“Oops.”
“Never mind. Get away from me.” D.Q. pushed him away and dried his face with his sleeves.
The car pulled to a halt in front of them. “Sorry I’m late,” Marisol said through the open window. “I had to get a neighbor to jump the car. It wouldn’t start.”
“You need a new muffler too,” Pancho told her.
“Don’t complain. It’s a piece of junk but it’s still my mom’s precious car. You’re lucky she’s letting me use it. I told her there was no way we were taking the bus!”
Pancho pushed D.Q. toward the passenger side. D.Q. was smiling and trying to look calm at the same time. “Pop the trunk open!” Pancho shouted to Marisol.
“Oh, no!” Marisol exclaimed.
“What?” Josie asked, alarmed.
“If I give you the key to the trunk, I have to stop the car and then who knows whether it will start again.”
“That’s all right. I don’t need the wheelchair.” D.Q. tried to stand up, but the wheelchair was still moving, and he stumbled forward. “Oh, my God!” Pancho heard Marisol yell. He rushed to D.Q. and quickly lifted him off the ground. He was very light.
“That was exciting,” D.Q. said, brushing himself off as he leaned against the car. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”
Pancho made a move to help D.Q. into the car, but D.Q. shook his head. Pancho understood the gesture. “I’ll take the wheelchair in,” he said.
“Are you bleeding?” Josie asked D.Q.
“No, of course not,” D.Q. answered. “It was nothing.”
Pancho sat in the backseat with Josie. He watched Marisol and D.Q. in front. It was not as hard to imagine them as a couple as it had been two weeks ago. He had been observing Marisol and concluded that someone like her could very well be interested in someone like D.Q. She could get past the way he looked and appreciate D.Q.’s weird mind. She was unusual, like him. There was something about them both that he could not define. He had looked for the word but could not find the right one. It was a calmness they had, a seriousness that lay inside of them, solid and unshakable. No matter how much they joked or laughed on the outside, no matter how silly they acted, the seriousness persisted.
He tried to remember the words that D.Q. had read to him from the Death Warrior Manifesto. There is a specific moment during which you can decide to become a Death Warrior. How did the rest go? He always had trouble remembering the rest. He could remember the meaning, more or less, but he could not recollect the exact words. Once you know that you will die, then you need to choose life or death. If you choose life, you become a Death Warrior. But choosing life required seriousness, fearlessness, like Marisol and D.Q. had. They were both Death Warriors.
The thought made him smile. It also made him feel sad. He exhaled. Sitting there, listening to Marisol and D.Q. talking in the front seat, Pancho made up his mind to tell D.Q. about Johnny Corazon after they returned from Marisol’s house. Suppose the guy was not a phony. There were dozens of pictures on his wall of people who had been cured. If you choose life, you need to do all you can to stay alive. You need to give even the Johnny Corazons of the world a chance. That was the argument he would use to convince D.Q. Besides, if D.Q. stayed in Albuquerque, it would be easier for him and Marisol to see each other.
“Pancho.” Josie was speaking to him. “Guess what this is.” She fluttered all her fingers and then snapped her thumb and middle finger. Flutter. Snap. Flutter. Snap.
“A butterfly with hiccups,” Pancho answered absently.
They were entering a neighborhood of small houses with redtiled roofs. The front yards had skateboards, bicycles, plastic toys that were carelessly abandoned. Two girls about Josie’s age were turning a rope and singing a rhyme while a third one skipped. Pancho had heard Rosa sing the same Spanish rhyme to her dolls. Josie followed the movements of the girls closely as they drove by.
“Hey! What’s this?” Pancho fluttered his fingers and snapped them, trying to imitate Josie’s movements. She did not respond. The sight of the girls jumping rope had sunk her into silence.
The car stopped and the engine cut off. “We’re home!” Marisol announced. She opened her door and got out, but no one else opened theirs. The cream stucco of the walls, the red roof, the geraniums by the door, the closely trimmed grass, the white curtains fluttering out an open window, the Mexican music coming from inside made the house look invitingly happy, and no one moved. “Come on.” Marisol poked her head back in the car. “What happened to you guys all of a sudden? It’s not that scary.”
“Who are those people?” Josie asked, concerned. Pancho peered through Josie’s window. He could see two people sitting inside.
“It’s just my mother,” Marisol assured them.
“There’s a man with a crew cut,” Josie said.
Marisol raised her head and squinted. “Oh God. It’s my brother.” Pancho saw her exchange glances with D.Q. “Well, looks like you’ll get to meet my brother, Ed.”
Marisol went around the car and opened D.Q.’s door. Josie looked at Pancho, and Pancho looked at Josie. Pancho shrugged his shoulders. There’s no way out of this one, he was telling her.
Josie and Pancho followed Marisol and D.Q. into the house. He wished D.Q. had not forced him to come. Fortunately, he could pretend to be sociable by talking to Josie. He gave her a gentle whack on the back of the head, but she only reached up and grabbed his hand. She turned to look down the street. Despite the music coming from inside the house, they could still hear the rhyme of the girls jumping rope.
Marisol held the screen door open for them, and Pancho’s nostrils filled with the smell of Mexican spices. He stepped inside. The light from the setting sun streamed in through the window and made the living room radiant. A green vase with white roses stood on top of a coffee table. The chairs and sofa were covered in quilts embroidered with Indian-looking squares and triangles. In the back, Pancho caught a glimpse of a table set with blue dishes and emerald glasses.
A young man dressed in a white T-shirt and khaki pants and wearing black work boots rose from one of the chairs in the living room. An older woman in a pink apron began to lift herself out of the sofa. Marisol went to the record player and bent to turn down the volume. “It’s so loud,” she said. “The neighbors are going to complain.”
“It’s Mamá,” said the young man, joking. “She needs it loud, otherwise she can’t hear.”
Marisol stared at the can of beer on the table. “It’s my first one. I swear,” said the young man.
Marisol introduced her mother to the group. “So you are Daniel,” the mother said, hugging D.Q., who looked surprised. She pronounced his name the Spanish way. The mother hugged Josie as well, but when she came to Pancho, she stopped at a distance and scanned him from top to bottom, inspecting him. “Ytú debes de ser Pancho,” she said, cautiously offering him her hand. Pancho met Marisol’s eyes briefly. She must have told her mother about the incident on the bus.
“This is my brother, Ed, everyone,” Marisol announced. Ed stepped up and shook hands. His grip was strong, almost painful. Pancho noticed the tattoos on his forearms and the bulging biceps and powerful neck of a bodybuilder.
“Ouch,” Josie squealed after Ed shook her hand.
“Sorry,” Ed said. He made to pat Josie’s balding head, but then he changed his mind.
“Let’s all sit down,” Marisol’s mother urged. “Marisol, why don’t you get everyone some sodas? We have a little time before dinner, unless you’re really hungry.”
“We have lots of time,” D.Q. said. Pancho laughed, a short nervous laugh.
They shuffled slowly forward, each one trying to determine the best place to sit. Pancho headed for one end of the sofa, but Josie beat him to the spot. He almost sat on her lap, then moved over to the middle. D.Q. picked a place on the other end of the sofa. Marisol’s mother perched on the edge of a large lounge chair covered with a blue-and-green Indian quilt. Ed grabbed the can of beer and sat on a smaller chair across fro
m them.
“Marisol, bring the guacamole and the chips!” the mother yelled into the kitchen. “I hope you like green chicken enchiladas,” she said to D.Q. “I made some soup as well in case you can’t eat the enchiladas.”
Pancho liked the straightforward way the lady said that. In the time he had been with D.Q., he had seen many people “pussyfoot,” as D.Q. liked to say, around his cancer.
“Tonight I will eat everything,” D.Q. declared with confidence.
“I like enchiladas too,” Josie chimed in. “But my mother never makes them at home. We mostly always have them at a restaurant.”
“Luisa’s are better than any restaurant,” Ed said.
“Who’s Luisa?” Josie asked.
“That’s my name,” Marisol’s mother said, pretending to be angry with Ed. “He doesn’t like to call me ‘Mother’ like all the other sons call their mothers.”
“Luisa’s a good name. I like calling you that.” Ed shook the can of beer. It was empty. He leaned back in the chair. He had been tapping the toe of his boot on the floor nonstop since he sat down.
“Ed, can you help me?” Marisol shouted from the kitchen.
Ed jumped up out of the chair. He crushed the empty can with his hand. “Maybe she’ll let me have another one of these. You guys want one?”
Pancho, D.Q., and Josie all shook their heads at the same time.
“Eduardo,” Marisol’s mother said in a low voice.
“Not to worry, Luisa. Everything’s under control.”
When he had disappeared into the kitchen, Marisol’s mother said, “I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting him. He shows up sometimes. Unexpected.” She wrung her hands.
Josie pulled on Pancho’s arm. He bent down and she whispered into his ear, “Don’t get into a fight with that jerko.”
He looked at her, shocked—what kind of person did she think he was? Then he smiled.
“I’m glad he’s here,” D.Q. said. “I wanted to meet him as well.”
“Marisol told you,” the mother said, lowering her voice. She was about to continue, but then she saw Josie. “He’s my cross,” she said instead. There were loud voices coming out of the kitchen. “Oh, boy. Excuse me for a second.” She stood up. Pancho looked at her pink slippers as she went by. Rosa had some just like them. Sometimes they made a smacking sound when she walked.
“Wanna go outside?” Josie asked Pancho.
D.Q. said quickly, “No, stay here. After dinner, maybe we can all go for a walk. Marisol told me there’s a park a couple of blocks away.”
Pancho understood that D.Q. planned to talk to Marisol during that walk. What would he say to her? Would he tell her how he felt about her? Yes, Pancho thought, D.Q. would not waste the opportunity. If the brother came on the walk, Pancho would have to entertain him with some kind of conversation. He did not look forward to that.
Marisol came out of the kitchen, holding a tray of soda cans and glasses with ice cubes already in them. Ed followed with the guacamole and the tortilla chips. He cradled an unopened can of beer under his armpit. She set the tray on the coffee table. Ed did the same with the two bowls he was carrying. Josie slid down from the sofa, cracked open an orange soda, and quickly took a sip. “I was sooo thirsty,” she said, when she noticed everyone staring at her.
“That’s all right. You’re entitled.” Marisol began to pour soda into the glasses. “I didn’t get anything with caffeine.”
Ed opened the beer, and foam began to pour out. “Shit!” He held the erupting can away from him.
Marisol made a point of ignoring him. “What kind of music do you like? We have other CDs,” she told D.Q.
“I like Mexican music,” D.Q. responded. “That’s a Mexican corrida, isn’t it?”
Pancho crunched an ice cube in his mouth. Josie elbowed him.
“That’s very good,” Marisol said. It took Pancho a few moments to realize she was not commenting on his ice-crunching ability. “How did you become an expert on Mexican music?”
“I’m not really an expert. Whenever I hear a guitar play like that, I think of corridas. I learned about them at St. Anthony’s.”
“One time,” Josie said, “my dad surprised my mom on her birthday with a mariachi band. She was asleep already when we heard them outside playing. They woke up the whole neighborhood.”
“Ooo, that’s so romantic,” Marisol said to her. Pancho crunched again, this time on a tortilla chip with guacamole. “Is it too hot?” Marisol asked him. He looked at her, befuddled. Why would it be hot?
“She means, is the guacamole spicy?” Josie translated.
“No.” He finished chewing what was in his mouth quietly.
Ed, who had been staring at D.Q., said, “So what kind of cancer do you have? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Ed,” Marisol warned.
“I’m just asking a question.”
“I don’t mind at all,” D.Q. said calmly. “I have something called diffuse pontine glioma.”
“I have leukemia,” Josie piped up.
“Would you like to see my room?” Marisol asked Josie.
“Yeah!” she said, jumping down from the sofa and handing Pancho her soda.
“Your mouth is colored orange,” Pancho told her.
“So is my tongue. See?” She stuck her tongue out at Pancho as she left the room.
“What kind of cancer is that?” Ed asked D.Q. There was a slight tone of disgust in his voice.
Pancho saw the physical resemblance between the brother and Marisol. He had her good looks, the same straight nose, the clean forehead and deep, dark eyes. But Marisol’s face was inviting, while the brother’s was hard to look at directly. And Marisol was nice. The brother was turning out to be a jerko, like Josie said.
“It’s a cancer that forms at the base of the brain where the brain and the spinal cord connect, a place called the pons.” D.Q. touched the back of his head. “It’s not a tumor. It’s diffuse, spread out.”
“Like a fog,” Pancho said, remembering what D.Q. had told him once.
“Like what?”
“A fog. I told Pancho that I sometimes picture it like a low-lying fog.”
“How about you? What kind of cancer you got?” Ed asked the question as if he wanted Pancho to take offense.
“I don’t got any,” Pancho responded.
“He came with me to help me. We’re from the same boarding school in Las Cruces,” D.Q. said quickly. Boarding school? Pancho inquired silently. D.Q. blinked, or was it a wink?
“That’s cool. Like you got your own little servant.” Ed laughed to himself.
Pancho felt his stomach tighten, then he remembered what Josie had whispered in his ear. He raised his eyebrows at D.Q. I’m trying, he was telling him. This time D.Q. definitely winked at him.
“How was prison life?” D.Q. asked.
Ed began to cough, as if his beer went down the wrong way. “What did you say?”
“I was wondering what your time in prison was like?” D.Q. seemed to be enjoying himself.
Ed seemed flustered by the question. He moved his tongue once around his cheek before he answered. “It wasn’t hard time. I had friends there.”
“How does it work?” D.Q. continued. “What if there are no other members of your gang in prison?”
“There’s alliances,” Ed answered. “Everybody knows that.”
“So you need to find other gang members to align yourself with, if there’s no one from your gang.”
“I don’t have to A-line myself with anyone. The alliances already exist.”
“So it’s not like all the Mexican American gangs against all the Anglo gangs against all the African American gangs? It’s more complicated than that?”
“Yeah, it’s complicated.”
Pancho reached for some more guacamole. So far he was the only one who had eaten any. He crunched away.
“Suppose I do something stupid and end up in prison. What would I need to do to survive? Would I have to
align myself with the Anglos or could I make it on my own? If I just keep to myself, let’s say, could I survive?”
“Someone like you might survive,” Ed snickered.
Pancho thought this was meant as an insult, but D.Q. either didn’t see it that way or didn’t care. He persisted with his questions. “What about someone like Pancho here? Suppose he did something stupid and he ended up in prison? If he kept to himself, would he survive? Or would he have to join a gang—like yours, for example?”
Pancho stopped crunching and stared at D.Q.
Ed scanned Pancho from top to bottom. Then he said, still looking at Pancho, “He’d be killed within a month if he didn’t hook up with an organization.”
“Why? Why couldn’t he just stay out of trouble and do his time?” Either D.Q. was truly curious or he was doing a good job pretending.
“Because of the way he looks at people. People would want to take him on. He’d piss people off.”
“How? How does he look at them?”
Pancho and Ed stared at each other. “Like he’s looking for a fight,” Ed said.
D.Q. seemed happy with Ed’s answer, like that was exactly what he was hoping he’d say.
“Dinner!” Marisol’s mother called.
D.Q. struggled to stand up. Ed crushed another beer can as he rose. Pancho remained seated for a moment. He couldn’t see himself “hooking up” with an organization and taking orders from people like Ed. He had always supposed he wouldn’t last long in prison once he got there. Now he knew for sure.
Fortunately, Marisol’s mother didn’t ask him any questions during dinner. Every once in a while, she would look at him and make like she wanted to ask him something, but just then Marisol would steer the conversation in a different direction. D.Q. kept up the fantasy about the boarding school where they lived. He made it sound as if it were a place where only a few privileged kids were admitted. Marisol’s mother was impressed with the fact that they held Mass every night, and almost all the kids attended without anyone forcing them. Pancho let her suppose that he too was one of those saintly kids.
It turned out that D.Q. was not able to eat the enchiladas. Pancho thought D.Q. was going to vomit right there on the table when the plate was set in front of him. Marisol rushed to take the plate away from him and he accepted a bland-looking bowl of chicken soup instead. Even then, it was obvious to all that D.Q. was suffering, and everyone except Ed hurried through the meal. It was too bad because Pancho could have gone for another helping or two.
Last Summer of the Death Warriors Page 19
