A young man in one of the seats across from Hero’s aisle took notice of her heavy breathing and said, Are you okay? It took Hero a few more minutes of trying to gasp at air before she could look up, eyes watery, and nod. He hesitated there, waiting, but when he saw that she wasn’t lying, he turned around and became, thankfully, a stranger again.
Hero turned her head toward the window. Her heart was still racing as she watched the resolutely unpretty cities of the Bay roll along in front of her like a film, bright and gray, sun-bleached, warehouses, gas stations, power lines that stretched for ages, parking lots half full of cars and with each car a missing soul to drive it. Nothing she saw looked like home. She started to feel better.
* * *
Jaime was waiting outside the BART station in his brown Supra, idling illegally at the curb, an Oakland A’s cap on his head, smoking a cigarette that he flicked out of the driver’s side window at the sight of her. As Hero approached, she had a split-second moment of panic, thinking Rosalyn might also be in the car with him. But when she approached, she saw it was just him, leaning over and pushing the front passenger door open, blasting Janet Jackson’s Miss You Much at a deafening volume.
It’s nine in the morning, she said.
Jaime cupped a hand around his ear. Sorry, that didn’t sound like Happy New Year?
Happy New Year, she said, and he smiled.
Okay, now you can get in the car.
She closed the door, and he shook his head. Nah, it’s not closed all the way. You gotta really slam it. She opened the door again, then yanked it closed with the full strength of her shoulder, making the entire car shake. There you go, he said.
Inside, the car was practically immaculate, a set of cassette tapes arranged in what used to be the cupholder and which was now a minor library, the carpet in the footwell spotless, possibly recently or regularly vacuumed, a eucalyptus air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror, along with a rosary made of blue plastic beads and a scapular on a brown satin string, its laminated picture of the Virgin peering down at them.
Your car’s so clean.
Jaime snorted. Compared to Rosalyn’s toxic waste zone. He put the car in gear, started driving his way out of the station, singing along with the song under his breath.
Hero leaned her head against the window, just happy enough to be in the car of someone she knew, back in the Bay, close to home. Her jeans felt itchy, sticky; she’d taken her underwear off but the rough denim was chafing against her bare pussy. She needed to take a shower, take another piss. They hadn’t used any lubricant; she thought she’d been wet enough, but maybe not; she’d probably end up with a UTI if she didn’t drink some water soon. They had K-Y jelly back at home, in the drawer in the kitchen where Paz kept extra medical supplies. She’d take some with her from now on—then she jolted, stiff, at her own train of thought, how swiftly and economically her mind had gone on, making decisions for her, settling on plans.
Jaime put his cigarette out in the built-in ashtray, stuffed with cigarette butts, the only dirty part of the car. You got a little something, he said, and pointed first to his left eye, and then to the corner of his mouth, keeping one hand on the steering wheel.
Hero blinked at him, then flipped down the passenger seat visor to look at the mirror, and saw remnants of brown shadow smudged beneath her left eye. The right eye was still pristine. Most of the brown lipstick had faded, but it had been applied so evenly, the pigment pressed uniformly into the lips, that a perfectly even, winy-brown flush was left. Still, some of it had been smeared into her chin and upper lip.
Hero hadn’t realized she was still wearing the makeup. She wiped at it roughly with the back of her wrist, then knocked the visor back onto the roof with more force than was necessary.
Yeah, you’re good now, Jaime said.
* * *
Instead of taking her straight home, Jaime said that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, he was hungry as shit, then asked if she was hungry—and when she said yes, ended up driving not down to Milpitas from Fremont, but back up north, to Union City.
El Rincón Michoacano was a Mexican restaurant in a strip mall, not that different from the one where Rosalyn’s family’s restaurant was located, though much smaller—its only neighbors a hardware store, a Mexican bakery, and a dry cleaner’s. Jaime parked the car and said, They’re prolly gonna ask if you’re my girlfriend. Don’t sweat it.
Inside, the restaurant was mostly empty. There was an older man in his forties, sitting behind the counter talking to a woman who was leaning on the wall at the threshold between the kitchen and the restaurant. It reminded Hero so much of Boy and Adela that she thought she was dreaming, one of those odd dreams, like knowing that the person in front of you was your father, even if they had the face of someone completely different, a celebrity or a stranger. But it wasn’t a dream. It was just another restaurant.
The man lifted his hand up to Jaime, said, Que onda, guëy, but his eyes were drifting toward Hero, appraising.
She’s not my girlfriend, Jaime said, unprompted.
I thought we had something special, Hero said.
Carlos tilted his head. What, what?
She’s just fucking with you, Jaime said. He took his cap off, went to the woman, who was holding her arms out toward him, entered her hug. You get skinnier every time I see you, she was saying.
Turning to Hero, the woman’s arm still slung around his neck, Jaime said, hands directing his words to where they should go: Martha, Carlos. Geronima. Geronima. Martha, Carlos.
Hi, Martha said. Geronima. Good name. Usual? This was directed to Jaime.
Two, he said.
The bowls that were put before them not long after they sat down were steaming hot and full to the brim. Thick reddish-brown soup, chunks of meat and herbs, shards of tortilla half submerged. Martha put down two metal spoons on paper napkins, said, Coffee’s coming.
Could I have a glass of water, too, please? Hero asked. Martha smiled, relaxing for some reason at the sound of Hero’s voice. Of course.
Good for hangovers, Jaime said, digging in.
Hero picked up a spoon and took the first bite—it was pipian, like they made it in Vigan, like she’d eaten growing up, recognizing the taste of pasotes the minute it touched her tongue.
What is this, Hero said. Is this Filipino?
Jaime looked at her like she was a particularly slow child. It’s just, like, soup.
There’s pasotes in this, Hero said.
Epazote? Martha overheard. Yes. It’s an herb.
No, I— Then Hero looked down. Her stomach growled, still queasy.
It’ll get cold, Jaime warned. Hero picked her spoon up again.
After several minutes of silent eating had passed between them, Hero finally said: I’m not hungover.
Who said I was talking about you, Jaime replied, his mouth full.
She looked up at him, seeing his face for the first time without the cap shadowing it. His eyes were bloodshot, the circles beneath them dark and veiny, pale face sallow, lips chapped. Martha came back over with a tray, put two cups of coffee and a tall glass of ice water in front of them. Thanks, Jaime said, wiping at the corner of his mouth.
Martha smiled at Hero, encouraging, but Hero didn’t really have anything to say, besides, It’s very good, which was true. She drank the water quickly, even though the cold shocked her molars. She finished it so quickly that Martha filled her glass up again—Hero half-emptied it again.
When he’d consumed nearly half of his bowl, Jaime let out a breath. Color had come back into his face, the muscles there relaxing with newly rushing blood. He pulled out a cigarette, then leaned backward to pluck a terra-cotta ashtray from another table. He lit the cigarette, taking a long drag, rubbing at the back of his neck.
So you get any, he prompted, not a question.
Hero choked. Some.
You do that kind of thing a lot?
What, Hero said, trying to get some meat on her spoon. Fuck around?
Yeah.
Not for a while, Hero answered. But. Yes.
Jaime took that in, saying nothing, smoking in silence. Then he switched his cigarette to his left hand, took in a spoonful of just soup, then a bit of meat. Hero waited for a tendril of smoke that was blocking his eyes to pass, and then asked, her jaw tight in defense. Anything else?
Jaime coughed, a wet, ugly, smoker’s cough. Uh. They got AIDS in the Philippines, right? You need me to tell you to use a rubber?
No, Hero said. Martha came over, then, to refill the water in Hero’s glass. Hero thanked her, and took another long chug from it, trying not to get any ice in her mouth. After she swallowed, she asked: What about you?
Jaime shrugged. There was a girl at the party I fuck around with sometimes, she lives up in the city. I went to her place, then went over to my sister’s to crash. Rosalyn took the minivan, drove everyone home. I just got back when I got your page, I was about to fall asleep.
Hero didn’t want to ask if Rosalyn was the one who’d picked him up from the BART station, the way he’d just picked her up, she didn’t want to ask if Rosalyn had said anything about her leaving, just fucking off without telling anyone, if Rosalyn had been worried, or angry, or if she thought of Hero differently, now that she knew—well, what did she know, really. Hero ate some more corn. Silence came over them.
Then Jaime sipped at his coffee, slurping the surface to temper the heat of it. Yeah, so. I go up to the city a lot.
With Rosalyn? and. Rochelle and them, Hero added, too late.
Nah, Jaime said. She hates it up there. Well, not hates. She’s just not that into going up to the city all the time. She’s not a big bar person or even, I don’t know. Party person, really. She used to be more into that stuff. But she’s kinda over it, I don’t know. I’m not that heavy into it, either. But if I do go out, when I come back down, I usually stop off at Union City. Sometimes I’ll even park my car here, you know, and take the BART up the night before, so it’s there the next morning. Come here for breakfast. Then go back home.
Hero didn’t have to ask why he didn’t go to Boy’s for breakfast, those mornings-after. She knew about separating parts of her life out, too; about being one person in one place, and another person in another place. Hero wondered if Jaime knew yet—maybe he was still too young to know—that those people usually ended up meeting, in the end. She wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. Jaime asked if she was going to drink her coffee; Hero gestured for him to take it. I could come up to the city with you sometimes, Hero said without looking at him. Jaime’s mouth was hidden by the coffee cup, but she heard him say, Yeah, sure, okay.
When they were finished, and Jaime had paid for the food, waving off Hero’s offer to pay for her half, he told her, as they both slid back into the car: Next time, we’ll get the nopalitos con huevo. They’re good here.
* * *
Nothing changed after New Year’s Eve, at least not back at home with Roni and Paz and Pol. Way back in Vigan, back in Manila, Hero had always waited for the apocalypse of sexual maturity to come down on her, the promise of retribution sewn deep into her bones: she was a ho, that was how Janelle put it, and she knew what happened to hos. But slowly she was learning that the fear was just something she’d been taught, like a bedtime story about a mumu that would get her in the end, the skeleton in the De Vera granary that would bear witness to her evil and exact its punishment. Now she was finding out the mumu wasn’t real. The skeleton was nothing but bones—just the remnants of some person, full of junk and sorrow, like anyone else.
Pol had put in a request to have his days off switched to Thursdays and Fridays. Fridays and Saturdays were impossible, Saturdays and Sundays even more so, but at least with Thursdays and Fridays, he reasoned, he could be at home and Hero could go out with her friends if she wanted to.
Paz said he didn’t have to do that, Hero could just drop Roni off at Gloria’s apartment on San Petra Court like before. When Roni got wind of that, she had a complete meltdown, giving up on the world—until Pol said, ending it: I’m making this decision. I’ll be the one to stay home with her.
Afterward, curious, Hero asked Roni about it, You don’t like Auntie Gloria?
Roni was still in her mood. It’s not Auntie Gloria.
Then what. You don’t like her place?
It’s not her place. It’s our old place. Mom still pays half of their rent. And it’s where Auntie Carmen used to live with us, too.
Hero tried to understand; couldn’t. So what. You don’t like that they live in your old place? You miss Auntie Carmen?
NO—Roni said, her voice rising. LEAVE ME ALONE— And then Hero had to drop it, quick, before Roni started scratching her face off again.
Thursdays and Fridays became Hero’s going-out days, bringing Roni home after her meeting with Adela on Thursdays and then sometimes heading straight back to the restaurant, or even Rosalyn’s garage, to drink and watch movies or play pusoy dos. On Fridays, sometimes it was the same thing; though increasingly, Jaime would ask if she wanted to drive up to the city. The minute Jaime’s car exited off 237 and got onto 101 North, Hero felt like she’d been unfastened from something; like she’d been treading water, and now she could go deep.
They never talked about looking for ass when Rosalyn was around; they never talked about sex at all in front of most of the group. Hero had already figured out that most of the girls, Janelle and Lea especially, but Rosalyn to some extent as well, had grown up as devout Catholics: girls determined to wait for marriage, who only spoke about sex when it happened between people who’d been dating for years and were about to get married. If anyone but Jaime or Hero ever had casual sex, they never talked about it; Janelle and Lea tended to make the loudest jokes whenever they passed by another of those new advertisements encouraging people to use condoms. Once, Rosalyn relayed some story that her mother had told her, about seeing more and more women, including Filipinas, coming into the hospital and testing HIV positive despite claiming to be in monogamous marriages. A look of disgust came over Janelle’s face, and she briefly held herself away from Rosalyn as though she’d contaminated them all just by telling the story.
Sometimes the search for sex was just a pretense. Hero realized, incredulous, that Jaime—liked her. He liked being around her, he liked her deadpan jokes, he liked noticing her silences and smiling wryly at them, instead of poking and prodding at them the way Rosalyn might have. But neither of them were the type of people to say, I like you, let’s hang out, so they had to use the joint project of getting ass as an excuse to hang out with each other. After making equally weak efforts at flirting with the same bartender, some morena in a bomber jacket, Jaime and Hero would just drift back together and end up talking, which was—strange, since Hero didn’t altogether like talking, especially about herself, and she’d thought Jaime was the same way, that they had that in common, a kind of reserve that was enabled and protected by the larger, livelier personalities they’d surrounded themselves with.
But Hero realized that she didn’t mind talking about things with Jaime, that when he pushed a second beer across the table to her and said something like, What, so you were like a rich kid, she didn’t feel awkward or anxious about saying yes. There was pleasure in talking, in saying things like, I guess the stereotype about Ilocanos is that they’re kind of—stingy? or The soup I was telling you about, the one that’s like sopa tarasca, my yaya used to make it for me when I was sick.
That was also how Hero found out that Jaime had worked in one of the bars they went to, just out of college; that he’d lived in San Francisco with his sister for two years but they drove each other crazy and anyway he’d been going through some things so he ended up moving back in with their mom in Milpitas. Now he was working as a security guard over at
Kaiser in Sunnyvale, where his mom was a nurse. Hero got the feeling Jaime and his mother were close. He mentioned things here or there about some real dumb bullshit he’d gotten into when he was in college and afterward, mentioned some dudes he used to graffiti with over in Hayward and how it’d landed him a brief stint over at Elmwood, the jail on the other side of Milpitas.
He explained how he knew Martha and Carlos from El Rincón Michoacano, explained that his parents had moved to Union City from Alviso, to the west of Milpitas. Like many of their friends they’d been turfed out of Alviso in ’68 when San Jose finally annexed the city: the homes bulldozed, the families displaced, and the area zoned for industry. His father had some Mexican friends who said the East Bay was okay, and his mom was pregnant, so they moved. Jaime was born in Hayward and lived in Union City until his dad left, when he was six. His mom moved them down to Milpitas, where she had some family; a younger sister, a couple of nieces and nephews Jaime hardly ever saw.
Martha and Carlos had been friends of his dad’s and they’d kept in touch, despite the fact that his mom had lost contact with all their old Mexican friends in Union City and Hayward after his dad left; she’d receded back into a Filipino world. Jaime’s mom hadn’t taught them any Spanish, hadn’t made an effort to keep them connected to their father’s side of anything. Her only concession was bringing them to Martha and Carlos’s restaurant sometimes when they really whined about it, figuring Jaime needed some kind of father figure in his life, some dumb shit like that, Jaime added, his voice catching.
Cely hadn’t cared about what she was and wasn’t connected to, her roots, whatever, fuck that dude, we don’t need him, even though Jaime still remembered nights when they were children, sharing the same room, and Cely mumbling things that she remembered about him in the dark. That his family was from somewhere in Michoacán, same as Martha—Carlos was a chilango, but Cely said Jaime’s dad, not to mention Martha herself, had tried not to hold it against him, which obviously meant they held it against him with a humor so aggressive that there were times the friendship nearly fell apart over it. Hero had the sense that it was like an Ilocano tolerating the presence of a manileño. The rest of the things Cely remembered and relayed to Jaime, those lightless childhood nights, were little details. That he was light-skinned. That he smoked.
America Is Not the Heart Page 23
