by Sam Hawken
He headed for the back and left Kelly alone with Urvano. The old man didn’t move from his stool; he watched Kelly the way fight men do, as if from behind a curtain. “You looking for a place to train?” Urvano asked at last.
“Depends. What’s it cost?”
“Fifty-five pesos a week for towels and the shower. Eighty pesos on the first Monday of every other month.”
“You got hot water?”
“For fifty-five pesos a week? Don’t be stupid,” Urvano said, and he almost smiled.
“I’ll think about it.”
Urvano shrugged.
“How about I get back to you next week?”
“This place isn’t going anywhere.”
Kelly lingered. A few of the other fighters emerged from the back with their hair still wet from the showers. “Okay,” Kelly said. “Thanks.”
“You could fight all right, you stop getting hit in the face,” Urvano told Kelly. “You’re not too old yet.”
This time Kelly had nothing to say. He left the gym and stepped back out under the sun. His hands shook a little. He realized he didn’t recognize any of the buildings here, or the names of the streets.
He was too tired to run anymore. He oriented himself by the light. North to the border was as constant as a midnight star, and all points in Juárez were judged by their relationship to Texas, though the land was no less flat, no less dry, no less hot.
A dented old working truck loaded with teenaged boys cruised past. Kelly felt predatory eyes on him and the truck slowed. He didn’t look them in their faces, but he didn’t turn from them any more than he’d turn from a pack of feral dogs.
The truck dragged on another twenty feet and then the driver gave it the gas. One of the boys in the back tossed an empty bottle in Kelly’s direction and it smashed in the crater of a pothole. “¡Maricón!” the boy yelled and the others all laughed.
FIFTEEN
KELLY PAID HIS RENT REGULARLY and on time, which was more than many could afford even with a steady job. The men who ran the maquiladoras liked to say that they paid more than the average worker could ever hope to make outside the factory and that was true, but factors balanced out when apartment space grew short and prices for food and rent rose.
The landlord didn’t seem to care where the money came from so long as it came, so he didn’t bother Kelly back when he mounted his heavy bag on the balcony. Nor did he come around when Kelly bought a metal pipe from a scrapyard and figured out a way to make a pull-up bar out of it with nails and screws.
Today it was nearly one hundred degrees and the air was paper dry. Kelly perspired putting the pipe up, but he never felt hot; his sweat wicked away almost as quickly as it came.
He didn’t hear Paloma at the front door or her key in the lock. He saw her shadow against the window and got down from the milk crate he used as a stepladder. “Hey,” he said, “come see.”
She came onto the balcony looking pretty and tanned and smelling faintly of something sweet. Kelly grabbed the pipe and did a half pull-up to show off. The pipe stayed in place.
“I thought you were going to that gym,” Paloma said.
“Yeah, but I want to get more workout time at home.” Kelly wiped his face with the back of his arm. His skin felt hot. “You thirsty? I got some Gatorade in the fridge.”
Kelly served up lemonade-flavored Gatorade in plastic glasses. His refrigerator was clean inside and the cabinets in the kitchenette were neat.
They retired to the couch. Paloma watched him over the rim of her glass. “How do you feel?” she asked.
“Good. It’s working out.”
“When are you going to fight?”
“I don’t know. I have to talk with Ortíz.”
Paloma frowned. “Why Ortíz?”
Kelly looked back over his shoulder to the balcony. He could just see the pipe. It could take his weight, so now he just had to get out there and use it. “Urvano doesn’t have the juice to get me booked in sanctioned fights.”
“And Ortíz does?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You should stay away from him, Kelly.”
“Don’t start with that again.”
“You don’t know the things about him that I know.”
“Then tell me.”
Paloma shook her head. “It’s not time for that. Just… stay with Urvano. He’s a good man. Not like Ortíz. And besides, Ortíz won’t be around for much longer.”
“How’s that?”
“When people find out what he’s into, he’ll be gone.”
“How are people going to find out? You going to tell them?”
“Maybe.”
Kelly rubbed his eyes and pushed away a burgeoning headache. “You’re just talking crazy. I was thinking I could fight under another name. Ortíz has some pull with the right people; he can get them to book me without too many questions.”
“I’m telling you, Kelly, Ortíz knows all the wrong people.”
“Will you cut it out? All I need to do is make it in. That’s the hard part.”
Paloma nodded as if to herself. She put her empty glass aside. “You can do it,” she said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She leaned in to kiss him and everything else fell away. Kelly found wells of that sweet smell behind Paloma’s ears and at the base of her neck and she breathed deeply when he kissed them. In the bedroom he lay her back and went between her legs with lips and tongue, tasting salt and wetness and feeling the heat of her. She was still trembling when he moved on top of her and pushed his way inside.
After they lay on the bed facing each other. Kelly traced the curve of her hip with his fingers again and again, the flesh pliant beneath the skin. Paloma put her hand against his chest over his heart.
“I love you,” Kelly said.
“Shut up.”
“You always say that.”
“And you never shut up.”
“That’s because—”
“Hush,” Paloma said. She urged him onto his back, straddled him and made a face when he entered her from below. They moved together, her breasts brushing his face. Kelly kissed and sucked her nipples. The urge overcame him. Paloma pushed her hips down hard when he came into her.
Now Kelly was quiet and they heard the sound of traffic, not so distant and never still. Kelly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, Paloma breathed deep and even in the crook of his body. He pulled the sheet over their hips. He listened and watched until she stirred.
“I love you,” Kelly said.
“Fuck you,” Paloma said.
“Why can’t I tell you I love you?”
“Because I don’t like it,” Paloma said.
She started to rise. Kelly held her back. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “You don’t want to hear because—”
“Because why, Kelly?” Paloma sat up and pulled the sheet around her completely. Her hair was mussed, but it didn’t make her unlovely. Kelly didn’t like it when she looked angry and she did now. “Why?”
“Because I’m white?”
Paloma’s expression curdled. “¡Pinche cabrón!”
She left the bed and gathered her clothes. Kelly didn’t move; he knew he should stop her, but he couldn’t and didn’t. He heard her in the front room putting her shoes on. He was sweating again.
Kelly expected to hear the door slam. Paloma reappeared. She was flushed. When she pointed her finger at him, it trembled. “You are a goddamned baboso, Kelly! Is that what you think of me? Are you my fucking white-boy stud? Why are you such an idiot?” Paloma demanded.
“What the hell did I do?”
“What did you do? What did you do?” Paloma ripped the sheet from the bed and threw it at Kelly. He knocked it away. He saw Paloma’s eyes tearing. “I cook you food every week, Kelly. I fuck you. I bring you money. I don’t say nothing when you want to get your face bashed in over and over… why isn’t that enough for you? I’m not ready, Kelly! ¿Tú no entiende? I’m
not ready for that!”
Tears came. Paloma battered them with her knuckles.
“I just want you to say you love me,” Kelly said. He hated the sound of helplessness in his voice.
“Of course I love you, retresado! Why do you got to make me say it?”
Kelly got up. He felt strange, naked in front of Paloma fully dressed, and he embraced her awkwardly. She hit his arms with her fists, but the blows were soft and he barely felt them. She cried against his chest until her whole body heaved.
“Don’t say it,” Kelly whispered to her. “You don’t have to say it. Don’t say it.”
Paloma held him tighter and they said nothing after that.
SIXTEEN
THE SUNDAY WAS LIKE THE OTHERS: the same prayers, the same church, and the same conversations. Paloma didn’t see the black pick-up this time, but she imagined it had been there while she was at mass, or just around the corner.
Their group had a new member and Paloma walked beside her to the Sunday gathering. The woman, Señora Muñoz, was the youngest of all the mothers, though still older than Paloma. A black veil framed her face. The visible strain of hard work and sorrow would turn her into an artifact like the others, a monument to loss and pain.
Señora Muñoz’s daughter cleaned and vacuumed floors in the offices of a maquiladora called Electrocomponentes de Mexico. The Muñoz family lived in a home made of cinder blocks with no water or power. Belita Muñoz Castillo was thirteen years old, pretended to be older, and took a company bus to work at three o’clock in the morning alone.
Paloma preferred to talk about other things with new women in black, but the subject could never be changed, as the first question was always have you heard anything?
“We have new flyers with Belita’s picture on them,” Paloma told Señora Muñoz. “We’ll put them all over the city. All around the maquiladora.”
Señora Muñoz nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
“Someone will recognize her.”
In the beginning Paloma always said more, but she learned differently and now it was best to let simplicity be her guide. She could not say whether Belita would be found, or whether she would be alive. Sometimes a disappearance was just a disappearance. Sometimes girls found a boyfriend and vanished over the border and if la migra didn’t catch them, they might never return. Sometimes girls found a place in the bordellos where the money was better, but the shame too much.
Señora Muñoz’s mouth was so tight that speaking seemed to cause her pain. “Have you lost someone?” she asked.
“No,” Paloma said.
“God bless you anyway,” Señora Muñoz replied.
They walked along in silence, though the other women in black talked among themselves. Being together would not bring the dead or missing back, but sometimes even a little friendship was better than days and nights alone without cease.
“My husband,” Señora Muñoz said, “he died when Belita was only six. My oldest, Manuel, he said we should come to the city for the work. He was the man for our family.”
“Where is he now?”
“Dead,” Señora Muñoz said, and offered no explanation.
“Someone will recognize Belita,” Paloma said.
“She is dead, too,” Señora Muñoz said.
The other women in black perked up. No, no, no, they said. She’s still out there. Don’t give up hope. Paloma let them mother Señora Muñoz in the way only they could.
The lines on Señora Muñoz’s face grew deeper and deeper. She shook her head violently. They stopped in the street under the leaning face of an abandoned house, the spine of its roof broken and the ceiling collapsed. Weeds shot up through the cracked foundation. “I had a dream that she was dead,” Señora Muñoz declared. “They took her from the bus… they violated her and strangled her to death. She could not even cry for her mama!”
The women in black closed around Señora Muñoz. She pushed them back. Paloma stood away from them, helpless. No, no, no. Never say that.
“They raped mi hija! They are animals! Butchers!”
Señora Muñoz grabbed at her clothes and the women in black took hold of her arms. Paloma felt something on her cheek. She touched her face and her fingers came away wet. She shivered all over.
“Why did God take my children? I say confession! I leave money for the offering! Where is my Belita’s body? What did they do with her body?!?”
Hysterical tears stained Señora Muñoz’s face. She collapsed in the middle of the women in black, vanishing into a sea of lined faces and dark cloth. Words became wails and wails became lung-heavy noises filled with anguish. Paloma felt weak in the legs and steadied herself against the rough stone face of the dead house.
“Give her air,” Señora Guzman said. “She’ll faint.”
The women parted. Señora Muñoz lay crumpled in the street with white dust soiling her Sunday clothes. Señora Guzman was the eldest. She cradled Señora Muñoz like the Pietà. Instead of blood there were tears, and all the women in black cried.
“What did you say to her?” Señora Guzman asked Paloma.
Paloma shook her head dumbly.
“It’s not her,” Señora Delgado said. “Paloma is a good girl.”
Señora Muñoz looked asleep, her face wrought by tears, but her body still jerked, also twisted within. Paloma sobbed for her.
“Hush,” Señora Guzman told Señora Muñoz. She touched the woman’s forehead, but the wrinkles refused to vanish. “We can’t carry you; you must walk on your own. Hush now.”
The women in black urged Señora Muñoz to her feet little by little. She swayed when she stood, but they were there for her. Paloma ventured closer and put her hand on Señora Muñoz’s arm. The woman didn’t shrink away.
“Every woman must walk on her own,” Señora Guzman said.
They went on. Paloma looked back one time. She still didn’t see the black truck.
SEVENTEEN
KELLY STRETCHED OUT, JUMPED rope until his calves burned and then shadowboxed in the corner of Urvano’s gym. Other fighters were there – some Kelly knew by name now, and more that didn’t have any words for the white boy – sparring or tossing the medicine ball or pummeling bags. Urvano stayed on his stool most of the time; though occasionally he stepped down to offer a few words of instruction to this fighter or that fighter on something he spotted.
Managers and trainers cruised through the gym at odd intervals. Some stopped to watch Kelly and he did his best to put them out of his mind. He wasn’t a prospect anymore, not an up-and-comer; he was too old, too slow and just too damned white to make an impact anywhere south of the border. Still, just the sensation of being considered made him feel ten years younger, like he was in back in the gym on Zarzamora in San Antonio, still a white boy among the brown kids, but with fast hands and quick feet.
Urvano’s only had one mirror, cracked at the corners and fogging with age. Kelly shifted his workout to a battered, duct-taped mat before this stretch of silvered glass and watched his body move. For this he didn’t rely on speed or power; instead, he shadowboxed like an old Chinese man doing t’ai chi, deliberating every punch and every step.
Over five years, even with regular bouts in the ring, he’d let his form go. He didn’t have to think about the perfect hook or the right toe-step when he was only meant to be hit. Going slow he could watch himself and every sloppy error leaped off the mirror. Control like this sapped energy, and Kelly’s shirt soaked through with perspiration.
He didn’t notice anyone moving behind him, or the sudden hush. Trainers stopped calling punches and the gym fell quiet except for scratchy music on the radio.
“Hey, Kelly,” Ortíz said. “¿Cómo te va?”
Even in wraps, Kelly’s hands were heavy. His shoulders smarted. Ortíz was dressed casually, but still in a neat jacket and slacks. He seemed wrong for the gym, where even the occasional promoter came in looking like a street laborer. Here the older men were like Urvano: simple, dedicated and poor. Ort�
�z wore a gold watch.
Ortíz stepped up and mimed a body punch. “Looking good, Kelly. You lost some weight. About one sixty, huh?”
Kelly nodded. Beyond Ortíz he was aware of Urvano watching. “Less,” he said.
“That’s good. Real good. Nice to see you working so hard.”
“Yeah, well, I—”
“Listen, Kelly, I heard you were looking for me. I got somewhere to be, but if you have some time…?”
“Now?”
Ortíz tapped his gold watch. “Ahora.”
Around the gym a few fighters went back to the workouts. Trainers turned their backs on Ortíz. Kelly knew they were shutting him out, too.
“All right,” Kelly said. “Give me a minute to clean up.”
“Don’t take too long.”
Kelly used the shower, cold even though the day was hot, changed into clean sweats and met Ortíz outside. He passed Urvano without saying anything. When he came back there would be plenty to say.
He found Ortíz outside beside an idling pick-up. The bed was loaded with plastic cat crates lashed down with bright green and red bungee cords. In each crate was a resting cock, bright feathered and healthy.
“All right,” Ortíz said. “Let’s get going. There’s no room up front. Ride in the back.”
The pick-up was big, shiny and black with a double-long cab for a back seat and reversed double-doors. When Ortíz opened one, Kelly saw big men in tight-fitting black T-shirts inside, all of them heavy with muscle. One looked at Kelly from behind wraparound Gargoyles. Freezer-cold air conditioning spilled from the open door.
“Kelly, you coming, man?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He tossed his gym bag in the back and used the running board to climb in. The bed of the truck was rubberized and clean. Kelly found a spot beside the cat crates and settled in. Ortíz shut himself up front and the truck pulled out.
They drove almost an hour until they reached a long, low building on the far side of Ciudad Juárez. Kelly had never been there, but he recognized what it was: a palenque where fighting cocks did battle. It was not a turista spot, and the neighborhood was rotting into the desert flats where broad sprawls of colonias held sway.
