The Beach Where He Found ItIt was autumn when my daughter died. Yellowed leaves had shrouded her crumpled corpse by the time they found her in the grass verge between the pavement and the park. According to the coroner, it was the sludge of fallen leaves that killed her, made her slip and bang her head in the panic of the attack; mugged for fifty quid and her mobile phone. Some thought me brave, others thought me cold, the way I kept going, but I was neither. Forty-nine and no longer a mother, I clung on to the old routines by the tips of my lacquered nails. I knew how to set the alarm and totter in heels to the bus stop. I knew how to operate a till. I’d already learnt to cook for one but I’d never adapt to a world without my daughter. A family of two since she was a toddler, it was a wrench when she moved out. But I was glad to step back and let her navigate her own life. I lapped up the airbrushed anecdotes she fed me over kitchen-table chats in our dressing gowns at Christmas and birthdays. After her death the changing seasons had no meaning: even on the brightest day, grey clouds blocked the sun. When I heard the message on the answerphone, I thought I’d gone crazy. It was a Thursday, the one night I worked late. I was tired, more tired than usual, although not tired enough to hallucinate. I played it through a dozen times and then I sat on the sofa, still in my coat, still in my heels, staring at nothing. The voice was a stranger’s but the words were hers. My mind panned through the possibilities, homing in on the glimmers of hope amongst the dread. Her death had been an elaborate charade to escape me. The police had put her on witness protection. She was on the run with a man with a dubious past. Her long-lost father had claimed her; she’d been kidnapped and I had twenty-four hours to raise the ransom. Anything would do, so long as it meant it wasn’t my daughter’s body beneath that blanket of autumn leaves. I listened again. The voice was jaunty: “I found your postcard. Let me know if you want it back.” Then, as if reading from a script, my daughter’s words. A caravan perched above chalky cliffs, a picnic among the dunes. Still young enough to shape the sand into fairy-tale castles, yet old enough to battle the stove to bring me morning tea in bed. An imaginative child, romantic, she fancied she saw porpoises cresting the waves. It was Miranda’s idea to rinse out a fat-necked smoothie bottle and post her message through the waves. She swapped her pocket money at the on-site shop for a selection of picture postcards and a ballpoint with multi-coloured inks. She spent an entire rainy afternoon figuring what to write. “It shouldn’t be too complicated,” she said. “A Chinese lady might find it.” I doubted it would make it as far as the next bay, but I couldn’t shatter her illusions. “If you give them our address they can write and let you know where it’s got to.” “I’ll put our phone number,” she said. “That should be easier to read.” Perhaps it was out of apathy that I’d kept the landline. Perhaps I was also a dreamer, waiting for some faraway stranger to resurrect my child. The voice on my answerphone was male, however, and Scottish rather than Asian, but it was definitely quoting Miranda’s words. If this card should chance to roam Please be kind and help it home. He’d sent it on the first stage of its journey. Now it was up to me to do the rest. I shed my coat, slipped off my shoes and picked up the phone. It was a while before I was well enough to travel up to Scotland. Ian had offered to put the bottle in the post, but I couldn’t risk losing her again. Besides, I needed to stand on the beach where he’d found it. I owed it to the memory of that holiday, to the girl who’d lent her optimism to the sea. I’d put on weight in those weeks I was on sick leave, languishing on the sofa, stuffing my face with chocolate while staring at terrible TV. I slept through the alarm, or forgot to set it. I didn’t have the energy to varnish my nails. I was pleased my daughter’s message had reached dry land, yet it was as if they’d discovered her leaf-strewn body all over again. Ian sounded amused when I first rang him, but he couldn’t apologise enough when I explained. Even in his consternation his voice was soothing, the type of accent you’d want on the end of a helpline, promising to fix the problem, whatever it was. I must have looked a fright in my frumpy cagoule and flatties when he met me at the station, but Ian was too much of a gentleman to let it show. He drove me to the beach, handed me the bottle, pointed out the cafe in the distance where he would wait. He told me to take as long as I required. I’d imagined tramping miles along the shoreline, collecting shells and bits of jetsam to build a shrine. I’d imagined sobbing, collapsing, scrubbing sand through my hair. Instead I pulled up my hood against the wind and hunkered down on the rocks. As a crab scuttled away into a recess, I pictured Miranda, with her fishing net, in pursuit. Yet, had she lived, she’d be beyond that now. I unscrewed the lid and pulled out the postcard. I let it rest, a prayer book in my palms, as I stared out to sea. A trawler pricked the horizon and, in the middle distance, seagulls swarmed. I tried to conjure porpoises as I waited for nostalgia to grab me, to swallow me up and deposit me among the waves. I stared until the sea had merged with the sky, but my soul was unaltered. I turned my attention to the picture postcard. We’d spent hours selecting the best of the bunch, yet the ranks of beached sun loungers failed to tally with my memories of that holiday. It could’ve been anywhere. I flipped over the card. The purple ink was faded along the fold and the neat round letters could have been formed by any earnest child. Even the words, although carefully chosen, were unoriginal. Hardly the essence of her. I stuffed both card and bottle in my pocket. I’d come all this way to be reunited with my daughter but she’d already gone. I was hankering after that coffee but it was too soon to turn up at the cafe. I rose and, slip-sliding across the seaweed-strewn rocks, headed for the bank of marram where a zigzag path let me meander through my thoughts. It was daft to concern myself with what Ian thought of me, but I was loath to give him the impression I didn’t care. Yet what would he be judging? There’s no right way to grieve. I remembered a quarrel the Christmas after she’d left home. Apart from the terrible twos and teenage door-slamming, it was the only argument we ever had. She berated me for not finding myself a boyfriend after her father had upped sticks. I was flabbergasted: I’d no pretensions to be the perfect mother but I’d never expected to be criticised for putting her needs before mine. “Don’t you see,” she snapped, “the burden that puts on me?” I was too old for romance now, too set in my ways. Ian seemed to tread a similar groove. I’d expected someone older when he mentioned on the phone he was a widower. Someone with wispier hair. I cast a final glance towards the ocean. The view had scarcely changed: the lonely trawler and the squabbling seabirds. I turned to face the land. Across open pasture, I could make out a low-rise building, with a couple of rustic benches under an awning to the side. I needed that coffee. Ian could think what he liked. I trudged through the rough grassland. Here and there, among the spikes of coarse grass, I caught a glimpse of pink. Some child, I thought, leaving a trail of sweet wrappers; her mother should have checked her. I looked again: those ruby spots weren’t litter but tiny clumps of delicate flowers fighting through the green. As I neared the cafe the flowers thickened to a rosy carpet. Butterflies danced in and out and, up above, a curlew called. I lowered my hood, let the pale sun stroke my hair. What was the name of that flower? Perhaps Ian would know. I quickened my pace. Spring had crept up on me without my knowledge or permission. Yet, now it had come knocking, how could I refuse to let it in? Country house hotel Des would’ve preferred to meet up at the hotel, but Bev was adamant. “It won’t be the same if we don’t travel together.” He could’ve pointed out it wouldn’t be the same anyway without Dad, but Bev could get stroppy when she was thwarted and the last thing their mother needed was them squabbling like a couple of kids.
It would have been strange driving past the hotel turnoff on the way up north, so Des took the train. Despite the inconvenience of an early start, he enjoyed the journey, sifting through the morning paper over a not-too-dreadful coffee and a breakfast baguette. The old house looked smaller than he remembered. Even with the double-glazed windows and block-paved driveway, the place seemed frozen in the 1970s, and Des with it. He gave the taxi driver an extra-large tip, but it didn’t make him feel any bigger than the boy who’d grown up here. Bev answered the door. He dropped his bag and they hugged awkwardly in the cramped hallway, both pretending they’d have embraced more elegantly had there been more space. As his sister pushed off towards the kitchen to make him a cup of tea, he wondered if she’d had that old-fashioned smell of Parma violets the last time he’d seen her, and whether her hair had been such an unnatural shade of red. His mother was halfway up from her chair when he joined her in the lounge, like a wind-up toy that needed an extra turn of the handle to complete its routine. Des hugged her as clumsily as he’d hugged his sister, but this time it served a purpose: helping her to her feet and back to her seat. He positioned himself on the end of the sofa, almost exactly as he’d sat as a boy on another sofa to watch TV. “You’re looking well,” he told his mother, his manufactured cheerfulness covering the shock and embarrassment at how wrinkled and gaunt she’d become since the funeral only two months before. Bev brought his tea and commandeered the other end of the sofa. Des sipped from the china cup. “No-one else having one?” His mother looked hopefully across at Bev, but she shook her head. “Better not. Don’t want to have to stop to spend a penny on the way there.” Des watched his mother shrink back into her chair. Now he was used to her, she didn’t look so bad, dressed in a cheerful maroon skirt-suit with her hair freshly curled. Perhaps she’d needed to lose weight. “Excited?” He swallowed another mouthful of tea. “I wonder how much it’s changed.” “De-es!” Bev nudged him, and none too gently, though fortunately not on the side that was balancing his teacup. “What?” “It’s a surprise, remember?” She shot him the how-stupid-can-you-get look she’d been throwing his way since he was six years old. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Bev scowled. “Are you sure you want to spoil it?” “It’ll be delightful, wherever we’re going,” said their mother. “Will Susan be joining us?” Bev sniggered. “They’re not together anymore, Mum. You know that.” “Oh, I thought maybe …” Because she’d come to the funeral. Des unfastened the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. He generally went around in jeans on his days off, but Bev had suggested the suit. But he needn’t have listened; sure, the hotel was upmarket but the dress code couldn’t be that strict. “Anyway,” said their mother, “we’ll have a lovely time just the three of us.” Bev didn’t quibble when he changed into jeans for the drive to the hotel. It made him feel foolish for following her instructions in the first place. All it took to be treated like a grown-up was to behave like one. His sister wasn’t an ogre. She’d been a gem when their father died. While Des was still reeling from his divorce, Bev had not only arranged the funeral, but she’d organised this trip to give the mother something to distract her on their father’s birthday. Of course, Bev had been closer to their parents, equally at ease with each of them. Women were generally more clued in to the emotional agenda, but Bev had seemed especially adept. Certainly he’d never heard her moan about her mother the way Susan and her friends did. He resolved to find a moment over the weekend to let his sister know how much he appreciated how she held the family together. When he realised the case he’d brought was too small to accommodate his suit, his mother fussed about, looking for an old suit-bag of his father’s. Bev said it was lucky they’d booked a late lunch, but soon they were ready to leave. Belted into the back of Bev’s car, Des refused to allow himself to feel belittled. The journey would have been quicker by motorway, but Bev had wanted to recreate an epic childhood journey. Although forty years on the traffic was much denser, it seemed to work. Watching the scenery go by, their mother seemed to perk up. “Are we going to the caravan?” “My lips are sealed,” said Bev. “Mine too,” said Des. Soon they were reminiscing about the year it rained the entire week, and the year they all got sunburned. “We didn’t know any better back then,” laughed their mother and Des felt that indeed those summers had been glorious, and there was something amiss in him, something petulant and childish, to have kept his family at a distance. They began to sing, simple folk songs, the words coming back to Des with a surprising fluency. “Old Macdonald had a farm.” “She’ll be coming round the mountain.” “Ten green bottles.” And then almost as suddenly as they’d started, they stopped, each perhaps in their own way missing his father. Des felt a tightening in his chest with the love he’d never voiced. As the road snaked through the fells, inducing in Des a slight sensation of nausea, he couldn’t prevent his thoughts turning to the failure of his marriage. Susan had asked him to ease up on work to give them more time together, but he hadn’t listened. He knew what his problem was, had known for years, but that didn’t mean he could do anything about it. Work had been his retreat from the messy business of relationships. He heard his mother snore. Bev half turned from the wheel to smile. “It would be about her she’d start with her stories.” They’d been as much a part of the holiday ritual as that first ice cream. Their mother’s childhood had been one big adventure, far more exciting than any of the stories they could read in a book. But the one about her wartime evacuation had been extra special, because the big house where her aunt had been in service marked the half-way point between home and the holiday resort by the sea. “I always thought there was something fishy about it.” Bev met his gaze in the rear-view mirror. It was painful to admit it, but he’d never enjoyed his mother’s stories as much as he’d made out. Never as much as Bev seemed to. Their mother had been so brave, not shedding a tear when she was whisked away from home with only her old teddy and a gas mask. Much braver than Des had ever felt – and he was a boy. “Fishy?” “How it was all so perfect,” said Bev, as their mother continued to snore. As the car slowed, Des angled his neck to peer through the front window at the sign of the rampant squirrel up ahead. They used to compete to be the first to spot it; Bev usually won. Their mother stirred at the tick of the indicator, then resettled herself as the car turned onto the drive. Des didn’t know when the country house had been transformed into a hotel, didn’t know how many birthdays and wedding anniversaries had passed since it was opened to the public. But he knew his mother had never spoken of visiting in all those years. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, the words sounding more sharp to his ears than he’d heard them in his head. They progressed down a driveway bordered with poplars. Tyres crunching gravel snapped their mother out of her doze. Bev pulled up outside the porticoed entrance. Across the tended lawn, the lake shimmered. “You know where you are?” Their mother’s breath was laboured, her eyes wide, her face white. “Oh, my!” Bev hopped out and opened the front passenger door. “Once we get checked in, you can take us on a tour.” The old woman stayed put. She had told them how, as a child, she’d had the run of the place, hanging out with gardeners and stable boys. Freedom, of a kind, but for whom? Her aunt would have been too busy in the kitchen to supervise. “Let’s leave it,” said Des. “There’s fairly decent café at the garden centre a couple of miles down the road.” Bev took her mother’s wrinkled hand. “I booked us in here.” Their mother pulled back into the bucket seat, shaking her head. So brave Des had thought her, but perhaps he’d underestimated to what extent. It seemed, for all their closeness, that Bev had too. “Look, she doesn’t want to. You meant well, Bev. Now get back in the car and we’ll go elsewhere.” Bev cut across him. “They treated you special here, did they? Let’s get inside and you can tell us all about it.” Their mother let out a sob. “Come on, Mum,” said Bev. “You can rattle on about yourself to your heart’s content. Exactly as you did when we were kids.” The autumn sun shone on Bev’s burgundy hair. Des realised there was nothing natural about his sister at all.
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Through My Fault Matias stepped into the family room to wake his son. Mateo was sleeping on the sofa, where he slept every night.
“Mateo, wake up,” he whispered, careful not to wake his wife and daughter. But the boy didn’t stir. “Mateo,” Matias said in a loud whisper. The boy groaned and turned over on his stomach. “Mateo,” Matias said again. “It’s time to wake up.” “Five more minutes,” Mateo mumbled. “Okay,” Matias said. “I’ll make your coffee.” He went into the kitchen, put two slices of bread into the toaster and poured coffee into two mugs and a stainless steel thermos. When the toast popped up, he buttered both slices, putting Mateo’s on a plate. He sat down at the small kitchen table. He bit into his toast, sipped his coffee and, as he did every morning, silently said a prayer for the well being of his family. When he had finished his toast, he stepped back into the family room to wake Mateo. This time, he tapped him on the back. “Go away,” Mateo grumbled. “Mateo, we must go,” Matias said. “Your coffee and toast are ready. Get up.” Mateo rolled over. “I told you I hate coffee,” he said, finally sitting up. “You’ll get used to it,” Matias said. Mateo got up and walked down the hall to the bathroom. With his son finally awake, Matias went to his bedroom to get dressed. He went to the side of the bed where his wife was sleeping. He felt for her face in the darkness, bent down and kissed her cheek. “Good morning, Gabriela,” he whispered in Spanish. “We will see you tonight. I love you.” She reached up and touched his face. “Te amo,” she said softly. Matias went back into the kitchen. Mateo was sitting at the table, eating his toast. He hadn’t touched his coffee. “We must go,” Matias said. Mateo got up, his toast still in hand. “You don’t want your coffee?” Matias asked. “No.” Matias opened the refrigerator and pulled out two paper bags, stuffed with food for lunch. He handed one to Mateo, who said nothing. They left. Matias locked the door of their apartment behind him. They stepped out into the street, into the damp, warm air. Under the street lights, they walked a few blocks to the Dollar General store, where they stood in the parking lot, waiting for their ride. “It’s going to be very hot today,” Matias said. “It’s hot every day,” Mateo said. “You’ll want to drink lots of water,” Matias said. Mateo nodded. They stood there, shifting on their feet, saying nothing more. Finally, a large, white pick-up truck pulled into the dusty parking lot. It was pulling a flatbed trailer, loaded with lawn care equipment. Matias and Mateo stepped up onto the back bumper and got into the bed of the truck. Two men were already sitting there. “Buenos dias,” Matias said. “Buenos dias,” the men mumbled. Matias sat down next to one of the men. Mateo wedged himself into the corner, behind the cab of the truck, and said nothing. The truck took off. They were heading to The Woodlands, a wealthy suburb of Houston, about an hour away. That would be their destination all week. They would cut and take care of at least 15 lawns a day, working from sunrise to just before sunset, breaking only for lunch. This was Mateo’s second day on the job. His muscles ached from the work he had done the day before. As the new guy, his job was mainly to trim around mulch beds and along driveways and sidewalks. The trimmer wasn’t heavy, but leaning down and twisting all day wrenched his back. He wasn’t used to such physical labor. Now as the truck bumped along, Mateo’s back pain was throbbing. I wouldn’t feel this way if I was working at McDonald’s, he thought. That’s where he had hoped to work that summer, with his friends. Easy work, easy hours, lots of free time for relaxing and partying. But his father had insisted he join his lawn care crew for the summer. “Do the math,” Matias told his son. “You’ll make $7.50 an hour at McDonald’s and work 20 hours a week. With me, you’ll make $10 an hour and work at least 50 hours a week. By the end of the summer, you’ll be rich.” But the real reason Matias wanted his son with him that summer had little to do with the money. He was concerned that his son was allergic to hard work. He never worked hard at anything, including in school. He hoped that working on his crew that summer would teach Mateo what hard work was really like and help him understand the importance of getting a good education. It fit with Matias’ goals. He left Mexico for the US to give his family a better life. They had come to Magnolia Park in the East End of Houston, one of the oldest Hispanic neighbors in the city. They rented a small, two-bedroom apartment. It was modest but clean, and the neighborhood was relatively safe. People watched out for each other there. Growing up in Mexico, Matias went to grade school, but not beyond. He was smart and learned enough English to get by in his new country. He took a job on a lawn care work crew. In Houston, where the grass grows through the year, there’s a lot of money and fewer and fewer people cut their own grass, men on a hard-working lawn care crew can make a decent living. Matias’ life was simple but, for him, being able to provide for his family in a place that was free and safe was a dream come true. But he wanted more for his children. He wanted Mateo and his daughter, Lucia, to go to college, an opportunity he knew he himself would never have. Matias saved everything he could for their education. He didn’t trust banks, so he kept his money—$10,000 in cash—locked in a safe on the floor of his bedroom closet. Only he and Gabriela knew the combination. Lucia, still in grade school, was an excellent student. Mateo, now about to become a junior in high school, was barely passing, and Matias worried that his son wouldn’t have a shot at college. What’s more, he seemed lazy. On a lawn care crew, everyone works hard. Matias hoped working with his crew that summer would break Mateo of his laziness. Just as the sun was rising, they arrived at The Woodlands and got to work on their first house. Four of them hopped out of the bed of the truck and two got out of the cab. They slid two mowers off the ramp of the trailer, grabbed trimmers, rakes and pruners and descended on the yard like a small army battalion. Less than half an hour later, they were finished, the last blade of loose grass blown neatly into the street. Mateo’s back was already hurting worse than it had the day before. He hated this work. Even worse, he hated the way he had seen his father and the other workers treated by homeowners. The day before, Matias was raking grass clippings and leaves out of a flower bed when the homeowner opened her front door. “Make sure you get all of those clippings out of there,” she said. “Last time, there were clippings all over my flowers.” Matias said nothing. “Can you speak English?” she said. “Yes, ma’am,” Matias said, extending his rake into the flower bed and carefully dragging out the last clippings there. Mateo had never seen his father at work. All his life, he knew only that he left early and came home late, looking tired. Now he understood what he really did for a living. It was dirty, mindless, back-breaking work. Watching him do it, and cater to the whims of haughty people who spoke down to him, made him feel ashamed for his father. That afternoon, the crew was wrapping up its work in an especially large yard. Mateo was trimming around the patio when he spotted movement. He looked up and saw an older man. He had slid open the patio door and was standing inside, saying something. “Pardon me?” Mateo said. “You missed a spot, boy,” the old man said. Mateo stood up straight and took a step forward toward the man. Matias saw what was happening and rushed over, stepping in front of his son. “He’s new,” he said to the man, smiling. “Still learning.” “Well, he’d better learn fast, or we’ll get a new crew,” growled the man. Matias turned to Mateo. “Let’s finish up here,” he said. They finished, tackled three more yards, then headed back to Magnolia Park. When they got to the Dollar General store there, Matias and Mateo jumped out of the truck. “Buenos noches,” Matias called to the driver. Sometimes it bothered Mateo when his father spoke Spanish. It reminded him how very different there were. As they were walking home, Matias said, “Never make a move toward a customer like that again.” “He called me boy.” “I know.” “I’m not used to being spoken to that way.” “It’s not right, but you learn to live with it,” Matias said. “Maybe you’ve learned to live with it,” he said. “I never will.” The boy shoved his hands in his pants pockets and picked up his pace, walking ahead of his father, without speaking, the rest of the way home. When they got home, Gabriela had dinner waiting: chilis rellenos, picadillo and tacos dorados. Thanks to Gabriela, Matias ate well. Thanks to all his hard work, he was still lean, even at an age when many men begin to put on weight. “How was work?” she asked over dinner. “Good,” Matias said. Mateo said nothing. “Mateo,” Gabriela said, “how was work?” “It sucked,” he said. Gabriela raised her eyebrows. Lucia giggled. Matias looked at Mateo and said, “What was that?” “I said it sucked,” he said. “Young man,” Matias said, “we don’t use that kind of language in this house.” Mateo looked down at his food. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Do you like the work, Mateo?” Gabriela asked. “It’s okay,” he said. “But my back hurts.” “Well, you should take a hot shower tonight,” she said. “I’ve got some ointment I can rub on your back, if you like.” “Thanks, Mom,” he said. “I’ll be okay.” They made small talk the rest of the meal, with no other questions or comments about lawn care. After dinner, Matias and Mateo took turns taking showers. Lucia went out to meet up with friends at a nearby ice cream shop. As usual, Matias and Gabriela sat on the sofa in the family room and watched the news. Mateo wanted to go out, but it was getting late, and he knew he’d have to get up early. So he sat in the recliner, put on his headphones and listened to music. When his parents went to bed, Mateo sprawled out on the sofa and turned on ESPN. The next morning, Matias made coffee and toast. Once again, he tried to wake Mateo and let him go back to sleep for five minutes. Once again, Mateo grabbed his toast but skipped his coffee. Once again, they walked out in the darkness, bagged lunches in hand, to the Dollar General store and took the truck to The Woodlands. The crew moved fast that day, tackling 17 lawns in an older subdivision with slightly smaller houses and yards. When Matias and Mateo got home, it was almost dark. As soon as they walked into the apartment, Gabriela asked Mateo if she could talk with him for a moment in their bedroom. When they came back out, Mateo had a stern look on his face, and he was carrying a pint of whiskey. He walked toward Matias, who was sitting on the sofa, and held it up. “Mom said she found this today under the sofa,” he said. “Is it yours?” “Yes,” Mateo said. “It is.” “What in the hell are you doing drinking whiskey?” Matias demanded. “So I take a sip once in a while,” he said, looking at the TV. “It’s no big deal.” “Mateo!” Matias yelled. “It is a big deal. You shouldn’t be drinking at all, and you know I have a rule against anyone bringing alcohol into this house.” “All right,” Mateo said. “I’ll get rid of it.” “No, Mateo,” Matias said. “I’ll get rid of it, right now.” He walked into the kitchen, uncorked the bottle and poured the whiskey into the sink. “Aw, Dad, what did you have to do that for?” Mateo said. “Mateo,” Matias said, “don’t test me.” “You mean like you've been testing me all day?” Matias turned around and stared at his son. “What do you mean?” he said. “Dad, I know why you’ve got me on that crew. You think I’m lazy, and you want to toughen me up. Well, guess what? I am lazy. I’m not a hard worker like you, and I don’t give a shit about doing yard work, especially for rich people who treat you like a dog.” “Mateo,” Gabriela said. “Don’t talk to your father that way.” “I just want you to work hard and make some money this summer so you can help pay for college,” Matias said. “But I don’t want to go to college,” Mateo said. “What?” said Matias. “That’s what you want, Dad. That’s not what I want.” “How can you say that?” Matias said. “Don’t you want to be successful? Don’t you want more than this?” “I don’t know what I want, Dad, and I wish you’d stop telling me what it is you think I want.” “Mateo,” Gabriela said loudly. “Well, it’s true, Mom. He thinks I want this lousy job. I don’t. He thinks I want coffee in the morning. I don’t. He thinks I want to hang with him all summer. I don’t. I don’t want any of it.” “Okay, Mateo,” Matias said, sounding weary. “That’s enough.” “Supper is ready,” Gabriela said. “I’m going to eat mine in here tonight,” Mateo said, turning his back on his father. Matias felt like ordering him to eat with the family, but he didn’t want to keep fighting. So he, Gabriela and Lucia ate in the kitchen while Mateo had his dinner in the family room, watching TV. After dinner, Matias and Gabriela came into the family room to watch TV. Lucia went to her room and shut the door. Once his parents were sitting on the sofa with their backs to the kitchen, Mateo went into the kitchen, got a plastic shopping bag and went down the hallway to the bathroom to take a shower. After his shower, he quietly slipped into his parents’ room with the plastic bag. He went to their closet, opened the door and knelt down. He moved a pile of dirty laundry aside, revealing his father’s safe on the floor. His mother had told him the combination to the lock years before. She wanted him to have it in case he ever needed to get into the safe. Now Mateo turned the dial back and forth until he heard a click. He opened the door. Inside were stacks of cash, sectioned with rubber bands. He pulled the money out and stuffed it into the plastic bag. Then he closed the safe, put the laundry back in front of it and shut the closet door. When Mateo came back out to the family room, his parents were still watching TV. He went into the kitchen, opened the pantry door and stuffed the plastic bag behind some cereal boxes on the floor. Several sets of keys hung from pegs in a wooden board on the wall of the kitchen. Mateo grabbed the keys to the apartment. They made a scraping sound against the wood. Gabriela heard it and looked around as Mateo was coming out of the kitchen. “Where are you going?” she asked. “Out,” he said. “Where?” she asked. “Nowhere. I’ll be back. Don’t wait up.” “Don’t be out late,” Matias said. “We have an early morning.” Mateo mumbled something and left, slamming the door behind him. “I hope he’s okay,” Gabriela said. “Me too,” Matias said. When the news was over, Matias and Gabriela got up and headed down the hallway to their bedroom. Gabriela knocked on Lucia’s door. “Come in,” she called. Gabriela opened the door and looked in. Lucia was sitting on her bed, reading a book. “We just wanted to say good night,” Gabriela said. “Good night,” Lucia said, smiling. “Good night,” her parents said in unison. Gabriela closed her door, and she and Matias went into their bedroom. He took a shower while she changed into her pajamas. When he got out of the shower, she was in bed. “I wish Mateo was more like Lucia,” he said, slipping beneath the covers. “Oh, Matias. You know Mateo is nothing like Lucia. He’ll find his own way. You’re doing a good thing for him this summer. He’ll appreciate it in time.” “I hope so,” Matias said. He leaned over and kissed his wife. “Good night,” he said. “Good night,” she said, turning out the light. As Gabriela fell asleep, Matias lay there thinking about Mateo. He could understand him not liking lawn care work. But how could he not want to go to college? How could his son be so lacking in ambition? I must have done something wrong, he thought. Somehow I have failed as a father. Not that he had a good role model himself. His own father was lazy, abusive and not really committed to his family. When his father finally left, Matias resolved to be nothing like him. Matias had tried hard to be a good father and husband. Coming to the US and leaving everything he had ever known certainly wasn’t easy, but he did it out of love for his family. He had assumed his children would go to college. How could he have been so wrong about Mateo? Mateo came back to the apartment about midnight. He quietly stepped into the kitchen and retrieved the bag of cash from the pantry. He thought about leaving a note. But what would he say? So he simply left, quietly locking the door behind him and slipping out into the night. He walked about a mile to the Magnolia Park Transit Center, where he caught a bus to Houston. From there, he took a light train to Galveston. # Matias woke up the next morning and couldn’t find Mateo. He was worried but had to leave for work, so he told Gabriela and asked her to let him know when Mateo showed up. But there was no sign of the boy all morning. By noon, Gabriela called the police to report he was missing. They began a search that afternoon. Gabriela kept Matias posted by text through the day. When he got home that evening, the police were still searching for Mateo, and Gabriela was crying. “All will be well,” Matias said, holding her. “He’s bound to show up soon.” That night, Gabriela cried herself to sleep. Matias lay next to her in bed. This is all my fault, he thought. I drove him away. I forced my own opinions on him and didn’t listen to what he wanted. Matias didn’t sleep that night. Instead, he prayed for the safe return of his son. # When he got to Galveston, Mateo had breakfast at a cafe near the train station. He asked his waitress if there was a department store close by. He had left his cell phone at home so that no one could track him, so he could not go online and search for himself. His waitress told him there was a Target store a few miles away. Mateo took a taxi to Target. He bought a backpack to carry all his money more securely as well as anything else he might need to buy. He went into the restroom and transferred the cash from the plastic bag he had been carrying to the backpack. Mateo had asked the taxi driver where he could find an inexpensive motel on the island. He suggested the Ocean Inn, just across a road from the beach along the Gulf of Mexico. Mateo called for a taxi at the customer service counter. It arrived a few minutes later. He got in and rode to the Ocean Inn, just a few miles away. Other than running away to Galveston, Mateo had no plan. He had no idea how long he might stay at the Ocean Inn, so he got a room there for just one night. The clerk could see Mateo would be paying in cash, so he didn’t ask for an ID. That afternoon, Mateo explored the beach, careful to keep his backpack with him at all times. He had dinner at a seafood restaurant on the beach. He wanted to order a beer but didn’t want the waitress to check his ID. So he bought a six-pack at a convenience store down the street, stuffed it in his backpack and went back to his room at the motel. He watched TV and drank beer until he fell asleep. He slept late and had breakfast at a nearby cafe. He sat outside on a covered patio, where there was a cool breeze from the water. He thought about his father cutting grass in the hot sun at that very moment. How lucky Mateo felt to not to be working on that crew. Mateo still had no plan, but he realized he would eventually need a change of clothes. He found a Ross Dress for Less store within walking distance and bought a few shirts and pairs of shorts, socks and underwear and a pair of sturdy, leather sandals. He explored the beach again that day, going out farther this time. He came upon a tiki hut. He had a hamburger and a beer there for lunch, then took a nap on the beach, using his backpack for a pillow. When he awoke, he sat up and looked out over the water. He knew he had been to Galveston as a boy, but it was a vague memory. For most of his life, Magnolia Park had been his whole world. He was tired of it. He was tired of going to school, of living in a small apartment with his family, of not having his own room. He was tired of listening to his father tell him what to do. He was glad to be away. That afternoon, he kept walking down the beach. He found a Mexican restaurant and had dinner there. He had the chilis rellenos and thought of his mother. He hoped she was okay. # In Magnolia Park, the police continued searching for Mateo. His parents thought he might have gone to Houston, so the police broadened their search to the city of Houston. They pursued a few leads, but none panned out. Gabriela and Matias were in agony, though for different reasons. Gabriela missed her son and worried for his safety. Matias felt guilty for having driven him away. They began going to church every evening to light a candle for their son. They knelt in front of it, prayed and cried. On Sunday, they went to Mass with Lucia. During the Confiteor, Matias loudly recited the refrain “Through my fault, through my fault, through my most previous fault,” striking his breast hard three times. After that, he would bury his face in his hands and cry. # Mateo decided he would stay at the Ocean Inn for a while and started paying for his room by the week. Every day, he would walk the beach, going out farther and farther until he had covered all 27 miles of it. All his walking made his body strong. His muscles no longer hurt, even though he was exercising far more than he ever had. He stopped drinking alcohol because it made him feel sluggish and unhealthy. He bought fishing gear and taught himself to fish by watching fishermen along the beach. Sometimes he would fish on the beach. Other times, he would go out on a pier. He caught a lot of fish, but he had no way to clean or cook them, so he would give them away. There was always someone eager for free fish. Mateo was surprised to see so many children scavenging along the beach. They looked ragged, wandering aimlessly, and never seemed to be with an adult. Most of them spoke Spanish but little or no English. He wondered what would become of them, and he began to give them money. Soon, these poor children would watch for Mateo and run to him when they saw him coming. Mateo knew he had become an easy mark, but he didn’t mind. It felt good to do something for someone else. As the summer wore on, he thought more about his family, especially his father. He remembered how angry and disappointed he was with Mateo the night he left home. He remembered how angry he was at father, swearing at him under his breath as he left. He had blamed his father for driving him away, but he knew in his heart that the choice to leave was entirely his. He began to realize his father was simply trying to give him a better life. He began to understand the sacrifice his father had made for him, working so hard all those years to save enough money to send him and Lucia to college. Now he carried that money on his back, spending it down, stealing it, little by little each day. He began to feel ashamed. One day, sitting on a pier, fishing, he asked himself what he really wanted to do with his life. He could hear children speaking Spanish below him on the beach. He thought of his parents still struggling with English. He knew both languages well. Maybe I can get a degree in education and teach English to Spanish-speaking children, he thought. The very idea electrified him, like nothing ever had in his life. I must go back home. I must finish high school. He imagined his life again in Magnolia Park, going back to school, strong from all his days of walking on the beach, living with his family again. But then he thought of the pain he had caused everyone. He thought about the money he had stolen from his father. He wondered if his father would take him back. It was a chance he would just have to take. One Friday morning, he took a shower and packed up his gear. He looked in the bathroom mirror. His hair had grown so long that he now combed it with a brush. He pulled it back and tied it in a ponytail with a rubber band. His hair was streaked blond from the sun, and his skin was bronze. He had been slightly pudgy but was now lean. He wondered if his family would recognize him. Mateo paid his bill in full at the motel desk, had breakfast and walked six miles to the train station on the bay side of the island. When he had arrived in Galveston, he would have taken a taxi to travel such a distance. Now it felt right to walk and feel the earth beneath his feet. He took a train to Houston and a bus to Magnolia Park. He suspected the police would be looking for him, so he wore sunglasses and a hat the whole way. Mateo knew his father was working and would be dropped off at the Dollar General store that evening. He walked through the streets of Magnolia Park until 6:00, then headed for the Dollar General store. He sat down on a bench in the shade in front of the store, his backpack beside him. He had spent half of the money he had taken from his father. He hoped to repay him by working with his crew the following summer. He would give everything he made to his father. That was, of course, if his father would take him back. Sitting there, Mateo wasn’t sure. “That’s enough,” was one of the last things his father had said to him. Mateo could feel his weariness, and he knew he was the cause of that weariness, and in that moment, he worried about whether his father could ever accept him again. A dusty white pick-up truck pulled into the parking lot. It stopped, and he saw two men climb out of the back. The sun was getting low in the sky, and he could make out his father’s silhouette against the light. Mateo wanted to get up. He wanted to go to his father or call to him, but he couldn’t move. He wasn’t sure his father could even see him in the shade. Maybe he wouldn’t see him and he would walk home, and Mateo could go home some other time, when his father was gone and only his mother was there. The truck pulled away. Mateo watched his father’s co-worker walk away and saw his father standing still in the parking lot. He was looking his way, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hands. He took one step forward. “Mateo?” he called. But Mateo couldn’t speak. “Mateo?” his father called again, taking another step closer. Finally, Mateo got up. “Mateo!” his father cried, running toward him across the parking lot. Mateo stood frozen, as his father ran to him, his arms wide open. When Matias reached his son, he gathered him in, kissing him on the cheek and lifting him up, as he did when he was a boy. “I am sorry,” Matias said, crying. “Forgive me, father,” said Mateo, holding him tight. Dimos, a graduate of the University of Chicago, lives in Europe and is crafting a series of novels based on the excerpt published in the Scarlet Leaf Review. The Trinity |
Joe Oppenheimer is an award winning poet and fiction writer. His poems focus on our feelings of injustice, loss, friendship, nature, aging, and the foibles of life. His short story “Charlemagne” is anthologized in Us Against Alzheimer’s: Stories of Family, Love, and Faith. ed. Marita Golden (New York: Arcade, 2019). Previously a professor of mathematical social science at the University of Maryland, his poems, stories and a play have been published in Origins, Chronogram, Foliate Oak Literary Review, Corvus Review, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others. Many of his writings are available on his website http://www.gvptsites.umd.edu/oppenheimer/. |
Free
Mother’s unexpected call woke me today. My wife too. I mean, it was rude. Early in the morning. Maybe 5? There I was, suddenly awake. After less than 4 hours of sleep. A pounding headache, still totally hung-over. I’d tried to drink my way out of a deep funk at The Saddlery. So many things had been rushing through my head. Then mother pushed one more, “Your father wants you to come to his bedside.” He’s been ill for God knows how long.
I just wanted to turn around and go home today. From my 25th school reunion. Leave. Because of him. Well, him and Jerry. Dredged up hurt so bad. That’s why I got drunk.
I never get drunk.
Ask my wife.
But here I am, now, by his bed. Here. You’re thinking, “Of course you’d go. After all he is your father.” But it’s way more than that. And I’m not staying for any long hours. Believe me. When I got here, he whispered, “Hold my hand.” And then as if my hand were some lifeline, he grabbed it. Tight. Closed his eyes. He’s been holding on, pretending to be asleep ever since. So here I sit. Sort of imprisoned by. Or at least tethered to.
It’s like some deep communication cable inserted through my hand into my mind. Happened last night, too. Gigabytes of memories passed into me. At top speed. Now, here I sit receiving messages from some gone world. I didn’t ask for this. Couldn’t stop it. I tried hard to pull the plug at the bar. Failed. Sleep helped. But it’s battering me again through his God-damned arm. It’s like some forced infusion of a psycho-altering drug. Same thing last night but then it was Jerry. Maybe that was even worse. Came so blindingly fast. I couldn’t say, “Stop!” ’cause I wasn’t even aware what was begun ’till it slapped me flat.
Like being hit by lightening. You don’t have time to get out of the way before you burn.
We walked in to the hotel lobby, joking, feeling great. Going to the party. We were early. No one was there except Jerry and Roz. I always liked them. When we were kids Roz was my neighbor. She was always up for fun. Jerry was the butcher’s son. Now he’s an electrical engineer. Anyhow, we all go way back. My wife and I go over, hug and say things like “Wow! It’s been so long!” Jerry looks at me like I’m some person he lost on Mars and starts, like a wind up, or robot, or killing machine or something.
Man, did you know I worked in your Dad’s place when you were in the Navy? You know what that was like? Any idea what that was like? Your Dad?
’Course I don’t know where he’s gonna ride this pony. So I get into the conversation saying something simple, innocent, like, “No, Man.”
You remember Sam. You know, Sam: short, older. A bit slow. Just did menial stuff. Like the mail sort. Had a limp. Sam. Well, one day he he comes in and drops the mail he’s carrying. On the floor. You’d think that’s nothing right?
And now he’s looking at me, begging me to agree, and so, what am I gonna’ say? After all, it isn’t a big deal to drop some mail. So I agree, again just saying something simple like ‘yeah,’ laying another brick on this road to no where that I expect.
But no, your Dad, he gets crazy. I mean absolutely nuts. Gets up from his desk – the big one behind the glass partition – and he’s screaming.
And now Jerry is screaming. And that’s when I see more people arriving. They’re crowding round. They’re Jerry’s audience.
“Christ! You fool! You idiot! Can’t you do anything right?” And he just goes up to him, right in his face. Your father, you know.
Jerry’s volume keeps rising and there are ever more people coming in, gathering round. And Jerry’s just warming up. He’s acting the whole scene out. Comes right over to me. His nose maybe only four inches from mine. And he’s yelling. Spittle from his mouth comes flying out at me. Grabs hold of my shirt.
“Pick up that shit. All of it! Now! Get down. Do it!”
And he pushes me hard. Then, as if I’d fallen and am on the floor picking up some of that invisible mail, he turns toward the me on the floor. Now he’s dancing on one foot to get a good balance for making a kick, a vicious kick.
“There, you scum. Over there, there’s more. Pick it up, God Damn it.”
And he starts to kick the imagined fallen Sam for real, over, and over again. And he’s yelling. And hopping around the imagined Sam for yet another vantage point to hurt the poor old man. And my whole high school class with their wives and husbands, now all crowded around, breathless. Now Jerry’s staring at me. Like a rabid dog.
“Pick up that shit. Do it! Now! . . . ”
You know, don’t you? Your own frigging father? Treating human beings like that? An old man. You knew, didn’t you? And there we were, his office staff. None of us moved him away. None of us told the boss to stop. To go stuff himself. Didn’t you know?
Now all these people staring at me. Like it was me. Didn’t I know? My father? Of course I knew. I’d seen him like that many times. Many places. With employees in his office. With hired help at home. With the dog. My sisters. My mother. Me. But suddenly, my whole class knew. And Jerry’s still screaming, dancing, frothing at the mouth trying to exorcize his memory. Pushing it from his brain into mine. Searing it. But I’m no longer hearing.
I’m looking around. Everyone now in a ring side seat, looking at me as the freak son of some evil. Some horror. Expecting me to answer, to be something I’m not. Never was. Someone who’s got some honor saving role. But I don’t. Never did. Well, maybe once. Once I’d seen him swinging that big boot at my little sister fallen on the floor. I stopped him then. That once. But last night I couldn’t think of that. I just grabbed my wife’s hand. We left. Went to The Saddlery. And drank.
And now, here’s Mom looking straight at me from the door. Just like those schoolmates last night. Her thoughts land rapid fire in my mind, “Stay here with me.” “Why, didn’t you, you big strapping boy, why didn’t you ever protect me?” “Tell me.” “Stay.” “Let him go in peace.” “Beg his forgiveness.”
And an answer begins to form. Remains unspoken. “And why, mother, why did you never protect me?”
The understanding takes shape, flies around my brain. The cable breaks. Unplugged. Perhaps I scream. I can’t know. My hand loosens from his grip, I am no longer hearing. No longer receiving. I push past my mother, down the stairs. She’s saying something. Is she calling my name? I don’t stop.
Out the door. Free.
I just wanted to turn around and go home today. From my 25th school reunion. Leave. Because of him. Well, him and Jerry. Dredged up hurt so bad. That’s why I got drunk.
I never get drunk.
Ask my wife.
But here I am, now, by his bed. Here. You’re thinking, “Of course you’d go. After all he is your father.” But it’s way more than that. And I’m not staying for any long hours. Believe me. When I got here, he whispered, “Hold my hand.” And then as if my hand were some lifeline, he grabbed it. Tight. Closed his eyes. He’s been holding on, pretending to be asleep ever since. So here I sit. Sort of imprisoned by. Or at least tethered to.
It’s like some deep communication cable inserted through my hand into my mind. Happened last night, too. Gigabytes of memories passed into me. At top speed. Now, here I sit receiving messages from some gone world. I didn’t ask for this. Couldn’t stop it. I tried hard to pull the plug at the bar. Failed. Sleep helped. But it’s battering me again through his God-damned arm. It’s like some forced infusion of a psycho-altering drug. Same thing last night but then it was Jerry. Maybe that was even worse. Came so blindingly fast. I couldn’t say, “Stop!” ’cause I wasn’t even aware what was begun ’till it slapped me flat.
Like being hit by lightening. You don’t have time to get out of the way before you burn.
We walked in to the hotel lobby, joking, feeling great. Going to the party. We were early. No one was there except Jerry and Roz. I always liked them. When we were kids Roz was my neighbor. She was always up for fun. Jerry was the butcher’s son. Now he’s an electrical engineer. Anyhow, we all go way back. My wife and I go over, hug and say things like “Wow! It’s been so long!” Jerry looks at me like I’m some person he lost on Mars and starts, like a wind up, or robot, or killing machine or something.
Man, did you know I worked in your Dad’s place when you were in the Navy? You know what that was like? Any idea what that was like? Your Dad?
’Course I don’t know where he’s gonna ride this pony. So I get into the conversation saying something simple, innocent, like, “No, Man.”
You remember Sam. You know, Sam: short, older. A bit slow. Just did menial stuff. Like the mail sort. Had a limp. Sam. Well, one day he he comes in and drops the mail he’s carrying. On the floor. You’d think that’s nothing right?
And now he’s looking at me, begging me to agree, and so, what am I gonna’ say? After all, it isn’t a big deal to drop some mail. So I agree, again just saying something simple like ‘yeah,’ laying another brick on this road to no where that I expect.
But no, your Dad, he gets crazy. I mean absolutely nuts. Gets up from his desk – the big one behind the glass partition – and he’s screaming.
And now Jerry is screaming. And that’s when I see more people arriving. They’re crowding round. They’re Jerry’s audience.
“Christ! You fool! You idiot! Can’t you do anything right?” And he just goes up to him, right in his face. Your father, you know.
Jerry’s volume keeps rising and there are ever more people coming in, gathering round. And Jerry’s just warming up. He’s acting the whole scene out. Comes right over to me. His nose maybe only four inches from mine. And he’s yelling. Spittle from his mouth comes flying out at me. Grabs hold of my shirt.
“Pick up that shit. All of it! Now! Get down. Do it!”
And he pushes me hard. Then, as if I’d fallen and am on the floor picking up some of that invisible mail, he turns toward the me on the floor. Now he’s dancing on one foot to get a good balance for making a kick, a vicious kick.
“There, you scum. Over there, there’s more. Pick it up, God Damn it.”
And he starts to kick the imagined fallen Sam for real, over, and over again. And he’s yelling. And hopping around the imagined Sam for yet another vantage point to hurt the poor old man. And my whole high school class with their wives and husbands, now all crowded around, breathless. Now Jerry’s staring at me. Like a rabid dog.
“Pick up that shit. Do it! Now! . . . ”
You know, don’t you? Your own frigging father? Treating human beings like that? An old man. You knew, didn’t you? And there we were, his office staff. None of us moved him away. None of us told the boss to stop. To go stuff himself. Didn’t you know?
Now all these people staring at me. Like it was me. Didn’t I know? My father? Of course I knew. I’d seen him like that many times. Many places. With employees in his office. With hired help at home. With the dog. My sisters. My mother. Me. But suddenly, my whole class knew. And Jerry’s still screaming, dancing, frothing at the mouth trying to exorcize his memory. Pushing it from his brain into mine. Searing it. But I’m no longer hearing.
I’m looking around. Everyone now in a ring side seat, looking at me as the freak son of some evil. Some horror. Expecting me to answer, to be something I’m not. Never was. Someone who’s got some honor saving role. But I don’t. Never did. Well, maybe once. Once I’d seen him swinging that big boot at my little sister fallen on the floor. I stopped him then. That once. But last night I couldn’t think of that. I just grabbed my wife’s hand. We left. Went to The Saddlery. And drank.
And now, here’s Mom looking straight at me from the door. Just like those schoolmates last night. Her thoughts land rapid fire in my mind, “Stay here with me.” “Why, didn’t you, you big strapping boy, why didn’t you ever protect me?” “Tell me.” “Stay.” “Let him go in peace.” “Beg his forgiveness.”
And an answer begins to form. Remains unspoken. “And why, mother, why did you never protect me?”
The understanding takes shape, flies around my brain. The cable breaks. Unplugged. Perhaps I scream. I can’t know. My hand loosens from his grip, I am no longer hearing. No longer receiving. I push past my mother, down the stairs. She’s saying something. Is she calling my name? I don’t stop.
Out the door. Free.
The Maid
Names, dates and identifying details have been changed to maintain anonymity. All other details are reported as accurately as possible.
Anja came highly recommended. She had worked at the Lezanio’s but when Bill got a job in New York, Mary recommended her to us as an extraordinary maid. So it was only natural that we called Anja and had her come, on spec of course, to clean our house. As always we had our maids come on Tuesdays.
Anja arrived on time, at 11, with her sister, Carla. Anja is a short, middle aged Guatemalan. Nice looking. Her approach to cleaning is enthusiasm. If there is dirt, it is to be eliminated. Straight out of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Her aggressive engagement in the cleaning wars charmed my wife, LuxAnne. But it was Anja’s personality and her attention to detail that won LuxAnne’s approval. Her sister, on the other hand, had a far more conventional, or should I say casual, posture regarding dirt. In any case, I my wife declared she would hire the two of them and so I did my job: I took the necessary details: social security numbers, work permits and citizenship questions, addresses, etc., and then left to take a run.
Exiting the house I was surprised to note a late model, sapphire blue, Cadillac Escalade parked outside. Anja and her sister apparently had arrived in this finely appointed vehicle. It towered over our 2002 Sentra. While this buzzed my brain, I began my run. My run, and most of us casual runners have a ‘run,’ begins with a short, but steep, up hill stretch to the neighborhood park. When I skimp on my warm-up stretches, as I had that Tuesday, my elderly tendons and calf muscles complain bitterly. It is embarrassing to consider the number of times I have sworn that I will never run until I stretch. But vows are made of ether, and that Tuesday, my aches carried me to the park. There the run flattens out through a beautiful wooded area. The trail was soft and muddy and the woods still had splotches of snow from the previous week’s late February blizzard. But I paid little attention to my environment as I tried to understand the puzzle of that blue Escalade.
Next Tuesday came and Anja was back. But not her sister. This time she arrived with her son. He appeared about twenty and spoke far better English than his mother. But it was Anja who spoke up to explain, “My sister returned to Guatemala to visit her sick mother. Is it all right for you, my son, Rico, to take her place a short time till she returns?”
After the initial introductions, and giving them their instructions, LuxAnne went shopping. I remained and asked Rico, “Are you in school?”
“I was studying computer science at State but I dropped out last summer.”
“Well then what are you up to now?”
“Right now, I just help out as much as possible ’cause we’ve had some tough times.”
“Are you hoping to go back to finish your degree?”
“No, I hope to help my Dad with his contracting business.”
Nothing really added up, father a contractor, mother a maid, son helping clean floors, driving a big blue Caddy. But my heart wasn’t in this conversation. I wanted to get out of the house. Take my run. Changed, out the door, and noticed: no Cadillac. In its place, a relatively new black BMW. List price for the two cars was roughly what we paid for the house. And we were paying them to clean our floors? What was going on? My curiosity was definitely yanked up.
I came back sweaty and determined to get to the bottom of this car mystery. Rico was wringing out a mop when I entered. I went up to him, “Rico, tell me, what is the problem that leads you to be cleaning floors rather than working for your Dad’s contracting business?”
But Rico didn’t answer. He said, with a newly acquired inability to speak English, and a fine Guatemalan accent, “Señor, perdóneme.” And he pushed by me to hang up the mop. Whatever was going on, I wasn’t gong to find out from him. The two of them soon left and LuxAnne returned.
Two weeks went by. Tuesdays Rico would drive his mother in the Beamer, until Anja’s sister returned and the Caddy reappeared. For more than a month, our house was polished to a fare thee well. Perhaps motivated by the reappearance of the Caddy, I vowed that this would be the week I would get to the bottom of the mystery.
“It’s so good to have you back!” my wife began. “How is your mother?” Carla looked a bit surprised and seemed to look to Anja for an answer.
“Oh, her mother died, even before she got to Guatemala.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” LuxAnne immediately began a hug of Carla, even though Carla appeared to not comprehend what the fuss was about.
When my wife let her arms down, Carla went to get the cleaning supplies. Anja stepped in to smooth any apparent anomalies, “It was expected. Her mother was declining for a long time.”
“Isn’t her mother your mother?” I asked.
“Oh no! Carla is my sister in law.”
“I see. How did it happen that she and you are working together cleaning houses?”
“About a year ago I found out I had cancer.”
“Oh my God! I am so sorry!” said my wife and she gave Anja a hug. LuxAnne dispenses hugs like a social worker.
“What’s your status now?” I asked.
“Oh, the doctor tells it is under control. One day some years from now they will call me cancer free,” she laughed, then added, “Carla come to help me because the treatment I so tired easily.”
“That is so wonderful that Carla helps. What sort of cancer?” asked LuxAnne.
“Breast cancer. I was very sick. Much treatment with chemical. I had to have my breasts removed.”
“That is for the best.”
“Yes, but Enrico, he doesn’t see that. He is very angry. He doesn’t want that. You know how men are.” Anja stole a glance in my direction. But I didn’t interrupt the two women.
“Your son, Enrico?”
“Oh no, not Rico. No, no. Rico not notice. Well, maybe. But Enrico, my husband, Rico’s father. He not like it. He still complain.”
“But he must be happy to have his sister with you at home.”
“Enrico no is with us now.”
“Enrico is gone?”
“Yes, m’am. He gone 9 months,” and with this statement, Anja broke down. Sobbing. Like many men, I am uncomfortable with any show of emotion. Especially crying. I mean, what is to be done? I shifted my weight and leaned against a wall.
Luckily LuxAnne was not at a loss. Another hug, then a quiet, “I am so sorry. It will be OK. You can tell me what happened.”
“Enrico . . . ,” Anja sobbed. “Enrico . . .”
I wanted to say “Enrico, what?” But I knew I was a rank amateur in these matters and left the discovery to my wife.
“Yes, yes . . .” LuxAnne consoled her, never releasing her hug.
“Enrico, he stopped. Police. He have no papers in order. He is good man. He put in prison. But he not criminal. He just not green card updated. He good man. Good man. My husband . . . Rico’s father. Daughter too.”
“In prison? When did this happen?”
“Yes. And he will be deported.”
“What? Why?”
“Papers. He not renew Green Card.”
My wife let go of the hug but still had hold of one of Anja’s hands and stepped back a bit. She reached for a box of tissues, “Here. . . . But tell me why, how could he have made such a mistake?”
“My cancer. I so sick. He was taking care of me.”
“But,”
“I know. I told him. I said. But Enrico, he say, ‘No, Obama he will make a new rule and I will be safe. But Obama, he didn’t. Then Enrico caught.”
“We are so sorry. Will he be deported?”
“Yes. Hearing next week. Thursday. In Baltimore.”
“Would it be helpful for us to be there.”
“Oh yes!” and for the first time in the conversation Anja broke out in a smile. “My husband is good man. Contractor. Businessman. No criminal.”
Needless to say Anja and Carla did a great job cleaning the house that week, and the next. And then we went to Baltimore. The only case on the docket was that of Enrico Trodero. By the time we got there, the hearing chamber was so packed, the door wouldn’t open. Standing room only and those who were leaning against the door had to move. The seating capacity of the room must have been about 120, but there were no seats. Indeed, I’d estimate at least 60 people were standing in the back.
The diversity of the people in the room was astounding. The crowd included a rabbi with a party of men all wearing yarmulkes, Asians, African-Americans, Latinos, whites. A Sheik sat in the front row. Those seated were asked to rise as the judge walked in. She asked for the defendant and his lawyer to come forward. A prolonged murmur arose when Enrico stood to take his oath. He was wearing heavy shackles that rattled against the floor as he moved forward. He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. She banged the gavel for quiet.
The prosecutor spoke. Enrico was stopped for ignoring a stop sign. Then he failed a Breathalyzer test, something he had done in 1994 as well. Finally, he had no right to be in the country. In halting English Enrico explained away his green card story. His defense lawyer pointed out that more than a quarter of a century had passed since his first DWI. His nine months in prison could not rationally be construed as a reasonable response by the state for the behavior of this man. “Look,” he said. “Look at the people in this room all of whom have come to support this man’s freedom. Nine months ago, this man had a business. He was an upstanding man in the community. Look at these people. At their clothing. At their skin. At their diversity. What are we trying to do here if it is not ‘justice’? Is this America?”
The judge was quiet for a minute or two. She examined the faces in the room. She remarked regarding the broad community of support Enrico Trodero enjoyed. A few comments summarizing the case and she came to the only plausible conclusion a gate keeper of justice could arrive at. She gave him 90 days to get his green card papers processed and told him she would have his shackles removed, return his street clothing, and set him free. About 180 people in the room cheered.
Anja arrived on time, at 11, with her sister, Carla. Anja is a short, middle aged Guatemalan. Nice looking. Her approach to cleaning is enthusiasm. If there is dirt, it is to be eliminated. Straight out of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Her aggressive engagement in the cleaning wars charmed my wife, LuxAnne. But it was Anja’s personality and her attention to detail that won LuxAnne’s approval. Her sister, on the other hand, had a far more conventional, or should I say casual, posture regarding dirt. In any case, I my wife declared she would hire the two of them and so I did my job: I took the necessary details: social security numbers, work permits and citizenship questions, addresses, etc., and then left to take a run.
Exiting the house I was surprised to note a late model, sapphire blue, Cadillac Escalade parked outside. Anja and her sister apparently had arrived in this finely appointed vehicle. It towered over our 2002 Sentra. While this buzzed my brain, I began my run. My run, and most of us casual runners have a ‘run,’ begins with a short, but steep, up hill stretch to the neighborhood park. When I skimp on my warm-up stretches, as I had that Tuesday, my elderly tendons and calf muscles complain bitterly. It is embarrassing to consider the number of times I have sworn that I will never run until I stretch. But vows are made of ether, and that Tuesday, my aches carried me to the park. There the run flattens out through a beautiful wooded area. The trail was soft and muddy and the woods still had splotches of snow from the previous week’s late February blizzard. But I paid little attention to my environment as I tried to understand the puzzle of that blue Escalade.
Next Tuesday came and Anja was back. But not her sister. This time she arrived with her son. He appeared about twenty and spoke far better English than his mother. But it was Anja who spoke up to explain, “My sister returned to Guatemala to visit her sick mother. Is it all right for you, my son, Rico, to take her place a short time till she returns?”
After the initial introductions, and giving them their instructions, LuxAnne went shopping. I remained and asked Rico, “Are you in school?”
“I was studying computer science at State but I dropped out last summer.”
“Well then what are you up to now?”
“Right now, I just help out as much as possible ’cause we’ve had some tough times.”
“Are you hoping to go back to finish your degree?”
“No, I hope to help my Dad with his contracting business.”
Nothing really added up, father a contractor, mother a maid, son helping clean floors, driving a big blue Caddy. But my heart wasn’t in this conversation. I wanted to get out of the house. Take my run. Changed, out the door, and noticed: no Cadillac. In its place, a relatively new black BMW. List price for the two cars was roughly what we paid for the house. And we were paying them to clean our floors? What was going on? My curiosity was definitely yanked up.
I came back sweaty and determined to get to the bottom of this car mystery. Rico was wringing out a mop when I entered. I went up to him, “Rico, tell me, what is the problem that leads you to be cleaning floors rather than working for your Dad’s contracting business?”
But Rico didn’t answer. He said, with a newly acquired inability to speak English, and a fine Guatemalan accent, “Señor, perdóneme.” And he pushed by me to hang up the mop. Whatever was going on, I wasn’t gong to find out from him. The two of them soon left and LuxAnne returned.
Two weeks went by. Tuesdays Rico would drive his mother in the Beamer, until Anja’s sister returned and the Caddy reappeared. For more than a month, our house was polished to a fare thee well. Perhaps motivated by the reappearance of the Caddy, I vowed that this would be the week I would get to the bottom of the mystery.
“It’s so good to have you back!” my wife began. “How is your mother?” Carla looked a bit surprised and seemed to look to Anja for an answer.
“Oh, her mother died, even before she got to Guatemala.”
“Oh, I am so sorry!” LuxAnne immediately began a hug of Carla, even though Carla appeared to not comprehend what the fuss was about.
When my wife let her arms down, Carla went to get the cleaning supplies. Anja stepped in to smooth any apparent anomalies, “It was expected. Her mother was declining for a long time.”
“Isn’t her mother your mother?” I asked.
“Oh no! Carla is my sister in law.”
“I see. How did it happen that she and you are working together cleaning houses?”
“About a year ago I found out I had cancer.”
“Oh my God! I am so sorry!” said my wife and she gave Anja a hug. LuxAnne dispenses hugs like a social worker.
“What’s your status now?” I asked.
“Oh, the doctor tells it is under control. One day some years from now they will call me cancer free,” she laughed, then added, “Carla come to help me because the treatment I so tired easily.”
“That is so wonderful that Carla helps. What sort of cancer?” asked LuxAnne.
“Breast cancer. I was very sick. Much treatment with chemical. I had to have my breasts removed.”
“That is for the best.”
“Yes, but Enrico, he doesn’t see that. He is very angry. He doesn’t want that. You know how men are.” Anja stole a glance in my direction. But I didn’t interrupt the two women.
“Your son, Enrico?”
“Oh no, not Rico. No, no. Rico not notice. Well, maybe. But Enrico, my husband, Rico’s father. He not like it. He still complain.”
“But he must be happy to have his sister with you at home.”
“Enrico no is with us now.”
“Enrico is gone?”
“Yes, m’am. He gone 9 months,” and with this statement, Anja broke down. Sobbing. Like many men, I am uncomfortable with any show of emotion. Especially crying. I mean, what is to be done? I shifted my weight and leaned against a wall.
Luckily LuxAnne was not at a loss. Another hug, then a quiet, “I am so sorry. It will be OK. You can tell me what happened.”
“Enrico . . . ,” Anja sobbed. “Enrico . . .”
I wanted to say “Enrico, what?” But I knew I was a rank amateur in these matters and left the discovery to my wife.
“Yes, yes . . .” LuxAnne consoled her, never releasing her hug.
“Enrico, he stopped. Police. He have no papers in order. He is good man. He put in prison. But he not criminal. He just not green card updated. He good man. Good man. My husband . . . Rico’s father. Daughter too.”
“In prison? When did this happen?”
“Yes. And he will be deported.”
“What? Why?”
“Papers. He not renew Green Card.”
My wife let go of the hug but still had hold of one of Anja’s hands and stepped back a bit. She reached for a box of tissues, “Here. . . . But tell me why, how could he have made such a mistake?”
“My cancer. I so sick. He was taking care of me.”
“But,”
“I know. I told him. I said. But Enrico, he say, ‘No, Obama he will make a new rule and I will be safe. But Obama, he didn’t. Then Enrico caught.”
“We are so sorry. Will he be deported?”
“Yes. Hearing next week. Thursday. In Baltimore.”
“Would it be helpful for us to be there.”
“Oh yes!” and for the first time in the conversation Anja broke out in a smile. “My husband is good man. Contractor. Businessman. No criminal.”
Needless to say Anja and Carla did a great job cleaning the house that week, and the next. And then we went to Baltimore. The only case on the docket was that of Enrico Trodero. By the time we got there, the hearing chamber was so packed, the door wouldn’t open. Standing room only and those who were leaning against the door had to move. The seating capacity of the room must have been about 120, but there were no seats. Indeed, I’d estimate at least 60 people were standing in the back.
The diversity of the people in the room was astounding. The crowd included a rabbi with a party of men all wearing yarmulkes, Asians, African-Americans, Latinos, whites. A Sheik sat in the front row. Those seated were asked to rise as the judge walked in. She asked for the defendant and his lawyer to come forward. A prolonged murmur arose when Enrico stood to take his oath. He was wearing heavy shackles that rattled against the floor as he moved forward. He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit. She banged the gavel for quiet.
The prosecutor spoke. Enrico was stopped for ignoring a stop sign. Then he failed a Breathalyzer test, something he had done in 1994 as well. Finally, he had no right to be in the country. In halting English Enrico explained away his green card story. His defense lawyer pointed out that more than a quarter of a century had passed since his first DWI. His nine months in prison could not rationally be construed as a reasonable response by the state for the behavior of this man. “Look,” he said. “Look at the people in this room all of whom have come to support this man’s freedom. Nine months ago, this man had a business. He was an upstanding man in the community. Look at these people. At their clothing. At their skin. At their diversity. What are we trying to do here if it is not ‘justice’? Is this America?”
The judge was quiet for a minute or two. She examined the faces in the room. She remarked regarding the broad community of support Enrico Trodero enjoyed. A few comments summarizing the case and she came to the only plausible conclusion a gate keeper of justice could arrive at. She gave him 90 days to get his green card papers processed and told him she would have his shackles removed, return his street clothing, and set him free. About 180 people in the room cheered.
Jane Hoppe’s stories and novel, Beyond Betrayal, portray little choices that shape our lives and suggest questions we could ask of the voices we hear. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared in Ruby for Women magazine, The Perennial Gen blog, and Today’s Caregiver magazine, among other publications. Her sequel to Beyond Betrayal is almost finished! Jane lives in Illinois. |
Blue Moon
“What I don’t know won’t hurt me, what I don’t know won’t hurt me,” chanted Julia under her breath. She had already passed six low, sprawling blueberry bushes. Their purplish orbs would be a temptation to bears here in northern Michigan. That much she knew. Did bears prowl around at dusk?
Her dim Maglite cast amber triangles on coppery pine needles whose fragrance smoothed her sharp-edged nerves as she padded out of the forest. At least she hoped she was headed out and back to the campfire. She hadn’t drunk enough Riesling to get too lost.
She cast her gaze ahead toward treetops split by the path, but she dared not glance sideways. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Shouldn’t I be able to hear Dave’s guitar and loony lyrics from here? And loosey-goosey Lindsey’s squeaky peeps? And my Matthew’s clear, sweet tenor?
Maybe everyone suffocated inhaling marshmallows and graham crackers. She smiled, then moaned aloud, “Why didn’t I ask Lindsey to come with me?”
She knew why, of course.
An amber triangle exposed yet another blueberry feast. “That’s seven,” Julia muttered, refusing to yield to the temptation to dart her eyes into the brush on the left or the right. I’ll just be as quiet as I can. So far, so good on that score. Her gym shoes on the pine needles carpeting this forest’s sand dunes were soft. Odd that everyone has stopped singing. Why don’t I call out to them?
She knew why, of course.
Dark feathery foliage above parted to reveal early evening stars twinkling on a periwinkle canvas. The moon that might direct her back to camp had not yet risen. Julia was eager for tonight’s moon, which would be the rare second full moon of the month—a blue moon. Since she’d first heard the decades-old song “Blue Moon,” she’d applied it to hopes she dared not dream.
On the drive to their state park picnic that afternoon, “Blue Moon” had burst from the radio of Matthew’s Jetta, and Dave had cranked up the volume. As Matthew had crooned the tune to her and Lindsey in the backseat, Julia burned to embrace this cosmic sign as her own. Since she was seated behind Matthew, Julia could see his playful eyes in the rear view mirror as he sang. He had turned his head slightly to meet Lindsey’s eyes directly.
Maybe this cosmic sign doesn’t belong to me, she had sulked in the car. She sighed, thinking, Shy thirty-somethings shouldn’t have to contrive coworker picnics. So I’m not flirtatious like Lindsey … Why couldn’t I just ask Matthew for coffee at the corner café?
She knew why, of course.
Julia stomped the next few steps in frustration, and the sand squished beneath her. When she came to a hiking trail sign, Julia realized she’d headed the wrong direction after her little necessity visit in the forest. She backtracked and picked up her pace. She was confident now she would find her way before the Maglite’s amber triangles burnt out. Still no singing was audible.
Soon a clearing was in view with the impossibly huge yellow moon resting on the horizon. Their campfire was gray ash with embers weakly flickering gold against the cobalt Riesling bottle, as though fireflies had gotten caught inside. Her coworkers were not in sight. Her shoulders stiffened, then relaxed to note the Jetta still parked beyond the picnic table.
Kicking sand from her shoes, Julia jogged toward the deserted site. One lawn chair lay folded on top of Dave’s guitar. Another had fallen onto the rusty rim of the fire pit. Everywhere she looked, sandy grass tufts were strewn with ripped bits of cracker boxes, marshmallow bags, sandwich scraps. Was that a trail of potato chips heading off into the woods? As Julia took in the scene, she didn’t know what to think. She approached the Jetta where Dave slumped in the front passenger seat. The driver’s seat was empty, so she opened the door and slid in behind the steering wheel.
“What happened?” she quizzed a dazed Dave. Hugging a Merlot bottle, he slurred, “Bears,” and tossed her the car keys. Julia considered retrieving Dave’s guitar and cleaning up the litter but instead gritted her teeth, fired up the engine, and spun the car backward toward her blue moon. Although vaguely aware of two enmeshed lumps in the backseat, she did not check the rear view mirror. The last thing she wanted was the sight of Matthew’s and Lindsey’s romantic moment emblazoned on her brain. What I don’t know …
Her dim Maglite cast amber triangles on coppery pine needles whose fragrance smoothed her sharp-edged nerves as she padded out of the forest. At least she hoped she was headed out and back to the campfire. She hadn’t drunk enough Riesling to get too lost.
She cast her gaze ahead toward treetops split by the path, but she dared not glance sideways. What I don’t know won’t hurt me, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Shouldn’t I be able to hear Dave’s guitar and loony lyrics from here? And loosey-goosey Lindsey’s squeaky peeps? And my Matthew’s clear, sweet tenor?
Maybe everyone suffocated inhaling marshmallows and graham crackers. She smiled, then moaned aloud, “Why didn’t I ask Lindsey to come with me?”
She knew why, of course.
An amber triangle exposed yet another blueberry feast. “That’s seven,” Julia muttered, refusing to yield to the temptation to dart her eyes into the brush on the left or the right. I’ll just be as quiet as I can. So far, so good on that score. Her gym shoes on the pine needles carpeting this forest’s sand dunes were soft. Odd that everyone has stopped singing. Why don’t I call out to them?
She knew why, of course.
Dark feathery foliage above parted to reveal early evening stars twinkling on a periwinkle canvas. The moon that might direct her back to camp had not yet risen. Julia was eager for tonight’s moon, which would be the rare second full moon of the month—a blue moon. Since she’d first heard the decades-old song “Blue Moon,” she’d applied it to hopes she dared not dream.
On the drive to their state park picnic that afternoon, “Blue Moon” had burst from the radio of Matthew’s Jetta, and Dave had cranked up the volume. As Matthew had crooned the tune to her and Lindsey in the backseat, Julia burned to embrace this cosmic sign as her own. Since she was seated behind Matthew, Julia could see his playful eyes in the rear view mirror as he sang. He had turned his head slightly to meet Lindsey’s eyes directly.
Maybe this cosmic sign doesn’t belong to me, she had sulked in the car. She sighed, thinking, Shy thirty-somethings shouldn’t have to contrive coworker picnics. So I’m not flirtatious like Lindsey … Why couldn’t I just ask Matthew for coffee at the corner café?
She knew why, of course.
Julia stomped the next few steps in frustration, and the sand squished beneath her. When she came to a hiking trail sign, Julia realized she’d headed the wrong direction after her little necessity visit in the forest. She backtracked and picked up her pace. She was confident now she would find her way before the Maglite’s amber triangles burnt out. Still no singing was audible.
Soon a clearing was in view with the impossibly huge yellow moon resting on the horizon. Their campfire was gray ash with embers weakly flickering gold against the cobalt Riesling bottle, as though fireflies had gotten caught inside. Her coworkers were not in sight. Her shoulders stiffened, then relaxed to note the Jetta still parked beyond the picnic table.
Kicking sand from her shoes, Julia jogged toward the deserted site. One lawn chair lay folded on top of Dave’s guitar. Another had fallen onto the rusty rim of the fire pit. Everywhere she looked, sandy grass tufts were strewn with ripped bits of cracker boxes, marshmallow bags, sandwich scraps. Was that a trail of potato chips heading off into the woods? As Julia took in the scene, she didn’t know what to think. She approached the Jetta where Dave slumped in the front passenger seat. The driver’s seat was empty, so she opened the door and slid in behind the steering wheel.
“What happened?” she quizzed a dazed Dave. Hugging a Merlot bottle, he slurred, “Bears,” and tossed her the car keys. Julia considered retrieving Dave’s guitar and cleaning up the litter but instead gritted her teeth, fired up the engine, and spun the car backward toward her blue moon. Although vaguely aware of two enmeshed lumps in the backseat, she did not check the rear view mirror. The last thing she wanted was the sight of Matthew’s and Lindsey’s romantic moment emblazoned on her brain. What I don’t know …
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A. J. PADILLA
ALISON WALLER
ANNE GOODWIN
ANTHONEY DIMOS
ANTHONY ZAMBRANO
CODY CROPP
CYNTHIA TRONCOSO
DON TASSONE
EDGAR RIDER
GARRETT PRANGE
H.L. DOWLES
JAHNAVI ENAGANTI
JANE HOPPE
JOE OPPENHEIMER
JONATHAN FERRINI
JUDITH GOODE
LISA HEIDLE
MITCHELL WALDMAN
MONIKA R. MARTYN
NT FRANKLIN
ROBERT WALTON
RUSSEL RICHARDSON
RUTH Z. DEMING
SEAN GALLAGHER
SHARON SINGLETON
TERRY DONOHUE
TERRY RICCARDI
VATI SREIBERG