Barely Missing Everything

by Matt Mendez

  Fabi,

  I got a letter from a couple of vatos saying they want to come down and interview me. Said they were filmmakers and bloggers (not sure what that is) and want to tell my side of the story. Put it on the Internet. One guy’s name is JD Sanchez, but the reason I’m telling you this is that the other name is Juan Ramos. This has to be your Juan? Your son? I’m thinking you probably don’t know anything about him coming here and that you never told him about me. I can guess why he is coming—he’s found one of my letters and is coming for the truth. I guess you never told him everything. They asked to be on my visitor’s list. I put them both on, in case they do come.

  I’m running out of time, and I know you’re not coming. I feel like the first days after getting here. Lonely. Wanting to die all the time. At the same time wanting to appeal, to fight and keep from being put down like a dog. Both things true at the same time.

  I understand why you won’t come. It’s better to forget I am here. To think I died a long time ago, on that day in the diner with Clark Jones. Or the day I was sentenced guilty. Did you already imagine my funeral? Did you cry, say something nice about me? You probably didn’t do any of that. I’m not mad. I can’t stop writing. Not until this is over. They are going to bury me with “EX” on my grave.

  They are going to record my last words. What I say will be written down and put on the Internet, where it will live forever. You will be able to read it one day. I like this idea, or I used to. Now it scares me because what if I say something stupid because I’m scared? And what if I’m too scared to say anything? I’m practicing. The last thing I’m ever going to do is speak, but I’ve never been good at talking. Do I apologize again? I already did that in court. And in letters. I’m done with that. What’s left?

  Most of the guys in here are holy rollers. They went that way after so much time. I can’t say I blame them. I never went that way, but I see why people do it. The outside world no longer exists when you’re on the row. You need another world. This one is nasty. But if our world is so fucked up, then how can the one responsible for creating it be any better? I don’t know.

  Nothing ever changes in here either. So we never change, or at least it’s hard to. So guys arrested at eighteen are forever eighteen, think like they’re eighteen, unless they force themselves to change. I read a lot of books. Tried to change that way, not worrying about the next world but instead going into different worlds, at least for a little while. I tried to change my life by seeing how other people lived. What they saw and what they did. That’s all life is, right? How you feel, what you say and do? I was the characters in all these books and had all these different lives. I don’t know if that’s right, if that is any way of living at all, but it was all I had in here. How I survived. I’m not that kid anymore. Not the one who shot that sheriff. Not even the one who loved you in the way I loved you. I’m working on my last words. If I see Juan, I will tell him all the mistakes I’ve made and how, from in here, there was no way to make up for them. I could never fix what had happened locked away in here. Still, I found a way to change. To be better than I was, if not the best person I could’ve been. When he asks me if I’m his father I will tell him the truth. That I am not. That his father was a better man than me. At least he was, all those years ago.

  FLOATING AWAY

  (CHAPTER TWENTY)

  Fabi dropped Mando’s letter in her lap after reading it. Her small victory of arranging that her mail finally be forwarded began to float away. She looked up from the porch, wondering how long Juan would be at Danny’s.

  “Papá, where’s my truck?” she called out. “Are you working on it?” It wasn’t parked in her usual spot in front of the house. Come to think of it, she wasn’t sure she noticed it there when she and Gladi got back from Vanessa Peña’s office, but maybe her father was tinkering with it in the backyard. Fabi searched her purse for her keys. Also gone. Huh. She reached for her phone.

  To: Juanito

  Maybe make it an early night and come home. We need to talk. :)

  “No sé,” Papá said, joining her on the porch. “It was here earlier. I think.” She began to pace back and forth, looking at the empty space where her truck should be.

  “You talk to Juan at all today? He told me he was going to Danny’s. Did he tell you something different?”

  “No, the little criminal didn’t tell me nothing all day.”

  “Quit calling him that,” Fabi scolded. “What’s wrong with you?” She gripped Mando’s letter and reread the beginning.

  I got a letter from a couple of vatos saying they want to come down and interview me. . . . One guy’s name is JD Sanchez . . . the other name is Juan Ramos. This has to be your Juan? Your son? . . . I can guess why he is coming . . . for the truth.

  Your Juan.

  Your son.

  Is coming . . . for the truth.

  Fabi crumpled the letter into a ball and looked at her phone. No answer. Juanito wouldn’t swipe her truck and drive across the state. Would he? Her brain began to churn. He was just arrested a few weeks ago; he had court coming. Juanito didn’t even have a driver’s license! Your Juan, your son, is coming for the truth.

  She suddenly had a vision of Juan on the road, the black Mazda zooming down the highway, nothing but darkness ahead of him. She’d been gone with Gladi all afternoon. Juan could be hours away, and at any time her piece-of-shit truck could break down on the side of the road, leaving him stranded. The rest of Texas wasn’t Chuco. A Mexican kid, especially one who looked like Juan, could find trouble, both with the locals and the cops.

  “I know he’s not a criminal, mija,” her father was saying. “I like to joke around.”

  Fabi forced herself to refocus. She folded her arms tightly and glowered at Papá. “Well, you’re not funny!”

  Grampá looked at her foggily, propping himself up against the open doorframe, a tallboy in his hand. Wow—until they’d moved back in, Fabi really had no idea just how much time he spent alone crawling down cans of beer. Still, he could tell something was wrong because he asked, “What’s happening, Fabiola?”

  Gladi squeezed by their father and joined them on the porch. She swung her arm around Fabi. “Everything okay?”

  Fabi winced as her sister hugged her. “I’m pretty sure Juan took my truck and is driving it to the middle of Texas to meet Armando.”

  “Armando? Your old boyfriend? The one in prison?” Papá said incredulously.

  “Why would he do that?” Gladi asked, slowly pulling her arm back.

  Fabi tilted her chin upward, trying to look at them both. “He thinks . . . he thinks Armando is his father.”

  “Well, isn’t he?” Her father tossed his tallboy into the yard, the remaining beer glugging into the dirt, beading into mud.

  “No. He’s not, Papá,” Fabi said.

  “Good.” Grampá grasped the doorframe to keep from falling. “I’m glad my grandson’s got a different father. That Mando was bad news.”

  “That doesn’t even matter. Not anymore,” Fabi said, now pacing back and forth. “All that matters is finding Juan.” The sun had vanished behind the mountains. Night scared Fabi. Now more than ever. There seemed to be no gravity in the dark, everything in danger of floating away. She called her son. No answer. She searched her phone contacts for JD’s number. He had to be with Juanito. She called him. Nothing. She tried Danny next. Same. Fabi was sure she was being ignored. Juanito couldn’t have gotten that far yet, could he? She tried texting again.

  To: Juanito

  I know why you are doing this. I’m sorry for never telling you about your father. It was a mistake. My mistake!!! I’ve made a lot of them. Too many. Turn around, come back. PLEASE!!!

  Nothing.

  To: Juanito

  I’m not mad you read the letters. I know you are curious. You have a right to be. I will tell you everything. PLEASE TURN AROUND NOW.

  To: Juanito

  COME HOME. YOU HAVE COURT NEXT WEEK. A BIG GAME. SCHOOL. A FUTURE!
!!

  Again, nothing.

  To: Juanito

  The man in the prison is not your father.

  She waited for her phone to buzz in her hand. No response. Damn. She texted JD.

  To: Juanito’s Dumb Friend

  ARE YOU WITH JUANITO? TELL HIM TO TURN THE TRUCK AROUND. HAVE HIM CHECK HIS PHONE. I KNOW YOU THINK YOU ARE HELPING HIM BUT THIS IS DANGEROUS. YOU BOYS COULD GET HURT.

  To: Juanito’s Dumb Friend

  COME BACK NOW. PLEASE!!!!!

  She texted Danny next.

  To: Juanito’s Dumber Friend

  IF YOU’RE WITH JUANITO, COME BACK!!!!

  Fabi quickly packed a bag for her and Gladi and soon they were on the road, heading down Piedras Street and toward the highway. Gladi punched the address of the prison into the GPS of the rental car, the pleasant voice stating that they would reach their destination in approximately twelve hours. Oldies played softly on the radio, the slow melodies reminding her of the tunes she’d heard with Gladi at L&J Cafe. Of life moving forward, only now it wasn’t. Fear and traffic both paralyzed her.

  “We have to find another way. We’re losing time,” Fabi said.

  “On it.” Gladi studied the traffic, calculating. That was her sister. Focused. Determined. Always good in a situation like this. Papá’s favorite song came on the radio, the chorus drilling into her head: “And I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know, I know.” What Fabi knew was that everyone believed Juan was Mando’s baby, and they believed that because she never told them different. Martín Juan Morales was Juan’s father. Back then she’d been ashamed of how she chased after Martín, for wanting and needing him as badly as she did while still being in love with Mando. The truth was, her grief and guilt had shamed her into keeping quiet.

  “I fucked up,” Fabi moaned. She looked over at Gladi, who was inching them through traffic, her eyes on the road ahead. “And I keep fucking up.”

  “I don’t know what’s going on exactly, but we’ll figure things out.”

  Fabi leaned her head against the passenger window, letting the story unreel in her head, preparing for how she’d explain it all to Juanito. She’d discovered she was pregnant after Martín had gone to boot camp, and after Juanito was born she decided not to tell Martín, suddenly afraid that he could want custody, could steal her baby away to some army life at any time.

  “I planned to tell Juanito about his dad when he was still little, but then Martín died. . . . I mean, how do you have that talk . . . after that?” Fabi turned to her sister, noticed the threads of wrinkles creased along her forehead. Strands of gray in her hair. She continued. “How do you tell your son that at first you never told him about his dad because you didn’t want him, or anyone else, to find out that you were sleeping around while your mother was dying? That I was ashamed and then later, afraid he was going to hate me and I would lose him. I just couldn’t lose him too.”

  Gladi reached for Fabi’s hand. “I don’t think that would happen, and I know Juan would never hate you.” In the low light of the cabin, Gladi could’ve passed for Mamá. Even her voice. Soothing and sure. God, she missed her.

  Fabi squeezed her sister’s hand. “After Mamá died, I hated Papá for not saving her, for not taking her to the doctor sooner. I stayed mad at him, mad at all the mistakes. I took Juan’s chance at a father and built his life out of my mistakes.”

  Traffic started moving and Gladi punched it, buzzing between cars before getting stuck behind a minivan with busted brake lights. “Let’s just focus on finding Juan. Maybe JD is with him—he’s the one you’ve been texting, right? I’m sure that kid has his license. He’s the tall one? I remember meeting him at your old place last year. That poor dude is going to have to move your seat all the way back just to fit behind the wheel.”

  Fabi gaspd. “Oh shit. My gun! My gun is in there!”

  “What?” Now Gladi looked rattled. “You have a gun?”

  She had a gun. It was in the truck. In the truck with her son. And here they were. They were stuck in traffic, looking for a place to turn the car around. For a way to turn everything around.

  From: Juanito’s Dumb Friend

  MEET ME AT THE OLD APARTMENT

  The old apartment was only blocks away. Fabi jumped from Gladi’s rental and ran down Piedras Street. A block away she realized she’d left her purse and bag, any second thoughts of what to do. She raced around the corner and saw a group of old neighbors, and people she didn’t recognize, gathered behind streamers of bright yellow police tape at the back of the apartment. And there was her truck parked in the alley, boxed in by police cars. Red and blue lights flashed everywhere. A helicopter buzzed overhead. Juan! Where is Juan? She couldn’t see him. Everything was so loud; a policeman barked gibberish over a bullhorn. She spotted Flor, talking with the police. Flor locked eyes with Fabi, uncertainty in her face. Horror. Fabi had seen that look before, the day Flor had learned about her husband.

  Fabi called out for Juan, pushed her way through the crowd. No one seemed to notice her except Flor. When her Juan didn’t answer, she screamed for him again. Then again and again. She shrieked until people finally snapped awake, making a path for her to follow. Fabi’s cries never stopped; they were as loud and coming from as deep inside as the day she had given birth to her son.

  BARELY MISSED EVERYTHING

  (CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE)

  “So we’re the Bad Juans?” JD said as he drove toward Juan’s old apartment. “I’m glad you went with a pun. It means we’re serious.”

  “Perfect, right?” Juan said.

  “Are you sure you want to go to the old apartment? Isn’t Jabba, like, ready to call the national guard on us?”

  “I just want to upload the Tumblr. I wanna be legit. Everything has been going good lately. I don’t want to miss something.” It was true. He’d been on a roll, for the first time ever. His ankle was ready. He’d passed his test. He gotten Má’s truck to JD’s without wrecking it. And of course there was Roxanne; he was pretty sure she was as into him as he was into her.

  “So what, are you gonna break into your old room or something? We’re gonna get busted before we even leave town.”

  “Nah, Jabba has Wi-Fi. We’ll just cruise up the alley, upload the page, and then hit the road. We won’t even have to leave the truck. Just park next door if you’re worried.”

  “As long as we’re quick, Bad Juan.”

  “I knew you’d hate it,” Juan said, grinning. He booted up his má’s Dell. He’d finished his first post, found the images he wanted to upload—a baby picture of himself to go alongside another he found online, and one of the gurney where his father would be executed. The thin mattress and pillow at the center of a sterilized room, thick leather straps fastened to metal-rail sides meant to hold an inmate still as the poisons flooded his body. The entire contraption rested on a thin pedestal, covered with white sheets. The room itself was painted a kind of turquoise green, lit with fluorescent lights, like a hospital, but not. The only baby picture Juan could find of himself was one with Má giving him a bath, him a wet, red, and angry ball of fists.

  “Well, I like the name,” JD said out of the blue. “It’s hilarious.”

  “It’s getting hard to tell when you’re being sarcastic,” Juan said.

  “Not really,” JD said. “It’s only all the time. So what are you calling the first post?” JD raced down the highway, switching back and forth between lanes.

  “Funny you should think of that,” Juan said. “I called it ‘First Words.’ ”

  “But aren’t we getting your old man’s last words?”

  Juan held up a hand. “You know how parents, at least on TV, are always waiting for babies to say their first words or whatever-the-fuck? They can’t wait to hear something.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to hear what Armando is gonna say. I’ve been thinking about his first words to me my entire life, and then what mine would be back to him. That’s what I wr
ote.”

  “Well, that sounds better than my stupid idea,” JD said, all sad. “I wanted to call it, like, ‘The Row’ or ‘I’ll See You Soon.’ Something like that.”

  “Those are pretty terrible,” Juan laughed. “But you’re the filmmaker. You got that shit covered.”

  “You know it.”

  They got off on Piedras and were stopped at a red light below the underpass, when that pinche Cutlass crept to a stop beside them. Juan glanced over, and then quickly looked straight ahead.

  “Shit, keep looking forward. Those fuckers from Los Fatherless are back.”

  JD stiffened, nervously adjusting his seat belt. “The ones with the shotgun?”

  “Yes. Don’t look.”

  “Fuck. What do we do?”

  Juan glanced over and saw the back passenger had his shotgun pointed out his window; the driver was mad-dogging him, feet away in the lane beside them, his window down.

  “Hey, Banker,” the driver yelled, motioning for Juan to roll his window down too. “Why don’t you tell your boyfriend to drive to your house so we can borrow that laptop you were hiding the other day? That truck looks pretty nice también. I think we wanna borrow that!”

  Juan slowly slouched down in his seat, hoping to get the computer off his lap and onto the floor without them noticing. He whispered, “Don’t drive by our houses. No matter what.” He rolled down the passenger window.

  “Why were you slouching, Banker? Don’t tell me you got the computer with you. Why are you carrying it around with you all the time? Are you, like, a hacker? You stealing people’s Bitcoins? Hand it over, Banker, and we’ll let you keep your boyfriend’s shitty truck.”

  Then, thank God, the light turned green and JD punched it, leaving the Cutlass behind. The Dell fell to the floor. Man, Juan was so glad JD was driving. He knew his way around Central; he zipped up Piedras Street and then turned down Wheeling toward Memorial Park, where he doubled back and lost them. Juan reached for the laptop. It was sliding around the cabin. He couldn’t let it get busted; Má would kill him. But what his hand touched wasn’t the laptop; it was the cool rubber handle of—a gun?