The Son of Good Fortune

by Lysley Tenorio

  “The Pie.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s money. Gunter even let me work extra hours.”

  “I thought you said Gunter was a grade-A asshole tyrant.”

  “He still is. But it’s my only option right now. It’s a little tougher for me, getting a job.” He reaches the intersection, misses the walk signal. “It’s weird, knowing that you know.”

  “You regret telling me?”

  “You regret knowing?” He’d told Sab he was TNT when she’d told him she was pregnant. Was it the best timing? The worst? Maybe it was just inevitable. What else could he have said, other than the one thing Sab didn’t know about him?

  “If it’s the truth,” she says, “then I should know.”

  “Then I don’t regret telling you.”

  “So that’s settled. But I thought we said no calls. I haven’t made a decision, and I don’t want any pressure. Not even a discussion, not yet.”

  “I’m not pressuring. I just wanted to check in, see how you’re feeling.”

  “I’m fine. Same as when you last saw me.”

  That was two days before, when she dropped him outside the Greyhound station in El Centro, the morning so dark he can’t quite remember her face in their last moment together.

  “What about you?” she asks. “How is it, being back?”

  “It feels wrong. But I’ll survive.”

  “Well, I’m glad you made it back safely. How was the bus ride?”

  “Long. Boring. A woman gave me a hard-boiled egg.”

  “Did you eat it?”

  “I meant to, but I left it on the bus. I hope no one sits on it.”

  Sab laughs a little, then yawns. Or does she pretend to yawn? He’s seen her do it before, those nights when Lucia would yammer on and on, and Sab would pretend she was suddenly exhausted so they could get away. “I’m sleepy,” she says, “for real this time. I’m going to hang up, okay?”

  The traffic lights change, walk signal missed again. “Okay,” he says, “you hang up first,” and she does.

  EXCEL REACHES THE FRONT GATE OF LA VILLA AURELIA, REMEMBERS he still has no keys. For the second time, he walks down the block and climbs over the wall of Old Hoy Sun Ning Yung, tripping over stubby headstones as he crosses the cemetery to the back fence. He finds the tear in the chain link, squeezes through, and by the time he climbs the fire escape and crawls through his window, he’s ready for bed.

  But there are voices in the kitchen. Maxima, someone else.

  “Hindi ko alam. Siguro panahon. Ayoko na.”

  “Sigurado ka? Paano kung gumanda ang buhay?”

  “Siguro. Hindi natin alam kung ano ang nangyayari sa hinaharap. Hindi ka makakasiguro sa buhay.”

  They talk so fast that Excel can’t keep up—something about life and unpredictability? About knowing when enough is enough? Mostly he listens for his name, the way he would whenever he’d catch a whispery conversation between Maxima and Joker; to hear “Excel” in a stream of Tagalog usually meant some kind of trouble. But nobody says it, and when he’s 100 percent sure that the conversation has zero to do with him, he goes to the kitchen.

  Maxima is at the table, drinking key lime wine coolers with Roxy, whom, for a second, Excel almost doesn’t recognize. Her face is thinner, more angular, and though she’s dressed in a loose blouse and jeans, Excel sees that she now has cleavage and breasts.

  She’d arrived in America as Rocky, but has been Roxy for as long as Excel has known her, and had started bringing up medical transitioning in the past few years. “That’s the dream,” she’d said. Though trained as a nurse in the Philippines, she couldn’t get hired in the States, and her cocktail waitress job couldn’t pay enough for the changes she’d hoped to make. She always said she came to America to become herself; now she looks happier than he’s ever seen her.

  “Look who’s back.” Roxy stands, hugs Excel. “Pogi pogi still,” she says, patting his cheeks. “Baby face, di ba?”

  Maxima finishes the rest of her wine cooler, wipes her lip with her knuckles. “He’s not a baby.”

  “You look great, Roxy,” Excel says.

  “It’s the lip gloss.” She laughs, then points with pride at the places on her body where she’s had work done. “Work in progress, right?” She says she owes it to Maxima, who convinced her to go for it, gave her money to help her get started, and helps pay for her hormone therapy now.

  He thinks of the money he needs himself. “That’s really generous of her,” he says.

  Roxy nods. “Without her . . .” She turns to Maxima and squeezes her arm, eyes suddenly teary.

  “Tama na,” Maxima says, handing her a tissue. “There’s enough tears in the world.”

  Roxy dabs her eyes, perks up. “Excel is going too, right?”

  “Going where?” Excel asks.

  Roxy nudges Maxima. “Ano ba? Show him the paper.”

  “Fine.” Maxima pulls a piece of paper from her purse, gives it to Excel. It’s a flyer with Philippines and American flags side by side, clip art of a movie projector in between. “3rd Annual Full-On Filipino Film Festival (F.O.F.F.F.),” it says. “Celebrating the BEST in Filipino Film Cult Classix!”

  “Look what’s showing the last night,” Roxy says.

  Excel looks at the bottom of the flyer. “Ang Puso Ko VS. Ang Baril Mo,” he reads, doubtful of his pronunciation. “That means, My Heart VS.—”

  “Your Gun,” Maxima says. “That was my biggest movie, and they’re doing a screening, first time in the States. Maybe you want to come with us. Maybe not. It’s up to you.”

  Roxy gives him a look like there’s only one right way to respond.

  “Of course,” he says. “If I’m not working, I’ll definitely go.”

  “Request the day off in advance,” Roxy says, the same look on her face. Excel nods, says he’ll do that.

  Roxy points to the microwave oven clock, says she needs to get home. She reaches into a canvas tote bag on the floor, gives a quick look at Excel, then at Maxima, who says under her breath, “Ya ina, it’s fine,” then pulls out a stack of manila folders, sets them on the table. Maxima takes out a letter-size envelope from her purse and hands it to Roxy, then takes out a Safeway paper bag, fills it with daikon radish and Japanese eggplant from the refrigerator, tins of sardines from the cupboard, gives the bag to Roxy. Roxy refuses but Maxima insists, says the hormones are making her too skinny, and points at the thirty-pound sack of jasmine rice on the floor. “Excel, take that to Roxy’s car?” He says sure, picks it up and hoists the sack of rice over his shoulder, and follows Roxy out the door.

  He loads the groceries into the trunk, and just as he’s about to say good-night she takes a cigarette from her purse, tells him to wait. “I have a question,” she says. “Talagang asshole kaba?”

  He thinks she’s joking at first, but her face is serious. “Excuse me?”

  “Why. Are you. An asshole.” She lights up, takes a drag. “Nine months. No visits to Maxima. No calls.”

  “I didn’t have cell service.”

  “No e-mails.”

  “I e-mailed.”

  “Two times? Three? That’s the same as never.”

  “It wasn’t easy to communicate back there.”

  “Bullshit. So many nights, she waited by the phone. She thought you were lost in the desert, or that you were kidnapped by gangs. She even thought maybe you fell in quicksand! And where’s this ‘back there’ anyway? What happened to you?”

  “Nothing happened to me.”

  “Then why did you disappear?” She exhales smoke and the word seems to linger in the air with it, demanding a response, as though Excel had literally vanished and not simply left. He imagines himself, there one second, gone the next. Or he just fades away, like a signature written in disappearing ink, growing fainter and fainter, until all that remains is paper.

  “I’m going to be a father,” he says.

  Roxy takes a longer drag this time. “Oh. Well, shit.”r />
  “Yeah. It’s a lot to handle.”

  She steps closer, lowers her voice. “Who’s the mom?”

  “Sab. My girlfriend.”

  “Does Maxima know?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Ano ba? You have to tell her.”

  Excel had considered it, on the Greyhound back to San Francisco from El Centro, in a moment when he was missing Joker, and thinking how much Maxima missed him, too. But he worried she’d use the baby to their advantage, a means to a green card, a way toward citizenship. She’s said things like that before—Find a girl, get married, then you’ll be okay. Like it’s up to Sab—or this baby—to fix the mess they’re in.

  “I’ll tell her,” he says, “but not yet.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Just you.”

  “Just me? Oh, I don’t like this secret-secret thing, Excel.” Roxy looks in the direction of the apartment. “But okay. I won’t say anything. For now.”

  “It’s why I’m back,” he says. “I need to make money, need to prepare. This baby’s going to change everything.”

  “Are you staying in Colma?”

  “We haven’t figured that out.”

  She finishes her cigarette, flings it into the street. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because you called me an asshole. You were being honest, thought I’d be honest too. Maybe I just wanted to say it out loud.”

  “I get that.” Roxy reaches into her purse, takes out the envelope Maxima gave her. “Here,” she says, pulling out bills. “It’s not much, but it can help.”

  “She gave you that,” Excel says. “That’s yours.”

  “That was payment, actually. I help her out with, you know, her business.”

  “The files?”

  “The files. The accounts. Money transfers. I’m like her secretary. Or her accountant, maybe?” She laughs at the thought, then holds out five twenties.

  “I can’t take that.”

  “Don’t be an asshole. Take it.”

  He waits a moment, feigning reluctance. “Okay, you win. Thanks.” He takes the bills and folds them, puts them in his pocket.

  A car approaches, high beams shining, momentarily flooding the two of them in light.

  “I was wondering,” Excel says, “how much money does she have? How much does she make off these guys?”

  Roxy looks suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t really know. Some months are good, some not. You’re planning to ask her for some?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll figure this out on my own.”

  Roxy nods, though she looks unconvinced. She reaches into the envelope, offers another twenty-dollar bill, and Excel accepts.

  BACK IN THE APARTMENT, EXCEL FINDS THE MANILA FOLDERS STACKED neatly on the kitchen table directly under the light, as if meant to be read by whoever might find them. He runs his thumb down the edges of the folder tabs, flicking through the names—Akers, Chavez, Daubmann, Foley, Haschemeyer, Horack, Kamm, Livings, Ng, Roderick, Shea, Tigay, Watkins.

  Excel checks the hallway, hears Maxima belting out a Tagalog love song in the shower. He goes back to the folders and opens the one on top, finds a sheet of paper that looks like a questionnaire.

  * * *

  NAME: Donald “Donny” Akers

  AGE: 53

  START: 2/23

  END: 5/20

  CITY: Tampa, Florida

  OCCUPATION: Quality control (motherboards? Computer parts?)

  EDUCATION: Junior college (2 yrs)

  STATUS: Divorced (3 Xs!!!)

  CHILDREN: None

  OBJECTIVE: “Lake house retirement—Adderondax (???)”

  DREAMS: To find true love

  TRAGEDY: Lost first house in hurricane

  FAVORITE FOOD: Pepperoni pizza

  FAVORITE FILM: “Field of Dreams”

  FAVORITE TV SHOW: “MacGyver” (???)

  FAVORITE MUSIC: Classic rock

  DEFINITION OF LOVE: “It all starts with trust”

  GREATEST FEAR: Die alone

  GREATEST HOPE: “Hit the jackpot” (lottery)

  MOTTO: NONE

  LOOKING FOR: Filipina, 25–35 yo, never married, no kids, “virgin would be nice” (asshole)

  * * *

  He flips to the next page, the top of which reads “NOTES/COMMENTS.”

  FEB 28

  2nd meeting. Better than 1st. More open this time, not so nervous (the beer helps?) Says what he wants: young, Catholic. “God comes first.” Some education is good but not a req. Next time: quote bible? In Eng and Tagalog?

  MAR 5

  3rd meeting. D has three beers in one hour. Loose and easy. Likes to tell gay jokes (asshole talaga!). Tells salary—$70k a year (CONFIRM!!!). House cost $200k. Has BMW and Mercedes. “Mid-life crisis.” Mayabang talaga!

  MAR 9

  Same, same.

  MAR 17

  He laughs if I laugh. He cries if I cry. We are CONNECTING. First wife is Barb. He cheated but she was “loveless” so not his fault. Married when they were 17, divorced 14 years later. Barb was not “true love.” D says: love is not a luxury. Love is a necessity. Tries to turn this into debate. Ano ba? Whatever. Let him win

  MAR 22

  Cont. discussion on love: luxury or necessity. So boring. Asks to see my tits. Asshole. I say no way. I’m not like that. I’m a good girl. He says he respects that. “Just testing you.”

  APR 2

  Sleepy, tired. Had a fever but let him talk, let him talk, then good-night, good-bye, I love you and he believes

  The notes go on for pages and pages, the whole folder like a psychological profile, or what Excel imagines could be a therapist’s notes—brief summaries of sessions with patients, annotated with her own analysis. He wonders if Maxima keeps a folder about him, what kinds of notes might fill the pages inside. What would it mean to her that he has a recurring dream of getting bitten by a white cat? Or that once, in tenth grade, on an unexplainable impulse, he stole cash from his teacher’s wallet? Or that his goal in life is to live in a bus in the California desert? What are the annotations for those facts? What is the final analysis?

  “That’s mine,” Maxima says. Excel turns, sees her standing in the doorway in a 49ers T-shirt and striped pajama bottoms, a red towel turbaned on her head.

  “They were sitting right there. I was curious, sorry.” He closes the folder. “You’ve gotten organized.”

  “Too many men,” she says, “too hard to keep track. The files help.”

  “Why did Roxy have them?”

  “She types them up.”

  “Types them up? For what?”

  Maxima looks impatient with his questions, though he’s asked so few. “I take notes by hand. She types them for me, and I review them before important talks. And for all that, I pay Roxy. I need the help, she needs the money. Ano ba, Excel? Am I under arrest? Is this an interrogation?” She pulls the towel from her head and snaps it like a whip, hangs it on a chair to dry. “You moved to the desert, to make”—she uses finger quotes again—“‘important discoveries.’ But you’re not the only one. I can make discoveries, too.” She opens the refrigerator. “Gutom ka ba? Roxy brought Taco Bell.”

  He didn’t think he was hungry, but realizes that he hasn’t eaten since this morning, and Taco Bell actually sounds good. “What’d she bring?”

  “Three Seven-Layer Burritos, two Mexican Pizzas.”

  “Mexican Pizzas. Joker’s favorite.”

  “We’ll bring one to him tomorrow.”

  “To who?” He knows what she means, but asks anyway.

  “To Joker, of course. We’re going to see him tomorrow.”

  “You mean, see his grave.” He hates the way she says it—We’re going to see him—as if he’ll be there on the grass, waiting to welcome them.

  “No, smart mouth. I mean Joker. I don’t visit grass and dirt. I visit him. And you’re coming too. Nine months without visiting him. That’s a sin.”

  He w
ants to say no, that he wants to see Joker by himself. It’s not a fight worth having. “Strange,” he says, looking at their photo on the refrigerator. “I don’t remember taking this.”

  She looks at the photo. “We didn’t.”

  “What do you mean? We’re standing right there.”

  “You weren’t there that day. Just Joker and me. A stranger took that picture for us.” She reaches for the photo, holds it up to his Excel’s face. “Photoshop,” she says, “I asked Roxy to put you in. I wanted a picture together, the three of us.”

  “This moment,” he says, looking closely, “it never happened?”

  “Never,” she says.

  He takes the photo from between her fingers, holds it up to the light. “I thought it was real,” he says, then puts it back on the refrigerator.

  “Tomorrow,” she says, “we’ll leave at nine a.m. sharp.”

  “Can we do ten?”

  “Fine, whatever, ten o’clock.” She takes the Seven-Layer Burritos and pops them in the microwave, says nothing as the food heats. But then she looks at Excel, squinting, as if he’s out of focus and not quite there, just like in the picture. “Ano ba,” she says, pointing at the name on his work shirt, “why are you ‘Lydia’?”

  8

  The plan was to devote the first full day in Hello City to cleaning, unpacking, settling into life inside the bus. Sab swept and mopped, Excel wiped down windows, inside and out. Their clothes fit easily into the metal trunk, and they figured out how to use the generator and the propane stove, learned to tolerate the outhouse.

  They moved the two-person table to the middle of the bus, next to the bookcase, which Sab filled with things Excel didn’t know she owned—a stack of vinyl records (he’d heard of Johnny Cash and the Cure, but didn’t know who the Ramones or the Sex Pistols were) and a Spice Girls CD; a copy of The Anarchist’s Cookbook (“It was part of a costume,” she said) and a Lonely Planet guidebook for Kyoto, the city where her mother was born (“One day,” she said, “we’re gonna go,” and Excel just nodded); a skull candle holder and a Princess Leia action figure, which she’d shoplifted from Toys “” Us when she was ten. She’d packed them all in a large shoebox and was about to break it down when she froze. “My mom,” she said, scanning the bus. “Her picture.” She went through her emptied bags, searched through the trunk, checked in and around the bed.