Abuela touched my face. “Are you all right, hijito?”
“I’m okay, Abuela.” She helped me stand.
“Who were those men?”
“Drunks, I guess.” I wiped the blood from my mouth with the wet sleeve of the raincoat.
Chicano grunted. He stretched and moved, trying to stand.
I walked over to him. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer.
“What are you doing, Liberio? Who is this man?”
“El Chicano Estrada,” I said. “A luchador.”
“Well, by the looks of it, he’s not very good. Why is he wearing a mask?”
He was still dressed in his fighting tights and cape. I grabbed one of his arms and tried pulling him up, but he was too heavy. “Come on, Abuela, help me.”
She didn’t move.
“Abuela!”
She blinked as if coming out of a trance and took his other arm.
We pulled him to his feet. He leaned over, took a couple of wobbly steps and stumbled. The wall stopped him. He leaned against it and rubbed the side of his mask.
“You okay?” I asked.
He grunted and waved.
“Let’s go.” I pulled at Chicano. “We have to get out of here.”
Abuela held the umbrella over us. “This man is drunk.”
Chicano pulled his arm away. “Lemme alone.”
“We’re trying to help you.” My face was throbbing.
“Who are you?”
“Liberio Flores. I’m a fan.”
He turned and looked at the entrance of the cantina.
“Come on.” I pulled at him again. He took a step and placed his giant arm over my shoulder.
Abuela fetched her suitcase and dragged it behind her. “Where are we taking him?”
“Home.”
She stopped walking. “No, Liberio. You can’t just bring a man into the house like that.”
“I have a plan.”
Chicano snorted and spat over my shoulder.
“Well, excuse me,” Abuela said.
Chicano looked at her with his quivering eyes. Then he shook his head and took another step.
“Take off his mask,” Abuela said.
“No. It’s his identity.”
“What is he supposed to be?”
“A Chicano.”
“What’s that?”
“I have no idea.”
When we finally got home, Chapo was sitting by the front gate waiting. He didn’t even come out to greet us. He just stood and wagged his tail under the eve.
“A lot of help you were,” I said.
We walked into the patio and propped Chicano against the gate. “Why are we doing this?” Abuela was soaked. She held the umbrella over Chicano.
I opened the door of the shed and pulled out my father’s old bicycle, the wheelbarrow and a couple of boxes of old clothes to make room. “Because he’s a good guy. And maybe he can help us.”
“How?”
I unfolded an old tarp and spread it on the floor. “He’s a luchador. He’s strong. And smart.”
“And?”
“I don’t know. But no one else will help us. He’s a good guy. Trust me.”
We led Chicano into the shed and lay him on the tarp.
In a moment, he was fast asleep, snoring loudly.
“Now what?” Abuela said.
“I guess we let him sleep it off.” I picked up his feet and pushed them inside the shed. Chapo trotted in and sniffed him from head to toe. Chicano rolled on his side and the snoring stopped.
“Much better,” Abuela said. Her hair was drenched and pressed flat against her head, her face pale. She looked tiny.
“Come on.” I took her bag and we walked inside. “You dry up and get in bed, Abuela. I’ll get you a café con leche after I bring him a blanket.” Then I paused and put a finger to my lips. “Abuela, promise me, not a word of this to Gaby, okay?”
16.
The following morning my muscles were sore and stiff. My head throbbed. The whole side of my face felt as if it were on fire. My left eye was black and swollen.
I checked the shed. Chicano lay face up, his arms and legs spread like he’d just been knocked out in a fight. For the first time I had a good look at how massive he really was. His body reached from one end of the shed to the other. I couldn’t believe we’d managed to bring him home.
Abuela was sitting at the kitchen table sipping her café. And surprisingly, she was tearing small pieces from a concha, placing them in her mouth and chewing like a little bird.
“Good morning, hijo. Such a nice morning to go out on the boat—Ay, Liberio!” She reached for my eye.
“It’s fine.”
“It looks terrible.” She leaned back and studied my face for a moment. Then she smiled. “We had quite an adventure last night, no?”
“You scared me half to death, Abuela. I thought we’d lost you.”
“Nonsense, I was only going to Veracruz. Dorian would have been so pleased to see me.”
I checked Gaby’s bedroom. It was clean. The bed was made. It was Sunday and the panadería was closed. An awful chill crawled up my spine. I tried not to think of what Zopilote had said. Or of Joaquín. Or Rocío Morales dead and naked in the weeds, her fingers gnawed to the bone.
“Abuela!” I ran back to the kitchen. “Gaby’s not home.”
“I gave her permission to spend the night at Regina’s. She’s a nice girl. I know her family.”
But I thought different. I couldn’t help it. I thought Gaby never even mentioned anything about going out to Abuela. Not that I didn’t trust Gaby or Regina, but everything was changing so fast. And without my parents here, it didn’t feel right.
“Abuela.” I poured myself a glass of milk and stirred in a couple spoonfuls of Choco Milk. “Why did you want to go to Veracruz?”
She stared at me as if I were one of her memories. “It’s home.”
“But what about Gaby and me?”
She put another piece of concha in her mouth and chewed slowly and said nothing more.
We left Chicano sleeping in the shed and went to church. The morning was dark, gray, ugly. Everything was wet. The storm had washed over the valley and the street was littered with trash and small tree branches that had come rushing down from the top of the hill.
I held Abuela’s arm as we walked. Every time we paused at a corner to cross a street, she would protest and pull away. “Please, Liberio. I can walk on my own.”
I don’t know why, but I wanted to hold on to her.
“I am not going to Veracruz, not right now. I promise.”
But it wasn’t that. I just wanted her there, with me, at my side. All I could think about was Gaby.
Abuela must have understood because she let me hold her arm for another block. Then she slid her arm down and took my hand and held it the way my mother used to, interlacing our fingers together. I squeezed it and she smiled. For the first time since my parents left for Toluca, I felt safe.
Father Gregorio announced that he had received a request to have mass in Latin, to which he had agreed. “It is up to all of us,” he announced, “to make strangers feel like family, to make newcomers feel like neighbors, to open our hearts and our homes in trying times, and not give in to lies, chismes and paranoia. Let us not forget Luke 7:44 when Jesus was at the Pharisee’s home and Mary the brother of Lazarus came to him and He turned toward the woman and said to Simon, ‘Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair.’”
I really didn’t care if Father Gregorio said mass in Spanish or Latin or any other language. Personally, I was fed up with all of it. Church had become a chore. God was walking a thin line with me. My parents had disappeared. Every day that passed, it felt as if their memory faded away just a little more. Hope was dying. No one was doing anything about it. Sometimes I thought Abuela had the right idea. All of us should pile
into a bus and go to Veracruz, even Jesusa and Lucio and Mosca. God had to prove to me that he still mattered.
The thing was, I didn’t think Father Gregorio had any idea what I was going through. All he ever did was look at the good in everything, always telling us to be patient and trust God. Maybe that’s how it worked for priests, but they weren’t regular people. They didn’t live their lives like the rest of us. They had no idea what suffering was. I imagined Father Gregorio sitting in his office, his feet propped up on a desk and his robe half open, watching television and snacking on wafers and wine. No one lived that way in the real world.
“What is the matter with him?” Abuela whispered. “Nobody here understands Latin. Especially those country folk at the front.”
“It’s probably just this once,” I said.
“I hate Latin mass. It’s dull.”
“What does it matter, Abuela? It’s always the same—we beg forgiveness and God forgives us. The end.”
After mass, Father Gregorio waved to me. I took Abuela’s arm.
“He wants us to wait.”
She eyed the altar. Father Gregorio was setting his things in order and giving instructions to the altar boys. “What does he want now? Money?”
“Come on, Abuela.”
“Well, that’s fine with me.” She crossed her arms and sat. “I want a word with him too.”
The crowd shuffled out. Father Gregorio stepped down from the altar and shook hands with an old man who had been sitting in the front pew, then came to where we were. “What happened to your face, Liberio?”
“Nothing. Just a little fight with some boys.”
“It looks bad.” He touched the side of my cheek, but addressed my grandmother. “Buenos días, Doña Esperanza.”
She nodded.
“Any news?”
“I was hoping you knew something, Father,” I said.
“I’m afraid not, hijo.”
“I did not appreciate the mass in Latin,” Abuela declared.
Father Gregorio forced a smile. “It’s the original language of the church.”
“With all due respect, Father. Ancient Hebrew is the original language of the Bible, but I don’t care. I don’t understand ancient Hebrew either. And neither do the poor people who come to your church to worship.”
I couldn’t believe her. It was as if she’d woken from a dream where her only reality had been Veracruz. Now she was here, in the old church, chastising Father Gregorio.
“Doña Esperanza, the Guzmán family are new in town. They had a request. I wanted to make them feel welcome.”
“I have wasted my morning.”
“Don’t say that, Doña Esperanza. God hears your prayers. He knows.”
Abuela waved him away. “I doubt he heard anything over that gibberish you were mumbling.”
Father Gregorio took her hand. “Have you considered a mass for Alfonso and Carmen?”
“They’re not dead,” I cried.
Father Gregorio pressed his hands together. “It’s been—”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re not dead.” Everyone offered help and condolences, but no one was looking for them. No one was helping us. If they were dead, I would have felt something, had a dream, seen a vision. That’s how it worked.
“You misinterpret me, Liberio. I was not suggesting…Your parents were good Catholics. I thought they might appreciate—”
“Indeed.” Abuela stood. “But why the past tense, Father?”
“Well, I—”
“You seem quite eager with the new people, perhaps their money is worth more than ours?”
“Doña Esperanza, everyone is equal in the eyes of the church.”
“Certainly,” Abuela said sarcastically and stepped onto the aisle. “They must have more than the rest of us then. Which is just as well. Either way, I don’t believe we’re ready to bury my daughter and her husband. Not just yet.”
I had never seen my abuela sound so tough. It was scary and comical to see Father Gregorio getting a scolding.
“Of course, Doña Esperanza.” Father Gregorio gathered his hands at the front of his waist and bowed. “Thank you so much for coming. If there’s anything I can do to help, I am always here for you.” Then he pointed at my face. “And you should put some ice on that eye.”
Outside the deep gray of the rain was breaking up and the sun was struggling to come out.
We paused at the gate. Everyone seemed to hurry away, getting in their cars or just walking home. No one stayed around the plaza. It was weird. Even the vendors seemed lost.
“Abuela, do you think they’re dead?”
“I believe what you believe, mijo.” She took my hand and looked up at the sky and smiled as if it was the first time she had seen the sun. “I would rather have hope than a mass. The problem with the priest is that he does not understand love. He only understands God. And money.”
“Where do you think they are?” I said.
“I honestly don’t know. But look,” she said as if speaking to the world, “this is not a day for sorrow. This is a day for hope.”
She was acting so normal it was scary. But I wasn’t buying what she said. I had counted too many days on my calendar, and they had all been miserable. Hope was fading quickly.
“It reminds me of Veracruz,” she said. “Every day was glorious. Even when it rained, it was beautiful. And we were always happy.” She opened her purse and shuffled a few things inside, then she looked at me and smiled. “How would you like to accompany me for a little botanita, and a café at Los Pinos?”
“Really?” We rarely went out to eat, especially to Los Pinos. It was the fanciest restaurant in town. It faced the church on the opposite side of the plaza. In the days before independence, it had been the bishop’s mansion. It had a sprawling garden. Tables with colorful embroidered tablecloths were set under the shade of big pine trees. From there you could admire the tall cliffs surrounding the valley. There was a big fountain and a swimming pool. Eduardo Zúñiga’s father was a waiter there.
I had only eaten at Los Pinos once—for my parent’s fifteenth wedding anniversary.
We took a table near the fountain. A waiter in black slacks and white shirt came to our table and bowed apologetically. He said we couldn’t come in.
Abuela drew back. “Why not?”
“There is a private function,” the waiter said. “We’re closed to the public.”
Abuela looked around. The restaurant was almost empty.
The people sitting at the two tables by the swimming pool were the same ones that had taken up the front pews at church this morning.
“But why do they need the whole restaurant?”
For a moment, the waiter looked confused. He adjusted his shirt cuff and then gestured to the large open gate. “I am awfully sorry, señora.”
Abuela stood. “But this makes no sense.”
We walked out. I looked back at the people sitting at the tables. I recognized the older man. He’d been in Pineda’s office when Gaby and I went there for help. I saw Pedro and another man whose name I didn’t know. And sitting at the back table was Joaquín.
“If you like”—I took my abuela’s arm and we crossed the street to the plaza—“we can go to El Venus. You can have a coffee there.”
She shook her head and continued walking without looking back. “Gracias, but I am no longer in the mood. Besides, it looks like more rain is coming.”
17.
When we got home, Chicano was sitting on the front step, hunched over, his masked head buried in his large hands.
“Well,” Abuela said. “He’s alive.”
“Did Gaby see you?” I asked.
Chicano massaged his temples and followed us inside. “What am I doing here?”
“You’re in our house.” I offered him my hand. “I’m Liberio Flores, and this is my abuela, Esperanza Solís. We rescued you.”
“From what?”
“From the bad guys.”
He star
ed at me. “Looks like the bad guys did a number on you.”
“We saved your life,” Abuela said proudly. “But there is no need to thank us. We rescued the dog two years ago. Now he refuses to leave.”
“Please.” Chicano sat on the couch.
“It’s true, Chicano. Two men were beating you up outside El Gallo de Oro.”
He looked at the ceiling and tugged at the side of his mask.
“I’m going to my room.” Abuela pinched her nose and waved. Chicano stank of sweat and tequila. It was all over the room.
“What time is it?” Chicano asked.
“Just after noon.”
“Chingada madre.” He stood and looked around the room. “Where’s my bag?”
“You didn’t have one.”
“Yes, I did. It was black with yellow tiger stripes. My ticket’s in there.”
“Maybe the bad guys took it.”
“What are you talking about? There were no bad guys. No good guys and no bad guys, just stupid drunk pendejos.”
“Is that what you are?”
“Don’t get smart with me, mocoso.” He waved his finger at me. “I’m older than you. Respect.”
“Are you hungry?”
He nodded and touched the side of his mouth where the mask met his lip. Then he adjusted his cape. It was dirty and had a small rip along the side and was frayed at the edges.
I warmed up some tortillas and leftover stew. Chicano came into the kitchen and sat, his huge body slouched over the little wooden table. “What’s on the menu, hijín?”
“Pork stew.”
“You have any beer?”
“Isn’t it a little early?”
“You’re not my mother, chamaco. Hair of the dog. Fixes me right up.”
I shook my head. “We have milk, agua de limón. I can make orange juice.”
“Coffee?”
“Nescafé.”
“That’s good.”
I boiled water and made coffee. I took a cup to my abuela, and then I sat at the table with Chicano.
He ate quickly, shoveling the stew into his mouth with a tortilla. His mask was dirty. The white trim around the corners of the lips was stained yellow and one of the little blue stars was peeling off. The left cheek had a bloodstain in the shape of the state of Zacatecas. Behind the opening for the eyes, I could see his small beady bloodshot eyes.
Playing for the Devil's Fire Page 11
