The Radius of Us

by Marie Marquardt

  “Hola.” She reaches her hand out toward him. “Me llamo Gretchen.”

  I have no idea where she learned to introduce herself in Spanish. I didn’t teach her. He stands up to shake her hand and she pulls him into a hug. She holds him there, against her body.

  He pats her awkwardly and then looks over at me. Finally I can read his expression: Who is this pretty American girl and why is she hugging me?

  “My friend,” I tell him in Spanish.

  His eyebrows arch. Now he’s saying: bullshit. I’m getting good at this.

  “Yeah, okay. My girlfriend, sort of.”

  Sally and Amanda introduce themselves, also folding him into a hug. He accepts the hugs awkwardly and then sits back down onto the cot. I sit next to him. Gretchen, Sally, and the caseworker take a seat across from us, on some other kid’s cot—some kid who’s not so messed up that he stays in bed all day, I guess.

  “Ari,” the caseworker says, in Spanish, “don’t you want to tell your brother about what you’ve been doing here with us?”

  Pause.

  “About the English classes?”

  Nothing.

  “Movie nights?”

  Nada.

  “The other kids you’ve met?”

  Silence.

  “All those great drawings you’ve been working on?”

  He shrugs and reaches under his bed to pull out a tall stack of papers, loose-leaf sheets sloppily piled on top of one another. He places the stack on my lap.

  I start shuffling absently through them—a stocky little iguana, a few dolphins jumping out of the surf.

  “They’re good,” I say.

  A field of corn, a sunset over the mountains.

  “I like the clouds in this one,” I say. Because I guess I’m not really sure what to say.

  I shuffle that one to the bottom of the stack and look at the next. It’s my bike.

  I must be staring at it for a super-long time, or making some really strange face or something, because I feel Gretchen’s hand resting gently on my knee, and she’s leaning in toward me and whispering, “Let me see the drawings, Phoenix. Go outside; take a break.”

  I hand her the stack of papers and stand up.

  “Be right back,” I say to Ari in Spanish, heading toward that big gray door. “I gotta take a leak.”

  The door clicks shut behind me, and I’m in the hall, alone. I reach out with both hands to hold myself up against the concrete block wall. My eyes close and my head leans in. I feel the wall, rough against my forehead. I try to think about my breath, struggling to fill my chest. That’s what Gretchen told me to do the other day—to feel the air moving in and out of my lungs.

  But I can’t. All I can think about is that bike.

  It was a lowrider. Green. A long black seat and big tall handlebars—my most prized possession. My only possession, really. It took me a couple of years to earn enough money for it, doing odd jobs at the restaurants down by the lake. I was so proud of that damn bike. I rode it all around the neighborhood, Ari perched on the handlebars. I taught myself a bunch of tricks on that thing too.

  I thought I was a real badass.

  I wasn’t much older than Ari is now, the first time Delgado stepped in front of that bike. I don’t remember where I was going. I slammed on the breaks and he grabbed the chrome handlebars, one with each hand.

  “What’s up, kid?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “You going down to help your grandma later?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sellin’ pupusas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She sells a lot of those things, doesn’t she?”

  I nod.

  “Best in town, am I right?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Tell her not to forget to save a little somethin’ for me, all right?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  “I’ll be by later, with my boys.”

  At first I thought he meant pupusas—that he wanted my grandmother to save some of her pupusas, because they were so good. But Delgado and his boys didn’t want pupusas. They wanted her money, and they weren’t going to stop harassing her until they got it. The problem was, my abuela was never gonna cave. I knew her well enough to know that she wouldn’t give a single cent to Delgado. She pretty much thought he was the spawn of the devil. (Turns out, she was right.)

  A few days later I stood there watching them circle her. She spat in Delgado’s face that day. He and his boys left, but the next afternoon, they attacked me and took my bike. I guess even though they were assholes, and mean as shit, they weren’t about beating up old ladies, so they beat me up instead. After that, it was every day. Delgado rode up on my bike when I was coming out of school. He followed me, zigzagging behind me, until I turned the corner. And then Blackie picked me up, hauled me up to the roof of this abandoned building, kicking and screaming, and held me out over the ledge.

  “You ready to help us out, bitch? Or maybe we’ll see what your grandma thinks about the view from up here?”

  Three weeks out over that ledge. That’s all it took for my candy-ass sissy self to agree to work for them. It wasn’t all that bad when they jumped me in. A few long seconds of getting the shit kicked out of me—that was the easy part. The hard part was figuring out what to tell my abuela when I got home that night, my face and arms still crusted in blood. She pretended to believe whatever stupid story I made up, but she knew better. Ari kept asking if it hurt, and I kept telling him it looked way worse than it felt. Honestly, back then, I thought it did all look worse than it was—the whole member of an international criminal gang thing. It wasn’t really what I expected, what I feared. I didn’t feel dangerous. I felt like a thirteen-year-old kid. Going to school, living my life.

  Delgado gave my bike back, and he quit harassing my abuela. All I had to do was go down to the tourist district by the lake every afternoon after school and distract those people. I’d ride around in front of the ladies sitting at outdoor cafes, popping wheelies, balancing on my handlebars. Simple shit, really, but crazy enough to make them quit paying attention for long enough to get their purses stolen. Delgado and his guys took that money and sent it to all the homies in prison. The real badasses.

  Technically, I didn’t even have to steal, and my grandmother could keep selling her pupusas.

  Win-win, right?

  Sister Mary Margaret used to bring her missionary groups down there, to this one soda that had really good batidos. They stood outside, sipping on their pineapple and mango batidos, always in those matching T-shirts with the crosses and the Bible verses, and they watched me perform my tricks—like I was a circus monkey, or something. Delgado and his boys didn’t steal from those people. They were too afraid of Sister Mary Margaret. But when the Americans tried to give me money for my tricks, Delgado made me take it, and then I had to hand it all over to him, for the homies.

  Sister Mary Margaret started calling me over, asking me to tell the americanos a little about myself. They loved that I knew how to talk to them in English. Those people always asked me where I learned it, like it was some big miracle that a Salvadoreño street kid knew how to speak their language. Delgado and his boys saw me talking to those tourists, but they didn’t bother me about it much. Sometimes they made fun of me—saying I was so hard up that I wanted to get it on with a seventy-year-old nun, and shit like that.

  They wanted to believe they ran our town, but they knew that without Sister Mary Margaret and her missionaries, without the money they pumped into this place, without her connections to the government, Ilopango would have gone to hell even faster than it did.

  The rains helped with that.

  It was raining like crazy the night they got me drunk—the seventh straight day of pouring rain. The roads were starting to get washed out, so I decided not to go home. I didn’t want my bike floating off—it was my livelihood. A bunch of guys were hanging around Delgado’s that night. They thought it was hilarious, killing time by making the new k
id get all wasted. I was scrawny, like Ari. It didn’t take much. I passed out on the ground and woke up the next afternoon, the skin burning on my stomach, where they’d put that stupid fucking tattoo—the gnarled hand with two spiky fingers pointing up toward my heart. I hated that tattoo from the first moment I saw it. I sat there and inspected it, red and swollen, while they dragged El Turbino in. I guess that was what woke me up: El Turbino yelling at them in English to let him the hell go. Soaking wet. They all were.

  He was filthy, covered in mud and blood. When Delgado gave me that old rag and told me to shine up his tattoo, I really thought they wanted me to clean it so they could see it better. But that was not what they wanted.

  By the time I put it together: the acrid smell of gas and the rag in my hand, it was too late. Slayer already had the first match lit.

  After it happened—after I realized that nothing I said or did would stop them—I took off on foot. I thought about that bike. I wanted to grab it, but the water was running fast on the dirt road in front of Delgado’s place—like a river—and I knew riding my bike would slow me down. It was pouring rain, and nobody was out on the streets. I ran toward home, not looking back. I knew I didn’t matter enough to those guys for them to come chasing after me, but I kept running anyway, sucking rainwater into my mouth and nostrils, struggling to wash away the stench, the burn.

  I turned the corner and there it was: a huge pile of boulders, water flowing fast over them. A bunch of rocks piled up, right where my grandmother’s house was supposed to be. I stumbled back, and fell.

  “Phoenix?”

  A hand on my back. I lift my forehead from the concrete wall and turn to look. It’s Sally, rubbing a slow circle.

  “Come see, Phoenix.”

  My hands drop from the wall and I stand straight. She takes my elbow and pulls me gently toward the door, toward Ari.

  “He’s working with Gretchen. They’re drawing together.”

  I let her lead me to the narrow window that’s cut into the door. Gretchen and Ari are sitting on the floor, cross-legged, a stack of clean white paper between them. Ari has a pen in his hand, and he’s leaning over a sheet of paper, smiling.

  They’re making art together.

  “Let’s go join them,” Sally tells me. “It will help.”

  “Yeah, okay.” I swallow hard and rub my eyes. She pushes the door open and I follow her in.

  I’m looking at Ari and Gretchen, but I’m seeing my grandmother’s funeral. It was really small. Just me and Ari, and a few neighbors. Sister Mary Margaret came too. As it turned out, Ari had been with Sister Mary Margaret, at the church. They knew the landslide might come, so they made a shelter there. My abuela sent Ari to that shelter, but she stayed behind, waiting for me to get home.

  Christ, I regret so many things.

  I sit down between Gretchen and Ari. Ari looks over at me and grins, and then he goes back to work. He’s drawing a picture of the place we used to meet, after I finished my work with the missionaries. It’s good. He may be a scrawny little pissant with a nasty temper, but he’s a great artist.

  Watching him, I know: I’ll never, ever regret that I kept him away from Delgado and his boys.

  He hands me a piece of paper and gestures toward a pack of colored pencils. I look at Gretchen and she smiles and nods. “Go ahead,” she says quietly. “It will help him if you draw some memories too.”

  I pick a blue pencil and wait, the point hovering over a blank page, because I don’t even know where to start. So I decide not to draw a memory. I form a sort of prayer instead.

  Madre de Dios, help me to keep him away from them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  GRETCHEN

  PHOENIX AND I SIT DOWN together in the front row and watch Ari take the stand.

  Oh, God. How are they going to get through this?

  IN THE JUVENILE COURT OF BEXAR COUNTY STATE OF TEXAS

  IN THE INTEREST OF:

  “AFF”: DOCKET NO.: 633542

  A MINOR CHILD UNDER THE

  AGE OF 17 YEARS:

  TRANSCRIPT OF HEARING APRIL 16, 2015

  BEXAR COUNTY COURTHOUSE

  SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS

  HONORABLE ROBERT GALLAGHER, PRESIDING

  APPEARANCES:

  FOR THE PETITIONER: JILL DE LEON, Esq.

  GUARDIAN AD LITEM: LEE TAYLOR, Esq.

  ALSO PRESENT: “AFF,” Juvenile

  Phoenix Flores Flores

  Estella Moon, Interpreter

  LOIS P. GILBERT

  Official Court Reporter—Division III

  Bexar Juvenile Court

  P-R-O-C-E-E-D-I-N-G-S

  MS. DE LEON: Good morning, Your Honor. This is a private deprivation hearing for file 633542 in the interest of “AFF,” a minor child under eighteen years of age.

  Present in the court today are myself, Ms. Jill de Leon, representing the Office of Refugee Resettlement; “AFF,” the minor child; witness Phoenix Flores Flores, the minor child’s brother; and Guardian Ad Litem Lee Taylor, representing the minor child.

  (Whereupon the Spanish Interpreter was sworn.)

  THE COURT: Okay, call your first witness.

  (Whereupon the witness took the stand.)

  MS. DE LEON: “AFF,” please raise your right hand.

  WHEREUPON,

  “AFF,”

  was called as a witness and, having been first duly sworn, was examined and testified as follows:

  DIRECT EXAMINATION:

  BY MS. DE LEON:

  Q. “AFF,” please state your full, true, and correct name for the record.

  (Pause.)

  Q. “AFF,” we need for you to please state your full, true, and correct name for the record.

  (Pause.)

  THE COURT: Attorneys, approach the bench.

  (Whereupon MS. DE LEON and MS. TAYLOR approached the bench.)

  THE COURT: What’s going on here? Does this boy not know how to say his name?

  MS. TAYLOR: Your Honor, the child has been nonverbal since he entered the United States. He has full mental capacity, but is unable to speak.

  MS. DE LEON: The psychologist assigned to his case by the Department of Family and Protective Services believes this is linked to trauma. He is capable of communicating, Your Honor. But not with words.

  THE COURT: Then how exactly do you expect for us to proceed here?

  MS. TAYLOR: Drawings, Your Honor. In our experience, the child has been able to communicate in the form of pictures. He has prepared some drawings, which we would like to submit as evidence.

  THE COURT: Pictures? Are you telling me that this child is not going to testify verbally? That we’re going to admit pictures?

  MS. TAYLOR: Yes, Your Honor. That is our hope.

  THE COURT: Well, how do you expect me to interpret these pictures? Do you have an expert witness?

  MS. DE LEON: I will call a second witness, Your Honor. We believe that he will be able to interpret these drawings.

  THE COURT: I’m sorry, counselors, but if that’s all you have, I’m going to have to dismiss this case.

  (Pause.)

  MS. TAYLOR: Your Honor, we have another witness to the abuse and neglect, but with all due respect, I believe that the juvenile should have a right to testify in any manner that he is able. This is no different from a case in which a child is severely disabled. The weight you give the testimony, of course, is your own choice, but it is this young man’s very life that we are asking the court to make a decision on, and we want for him to be able to communicate with the court.

  THE COURT: By drawing pictures?

  MS. TAYLOR: Yes, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: I don’t see how this possibly can be effective, but proceed.

  MS. DE LEON: Thank you very much, Your Honor.

  (Whereupon direct examination continued.)

  Q: With whom did you live, “AFF,” in El Salvador before you came to the United States?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have mar
ked the picture that the witness has drawn in response to this question as Exhibit A, and I would move to admit Exhibit A.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: Who was able to financially provide for you in El Salvador before you came to the United States?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit B, and I would move to admit Exhibit B.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: What brought you to the United States from El Salvador?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit C, and I would move to admit Exhibit C.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: How did you travel from El Salvador to the United States? How did you physically get from El Salvador to the United States?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit D, and I would move to admit Exhibit D.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: Is it dangerous to travel from El Salvador to the United States? Were you ever afraid?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit E, and I would move to admit Exhibit E.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: What do you believe will happen to you if you return to El Salvador?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit F, and I would move to admit Exhibit F.

  THE COURT: Any objection?

  MS. TAYLOR: No, Your Honor.

  THE COURT: Proceed.

  Q: And what do you want to do with your life in the United States if you’re able to stay in the country?

  (Pause.)

  MS. DE LEON: Your Honor, I have marked the picture that the witness has drawn as Exhibit G, and I would move to admit Exhibit G.