Then he turned the ignition and drove to Color Theory, leaving his sunglasses off and his face toward the sun.
Friday, December 21, 2018
25
Leticia
“HOW MANY YOU WANT?” ZACARIAS SAID, LOOKING DOWN AT LETTIE AS he reached for the shelf of whipped cream, his shirt lifting to show all those muscles he had—muscles in places Lettie never knew a person could grow muscles.
The two women beside them in the brightly lit dairy aisle at Costco, both tiny Latinas like Lettie, giggled, and she knew they were admiring him. And, maybe, she thought, admiring her as well. She, a nothing-special woman like themselves, with a beautiful white American man doing exactly what she told him to do. She was in charge.
“Five,” she said to Zacarias, fighting the urge to wink at the women who were still staring. Why should only men be allowed to do the winking?
“Correction,” he said. “How many do we need?”
“Hmm.” She made a face like she was thinking hard, deciding to give the Latinas a show. Let them watch the man who looked like a magazine model take orders from one of their own. “You decide, okay, mi amor?”
“How about zero?” Zacarias asked, squinting to read the label on the whipped cream. “It’s just a bunch of chemicals I can’t even pronounce.”
“Well.” She stretched out the pause, sensing the Latinas waiting. “I love corn starch! It is my favorite food. And Andres, he enjoys the whipped cream so much. Five it is!”
“As you wish, my love,” said her half-brother, flashing his special smile, playing along. Then he dropped to one knee and took her hand, right there in the dairy aisle, and Lettie heard the Latinas titter. “For you, Leticia”—delivered with a perfect Costeño accent just like she had taught him—“I will do anything.” His lips brushed the top of her hand and she squealed—she couldn’t help herself.
She loved shopping with Zacarias. Even if he insisted they go to stores outside Santa Monica, where they would not see anyone they knew. What could she say but yes?—he was paying. And he goofed around the whole time, making her laugh, treating her like a queen. If it was a weekend, Andres came along. The three of them roaming the aisles of Target together, the cart full, it made Lettie feel they were a real family. By choice.
Zacarias seemed like a new man lately. Like a man who had truly found God. A man who has come out of the fire and realized how good life is. And how short. Soon after Halloween night, Lettie was sure there had been a change. His big flashy smile out all the time, even when it was just Zacarias and Lettie, Andres at school, like today. She wondered if Halloween night had woken something in him, like it had in her. If her half-brother had felt the same thrill she’d felt watching his fists thud into Mr. Leyner’s swollen face. She had changed that night as well, she thought, remembering the way the crowds on the street had looked at her and Andres—their white faces staring with the look of the dumb. Like children at a zoo, scared but also enchanted by the beasts. Unable to look away. It had been right then that Lettie understood. She would never be a real American in their eyes. No matter how hard she scrubbed and how cheerful she sounded and how grateful she seemed. She could say I’m sorry a million times and still, she would not be one of them.
Lettie had awoken the morning after Halloween wiser, the words of her wealthy bosses’ inspirational messages in her head—words hung on the walls of their big houses, printed on their T-shirts and the mesh trucker hats the Santa Monica mommies wore; on notepads and keychains and bathroom hand towels. Let go. Be present. Choose kindness. Lettie’s favorite message—though she wasn’t sure she understood its meaning—was one she’d read many times when dusting the framed posters in Sukie Reinhardt’s home yoga studio, the walls painted a soothing sky blue: Happiness cannot exist without acceptance. Lettie had begun to whisper this to herself each time she received another past-due bill from the hospital collection agency, or from Ms. Ochoa, who had stopped returning Lettie’s calls now that her payments had slowed.
Accept, Lettie told herself. Stop fighting.
Her next court date was in April. Lettie did not know if Mrs. Ochoa would even be there, standing at her side in front of the judge. Maybe, she hoped, they could have one last Easter together—Lettie, Andres, and Zacarias. Their little family. Maybe she’d teach Zacarias how to make their abuela’s fish soup with lima beans. And tamales he’d gobble up, then complain about his belly growing fat. She’d make sure there was watermelon-flavored agua fresca to drink, and coconut candies for dessert—as sweet as Andres himself.
Zacarias had been right about Mrs. Ochoa after all. No one could be trusted. No one could solve Lettie’s problem. Not even Zacarias could save her from being deported, and he had tried, that big-hearted gringo. Her brother wasn’t a delincuente after all—she had believed that ever since he’d fought for Andres on the Leyners’ front lawn. She’d come to trust him. To forgive him, even, for the accident. Finally accepting that it had been an accident, knowing Zacarias would carry the guilt on his back for the rest of his life, remember his sin each time he looked at Andres’s damaged leg. A never-ending penance. She had begun to accept, as well, her fate. She may have to say good-bye to her baby. Good-bye to Auntie Corrina. To Melissa and Regina. And to Zacarias. Yes, she would be sad—the very thought made her chest ache, and sometimes, she let herself cry in the bathroom, making sure to muffle the sound with a towel, so her son would not hear—but at least Andres and Zacarias would have each other.
He was a good man, Lettie thought as Zacarias pushed their shopping cart, filled with a mountain of goodies, through the crowded aisles of Costco, making choo-choo train noises (All aboard!) as if Andres were with them instead of at school. She was enjoying her hour alone with Zacarias the clown. He was making her forget her problems. He was in an extra-good mood that day, juggling oranges in the produce section, balancing rolls of paper towels on his head, even throwing a back flip down the empty frozen-food aisle, Lettie catching her breath, scared they’d get in trouble, looking for a security guard. Then she remembered. She was with a white man, or, at least, that’s what every person in the store believed. She tried to imagine Manuel being silly, calling attention to himself, acting like a crazy person to make her laugh. He would never—too much danger.
Her brother’s fun made her forget, almost, about how time was running out. That she still did not have enough dollars. The interest on Andres’s medical bills kept going up, up, up, and the calls from the collection agents were coming three, four times a day now. One of them, a man with a voice like oil, had even said, Where are you from, originally, Ms. Mendoza? Is it Mexico? in a way that made her think ICE must be on the way to her apartment.
Lettie did not have enough dollars. Zacarias said he would give her more, soon, but when? She also did not have enough time.
She stood alone in the long line, her two carts overflowing with food, waiting for Zack to return from the produce section with the pineapples she’d forgotten. She hoped he would hurry; it was hard pushing both heavy carts forward every few minutes when the line moved. She looked back at the line of mostly white faces, all restless, checking their phones, doing the big sighs white people made when they were impatient and wanted everyone around them to know.
There were only four carts ahead of hers, and still no Zack. He had the money; if he did not return soon, they’d have to start at the end of the line again. Which would make them late to pick up Andres from aftercare at school.
Lettie stepped out of the line and walked a few customers back, standing on her tiptoes to search for Zacarias. When she returned, her carts had been pushed to the side, out of line. She’d lost her spot. Her heart began to thump. Had she done something wrong? Had ICE found her here, in her beloved Costco?
Lettie heard a grunting laugh from behind her, and when she turned, she knew it was him. The man who’d moved her carts. He was tall and blond and wore a tank top so loose it let his reddish armpit hair stick out for all to see. Across the front of the
shirt was a blue swordfish and the words Master Baiter.
She’d show him he was no master, not of anything.
“Sir,” she said. “I think you take my place.” She swallowed. “By accident. I put the carts here to save my spot.”
The man shrugged, his lips curling into a mean grin. “You snooze, you lose.”
“It’s no problem,” she said, careful to keep her voice cheery.
She pushed one of her carts in front of his, careful not to touch his own, filled with boxes of beer and big bags of chips. “This was my place, okay?”
“This”—the man stuck his arms out to the side—“is not your place.” Like he owned Costco, Lettie thought, furious, knowing Costco was for everyone—legal or not.
“I’m a member,” she said, pulling her wallet out of her purse. “I will show you. I’m a VIP.”
She dropped her wallet and her many plastic cards—her treasured driver’s license, her library card, the EBT card her auntie Corrina let her use to get free food at stores that accepted food stamps—scattered all over the smooth floor.
The Master—Master Asshole, Lettie thought—laughed at her.
She squatted to pick up the cards. Her long nails, painted gold and green for Christmas, paid for with a certificate from Melissa, scraped the concrete floor. It was hard to grip the plastic cards with her new nails, and they kept slipping from her fingers. No one helped her, not even the customers standing right over Lettie. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, as she reached around their feet—would she have to repeat those words for the rest of her life?
When she finally had the last card, she stood. Her head spun.
The Master had, again, removed her carts from the line. This time, he’d pushed them farther, over to a tall tower of cereal boxes.
Lettie remembered the words on the large wooden plaque Melissa had hung over the Goldbergs’ kitchen table soon after Melissa had told Lettie about Mr. Adam’s cheating:
You Control Your Own Destiny
Destino. Lettie hadn’t needed any translation to recognize that magical word.
She gripped the cart’s handles and pushed it in front of Master of Nothing’s cart, the metal clanging.
“Oops!” she said, using her pretend dumb immigrant voice, “I see you made a mistake. I will just put my carts back in line. Thank you!”
“I made no mistake,” the man said, looking straight at her. He had ocean-colored eyes like Zacarias and a skull tattoo on one shoulder. “I said, you got no place here. Not here.” He pointed to the floor. “Not anywhere in my country.”
She wanted to tell him it was her country, too. Explain how she paid taxes. How she’d filled out all the forms (with Regina’s help) for the Department of Homeland Security so she could get an ID. Her son was born here—a true American. She wanted to tell him she loved her country as much as he did. Maybe more—for if she had to leave, she could not return.
The man towered over her, his big finger in her face as he yelled, his spit spraying her cheek, about the Wall and illegals and terrorists and welfare and how it was women like her, squeezing out baby after baby, stealing his money.
From the back of the line, Lettie heard a woman (a white woman, she could tell from the boldness in the woman’s voice) shout, “Hey, you! Stop harassing her or I’ll call security!” The woman held an iPhone high above the many heads in line. “I’m filming! You’re live on Instagram, mister.”
Lettie was not sure if she was grateful for the woman, or terrified—she did not want a video on the Internet, where millions of people, including ICE, would see it. Would see her.
The Master Baiter was still giving his speech, his hand chopping at the air next to Lettie’s face as he made point after point. “Cali used to be the best state in the country! Until your people ruined it!”
“Don’t talk to her like that,” came a man’s voice, loud and clear.
It was Zacarias. An angel appearing just in time to save her.
Master Baiter looked at Zacarias, confused. Lettie knew he was wondering why this handsome white man was sticking up for a no-good illegal.
“She assaulted me,” Master Baiter said. “She slammed her cart into mine.”
“Sure,” Zacarias said slowly. “This little Mexican woman looks like a real threat to you, buddy.”
A few people in line laughed.
How quickly a white man could change everything, Lettie thought, her mouth so dry she could not swallow.
Master Baiter did not like being laughed at, Lettie saw. He took a big step toward Zacarias. He was taller than her brother but then Zacarias let his unzipped sweatshirt slip off his freckled shoulders, and said, “I’m Mexican, too. But bigger,” his muscles on muscles shining in the bright overhead lights, the two men staring each other down, chins lifted, nostrils flared.
Master Baiter took a step back.
But Lettie needed to be able to take care of herself. She did not want this to be another Halloween night—she cowering, Zacarias saving the day like one of Andres’s beloved superheroes.
“Excuse me,” she said, laying a palm on Zacarias’s chest and gently pushing him away, then whispering, “I got this.”
In a flash, she reached out and snatched the Costco card from the blond man’s beefy fingers. Then, quick as lightning, she snapped a photo of the card with her phone.
“Hey,” he said, but stood frozen, his mouth falling open in shock.
“Mr. Robert Waters,” Lettie announced to the line of people, all staring now. “You hear that?” Louder now: “This man’s name is Robert Waters.”
“Loud and clear, sister!” the white woman yelled from the middle of the line, lifting her phone higher.
“This . . .” Mr. Waters stuttered, “this is harassment!”
“Don’t be silly, Roberto,” Lettie said with a smile as she handed the man his Costco card. “Nothing bad is happening. Not yet.” She nodded toward the white lady, still filming, in line. “I know you are not a racist, Roberto. But when this video goes on the Facebook, the Twitter, there are so many places for it to go—maybe even CNN!—the world will call you a racist.”
The man pulled his cart out of the line and shoved it away, hard. As he stomped toward the store’s front doors, the cart slammed into a tall pyramid-shaped display of chocolate bars, so it seemed, to Lettie, for one glorious moment, to be raining candy.
“You good?” Zacarias whispered. His arm was around her shoulders, and only then did she realize she was shaking.
Instead of wiggling free as usual, she let his arm stay.
She nodded. “It’s all good.”
IN THE CAR, while Zacarias loaded the many boxes and bags of food, Lettie used the hand wipes she kept in her purse to cool the back of her neck. Her chest felt tight; her stomach rolled like the waves at the beach. She would not let that bastard Master Baiter ruin her day.
She took deep breaths, just like Zacarias had showed Andres when the little boy cried so hard he could not stop hiccupping. In, out. In, out. This America was too dangerous for a little brown boy to survive alone. She knew there was only one choice. She’d give Andres to Zacarias to raise as his own. Just until she’d raised enough money to get back across the border, back into America.
“Zacarias,” she began before he’d even buckled his seat belt. “Zack. My heart. It runs like a wild horse.” She patted her chest.
“Aw, no worries, Sis. That’s just the adrenaline pumping. You were a serious badass in there!” She could see he was impressed. “That guy was a major dick. Did you see the look on his face? How about we go get some fried chicken wings? Your fave. We’ve still got enough time before we need to get Andres. You earned it. And I could use some comfort food.”
“I have something to tell you, hermano.”
His smile faded. “I think you mean medio hermano.” A sad little laugh. He gripped the steering wheel. Sighed. “Okay, lay it on me. What’s the problem now?”
“No problem,” she said. “Yo
u are my hermano. Total. My brother. And what I have to tell you is good.”
“Oh yeah, hey, I got good news, too!” he said. “Jensen, at the gym, he wants to make me a partner. Give me my own gym! Well, not give it to me exactly, but, Lettie, if he comes through on this, it will be huge. It could mean a ton of money. Pretty soon!”
“You’ll be the best boss, Zack.”
“It’s going to be okay, Lettie. For all of us. For Andres.”
How she wanted to believe him.
“This is what I want to tell you, Zack.” She met his eyes. “I want you to be Andres’s daddy. So, you can take care of him while I’m away.” She made it sound like a vacation. “Just until I get back. Will you do this for me? For our Andres?”
He was crying. His strong hands covering his mouth. Through his fingers, he whispered, “Bless you, Lettie. Yes. Yes. I’ll love him like he’s my own son.”
Saturday, December 29, 2018
26
Mel
IT HAD BEEN A MONTH OF SEX.
Sex in her Mini Cooper. Sex in his Tacoma.
Sex at practically every hotel outside Santa Monica’s limits. The Waldorf Astoria in Beverly Hills. The Charlie in West Hollywood. The Langham in Pasadena, far enough from home for Mel to feel safe holding Zack’s hand as they strolled the magnificent gardens where roses of every color buzzed with honey bees, where she pointed out the plants she’d read about in her Guide to the Flora of Los Angeles book. She enjoyed teaching him, and learning from him, too—about exercise and food, topics she’d once found threatening—and even, gasp, the history of Catholicism, on which he liked to deliver mini-lectures, his big hands swooping the air with excitement as he spoke.
It was, Mel thought, utterly adorable, how he got so worked up—even if he still said outrageous nonsense about the Wall and Crooked Hillary. He’d spew an opinion, then look at her with those ocean eyes, asking forgiveness, saying sorry, then lowering his mouth between her thighs. Zack’s conversational filter, it turned out, was as weak as Mel’s. So different from Adam’s controlled, well-considered sentences.
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