“Oh, so you spend more time on me than you spend on your best students? Wow, Daniel, that’s great. I would think you’d spend more time on your own girlfriend. What’d you do—stay home one night from drinking beer with your friends?” Sandy felt her blood race hot and saw that diners around them were starting to glance in their direction. But she couldn’t stop. She had more to say, built up for a long time now. “You know, when I think of all the times I read your work and strained myself to come up with constructive comments on the spur of the moment… And now you’re acting like it’s some big sacrifice to return the favor. That’s really selfish of you, Daniel. Really self-centered.”
Daniel never got hot-angry, like she sometimes did. Instead, he got cold-angry. He had the cold expression on his face now. When he spoke, calmly and quietly, she could tell he was also somewhat hurt. “I didn’t realize it was such a ‘strain’ for you to read my work. I apologize for that. I won’t put you through the trouble anymore. But I hope you understand that my writing is my career, so it’s a little different.”
At this, Sandy became so upset that she literally bit into her tongue trying to keep from yelling at him outright while everyone at Samurai Noodles watched. Instead she stood and said, “Well, my writing is my career, too, whether you think it’s as important as yours or not.”
With that, she gathered her things and left, leaving his printed pages behind her.
THE LAST THING Sandy was in the mood for, when she got home that day, was a long conversation with, and questions from, her mother. And yet that’s what she got.
“Oh, Sandy, guess what.” Mrs. Saavedra apprehended Sandy as she emerged from her car with purse and work bag dangling from her shoulders. Sandy only raised her eyebrows in answer. She was too tired to respond, having spent the five hours since her argument with Daniel sitting in the Nacho Papi office maniacally typing toward deadlines. Her mother continued talking, oblivious. “It turns out Aunt Ruby does know about this Tío Jaime, after all. She said she’s met him a couple of times, but do you know that Aunt Linda would never say what was going on between them? Can you imagine? Isn’t that crazy?”
“Yeah.” Sandy was relieved to hear that her other great-aunt knew Tío Jaime. Somehow that made him almost family. Therefore, he’d be willing to help her out with her work by consenting to be interviewed. She wouldn’t have to worry, then, about the possibility of him refusing to sign the release form. At least that’s what she hoped her mother’s words meant.
Sandy turned to the garage stairs and the relative serenity of her apartment, but her mother protested. “Aren’t you going to come in for a little bit?”
Sandy sighed. “Can I go up and change first? I’m really tired.”
“Why, what happened?” her mother was quick to ask. “Did anything happen at work today? Did your father call you?”
“What?” At this unexpected question Sandy turned back to her mother. “No. Why? Did he call you?”
“He left me a voice mail. I guess you know that he’s finally gotten engaged to that skinny girlfriend of his.”
“What?” Sandy practically bellowed. She hadn’t known. She’d had no idea.
“Oh,” said her mother, whose distaste-filled expression stood in sharp contrast to Sandy’s surprise. “Well, sorry. Why don’t you call him tonight, in that case? Then come down and tell me everything he says. I can’t believe he’s doing this. He’s such a bastard.”
Sandy turned and hit the garage stairs with a stomp. But it wasn’t the phone that she turned to when she got to her room.
27
Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Sunday, April 9
That’s it.
The last time I posted here, I retracted the ranting I’d done about my boyfriend.
But now I see that I was right the first time, and that he’s the wrong man for me. It is with regret that I inform you that HeartThrob GeekBoy and I are through. I just can’t deal with it anymore.
Let’s change the subject, please
to another one that’s just as annoying, actually. My mother has pissed me off so badly that I don’t even know what to do about it, short of moving to another city.
And you know what? My father’s pissing me off, too. He’s getting re-married and didn’t see fit to tell me. My mother told me, but in terms of how embarrassing it was to her, not with any consideration of how I might feel, seeing as how I’m his daughter and—hello!—as previously explained, he didn’t tell me.
I’m tired of the two of them living in their own petty worlds, doing things to spite each other and never worrying about the effect it might have on their own daughter. I don’t know why it surprises me every time, though, seeing as how that’s how they behaved when they were married and all throughout their divorce. But it still hurts. It makes me feel like I’m nothing. You know? Like I can only rely on myself.
Luckily, I know that I am more than just nothing. I have my writing career and all the success that’s come with it lately, even if my parents and my boyfriend are too self-involved to notice or care.
It’s just you and me, then, readers. Thanks for being here for me for so long.
Love,
Miss TragiComic Texas
28
Two nights later, Sandy waited in Daniel’s bedroom while he went to get her a glass of water. She hadn’t actually wanted anything, but she’d accepted his offer so that, while he was in the kitchen, she’d have more time to plan what she was about to say. She hadn’t expected his housemate to be home, either. Matt was watching television in their shared living room, which left Sandy to do her talking in Daniel’s bedroom—not the ideal place for a breakup. But it was now or never. She’d already said on her blog that it was over, and now she had to follow through.
He walked in carrying the University of Texas Longhorns coffee mug she’d always hated, not saying anything or even looking at her as she stood by his bed. “Would you close the door behind you?” she said.
He did and then set the mug on his nightstand, using a folded envelope for a coaster. He looked nervous. Sandy wondered if he knew what was coming.
“Daniel, we need to talk.”
“I know. That’s what you said on the phone. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” His testy tone made her suspect more than ever that he already knew.
“Well, I guess you realize that things between us have been kind of… strained lately.”
“Is that was it is? Strained?” He practically snarled it at her. This was going to be difficult, Sandy thought. He knew, and he was upset. She hadn’t exactly pictured an ideal way to do this, but in her imagination he’d been more shocked and sad and less obviously angry.
“Yes. All we do lately is argue, or else try to avoid arguing. And… I just feel like, ever since I’ve started this new writing job…”
“What? I haven’t been supportive enough?” Daniel crossed his arms and took what Sandy couldn’t help but see as a childishly defensive stance. He acted like he already knew what she was going to say even before she did, and yet he was ready to deny it. She wanted to take a step back, but couldn’t because she was already standing against his twin bed. If she hadn’t been the one caught in this situation, it might have been funny, it was so ridiculous.
“Well, yeah. You haven’t been supportive, and it makes me unhappy, but there’s nothing I can do to change your mind about it, and I don’t want to quit writing for Nacho Papi. And I know how you feel about it, so I can’t be around you without being aware of your feelings. How you feel about me, for what I’m doing.” Sandy strained to speak calmly and state her case without emotion.
“Oh, okay—so it’s my fault because I was honest with you, like you wanted me to be?” His words were shaky, with more than just anger. “I guess I should have pretended to think this stupid Web site was great, so you’d be happy? So we wouldn’t be at this point now, having this ‘talk’ about our relationship? It’s all my fault, is that it?”
Sandy became
afraid that he was about to cry, and then felt teary-eyed herself. “No,” she said. “I’m not saying it’s your fault, or that you should have said anything different. I’m just telling you, I think we’ve grown apart. We want different things out of life, and we can’t expect each other to change our lives to conform with the other person’s ideals.”
Sandy stopped talking. The first tear had rolled down Daniel’s cheek, and her first tear wasn’t far behind. She wished, suddenly, that she hadn’t started this. It was way more difficult than she’d expected.
“Okay, well, just stop right there.” He started talking loud and fast, words spilling out of his mouth like he was trying to keep her from interrupting. “Because I need to talk now. You’re saying all this stuff about me conforming to your ideals, and me not being honest, and you can stop right there, because I’ve been having some problems with you, too. I haven’t wanted to say it, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but you haven’t exactly been the ideal girlfriend lately, either.”
Sandy started in surprise. She opened her mouth, but Daniel didn’t let her speak. He became louder. “One, you’re always rude to my friends. And they notice. And I’m tired of it, and I can’t cover for you anymore. Two, you’re the one who’s not supportive of me. You’ve never liked my writing, and it’s pretty obvious, and I don’t really appreciate your lack of honesty about it. And, three, yes, your writing for that site embarrasses me. My friends have been talking about it. I didn’t want to tell you, but now you’re forcing me. Yes, it’s embarrassing, and I wish you wouldn’t do it, but you don’t care about my feelings, so I think we should break up.”
He finished practically on a shout that Sandy knew Matt would be able to hear from the other room. Tears were streaming down her face now, but they were tears of anger. She couldn’t believe he was making these accusations. She knew he was only saying these things because his feelings were hurt. But still, he was hurting her now, on purpose. And he was trying to break up with her before she could break up with him. It was obvious.
And she was glad now. She felt like she was seeing his true colors, in all their ugly, mismatched glory.
“Oh, and another thing—we never have sex when I want to,” he blurted. “And you’re… you’re not good in bed.”
At this, Sandy finally blew her top. “You know what, Daniel? I felt bad about coming here to break up with you, but now I don’t. Thanks for being a complete asshole about everything and making me realize that I should have dumped you a long time ago.” She turned and walked to the door. He stood there frozen, arms still crossed on his chest and the frightening sneer still on his face. Sandy gave him one last look and decided against saying anything else. She opened his bedroom door, went through, and slammed it behind her.
Matt jumped in surprise as she walked through the living room. He had the TV on mute and had obviously been eavesdropping. But Sandy didn’t care.
She exited the apartment without another word, leaving it for the last time. And it was a relief. She was bitterly happy that she’d never have to be there again.
29
The worst part about breaking up, Sandy found herself thinking the Sunday after the break up she had initiated, wasn’t that she missed Daniel. She didn’t, at all.
As she drove south on I-35, back toward the scene of the Chupacabra to interview the man himself, Sandy mused over the past weekend. It wasn’t that she missed Daniel’s conversation, or his lack of it, or the mediocre sex. It was that now she didn’t know what to do with all her spare time. And not because she’d spent so much of it with Daniel before, either. But she’d devoted a lot of time to him, so to speak. Waiting for him to meet up with her. Waiting to hear what his plans were before she could make her own. Waiting for his opinion before she could make a decision.
Saturday, the day before, for instance, she’d felt burned out and didn’t think she could write one more word—not for Angelica, not for QBS, not even for her blog. So she’d gone to the bookstore. Through force of habit, she’d started with the literary fiction, picking up titles by the same authors she always sought. After a few minutes of this, she’d realized that she wasn’t enjoying herself, one, and that, two, it was because most of the authors she read had been introduced to her by Daniel.
Feeling rebellious, she’d gone back to the front of the store where the brighter-colored selections were piled on tables. As she perused the popular novels, she imagined Daniel disapproving. “A little lowbrow, don’t you think?” he’d say. Or “Sandy, please.”
She’d ended up curled in a chair, devouring something Daniel would never approve of: a romance about a plus-sized Latina vampire who had fallen in love with a disabled African-American werewolf from the wrong side of the tracks.
In the end, she’d left the romance at the store and gone home with slightly more serious stories. But it’d felt good at the time, indulging in something that wasn’t on Mister MFA’s recommended reading list.
Sandy took the turnoff that led to the middle of nowhere. Having this Daniel-shaped space in her life to fill, she reflected, wasn’t the worst problem a girl could have. Not by a long shot.
As she neared Tío Jaime’s house, she slowed down to make sure she wouldn’t miss her turn amongst the masses of cacti that bordered mini-forests of scraggly trees. She was going back to interview the old man, this time with questions from readers. Her plan was to do a feature called “Ask the Chupacabra,” sort of a video advice column. Tío Jaime’s first video interview was one of the site’s most popular posts to date. Angelica loved Sandy’s advice column idea and was already talking about building it into something more—something they could sell.
Thinking of Angelica made Sandy remember that she needed to get Tío Jaime’s signed release form. She made a mental note to ask him for it as soon as she got to his house.
When Sandy drove up, the old man was walking out from behind the house in his usual uniform of jeans, plaid shirt, and straw hat—with a shovel in his hand. He recognized her car immediately, again, and waved hello. Sandy waved back.
After exchanging pleasantries and small talk about the weather, the goats, and Cano’s diet, Sandy cut to the chase. “Tío Jaime, my boss really liked that last interview I did with you, and so did our readers. I was wondering if you’d be interested in doing another.”
The old man squinted into the distance with a slight frown on his face. “You know, m’ija, I’d really like to, but…”
Now Sandy frowned. Here it was. He was going to say no. He was going to say he wished he hadn’t done the first one.
“… but I have so much work to do while it’s still light outside, and I don’t think I’ll have time to do it all if I sit around talking for an hour. You know?”
Sandy did know. Suddenly she felt guilty about showing up in the middle of the day and imposing on Tío Jaime in this way. It’d been very presumptuous of her to assume he’d have nothing better to do.
He turned to look at her. “Unless…”
“Unless?”
“Maybe you could help me?”
The next thing she knew, Sandy was behind Tío Jaime’s house helping him dig holes and stuff tomato and chili pepper plants into the ground. He said he didn’t mind shoveling, but that bending down hurt his back. After a few rounds of planting, Sandy knew what he meant. Feeling lucky that she’d worn jeans and flats that day, she kneeled on the ground so he wouldn’t have to. Then she plugged four-inch blocks of dirt into the ground until her fingernails turned black and her hair stuck to the perspiration on her face. “Tío Jaime,” she finally said, “how many tomatoes and chili peppers do you need?”
“Oh, not that many,” he said. “But I like to grow extra and give them to Mrs. Sanchez down the road. She makes them into picante sauce and gives me a few jars every year.”
By the time they were done and Tío Jaime had led her into the kitchen to wash her hands, Sandy felt like she had literally earned the right to interview him again. He seemed to co
ncur, because he asked if she was ready with her questions.
“Do you mind if we record outside this time?” she asked. “The porch makes a better background, I think.”
“Whatever you need to do, m’ija.”
They moved one of the kitchen chairs out next to the bench on his porch and Sandy set up her camera so that the sun was behind it.
“Tío Jaime, like I was telling you earlier, the readers really liked your first interview.” He smiled at this, completely bemused. “I didn’t tell them your real name, but we’re calling you the Chupacabra.” At this, the old man laughed aloud. “So now we want to do a feature called ‘Ask the Chupacabra.’ The readers send in questions, and you answer them.”
“Well, I don’t know what they could ask that I would know the answer to,” said Tío Jaime. “I’m just an old man ranching goats. I never went to college or anything.”
“No, don’t worry about that. I’ll just ask, and you answer naturally with the first thing that comes to mind, and if you don’t feel comfortable we’ll stop. Does that sound okay?”
He smiled and shrugged. Encouraged, Sandy pressed Record on her camera and began. “Okay, first question. This is from a man calling himself the Wild Juan. The question is, ‘What do chupacabras eat?’ ”
“Well, that’s dumb,” said Tío Jaime. “They eat goats.” After a pause, he added, “Goat tacos, with chile and lime. And preferably a Tecate on the side, also with lime. Next question.”
“Next one’s from La Sirena, and it has two parts. One, she asks if chupacabras get married. Two, she asks, if she and her boyfriend have been living together for five years and he hasn’t proposed yet, should she wait around any longer?”
Tío Jaime sat back and looked into the distance. By his side, Cano came to attention and waved his tail attentively. “Well, not only do chupacabras get married, but sometimes they get divorced, too. As for this woman’s boyfriend, I’d have to know more about the situation. I guess I’d have to ask what she’s waiting for.” There was a pause, and Sandy wondered if he was consciously putting in dramatic timing or just thinking up what to say next. The Chupacabra continued. “If he’s been living with her for five years, obviously he’s too lazy to go out and find anybody else. It sounds like he’s just waiting for her to get good and mad and force him to pop the question. That way, if it doesn’t work out, he can always blame her and say it was her idea. So, the real question is, does she want to marry a man who’s lazy and doesn’t take responsibility for his actions? If so, she should start nagging him right away.”
Lone Star Legend Page 9
