by Yuri Herrera
There was only one person who called him Friend with a capital F: the Mennonite.
The two of them had met on a job they worked together, in a place a long way away from the place the Mennonite called home. They were going to pick up a body. The deceased was a family friend, which was why when the Redeemer arrived he found the man attempting to stitch up a finger.
No way am I handing him over like this, as if he was off to just anywhere.
The Mennonite was standing on the corner like a tree that had sprouted out of the sidewalk. These days he no longer wore the denim overalls and straw hat but the workboots and plaid shirt were still there. His red beard spilled out the sides of his facemask.
They hugged and the Redeemer asked:
So. What brings you way over here? You never used to leave your land.
Well, you know. Unhappy people aren’t the problem. It’s people taking their unhappy out on you.
I do know. Yeah.
The Mennonite had left the land of his kith and kin on his own, and had adapted to the world of those always in a rush—silence and simple toil replaced by engines and cement. But at least back there he’d had his people nearby. Now, not even that. Who knows whose toes he must have stepped on, why he had to strike out on another path. Still. It was time to get on with it.
What’s the story? he gestured toward the Castro place.
Boy’s in there, the Mennonite responded. They didn’t touch him.
I’m going to have to ask him that myself.
Fraid that’s going be a bitch, Friend.
The twist in the Mennonite’s lips filled the gaps left by his words. There was no longer a Romeo to ask.
Fuckit, said the Redeemer. Same story on this side.
He tried to explain in a way that made it seem he understood more than he did: the Fonsecas hadn’t killed Baby Girl, she’d died of the disease, and all the body needed was to be prettied up a bit.
The Mennonite nodded and took a deep breath and then said This is the truly fucked-up part. Wait for me here. He turned and walked back to the Castro house.
In the two minutes that went by before Baby Girl’s father came out, it felt like the street contracted and began to throb. The Redeemer took out a smoke then thought better of it and put it back in the pack, glanced at the Castros’ place and then turned the other way. He crossed his arms. Fuckit, he repeated.
He heard the Castros’ metal door open then slam shut, and then panting, encumbered by sobbing, and steps approaching. He shot a quick sidelong look at the Bug and with an almost-imperceptible hand-pat signaled Stay put to Vicky and the Neeyanderthal.
When he felt him a half-step away, the Redeemer turned to face the man. Tho they knew each other, Baby Girl’s father stared and stared and stared without recognizing him, and steadily with each passing second the man aged as the news inhabited his body, despite his attempt to resist it, his attempt to hold it at bay with rage. He slammed the Redeemer against the hood of the Bug and started shouting in his face.
Bring her to me! You bring her to me now! In one piece, you sonofabitch! You bring her to me safe and sound, right now!
The man was clenching his fists and trembling and still making up his mind whether to throttle the Redeemer. Then his boys flew out of the house, berserk. The older one wielded a club and the younger one a bat, itching to find something to justify their tunnel vision, their hatred. As soon as he saw them, the Neeyanderthal got out of the Bug, thumbs hooked through his beltloops; Vicky stepped out too, slower, eyeing them from her side of the car. One of the two must have made an impression on the brothers, who continued their approach, but slower now. The younger pointed his bat in the Redeemer’s face.
The Mennonite held a hand up and said That’s not the way, son.
The kid stared at the Redeemer, reluctant to let go of his rage, but then his father began to sob and both boys dropped their weapons to the ground and held him.
The Redeemer thought they’d do better to scratch the wound than bandage it: those who lose a child shouldn’t be consoled; parents die to make room for their kids, not the other way around. He wasn’t being cruel; he just felt that a gash that deep had to be respected, not swaddled over with cuddles.
Sir, said the Mennonite, Will you let the nurse-lady in? Just for a minute.
The man nodded without looking up.
We’re going in too, the Neeyanderthal said.
The man nodded again. Okay let’s go, he said, turning toward the metal door and heading off, eight hundred years older than when he’d come out it the other way.
In the Castros’ living room hung a family coat of arms. The Castros had been noblemen and lords in some century or other in some castle or other on the opposite side of the world—and there was the colorful coat of arms to prove it. They were different from the Fonsecas that way: the only things the Castros held on to from their poorer days were those they’d marshaled up from many generations back. On the walls of the Castros’ living room, besides the coat of arms, there was nothing but photos of the boys in team uniforms and a diploma granted to Baby Girl for having finished her degree in psychology. Psychology. For fuck’s sake.
They descended a freezing staircase. The basement was full of shadows cast by a dim corner lamp backlighting a dozen chains with hooks from which hung calves, turkeys, and half a cow. The Redeemer didn’t say a word but at the sight of his raised brows, Castro said We don’t trust outside meat.
In a room adjacent to their private abattoir he saw Romeo, laid out atop some boxes. One of his legs was falling off the side, as tho he’d made a quick move to get up. They encircled the body in silence. Only the Neeyanderthal rubbed his hands together, saying Damn it’s cold. Vicky approached and began to study what was once Romeo. The Redeemer noticed he was dirty, that he still reeked of alcohol and had marks on his knuckles but no sign of blows to the face. Vicky examined his head and opened his shirt and palpated his ribs, sunken, beneath a blue bruise. The Redeemer turned to the Castro kids, whose hands were in their pockets.
What went down, muchachos?
The Castro kids were spitting images of their father, differing only by the quantity of hair on their heads and the way their flesh fought what was going on inside each of them. The older one jerked his shoulders up and down in a childish gesture and said We didn’t do jack. I mean, we talked shit earlier on, but we didn’t fight.
We liked him, said the younger one, sneaking a look at his father and continuing. Our jefe here always says the Fonsecas are fuckin users and climbers, but the son was a good kid.
So what’d you say? This was on Lover’s Lane, right?
Mhm, said the older one. We saw him on our way into Metamorphosis, and since he was going somewhere else we thought he was headed for the swanky strip club, so my bro here said Hey, pretty boy, this ain’t Vegas you know, and he said Fuckin deadbeats, I come here cos I carry big bills, not loose change. Stuff like that.
But we were just smacktalking, said the younger one. Even if it sounds like we wanted to fight.
There’s some people you just mess with, that’s just the way it is, said the older one.
The Redeemer nodded. He knew what they meant.
Then what?
That was early, the older one said. We took off after a little while to hit the other clubs, and we were on our way when we saw Romeo again, he was pretty looped, in the parking lot—no idea where he was going but he was staggering back and forth—and that was when he got hit by a van. It was backing up and I don’t think they even saw him.
The Redeemer stiffened in shock but didn’t dare turn and look at Vicky to corroborate what they were saying.
A van? You’re telling me a vehicle did this to him?
S’right. Tapped him and took off. Me and my bro here went to see if he was okay. He wasn’t breathing good but said not to call an ambulance, said it would pass. We picked him up and put him in the back seat of my car. Then we took off too, but on the way he asked us not to take
him to the hospital, said please just let him hang with us a while, lay low and then he’d go home.
The Redeemer walked over to stare at the boys, straight into their eyes—back, forth, one, the other—searching for signs of a leaky lie.
And you didn’t lay a hand on him. That was it. You’re sure.
The boys nodded.
Well, said the older one, not all of it. We brought him back here and we were going to call a doctor but when we got him into the house he suddenly got real real light, and then heavy, and it took us a few minutes to realize he’d died since we didn’t think he was doing that bad.
Here? Kid was sick and you brought him down here?
No, upstairs, we were in the living room. But then someone called.
A girl, the younger one piped in.
Yeah, a girl, and she said the Fonsecas had Baby Girl and weren’t giving her back till we brought them Romeo. Which is why we didn’t call and brought him down here instead, so he wouldn’t rot.
The Redeemer turned to Romeo, whose hands Vicky was now examining. Romeo looked rough, but like his rough had come from earlier stuff and not from dying, as if the only thing dying had done was ashen up his skin, but you could tell there was prior pain.
Give us a minute, the Redeemer said, not turning to anyone in particular, and the Castros left the room.
By the way, the Mennonite said. Someone’s out to jack you up. Boyfriend of one of your neighbors. Watch your ass, amigo.
Fuckit, how did little beau slick get word? And how did the Mennonite, who wasn’t even from around here, know about it?
You giving me a tip-off or a warning? he asked.
Both, but not cos anybody told me to. Little punk’s got no balls of his own and was looking for a hardcase to rough you up. Guy I know got asked and I’m just passing it along, free of charge.
The Redeemer shrugged no-big-thing shoulders and asked So, what about this?
The Mennonite crossed his arms and eyed Romeo.
I think they’re telling the truth.
Not entirely, said Vicky. I buy the story about the truck but that doesn’t explain his hands.
Oh, the Mennonite said. That was me.
The other two stared.
He looked a little too tidy to have died in a brawl.
He didn’t die in a brawl.
But his father isn’t going to believe that, is he? Why make matters worse by saying they didn’t lay a hand on him? Those two families got bad blood between them. So let them believe what they want to believe, let them bury their boy like a hero. They’re not going to simmer down when someone tells them to, they’ll do it when they’re worn out. So tell them what happened, but let him look like he had a fight first.
Vicky looked as if she was about to say something but thought better of it. And then she said: Why wouldn’t he want to be taken to hospital?
Now that part I can’t explain, the Mennonite replied.
They walked out and Romeo remained alone once more. They went upstairs to the Castros and before they left the mother appeared, frightened and pale, and demanded Now tell me what they did to my little girl.
The Redeemer decided the Mennonite’s strategy wouldn’t wash with her and said: More or less the same as what happened here. A tragedy with no one to blame.
What are you saying? That she’s dead? That each of us ended up with the other’s body by accident? Is that what you’re telling me?
Something like that, yes.
The mother stared straight at him and said Those things just don’t happen.
Some sad fuck so much as takes a bite of bread and we got to find a name for it, he thought. Or an alias anyway. That’s about as close to the mark as we get.
Banished man alias Mennonite. Broken man alias Redeemer. Lonely old soul alias Light of my life. Ravaged woman alias Wonder where she’s gone. Get revenge alias Get even. Truly fucked alias Not to worry. Contempt alias Nobody remembers him. Scared shitless alias Didn’t see a thing. Scared shitless alias Doing just fine. Some sad fuck alias Chip off the old block. Just what I was hoping for alias You won’t get away with this. Housebroken words alias Nothing but truth.
I got to buy condoms, the Redeemer remembered aloud.
Vicky eyed him mockingly.
What, your hands are too calloused?
No. From time to time there occurs a miracle.
Vicky gaped as if to say You got to be kidding—you, talking miracles? But Vicky didn’t get it. Vicky was beautiful and a hardass and used to striding across a room and grabbing any man she wanted by the balls and dragging him into her bed without losing her head or getting quixotic. She’d never had to work to find someone to fuck, and he pitied her that a bit, just as he pitied those who don’t know what it feels like to see a big city for the first time because they grew up in it, or the guy who can’t recall what it is to feel handsome for the first time, or to kiss someone who seemed impossible to kiss for the first time. Vicky knows nothing of miracles.
Yeah, sometimes the ladies let their guard down, right? the Neeyanderthal said.
Oh god, said Vicky.
Here we go, she’s going to tell me off.
No, I’m not, it’s just that you don’t get it. At all. See, men will fuck a chair, even if it’s missing a leg, but when women fuck an ugly man or a jerk it’s not because we’ll fuck any old thing, it’s cos that’s the way things start and we know there’s more to it. Men don’t come to see that till years later, once they’ve stopped mounting anything that crosses their path.
Thanks, sweetheart, I knew one of these days you’d come to appreciate us.
This only applies to men with a soul, Neeyan.
So maybe Vicky simply understood different things. Either way, the Redeemer braked and left the two of them there in their silence when he caught sight of a pharmacy. He got out of the car but immediately saw it was closed, and the metal shutters had been beaten repeatedly with a pipe or a club or a desperate fist, and beside the shutter hung a penciled sign reading No facemasks.
Dammit. Oh well, he had work to do. Maybe he’d find somewhere open on the way. He returned to the Bug and rolled down the window so as not to hear the silence between Vicky and Neeyan, but the silence of the street slipped in instead: a stubble field of frantic signals emitted from the antennae that fear had planted in people’s heads. He could sense the agitation from behind their closed doors but sensed no urgent need to get out. It was terrifying how readily everyone had accepted enclosure.
He drove back to the Castro house, didn’t stop, circled the block twice and headed for Las Pericas. He had to see where he’d hit a checkpoint, which he would: no such thing as a free ride, no matter how hard you hope. A block before Las Pericas they came upon another funeral procession. Normally he’d have passed it, to avoid waiting out the whole mournful motorcade, but this was the saddest cortege he’d ever seen: in the hearse no one but the chauffeur, and behind the hearse one lone Bug with a single person inside, facemasked.
He circled the block Las Pericas was on then headed to the Neeyanderthal’s, assessing the street all the while. One would think he’d find fewer obstacles than ever, but the fear seeping from beneath people’s doors threw him off his game; he stopped at every corner to look both ways, glanced in the rearview every twenty seconds, and each time he did he saw the same thing: asphalt about to rear up at him. Things had been roiling in the background for some time, but now you could see the bubbles starting to rise.
He dropped the Neeyanderthal at his place and the man got out without a goodbye for anyone. Next he headed for Vicky’s. They passed the funeral procession once more, stopped now at a checkpoint. One soldier was opening the coffin and two more interrogated the chauffeur and lone mourner.
Assholes, said Vicky. As if the corpse is armed.
They passed one more pharmacy, also closed, with a sign in the window: Closed for funeral. He dropped Vicky at her place and made for his own. Perhaps he should do the swap there, given how riled up
both families were. When he got back he saw that on the house next door someone had written on the wall Clean up you pigs that’s why we’re in this shit. And sure enough, there was a black puddle running from the front door to the gate, tho no insects hovered over it. He looked up. In truth there was nothing to see but a wall of tepid clouds blocking the stars.
He walked into the Big House. Standing a moment at one end of the hall he debated which of the four doors to head for: the anemic student’s, to smack him around for being a shitstirrer; Three Times Blonde’s, where he’d fall to his knees and beg Please please please, for the love of all good things, wait for me just a little longer; his own, to see what was going on; or la Ñora’s, to sound her out about the body swap. Bingo.
He knocked. He heard no steps but la Ñora opened almost immediately, without looking through the peephole. She eyed the Redeemer with an odd intensity, trying to place him or perhaps keep him at bay. She said not a word.
Good afternoon, señora, said the Redeemer.
Evening, you mean, la Ñora replied automatically, tho it seemed like her mouth hadn’t moved.
Right, yes, evening. Ahh, listen, señora, I just wanted to let you know I’ll be having some people over tomorrow. Not for long—they’ll just deliver something and go—but there will be several of them.
La Ñora stared, no change to her inscrutable expression.
I wanted to let you know so you don’t worry, in case you hear anything.
You’re going to have people over, la Ñora said. And you want me to keep my nose out of it.
Sharp lady, la Ñora.
The Redeemer smiled. Just don’t want to worry you, señora.
La Ñora gave a nod. The Redeemer, too, nodded good night and turned. As he was about to enter his place la Ñora said Sir, then faltered. Young man, she tried again: have you seen the boy?
Answer me but keep your nose out of it, she said with her eyes. On the surface she looked the same as always, fierce and wary, but the Redeemer saw, now, a certain tender tremble and almost wanted to embrace her. He’d keep his nose out of it, tho. The anemic student. Who’d have thought.
