by Lori Lansens
Ernesto’s friend pointed at a small, square house on the corner of the street where a collection of children were jumping though a waving sprinkler on a patch of stiff brown grass. Mary saw a throng of bodies moving inside, behind the open windows, and a group of men gathered around a smoking charcoal barbecue, through the slats of the backyard fence.
When the van pulled into the driveway, the children vanished and the group of men Mary’d seen in the yard streamed into the house. Movement stilled behind the windows as the driver went around to the back of the van to open the door. Ernesto finally surrendered his grip on Mary’s hand. She climbed out of the vehicle, watching the strong younger man drag his injured friend into the house. He stopped before opening the door, casting a backward glance at Mary, a wan smile that she returned before turning to confront the driver. “He should go to the hospital.”
“He should go back to Tijuana,” the driver snorted. “Now, since Pancho and Raul have turned me into a taxi service, just where is it you need to go? And don’t say Reseda because I’m not driving back into that traffic.”
“You can’t just leave him like this. You didn’t even give your information,” Mary reminded him.
“Look, lady.” The way he said lady. “If they’da picked him off at the border like they shoulda I wouldn’t be here talking to you right now. Look at that.” He gestured at the tiny house, the dozen bicycles chained to the gate. “I bet they got twenty of ’em in there.”
“Twenty of ’em?”
“Those sons-a-bitches aren’t gonna be giving me trouble.” He planted his feet, intimidating. “Are you?”
“You should give him money,” she blurted. “In case he has to see a doctor after all.”
“I should call Immigration.”
“You should give me money, then,” she said, trembling as her voice rose. “I have your licence plate number, Guy.”
He looked at her for a long beat, the acrid odour of righteousness leaking from his pores. He tore a wallet from his pocket and peeled off a wad of dollars. “I got two hundred dollars here. And we’re done. This never happened.”
With that, he marched to the front of the van, climbed into the driver’s seat and, before speeding away, concluded, “You are a fat fucking hog.”
The insult struck her like a grain of sand. She was fat. True. But she was neither fucking nor a hog. She was Mary Gooch, who, on her way home to an uncommon existence, found herself under surveillance by a group of Mexican children behind an open window in a town called Hundred Oaks. Counting the money, she walked the short steps to the house and rang the doorbell. She rang the bell again but no one came to answer. The children were silent behind the drapes. She knocked hard on the door, impatient with her predicament. She’d still have an hour to wait for a taxi and could only guess at the expense of such a long ride.
She took a breath, knocking again, the length of her body tingling with tiny convulsive cramps from her blistered toes to her torched red scalp. Finally, the strong man with the beard cracked the door. She didn’t wait for him to speak but thrust the money at him, saying, “He left that for you. In case your friend needs something.”
He took the money, glancing beyond her, seeing that the man had abandoned her. “I need a taxi to take me back to Golden Hills.”
“I’ll take you when my cousin gets back with the truck.” He looked around before opening the door. “Come on. Come in.”
The first thing Mary noticed were the shoes arranged neatly on the linoleum square in the front entrance: a row of work-boots, another of sneakers, a pile of sandals, in all shapes and sizes. A hundred pairs, it seemed. The rooms, of which there were too many for such a small abode, were painted in vibrant shades, pomegranate, saffron, azure, aubergine. When the man called out something in Spanish that must have meant the coast was clear, adults and children poured out of a small back room, scrutinizing the strange woman in their midst, speaking over each other in rich, rolling vowels that hung in the air like subtext. They were talking about the accident, no doubt, wondering what part she had played, given the bloodstains on her clothes, and why the man, to whom they showed clear deference, had let her inside.
Following him into the tidy kitchen at the back of the house, Mary found old Ernesto sprawled on a chair, shirtless, the extent of his injuries clearer. A bruised torso where a rib or two were likely fractured. Layers of skin peeled from his bony shoulder. Cheek shredded by the blades of grass. Tongue still oozing. A wizened woman with a kerchief tied around her head tended to his abrasions while a tiny girl with a solemn face held a washcloth to his whiskered chin.
Ernesto’s eyes widened at seeing Mary. And sparked when he saw the dollars in the other man’s hands. “Gracias,” he said. “Gracias, María.”
“How do you say, you’re welcome?” Mary asked the other man.
“De nada,” he answered, amused. “Means it’s nothing.”
And it was nothing, she thought. No need for thanks. She’d done what people do. Gone to the aid of someone in need. It had not been a decision. There had been no choice. She had merely offered comfort to a frightened man, held his hand. “De nada,” she repeated shyly.
She blushed when she glanced up to see the other man studying her. He reached out—not to shake her hand, but to take it and lift it and hold it in a firm and gentle manner as he introduced himself. “I’m Jesús García.”
“Hay-su?” Mary repeated, pushing the unfamiliar name off her tongue.
“It’s spelled like Jesus.”
“Oh.” She giggled, and wondered if she might faint from the heat in the tiny, damp room. “I’m Mary. Mary Gooch.”
He was her age, she guessed. Perhaps a little older or a little younger. His brown face was etched with deep lines. His cheeks above his trimmed beard were tight and round, almost cherubic. It was his physique that suggested relative youth—strong, straight back, the pigeon-toed gait of an athlete. Held by his gaze, she felt dizzy.
Reading her thoughts—or perhaps it was obvious in the way Mary swayed—Jesús García pulled out a chair and helped her sit down beside Ernesto. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he commented. “Her name was Mary too.”
Mary had never been told such a thing before, and could not envision a world in which a man like Jesús García might have known a woman like her.
He caught the attention of one of the children. “Agua por la señora.” The child shook her head, gesturing that the tap at the sink was not working. Jesús closed his eyes briefly, then reached into the refrigerator and drew out a bottle of beer. Popping the cap, he passed it to Mary. She translated for herself—agua—water.
The sharp amber fluid stung her throat but she drank deeply, embarrassed by the burp when she pulled the bottle from her lips.
“Your dress is ruined,” Jesús García said, gesturing at the bloodstains on her skirt. “Nothing gets out blood.”
She nodded, drinking the beer, stealing a glance at his broad back when he turned to look out the window. The enormous shoulders and arms—a weightlifter, no doubt—sculpted cheeks over thick, muscled thighs. He turned to find her staring. His face held no opinion.
The others in the house, having been informed by Jesús of the details of the accident and Mary’s marginally heroic deed, returned to their respective appointments—the men back at the barbecue, the women hanging wet laundry in the grill smoke—all but the children, who did not go back to the sprinkler but remained in the kitchen, the oldest wielding sharp knives to cut potatoes for the evening meal while the others shucked corn from a sack near the waterless sink.
A cellphone rang. Jesús García reached into his pocket, checking the number, waving his hand over the crowd, which instantly fell silent. He answered the call, speaking rapidly in Spanish as he made his way out to a private spot in the backyard.
The sound of a rasping rake made Mary homesick for Leaford, where the sun did not shine every day but where she was familiar with the customs and understood the language
. Tiny, rural Leaford, where there were only a handful of recent immigrants, most of whom spoke English well enough. She thought of the colour of Baldoon County. Mostly white. Some black. There was Rusholme nearby, populated by the descendants of slaves escaped from the southern United States—the Joneses and the Bishops and the Shadds, who’d cleared half of Baldoon County alongside the Brodys and Zimmers and Flooks—but their immigration was more than a century old, and their struggles knit into the county’s fabric with the first original stitches. More recently there was Mr. Chung, who owned the restaurant. The four Korean families who ruled the kingdom of Quick Stop. And one Indian family who managed both of Leaford’s Tim Hortons coffee shops.
Orin and Irma had not held opinions about the recent immigrants so much as emotions. Toward the business owners they felt contempt and envy. “I guess if I had a store and could charge four dollars for stale bread I’d be rich too,” Irma’d remarked of the Koreans. “I saw the Chinese fella’s putting in a pool,” Orin’d said. “He must think he’s died and gone to—wherever it is they go.” And one day, after a visit to one of the Tim Hortons franchises for coffee, Orin complained, “That Vikram fella drives a Lincoln.”
For less fortunate immigrants—like the single mother down the street who came from the West Indies, whose teenaged son had gone astray, who shopped with food vouchers and collected unemployment when her modest business venture failed—for her they had scorn. “Sucking on the government tit,” Orin would say. To which Irma would respond, “That’s a disgusting image, really, Orin.”
Behind Mary, a child ferried out a basket of corn that had been oiled and seasoned for the barbecue, just as a platter of slick grilled meat was paraded into the kitchen. The children grinned as the platter was presented like a birthday cake, the smaller ones straining on tiptoe to catch a glimpse. Mary counted the children in the kitchen, the old woman, Ernesto, the men through the window out back, the women criss-crossing the rooms down the hall. The van’s driver had been correct—about twenty of them. The quantity of meat on the plate, although substantial, could not satisfy so many people. Nor the flat rounds of bread, nor the dozen ears of corn, not even with the small diced potatoes roasting in the tired old oven.
With some panic, Mary feared she would be asked to dinner. She could no more conceive of chewing and swallowing food with this collection of strangers than she could dream of depleting their meagre rations. She prayed that Jesús would stop talking on his cellphone, and that the cousin with the truck would arrive quickly. She focused her attention on a display of photographs held by magnets to the door of the old Frigidaire. Most of them were photographs of a family—Jesús García’s family. A plump, pretty wife with almond eyes and dark wavy hair. Two young sons with identical thatches of spiky black hair, the same molten brown eyes as their father. Mary had secretly been happy to be an only child. Her sister, she was sure, would have been the skinny one.
The front door opened and an elderly man limped into the kitchen dangling a set of keys. He was older than Ernesto, desiccated by the sun. He locked eyes with Mary, his expression shouting the obvious: She should not be here. His frown deepened when he turned to find injured Ernesto flinching at a lash of antiseptic from the cloth in the old woman’s hand. He put the keys on a hook near the door, croaking to the men turning corn on the barbecue. Even though he spoke in Spanish, Mary could translate: What happened to Ernesto? Who’s the big white woman?
As the dinner was set on the table, one of the women offered Mary a plate, encouraging her with a smile. “Buen provecho,” she said. “Metele mano.”
“Bwen provayko,” Mary repeated.
One of the boys standing nearby translated for her. “Eat the food. She’s telling you to eat the food. Enjoy.”
At the risk of appearing rude, Mary could only shake her head, explaining futilely, “I’m still too shaken up from the accident.” The crowd descended eagerly upon the kitchen, but without disorder. The children helped themselves first, taking smaller pieces of beef that had been cast to one side of the platter, halved ears of corn, three olives from a bowl. The adults following, filling their plates according to rank and appetite. So much chatter. Standing or leaning to eat. Plates held under chins. Moist, hungry mouths opening and closing around forks. Teeth uprooting niblets of yellow corn, mashing cubes of potato. Mary could not smell the food, but felt its pain. She felt with mounting certainty that any more exposure to the meal was going to make her huck.
“Come on,” Jesús said, taking the keys from the hook. “I’ll take you home.”
SHOOTING STARS
Ensconced in the grimy truck amidst the other vehicles streaming toward the expressway, Mary imagined Wendy e-mailing the rest, Mary Gooch got into the car with some creepy Mexican in California and got her throat slashed. Idiot, I know, eh?
She stole a glance at the stranger’s profile. She’d seen the way the rest of the people in the house regarded him; he was not tall but he towered above them with his imperious jaw and impervious gaze. His pathos and gravitas. She had not seen the plump woman from the photographs on the fridge among the others in the room. His wife. She had no idea which of the children belonged to him.
Night had fallen swiftly, the rising mountains snatching the sun. Stars pricked holes in the velvet night, reminding her of the childish rhyme Irma had taught her—Star light, star bright, First star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, Have the wish I wish tonight.
Jesús García cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Ernesto asked you to come. You came. He is grateful.”
“He thought I was an angel.”
Jesús was silent, focused on the road. He didn’t curse, as Gooch would have, when a blue BMW cut him off. And didn’t speed up to glare at the driver, as Orin had on many occasions. She followed his gaze to the stars.
She could feel his heat the way she had felt Gooch beside her, in the truck, on the sofa, beside her in bed—radiant and unwavering. Suddenly, a fire in the night sky, an explosive cosmic tail streaking across the black horizon. Brilliant. A shooting star. Brief, like lightning. Like a person’s life. Divine sleight of hand—How’d she do that?
“Did you see that?” Mary asked, pointing, hoping it was a sign.
Jesús nodded, unimpressed.
“I’ve never seen a shooting star before,” she breathed.
“Never?”
“Don’t I make a wish? Don’t you make a wish when you see a shooting star?”
Jesús García glanced at her sideways, squinting one eye as if he was pained to inform her, “They’re not really stars.”
“They’re not?”
“They’re fragments of meteor burning up from the pressure of the earth’s atmosphere. Nothing very magical.”
“Seems magical, though.”
“Some of the stars we’re looking at now died a long time ago.”
“That’s magical. I think I knew that. I’m still going to make a wish.” She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing for Gooch’s swift return. Opening her eyes again, she wondered at the heavens. “The stars don’t look like this back home. Even on the clearest nights.”
“Where’s back home?”
Although she was reluctant to share the details of her situation with the stranger, she did not want to appear mistrustful. Hoping for some bond of distinction in their displacement, she said, “I’m Canadian.”
“Canada,” he repeated, nodding approvingly.
“Just different borders.”
He glanced at her, confused.
“Mexico. Canada,” she explained.
“I’m American,” he bristled.
“Oh.” She felt she should apologize but was unsure of the slight.
“Born and raised in Detroit.”
“Detroit! That’s just an hour from Leaford. Just across the border. That’s where I’m from!”
“My family had a restaurant in Mexican Village,” he said hopefully. “
Casa García?”
Mary shook her head. “I never went to Detroit.” He looked surprised. Or disappointed. “My husband used to go to the auto show,” she added.
My husband. My husband. My husband. How often had Mary Gooch said those words in the last twenty-five years? “My husband is doing great.” “My husband likes his beef rare.” “My husband and I have a chequing account.” She also began a great many sentences with “Gooch says” or “Gooch thinks.” To whom would she refer if Gooch, her husband, was no more?
Jesús García signalled to change lanes. “Is your husband waiting at the hotel?”
“I’m actually not currently here with my husband right at the moment,” Mary said, realizing that she sounded insane. She sighed. “Wishing on a meteor fragment doesn’t sound the same, does it? Is the sky always this clear at night?”
He pointed at the horizon. “You know the constellations? That band of light there? That’s the Milky Way. You see the Big Dipper?”
“I know that one.” She watched his thick fingers trace the ladle in the sky.
“Draco, the dragon—that pattern there, between Ursa Minor and Ursa Major.”
She did not see the dragon, but nodded. “You should just drive, Hay-Su.”
He laughed, then resumed a more thoughtful tone. “The best place to see the stars is at the ocean.”
“I haven’t seen the ocean.”
“You have to see the ocean.”
“People always say that.”
He turned to flash a brilliant smile, the first she’d seen.
“I must have learned the constellations in science class,” she said. “I must have known that shooting stars aren’t stars. I think I retain information on a need-to-know basis. And I never need to know. Do you remember all that about the stars from science class?”
“Library. I spent a lot of time there after … when I was unemployed.”
