Amigoland Part 3

"Seven," she clarified, after they had pa.s.sed the 18-wheeler.

"Okay then, seven months, so you can see it has been a long time."

"But already more than two months since the time we got together."

He neither acknowledged nor denied her last statement and instead let it linger along with the gas fumes that had seeped in through the crack in the window.

They had been sitting in the car at least five minutes, maybe ten. He wanted to glance over at the console, but she might ask if he was in a hurry. Fibergla.s.s siding covered the walls on either side of the carport, starting about waist high and leaving some s.p.a.ce for a man to walk under, if he wanted to get out that way. Parked inside the carport, he could easily make out the ceiling through the exposed rafters. The carpenters had used longer nails on the roof than necessary, and now hundreds of rusty tips p.r.i.c.ked through the ceiling and formed what looked like a bed of nails.

"I told my mother," she said finally.

"All of it?"

"Enough, what she needed to know - how we met and how long ago, about your business, how you are, the things you say. She was only going to protest if I told her more."

"Then you can imagine how it would be with these girls."

"Girls."

"To me they will always be my girls, no matter the age."

"I even told my brother Marcos when he called," Socorro said. "And now he wants to meet you when he can come to visit."

"If we still talked, I could go tell my brother."

He glanced at the side mirror and spotted his neighbor Mrs. Harwell across the street behind her locked gate. The old lady held up the hem of her dress as if she were wading through a flood, then looked up to see how much farther she had to go.

"You never told me you had a brother."

"You never asked."

"Because you made it like you were the only one left, that the rest had already died. Why would I ask if I thought you had no brothers?"

She could feel the feverish sweat forming on her neck and chest again, and she tried to find some relief by pulling away from the seat back. If she didn't know better, she would have thought he had turned off the air conditioner.

"With this one, it's almost like that. He doesn't call me and I don't call him, that's how it is. How could I go tell him about us if me and him haven't talked in years?" He glanced into the mirror, and the old lady was now staring this way as if she had witnessed a crime and was trying to commit his license plate to memory.

"Even if you didn't tell him, you could have told me you had a brother. What would it hurt to tell me that one little thing? Why keep it from me?"

"You say it like I did it to deceive you. But there was nothing to tell you. What could I say? I have a brother, but it's like I don't have a brother. I have a brother, but he is like a stranger to me? I have a brother, but he would never care to know about my life or who I spend my time with? I have a brother, but it's like I don't have a brother. I have a brother, but he is like a stranger to me? I have a brother, but he would never care to know about my life or who I spend my time with?"

She could hardly listen to him anymore. What she wanted was for him to turn up the air conditioner, but at the same time she didn't want anything from him. It was just a little misunderstanding between them. Later, things would be fine again, like always. She knew this, and yet right then all she wanted was to get far, far away from him. She moved her face up closer to the air vent and left it at that.

"I never said anything about telling him."

"Then?"

"Just why you kept it from me, Celestino, like it was a part of your life that didn't concern me."

He tried to brush a strand of hair from her face, but she leaned away from him. Even upset, she looked more attractive than he had imagined her this morning when he was hurrying to get to the bridge.

"Why would you care about some old man you have never seen?"

"Your brother."

"Yes, all right, my brother, so now you know."

"Yes, now I know," she said, but somehow he had the feeling they weren't talking about the same thing.

9.

La senora Munoz was sitting back in the recliner, watching the novela she had recorded yesterday. Socorro took another shirt from the laundry basket and spread it across the ironing board. If she timed it right, she would finish with the clothes about the time it took them to watch this episode of Mi destino perdido. Mi destino perdido. La senora liked to say the tragedies weren't any less sad the second time she saw them. In today's episode, for instance, poor Gabriela lies still in the hospital, thick gauze pads covering each of her eyes. What this beautiful young music teacher doesn't realize is that the doctor who saved her life and with whom she now finds herself falling in love, desperately so, is also the man who caused the accident that robbed her of her sight. Gabriela caught only a glimpse of Dr. Hernan Lozano Ramos as he sped up to pa.s.s her and then inadvertently cut her off and sent her car swerving toward a ravine. She is lucky to be alive. The doctor reminds her of this as he stands along one side of the bed and caresses her hand. He says it as a way of pacifying her, as well as discouraging her from trying so hard to identify the person responsible for her condition. A young police detective, much closer in age to Gabriela than the doctor, stands on the other side of the bed. He has come around again to help her recall some detail of the driver who didn't have the decency to render aid after causing this terrible accident. Eduardo, as the detective insists she call him, also has feelings for the victim. The fact that Detective Eduardo, as Gabriela prefers to address him, has been less than friendly and courteous toward the doctor has not set well with her. The doctor has stated, in no uncertain terms, that his patient should not in any way be upset. She is lucky to be alive. Of course, there is little for him to worry about as long as she cannot identify the other driver. And so the respected surgeon remains the only person who knows he was speeding with his unconscious wife in the pa.s.senger seat, sedated from the c.o.c.ktail he prescribed to help relieve her latest case of nerves. Gabriela blames herself for the accident. Distraught from having just discovered her fiance in bed with her half sister, she had been driving home in a confused and erratic manner that caused her to overreact when the other driver pulled out in front of her. She is lucky to be alive. La senora liked to say the tragedies weren't any less sad the second time she saw them. In today's episode, for instance, poor Gabriela lies still in the hospital, thick gauze pads covering each of her eyes. What this beautiful young music teacher doesn't realize is that the doctor who saved her life and with whom she now finds herself falling in love, desperately so, is also the man who caused the accident that robbed her of her sight. Gabriela caught only a glimpse of Dr. Hernan Lozano Ramos as he sped up to pa.s.s her and then inadvertently cut her off and sent her car swerving toward a ravine. She is lucky to be alive. The doctor reminds her of this as he stands along one side of the bed and caresses her hand. He says it as a way of pacifying her, as well as discouraging her from trying so hard to identify the person responsible for her condition. A young police detective, much closer in age to Gabriela than the doctor, stands on the other side of the bed. He has come around again to help her recall some detail of the driver who didn't have the decency to render aid after causing this terrible accident. Eduardo, as the detective insists she call him, also has feelings for the victim. The fact that Detective Eduardo, as Gabriela prefers to address him, has been less than friendly and courteous toward the doctor has not set well with her. The doctor has stated, in no uncertain terms, that his patient should not in any way be upset. She is lucky to be alive. Of course, there is little for him to worry about as long as she cannot identify the other driver. And so the respected surgeon remains the only person who knows he was speeding with his unconscious wife in the pa.s.senger seat, sedated from the c.o.c.ktail he prescribed to help relieve her latest case of nerves. Gabriela blames herself for the accident. Distraught from having just discovered her fiance in bed with her half sister, she had been driving home in a confused and erratic manner that caused her to overreact when the other driver pulled out in front of her. She is lucky to be alive.

Socorro held up the dress shirt and sprayed starch on the back. She was about to start on the sleeves when she turned to glance out the window.

"Are you waiting for someone?" la senora asked.

"No," she said, pulling away. "Why do you ask?"

She sprayed more starch on the shirt.

"Because already that's the third time you look outside."

Socorro could feel herself getting red and hoped this was from her ironing. "I just wanted to see who was driving by."

"If you're so curious, you should go over there."

"Over where?"

"To check on my neighbor," la senora said. "What else would interest you so much on this street?"

"We changed days, and tomorrow I need to clean the house for him."

"You miss him?"

Socorro turned down the temperature on the iron until it reached the permanent-press setting, then a moment later turned it off completely but continued with her work all the same.

"Tell me," la senora insisted, a little louder now. "You miss him?"

"I work for him."

"And because of that, you can't miss him?"

"Ay, senora, how can you say that?" She tried her best to laugh at the question.

"You think you would be the first woman to feel something for the man she worked for?"

"But he's much older."

"Men forget how to count when they see a young woman - look at the doctor with Gabriela," she said, pointing the remote back at the television.

"Yes, but he would never be interested in me."

"You want me to believe an older man like Celestino Rosales wouldn't be interested in a young, attractive woman?"

"Maybe, but not me." She pretended she was having problems with the pleat on the back of the shirt, so she pulled it off the board to flap it open a couple of times, enough to produce a tiny breeze.

"I saw that you came over two times last week."

"Only because I didn't finish all my work and then one of his daughters was coming to visit him. He wanted everything ready for her."

"I want you to know you could tell me if he was," la senora said, "or even if you were."

Socorro chose to keep her eyes focused on her work and turned the temperature back up on the iron. "Thank you, but there's nothing to tell."

"And nothing has happened?"

"Like what?"

"You know, what happens between a man and woman when they are alone all day in a house."

"Ay, senora."

"You could tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course."

"Sure sure, or just a little bit sure?" sure, or just a little bit sure?"

"Sure sure." sure."

La senora didn't seem convinced, but she went back to watching the rest of her novela anyway. Socorro hoped that she wasn't too obvious about her feelings. She could imagine the old lady spreading the news across the neighborhood. And then there were his children that he was always worried about. He said the youngest one talked about her mother as if she were still in the hospital and would be coming home soon. How would they feel if they learned their father had found someone else, and so soon? Her own mother had remained alone after her father died, which was part of what had made it difficult for Socorro to tell her what had really occurred between her and the man whose house she cleaned every week. How could she begin to explain this to a woman who had been without a man for more than twenty years?

Before her first afternoon with Don Celestino, she had never imagined doing such a thing: she used to look down on those women who cleaned houses only because they wanted to find a widower with money. Some of these women married and stayed with their husbands for a few years, until the old man died or grew so ill that his children took him to a hospital, where finally he died. It must have seemed a small price to pay in order to arrange their papers and from then on have a comfortable life. With a little luck the old man might leave them with some money, maybe a house or a car, depending on whether he had arranged this beforehand and his children didn't claim it all. Other women remained unmarried but the old men paid them generously, as if spreading their legs was simply another ch.o.r.e they were doing, like mending a shirt b.u.t.ton or replacing a spent lightbulb.

At least she knew that her interest in him had nothing to do with what he could give her. She wanted only what they could share as a couple, if he would let this happen. Since they had become intimate, her life had turned into two lives. One that she lived on the other side of the river with her mother and aunt, still cooking and cleaning and shopping and going to the pharmacy for these pills or that salve that her mother might need. And her other life, on this side of the river, where she rushed about her day trying to finish early so she could spend some time with him in the late afternoon, before she had to walk back across the bridge. Times like this, she tried to remember what she had imagined her life would be like if they ever got together, because surely this hadn't been it. To live her life in secret? As if she were playing the role of the mistress, only the role of the married man was being played by a widowed man? Not that she didn't enjoy her time with him, because she did, but it also seemed like some fantasy that lasted only as long as they were together and then ceased to exist when she wasn't in his car or house or bed.

But after waiting for so long to find someone, she asked herself if she should be making demands of him or if she shouldn't just be happy they were together and not care if these moments were fleeting at best. All these years of waiting, the men she knew had fallen into one of two categories: those who disappeared from one day to the next, and those who stuck around, but only because they were biding their time until something more promising came along, after which they disappeared from one day to the next. Maybe she was meant to be alone? It had crossed her mind again recently. Why else would G.o.d have sent her a husband who just wandered off like a mule without a rope? And then sent her an older man who wanted her but wouldn't tell another soul about them, not even his own family? Was their friendship so shameful that he couldn't at least tell his brother, the only one he had left? Neither one of them probably remembered what they had fought over. How much effort would it take him to at least do this for her?

"Ay, he wants to fool you!" la senora called out at one of the women on television.

Socorro hurried to finish the rest of the ironing so she could get paid and leave for the day. It was bad enough la senora was comparing her to these poor women in the novelas. She wasn't mixed up with a man who was trying to deceive her or hurt her in some way. She wasn't married to a man who got so tired of waiting for her to get pregnant that he found himself another woman. And she wasn't involved with a man who wanted to run off on her. She didn't have to figure out who was telling her the truth anymore. She knew the truth; she just couldn't tell anyone.

10.

He had never been one to walk around in short pants, showing off his legs to the world. So while the others wore shorts or exercise pants, Don Celestino preferred his blue jeans and an old short-sleeve work shirt. His black cushioned shoes were easier on his feet and still looked like proper shoes. The girl at the store had tried to sell him a pair that fastened with Velcro straps, but he chose the laces because he didn't want to get in the habit of doing things the easy way.

Cooder, on the treadmill to his right, wore running shoes, athletic socks that reached just below his knees, long pleated shorts, and a sagging muscle shirt that allowed tufts of his white chest hair to billow over the top. His black f.a.n.n.y pack hung loose on his hips like a loaded holster. "Ready to be young again, Rosales?" he asked.

Don Celestino was turning side to side as if loosening his back before a long run. "What do you mean, again? again?"

Cooder patted him on the shoulder. "Good answer."

Then each one hit the start b.u.t.ton on his treadmill.

Cooder jogged at a slow enough pace that it might have been confused with a fast walk. As he trotted along, he leaned forward as if he were carrying a sixty-pound car battery and desperately looking for a safe place to set it down. He chose the machine on the right because it was closer to the mounted television and the game show he liked to watch, though he generally jogged with his head down, his eyes focused on the black conveyor belt whisking beneath him.

Don Celestino kept his finger on the speed b.u.t.ton until it reached 2.0, the setting for the comfortable pace he preferred to walk. He reread the inspirational poster on the wall in front of him: STAYING HEALTHY, MAKING THE MOST OF LIFE! STAYING HEALTHY, MAKING THE MOST OF LIFE! In the poster a gray-haired couple strolled in a wooded park and laughed about something only they knew about. He could look around if he wanted to, but he chose to concentrate on what he was doing and instead stare straight ahead at the gray-haired man and woman. Once or twice he had lost his balance and then caught hold of the railings in time to correct himself. Later he blamed the machine for somehow speeding up when he wasn't expecting it. Anyone would have been caught off balance. He hadn't reported the malfunctioning equipment only because he didn't want to get anyone in trouble. In the poster a gray-haired couple strolled in a wooded park and laughed about something only they knew about. He could look around if he wanted to, but he chose to concentrate on what he was doing and instead stare straight ahead at the gray-haired man and woman. Once or twice he had lost his balance and then caught hold of the railings in time to correct himself. Later he blamed the machine for somehow speeding up when he wasn't expecting it. Anyone would have been caught off balance. He hadn't reported the malfunctioning equipment only because he didn't want to get anyone in trouble.

"Who is Zachary Taylor?" the old man shouted. "Who's General Zachary Taylor?!"

Don Celestino focused on moving his legs at the pace of the machine; by now he was used to Cooder yelling while he watched television. He had more trouble with just the idea of being here with these old men and women. He knew he wasn't old like some of them. Other than his plume of white hair, there really wasn't anything that showed his age.

"Who is Pershing?! Black Jack Pershing!"

And it wasn't just his appearance and physical strength, because he knew his mind was sharper than those of much younger men. You wouldn't find him repeating the same story over and over. He could still describe how the dagger-shaped icicles hung off the truck's b.u.mper that night in 1949 when he had to go for the doctor and how Dora was already holding the baby in her arms by the time they arrived back at the house. And before that, he could remember attending barber school for almost three years because he kept having to leave with his brothers to follow the crops up north to Ohio, to Minnesota, to Iowa, to Michigan, and then by the time he did get his license, the army was ready for him. The foggy morning of June 24, 1945, he and eighty-seven other young men headed to Fort Benning, Georgia, for basic training. He remembered sitting directly behind the bus driver, and when the sun was barely rising over the King Ranch, he pulled out a small notebook and began writing what he imagined might be his last letter to Dora. And when the war ended before he had actually made it overseas, the army shipped him back home, and in Houston he boarded a commercial bus that eventually stopped at a roadside diner near Corpus, and while the rest of the pa.s.sengers were free to enter the restaurant, because of the times he was forced to sit on the back steps of the kitchen and eat a cheeseburger so greasy it stained his uniform. All these stories and more still came to mind as though he had experienced them only yesterday, no different than they would for a much younger man.

"Who's Johnson?! Who's..."

Cooder's f.a.n.n.y pack had slid around to the front and he had to step off the machine to adjust it. Inside the pouch he kept several ballpoint pens and a tiny spiral notepad, where he recorded the distance and time of his walk. He'd shown it once to Don Celestino and later turned to the section where he logged the miles he and his wife traveled in their motor home between here and Belton, Missouri, where they lived during the summer months. Cooder claimed he didn't mind the cold, but his wife's arthritis did better when they traveled south for the winter. They were about to celebrate fifty-six years of marriage, only two years more than Don Celestino had been married to Dora. He had thought they would still be together. He felt so alone in those days after she left him behind. It seemed like he would stay this way, but his life took an unexpected turn and suddenly he went from being married to the same woman for more than fifty years to being with a young woman who herself was still a long way from fifty. It troubled him that Socorro didn't seem to appreciate what this meant for him and instead pretended they were like any other couple that had fallen in love. Their situation was more complicated than that, at least for him it was. And now this business with his brother. If she only knew what she was asking of him.

According to the control panel on the treadmill, he had walked only a little more than a mile, though it felt as if he had already reached his goal of two miles. At this pace he would be here all day. It was Wednesday, his day to wash the car, and if he didn't hurry it was going to get dark on him. He needed to spend some time vacuuming the inside, especially the s.p.a.ce between the driver and pa.s.senger sides. He increased the speed to 3.0 and began taking longer, more purposeful strides.

Before he retired and learned his diabetes had grown worse, he figured he was getting enough exercise just being on his feet at the barbershop. That was where he had spent most of his days and where he had last spoken to his brother. If it hadn't been for the barbershop, he might not have seen him at all. He referred to him as his brother, but because of the years that stood between them, he had thought of him as an uncle or cousin who came around to the house more often. Don Fidencio was in his early eighties and by this point living alone. Even after retiring from the post office, he had continued to show up early in the morning on the first Sat.u.r.day of the month.

The last time Don Fidencio had come by, Don Celestino had pulled up to the barbershop at twenty minutes after eight, which was unusual for him since he was in the habit of turning on the lights and the pole a few minutes before the hour. Don Fidencio was waiting inside his car, staring straight ahead as if he were stuck in a long line of traffic.

"I didn't know if you were still in business," he said, then glanced at his watch as he got out of the car.

"We went for coffee," his brother said.

Don Fidencio looked surprised when another man parked his car behind his brother's car and walked up to where they were standing. The man was short and he squinted through one eye as though he couldn't see so well.