Iron River

by Daniel Acosta

  “Don’t stay up too long. You really need to sleep.” Dad didn’t say anything. He just went out the front doors and closed them behind him.

  Mom didn’t have to tell me to go to bed. I went in my room and got undressed. It was weird laying there in bed all alone without Cruz. The light of a full moon came in through the blinds so I had to turn my back to the window to face the dark side of the room. I heard a night train coming on a west current. That must be the train that always starts my nightmares and makes me pee myself. But this time I was already awake.

  The train got louder as it got closer. The horn blew four times, and the house rumbled and shook when the locomotive went by. This time that train wasn’t scary at all. This time it wasn’t an angry monster, not a black snake spitting sparks and smashing houses. This time it was just a train like all the other ones I saw and felt go past our house minding their own business and getting where they needed to go.

  After the engine passed, the boxcar wheels clickity-clacked over the joints of the rails. The horn warned when the engine was about to cross Del Mar and again, lower and quieter, when it was near the Mission. Every now and then the clickety-clack broke and I could just hear the tick-tick-tick from the steel wheels.

  Pretty soon the train sounds died away. But the night wasn’t quiet.

  There was a choking sound, maybe a dog pulling against a chain, but it was closer than Cerberus. It was coming right from the front porch. I got out of bed and snuck to the front window and split open the venetian blinds.

  Dad was sitting in the hobo chair. His shoulders from the back were jumping up and down almost like they do when he’s laughing at something real funny. I stayed looking out the window until he got up. I heard the screen door open and then the front door. I jumped back in bed and pretended I was sleeping.

  The bedroom door opened and the floor squeaked when Dad came to my bed. He stood there for so long I almost opened my eyes to see what he was doing. Then I felt his rough thumb bless my forehead and his two-day beard scrape my cheek when he kissed it. It felt wet.

  It was a long time since he said good night to me like that. That’s the last thing I remember before I fell asleep.

  28

  When I woke up on Sunday, my bed was still dry. I turned to tell Cruz, then remembered he wasn’t there. This is probably the one time I wished he was there, so I could see the look on his face.

  The sun was real bright in the room so I knew I slept late. I got up and got dressed. I didn’t need to put on the spare calzones my mom left for me on the chester drawers. Nobody was in the front room. I could hear Mom and Dorothy talking in their bedroom. I went in.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  “He went over to Bouchard’s to see about Rudy’s funeral. Did you take off your sheets?”

  “I don’t need to. I didn’t wet.”

  Mom tilted her head like she didn’t get what I said.

  “Well, that’s good news,” she said.

  “Are we going to church?” I asked her.

  “No, the last Mass is in fifteen minutes, and we won’t be ready. We’re all pretty tired. And besides, your Dad has the car.”

  I was happy and disappointed at the same time. Happy because I didn’t have to get all dressed up for church, but disappointed because I would have to confess to Father Simon about missing Sunday Mass and because I knew I needed to pray for Rudy.

  Grandma and Betty and Ted got in early Tuesday morning but it took another week for Rudy’s body to come home on the train. Mr. Bouchard and his sons would meet Rudy’s train in Alhambra and take him to their funeral home. Rudy’s wake was going to be on a Friday night and his funeral Saturday morning. Dad asked me to get the altar boys for the services.

  I asked Little if he would serve. He said that’d be good. None of the other guys in the club were altar boys except me and Little, but I didn’t want to serve so I asked a white kid in my class named Billy Hartman to. He said okay.

  Rudy’s velorio was like Grandpa’s in some ways but different in others. It was in the old Mission church like Grandpa’s, but way less people came. There was a couple of old-timers, but most of the people were Mom and Dad’s age. Father Mosqueda—who everybody calls Mosca because of his hunched back and black cassock and who always acts like he has someplace better to be—said the rosary in Spanish. He talked about hell a lot which I don’t think he should’ve because everybody knew Rudy was a sinner and Mosca didn’t have to rub it in.

  When it was time for viewing Rudy’s body, people lined up for one last look. Most of the people were from Sangra except for one or two strangers. I was glad the tecatos didn’t show up. The people walked past the open coffin, then came over and shook Dad’s hand or mumbled something to Grandma. They did that elevator smile to me and turned and left.

  Danny and Marco and Little came with their families and walked up to Rudy’s coffin together. They came to me and shook my hand without saying anything. Their moms and dads shook hands with Dad and patted Grandma’s hand.

  When everybody was gone, it was our time to say goodbye to Rudy. I wasn’t afraid this time like with Grandpa. I thought I knew what Rudy was going to look like but when I saw his face in the coffin he looked different than I remember. The last time I saw him was about two months ago, but now he looked way older and skinnier than Dad in a cheap suit that fit him way too big. And he was littler than I remember.

  I looked at his crossed hands. They were almost as small as Dorothy’s but bluish and waxy-looking. They were holding a rosary of black beads that were as shiny as his skin. The funeral people didn’t bother covering up Rudy’s faded cross tattoo on his right hand at the place where his pointer finger and his thumb split up. I knew he had other tattoos because I saw some of them when he was living with us. I remember he got one a few days before I went to the Legion with Betty. It was a little heart with the word Madre in a banner on his chest over his own heart. But the cross on his hand looked faded and old. He must’ve got it a long time ago. Maybe when he was twelve like me. I looked at that place on my hand. I know my dad would blow up if I ever did that.

  I looked one last time at Rudy’s face and I wish I would’ve spent more time asking him questions like why did he do all the things he did. I know he would’ve told me the truth. I just know it. Because he respected me even if I was a kid. Like Betty respects me.

  When I said goodbye to Rudy for the last time, I reached in the coffin and touched the back of his hand. It felt hard and cold and I was glad, because that meant he wasn’t there no more. He wasn’t going back to prison. He wouldn’t have to sneak around anymore and worry about messing up or cops hassling him. He wouldn’t have to be sorry for doing something he knew he was going to do again. He wouldn’t ever hurt Grandma again or make Dad ashamed of him or mad ever again.

  And when I thought about these things I was happy for him.

  29

  When we got to church on Saturday, the funeral car from Bouchard’s was already in front of the Mission. The two Bouchard sons opened the back door and slid Rudy’s coffin out and set it on a table with wheels. Then six men wearing white gloves walked over and stood around the coffin. One of them was Ted. I recognized Elvira’s dad and Germán and other Sangra men who I don’t know their names.

  Mosca came out of the Mission wearing a black cope and Little and Billy Hartman came out right behind him in their black cassocks and white surplices. I looked down at Little’s feet. It was Saturday but he was wearing his shiny Sunday shoes. He was carrying the big procession cross and Billy was holding the holy water bucket Mosca would use to bless Rudy’s coffin. Billy smiled at me, but Little looked at me with sad eyes. After Mosca said some prayers and sprinkled the coffin with holy water we all walked into the church. It took my eyes a little while to get used to the dark. When they did I saw that there was more people than at the velorio but still less people than at Grandpa’s funeral. I walked in holding Betty’s hand. Mom and Dad were in front of us with Dorothy and Grandma.<
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  I tried to look straight ahead, but I also tried to look at who was there out of the corners of my eyes. At the back of the church I saw Big and his dad who finally got back from Mexico. Farther up I saw Danny and Marco with their parents. When Danny saw me see him he gave me that little high-sign with his chin, but I didn’t give it back. Near the middle of the church I saw Cruz and a guy named Lencho who he started hanging around with at school. They were chewing gum and looking around—probably for girls.

  After Mass we all walked to the Mission graveyard where they buried Rudy in a grave right next to Grandpa. We were the last to leave the cemetery. Grandma just couldn’t say goodbye. Two Mexican workmen stood in the shade of a tree holding their hats and their shovels, waiting for us to leave so they could finish their job. Grandma sat by the hole in the ground and cried and dropped one flower after another into it. Finally Dad and Ted had to pick her up and make her walk away.

  The funeral reception was at Dead Man’s Hall. When we got there people were already eating or in line to be served rice and beans and tortillas and barbequed meat del hoyo. The real name of Dead Man’s Hall is Salón de la Sociedad Funeraria de San Gabriel. The Sociedad is kind of a club people join to make sure their funeral gets paid for. When Grandpa died, the Sociedad paid for his funeral. Dad said Grandma used her Sociedad money on Rudy’s.

  Grandma didn’t stay at the hall long, just enough to thank people and let them give her advice about how to feel about Rudy dying. And lots of people did. Some of them said that he was in peace now. But other people said stupid things like “Now you don’t have to worry about him no more” and stuff like that.

  I looked around at all the people sitting at the long tables laughing and eating, and I wondered how they could be so happy at a time like this. Some of those people weren’t even at the velorio or the funeral.

  I found Danny and Marco and Little at the soda tina. Danny fished a Coke out of the tub and opened the bottle for me. The soda was ice cold and tasted good, but I didn’t feel like eating or listening to the happy chatter. I was getting hot in my wool suit, and the electric fans were only pushing hot air around.

  “You want to go out back?” Little asked me.

  “Yeah.”

  An alley runs behind Dead Man’s Hall on the edge of the Rubio wash. We took our Cokes and went over to the fence. Danny spat a loogie. We watched it hit the little stream of water in the middle of the wash. We drank our sodas without saying anything. It felt like all of us wanted to say something but nobody did. I wanted to say thanks for coming to the funeral, but I knew they knew I was glad they came. I think they wanted to say they were sorry Rudy died in prison and not at home but I think they knew I knew that too. So we just stood there until our bottles were empty.

  Marco was the first one to talk. “You going to school Monday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wanna walk with us?” Danny asked. Betty had been taking me to school since what happened to Lawrence. But maybe it was time.

  “I’ll ask my dad,” I told Danny.

  “I’ll be by for you at 7:15.” And then we shook hands like men do. His hand was wet and cool from the Coke bottle. It felt good in my hand. Then Little followed, then Marco until I was alone in the alley.

  I looked down at the wash again and watched a little piece of cardboard come down the stream spinning and snagging on the dry edge, then getting away and floating farther downstream. I watched that piece of cardboard until I lost it in the shadows of the SP trestle. I thought about Rudy and the story he told me about the war, and I wondered if that guy Frijol was waiting for Rudy in heaven. I wondered when Rudy saw him if Frijol would look okay where his head was caved in by the truck. I hoped Frijol would shake Rudy’s hand and thank him for stopping his pain and forgive him for what he did.

  I jumped when I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I turned around Dad was looking at me. He looked a little drunk. I was glad it was him.

  He asked me, “Are you okay, Son?”

  I looked at my empty Coke bottle. “Yeah.”

  “It’s time to go. Come on in and say goodbye to everybody so we can go home.” I nodded my head and let his hand on my shoulder lead me back inside.

  30

  I dragged myself through the week after Rudy’s funeral. Nobody seemed to have much to say at the house. Grandma stayed in her room most days. It was a good thing we had lots of leftovers from the reception because Grandma didn’t go near the kitchen.

  Betty came over every day to check on her, but even Betty didn’t feel like talking. She’d stay a little while in the afternoon to “tidy things up,” and then go home without saying goodbye.

  Dad and Mom would come home from work, and Mom would heat up leftovers. No one talked at dinner. The food didn’t have any flavor. I left most of it on my plate anyway.

  I’m glad Cruz stayed at his house because I didn’t need him to remind me of anything I wanted to forget. The only good thing was that in the morning I was still waking up dry. Every morning before I had to get up and get dressed for school, I would lie in bed and try to memorize the feeling of the dry sheet under me in case it never happened again. But even with that, the days went by in black and white and gray like the shows on TV.

  I walked to school with Danny and Marco. No one talked. We just stared down at the brown cement sidewalk and watched our feet take us where we had to go without saying a single thing.

  One day I found a holy card on my school desk with a picture of Jesus outside his tomb. When I turned the card over, Capone had wrote a note telling me the sisters were praying for my family “in this time of your great sorrow.” I looked at the date on the card. School was three weeks into October and when I looked around the classroom the bulletin boards were decorated with red and yellow and orange leaves made out of construction paper and pieces of felt.

  Mostly Capone let me slide. Even though I would sit there at my desk staring at my schoolwork, I never felt her man-hand squeeze my shoulder. She didn’t call on me in class—she knew I probably wasn’t paying attention to the questions much less know the answers. But whenever I looked up from my desk, I would see her staring at me.

  One day on our way home Danny told me he was worried I wasn’t going to pass seventh grade with him so if I wanted he could tutor me after school to catch me up on everything I was behind on. I liked that idea so we agreed he’d come over after dinner, and we’d work on my front porch.

  Besides, even though he gets good grades in school, it’s not easy for him to study at his house with Sonia playing negro music loud on the radio and Rafa practicing his trumpet in the kitchen.

  I don’t know if Grandma’s prayers finally reached God in heaven or if he finally got tired of hearing them, but on Tuesday at lunchtime when me and Danny and Marco were playing handball against the school auditorium, Little ran over and told us Cruz wanted me. I looked at the high school fence and saw Cruz waving his arm at me to come over there. Big and Cruz’ other friends were around him like a king’s guards.

  “I don’t want to talk to him.” I squeezed the tennis ball in my hand. “He’s just going to make jokes about Rudy.”

  Little looked back at Cruz, then at me. “No. He said he needs to tell you something about the Turk.”

  With Rudy and the funeral and all, I had forgot about the Turk. I didn’t want anything to do with him, but the looks on Danny and Marco’s faces told me maybe I better go talk to Cruz. I squeezed that ball all the way to the high school fence, and when I got there Cruz looked like he was ready to explode with whatever he had to tell me.

  “Your uncle was lucky he barely got his ass kicked.” Cruz made a stupid know-it-all smile and his followers made that same stupid smile. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I was sorry I walked all that far to hear what I already knew I was going to hear.

  It was Danny who answered Cruz.

  “Why do you treat Manny like that, Cruz? You’re mean.” I looked at Danny. He was staring at Cruz the
way I’ve seen guys do when they choose off another guy to fight. I saw Cruz’ face turn red like I never seen before.

  “I ain’t talking to you,” Cruz told him, “and besides, this doesn’t have nothing to do with Rudy. It’s about the Turk. Rudy’s lucky he wasn’t dead way before is what I’m saying.”

  I guess my face was a blank. Cruz must have figured I still didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Just tell him, man,” Big said to Cruz.

  “Tell me what?”

  “The Turk’s in county jail and he’s going to prison.” Cruz looked at me to see what I was going to do next. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, but I didn’t want Cruz to know how bad he shocked me.

  “That’s not funny, Cruz,” I told him. I turned to go back to handball.

  “No kidding. The sheriffs got him for killing Lawrence Collison.” That turned me around. “Elvira’s cousin Lino told me some guy told him the Turk copped a plea. He’s going to prison.”

  I didn’t want to believe Cruz. He lied to me so many times just to make a fool out of me. I didn’t need to be fooled again. Danny and Little and Marco looked at me like they would do whatever I was going to do.

  I bounced the handball on the ground. “Let’s go back to our game.” I felt good that this time the joke wasn’t going to be on me. Cruz always knew only parts of the stories he blabbed to the whole world like the chismoso he was.

  On the way home, me and Danny and Little and Marco couldn’t quit talking about what Cruz said. In no time we were at Main Street and Euclid where Little had to peel off to go to his house. We could hardly wait to hear the whole story. The real story. And when one of us got it, we’d meet up in the club to share it with the gang.

  I waited on the front porch all afternoon for Mom and Dad to get home from work so I could tell them what Cruz said. When Dad pulled into the driveway, I was off the porch and at his window in a flash.