“Only one,” said the fat woman. “I would prefer the quiet one, but the choice is yours.”
“What’s going on?” I said, standing up.
“Nothing to do with you,” said my grandmother. To the fat woman, she said, “They cannot be separated.”
The woman shrugged. She wore a tight tank top and had large breasts. Her jean shorts said “Sweetie” on the back pocket. I liked her shoes, which were called jelly sandals and could be bought at the market in the city.
“The mother only paid for one,” said the woman. “I’m busy. Let’s get this part over with before the whole neighborhood gets involved.” (It was true that people had begun to swarm around, sniffing trouble like a dog smells food.)
My grandmother looked very old. Her shoulders were bony underneath her faded dress, but her stomach pooched out. Her face was full of lines, especially around her mouth and across her forehead.
“Fine,” said the fat woman. “This one. In we go.” She picked up Carlos, who did not make a sound. With her other arm, she unlocked the trunk of her car. “Anything you want to send along?” said the woman. “Diapers, water …?”
“What are you doing with Carlos?” I said. I think a part of me already knew, and I felt a mixture of terror and envy.
“He’s going to be with his mama,” said the woman. Carlos looked straight at me, opened his mouth. I shook my head, willing him to keep silent.
“Carlos!” cried Junior. “Carlos!”
Carlos began to sob soundlessly, his face contorting into a mask of fear. He tried to climb out of the trunk, but the woman held him in place, her hand splayed on his head.
“Don’t take him,” I said. “Please. Take me instead.”
The woman looked me over appraisingly, taking in my dirty feet and callused hands. “Nobody paid for you,” she said. And then she pushed Carlos down and slammed shut the trunk.
“He’ll suffocate,” I told my grandmother, my voice brassy with panic. From inside the trunk, Carlos began to make terrible sounds.
“Carlos!” said Junior.
“He’ll be fine,” said the fat woman. The sky above us was sand-colored, as flat and pale as desert. A lone grackle cawed, but there was no answer. I wished I knew how to stop time, to keep the shining car from departing with my brother inside. I put my hand to my mouth, bit hard on my knuckle. I wanted to do something, to feel something, to be the one leaving, and not the one left behind.
The fat woman got into her car and drove away.
“Hush, Junior,” said my grandmother. Junior had abandoned himself to sorrow: he was blubbering loudly, his face covered in tears and snot. Ana picked him up and he curled into her body.
“What about me?” I said.
“Keep hanging up the washing,” said my grandmother. But she came to my side and included me in her hug. “God will watch over him,” said my grandmother. “God will watch over us all.”
4
Alice
WHEN I HANDED Principal Markson her Sweet Stacy sandwich (chopped beef, sausage, and coleslaw on a soft bun), she peered over her glasses for an extra moment. “Alice,” she said, pushing the burgundy frames back into place, “what in heaven’s name are you doing here? Is the baby in the back somewhere? Asleep in a nest by the smoker?”
“The adoption didn’t work out,” I said, the simplicity of my words belying my mangled heart.
“Oh,” said Principal Markson. “Oh, Alice. I’m so sorry.” She held her paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. The phone buzzed, but she did not look away from my face.
“Well, you know …,” I said, but could not think of a way to finish the sentence.
“I’m so sorry,” repeated Principal Markson.
“If you want, I can give you back the sweater,” I said, my voice wavering as I pictured the small garment, which Principal Markson had knitted herself. When she had time to knit, I had no idea. Principal Markson, a heavyset black woman, was in charge of Chávez Memorial, which had been called Johnson High until the city shut it down the year before and replaced all the faculty. Most of the new teachers and many of the students came into Conroe’s at lunchtime, though ever since the Texas Monthly “Best BBQ” issue, we had to let them skip the line or they’d never get a morsel.
The Texas Monthly article had changed the length of the line outside Conroe’s, but the rhythms of our days remained the same. Jake woke at 1:30 a.m. Despite the hoodlums who roamed our neighborhood at night—I was roused by the sound of gunshots (or maybe fireworks?) more than once—Jake insisted on walking to Conroe’s, leaving me asleep. He passed two piñata shops (Raquel’s Partyland and Ruth’s Partyland), two bars (Club Caliente and El Leon), and four churches of various denominations. He’d promised not to walk through Metz Park or any alleys until daylight.
I’d bought Jake an antique Pasquini espresso maker during our honeymoon in Venice thirteen years ago, and the first thing he did every morning when he arrived at the restaurant (after telling Brendan, who tends the meat all night, to go home) was grind beans for a strong cup. Then Jake got to work trimming ribs, putting them in one of our five smokers by 3:30 a.m. The brisket cooks at a low temperature all night, hence the need for Brendan. Jake started the fires for the turkeys next, using post-oak wood and butcher paper covered in tallow harvested from the brisket he’d cooked the day before.
During the next few hours, Jake would sit out back in his favorite green lawn chair, keeping an eye on the smokers, perusing the three papers he had delivered to Conroe’s every morning. We loved the Austin American-Statesman “Life” section and the New York Times crossword puzzle; whatever squares Jake couldn’t fill in, I usually could. This was the time-consuming art of barbecue: Jake monitored the wood fires, maintaining their temperatures, reading the smoke the way his grandfather had taught his father, who’d taught Jake.
People arrived around 7:00 a.m. to set up chairs and drink coffee in front of our small restaurant, sometimes waiting four or five hours for lunch. A man across the street started renting chairs (five bucks for the morning), and it was rumored that savvy Austinites hired homeless men or students to stand in line for them, paying with money or meat. I never saw any evidence of this, though if I did I’d put a stop to it. That sort of behavior just isn’t neighborly, and part of what we were striving for was a sense of community. There’d been two marriage proposals in line already, so I knew we were doing something right.
At nine, Benji and some of the other staff arrived to start slicing pickles and making coleslaw and potato salad. Before we opened, we made sure we had enough of all the sauces and that the bottles on the tables were topped off. We had a fridge full of pie delivered. (Bourbon banana pudding was the best, followed by Texas pecan.) Each table needed a roll of paper towels, crackers, and salt and pepper shakers.
Around ten-thirty I rolled in. I ate toast or yogurt at home; if I didn’t eat before we opened, I wouldn’t have a chance to take a bite until we closed. It was just nuts. I had a closetful of vintage dresses, and I usually wore one with a pair of boots. I put my black hair in a high ponytail, jamming a pencil in. On my fortieth birthday I’d gotten a makeover at Bobbi Brown, and though I had once worn nothing but Vaseline Intensive Care lotion and Chapstick, I now applied a light foundation, blush, crimson lipstick, and waterproof mascara. I shopped once or twice a month on South 1st, grabbing colorful old cowboy boots at Time & Again and dresses at Vintage Annie’s or the Goodwill. I kind of had a look going, and I felt good about it. Jake wouldn’t have noticed if I’d worn a sack.
The briskets, which cooked for eighteen hours at 250 degrees, came off around eleven, and Jake wrapped them in butcher paper and let them rest in the kitchen. I checked the tables and kitchen, then hung the “Come On In” sign at 11:30. Either Benji or I propped the door open, beckoned to the early birds, and began making our way along the line with a pad of paper to take note of what everyone wanted. I made sure people understood how long they were going to have to wait, or if we
wouldn’t have any ribs or sausage by the time they hit the front counter. It had been Benji’s idea to sell beer and Big Red to the people in line; every day he filled a plastic tub with ice and drinks and walked along the side of the restaurant, way into the parking lot and beyond. Folks made it a party, and it was pretty wonderful. I was proud.
We’d come a long way since meeting in New York City, Jake and I. I was going through chemo and studying English lit at Columbia and Jake was selling homemade beef jerky out of the back of his truck, putting himself through business school at NYU. Falling in love had been the first miracle, then my remaining alive, then the Texas Monthly article. We had so much, I reminded myself. So, so much.
“That’s true,” said Principal Markson. “You do, of course you do, but still.” I hadn’t realized I’d been speaking audibly. Principal Markson had tears in her eyes. She had told me once that if she could make one of her teen mothers hand me her baby, she would.
But she couldn’t.
She seemed rooted to her spot at the register, though a long line snaked behind her. Some youngster in a very clean cowboy hat raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. I ignored him. “How are things with you?” I asked.
“The usual,” said Principal Markson wearily. “By the way, could we reserve a table next Monday for the Teen Suicide Prevention Task Force meeting?”
“Monday? Sure,” I said, though we didn’t take reservations and she knew it.
“The Gang Prevention Task Force meeting is Wednesday,” said Principal Markson.
“Wednesday. You got it,” I said. These poor teachers needed all the breaks they could get.
“Markson, get a move on!” cried Officer Grupo, another regular. Principal Markson sighed, put her hand on mine, and squeezed. “Hang in there, sweetheart,” she said. I nodded. When she walked away, I rubbed my eyes with the sleeve of my dress. Then I smiled at the youngster and took his order.
When we had run out of meat, I flipped the sign to “Come Back Tomorrow!” and sat down heavily. I touched the tabletop, which was warm. The week we’d moved from our food trailer to the brick-and-mortar building, Jake’s father had arrived from Lockhart with gorgeous pine tables he’d constructed from boards he’d found in the basement of his own (famous) BBQ restaurant.
Jake had gone for a nap or a swim at Metz Park. The hoodlums cleared out during the day, and the public pool was filled with screaming children and bleary mothers. Jake liked to do a cannonball or two into the deep end after a long, smoky morning.
As the staff cleaned up, I went into the back, made myself an espresso, and opened up the New York Times. I read the “Dining and Wine” section and the book and movie reviews, then started trying to fill in the spaces Jake had left blank in the crossword. I checked my phone to find two messages from my father in Ouray, Colorado; one from my little sister, Jane, who lived with her husband and three kids in the house we’d grown up in; and one from Beau and Camilla inviting us to dinner. I sent Camilla a text, telling her we were busy, but didn’t call anyone back home.
I had escaped my tiny town in Colorado as soon as I graduated from Ouray High School. Class valedictorian (number one out of twelve seniors, thank you very much), I was offered a full scholarship to Columbia and stayed on for graduate work. But as I was finishing my master’s thesis, “Recognition of Despair in the Essays of David Foster Wallace,” I found a lump in my right breast. My mother had died of ovarian cancer when I was eight and I’m a person who takes charge, so when the lump was found to be cancerous and a full genetic workup showed I had a BRCA1 mutation, I chose to undergo chemo and have my breasts removed. (That was an aggressive course of action, and I had no regrets. My sister, Jane, wouldn’t even get the test that would show if she had the BRCA mutation that killed our mother. Instead, Jane married a man who would take over the family grocery store, bore three children, and lived in complete denial. She drove me insane.)
In the midst of all this, I met Jake. I was walking through SoHo on my way to meet my Advanced Kierkegaard study group when Jake said, “Hey! You! How about some jerky?”
I stopped. Nobody talked to me that way, not since my diagnosis (not ever). I’d been “the girl whose mother died” all my life. Now I was “the girl with cancer.” When a heavy guy in boots and a UT baseball cap yelled, “Hey! You!” I took notice.
“Sure,” I said.
Jake laid out the various jerkies: beef, quail, venison. Hawaiian flavor, honey habañero, lemongrass chili, spicy beer. He cured the meat in his apartment, he said. I told him my dad was a butcher, so the plain beef had better be good.
“It is,” he said. “Go on, try it.”
I took a bite. Jake was right—the jerky had a spicy tang that melted to a savory richness as I chewed. I nodded. “Pretty fucking good,” I said. (Was this flirting? I could feel blood rushing to my face.)
“Pretty fucking good?” said Jake. He shook his head. “You’re a tough cookie.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Try the lemongrass chili quail,” he said. “If that doesn’t knock your socks off, I don’t know what.”
It was a warm spring afternoon, and a recent rainstorm had allowed the streets to release their steamy tar scent. My mastectomy and reconstruction scars had healed, and the chemo hadn’t made me sick yet. I wore a short pink skirt with espadrilles. The quail jerky was awesome.
“You love the quail,” said Jake. “Am I right?”
I nodded, trying (and failing) to keep from grinning.
“What about a cold beer?” said Jake. “Let’s be honest, you’re going to buy me out, so I might as well call it a day.”
I thought of my study group. We were reading Concluding Unscientific Postscript, and the latest pages argued that in order to live passionately you had to come to terms with the fact that death was inevitable. I could see my classmate Diane in my mind’s eye, the grim set of her mouth, her lank hair. Diane had written what she called a “Kierkegaard joke” on her notebook: I shall certainly attend your party, but I must make an exception for the contingency that a roof tile happens to blow down and kill me; for in that case, I cannot attend.
“Have you been to Pete’s Candy Store?” said Jake. I shook my head. “It’s not a candy store,” he explained, “it’s a bar. What do you think?” He was so good-looking, so cheerful … I couldn’t say no. So I said yes.
By nightfall, we were lying in the bed of Jake’s truck (he’d unrolled camping mattresses and pulled pillows from the cab), eating jerky and sharing confessions. Above us, the city lights were a constellation. I even told Jake about my cancer, and he said, “Oh, who cares about boobs?”
“I care,” I said, and added, “To be honest, my new boobs look better than my old ones.” My father, God bless him, had supplemented what my insurance paid toward reconstruction. A free boob job, I’d joked to my sister. Lucky me.
“Give me another kiss,” said Jake. I did. He smelled like home, in a way—like smoke and meat. People seemed to move around us so quickly in the dazzling night. I could hear Jake’s heart as I nestled close. Later, on his squeaky bed, I let him touch the scars that ran across my chest. I didn’t know what had come over me.
“Do they hurt?” said Jake.
“Not anymore,” I said. “And they mean I’m safe.”
“Yeah?” said Jake.
“Who knows?” I said.
Jake kissed me deeply, and I was surprised to feel tears leak from the corners of my eyes.
By the time the chemo put me into early menopause and I told Jake I could never have kids, we’d been basically living together for a few months. “We’re young,” he said. “Let’s be in love for a while before we worry about anything, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, giddy at his mention of love.
When they were finished filling my body with potent, corrosive drugs, I was left cancer-free but exhausted, like a castaway tossed to shore. I didn’t want to be anywhere near New York, the city where I had been sick. Once, Central
Park had seemed romantic to me, a green wonderland where I could spend a lazy day, but now it was the place I took a cab through on the way to Sloan Kettering. Cabs in general were a problem—ever since I’d thrown up in one, I couldn’t hail a taxi without feeling bile in the back of my throat. When I told Jake I wanted to leave the city, he said, “My dad’s talking about retiring. What if I took over his BBQ place in Texas?”
“Texas?” I’d said. I’d never been to Texas.
“Lockhart is pretty small,” said Jake, rubbing his chin. I loved his close-cut beard, loved to touch it myself. “What about Austin?” he said, eyes lighting up. “You’d love it, Al. It’s completely different from New York. People smile at you.”
“I don’t like it when people smile at me,” I said.
“They talk to you as well,” said Jake. “Like, a lot.”
“Ugh,” I said.
“It’s so warm,” said Jake. “And it’s legal to sell food from a trailer. You could help me, if you wanted. We could sell BBQ right along Barton Springs Road. That’s a swimming hole, Barton Springs. You can lie on your back in the water and feel like a king. But that water is cold.”
“What about Fiji?” I said. I’d never been there either, but it sounded like somewhere different, somewhere no one would know me and what had happened to me.
“Austin,” said Jake firmly. “And my family can host the wedding. We’ll cater it ourselves, from our BBQ truck.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I told Jake, my bighearted (and big-bellied) love.
“Say yes,” said Jake. “To all of it. Why not? We’ll adopt seventeen Chinese babies and live happily ever after.”
Why not, indeed? I shrugged. I’d studied English because I loved to read, but I didn’t really want to teach or get a PhD. The thought of starting something tangible with Jake sounded fucking wonderful.
After all, in a world of countless perils, whom better to stay near than a man who could tame fire?
The Same Sky: A Novel Page 2
