Iron River

by Daniel Acosta

  In the afternoon, my dad called me out to the front porch. He told me Germán complained about me and Danny bothering Yoci. I don’t like to lie to my dad so I told him about watching her take a bath. Then he gave me a sex talk about men and women and babies. He looked like he didn’t want to talk about those things, but he was forcing himself to do it.

  I wanted to tell him Cruz already told me about that stuff using bad words I won’t repeat, but I knew Dad thought he had to talk to me so I let him. I was room-grounded for the weekend, which was halfway over anyway.

  The Monday morning after my room-grounding was the morning I spent with Rudy. I stopped calling him Uncle Rudy because he said it made him feel old. Then he laughed. I’m glad he said that because I don’t call my aunts and uncles Uncle Ted or Tía Betty just Ted or Betty. And I never call Grandma Abuelita like my friends call theirs. She hates that, so I just call her Grandma.

  Anyway, after breakfast me and Dorothy were watching cartoons when Rudy came out of his room wearing a suit. All I could do was stare at him. I never saw him look so nice. If I was a girl, I would’ve called him handsome. He looked like a movie star.

  “Why you all dressed up?” Dorothy asked him.

  Rudy pulled his lapels and smiled at her. “I’m going for a job interview.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s when you talk to somebody and maybe they’ll give you a job.”

  “Can I go with you?” I asked him.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “It’s in Pasadena. And besides you know what your dad said.”

  Yeah. I wasn’t supposed to hang around with Rudy.

  “Can I walk with you to the bus stop?”

  Rudy laughed. “I guess if we keep it hush-hush.”

  Dorothy looked at me with her face all scrunched up.

  “He means this is our secret,” I told her.

  I don’t think we got past Elvira’s house when I asked Rudy about the war. Ever since I found out he was in the war, I wanted to know what happened to him and Ted.

  “I don’t talk about the war. It’s over with and so am I.”

  We didn’t talk again until we turned the corner.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  I blinked. “I killed a man and I wanted to know if you did too. In the war.”

  He stopped walking and looked down at me. “You killed a man?”

  It took me about two seconds to decide not to tell him about the hobo after all. I smiled, and he thought I was joking and gave me a little punch in the arm, and we started walking again. When we got to the alley behind Silverman’s, I started walking in but Rudy stopped me with his hand across my chest.

  “Stay out of the alley.”

  “But I always go through here to get to Silverman’s.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t go through there no more. It’s dangerous now.”

  I wanted to know what changed, but I thought I better keep my mouth shut.

  When we got to the corner, Rudy said, “Tell you what. I need to think about how I want to tell you about the war. Give me a few days and ask me again.”

  We walked a little bit without talking anymore. Rudy whistled a Mexican song.

  When we were almost at Silverman’s, a car came up behind us. I heard the pachuco whistle. Both of us turned around. A big, dark-green Mercury pulled up to the curb just ahead of us and stopped. I counted five men in the car. The one riding shotgun leaned his head out the side window.

  “Q’ hubo, Rrruthee.” It was Marcel. Lino.

  Lino turned to me. “Órale, Liddo Man.” One of the guys sitting in the backseat of the Merc stared out the side window at me with sleepy eyes almost shut, like he could barely keep them open.

  Lino looked Rudy up and down. “Where you going all dressed out, ese?” He had a sleepy smile on his face but he didn’t look happy.

  “My business, primo. Not with the kid here. Watcha, I’ll catch you later.”

  Lino looked up at Rudy, then at me, then at Rudy again. He mumbled something to the driver, and then gave Rudy that sleepy smile. “Pués, hay te watcho, Nacho.” He sleepy-smiled to me. “Later, Liddo Man.”

  The Merc pulled away but before it turned the corner in front of Silverman’s, I saw a black face in the back window looking at us. It looked like Melinda Collison’s brother Lawrence.

  When the Merc disappeared, Rudy took me by my shoulders—not mad, but to make me pay attention.

  “Look, Manny, those guys are bad news, so don’t talk to them. Tecatos.”

  “How come they know you, Rudy?”

  “Never mind that. Steer clear y cuídate.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And do me a big favor. Don’t tell your dad about this, okay? He won’t understand, and he’ll get mad at both of us.”

  Yeah, hush-hush.

  When the bus pulled up at the Del Mar bus stop, I watched Rudy get on and find a seat on my side. He held crossed fingers on both hands. I blessed myself to tell him I would pray for him. I watched the bus disappear up Del Mar Avenue, and then I headed home hoping I wouldn’t see the Merc again.

  I thought about Lawrence Collison in that car. Those other guys were a lot older than him. I wondered why he was with them.

  11

  Waiting for the police to come get us was like torture. So was carrying the sin around. I carried it with me wherever I went and whatever I did. Even after I took a shower, I could feel the dirtiness of that sin under my skin.

  Thou shalt not kill was inside my heart like the ringing you get in your ears after you hear a loud noise close up—when it finally goes away you don’t even know it because you got so used to it. Except this was in my heart, and I couldn’t get used to it. I knew it wouldn’t go away on its own, and I didn’t want to die with that sin on my soul. I’m scared as hell of going to hell.

  I wanted to go to confession, so I talked to the gang. We all agreed we’d go to the Mission on Saturday and confess together.

  Confessions at the Mission are after 8 o’clock Mass. There’s usually a bunch of sinners in line outside the confession boxes. This time there was a couple of men in their work clothes and the same old Mexican ladies who go to confession every Saturday and probably confess the same sins every week.

  What sins can old ladies do?

  And two little girls who looked like twins and who probably made their First Communion last May. And what sins could they do?

  And a teenage boy and his girlfriend. You could tell they were boyfriend and girlfriend because they were holding hands and looking around like they were afraid somebody would recognize them. Little said they were probably going to confession because they made out in the crying room of the San Gabriel Theater.

  The hardest part for me about going to confession is picking the right confession box. There’s usually two priests hearing confessions on Saturday so there’s two lines. And you don’t ever want to get Father Simon Calderón. Father Simon’s the pastor and everybody’s scared of him.

  At Sunday Mass, he tells the people from the altar that they aren’t dressed good enough for church. He asks them why they wear their best for drinking and dancing on Saturday night but not for God on Sunday morning. And in his Holy Day sermons, he scolds the people, saying how come he only sees them in church on Easter and Christmas. And at communion, when half the crowd is heading for the doors, he tells them to get back in their pews and that Mass isn’t over until he says so.

  He’s tough in confession too. Some priests let you slide when you just say you had an impure thought or you did something mean to somebody and leave it at that. But not Father Simon. If you just say you used bad words two times since your last confession, he asks you which words you used and when you said them and who you said them to. Or if you say you had three impure thoughts, he says what were those thoughts, and you have to spill the beans about every little thing like trying to see Yoci’s chichis. He asks you who Yoci is and why did you want to see her chichis, and you don’t k
now what to say. And he gives you hard penances like taking whatever you shoplifted back to Silverman’s and saying a whole novena to San Dimas, the Good Thief.

  So the trick is guessing which box Simon’s in and then going to the other one.

  I took a guess on the right-side line. Danny and Marco and Little followed me. I kneeled down and when the slider opened, I could see Father Simon on the other side of the screen with his wavy black hair and his prayer book open.

  I guessed wrong.

  But before I could get up and leave, he blessed me with his hand and said, “In the name of the Father and of the Son…” My heart was pounding, but I managed to squeak out, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  The second hardest part is deciding which sins to open with. I’m never sure if I should get the big sins over with and finish with the small stuff like teasing Dorothy, or warm up with the little stuff and end with the real bad sins. The mortal ones.

  This time I started small. I told him I missed Sunday Mass one time, and he asked me when and why. I told him Cruz misses Sunday Mass a lot, and I wanted to see what was the big deal so I faked being sick to find out. He didn’t say anything, but he grunted like he didn’t like my reason.

  Then I told him about wanting to see Yoci’s chichis. He asked me when this happened and where and how and why. I took a deep breath and told him about the club and my friend without saying Danny’s name and Yoci taking a bath. I said about Germán and his machete, and it sounded like Simon was going to laugh, but he coughed instead.

  Then I dropped the A-bomb on him. I told him I killed a hobo. When I told him that Father Simon stayed quiet a long time.

  “Tell me that sin again,” he said.

  “I murdered a hobo.”

  Simon’s head turned on the other side of the blurry screen. I’m glad it was dark on my side of the confessional, so he couldn’t see my face and find out who I was.

  “Tell me when and how you did that,” he said. The light on his side of the confessional was behind his head and made him look like he had a halo like Jesus on holy cards. I told him about the hobo the same way I told my dad. When I was finished, I thought he was going to send me straight to hell.

  “Did you know the man you say you murdered?” he asked me. It was weird how he said, “the man you say you murdered.”

  “No, Father,” I said. “He was just a hobo on a train.”

  “He wasn’t just a hobo on a train. He was a child of God!” Simon growled it like the dirty trainman. I was sure all the people waiting in line heard.

  Then he cooled off, I guess, because he changed his voice. “Well, how do you know you killed him?”

  I thought about it for only about a second. “I saw his dead body on the rightaway next to the tracks.”

  “Did you want to kill him?” That was a good question and the answer was easy.

  “No, Father,” I told him. “We were just playing.”

  He took a long time asking his next question.

  “But how do you know you killed him?”

  I got mixed up. I thought I already told him I saw him on the rightaway. Maybe Simon figured I was mixed up. He leaned close to the screen and changed the way he said the words.

  “Why do you think you killed him? Could it be that maybe he just fell or was pushed off the train? It happens all the time.”

  I never ever even thought about that. As soon as we saw the hobo’s dead body, we figured we killed him. What if we didn’t? I could feel my heart trying to get out of my chest like one of Mundo’s pigeons when you’re holding it in your hands.

  I was quiet a long time thinking about what Simon said. He grew up in San Gabriel too. He knew about the trains. And it was true that hobos fall off trains all the time. Cruz told me that a long time ago.

  The confession box was getting hot, and it was getting harder to breathe, and I could smell the bad breath of all the people who ever went to confession inside that box. But none of that mattered. What mattered was that for the first time I was glad Simon asked so many questions.

  I wanted to jump up and run out of the church to tell the gang.

  Simon was looking back down at his prayer book. He smoothed the purple ribbon around his neck and said to the prayer book, “Did you tell your parents what you think you did?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “You didn’t murder the hobo—the man on the train. If you didn’t want to kill him, it wasn’t murder. But you did throw fruit at the hobos. You did want to have fun at someone else’s expense. Are you sorry for that?”

  I was more happy than sorry, but I said, “Yes, Father.”

  “Then for your penance say one rosary for the repose of the man’s soul.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. For all the stuff I did, all I got was a rosary to say!

  If I was thinking straight, I would’ve knew I already did my penance with Grandma. Still, it didn’t seem enough. But even if I didn’t kill him, I’d say the rosary anyway. For him.

  “Do I have to tell the police?”

  Father Simon said, “I don’t give legal advice. So if that’s all, make a good act of contrition and get lost.”

  I said my act of contrition while Simon blessed away my sins. When I was finished Father Simon leaned against the screen and whispered, “Go in peace, Manny. Your sins are forgiven.” I felt an electric shock go through me when he said my name. He knew it was me all along. And he still forgave me. I felt warm through my whole body, and I knew it wasn’t because the confessional was hot. I thanked Father Simon and got up.

  When I left the confession box, the cool dark of the adobe church felt good. I could feel my whole self shaking. I held the door open for Little and his eyes asked me how it went. I just smiled. I went out the side door to the church gardens to wait for my friends.

  I sat on the edge of the fountain by the gift shop and thought about what just happened. I was still worried about the cops coming to get me, but right now I was all right with God, and I felt clean. I saw a dime on the ground. Somebody must’ve missed the fountain. I picked it up and threw it into the water. They probably did it for luck. I did it for them.

  I didn’t need luck.

  As soon as we got to our bikes, I spilled the beans about my confession with Father Simon and the good news about the hobo. Little answered first.

  “I’m glad you told him. I didn’t have the guts.”

  Danny pulled his bike out of the rack. “Man’s right, you know. Why didn’t we think of it ourselves? Hobos fall off trains all the time. Everybody knows that.”

  Marco doesn’t have a bike so he rides on my crossbar or Little’s or Danny’s wherever we go on bikes. He just stood there not getting on. “But how do we prove we didn’t kill the hobo?”

  Little tilted his head at Marco. “What do you mean?”

  “What if the Turk says we were the ones who killed him?” Marco answered. “How do you prove you didn’t do something?”

  I didn’t want to hear that. I wanted to go home happy that maybe I didn’t kill a man, and the cops weren’t coming for me. I didn’t want to hear it after all the nights I laid awake thinking I was a murderer and all. I didn’t want to think the Turk was still going to come after me.

  Danny didn’t help. “Marco’s right. All the Turk wants to do is throw Metsicans in jail.”

  Marco must’ve seen the look on my face because he turned to Little.

  “Can I ride with you?”

  Little got on his bike and made room for Marco on his crossbar. We didn’t say another word the rest of the way home.

  12

  This time the train horn sounded different. It sounded like Rudy’s voice, and it was calling my name. A hobo who looked like Lino was sitting in the engineer’s seat waving to me, and the engine headlight was shining on and off at our house. The shaking was real bad. Worse than I ever felt it before. The train engine was leaning and leaning and tipping over. And now it was sliding along the rightaway and across Main S
treet and sparks were flying all over the place and the whole time the engine horn was yelling “Manny, Manny, Manny!”

  I wanted to jump out of bed and run, but my legs were paralyzed. My arms were getting squeezed and my right arm was twisted behind my back so I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t get up to get away from the train. Then the engine crashed into the front porch and sent chunks of cement flying and smashing the hobo chair. The roar was so loud I couldn’t hear my own screaming. The train plowed through the screen door, then the wood door, then it exploded into the couch and smashed into me. It didn’t hurt but I knew I was dying because I could feel my hot blood making a puddle under me.

  “Manny! Manny!” The whole house was shaking now and I felt myself being lifted up. “Earthquake!”

  I woke up in Rudy’s arms. We were against the wall next to my clothes box. Rudy was crouching down and the whole house was shaking and rumbling. I saw the front wall of the house lean left and right in a way I didn’t know walls could move. The little lamp hanging over the gas heater was swinging back and forth like the censer we use for benediction, only faster and in all different directions.

  My dad came out of his room. His eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head. He yelled at us “Don’t move! Stay right there!” Then he ducked back into his room. I could hear Grandma screaming from her bedroom in the back of the house. I tried to get up to go look for her, but Rudy’s arms held me tight.

  “Stay put!” Rudy yelled at me.

  I let my body go heavy in his arms. My underwear was wet and cold. I was shivering now and the pee burned the insides of my legs. Cruz would have cussed me out and called me Pee Baby and pushed me away, but Rudy held me tight. One of his hands covered the top of my head.

  Earthquakes are weird. I been in about eight little ones that I remember—mostly at school. This earthquake seemed to last an hour. Half of me was scared and half of me was hypnotized by the shaking and rumbling. The house kept bucking like a bronco. It would have been fun if it wasn’t an earthquake. I couldn’t move. I was frozen still, wondering if it would stop or just keep getting bigger until it knocked our house down.