Wanted

by Heidi Ayarbe

Winners start asking for their payoffs. “Sorry about Mrs. Mendez, Mike, but, um, how about that cash?”

  Even Nim’s pretty low-key about things. He only won a couple of hundred dollars, anyway.

  Leonard called on Monday. When I told him I couldn’t get up to Reno, he said, “People die, Mike. The game goes on. You’ve got until Wednesday to pay up. This is your only break.”

  It’s Wednesday.

  At school, everything remains the same—as if Mrs. Mendez never existed. I wonder if I’m the only one who can feel the void she left. How can anybody know she’s the closest I ever had to what could’ve been?

  If someone dies, and nobody notices, was she ever alive?

  Moch hasn’t come back to school this week. I kind of need him. I just need to feel like I’m not the only one that hurts like this. I’ve already done this trip alone—when my mom died.

  Remember that time?

  Mom went off on a springtime religious retreat and Lillian stuck me in this horrible day camp where we were corralled around all day long by pot-smoking college students who didn’t have the money to go on spring break, so they spent their week watching us do crafts and play kickball.

  Lillian came to pick me up right after camp and drove me to the A&W on the south end of town. I had a frosty mug of root beer, the icy water sweating and beading on the glass. I looked up at her over the foam. Lillian didn’t do grandma stuff like baking cookies and buying sugared cereal. So something was up.

  Mid-gulp of my first, and subsequently last, root beer, Lillian said, “Mike, Roe has died.”

  “Roe.” I mouthed the word.

  “Your mother.”

  Mother. Mama. Mami.

  Dead.

  The root beer congealed in my throat like iced syrup, stopping at the top of my esophagus, cutting off my air supply. I could feel the liquid sliding down into my chest cavity, then settling in the newly opened hole in my stomach like some kind of prehistoric tar pit.

  Lillian talked, her burgundy lips surrounded by spires of pucker lines from tsk-tsking for so many years.

  She kept talking. “Springtime, melting snow, avalanche season . . . didn’t feel anything.”

  I looked into Lillian’s eyes and could see the lie. How could Mom not feel panicked while they suffocated in a rickety bus painted with the words ONE MIND, ONE BODY in a rainbow of neon colors to celebrate the Lord?

  I cleared my throat. “And my dad?” I asked.

  “Ray Hoyt.”

  I searched through the catalog of names we had called our Father: Elohim, Jehovah, Shepherd, Yeshua, Emmanuel, Jesus, Christ. Ray Hoyt wasn’t on the list.

  The name Ray Hoyt stuck in my brain like a tick.

  “Where is he?”

  “He died. In Korea.”

  “He was a soldier?” There was hope that my father was a great warrior for a cause. He might not be Yeshua, but maybe . . .

  She shook her head. “No. He was an English teacher and suffocated while eating live squid.”

  Lillian and I sat across from each other, just a couple of feet away, separated by a tall mug of fizzless root beer and what felt like a million miles. The silence weighed down on us, only interrupted by the occasional jingle of bells when customers came in and out.

  That night, she lit her candle—praying to her Virgin of Guadalupe.

  A little too late.

  Lillian reads the day-old papers that cover vandalism and escalating gang violence. Maybe being a day behind isn’t such a big deal. She works double time at the clinic, dressing wounds kids say they got in accidents and falls. Same story, different day.

  I ask her about Moch. She shakes her head. “He hasn’t been in.”

  “Have you heard about a kid named Luis? Luis Sanchez?” I ask. I finally found out the name of the boy in the field. I just want to know if he’s alive.

  Lillian shakes her head. “Do you want me to ask around?”

  “Can you?”

  Lillian nods. “Yes.”

  I sigh, relieved she doesn’t ask why. Time has become this thing we all have to do to survive—like some kind of measurement for endurance. It’s Wednesday—a marker that tells me three days have passed even though it feels like an eternity.

  Josh and I are sitting on the hood of my car, parked outside the cemetery. He’s got a bag of ice on his eye. Moch and some other guys jumped him this afternoon. Josh just took it. He didn’t fight back, instead let them pound him until they got bored.

  Moch’s heart wasn’t even in it. Josh would be dead if Moch wanted that. It’s unsettling how obvious it is—how Moch has become somebody who kills.

  Josh was just anger management. Moch needed to pound the shit out of somebody, and Josh being there was a good start.

  “Everything we own, every trip we’ve ever taken . . . everything is a lie.” Josh brushes some dirt off his designer-brand jeans. “These clothes, my car . . . everything.”

  I put my fingers to my nose. I can’t get the stench of the hospital off me, even though I’ve washed my hands and face about a thousand times in the past week.

  There’s an article about the vandalism at Ellison Industries titled “Group Named Babylonia Sought in Ellison Industries Robbery.”

  It’s tucked away on the third page of the newspaper. “No leads,” Josh says, and hands me the paper. The words blur. It was all for nothing. His dad’s short a few thousand dollars. We’re short Mrs. Mendez.

  “I have to get to Reno to pay Leonard,” I say. My neck hurts, head hurts, back and arms hurt; my throat hurts, ears hurt; it even hurts when I blink.

  “Will it always feel this bad?” Josh asks.

  “The fist-in-stomach feeling never leaves. Except on those really special occasions.”

  “Like when?”

  “Like . . .” I think about it. “Like with Babylonia. But that’s gone now, too.”

  Josh nods. “Let’s go to Reno.”

  My car sputters to a stop a block from Leonard’s offices at Clandestine—a dive bar off East Second Street. I listen to the familiar whine and hack of the engine. “C’mon, Little Car.” If there’s anyplace on this planet the beast might be appealing, it’s East Second Street. I tap the dashboard, waiting until the pinging sound stops, hoping that I don’t have a hole in my radiator hose . . . again. Little Car coughs to life and we crawl into Leonard’s parking lot. I exhale. “Are you coming in or waiting?”

  “Waiting.”

  I walk across the gravelly parking lot and take a deep breath before entering Leonard’s lair. In the back room, people play pool. Some guy breaks and the entire room explodes in a chorus of profanity. Another guy is sleeping at the bar, a string of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth to the counter. Women walk around the bar, out of place in their shimmery, barely-there cocktail dresses as if they were mechanical displays at a breast implant conference.

  I go up to the bar. “Can you tell Leonard that Mike’s here?”

  The bartender raises an eyebrow. “A little young, aren’t you, kid?”

  “Please,” I say.

  He motions to the left.

  I work my way to the back of the bar and tap on Leonard’s office door.

  “Come in.”

  I hand Leonard the envelope with the cash.

  Leonard drums his fingers on the desk. “Last time I wait for money. Don’t fuck with me.” He’s definitely not a condolence-card kind of guy.

  I try to ignore the bruised and split knuckles of the guy standing behind him.

  “Thanks, Leonard. Always a pleasure.”

  “You know why I help you out, Mike?”

  Oh geez. Today it even comes with a Godfather speech. I wait, knowing I can’t leave until I’m dismissed.

  “You’ve got potential, kid.” Leonard flicks ash from his cigarette. “But what the hell are you doing placing bets? What the hell are you doing in this scumball life?”

  For a second I see Leonard—a flash of the real Leonard. Some picked-on, effeminate nerd who fo
und a way to survive.

  Flash forward—there’s me, sitting behind a desk at a smoky bar. And there I am in designer jeans, a too-expensive T-shirt, and my Old Gringos, having my cronies beat the tar out of some guy who doesn’t pay me.

  Not likely.

  I’m going to the University of Washington. The U-Dub. Huskies. Seattle-bound. I swallow back the sick feeling I have because it all feels like a dream. My future. Like that word means anything anymore.

  Outside, Josh is leaning against the car, hands crossed in front of his chest. His eye looks puffy and bluish.

  “Everything made sense last week,” I say. “But now . . .”

  He pulls me to him, tight against his chest, resting his chin on my head.

  U-Dub seems a million miles away. I need something to get me through now—like maybe I can download a map to the future. Mrs. Mendez dies. Turn right. Walk straight. You should arrive in approximately ten minutes.

  But the only way to tomorrow is surviving today.

  Which sucks when tomorrow doesn’t look a whole lot better than today—a succession of emptiness, purposelessness.

  WANTED: Directions to find tomorrow. Urgent!

  Chapter 25

  Recession Affecting Brain Food’s Outreach: A Program That Feeds 800 Low-Income Kids in the Community

  Administration Still Hasn’t Approved “Hříšná těla, křídla motýlí” for Prom Song

  Babylonia Coincidence Not Likely

  SETH’S PB & J DEDICATES AN

  entire page to the symbolism of Babylonia from ancient times through to today. It references the practically invisible article in the Nevada Appeal. He discusses a book called The Richest Man in Babylon and compares modern-day society to the greed and indulgence of the kingdom of Babylon. “Wealth is equivalent to security. So, wealthy ones, take heed.”

  In Mrs. B’s class, half the kids are ready to tear into Seth. “Why?” he says. “I’m just saying . . .”

  “What are you saying?” Mrs. B challenges him. She holds up PB & J. The class gasps. “What? You think I don’t read it?” She taps her fingers on Seth’s desk. “Do you think you get to pump this thing out every week without a little help from the staff?”

  We do a collective jaw drop, and I mentally take back every awful thing I ever thought about the pointlessness of homogenized education.

  “I don’t know,” Seth says. “But I feel like there’s got to be a connection between the two robberies. And they were really . . . targeted.” He blushes when he looks at Josh. “Sorry. It just seems too coincidental to dismiss.”

  Josh shrugs. “That’s cool.”

  Moch’s empty chair glares at me.

  “My dad and mom bust their tails to put food on the table so some self-righteous group can steal it?” Trinity seethes. “And I’m the one out sixty bucks for ski trip tickets because somebody thought it was cute to rip us all off. That’s just wrong.”

  “Well, you guys could’ve kept a register, you know,” Catalina says and rolls her eyes.

  “Nobody’s stealing from your mom and dad,” Seth says. “Are they?” There’s a challenge in his voice.

  “So, you’re all into Babylonia. Babylonia, who screwed a few hundred of us out of the ski trip we paid for, and now you’re saying it’s the same group that stole from Ellison. If they’re so freaking amazing, what are they doing with the money?” Trinity asks.

  The class erupts into a heated discussion. Mrs. Brooks tells everybody to sit down and settle down. She does it in a tone that makes us all listen.

  “There are no easy answers,” she says.

  “I think Babylonia is wicked sexy,” says a pom-pom. I wait for her to fan herself and place the back of her hand on her forehead, swooning to the nearest chair. Sheesh.

  “Yeah, real sexy stealing from us. Real sexy getting Mrs. Martinez into hot water.” Trinity is one head spin away from an exorcism.

  “Big deal. A botched ski trip. And now Ellison. It’s not like either are missing the money,” Tim says. “So what’s a few thousand dollars to some guy who drives around a Mercedes-Benz?”

  “A Lexus RX400h, actually,” Josh says. “Eco conscious. A SULEV—Super Ultra Low Emissions Vehicle. Mercedes doesn’t have an eco line. Yet.”

  The class laughs. It’s good the rich boy has a sense of humor about his wealth.

  “It’s not like there’s even a proven connection between the two,” Mrs. B interjects. “Except for an article filled with more supposition than facts.”

  “Okay. No proven connection. But what if?” Seth says. “It’s a little perverse, but I admire them. We’re worried about class rings, prom, graduation shit—um, stuff. Sorry. But they’re beyond that.”

  “Because they’re thieves?”

  “They’re not stealing from just any rich,” Seth says. “The student council, who”—he looks at Trinity—“organized a pretty exclusive ski trip with the entire student body’s money, our money, to cushion your trip.”

  “It’s not like we’re living in a Commie country. I have the right to be rich, as do you,” Trinity says.

  “It’s not anybody’s right to take and redistribute. That’s total crap,” Javier says, joining the conversation. “Stealing is wrong.”

  I’m surprised he’s not on our side.

  Seth says, “I just suppose . . . ”

  “Suppose what?” Mrs. B asks.

  Seth shrugs.

  “Welcome to the real world of journalism. Hunches are fine. But to be put in print, you’ve got to have more than a hunch—usually.” She winks at him. “Keep that in mind for the next time you read PB & J.”

  Supposition. Hunches. Right. Wrong. Blurry intentions.

  Chapter 26

  AFTER MRS. MENDEZ’S OPEN-

  coffin rosary Thursday night, Clinica Olé was broken into in the middle of the night, and everything was stolen—medicine, gauze, even the toilet paper. GARBAGE DISPOSAL was painted all over the clinic. The surveillance cameras didn’t get a good shot of the looters.

  They stole the vaccinations, too.

  It’s now Friday.

  Today we bury Mrs. Mendez and the dreams that died with her.

  Don’t give up on Moch.

  I’m trying not to. Really trying.

  A spray of wine-colored roses and green stuff that spires out covers the entire coffin. A few roses, actually. More spray. Lots of filler.

  I leave a picture of Moch and me next to her coffin and find my way back to Lillian and Josh. Each time I inhale, I’m breathing in death—that sickly sweet smell of lilies mixed with body odor, fermented perfume, and candle wax. It feels stuffy, closed in. Weirdly hot for February.

  People stand, then sit, then kneel, chant, and hum; my pounding heart drowns out the sound of the humming prayers. Josh wraps his hand around my wrist. “Are you okay?”

  I shake his hand off and focus on the guy in a polyester suit who’s giving a speech in Spanish. I’ve never seen this man before. I don’t know who he is or his relationship to Mrs. Mendez. He didn’t know her, I’m sure. He doesn’t know about the rattle of mismatched pots and lids; the perfume of cinnamon and chili peppers; the love in her world. He wears a polyester suit. He has no poetry.

  “Remember her life,” Lillian whispers.

  Instead of remembering Mrs. Mendez’s life, I only see her glued-shut eyes, hands crossed in front of her chest. They even painted her nails.

  I look around at the blur of faces. People are shaking hands now, saying “Peace be with you.” They comfort each other. More prayers. More kneeling. Then people go forward to eat wafers, drink grape juice.

  The mass ends with “I Shall See My God.”

  Four pallbearers heave the coffin onto their shoulders, and some greenery shifts and falls off the polished wood when they walk past us. Mocho’s wearing black glasses. The other pallbearers include Tío Martin and two other cousins—all but Tío Martin wear la Cordillera armbands. Their cheeks glisten with tears and sweat.

 
They walk through the heavy church doors, leaving us in silence.

  The cars caravan to the cemetery. Lillian drives Josh and me. Kids play in their yards. A homeless man pushing a shopping cart piled high with everything from dingy blankets to shoe boxes stops and removes his hat, placing it over his heart as we pass. Nobody else on the streets seems to notice the funeral procession, or care.

  We walk to the gravesite. The fresh earth piled next to the massive hole in the earth.

  She was my family! I want to scream into the sky.

  “Let us pray.” The priest reads the Book of Isaiah, chapter 35: He talks about strength, divine compensation, a holy way only for those who are pure and wise—a place of happiness, void of sorrow and mourning.

  He’s describing Babylonia.

  In the middle of the sermon, Moch rushes toward a man standing on the outskirts of the crowd—the doctor who treated Mrs. Mendez at Urgent Care. Moch pushes him. “The flu. You racist bastard. The fucking flu.” The doctor doesn’t even block the punches. Moch’s hands get heavy, his fists leaden with grief until they drop to his sides. Useless.

  Mr. Mendez wraps his arms around Moch, but Moch pushes him away. He points at the doctor, shoving his finger in his face. The doctor’s tired, watery gray eyes meeting hate.

  The doctor’s shoulders slouch. He turns and leaves, making his way to the cemetery entrance, to mourn in his own way. I want to think he didn’t dismiss Mrs. Mendez as a typical system abuser because of how she looked, how she dressed, how she talked. Everybody has the flu this week.

  Everybody.

  Josh’s mom and dad stand in the back of the crowd, appropriately dressed, looking just-right sad. Josh’s ears burn red and I understand his memoir:

  Reconciling parents’ sins. Retracing. Backtracking. Sorry.

  Chapter 27

  OVER A TASTELESS DINNER,

  Lillian brings up Luis. “I found out about your friend Luis. He’s in critical condition at Washoe Med. Up in Reno.” She looks me in the eyes. “He took a brutal beating. I’m sorry.”

  I try to swallow down the cardboard pasta slathered by what Molto Bene tries to pass off as “just like nonna’s chunky garden variety bolognaise sauce” . . . in a jar. Lillian reaches her hand across the table, but I can’t bring myself to meet her halfway. It just lies there. Empty.