clearly in need of medical attention, they pled for him to stop. He kept driving, not daring to look back in the rearview mirror. He was afraid.
41
They arrived in San Diego on Thursday night, eight hours after they had left Las Cruces. Carmen was delighted to be there, energetic and revived. She directed him through middle-class Mexican neighborhoods for a half hour until they pulled up to a rundown bungalow rental in the university area.
She invited Vito in, adding that her friends were throwing a big party and he better come, but he needed to get a motel room and rest, take a nap, then go to the storage facility nearby and load up all the belongings she wanted to take with her. He’d be back later.
When he returned hours later, the party was well underway. College kids came and went and girls danced on the porch and lawn to blaring music.
Carmen was already high on life and giggly on pot when he arrived. She had a lot of friends and the house was packed shoulder to shoulder, everyone hip bumping to the music and talking loud. He gulped down the first mixed drink offered and lost count after that. He was having a lot of fun telling stories of his life on the road as a boxer and the women surrounded him three deep.
They were party girls, carefree and smiling with no idea how the night was going to turn out, smiling with the expectation that it was going to be a lovely evening. And it was. People gathered around the barbecue laughing and eating, girls ran from guys, couples jumped in the pool and wrestled. The music was oldies but goodies, the weather was perfect and balmy.
Late at night the party started to dwindle, and after a while there were only six or seven people left, smoking weed and philosophizing.
He didn’t remember how he and Carmen were left alone. They said good night to everyone leaving and the hostess went to her bedroom with some guy. He and Carmen were sitting on the couch—the room and the house were mellow, the lights amber and shaded low, Van Morrison on the stereo.
One of Carmen’s girlfriends saw them fucking on the rug but Carmen was oblivious to the world. She was in a totally different zone and her mind was not fully conscious of what she was doing or the consequences of it, her body was feeling such intense pleasure, such sheer joy and lust in fucking.
Her friend’s house with the windows illuminated by street lights, the bawdy voice of Morrison, the sultry moist ocean air, the wine and the weed and Vito’s strong hands and firm body, all combined to create an erotic weight that pressed in on her from all sides and kept her down on her back with Vito on top of her as she whirled into an oblivious meltdown of dizzying joy.
For that twenty minutes she had him.
Then something blew inside of her, crossed from outside to inside and swept through her with a cold embracing chill, telling her she knew what she was doing, telling her she was lapping the kill’s warm blood, filling her with the knowledge that she’d never give up those twenty minutes of her life and that she’d sacrifice everything for those minutes with him, and she grieved that she did.
That twenty minutes was her twenty and she had control of everything.
42
They left San Diego at dawn, her belongings in the back of the truck and covered with a tarp, and they hit open prairie after an hour, her eyes closed in self-disgust. Everything she looked at reflected her self-loathing. Behind her eyelids she smelled her unwashed hair. She scratched one bare foot with the other, wiping dirt off her soles with her toenails. Some things you could wipe off; others leave an indelible stain.
Her silence made him anxious so he told her he had seen the National Guard erecting electric fences, laying sensor-detection cable, that there were aerial drones following above.
He mentioned seeing the prisoners waving at him on the drive to San Diego, that he had kept on driving. He threw in that he didn’t think it was right to cross without a legal permit. People crossing over in the thousands created chaos.
He should have woken her, he should have stopped for them, she grumbled.
What about his parents? she asked accusingly.
It was a different time and circumstance, he countered sharply.
She was pissed off and there wasn’t much to say—he sensed her temper had deeper levels, a long white trail of fiery debris.
Her big brown eyes settled on him, studying his face.
He shuddered under the heaviness of his betrayals—Lorenzo, still awaiting his bail hearing in jail, and the Mexicans he just drove by.
She swallowed hard. She felt like she might burst out weeping. She looked away, drowning in her own confusion and the guilt that filled hundreds of prairie miles, extending all the way to the horizon.
Vito was lost in his own thoughts as they drew ever closer, with every mile, to his brother’s eyes.
He wanted to blurt out, scream and slam the dashboard with his fist, that it hadn’t happened, that someone put some kind of drug in his drink, that it was her fault, that something evil had possessed them, someone had slipped them a poison and that was, that was, that was … but it wasn’t why.
He saw the outline of the mountains behind the town and knew that within an hour he’d be standing in front of his brother. Lorenzo had said he would make bail and meet them at the camp. Vito was afraid to call and confirm that he was already there. Lorenzo was certain to notice the tremor in his voice. Numbed with fear and grief over doing this to his brother, Vito gripped the wheel and stared ahead, seeing nothing but what he had done.
Would he shoot him, beat her, move away, never come back, never see him again? He drove on with an urge to yank the wheel hard, right into one of the oncoming tractor trailers roaring past, one behind another, from the opposite direction. His eyes locked on Carmen’s, asking for help, for reasons, for anything that would alleviate his regret.
It could have been five minutes or five hours. The sky was darkening, sunlight spreading across the familiar landscape of the workers’ trucks and cars parked alongside the fields while the workers were huddled together in the rows.
He pulled off the highway and turned west, down a long slope toward the river and the camp. Then he turned right, down a long row with trees on the left, thick and green running parallel to the road. Kids fished, women visited on porches, dogs chased his bumper. Normal images, and yet the world as he knew it had shattered into a million pieces.
He turned right, then left, into an open clearing, going past the boxcar and their house and other one-room homes, and bearing off to the left, scattering chickens, goats, and dogs, finally parking in front of the barn where he could see women boxing chili.
Lorenzo appeared framed in the doorway like a hero in a cowboy movie, shining and compassionate, sm
iling with extended arms wide in a mock embrace, elated.
He dashed out, slammed the hood of the truck with the palm of his hand, woke Carmen up, and swung her door open. She leaped out of the cab, rushed him and kissed him, weeping.
And as Lorenzo hugged her, laughing and asking why she was crying, he looked over her shoulder at Vito, sitting, unable to move or smile.
43
November 2008
A few months later, after endless nights of insomnia, agony, and sullen brooding, he was jogging alongside a field when he saw Lorenzo standing among a group of workers. He asked Lorenzo to walk with him while he cooled down.
As Vito stretched on the ditch bank, Lorenzo said, “In five months, after the title shot, we’ll have the money we need to buy that section and build our homes. I’ve been up at night figuring it out, we need around another hundred and fifty thousand. Man, it’s going to be nice, long time coming.” He slapped Vito on the back and rubbed his palms together.
Vito stood up and announced he was leaving.
Lorenzo tossed a pebble at Vito and said, “Don’t fuck around.” He skipped a rock over the ditch water.
“I’m serious,” Vito said. “HBO wants to film me, right up to fight night.”
Lorenzo turned to face his brother. “What? What’d you say?”
“Gotta go to L.A.”
“That’s a joke, right? I’m your manager. Rafael is moving here to train you, what do you mean?”
“They’re doing a documentary and I gotta be there.”
Lorenzo said, “No, no, no, you’re losing me here, little brother. Level with me.”
“I have to leave … in the morning … I have to work things out.”
“What the fuck do you mean work things out? I’m here for you, no matter what it is.”
Carmen was coming up the ditch. She was showing.
Vito said, “It’ll be good for us in the end, more money, then you can step back in to fill the shoes, but for now, I have to go with Luis and Bobby as my trainer and manager. I’m going to get a couple more miles.”
Lorenzo watched him jog off.
“You’re shaking.” Carmen touched his arm.
“Vito’s going to L.A. HBO’s doing a documentary on him.” Lorenzo stared after Vito in disbelief.
“It’ll be okay.”
“What?” Lorenzo turned, distracted. “What?”
That evening Lorenzo sat on the corral fence and watched Vito load his bags into his truck. Rage pounded his heart so hard he could feel a throbbing in his fingertips.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, he said to himself, then thought, he’s always fucked things up and he’s doing it again.
But Lorenzo sensed there was something else compelling his brother’s departure. He saw it then, and saw it again the next day—something unsettling in Vito’s eyes when he backed his truck out and swung it around and paused ever so briefly before driving away.
“Don’t call, or come back … ever,” Lorenzo said and climbed between the corral posts toward his horse.
44
December 2008
From the moment he rented the small room above Topo’s Clubhouse in East L.A., then later on the bench where he changed into his black shorts, high-top sneakers, and tank top in the locker room, he was all about his shot at the title—furiously dismantling sparring partners with a beat-down, no-holds, bring it on attitude. His manager, Miguel “Lucky” Fuegos, and the Filipino trainer, Negreton “Neto” Chavez, had to back him off his opponents, rein him in. It was this way for over two months, until late January.
Vito trained with fierce determination, showing up on time each day, putting in his ten hours, urged on by Neto’s constant compliments, displaying magnificent defense skills, hand speed, and brilliant offense. Vito would stay late to watch reel upon reel of his opponents’ fights, scrutinizing each round, stopping the reel, nodding to himself, rewinding, and forwarding again and again with infinite patience. And over time, Neto admitted that he had never witnessed such mastery of the ring, such quick reflexes, such ability to counter his opponent’s punches with dazzling accuracy and, over time, to draw standing-room-only crowds to enjoy the spectacle. It was as if someone had programmed Vito. And still he plunged into the public’s adoration and gave them back every bit of attention they desired.
People enjoyed his antics, which were always fresh and inventive. And spectacle that it was, he would laugh with the people, often playfully boxing with a spectator and pretending when the spectator hit him that it was a solid, knock-out smack, and like a Charlie Chaplin, he’d wobble around the ring, falling and getting up. Or, embracing two women, one in each arm, he would dance the polka in the ring as the crowd whistled and clapped and hollered with pleasure.
He belonged to them, was their hero and rebel, shield of honor and symbol of strength—the very soul of the culture, el corazón de la gente. Vito came out of nowhere, a great fighter, and he beat down every opponent of every color. And he enjoyed their tribute and adoration. At Cigaro’s cantina, where he went to eat dinner, Cigaro had a corner booth for Vito, and no one but Vito and his guests could sit in it. He would sit like a king as people stopped to tell him how much they loved and respected him.
Then, for no reason, on a fine, brisk morning he was a no-show for his regular seven-mile jog. Neto waited for an hour, called Vito on his cell, and then drove to the Clubhouse. He was pissed. Before taking Vito on, he had warned that he wouldn’t tolerate bullshit, this was a serious game. He had his reputation at stake.
Over time, it got worse and though Neto didn’t want to admit it, Vito was too good, too gifted, too beautiful a fighter, so after torrential curses, he chased Vito down and forced him to train. And so it went—he trained him when he found him but most of the time Vito was nowhere to be found.
No matter how many times Neto and Lucky went down, cajoled, chided, and sweet-talked Vito to come to the gym and train, he refused. He was drinking more, a different woman draped his arm every night, and, more worrisome, he was hanging out with mafia characters, drug dealers, and shot callers.
Neto and Lucky gave up and took on other contenders, who would inevitably ask about Vito. They always responded with a discouraging shake of the head.
It was the sight of the man at the bar that had spun Vito off-kilter.
He was drunk the night he first saw him and because he couldn’t be sure it was the same man, he returned to the bar nightly, in hopes of seeing him again. Vito called his brother but Lorenzo cut him off, telling him not to call, and hung up. His brother’s condemnations sent him out into the night, drinking at clubs, challenging anyone who dared give him a look or get in his way.
One thing never changed, though, and no matter where he was, how late it was, going home or to a party, Vito always made time to stop in at the bar and nurse a few drinks, waiting for the man to appear again.
The man didn’t show for weeks. Then, on a Friday night, Vito was one of three patrons still in the bar drinking. Around three in the morning he rose to leave, unsteady, leaning on the table, and when he turned toward the door, the man was there.
Their eyes locked and each scrutinized the other. He was lean and gaunt-faced, dressed in black boots, jeans, a shirt, and a red vest. His belt, boot tips, and heels were adorned with buffalo nickels and strapped to his left hip was a bowie knife with a nickel-plated handle.
Vito had to grab the bar counter to keep from murdering the man. The room spun, cold sweat poured down his face, chest, and armpits, and his heart pounded as if two bobcats were thrashing in his ribcage. Something stuck in his throat. He reached for his cell, fingers trembling so severely he could barely punch the numbers. When his brother’s recorded voice answered, Vito whispered hoarsely, “I found him, Lorenzo, the one who killed Mom.” He dropped his cell phone, picked it up, and looked around.
The man was gone.
Vito ran for the back door. He looked frantically in one direction and then the other. There were only bu
ms and derelicts sharing wine, huddled in their smelly rags for the night in their cardboard boxes and threadbare blankets over by Dumpsters.
His cell phone rang. At first there was a long silence but then he heard Lorenzo’s voice saying, “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I never forgot those buffalo-nickel boots. All my life they’ve been in my dreams.”
“Where you at?”
45
Here is what happened that night in the alley behind the cantina.
He said it was as wrong as not having horses on earth, or a planet absent of wind, moon, and sun. I dragged on my cigarette and turned to the voice speaking and saw the man from the train many years ago.
Anywhere, he went on, but not there, not there, he said, pointing to his groin. I flicked my cigarette, mashed it with my high heel and moved to go inside but his hand gripped my shoulder and stopped me.
I had felt that grip before. I turned and smiled and asked, Why did you try to rape me? Who are you, really? You said you were from Culiacán and smiled at me.
He screamed, You do not stab a man there! It is against life itself, a crime against humanity!
And what about raping a sixteen-year-old virgin? Is that not against humanity?
He pinned me against the wall and unsheathed his nickel-plated bowie knife and held it under my chin.
I smelled his cigarettes and whiskey breath; his flesh felt wild, as if it had been warmed only by campfires.
There was such a sadness in the fist that clenched my hair and such horrible adolescent hurt in the chest that pushed my body against the wall, and his face, oh my God, his face—unshaven, with thin lips and thin eyebrows, the yellow teeth—I sensed how much horror he had suffered. I took a full breath in and felt the blade cut through my skin, then against bone.
In that moment I cared about all life, grieving as I let go—made of bamboo, my soul was sand and I was turned upside down and I heard the cussshhhh of my soul-sand returning to the earth, dust to dust.
A Glass of Water Page 14
