“Okay,” I said.
“I don’t think so.” Arturo was firm, but there was something unusually shaky in his voice.
“Why?” Aurora asked. She was now the one with a suspicious look.
“I was going to ask Jasmine to work this Saturday. We are working on a merger of two of our Mexican companies that needs to be done next week. And she never asked me if she could take Monday off.”
I said, “Jasmine does not know about the merger.”
“Arturo,” Aurora said, “she needs to take her father to the doctor.”
“Jasmine did not mention anything to me,” Arturo said.
“Does she need to tell you how she spends her weekends? What are you afraid of?” Aurora asked. That was a first too. I had never seen Aurora speak so bluntly to Arturo.
Arturo was silent, confused, speechless, for the first time ever.
“It seems to me that the plans have already been made. I’m sure you can find someone else to help you if you need to,” Aurora said. And it was the final word.
Aurora now takes me by the arm over to the side of the house to say something to me alone. “Listen to me,” she says. She waits for my eyes to meet hers. “You call me immediately if anything happens to you or Jasmine, if the least little thing in your trip does not go as planned. Your cell phone is equipped to handle long-distance calls from absolutely anywhere in the world. If you or Jasmine are in danger, large or small, you call. It will not matter one bit how or why you got into trouble. Am I clear?”
“Yes,” I say. I sign I love you with my hand, the way I learned at Paterson.
She touches her heart with her hand and then touches my chest.
By the Jeep, Jasmine hands Aurora a slip of paper. “My father’s phone and address. He’s getting old and his mind doesn’t work as well as it used to, so I also gave you the phone of a neighbor. Jonah will know exactly where we are and can come find us if you need us for anything.”
“Thank you. Did you say good-bye to your father?” Aurora asks me, as if suddenly remembering.
“Yes,” I answer without looking at her. But I am not telling the truth.
Namu barks a solitary bark. Enough with the good-byes already. Let’s go, is what I think he’s saying.
When we reach the highway, I ask Jasmine, “Is your father proud of you?”
“Where is that coming from?”
“The dictionary defines pride as ‘pleasure or satisfaction in one’s work or achievement.’ According to that definition a person needs to do something before you can be proud of them. You could not be proud of them simply for who they are. I’m not sure I know what pride in another person feels like.”
“I talked to your father late yesterday. He stopped by the mailroom before he left. He wanted to know more about our trip.” She shakes her head and smiles at the same time. “Your father is proud of you, if that’s what’s bothering you.”
“What else did Arturo say, when you saw him?” I feel strange as soon as I finish asking her. I am trying to find out why Arturo did not want me to take this trip. I feel ashamed for thinking that maybe Jasmine knows and she is not telling me.
She looks at me in a peculiar way, as if trying to figure out the real motive behind my question. Then she says, “He wanted to know where we were going to go camping, whether anyone else was coming with us. It was kind of weird. Like he suddenly had doubts about whether you could handle all that. You can, can’t you?” I know that she expects me to laugh or at least smile, but I don’t.
“Does your father know you play the piano?” I ask.
“Of course. I grew up playing it at home. My mother brought the piano from her home when she got married and sat me at the keys before I could walk, it seems.”
“But does your father know that composing and playing your music is what you want to do?”
“I suppose he does. We don’t talk about it much. You’ll see when you meet him. Amos doesn’t much care what you do with your life so long as you’re keeping busy and you’re earning your keep.”
I close my eyes and remember the time when I was eight and Arturo enrolled me in the town’s soccer league. Within five minutes after I took the field, it became obvious to all that I could not play. I stood there lost, not knowing what to do, taking a few disoriented steps every which way except in the right direction. When the ball came to me I kicked it to the sidelines or to one of the opposing players. I remember the look on Arturo’s face as we drove home, the father’s realization that his son would never be able to participate in any sports. Then, a few seconds later, remembering what Jasmine said to Aurora just before we left, I ask, “Who is Jonah?”
“You’ll meet him today. Jonah and I grew up together. His mother and my mother were best friends until my mother died. My brother and Jonah’s little brother, Cody, were the best of friends too. You’ll like him, you’ll see.”
We travel the remaining two hours mostly in silence. Jasmine asks me if I mind if she puts some music on. I know she is doing that so that I don’t feel like I have to talk. She hasn’t asked me anything about Ixtel or about the memo. It’s not that she doesn’t care. I can tell she wants to let me be alone with the decision. But I decide not to think about the memo just yet. Instead, I close my eyes and feel the cool air rush past my face.
“There it is,” she says.
I open my eyes and see Jasmine’s house down a dirt road and up a green hill. It is a white house with a redbrick chimney, a tall black pipe, and a crumpled television antenna on the roof. An unpainted barn behind the house seems to tilt slightly to the right. As we get closer, we see an assortment of plastic animals on the front lawn: a family of deer, two white swans (now grayish), a mother duck with six ducklings behind her (one tipped over), two rabbits kissing each other, a brown fox, a groundhog up on his hind legs, a flamingo that could have been pink at one time but is now a whitish color.
“My mother used to collect them,” Jasmine says by way of explanation.
We pull up and park beside the house. Namu is the first to get out. He leaps out of the backseat but stops as soon as his feet hit the ground. I immediately see what made Namu stop. Sitting calmly by the front door of the house is a large black-and-white dog. The dog stirs and begins to walk toward Namu, who sits down. It is Namu’s way of telling the other dog that he knows he is only a guest.
“Gomer! It’s good to see you,” Jasmine says to the dog.
Gomer shakes his head and his tail and allows himself to be petted by Jasmine. Then he goes over to Namu and the two dogs sniff each other’s private parts.
“Look,” Jasmine says.
I follow her hand and see a field of tall grass and purple flowers. Between the house and the paved highway in the distance is a patch of brown and black cows. One of the cows is walking up the hill toward us and I can hear the clang of the bell that hangs around her neck.
“That’s Eleanor,” Jasmine points out. “She’s the grandmamma of them all. I birthed her and raised her and she still thinks she’s a house pet. She can’t see farther than her nose but she knows I’m here and she’s coming to say hello. Gomer, where’s Pops?”
Gomer removes his cold nose from my hand and waddles toward the barn. Namu is staring at the cows, whimpering.
“He wants to go see the cows,” I say.
“They don’t call them German shepherds for nothing,” Jasmine says. She is taking the backpacks out of the Jeep.
“Is it all right?” I ask.
Namu tilts his head toward Jasmine and awaits her response.
“Of course,” she says.
As soon as he hears that, Namu begins to lope toward the cows.
“Let’s go see what the old man is up to,” Jasmine says. “What are you carrying in here?” She drops the backpacks by the side of the house and rubs her arm. Then before I can answer her question, she warns, “Don’t pay attention to what he says. His mind is half gone with dementia. It makes him forgetful and hostile, which means you c
an get verbally assaulted multiple times and he’ll think he’s doing it for the first time.”
The space between the house and the barn is strewn with rusted farm machinery and tall milk cans. The closer we get to the barn, the more my nostrils fill with a sweet, pungent smell. “Cow shit and cow urine. Some of it very old and some of it brand-new,” Jasmine explains when she sees me breathe in deeply.
The sliding door to the barn is open. In the back, I see a small man with black rubber boots up to his knees shoveling manure into a wooden wheelbarrow.
“Shit, goddamn, shit,” I hear him say.
“That’s Amos. Dad, we’re here!”
The man stops shoveling and walks toward us to investigate. His face is wrinkled and his white hair is strong and bristly.
“About time you woke up,” he says to me.
“He thinks you’re my brother James,” Jasmine explains. “It’s me, Jasmine. This is Marcelo.”
“I suppose you’re going to cover up for him again. As if I didn’t hear him come in early this morning from drinking and whoring.”
“This is Marcelo, Dad. Remember I called you last night to tell you we were coming up.”
Amos walks back to get the wheelbarrow. I can see his thin arms tremble as they lift the load. “Drinking and whoring all night long.”
“Where in the world do you think he could go whoring around here?” Jasmine asks him. Then to me, “Sometimes it’s just easier to go along with him until he snaps to.”
“There’s plenty of places to go whoring. Man’s got a dick, he’ll find a hole to put it in.”
“James just went out and had a few drinks over with Cody. Just a little boys’ fun, that’s all.” Jasmine is shaking her head and throwing her arms up in the air.
“Shit!” Amos mutters in front of us. He dumps the contents of the wheelbarrow in a pile on the side of the barn.
“Eleanor!” Jasmine shouts. A tan cow is walking tiredly toward us. Her large black eyes seem sleepy. “You walked all the way up the hill to see me!”
“Should have turned her into stew while her meat was still soft enough to chew,” Amos says.
“What are you talking about?” Jasmine objects. She is stretching and holding the cow’s ears as if they are bicycle handlebars. “She’s still milking, isn’t she?”
“Five squirts. Thin, watery stuff, clear as widow’s piss,” Amos retorts. He turns toward me. “Borrowed Bruno from Shackleton last year to fuck her for old times’ sake. Took four of us—me and the three Shackletons—to lift him on top of her.”
“Dad! She’s too old for breeding. She gave you at least one calf a year for twelve years. Let her be now. She’s earned her rest.”
“Didn’t want a calf. Wanted her to get it good one last time.” He winks at me. “Couldn’t get Bruno to agree. His pecker stayed soft as a hose.”
“You got any coffee in the house?” Jasmine asks. I can tell she is trying to change the subject.
“And pancakes too. Made them last night as soon as I heard you were coming. We’ll put them in that gizmo you bought me and zap the living shit out of them.” He takes a squashed pack of cigarettes from his front shirt pocket, lifts a cigarette out of the pack with his lips, and then begins to search his other pockets for a light.
“Smoking is bad for you,” I warn him.
“So is living, but I’m not going around telling you not to do it.” He locates a book of matches in the back pocket of his overalls.
Somehow, after lunch, Jasmine is able to cajole Amos into the bathtub. She ignites the water heater, which is only turned on for baths, waits half an hour until the water is coming out of the spigot hot, and then she pushes Amos into the bathroom adjoining the kitchen.
“If I don’t hear the water splashing in one minute, I’m coming in. I’m putting a chair right here so there’s no use in you coming out.”
“I took a bath last month,” Amos grumbles from inside the door.
“After you’re done with the bath, I’m taking you to your doctor’s appointment.”
“The hell you are,” Amos answers.
“Then after the doctor we’ll go to the co-op and get you your cigarettes, and then maybe we’ll stop at the liquor store after that.”
Silence follows. After a few moments I hear the sound of water splashing. Jasmine comes out to the living room where I am standing by an upright mahogany piano. I touch middle C and hear the note’s mellow sound. Then I play C, E, and G together.
“It is in tune,” I declare.
“Wish everyone was in tune,” she responds. Her eyes motion toward the bathroom.
I am looking at a picture in a silver frame that stands on top of the piano. Jasmine is next to a boy with wild blond hair that covers most of his face. In back of the two children stand Amos and a woman. The woman is the only one smiling in the picture. Jasmine sees what I am looking at.
“That was taken when I was eight and James was ten. It’s the only time Mother was able to get the two of them to pose for a formal photograph. That’s what she wanted for her birthday.”
“Your mother?”
“That’s her. Listen, after he gets out, I’m going to drag him to the doctor. You want to come with us?”
I’m staring at the picture.
“If you come with us, I’ll show you around. Hold on one second.”
She goes up to the bathroom door and places her ear on it. “How you doing in there? Make sure you wash inside your ears,” she says.
“For Christ’s sake, I know what holes to wash!”
“I left you some clean clothes there by the chair.”
“I see them.”
“Don’t put the dirty ones back on.”
“All right already.”
She says to me, “He’ll be in there until the water gets cold. Let’s go outside, I want to show you something.”
We walk out the front door. Just beyond the plastic animals’ preserve we take a footpath that leads up to a green knoll overlooking the house. Behind the knoll, a mountain of maples and pines rises up to meet a blue sky. The deep blue of the sky reminds me of the word azure—like Jasmine’s eyes.
“If we climb to the top of the mountain, we can touch the sky,” I say.
“That’s not a mountain. That’s just a hill. Over there, those are mountains.”
I turn and let my sight go as far as it will go. In the distance, I see the white-capped mountains, the same ones in the picture that Jasmine has in front of her desk.
“Look at Namu and Gomer,” she says, pointing.
In the pasture below us, Namu and Gomer sit among a dozen cows.
“He likes it here,” I say.
When we reach the top of the knoll, she points to the “hill” that rises above us and says, “That is Amos’s hill.”
“Amos Hill,” I repeat.
“No, Amos is not the name of the hill. The hill belongs to Amos. He owns it, as well as thirty acres of land down there all the way to the road. Amos grows hay down there for the twelve or so cows he keeps. He used to have eighty acres, but he sold fifty after Mother died to pay the doctor’s bills. The hill and the eighty acres, when worked right, took care of a family of four. When Mother was alive Amos had forty cows, half a dozen hogs, chickens. They used to harvest maple syrup and wood from the hill. They grew their own hay for wintering the cows. Mother sold enough honey to pay for ‘February’s groceries,’ as she used to say. She gave piano lessons to a couple of kids. Amos sold the milk to some ice-cream place in Montpelier. A hundred dollars here, fifty there. The hill gave them all the wood they needed to keep everybody warm during winter. It doesn’t really take that much to live here, if you work hard at it.”
From the top of the knoll we see Amos come out the back door of the house. He is wearing only a pair of blue jeans and has not put on a shirt or socks or shoes yet. He takes a few steps out the back door and begins to urinate. A chicken pecking the dirt near the flow steps out of the way.
“T
here’s a toilet next to the bathtub,” Jasmine says, shaking her head. “I don’t think he’s peed inside in his life. We didn’t get a septic tank built ‘til I was five. I still have memories of those little white chamber pots we used so we didn’t have to go outside in the middle of winter.”
“Your mother taught you to play the piano,” I say.
“She had me sitting on that stool before I could walk.”
“James played also.”
“She gave up on him after a couple of tries. During the winters you spend a lot of time inside. If you have something to keep your mind busy, it helps. James was not much for piano playing or staying inside, winter or no winter. As soon as he was able, he was climbing up the hill, going fishing, hunting, raising all kinds of critters, rabbits, hamsters. He sold them to pet stores. When he was ten he started a chinchilla farm out in the barn. I hated it because I knew what was in store for the little creatures. Chinchillas are like these long, skinny rats, but people like their fur because it’s warm. Fortunately, a fox got in the barn one year and put everyone out of their misery. Careful,” she says as I trip over a shovel. She bends down and picks it up.
We are on top of the knoll, looking at a hole in the ground the length and depth of a backyard swimming pool. The flat top of the knoll is in the shape of a circle. The hole is located exactly in the middle, equidistant from all points. Jasmine leads me away from the hole toward the front of the knoll. We see a fuel truck travel down the paved road below. I strain to hear the sound of the truck’s motor but am unable to do so. All I can hear is a swooshing sound coming out of the trees. Below us, to our right, on a smaller knoll I notice two crosses.
“Mother and James,” Jasmine says, anticipating my question.
“Is that Kickaz over there?” I point at the two horses below in the pasture, a short distance from where the cows are bunched up.
“The sleek black one. That’s Kickaz.” Kickaz lifts his head up in the air as if he heard his name. Jasmine takes a few steps and gestures toward a smaller field below us. “See that field? In the winter, Amos plows an oval through the snow the size of a football field. He goes out every afternoon right after lunch—when the sun is hottest, if you can call it that—and walks Kickaz around for an hour, sleet or snow. He won’t be able to do that too much longer,” she says, mostly to herself. Then to me, “We better head back. Do you want to come with us to the doctor or stay here? Either way is okay. It’s half an hour to the doctor and half an hour back and it’s usually a couple of hours of mostly waiting at the doctor’s, so, all told, we’ll be gone about three hours.”
Marcelo in the Real World Page 18
