by Jace Killan
“It’ll be all right, mijo. You’ll be all right. You’d better get some rest. I’ve got to take Abuelo his meds.”
“I’ll do it,” Joaquin said.
She smiled, her eyes filled with exhaustion. She went into the bathroom and returned with two white pills and a yellow one. Joaquin accepted them, kissed his mom’s cheek and left.
In the musky room, down the hall, Joaquin found his grandfather watching CNN.
“I brought your meds, Abuelo.” Joaquin twisted the knob on the bedside lamp. The old man scrunched his thin, wrinkled face at the new light.
“You my new nurse?” he asked in Spanish.
“No, Abuelo. It’s me, Jaqui.”
“Jaqui? I knew a Jaqui once. But he got into some trouble.”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“My Jaqui used to steal from me.”
Joaquin’s gut dropped at the memory. He’d thought, hoped rather, that his grandfather never knew.”
“I’m pretty sure Jacqui took my guitar and pawned it, or sold it.”
He’d pawned it. “I’m so sorry, Abuelo. Really.”
“I liked the other nurse.”
“Um, she’s busy.” Joaquin held out his hand to show the three pills. “I just brought you your meds. Can you take them for me?”
“No.” the old Mexican pointed the remote and turned up the volume to a Viagra commercial.
“Abuelo, please take your meds.”
“No.” The volume climbed.
“Buelo...”
“No.”
“Why not?” Joaquin screamed the words to have them heard over the commercial.
“Because I’m dirty.” A sly smile stretched his wrinkled cheeks. “That’s why the other nurse sent you, isn’t it?” In one dramatic swoop, his grandfather tossed the quilted comforter aside.
What surprised Joaquin most about the sight of his aged grandfather, were the skeleton-like legs, with skin so pale they’d almost pass for a white guy’s. They were dotted in sporadic course black hairs, a definite contrast from the silvery militant dew on his head. Joaquin’s grandfather wore a wife-beater t-shirt and no pants, just a giant diaper.
“If I clean you up, you’ll take your meds?”
“You got it, Jaqui.” There was recognition in his tone. Was the old man messing with him? Or a spout of lucidity?
Joaquin did his best to change the mess, gagging a couple times at the sour odor of the soiled britches. He tried to hide any reaction from his grandfather. During the whole ordeal, the old Mexican gave no mind to the awkwardness of the situation. He spoke of running cross-country in high school. Joaquin had known some of his grandfather’s stories about how he’d set high school records and went on to win state two years in a row.
“My first marathon was in Texas. Of course, it’s not as hot over there as Arizona, but man, that humidity, that’ll kill you. And running twenty-six miles in it, just about did me in. But I ran it all. I was at the front of the pack for the first couple miles, until my shoe fell apart. Yes sir, I ran the sole right off it. I borrowed some dude’s shoes from the sidelines and kept right on running. Course, that little hiccup cost me placing. But I finished the race, even if I was wearing another man’s shoes.”
When Joaquin finished and washed up, the old man swallowed his meds as promised.
“Night, Abuelo.” Jacqui turned off the light and started to leave.
“Mijo, wait.”
Joaquin stuck his head back into the room, “Si, Abuelo.”
“I got something for you in that closet, there.”
Joaquin turned back on the light and opened the paneled door. He noticed first the guitar, leaning up against the corner, identical to the one he’d pawned all those years ago.
“It’s the baby blue pair.”
Joaquin noted the bright pair of tennis shoes in the center of the closet floor.
“I want you to have them, Jaqui. You and I are about the same size.”
Joaquin starred at his grandfather with wonder. Perhaps the delirium from before was an act. Or maybe the old man’s wits had returned for that brief moment.
“Just because you’ve had a hiccup, Jaqui doesn’t mean you can’t still finish the race. Those zapatos are magic, man. They’ll let you be whoever you want to be. Do whatever you want to do.”
2
Jared Sanderson gnawed on the side of his thumb as he waited for the attorney. He had forgotten to moisturize so his skin flaked and cracked at the sides of his fingers. By impulse, he chewed away the dead skin, especially when nervous.
He withdrew his cellphone to read the meme by Deepak Chopra, “The positive side of imagination is creativity. The negative side of imagination is anxiety.”
Jared had an active imagination. It had served him well until a few months ago when his world turned upside down. His creativity transformed to anxiety, like a beautiful cake left in the oven ten minutes too long.
Before, that imagination had kept him engaged when things grew tough. It allowed him to dream, and those dreams fueled Jared when he had to pull all-nighters, or travel, or miss his son’s wrestling meet, or renege last minute on a planned outing with his wife.
Those dreams gave him the strength to succeed. But now those dreams had morphed into nightmares.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Vance Rosenbaum, the bankruptcy attorney waved for Jared to enter his office.
At six foot one, Jared stood a couple inches taller than Rosenbaum, giving him a clear view of the attorney’s balding head, still he had more hair than Jared, who’d chosen to shave the few protesters that refused to fall out.
Jared entered the quaint office and sat in a faux leather chair with an uncomfortably tall back. Rosenbaum sat opposite, behind a messy desk.
“I’ve looked through everything,” Rosenbaum said. “You qualify for Chapter 7.”
“Don’t I make too much money?”
“You did when I thought you only had four kids, instead of five. You’re well under the limit for a family of seven.”
Rosenbaum went on to explain the process going forward. He would list the home, one of those dreams turned nightmare, as a bankruptcy asset. The first mortgage company would pull it out of bankruptcy and foreclose. Even though the bank would come up short, over a hundred grand, they’d walk away. The second mortgage company, however, would start to scream and holler for their nearly hundred and fifty thousand owed by Jared and his wife. That’s why Jared needed to file bankruptcy, because even after they liquidated everything he had, he couldn’t possibly satisfy the second mortgage.
“You didn’t include your health insurance information,” Rosenbaum said.
“I don’t have any.”
Rosenbaum tilted his head so he could look at Jared over his glasses. “Not through work?”
“No, technically I’m a contractor so they don’t have to pay for it.”
“Have you looked into the Affordable Care website?”
“Yep. Not affordable.”
Rosenbaum lifted an eyebrow.
Jared shrugged. “I make too much to qualify but too little to afford insurance.”
“You’ll get penalized by the IRS,” Rosenbaum said.
Jared shrugged. “It’s still cheaper than health insurance.”
“But what if something happens?” Rosenbaum leaned back in his chair.
“I missed the enrollment period, so I’ll have to wait until next year. Funny thing is, I had insurance before it became affordable.”
Rosenbaum returned to his notes. “Let’s talk about your stock.”
Jared had worked eighty-hour weeks for two years to earn that stock. And years more to keep it. It had been the carrot and he the jackass.
“It’s illiquid,” Jared said. “I can’t sell it no matter how much the company says it’s worth.”
“It’ll be a bankruptcy asset. The trustee will try to sell it.” Rosenbaum said.
“To who?”
Rosenbaum shrugged. “Anyon
e. The other shareholders, the company, Joe Shmoe down the street.”
“For how much?”
“Whatever they can get out of it.”
Jared’s face grew warm. The stock did have value to the right person. “What if it sold for more than I owe to my creditors?”
Rosenbaum laughed at the question. “If it’s worth that much, then why are you filing bankruptcy?
“I can’t sell it. It’s in my contract.”
Rosenbaum looked at the ceiling. “You could break the contract. I’d suppose that such a restriction is unenforceable anyway.” He lowered his gaze meeting Jared’s eyes and shrugged. “But I suppose you’re one of those guys who doesn’t want to break his word regardless of the legal rationale.”
Jared nodded. He and Rosenbaum were friends from another life. They’d met in law school, before Jared received a job offer with an investment banker. He switched paths and hadn’t regretted it until recently.
“If there is excess,” Rosenbaum said, “you should get it back, assuming the trustee doesn’t invent a bunch of billable hours that magically equal the excess.”
And that was that. The carrot that had dangled in front of Jared for years, tethering him to Spruce Capital, his golden handcuffs, forfeit.
“Sorry, Jared. Maybe you can work something out with your company. Maybe they could issue you some warrants or options.”
“To hell with them,” Jared said. “I’ve busted my backside for years on their behalf and I’ve got nothing to show for it but a misdemeanor.”
“Has that fallen off yet?” Rosenbaum asked, shuffling through some papers on his desk.
“Yeah, last week. I’m an honest man again.”
The misdemeanor stemmed from a US grant application made by one of Jared’s bosses. Jared never saw the actual application, just a signature page that floated across his desk one afternoon with a demand by the boss to “sign here.”
Naïve Jared didn’t even ask why they needed him to sign. He had been too grateful for a job and the newly issued stock of Spruce Capital to care.
He found out over a year later when the state department noticed the US grant application had been made by one, Jared Sanderson, listed as a member of Spruce Capital. Upon some digging they discovered that Spruce Capital was actually an affiliate of Spruce Investments who had been awarded the same grant the year prior.
And in the application, by sworn statement, the signee, one Jared Sanderson, declared under penalty of perjury that the company or any of its affiliates had never received the grant before, which would otherwise disqualify them from receiving said grant again.
That’s why his boss had him sign. As it happened, they didn’t see the recognizable boss’s name, but Jared’s and awarded the grant, though they rescinded it a year later. The company repaid the grant money and the penalty, and hired a good lawyer for Jared’s defense, or rather to keep him from pointing fingers back at the partners.
Fraud in the Application of a Government Grant. That’s what he held on his record—a Class B Misdemeanor. Jared wanted to fight it initially but the prosecution believed that he knowingly attempted to defraud the US taxpayers and his defense attorney believed that they had enough evidence to support a case.
According to his big shot attorney, the prosecution wanted Jared to serve time and pay a steep penalty but the attorney had worked his magic and the prosecution proposed a settlement—a small fine and no jail time with the charge in abeyance. The misdemeanor hurt Jared’s ability to trade securities. He lost his series 24 and series 7, 66, and 8 licenses. He could reapply now, but did he want to get back into that game? Maybe he’d give law school another shot.
“They screwed you,” Rosenbaum said.
“Yes they did.”
3
The clock read five a.m. and the sun hadn’t yet risen, but Joaquin couldn’t sleep. His mind drifted elsewhere. He thought about the narcotics anonymous meeting he’d attended the night before. He thought about his father, his brother, Brina—so many memories, all painful.
In prison, he had found ways to bury his demons. There, he lived in a different world, apart from society and time, and away from the constant nagging of his mother.
Ma, the real reason he couldn’t sleep—the catalyst to his wandering mind. Like him, the demons were also free and this terrified Joaquin more than anything.
He had learned in the twelve-step program that a trigger, if left unchecked, could fester, mutate, and develop into a thought that, if ignored then avoided, would lead to a poor behavior. He wouldn’t go out and use meth right away, but the trigger, now a thought, might solicit a seemingly innocent action. Though Joaquin knew better now. That action might be a phone call or a stroll down the sidewalk. He might lie to himself that he’d go for a walk and so what if he bumped into someone with the keys to his past life.
Then he’d lie to himself more, as convincingly as possible, that he wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was strong. He’d set boundaries. He’d changed. He was in control. And then he’d wake up one day back in prison.
“Brina,” he said as he often did to remind himself of the pain his addiction had caused. One simple decision to use or not use had molded his entire existence. He wished he’d never taken the drug. Meth had destroyed his life. And robbed Brina of hers.
With his mind back in check, he rose from the bed wearing only a pair of whities and pounded out a set of fifty pushups. Blood raced through his muscles and mind. He’d walked out of prison and he wouldn’t go back. He had given too much to the drug, and he wouldn’t give anymore. He had changed. He was and would remain sober. He’d continue to work the steps. He’d continue to let God direct his life.
Though he’d taken a life, he’d offered his in penance. God had accepted his sacrament also, Joaquin had felt that. God had taken the wretched man he’d been and promised to use him for goodly purposes.
Joaquin knelt by his bed and prayed. He prayed for forgiveness. He prayed for his mom. For his ailing grandfather. He prayed for peace and relief from his demons. And he prayed for the opportunity to do something good with the remainder of his life.
After a long shower, he dressed in his new clothes and the magic zapatos given to him by his grandfather the night before. They fit nice. Joaquin went to the kitchen where his mom had prepared enough huevos con chorizo to feed an entire soccer team. His mouth watered at the spicy aroma.
Her hair hung down, long black strands draping to the small of her back and spread out like a cape. She usually wore her hair up in a ponytail.
Upon seeing Joaquin, she gave him a hug. He kissed the top of her head and patted her back. She returned to the frying pan and dished out breakfast while Joaquin sat at the dining table. He wondered how many meals she’d eaten alone over the years, with only his bedridden grandfather for company. He immediately regretted his recent thoughts of moving out.
His mom raised her gaze above Joaquin. He turned to see what caught her attention.
“Hey.” A Hispanic gal, with large eyes, nodded.
Joaquin nodded back.
“This is Brooklyn,” his mom said. “Her family moved to Oregon for work, but she wanted to finish up high school with her friends, so she’s staying here until she graduates.”
Brooklyn held out her hand. Joaquin accepted it, matching her fierce grip and smiled. “Well, thanks for keeping Ma company.” The guilt from thoughts of leaving dissipated.
“No hay de que,” Brooklyn said.
“Hablas Ingles?” Joaquin asked.
She cocked her head. “Claro que yes.”
Maybe she did speak English. Or at least she spoke perfect Tex Mex.
Brooklyn sat in the chair next to Joaquin and received an equally large portion of huevos con chorizo.
“Gracias, Ma,” she said.
Ma?
“What?” She must’ve seen Joaquin’s reaction. “That’s what she likes me to call her.” She did speak perfect English. She’d fit right into their bilingual famil
y.
Joaquin nodded and swallowed his mouthful of huevos. Why hadn’t his mother ever mentioned Brooklyn before? Not in her letters or her visits? Maybe she didn’t want to corrode that world with his—with him.
They ate in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, broken by Brooklyn. “So how was prison?”
That earned a slight smirk from his mom and shake of the head. Apparently Brooklyn knew all about him.
She didn’t give Joaquin time to answer. “It’s cool. I did my share of hard time.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
His mom only shrugged. If she knew her eyes didn’t divulge it.
Brooklyn crouched over her plate, shoveling in the huevos, hardly chewing in between spoonfuls. “You didn’t get, you know, molested or anything, did you?”
Joaquin choked on his food. She shrugged off his reaction and took another bite. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Joaquin found his mom’s eyes, sad eyes above a smile. She shook her head and shrugged.
“I’m sorry,” Brooklyn said. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
“Yes.” The silence returned.
His mom joined them at the table, nibbling on pan tostado. “Jaqui, would you like to visit Chorch?” his mom asked.
He did but wasn’t sure he was ready to face his boyhood idol. A rush of guilt kept him from swallowing his breakfast, so he nodded. Chorch had died almost three years earlier, in the middle of Joaquin’s stretch at Graham County Penn.
“We can leave tomorrow,” she said. “Chorch’s Mormon friend eSpencer said he would get us tickets.” His mom assigned people adjectives based on their oddest description—kind of a Latin thing.
“So soon?” Even though he’d left prison, the freedom hadn’t sunk in yet. He felt like he needed to ask someone’s permission, but he wasn’t on parole, not even on probation. That had been part of his plea deal.
“eSpencer made all the arrangements.”
Spencer had served with Chorch sometime, somewhere. Joaquin didn’t know any details and was afraid to ask.
