Amigoland Part 4

"This is my neighbor. Sometimes we go for coffee." Don Celestino turned back toward the man. "This is my older brother."

"Your brother?" He squinted a little more. "Bill Harwell. Good to meet you."

Don Fidencio looked at him a second before finally switching his cane to the other side and putting out his own hand. The two men stood at the entrance of the barbershop, neither one speaking as they waited for Don Celestino to unlock the door. When they were inside, he flicked on the pole and then the lights in the room.

"Did the Astros play yesterday?" he asked, thinking baseball was something the two men might have in common.

"Going to, but they got rained out," Harwell said.

Don Fidencio only nodded.

"They said it was going to rain here today," Don Celestino said, pulling up the blinds. "But I don't see any sign of it."

"I went ahead and cut the gra.s.s yesterday," Harwell said, "just to be on the safe side."

"If it's not too much trouble, you think I can get my trim now?" Don Fidencio asked in Spanish.

His brother turned around to find him sitting in the barber's chair, the wooden cane hanging off the armrest.

"I already told this man I would take care of him first."

"And me?"

"It won't take long, then you can go next."

"I was the one who showed up first, not him."

"Yeah, but he called me last night." He tugged on his brother's arm, hoping to nudge him out of the chair, but the old man pulled his arm back and stayed where he was.

"Now you take appointments, like a beauty parlor?"

"That's fine, if you want to start with him." Harwell had sat down in one of the chairs against the wall.

"You see?" Don Fidencio said. "The gavacho agrees with me, even if he doesn't know Spanish. He knows I was here first."

Don Celestino looked at his neighbor, realizing the man had lived here long enough to know when he was being talked about.

"I can come back a while later," Harwell offered, then actually stood up.

"So, how is it going to be?" Don Fidencio said. "For him to go before me, like you don't have a family?"

"Just let me take care of the man."

"You forget, that's the problem."

"Don't start."

"You act like one of them. And to h.e.l.l with your brother, he doesn't matter. 'Just let me take care of the man,'" he mocked. "'I have to take care of the poor man.' Because how can you think to make him wait a few minutes, like I waited half the morning out there in the car, like some dummy? But how?"

"Ya, Fidencio."

"I got here before him, that's all I know," his brother said, placing his hands on his knees and standing up on the footrest. "It should count for something, being the first one here."

"I promised him."

Don Fidencio glanced over at the other man and then back at his brother just before he grabbed his cane.

"Then both of you go to h.e.l.l," he said, this time in English.

He must have found somewhere else to cut his hair because he stopped coming around. Then several years later Don Celestino read in the paper that Don Fidencio's wife had died. Though she had moved out years earlier, she had never actually divorced his brother. Don Celestino debated whether to go to the services; Dora argued with him that they should at least attend the Rosary. Wouldn't he want his family to show up if something happened to his wife? And then a year later something did happen. By that time he figured his brother would have let go whatever bad feelings there were between them. But when he failed to show up for Dora's services, this slight, from his one remaining brother, only stirred his sorrow. He knew it was the old man paying him back for his own lapse. But he reasoned that Don Fidencio hadn't been living with his woman when she died. She had left him years ago, wouldn't even talk to him, practically divorced him. How could that be the same as a husband and wife - under the same roof, in the same bed - for more than fifty years? It didn't compare back then, and it didn't compare now.

Don Celestino glanced back down at the control panel and saw he had half a mile to go on the treadmill. If he trusted the machine a little more, he might have raised his arm to see what time it was on his wrist.w.a.tch. He pressed the speed b.u.t.ton until it reached 3.5. Thinking about some old man wasn't helping him any. He still had lots of work to do at home before tomorrow came around.

11.

She curled over onto her side, toward the wall, tossing the covers away from her. Just beyond the bedroom door, she heard him flush the toilet. The curtains were drawn and, except for a bit of light slipping in beneath the sheet of aluminum foil that covered the windowpane, the bedroom seemed dark enough for it to be the middle of the night and not the middle of the afternoon.

Socorro used to think his queen-size mattress was so big. Growing up, she had spent years sleeping on the sofa so her four brothers could have the bedroom. Her first real bed had been the one she shared with Rogelio. But this was only a full-size mattress and it was impossible to move without entangling herself with his body, which on most nights she wanted to avoid, especially after she suspected he was lying down in another bed. When she started cleaning houses and saw her first king-size mattress, she a.s.sumed it was two beds pushed together. She couldn't imagine why a husband and wife would need such an enormous bed. It seemed a couple could lie there and never touch each other the whole night, as if they had been arguing about something just before falling asleep and had each grabbed his own blanket and rolled over on his side with his back to the other. And if that was the case, then what was the point of sleeping in the same bed with your husband?

Though she had been married before, she felt as if she knew very little about how to be with a man. A few years earlier, while cleaning a lawyer's house, she found a stack of magazines with men and women together in bed and other places where she'd never imagined people would want to be together in that way. She didn't want to look at first, but she couldn't help herself, no more than she could turn away when she saw a newspaper photo of a dead person found somewhere in Matamoros. She would close the magazine, feel some shame for what she had just done, swear she wouldn't open it again, but then open the one right beneath it. Almost all the men in these photos were americanos, but the women were all different, some americanas, some negras, others chinas, and others mexicanas. They had them on the carpet, in the shower, on the kitchen table, on the hood of a car, in the swimming pool, in a stable. She finally forced herself to put the magazines away, but now she knew people had other ways of being together. The few years she'd been married to Rogelio, she had done what he told her to do, and that was to lie down with him in a normal bed, where married people lie down. But even this way she could remember only one time when she had ever actually enjoyed being with him.

They had gone to church at noon - something he rarely did, but he had agreed to this one day to make her happy - and later spent the afternoon in the plaza. It was a beautiful day, with all the families sitting on the benches and children chasing one another around the bandstand. A group of musicians, older men with bra.s.s instruments and a woman singer, were getting ready to perform. She and Rogelio sat on one of the benches under the trees and shared a fruit cup. After they sat there a few minutes, a pretty little girl came up to Rogelio and handed him a white balloon. She couldn't have been more than two, and she was playing with him in the way little girls do when they want attention from little boys. He accepted the balloon and then offered it back to her. She accepted it, then a few seconds later offered it back to him. Rogelio asked her who'd given her such a big balloon. But when she opened her mouth, they couldn't understand her garbled words. After a while Rogelio said the little girl looked like her. Socorro couldn't see how, but he insisted that she must have looked like her when she was that age. Maybe so, she said. No maybe, he said. He became very serious and said this was how their baby would look. Socorro smiled. The little girl was pretty. And then he said he wanted to go back to the house and make a little baby, a beautiful one just like her. He threw away the rest of the fruit cup and they left for the house.

But it was as if she couldn't walk fast enough. Everything had to be right away with him. Already more than a year had gone by and still there was no sign of a baby. She'd heard his mother asking him why it was taking so long. They were lucky that when they got to the house his family was still away, buying groceries. He had his pants down below his knees before she could pull the green shower curtain that covered the entrance to his bedroom. But after this he slowed down, slower than she could remember him ever going. She started feeling something funny that she hadn't experienced before. At first she wasn't sure if she was supposed to feel this way and she wanted him to stop, but the more she let him, the more she didn't want him to stop. She imagined they were creating their baby, their little girl, and she was being made from their love. It was as if they were swimming just above the bed, the baby floating between them and the whole time she and Rogelio feeling the same exact thing. They breathed together, they moved together, they made the same sounds. But somehow through all this she heard the front door. She whispered to him that his family was home, in the next room. This had been a problem, living in the same small house, but usually they waited until late at night or early in the morning, before anyone else woke up. She could hear their voices, their shoes on the floor. Stop, she told him. She wanted to get up, except he was holding her down. He was her man and she wanted to be with him, but not this way, with his family right there. She couldn't stop breathing so rapidly, but now she felt nothing. She just wanted to stop what they were doing. They could stay lying there, as long as he stopped making his sounds and pushing the bed against the back wall. Por favor, Socorro begged him. Por favor, Rogelio. But he put his hand over her mouth. She felt as if she were suffocating. She was trying to get up, but he pushed harder. Out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw something move, and later when she looked again one side of the curtain was pulled open and his father was watching them. He smiled back at her because he knew there wasn't anything she could do. Rogelio kept pushing.

Sometimes she wondered if not always enjoying her time with him had made her a bad wife or made it so that they never had a baby, but she also knew that, aside from that one time, she had never told him no whenever he'd wanted to be together - as she did now with Don Celestino. At least she could say he made her feel something again and that she simply wanted to be closer to him, though now after almost three months she wanted to know if he felt anything similar or if she was still only the girl who cleaned his house and then stayed around after her work was done. Somehow she had imagined a man his age would be proud, maybe a little boastful, to have a young woman and to want to present her to his family and friends. Wasn't this part of what all men were looking for?

She could hear him brushing his teeth now. At first she found it difficult to stay interested when they were only starting and Don Celestino would suddenly stop and say he needed to go to the bathroom. A couple of times she had fallen asleep waiting. Then one morning she was cleaning around the medicine chest when she found some pills inside a plastic sandwich bag tucked behind a bottle of talc.u.m powder. It seemed strange to her because he kept his medicines in a daily dispenser that stayed on the kitchen table next to the salt- and pepper shakers. When she asked him about them, he told her that they were vitamins, if she had to know, but that he wasn't asking her about everything she carried in her purse. Socorro apologized and said she was just curious. Another week went by and she found the same plastic bag in the bathroom cabinet, this time wedged behind the hot-water bottle. He must have thought he had hidden it well enough, but he forgot that she'd been cleaning houses long before they had become intimate and there were few places a cleaning woman didn't look. All this time she had a.s.sumed his trips to the bathroom had to do with a sudden urge to relieve himself, as a man his age might need to do. But now she noticed how he came back more eager than before he left and somehow he seemed to have as much or more energy than a man half his age. And then she remembered the little blue pills - his vitamins.

Socorro was facing the wall when he opened the bedroom door.

"Still awake?"

She stayed in the same position and adjusted the pillow. While she was still wearing her skirt and blouse, he'd come back from the bathroom in only his briefs.

"Sometimes it can be hard to fall asleep alone," he said.

She mumbled something back.

"What was that, mi amor?"

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"Nothing, just talking to myself."

"Saying what? Tell me."

She inched away when she felt his bare chest against her back.

"I said, 'You act like you know what it is to be alone.'"

"I was alone for almost half a year before I found you," Don Celestino said. "That wasn't long enough?" He kissed her along the shoulders, as he had been doing before he excused himself.

"I thought it was."

"Then?"

"Maybe other people would think it was."

"What people?" He nuzzled up and set her hair to one side so his lips could reach her neck.

"Your brother, maybe he would think it was a long time."

"He's been alone already for years."

"So then he knows what it's like."

"Only because she left him." He moved his hand across her hip and then down toward the little rolls of skin near her belly, but she moved her arm in a way that blocked the rest of his path.

"Then his alone is different from your alone?"

"They were separated, she didn't want to see him." Socorro turned to face him. "And you think you know everything that happens between a man and his woman?"

"No, I just know they were not together and for years not even in the same town. Why do I need to know the reasons?"

"He was still married to her, Celestino. He was still her husband."

He liked how she said his name more intimately now, without the "Don" attached to it, and sometimes it was difficult to remember when it had been any other way between them. He was savoring the moment when he realized she was still looking at him, waiting for a response.

"Why do you want to talk about other people right now?"

"Your brother."

"Yes, I know who he is."

"Then maybe you can tell him that we're friends... more than friends."

"Please, Socorro." He reached for her as she pulled away.

"What would it hurt to at least call him?"

"Please, no more," he whispered to her. "Can we just stop talking?"

She thought about this for a moment, then twisted back around, leaving a s.p.a.ce between their bodies.

"Is that what you really want, for me to be quiet?"

"Yes, please, no more." He kissed her on the shoulders as he had earlier. He tried to inch over and get past the pillow she was holding.

"Then maybe we should just take a nap," she said.

"How do you mean?"

"You know, a nap, when you close your eyes and sleep and then wake up later feeling rested. That's one of the other things people do in bed." She turned over with the pillow now between her legs.

Don Celestino looked at her back and wondered what it would take for her to turn around. A couple of minutes later, he rolled over and gazed at the ceiling-fan blades, which continued to whirl about with no regard as to what was occurring a few feet below them on the bed.

Socorro could hear him sighing behind her as if he might be exhaling his final breath and only she could save him. She had no intention of turning around, though. He could stay awake the rest of the afternoon, and with that rolling pin between his legs to keep him company. He was lucky she didn't go flush the rest of his vitamins down the toilet.

12.

This time it happens early in the morning. Don Fidencio sees himself pushing the walker down a long street. And here he thought he would never get away from that place where they kept him locked up. Only now he wonders where he might be headed. He has on only the bottom half of his old work uniform with his red suspenders holding up his pants. No shirt, no undershirt. What has his life come to for him to be walking around in public without a shirt? Was this the only way to escape without anyone noticing? I might as well be a homeless one, un trampa. Later his mailbag falls somewhere along the way but when he looks over his shoulder and then back he is pushing a wheelbarrow and not the walker. He arrives at the first house and knocks. A beautiful dark-haired woman opens the door wearing only a towel. Have you seen my mailbag? The woman says she has something for him. He thinks it might be the mailbag and if not the mailbag then maybe something having to do with her towel, but then she shows him a large manila envelope. He tells her she needs the correct postage before he can take that from her. But instead of taking it back she rips open the end of the envelope and pours some dirt into his wheelbarrow. Then she closes the door. The same thing with the next house, only this time the man is wearing overalls, the same kind that old man Lucas used to wear on the farm so many years ago. No one has any idea where his mailbag could be, no one has the correct postage. Dirt is all they have for him. House after house. Most times they hand him a manila envelope. But some people also have the standard-size envelopes or airmail envelopes. One has a postcard with a little mound of dirt balanced on it. He can never guess what kind of letter the next house will have or what the dirt will look like. It goes from black dirt to reddish dirt to yellowish dirt and once even comes out as mud but all of it turns into plain brown dirt once it gets mixed in with the rest of the pile. When he asks the people what the dirt is for they tell him to keep walking. But where to? How far? By now the pile of dirt is several feet high and so tall that he has to look to one side just to see where he is going. At the end of the long block he turns to the left and now he pushes the wheelbarrow through an open field. At one point he reaches up to wipe his brow and realizes the wheelbarrow is moving without his actually pushing it. He holds on to the handles only to keep from losing his balance on the uneven ground. When he reaches the shade of a large mesquite the wheelbarrow stops altogether. Next to the tree is a deep hole, long enough and wide enough for a man to lie down in, but inside it he sees his canes. Tangled roots bulge from the sides like varicose veins. All that time searching in closets and under beds and behind furniture, and this is where they came to hide them. There's the aluminum one with the four p.r.o.ngs at the base. He used to take it with him when he walked in his neighborhood just in case he needed to defend himself against one of the stray dogs. The wooden one with the knots along the shaft is lying on its side and he can see where he had his initials burned onto the pommel. The black aluminum cane with the foam-cushioned handle is in there but he can barely see it because it is leaning against one corner of the hole. He holds on to the tree and guides himself down onto one knee. Then he lies on his stomach to see if he can stretch his arm down into the hole. He is less than an inch from touching the handle of the black cane when the wheelbarrow tips forward and the dirt pours out.

13.

The morning light shined brightest in the far corner of the therapy room. One of the girls had stopped to buy pan dulce, and the white bag lay torn open on the kitchen table. The pink cake had been the first to go; someone was still picking at the chocolate mollete and had left most of the sugary crumbs on a paper napkin. The boom box atop the refrigerator was tuned to a Tejano station, which was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room.

Don Fidencio sat next in line to The One With The Hole In His Back. Earlier he had been first in line, but The One With The Puffy Cheeks came up and said that The One With The Hole In His Back had to go first because he wasn't supposed to be in his wheelchair too long on account of his wound. Don Fidencio had to do as the man said and move over. Never mind that he had made special efforts to be there early, wolfing down his tasteless oatmeal, limiting his time on the pot, pushing his walker there ahead of time. And for what? So The One With The Hole In His Back could cut in front? It wasn't fair, but he had come to understand that very little was fair if a man happened to live in a prison. He ate only when the aides told him to eat; he watched his baseball games at the volume he wanted only until one of them came around and told him his neighbors were trying to sleep, no matter if it was extra innings or not; he bathed only when it was time again for them to wash his parts, and never as good as he would have done it himself; and he was allowed out of the main building by himself only to sit on the back patio for a smoke, and only during certain hours of the day.

Of the eight people waiting in line, he was the one person sitting in a regular chair and dressed in clothes decent enough to be worn out in public: black orthopedic shoes, khakis, checkered flannel shirt, red suspenders, red-and-black Astros cap. The One With The Hole In His Back wore his usual maroon pajamas and tan moccasin slippers, but now also with his beige cowboy hat that normally hung off the headboard.

He motioned for his roommate to come closer.

"WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY?"

Don Fidencio pulled away when he remembered the volume of his roommate's voice. "Tuesday."

"EH?"