Always Faithful

by Patrick Jones

  He turns on his heels and walks toward the kitchen counter. He pours himself a cup of coffee like today was any other day. He wants things to go back to normal, which I realize for him means not being in this house, not being my dad. Defending Old Glory, not young Rosie.

  “I want you to talk to Father Rodriquez,” Mom says. Dad’s got country, Mom’s got God.

  “You will go to school only,” Dad says. “You will come right home. You will have no friends over. You will not leave this house without my permission. You will do this or else.”

  “Or else what?” I ask. Dad blows on his coffee, stares even hotter, and exits in silence.

  17

  JUNE 16 / TUESDAY AFTERNOON

  “Rosie, wait up!” Brooke yells after me as I walk home from stupid summer school.

  I slow down. I don’t really want to talk with her, but I’m going crazy being cut off from the world. When I got home from school yesterday, I found Dad had turned off my phone, ended the internet access from my computer, and put key locks on the doors leading outside. He had a tree service trim the oak by my bedroom. If I was getting out, I’d need to be a paratrooper.

  “She’s a terrible teacher, isn’t she?” Brooke says in her “everyone but me is stupid” tone.

  “Which one?” Unlike Brooke, who failed one course, I failed four, so my summer school day is full. She told me she sometimes hangs around summer school because she has no place to go.

  “Mrs. Jackson,” she answers. “Even that doofus Mr. Richards was better than her.”

  “You’re right about that!” I let Brooke talk while I nod my head to pretend like I’m listening. I’m really thinking about Mr. Richards and how I let him down more than anyone.

  “So, some of us are going to party tonight at Mission Beach. You in?” she asks.

  “I’ve never been.” When we go to the beach, it’s as a family and on base at Pendleton.

  “Really? It’s a crazy scene, but I gotta steer clear of the west end,” she says.

  “Rival turf?” I assume if she’s really gone white girl ghetto then she’s jumped in a gang.

  She laughs. “Nothing like that. That’s where Tino hangs, and we’re done. I caught him texting with some skank and now . . .” Brooke talks as fast and hard as a Santa Ana winds blows.

  I cut her off. “I’m grounded.” I tell her about breaking curfew: the icing on the crap cake. She laughs. I assume it’s because she’s high. Most kids at summer school seem to be.

  “My dad said one more thing wrong and ‘or else.’”

  “Or else what?” she asks

  I swallow hard. “I don’t know yet if I want to find out.”

  18

  JUNE 17 / WEDNESDAY MORNING

  “Brooke Aaron?” Mrs. Jackson says. I bet I could say “here” and Jackson would never notice that indeed Brooke’s seat is quite empty, but I’ve got no need for trouble with her.

  “Rosie Alvirde?” I respond and she calls the rest of the roll. Unlike the Marine funerals during the wars when the lists got longer, summer school attendance get shorter with more kids dropping out. I fight the urge to join the deserters because all I need to do is get through the next two weeks. Dad ships out for Parris Island on July 1. He’ll be gone and life will be back to normal.

  “This is the first assessment of the summer semester and . . .”

  Just shut up and hand me the test, I think. When she does, I practically rip it out of her hands. I wait until she says “go” and then I rip through it, with answers I know are correct. I know this material, not because I memorized it or she said it, but because Mr. Richards taught it like a real teacher does. We’ve got some of those left, but most of them teach to the test, so you forget half the stuff.

  I finish first. I’ve got time to kill before my next class, math, with the equally uninspiring Mr. Martin, so I head down to the commons since the library’s not open in the summer. I find a table near the corner and pull out an old MP3 player I smuggled out of the house. I’m listening, without earbuds, to the greatest hits of my junior high years when a uniformed security officer comes over.

  “You’ll need to turn that down, or better yet, off,” he says in an oh-not-so-friendly tone.

  I point to the empty tables. “I’m not bothering anybody. Leave me alone.”

  “School policy is . . .” he’s talking, but I’m not listening or watching his mouth. I’m just looking at the cheap fake gold buttons on his crummy blue uniform and that’s close enough.

  I stand, turn up the music, dance, and sing along with the “oorah” Marine chant. He tells me to sit, but I defy him. I keep dancing and oorah-ing until ten minutes later when more uniforms arrive. San Diego PD. And I know I got a blue uniform waiting for me at juvie. Oorah!

  19

  JUNE 18 / THURSDAY LATE AFTERNOON

  “Did you learn anything?” Dad says as I walk out into the lobby. As I suspected, the school didn’t press charges but my parents—Dad the decision maker, I’m sure—decided to let me spend almost two full days and a night at the Meadow Lark Drive Marriott, aka juvie hall.

  “Yeah, I’m scared straight,” I say, sounding as bored and unafraid as possible.

  “The car’s in the ramp,” Dad says.

  “Where’s Mom?” He walks away, I stay in place. He returns to me. As if.

  “I didn’t want her to see you here,” Dad says. “Why are you breaking our hearts?”

  Ever since Dad said he was re-enlisting, he’s been asking me questions and expecting answers but I’ve only given him anger, silence, and defiance. And no apology for my behavior.

  “I’m sorry.” I finally say the words he wants to hear. Maybe it was the sleepless night on the thin mattress on the hard bed with the black girl on the right of me crying for her mother, the blond on the left threatening to kill the black girl if she didn’t shut the f up, or me in the middle so scared that I almost forgot how to breathe at times. Maybe it’s none of those things.

  “Rosie, you can’t keep on like this. It’s killing your mother.”

  I nod in silence.

  “If you keep messing up, you’ll spend more than one night here. Understand?”

  “Yes.” I think about Miguel’s brother doing ten years and I can’t imagine it. From the other inmates—they called us residents, like it was a Marriott—acting all kinds of stupid, to the correctional officers acting all kinds of tough, I never want to spend another second there.

  “If Father’s Day wasn’t Sunday, I would’ve left you in there longer, but since it is the last Father’s Day before I ship out—”

  I cut him off there. I want to hug him, but I can’t. I don’t say what I’m really afraid of—it might be the last Father’s Day before you die.

  20

  JUNE 21 / SUNDAY EARLY EVENING

  FATHER’S DAY

  “Who brought the beer?” I ask Mom as I point at the six, down to two, pack of Tecate. “You know Victor and Dad aren’t drinking since they’re getting ready for . . .”

  “Me.” Mom takes the cozy off the can. I’d thought she’d been drinking soda. “I don’t know if I can make it through this day without it.”

  She motions for me to sit next to her at the table, where she’s wrapping leftovers. The rest of the family, including Grandma Rita, is outside on a perfect San Diego summer evening.

  She starts to talk but takes another sip of beer, then a large swallow. I’ve never seen her like this, but from Victor, I’ve sure seen what drunk looks like. “Mom, can I ask something?”

  Another swallow I guess means yes.

  “A few weeks ago, Dad said you threatened to leave him if he re-enlisted. Is that true?”

  Another swallow.

  “But it was a bluff, right?”

  Swallow.

  “Is that how you got him home in the first place?” I ask.

  She sets the beer on the table, and I grab before she can pick it up again. I don’t need torture to get the truth, just Tecate.

/>   “Yes, Rosie, yes, and I was wrong but I couldn’t do it anymore,” she says, words only slightly slurred. “You were getting older, Lucinda, Chavo, working two jobs. It was too much.”

  “Then why is he going back?” I ask. “I bet it was Victor’s idea since he’s got nothing.”

  “Have you asked your father?” she asks me. “All I’ve seen you do since he told you is slam doors, yell, run away, and behave like a wild child. You’re almost an adult. Act like one.”

  ***

  I find Dad outside with Victor and some other Marine buddies who must not have kids or dads to celebrate Father’s Day. There’s lots of laughing, and I know it’s something I can’t really understand. I have friends at school, although I stopped hanging around with them as much when Miguel came along, but I can tell it’s not the same. That’s friendship; this is kinship.

  “Dad?” I yell out. He waves, smiles, and motions for me to join him. I shake my head and stand my ground. He whispers something to Victor and walks toward me. Behind him, Lucinda’s taking pictures with a camera. She’s artistic; I’m scientific. We make a good team. Chavo and Grandma Rita seemed to have disappeared. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

  “What is it, Rosie?” We lean against the back porch. The wood stiffens my back.

  I take a deep breath, steady myself, and say it. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  As I wait for his answer, I don’t cry or act emotional. I’ll be an adult; he’ll respect that.

  He puts his hand on my shoulder. “Rosie, it’s not just one reason, so it’s hard to . . .”

  “I want to know.” I put my hand over the one resting on my shoulder. “I need to know.”

  “I’m tired of fighting with the VA, your mother, and these know-nothing managers in these terrible jobs,” Dad barks. “They say I’m a hero, yet I can’t get or keep a good job. If I go back in the Corps and serve some more years, then I can retire early. Enjoy my family.”

  “But what if?”

  The hand presses harder. “I made it through two wars. There won’t be another. America doesn’t have the stomach for it. Rosie, it’s the only thing I’m good at. I’m a soldier. I told you stories of how I was back in the day, getting in trouble, acting all kinds of stupid. I was headed nowhere. We were broke, then Lucinda came along. I was out of choices, so I joined the Corps. It helped me become the man I needed to be.”

  “I want you here.” I lose it. Dad pulls me tight; he’s my tear sponge. “I’ll miss you.”

  He whispers kind words in Spanish but says nothing else. Behind us, we hear a commotion. We turn and there’s Chavo and Grandma Rita. She’s dressed him up in a pretend Marine uniform. She pushes him toward Dad.

  “Like father, like son!” Dad says.

  I don’t see Chavo the boy, I think of Chavo in twenty years: the man, the father, the fallen hero. As Dad reaches out to embrace his youngest, his oldest walks away, head down, creating a path of tears.

  “Rosie, wait up!” Dad yells after me. I speed ahead, double time, but he catches up with me on the sidewalk thanks to his crash fitness program. “You can’t run away from this.”

  I wipe my nose and turn off the tears. “Why not—you’re running away from us again!”

  He motions for me to come closer, but I cross my arms across my chest.

  “I told you—”

  “I don’t believe you,” I snap, feeling stupid for getting suckered in by his false reasons. “If you loved us you would—”

  “It is complicated.” He kicks his right foot against the pavement beneath us.

  “No, Daddy, it is real simple.” My arms leave my chest; my fingers bawl into fists and I start bouncing punches off Dad’s chest. “It’s like you want to die.”

  “How can you say that? You’re not making any sense!”

  Another punch, left, then right. “But, Chavo, do you have to doom him as well?”

  He catches my flying fists in his big paws. “Rosie, grow up.”

  I wrestle free from his grasp. “I will!” I shout and run away again, but this time he doesn’t chase me. I don’t believe him or trust him; always faithful is the opposite of what he is to me. If he wants me to grow up, I know just the place to do that: Mission Beach.

  21

  JUNE 21 / SUNDAY LATE EVENING

  FATHER’S DAY

  “Does this bus go to Mission Beach?” I ask the driver. Downtown San Diego’s spooky at night, mostly deserted except around the bus transfer mall. He motions me onboard. About now I bet Dad’s wishing he hadn’t taken away my cell phone. I wonder how long it took everyone else to notice I had left the party.

  Since I left in a hurry, I have nothing but the clothes on my back. They’re party pretty, unlike the ugliness of Chavo’s mock Marine uniform. What was Grandma Rita thinking?

  The bus goes through neighborhoods I’ve never seen before and I realize how small my world really is and how I’ve made it smaller. Cut off from my old friends because of Miguel, cut off from Miguel because of me, I’m as alone as a person could be. At home, Mom’s obviously surrendered to Dad’s wishes, while Lucinda’s now acting like the obedient second child.

  The scene at Mission Beach is, as Brooke described, crazy even on a Sunday night. The bus drops me near the center entrance where a homeless horde acts as a welcoming committee. I take off my shoes and feel sand run through my toes. The sands here are almost gold; the sands of Iraq and Afghanistan are still stained with blood from the past and maybe will be again.

  I walk with my head up, soaking it all in. There’s people drinking, people playing beach volleyball, and more people drinking. I take in the sunset and start looking for a place to sleep.

  “Hey, Rosie Alvirde!” I hear a voice call from ten feet in front of me. I squint and the shape begins to take form. It’s Tino Estrada, Miguel’s cousin and Brooke’s ex. I wave.

  He runs toward me. He’s got a long white shirt unbuttoned and jeans rolled up at the ankles. When he gets closer, I notice he’s got green eyes, the same color as the tattoos on his broad chest. The one on his arm—the tag of the NCA, National City Amigos—is mostly red.

  “What are you doing down here?” he asks. “This is the wrong place for someone—”

  And like taking a test, I immediately know the right answer. “Looking for you.”

  22

  JUNE 22 / MONDAY LATE MORNING

  “You awake?” Tino whispers into my ear.

  We burned and crashed: burned our fingertips on many a blunt and then crashed on the beach. Tino’s next to me, shirtless. I mumble: my mouth as dry as the ocean is wet.

  “Be right back,” he mumbles and then kisses me on the top of the head. When he walks away, I see that his back—like his arms, front, and legs—is a canvas of ink and stories.

  But what’s my story? I don’t remember anything after we switched from beer to tequila. I’m not shirtless, my bra’s still on, and my jeans still snapped. My body doesn’t feel any different. Honor? Respect? Tino?

  I feel dizzy, thinking about what could have happened. I push the feeling away. I can take care of myself—I’m good at figuring out who to trust.

  When Tino comes back a few minutes later, he’s got a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He fires it up with a skull and bones lighter. When he gets closer, he offers me a drag.

  “No, thanks,” I say casually, like it’s something I do every day. “What time is it?”

  He laughs, takes a drag, but doesn’t pull out his phone. “You got some place to go?”

  I think about home, school, Dad. “No.”

  He sits down on the sand next to me. While my clothes are still on, they’re not clean. I feel sand everywhere, especially between my toes. “School. Crap jobs. Curfews. I’m past it.”

  I start to rise, but he pulls me back against him. It feels comforting in a way. He smells of smoke, weed, and sweat. I start to ask him about last night, but I know we did something, I’m just hoping nothing I regret. He’s got his right
arm across my chest.

  “Where’d you get it?” I ask as I move his arm away from me, hold it a few inches in front, and point to the NCA tat.

  He says nothing, only puts his arms back where it was, but tighter.

  “I want one,” I say, not sure why.

  Tino inhales and blows the smoke down my neck. “You don’t just get one,” he says in a tone that makes me feel so stupid. “You gotta earn it. You gotta jump in. Join Up. Family Forever.”

  Semper Fi. Familia para siempre. Men plus mottoes give life meaning and purpose.

  23

  JUNE 25 / THURSDAY EVENING

  “Lucinda, listen. It’s Rosie,” I say into the pre-paid cell that Tino bought me.

  “Where are you?” she shouts.

  “Listen, I called to tell you that I’m okay.”

  “We’re going crazy with worry. They have the police looking for you. And . . .”

  She goes on but I tune her out. I don’t want to hear how I’m breaking their hearts, how worried everybody is, and all of that. I wait for her to say the words, but she doesn’t.

  “So, is Dad still shipping out on July 1?” I ask.

  “He’s got his orders.”

  “So, like if I was dead, do you think he’d still go?”

  Lucinda starts to cry. “Don’t you ever say anything like that again! I’m telling Mom . . .”

  “I don’t want to talk to them,” I hiss. “I’ll see them real soon.”

  I look down on my virgin arm. I couldn’t do that. I look down on the rest of my virgin self and know that Tino’s not taking no for an answer much longer. Feeling his arms around me is a good distraction, but if I’m hanging on the beach with him, there’s a high price to pay.

  “Rosie, I have to . . .” is as far as she gets before I hang up the phone.

  “Hey, let’s go,” Tino says as he pats me on the butt of the jeans he bought for me. Well, he said he bought them, but since my role was to distract the clerk, I know what’s what.