by Susie Bright
“Luis,” Martha says again, and sits herself beside me. My hands tremble, and I thrust them beneath the table. She sees, but I pretend she does not.
“Where did you find it?” My voice coarse and hushed.
“Out back. In the shed. I knocked over a box on the shelf. It was in the box, Luis. Loaded. I checked. You said you’d never have one again, ever.”
“I know.” I tell myself to look down. To be ashamed. Bien. Maybe I can fool her after all. Just to buy time. All I need is time to think.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Just tell me. Why?”
The sunlight washes over me, and dust floats in the empty space, at peace. In the stillness, the refrigerator rattles to life. Beneath letter-shaped magnets our pictures cover the outside: Juan on his first day of school. Me and Martha after she got her license. (The test, all in English, was a mountain we climbed together.) Juan holding Lupita after she was born (so tiny she was, and Juan, so proud to hold her).
“After that day. We needed protection, just in case.”
She shakes her head. “But loaded, Luis? It’s not like you.”
I bang my hand on the table. “So I made a mistake! I cannot make mistakes? I was a tarado, I left it loaded!”
Her eyes widen again. They have seen something terrible. They have seen the truth. My theatrics pushed too far. A gasp escapes her, and her hand flies to cover her mouth. She presses her hand tight over her lips, as if the knowledge is airborne, and if only she does not breathe she will not know. She pushes herself backward, chair scraping the floor, and she is on her feet. Not saying a word, her eyes pleading, No, no. Tears spill down her cheeks.
“Talk to him. Now,” she says.
I stand and turn from her, my boots heavy on the floor, softer on the carpet down the hall toward Juan’s room. The music from one of his video games thumps through the wall. He told us he bought the speakers, the TV, the clothes, all from the money he made stocking shelves at the grocery store after school. I wonder when he became a better liar than me.
In front of his room my hand floats above the doorknob. If I open it, I do not know what will follow me inside. But too late for that. Time now to speak to my son of death.
Se sigue.
* * *
A policeman shot Arellano at a traffic stop, of all things. Arellano drew on the officer first, and in seconds both men lay dead on the road. The cartel fell into chaos after that, the narcos like chickens running around with their heads lopped off, or roosters fighting to dominate. Allegiances formed. Killing. Choosing a side was important. And I did not choose.
When Martha told me she was pregnant with Juan, I told her to pack her things. She looked at me in shock, in doubt. We had never thought the idea possible. But her face soon hardened into stone. She would go. For us, for her family.
We went north to Watsonville, a town with a community and work for Mexicanos. Hard work, picking the fields or cleaning. But we found friends. Lived with them, worked with them. I had some money left from my old life. Not much, but enough to help us create a new life.
Juan was five when they found me. That day, I drove home after work, my rusted Toyota pickup grinding through the field roads at the bottom of the Royal Oaks Hills. When I pulled into our driveway and saw the shiny black SUV, I knew. The wicked thing had come breathing hot on my back.
I stopped the truck, my sweatshirt damp and roasting in the cab’s stale heat. My throat suddenly dry. I squinted at the SUV, the tinted windows. No movement. Only sunlight glinting on the black paint. Please let Martha and Juan be okay, oh God, please let them—
No. Worry would not help me. I was not a hero. I was a man who had done bad things, and my family was in danger.
I got out of the truck and bit the inside of my cheek, to keep me sharp. Blood welled up, copper pain like an angry spark. I crouched down, crawled to the back of the SUV. Raised my fist and rapped on the back window. Waited. Pressed my ear to the car. Silence. I hunched over, back aching, and ran to the driver’s-side door. Tried the handle. The door opened and I squatted by the tire. Nothing from the SUV. I opened the door wider, pressed up on the leather driver’s seat, and peered inside.
No one in the car. They were inside the house.
* * *
I swayed through the front door, already open. Waiting for me. Laughter, loud and familiar, drifted from the kitchen. I followed.
“Señor Cruz! Good of you to join us! Good to see you, mi amigo!”
I had not heard that voice in many years, save perhaps in nightmares, but I could never forget it. My eyes flicked quickly, seeing without looking. Registering. Preparing.
Martha sat hunched at the table, eye swollen shut, puffed black, blood running down her chin. Still breathing, thank God. At the sight of her, I wanted to scream. But screaming would not save her. And where was Juan?
A man leaned back over the counter. Thin, corded with muscle, a mustache drooping down his face like a frown. Hair slicked back with grease. A gold plated AK-47 dangled in his hands. Too much for me, mano a mano, even if I somehow wrestled the rifle from him.
The other man, the one who had spoken, sat next to my wife—grinning at me through misshapen teeth stained the color of old urine. Clean shaven. Sharp eyes. Eyes that see beyond, we used to say in Mexico, cursed eyes. Wearing crocodile cowboy boots and a bolo tie. His rolled-up shirt sleeves, tattoos of skulls and M-16s creeping out like a rash on his skin. Waving around a diamond-encrusted Browning 9 millimeter, with a custom grip. A good gun. The type of gun I used once.
I nodded. “Hola, Rojelio.”
“He remembers!” Rojelio said. “How good to be remembered. Especially by the great Señor Cruz, and after so much time. Your wife, she has not been hospitable; she did not offer us coffee. You know how I enjoy my coffee, Luis.” He tapped his piss-colored teeth with the barrel of his gun and laughed.
Perhaps they did not know I had a son. If they had killed him, Rojelio would tell me soon enough. Just to see my face. M’ijo, if you are hiding, stay hidden.
“I’ve missed you,” Rojelio said, still smiling, always smiling. We used to say he would smile even when la bala lo encuentra, the bullet finds him. “Sit down, sit down!” He pointed to a seat by Martha.
“I cannot say the same.”
He laughed again. A strange, wet sound. No humor. Only amusement. Martha’s head rolled on her shoulders toward me, and she blinked her good eye. I tried not to see her swelling, bruised face. A lump rose to my throat. Heat rushed through me, prickled my skin, and balled in my aching hands. Anger. Good. I had tried to forget that feeling, that candencia. Time I remembered.
Martha blinked at me again. A movement so subtle as to mean nothing. But her clenched jaw, her gaze locked onto mine, showed me different. She had every reason to be scared, but she was not.
“Not many remembered you left, Luis.” Rojelio studied me as if I was a simple curiosity. “But I did. I remembered. You know too much. I had business, you know, after Arellano was killed.” He crossed himself—in earnest or mockery I could not tell. “But Luis. I remembered to come for you. Aye. Arellano thought much of you. But this place? Your work?” He waved the Browning into space, his head nodding to accommodate the gesture. “This is beneath you. Truthfully, it disgusts me. You disgust me. Do you see it? Smell it on your body, when you come home after working for them, doing something so low they would never sink to it?” He wiped his mouth. Flicked his tongue across his dry lips. A lizard in the clothes of a man.
“You would not understand,” I told him. His compañero, unhappy with my words, shifted his frame from the kitchen sink. He lifted the rifle. Rojelio glanced back, cocked his head, and the compañero faded into the kitchen once more.
“Luis.” Rojelio stared at me, beady eyes narrowed, as if in disappointment. Then he laughed again. “What makes you think I want to understand?” He sighed, shrugged his shoulders. “This life. Our life. You cannot leave it behind. It follows. It follows, until it leads you where you’
ve been going all along, kicking and screaming con espuma en la boca!”
Se sigue.
Martha blinked, moved her lips, and moved her lips again. I finally understood the words Martha mouthed to me: Ven aquí. Come closer.
“No! Please!” I begged, and leaned forward. Under the table, Martha slid the cold steel of a kitchen knife into my sweating palm. I clenched it tight. Blinked at her. I had to be faster, not only than Rojelio, but his compañero. I did not know if I was so fast, not anymore.
“Do you wish me to shoot her?” Rojelio said. Holding the gun to Martha’s head. She whimpered.
I ground my teeth. Patience. Wait for the moment.
Rojelio slid his free hand onto the table. There. Now. Or my family died.
I arced the knife from beneath, sliced the air, and it landed with a soft thunk! In the back of Rojelio’s palm, pinning it to the surface. He screamed and dropped the Browning. I dove for it, smacking the floor hard enough the air left my lungs. The compañero had already raised his AK-47, eyes burning. I pointed the gun at him and squeezed the trigger.
His knee exploded in red-and-white pulp, like the splatter of a rotten apple. Warm, wet, red, and hard flecks of white sprayed my face. I fired again. This time I found my mark, and the compañero clawed at his chest, as if to dig the hole deeper.
Screaming overcame the fading thunder. Rojelio. I whipped the gun back, saw the color drained from his cheeks, yet he clutched at the knife handle, nearly had it free. I put a bullet in his head. He did not smile when it found him.
Martha fell into my arms, shaking, sobbing into my shoulder. I held her as tight as I could. Tasted wet salt on my lips. I let the gun drop, jerked my hand. As if it had bitten me.
“Papa?” A voice so soft. A voice so scared.
I looked down the hall, and there stood Juan. My eyes closed tight, tighter. But no matter how much I shut out the nauseating light, I could not undo what my son had seen.
* * *
Juan stands next to me in our backyard, and I hold his gun in my hand, still wrapped in the dishtowel. Sunlight burns orange across the fields and streaks the clouds with red as it lays itself to rest beyond the horizon. There is Lupe’s playhouse, bought at Kmart last Christmas. Juan’s old soccer ball still sits on the grass, untouched by anyone except time. My son has gained weight, like his father. Wears a goatee. It does not make him look more of a man, only like a boy playing pretend. I think to tell him this—this and how ridiculous he looks in his sagging jeans and shirt so large it hangs nearly to his knees.
“What is it, Pops? What’s up?” he says. “You and Mama need help with English on the bills again? It’s cool; I got time.”
I shake my head no. “Juan.”
“Come on, Pops. Call me Johnny, remember? Johnny Cruz!” He laughs.
“I’ll call you the name you were given.”
The laugh stops. He kicks his feet. Useless to start this fight with him. We watch the sun sink lower beyond the valley, setting the sky on fire.
“I found this,” I say, unwrapping the dishtowel.
Juan stares at the gun. His mouth opens, he stiffens. Then he relaxes, cool all over. “Whose is it?”
This game. I am so tired. “Juan.”
“Qué? You mean? Oh shit. Ha. You mean you think it’s mine?”
I will not hit him. I never have and I never will. I have seen men hit their sons, their wives, their daughters. It is only part of the sickness, not a cure.
A different strategy, then. I put my hand on his back. His body rigid beneath my touch, brittle. I have caught him. He knows I have caught him. “Juan. Listen. You are a good boy. I know this, in my heart. Por favor, tell me. Why?”
His shoulders slump. He crumbles beneath my hand. My soft, aching hand. “Pops . . .”
“Your mama found it. Not me. Think, Juan, if it had been Lupe.”
“Lupe would never go in the shed!” His voice cracks.
I sigh, and sit myself on the porch step, knees buckling, back sore.
“Juan! Juan! Play with me!” my daughter yells, her tiny footsteps rushing through the house, to us. I wrap the gun and cradle it in my lap before she bursts from the back door.
“Lupe, hey, hermanita. Go back inside, yeah? I’ll play with you in a little bit,” Juan says.
“But I heard you and Papa talking! Are you in trouble?”
“Lupe, escucha a tu hermano. He will play later,” I tell her, and offer a smile, the best one I can manage.
“Lupe! Lupe! Come in the house!” Martha shouts after her.
“I’m coming!” Lupe responds. She looks up at her brother. “Promise to play with me! You gotta promise.”
“I promise,” Juan says, and chuckles.
Lupe nods, and runs inside, banging the door behind her. It slams in the frame, BLAM, BLAM, until it rests.
Juan whistles, a dry, nervous sound, and rubs his eyes.
“You see?” I tell him.
“Yes,” he says, and sits beside me.
“Now. Answer my question.”
He cocks his head, eyebrows raised. “I thought you’d know, Pops. If anyone did, I thought you’d know.”
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Because of that,” he nods at the gun in my lap, “you get respect. I get it, with that. It’s like power, you know? You have one, your name rings out. Like your name used to.”
I shake my head, grit my teeth. “No. Respect from fear, Juan, is not the same. Your sister respects you. And not from fear. Your mama respects you, because you care for your sister, and you help us, and go to school. I respect you, because you are smart, and you have a good heart. The gun? It disappoints me. It is low. It is not for you, m’ijo. Your name should mean more.”
He cries, and looks away from me. It is okay for him to cry. If he cries, and knows he does not need the gun, he can cry.
“You will stop? For this family? For the ones that love you?”
“Yes, Pops, yeah.”
I smile at him. “Me and your mama, we left Mexico because of bad men. Because I did not want to be a bad man. I do not want my son to be a bad man. You can be better, Juan. Here, in this town. If you go to school. If you work hard. You can be better than me.”
I embrace him. He stiffens again, then becomes limp, and slowly he wraps his arms around me.
“Swear to me,” I say.
“I swear, Pops.”
Tonight, I will bury the gun at the edge of the yard after I dismantle it piece by piece. I will bury it next to the bodies of two dead men who once came to my home. I think perhaps Rojelio was wrong, perhaps the sickness won’t follow this time.
* * *
Me and Martha are cleaning the house on my day off. Her telenovela plays on TV, something to laugh at while we mop and sweep. Lupe is in her room playing dolls. Juan is still at school. Because he’s been good this week, I let him take the Toyota.
The phone rings from the kitchen, and I go to answer. When Juan’s voice crackles high and frantic into my ear, part of me wishes I had let it ring. I remember, then. He is a better liar than me.
“Pops!” he says. “Pops, I did something. It’s bad, and they won’t stop now, so I’m coming, I’m coming—”
“Juan. Slowly. Where are you?”
“Fuck fuck fuck. Aw man. Aw maaan.”
“Juan.” I keep my voice low, but Martha hears anyway. She hurries into the kitchen, her face creased in worry.
“Is it him?” she says. I nod. “He’s in trouble?” I squeeze my eyes shut, nod again.
“Where are you?” I say to him.
“Driving, Pops. They’re following me. They keep following me!”
Sirens sing, far away through the phone. A song for Juan. If he listens, if he stops—yes, prison maybe, but he will have a life still.
“Stop for them, Juan. Do it.” The kitchen darkens, and I lean against the refrigerator. Martha grasps my arm, steadies me.
“They’re following me! They won’t stop! I’m com
ing home. Okay? I don’t know where to go. I’m coming home.”
“Be calm, m’ijo. What did you do?” My ear burns against the plastic of the phone.
“A cop pulled me over and . . . Fuck. I had weed, okay? A lot. And I just drove away. All I did was drive! But now there’s more cops, and I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m—”
The sirens scream. Loud in the phone, too loud. They are not only coming from the phone. My eyes meet Martha’s. I see my terror mirrored in them. She shakes her head, mouths one word: No.
“What’s that noise?” My daughter runs into the sitting room. Her hair held back by a plastic tiara, her face scrunched in wonder, cradling her doll.
“Stay with her. Stay inside,” I tell Martha. Nausea wrestles with me. I push it down. Bury it deep. My wobbling legs carry me to the front door. I open it, and peer down the road into the late afternoon.
The screech of tires, the roar of an engine. There. My truck. A blur down the pavement, but filling my sight faster than I can believe. It slides across the road, leaving black marks like streaks of blood in front of the driveway. The smell of burning rubber, and I cough. Smoke fills the air. Juan stumbles from the car drenched in thick sweat, his eyes rolling wildly, panting. The police follow.
“Listen to them! Juan, whatever they say! LISTEN!” I scream at him, descending the front steps to our walk, running past the old oak and the swing I built for him long ago.
He stares beyond, at something I cannot see. Police cars screech to a stop, fencing him in. A young officer, crazed with adrenaline, yells into a bullhorn: “Put your hands in the air! Drop to your knees and put your hands in the air!”
“Do it, Juan! Do what they say!” I scream. Can he hear me over the damn noise? He jerks his head again. Okay, okay. He will stop.
Instead, he runs toward our home.
“Stop! Stop or we will fire!” the officer shrieks. His hand crawling toward his gun belt.
No.
The sirens scream into my ears.
