“That close . . .”
“Closer,” Rosalie told him. “We might have put down a layer of adobe and concrete and steel, but the desert’s right there underneath it all. Sleeping. Dreaming. Dangerous, if you don’t treat it with respect.”
“Like my dragon.”
Rosalie hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod.
“I guess so,” she said. “I guess you could say it’s just like your dragon.”
“Maybe that’s why I’m here. Maybe I’m supposed to learn something from the desert. Though it’s funny. Paupau says that the dragon clans are born from the sea and we usually live near some large body of water, like she does in Chicago.”
A chill ran through Rosalie—not of fear, but of recognition, though recognition of what, she couldn’t say.
“This was all ocean once,” she said. “The old people say you can still see the ghosts of mermaids in the dry washes when it rains.” She gave Jay a thin smile. “Maybe that’s not just some BS story like I always thought it was.”
“Really? This was all an ocean?”
Rosalie nodded. “When Ramon takes you out into the desert on Sunday, ask him about it. He knows places where you can see shells and fish that are imprinted right into the rock.”
“I’d like to see that.”
“You know,” Rosalie went on, “you should think of keeping a journal. My teacher Ms. Baca says that putting your thoughts down on paper is a great way of figuring out what’s going in your head. Writing it down makes it easer to see the connections or something like that.” She grinned. “Or you could start a blog.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Tío would let you use his. Or you could use the ones at the library.”
Jay shook his head. “No, it’s too public. I might as well start an Internet support group for people who think they might be dragons.”
Rosalie laughed. “I wonder who’d join?”
“I don’t think I’d want to know.”
“Well, if you want to try the journal route, I’ve got some extra school notebooks.”
“Sure, why not. So long as no one else but me has to read it.”
- 4 -
JAY
I feel kind of weird writing in the notebook that Rosalie gave me. At first I thought I’d wait for something interesting to happen, but my life’s fallen into such a routine that I realized I could end up waiting forever. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, because who needs interesting times? They’re just another way of saying “trouble.” Me, I like the normal.
But Rosalie keeps asking me how the journal’s going, if it’s helping me figure things out. I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t like disappointing her. She means well. She thinks it’ll help, and maybe she’s right—or she would have been right, except the dragon’s not really a problem anymore. Sure, it never goes away, but I’m happier here in Santo del Vado Viejo than I can ever remember being—even back when I was still just a kid, before the dragon showed up on my back.
It’s not that I don’t love my family, or Chicago. I miss everything about home except for the weather—even my sister Julie’s teasing and Paupau’s lectures. I like the narrow streets of Chinatown, busy and full of life from early in the morning to late at night—I felt safe in all the noise and bustle. But here I’m free. My life is normal. Maybe things got off to a bad start the first day—what with the bandas chasing me and all—but since then I’ve finally been able to see what it’s like to live an ordinary life.
Mostly. There are still a few too many “so you’re a dragon” conversations with Tío and Rosalie. Though I’ve got to say I prefer that to the way Anna studiously ignores it.
I know. I’m whining about how I just want to forget the dragon, then I’m whining because Anna does exactly that. But it’s different with her. She doesn’t want to talk about it because I think she’d rather just pretend the whole thing didn’t exist. I’m not sure if she believes in it or not, but either way it kind of scares her. I see it in her eyes. I’m either nuts or I’m dangerous.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like she’s unfriendly or anything. But she also makes sure that we’re never alone. It’s never just the two of us, and how do you talk about this kind of thing in a crowd?
Maybe I’ll surprise her one day and just blurt out how I feel in front of everybody.
I don’t know. Girls are just a total mystery to me.
I didn’t lie to Rosalie about how I’ve never gone out with a girl. It’s the sad truth. I’m like any other guy. I obsess over them all the time. The problem is that I’ve always had to do it from a distance. Now that I don’t have Paupau looking over my shoulder—grilling me about some girl I’d been seen talking to at school, or whatever—I could hook up with anybody and nobody could say different. But the only girl I want to be with in Santo del Vado Viejo is Anna.
Maybe the real problem is that I’m just not cool enough to be her boyfriend. Rosalie’s taken me to some band rehearsals and now I’ve also seen Malo Malo onstage. Let me tell you, Anna really is a total rock goddess, while I’m just a guy who’s never going to be much more than a cook from Chicago’s Chinatown.
The band plays this weird mix of garage rock, surf guitar, rap, and mariachi music. I’ve never run into anything like it before. A lot of the songs feel instantly recognizable and hooky, but they’re still fresh, while some of them are so unexpected that it just makes you grin because they all come together so perfectly. And while you just want to dance—especially to the instrumentals—it’s not all party time, either. A few songs are updated versions of those traditional corridos that Rosalie told me about, but most of them are ones that Ramon has written about the border problems and growing up in the barrio. Some of those are justifiably angry, and some just break your heart.
They’re seriously good. Ramon plays trumpet and guitar and does all the lead vocals. There’s Margarita on drums, Luis on bass. Gilbert plays both keyboards and trumpet, and sometimes a whole horn section on those keys of his. Hector’s on the turntable. But good as they are, Anna just blows them out of the water. She’s sexy as hell up there, but she’s not using it, she doesn’t even need it, the way she can play. I’ve never heard sounds like she gets out of her Les Paul, and she’s all over the stage, even while she’s cutting loose with some blistering lead.
But I’m not crazy about her just because she’s hot. I mean, it doesn’t hurt, but there’s something else there for me . . . some, I don’t know, connection, though I guess that’s what everybody thinks about the person up onstage that sends their pulse into double time.
I’m not the only guy standing there, mouth open and totally in love. I look at some of them just oozing cool, and I think about me, and I know I don’t have a chance. But I’m not ready to give up just yet. Like the I Ching says, “Perseverance furthers. It furthers one to have somewhere to go.” Or as my dad puts it: “You can’t win if you don’t play,” though he was talking about lottery tickets.
Rosalie asked how the writing’s going again tonight and I was able to tell her “fine.” She gave me a kind of a look, but what? I’m going to show her what I’ve written? Like that’s going to happen. I feel weird enough blathering all over those pages the way I do without actually showing them to somebody else.
El Tigre was true to his word—the bandas have left me alone. I’m not saying they’ve suddenly started to like me or anything. Whenever I see one of them on the street they give me what Tío calls a “thousand-yard stare.” He says it’s a prison term, but I know what it means. It’s this cold, hard look, full of hate and promising trouble. So long as all they do is stare, I don’t care.
But it reminds me again of how different it is here from at home. It’s not like there weren’t gangs. The Latin Kings started up in Chicago and we had some in our school. You’d pass them in the halls—colors hidden, but we all knew who they were, and as long as we stayed out of their business, they stayed out of ours.
The
bandas here in Santo del Vado Viejo have been on my case since I first stepped off the bus. Who knows what would have happened if I hadn’t gone and talked to El Tigre? But I made the deal, and they’re honoring it. So I try to ignore them the best I can.
The only strange thing is, when they do give me that look, I don’t feel nervous. I feel angry instead, and I’m not a guy who walks around being angry, especially not with losers like the bandas. But it happens, and when it does, I can almost feel something big shifting inside me. And that sound I’m always hearing—the rustle of scales against each other—grows momentarily louder.
I know. It doesn’t make a lot of sense. But it’s real. I experience it. And it’s not a pleasant feeling.
I was going to find my own place, but Tío insisted that I take his spare bedroom for as long as I want. He won’t even let me pay rent. He says with José in prison and Ines living on her own he’s got plenty of room, and considers it incentive for me to stay on at La Maravilla. We both know he can’t afford to pay me more than he does, but if I don’t have rent expenses, it’s that much more in my pocket and he thinks there’s less chance that I’ll pack up and leave at the first opportunity.
I thought he was overselling my usefulness, but I’ve got to say I was surprised with how easily I got into it.
“You’re a natural,” he told me two days after I’d started learning to make the dishes on La Maravilla’s menu. “I’ve never seen anyone pick it up so fast.”
I wanted to just take the compliment, but I had to be honest.
“I’ve been doing this since I was nine years old,” I told him, “helping out at my parents’ restaurant.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not only the experience. You have a real gift in the kitchen, just like my mother did.” He grinned. “She could make a beautiful meal out of nothing more than dirt and weeds.”
“Yum.”
He pretended to take offense but then grinned and gave me a light tap on the shoulder with his fist.
I almost don’t want to like Rosalie’s boyfriend Ramon. He looks like all the seriously cool guys back at my old school with his Latino good looks, the long, black hair tied back in a ponytail, the big dark eyes that the girls would be endlessly texting about. You look at him, and you just know he could have any girl he wanted—though to Ramon’s credit he sees only Rosalie.
When he’s onstage, he’s all fire and charisma and ten feet tall. Really. He’s so much bigger than life. Offstage, he’s soft-spoken but he’s got a quick smile, and man, does he know a lot about everything. Music. Books. History. The desert.
And let’s face it: Sure, he’s cool, but he’s so damn nice. When you’re talking to him, unlike most people, he’s totally paying attention, not thinking about what he’s going to say next. You can’t not want to be his best friend, though you know you’ve got to earn it.
Last night he stayed over in Rosalie’s trailer like he does most weekends. This morning I wake to find him at the foot of my bed and realize what roused me is him tapping the end of the footboard with his shoe. I look at the window and it’s still dark outside.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
“Morning,” he says in a cheerful voice. “But it’s supposed to get really hot today so I thought we should make an early start.”
“This isn’t morning,” I tell him. “This is just cruel.”
He laughs and taps the footboard again.
“I’ve got coffee waiting for you,” he says, and leaves the room.
Turns out he’s as good at making coffee as he is at everything else. I warm up some tamales I brought home last night. By the time we’re done eating, have shouldered back-packs that are filled with water bottles and energy bars, and head out the door, the sun’s starting to come up. We leave Tío’s house and walk toward the pink sky that’s haloing the peaks of the distant mountains.
I knew the desert started up just at the end of the block. That’s where Tío’s street, Calle Esmeralda, meets Redondo Drive, and it’s where the Vulture Ridge trailhead begins, one of a dozen or so trailheads from which you can go hiking into the southern part of Hierro Madera National Park. But in the two weeks I’ve been here, I never once walked down to even just have a look. I figured there wasn’t much to see.
Besides, I’m a city kid. We were always too busy with the restaurant to go for Sunday drives. Sitting on Tío’s patio, and lying in my bed at night, I can hear the coyotes, and that’s about as close as I ever got to the desert. But now, standing here at the trailhead with Ramon, I’m stunned by its beauty.
For one thing, there are wildflowers everywhere. Ramon names them—pink fairy dusters, yellow brittle-bush, red desert globemallow, and Indian paintbrush—until it just sounds like a poem he’s reciting. Even the cacti have flowers. When I seem surprised, he says, “Why shouldn’t they? Their ancestor was the rose, which is why she’s the Mother of the Desert.”
Like I said, he knows a lot about everything.
The trail starts easily enough. It’s a gentle slope going up into the foothills. But then it starts winding back and forth on itself and the incline gets steeper and steeper. We stop once in a while to catch our breath and take in the view—though I think Ramon does it more for my sake than his. He’s in great shape. But under Paupau’s tutelage, I’ve practiced endless breathing techniques and special exercises for flexibility and strength, and I have no trouble keeping up. When Ramon realizes this, we don’t stop unless there’s a particularly spectacular view, like the one of the city spread out in the valley below us before we take the trail to Vulture Ridge on the other side of the mountain.
At one point a pair of red-tailed hawks rides an updraft near the trail’s edge. Ramon grins and lifts a hand to them.
“
I smile and give them a wave, too. I get the ping inside my head that tells me they’re more than the birds they seem to be.
“Paupau—my grandmother,” I tell him, “likes to think that we’re all brothers and sisters—animals, birds, people.”
“Makes sense to me,” he says. “Out here it’s aunts and uncles, though you hear the animal people called ‘cousins. ’”
My gaze goes to the hawks, distant now.
“But those birds—” I begin.
“Wouldn’t be animal people,” Ramon says. “I mean, they’re probably not born with enough cousin blood in them. They’d be part of a . . . I’m not sure what to call them. There’s this group of men—Yaqui and Kikimi, some Mexicans—who drink mescal tea and meditate until they can slip their human bodies and rise up on hawk wings. We call them mescaleros—or just the uncles.”
“So you can sense the difference between regular people and . . . um, animal people?”
He shakes his head. “No. Though everybody’s supposed to have some faint trace of the old animal blood in them.”
“Then how did you know those hawks were . . . what did you call them?”
“Mescaleros. And I didn’t. I just give that greeting to any red-tailed hawk I see out here in the desert.” He grins and adds, “Don’t look so disappointed. Look around you. The world’s still full of magic.”
We’ve come off the mountain as we were talking and are walking along a ridge about the width of a country road. The ground drops suddenly on either side and the view is stunning. On the right, the Hierro Maderas march into the distant horizon. On the left, the valley holding Santo del Vado Viejo is spread out like a Navajo blanket displaying jewelry.
I stand there for a long moment, mesmerized by the view. I have never in my life seen anything like this. We’re so high up that turkey buzzards are circling below us. I think of sharks, drifting deep under the ocean’s surface, then remember what Rosalie told me. I turn to Ramon.
“Rosalie says this was all an ocean once,” I say.
Ramon nods his head. “That was long, long ago.” His voice is no more than a thoughtful murmur. “But I’ll tell you, sometimes when I’m walking do
wn there in the desert, I think I hear waves and the songs of the fossilized fish, slowed down by the weight of stone and dirt and time, but an echo’s still there.” He shoots me a quick look before he adds, “Once when I was hiking up a dry wash south of the city, I swear I saw the ghost of a giant longfin dace swimming away from me.”
Then he laughs. “You must think I’m a complete space cadet.”
“No, I think it’s cool.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“Seriously,” I tell him. “Like I said, my grandmother’s always saying how everything’s connected. All of us on this world. And the past and the present, too.”
“That’s what the Kikimi say, too. They don’t have words for ‘past’ or ‘future’ or ‘now.’ According to them, it all happens at the same time.”
“You mentioned them before. Who are they?”
“The local Natives. They got relocated to a rez north of where we are right now, but they used to live all along the banks of the San Pedro.”
“Which is a river with no water.”
Ramon smiles. “Wait till the rainy season. It runs so high then that we often get some serious flooding.”
“That’s what Rosalie told me.”
“Stick around long enough,” he says, “and you’ll see.” He hefts his backpack and swings it onto his shoulders. “We should get a move on. You’re going to love this next view, but it’ll still take us a while to get up to it.”
He points to a peak that doesn’t seem so far away, but I’ve already learned how deceptive distance can be. It looks like it’s maybe a fifteen-minute hike, so that means it’ll probably take a couple of hours.
“You coming?” Ramon asks.
I realize I’ve been daydreaming. Giving him a quick nod, I trot over to fall in step with him as we follow the contour of the ridge to where the land starts to rise again.
“I can see Rosie’s pretty fond of you,” he says after we’ve been climbing for awhile.
The Painted Boy Page 7
