Victorious Cross

by Jesse De Rivera

  With a small grin, his dad shook his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t work like that. I don’t go in every day to earn ‘credit’ so that I can just not show up when I don’t feel like it.”

  “It’s called a personal day,” Victorio pointed out, getting increasingly agitated at his dad’s casual dismissal. “Everybody else gets them.”

  Leaning against the desk, his dad's expression suggested that Victorio was digging himself into a hole. “Regional managers don’t get away so easy.”

  “But it’s not like you won’t be in the next day!”

  Dad sighed, tired. “Victor…That’s not just bad business, it’s irresponsible. Can you not tell why?”

  Dammit. The word ‘responsible’ had come up again. Victorio hated these conversations, and they happened with greater and greater frequency the older he got. “If you’re manager, you should be able to make someone else do it sometimes.”

  “Listen, Victor…Responsibility isn’t just telling others what to do. You should be old enough to understand what it really is.” He raised a finger, his voice firm. “I don’t always want to deal with the tenants, or have to make the call to evict, deal with my maintenance staff, or with junior office leads who can’t tell the difference between their heads and a hole in the ground…It’s not fun. And, yes, all the complexes will still be there if I don’t show up now and again, but responsibility means I have to do the stuff that isn’t fun too.”

  It was like walking on a landmine, hearing the same lesson repeated over and over just because Victorio said something wrong. He stared in the other direction and mumbled out a sound of agreement, making no outward sign of how grating it was to hear this again.

  “You look at me, are you listening, papi?”

  Victorio swallowed hard and met his father’s eyes with a subtle nod.

  “Good,” he said with his own. “Real responsibility means doing what you don’t want to when you don’t want to because of something more important than you.”

  After this, his father relaxed. He moved past Victorio and rubbed the top of his head. “Mm? You listening, papi?”

  Victorio smoothed his near-black waves back down, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Good. Remember that the next time you walk out when you’re supposed to be watching the twins.” He slipped out of the office.

  With a half-frown, Victorio muttered out a reply of understanding. He then glanced at his father’s desk, and the piece of paper lying next to his keyboard.

  “Come on, dinner should be ready,” his father called.

  “Coming,” Victorio said, although he didn’t move right away. Instead, he picked up the paper, then felt a twinge of guilt. It was a photo of himself and the twins at a pool party the summer prior, their laughing eyes staring directly at him.

  In the kitchen Mama busied herself with setting the last of the plates on the table. The twins hadn’t come down yet, and the air smelled thickly of rich chicken sancocho, rice, and fried plantains. Dad had opened the fridge and pulled out a soda (Mom had replaced it all with diet or club soda because of Dad’s rising cholesterol).

  “Eh, these diet ones,” Dad grumbled. “Might as well be bubbly Windex.”

  “You know you got to watch now,” Mama chided him.

  “Sí, sí, amor. Now,” he said as he popped the can open, “did you have a question for me, Victor?”

  Slightly hesitant after the conversation in the study, Victorio folded his arms on the bar counter and nodded. “Eyeah…I was, uh…Jimmy was talking tonight…” Victorio tapped one foot on the floor anxiously.

  “Mmhm?”

  He cleared his throat and readjusted his lean against the counter. “He, uh…His dad lost his job last year. It’s been really bad for them.”

  In token sympathy, his father nodded. “It’s happened to a lot of people. Times are hard.”

  “Yeah…just—really bad,” Victorio fumbled. “They’re gonna lose their house.”

  Mama’s face snapped to him as she rested the dish of rice on the table—while Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. “…Really,” he said.

  When growing emotional Mama would instinctively switch to Spanish, and in it, she said, “Oh, no…Rhoda is a sweet woman too. I should call our cousins, we’ll go see her. Bring food.”

  Dad leaned against the opposite counter, his brow tightening and his face difficult to read. “I’m very sorry for them. Que lástima.”

  Victorio leaned farther over the bar and smiled widely, hoping his eagerness was contagious. “I told Jimmy I would send his parents to you. We can help them!”

  “...You did.”

  “Come on, there’s plenty of rooms you’ve been having trouble renting out, right?” Victorio urged. “They’re really cool people, I’ve been to their house a few times. And remember when I missed the bus and Mrs. Knoffer brought me home?”

  “Of course, Victor,” his dad sighed.

  The sigh caused Victorio’s energy to drain instantly. He looked at his mom, who only shifted her eyes between the two of them and twirled a bit of bushy hair around her index finger.

  Dad rubbed his temples, let out another tired sigh, and finally said, “The Knoffers are certainly welcome to apply to any of the complexes…but you know that if they’re losing their house it means they’ve been missing payments for some time now. It’s not very likely they’ll pass a credit check. But—if they want to apply they can.”

  Victorio’s stomach lurched and his jaw went slack. His mother shook her head and mumbled as she returned to moving the plantains to the table. Then his eyes swiveled back to Dad, drinking his stupid diet cola and staring back at him calmly.

  “What?!” Victorio burst out.

  “There are certain things I can do in my business, and a lot of things we just can’t,” he replied, not missing a beat.

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said? They’re gonna be homeless!”

  “I heard you.”

  “So what’s wrong with you?” Victorio snapped, his palms on the counter.

  His father stood straight now, hands at his hips and his face tense. “Victor, I work for a property company, not a charity. I can’t give the Knoffer’s any more leeway than I give to any other applicant.”

  “Oh, that’s what I’m supposed to say to Jimmy?” Victorio scoffed.

  “You shouldn’t have made that kind of a promise to him to begin with, Victorio,” he said sternly, pointing a finger. “You don’t cash the rent checks, do you?”

  Any chance of reason was far, far gone. “Maybe I should! You don’t care about anybody else, do you?”

  Mom shook her head largely and held up her hands, whispering low.

  “You better watch what you say, Victorio,” his dad grumbled, his voice lowered after noticing Mom.

  “But you don’t care!” he snapped. “That’s why everything sucks so much right now because nobody who runs anything cares.”

  His father rolled his eyes. “I shouldn’t even turn on the news if that’s all you hear, papi.”

  Why wouldn’t he listen? It drove Victorio crazy. “It’s not Jimmy’s dad’s fault that he lost his job!”

  Firmly Dad placed the empty can on the counter and stared him down. “If he was serious enough about taking care of his family, he would have done whatever it takes. If I lost my job tomorrow, you bet I would find another way to take care of you.”

  “But, like, the banks took advantage of people, right? That’s not fair! They took advantage of everybody!”

  “Banks didn’t do nothing. People made their own decisions, papi.”

  “All those bad loans and stuff, how was anyone supposed to know until it happened, right?”

  “If they couldn’t handle owning a house, they shouldn’t own a house. No one forced anyone to sign a paper, Victor. There were no banks holding guns to people’s heads.”

  “They might as well have.”

  “Look, the banks have nothing to do with this,” Dad said, hi
s jaw tightening. “You made a promise to someone you can’t keep. You have to do what you’re responsible for, Victorio. Not someone else’s responsibility. You’ll figure that out—”

  “Will you shut up about that?!” Victorio shouted. That stupid. Freaking. Word. Again.

  His mom banged her palm on the table. “Papi! Enough.”

  “I don’t want to figure it out,” he seethed, spinning away from the counter. “I don’t want to think like you.”

  “Victorio!” his father shouted after him.

  He ran out of the kitchen and burst through the front doors, dashing into the lawn and down the driveway. He didn’t look back, didn’t do anything other than listen to his own furious, ragged breaths as he ran. He stopped to catch his breath, doubled over and panted loudly. He had run to the end of the street, to the dead-end cul de sac with several dark, empty houses. Victorio let out an angry cry; and kicked at loose bits of gravel on the pavement.

  “Is this it?!” he shouted into the air. His own voice forming words startled him, but it felt good to vent. He glared at the stars, his hand idly grasping the chain of his rosario, realizing exactly Who he felt like yelling at. “Do You hear me?! This is the best You could come up with?”

  His arm tensed for a shining moment. He was certain he would rip off the chain, make abundantly clear his rage to both himself and the universe. “You freaking suck! You suck at making worlds if this is really the best one You could make!” The moment ended when his fingers rested on the edge of the cross, and his righteous anger began to drain, leaving him only shaking from adrenaline and his throat tight.

  “You…You…” He sank to the curb, and forlornly looked up to the stars nearly completely drowned out by lights. If this was it…if there was only surviving and not caring, then what was the point? “Why did You let us screw this up so bad…?” he whispered, burning tears at the corners of his eyes.

  Sluggishly he folded his arms over his knees and sagged his forehead against them. “God, we suck…”

  And the only answer was the silence of the suburban night and the distant clicking and chirping of indifferent insects.

  Chapter Three

  Visitor to Knowloon

  Across the world, the evening skies of southern California turned into the mid-morning blues of a very different coast. Compact streets crowned by the glaring colors of signs in Cantonese and English, blaring horns of overladen trucks and the clanging of bicycle bells, and towering skyscrapers throwing their dense shadows on the citizenry below. Sizzling street food, the sting of exhaust, the drifting scent of strong tea.

  The tightly-packed streets of Hong Kong bustled with activity, with shouts in many a language tossed through shop windows, the open air of stands, and drifted between commutes rudely interrupted by a change in routine: Cars and pedestrians struggled to pass dozens and dozens of men and women sitting calmly on the ground. Some held signs reading such phrases as “Hong Kong Demands Dignity,” “Cut Beijing, then Hong Kong,” and “The World is Watching;” others, particularly younger protesters, sat holding hands in solidarity; and while all gave only slight glances to frustrated Kowloon residents, their eyes cautiously returned to the men in crisp police uniforms watching over the congested streets—waiting.

  A news crew gathering to record the scene; voices speaking Mandarin and Cantonese were joined by others in English. In the center of a foreign crew, a dark-skinned woman in a trim business suit held a microphone; and her delicate fingers rested on an earpiece. Her deep eyes remained firmly fixed on the camera facing her, and her well-tuned voice spoke to audiences oceans away: “—where protests against the massive government layoffs still crowd the streets. Tensions are high here in Hong Kong’s Kowloon district, as word from the Chinese government has been scarce at best.

  “Thus far the protests have remained peaceful but have clogged traffic in already congested business districts and blocking access to businesses. It is hard to say how long the demonstrations will remain at this stage, or what the reaction from mainland China will be. More on this story as it develops. Back to New York.”

  The man beside the camera signaled the end of the broadcast, and the anchor relaxed. “Everybody break,” she called. “Did A.J. get back with that coffee? It cannot be this hard to find a Starbucks. Just not possible.”

  The news crew threw commands and idle chatter back and forth. Nearby, a single figure strolled by the tension, the protests, and the weary unease. She wore only the most sedate of smiles—as though the commotion around her reached her more like the gentle lap of a quiet ocean tide. The clack of her black high heels punctuated her every step, her thin hips swayed in a conservative, graceful, ebony skirt. Straight, silky hair cut at her jawline rustled, framing her tan skin, high cheekbones, and slim eyes narrowing when she smiled with her deeply rose, full lips.

  “‘Hard to say how long,’” the woman repeated, in speech that sounded most definitely like Mandarin…or perhaps Cantonese. Though this was also clearly English. “How long?” she wondered aloud. “How long can any creature stand it? How long can frail mortality wallow in misery before it thrashes in its desperation?” She pushed a pair of impenetrable sunglasses further up the subtle curve of her nose as she looked down at protesters. Poor, poor creatures. They could not and would not pay her any notice, they had no reason. With the face she wore, she was simply an observer and a voice for what they so valiantly attempted to hide. So focused were they on this that none of them paid her any mind, she passed as simply another face among the sweating, panting, slowly withering masses.

  Every second they lived meant they spent another closer to death, to returning the stuff of their bodies and souls to the universe to sort and make use of. Deep within the caverns of their beings, they knew what they truly feared was death, yet they continuously gave their fear other names: poverty, agony, despair, loneliness, prejudice, war.

  “But it is not comfort you seek,” she assured a group as she passed. She strode—and in her path, the anxiousness of the crowds grew, like ripples following a ship’s wake. Gazes shifted, and previously silent lips parted in heated whispers. People in open carts threw louder complaints between stalls, and men in their sharp uniforms eyed those on the ground with greater intensity.

  “It is not understanding. Not love. Not hope,” she continued with a cheerful smile, glancing over her shoulder to an argument that rose between a vendor with a wheeled cart and several young people planted on the street. “It is upheaval. Destruction of your constant: the terrible march of death’s approach.”

  Still, no eyes focused on her, but she wistfully closed her own to soak in the sounds of slowly rising voices. The unrest…how comforting it was. “You cry for it…along with belonging,” she whispered, interpreting another nearby string of verbal insults. The heated voices widened her smile.

  “We can give you togetherness, complete oneness,” she said with greater strength as she walked, her fingers spreading as though caressing the gradually rising disquiet like a timid creature.

  Her lips parted and her eyes opened slowly. From behind the glasses, none would see the orbs of her eyes shift to an inky black. None would care to notice anyway. “And destruction,” she purred. “Complete destruction. The world you knew will fall, and with your cries, you begged us to do it.”

  At last her pace slowed as she reached a park overlooking more of the city. Far across the bay, the skyline of Hong Kong shone, and around her, more wretched bodies sat on the ground. Bewildered tourists and inconvenienced businesspeople attempted to avoid the protests, while the still-unnoticed woman halted facing the water. She let out a light laugh, feeling the densely packed life and mounting tension around her. A swell of anticipation filled her chest and her arms lifted unconsciously. This was the place. It was time.

  “We are here.”

  Chapter Four

  The Spear

  Victorio’s exhausted and sluggish return into the house was met with warm understanding. In that way th
at it was the total opposite and his parents had screamed at him and grounded him—he wouldn’t have access to his video games for a week. In sheer frustration he had gone to his bedroom with barely a word and without a bite of food, just throwing stone-faced, smoldering looks to everyone at the dinner table. Now his stomach rumbled in protest, and he sat at his desk with the lamp on, staring at his untouched algebra homework bitterly. The numbers on the textbook pages taunted him, yet his eyes refused to focus on a single one.

  The Knoffers were welcome to apply. “We don’t run a charity,” his dad had said. Well, then who the hell did his dad work for? His friends already thought his father was a dick and Victorio never knew how to argue otherwise. Now what was he going to say? Honestly, how was he ever supposed to look at his father with any kind of respect again? And how would he face Jimmy? That look in his eyes had been so haunting…

  “Ugh!” he heaved. “It can wait.” He slammed the book shut and leaned his forehead against his palms, his fingers digging into his short curls.

  His eyes stung from tears, but he stubbornly swallowed them down. He had well past the age where he had gotten used to hearing jabs about boys who cried. Wearily, he reached across his desk and turned off the lamp. The second he did, the entire bedroom fell into darkness, the shelves of comics and video game novelizations were thrown in shadow, his messy bed and wire cubes stacked full of anime DVDs turned into black shapes. Only the alarm clock provided light, just a blue-greenish haze outlining the room from the direction of his bed.

  Victorio slid off his chair and he draped across the carpet with a flop. For a time, he lay there in the dark, staring up at the ceiling. The world had never seemed so empty as right then, completely dark and only the echoes of his thoughts to listen to. Admittedly, they were very loud thoughts, namely ones about just how small Victorio saw himself. Everything was bigger than him and bigger than the desire to do the right thing. Bad things would always happen to good people, while those could help could do nothing. Or chose to do nothing.