They let themselves fall into silence. They’d always done that, let each other go their separate ways—even when they were together. Mister thought of the day Grace had brought the dog home. A present for Sam. He loved dogs. And that dog had loved him back. Howled for days after he died, looked for him, mourned for him. But after a while, she was fine, and she turned to the survivors in the house for all her needs—her walks, her food, her daily doses of affection. And Grace, she remembered the day she found the dog—in a box someone had tossed in the trash bin behind her office building. Not that she ever went in that alley. But that afternoon, she’d shredded some of her old files and decided to throw them out herself. And there was the puppy, filthy and whining, thrown away like a piece of trash. She’d reached for the dog and took her inside and bathed her in the sink of the women’s bathroom. The puppy couldn’t have been more than a few days old. She’d brought the dog home at lunch and placed her in a box in the backyard. Sam and Mister went crazy, crazy when they found her. They spent the whole evening trying to pick the right name. But it was she who had named her. “Mississippi,” she said as they argued. They’d both looked at her and laughed. “Perfect!”
“You think this is deep enough?” Grace thought he looked like a piece of gold against the evening sun, sweat pouring down his face and neck. Her grandmother had always said sweat was sweet and holy. She’d always thought her grandmother was a little crazy. She didn’t think that anymore. Children were so hard on adults. They expected so much and understood so little.
“Grace?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Are you condemning yourself for something that happened in the past again?”
“Of course not?”
“You’re not a good liar, Grace.”
She looked down at the hole Mister had dug for Mississippi. “I think that’s deep enough.” She watched Mister pick up the dog and place her gently in the grave he’d dug.
He began shoveling the dirt over the dog.
“Let me,” she said.
He didn’t argue with her.
He watched her shovel the dirt over the body of the dead dog. She was getting a little thinner. It was as if she was becoming the light.
“Grace, do you think it’s true what the curanderos say about animals?”
“That they carry us across the river into paradise?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a nice thought, isn’t it, Mister?”
“Maybe Mississippi will be there, to take us across the river. To take us to Sam.”
Grace and Morning Mass
He was standing there in front of the doors to the cathedral, almost as if he were a sentry on watch. He smiled as he saw Grace walking up the steps. A soft smile. He knew she’d come. She rarely missed. “Morning,” he whispered.
“Morning,” she whispered back.
“Grace, I want to talk to you about a treatment.”
“I’m feeling a little ambushed.”
“You won’t return my phone calls.”
“It’s too late, Richard.”
“You don’t know that, Grace. I’m the doctor.”
“And I’m the patient.”
“It’s my job to make sure you make an informed decision.”
She looked at him. She opened her mouth to speak, but then thought better of saying anything at all. She didn’t want to argue with this man. This good man. And outside the cathedral. Before morning mass.
“I thought you were a fighter, Grace.”
“When I fight, I have to believe I can win.”
“You can.”
“Don’t do this, Richard. Please don’t do this.”
Today, she was angry. She wasn’t in the mood for begging. She ordered Saint Francis to raise her dog Mississippi from the dead. “She was as good a servant as any. When that man tried to hurt Mister when he was walking to the store, do you remember? She leaped on him like a wild animal. She was protector and companion, and it isn’t right that heaven prefers humans to animals.” On listening to her own prayer, she asked forgiveness for eating meat. It was a sin, after all, to eat animals. She was heartily sorry.
And then she prayed to Mary Magdalene, protector of prostitutes, transvestites, and addicts. Why not? God, in his ironic sense of humor, had chosen her to be the first to see Jesus risen from the dead. Today, she prayed for Silvia. If she isn’t in heaven, see to it. And guide the girls on both sides of the border. You know what I mean. You know exactly what I mean.
And tell the good doctor to leave me the hell alone.
No One Can Run from a Fire
Get up, hijito de mi vida. It’s time to leave.” Silvia’s voice was soft, like a silk scarf moving over his body. He didn’t want to wake, just lie there and listen to her voice. “Corazón, tenemos que irnos de aqui inmediatamente. La situación es muy grave, amor. Hay mucho peligro.”
He rose from the bed reluctantly. He let her dress him. Her fingers were so soft.
When she finished dressing him they left the house.
There was no one left to say good-bye to.
The streets of Juárez were empty, and he was glad that everyone was sleeping. The prostitutes and the tranvestites and the boys and the girls who had to do what Homero and the other men told them to do—they were all resting.
They walked hand in hand, him and Silvia. She led him to the bridge, and as they reached the arch of the bridge, they looked down at the river.
“They’ve made it so poor,” she said. “It wasn’t always like this. The waters once flowed wild, and they weren’t hemmed in by cement, and they roared with the fierceness of America. Before they came. But when they came, they came with armor and rage. They came with their Jesus and their crosses and we have never been wild again—neither us nor the river.”
“Not you, Silvia,” Andrés said, “no one can tame you.”
“Oh, amor, if you were a man, I would take you in my arms and never let you go.” She clutched him, then let him go. “Run,” she said, “go back to where you came.”
He ran toward El Paso. He ran and ran and ran, the lights of the city sparkling like summer stars. He disappeared into the light.
Andrés woke to the cramps in his calves. His heart racing, he threw the covers off the bed and walked to the window. He didn’t like thinking about Silvia. It was all too sad. But here he was at one-thirty in the morning, thinking about her. He’d always thought of her as a real woman. Not like a man at all. He hated men. All of them. Every single fucking one of them. Himself included.
“What did he do to you, Andrés?”
“Nothing.”
“You don’t have to lie to me.”
“He does what men do.” Andrés looked away from her.
“What?”
“You know what I’m saying, Silvia. Don’t make me talk about this. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Your sister’s letting that pimp turn you into—” Andrés could see the fire in her eyes. “I need to talk to your sister.”
“What for? She knows. Homero’s in charge of us, now.”
“Homero’s not in charge of anything, that pinchi. Ese cabrón es un hijo de la chingada y uno de estos dias me lo voy a chingar.”
“He’ll hurt Ileana. If we don’t—you know. If Yolie and I don’t. He’ll hurt her.”
“Where is she?”
“She lives with a woman Homero knows. Yolie says she’ll be safe with her. That they won’t make her do what—you know, what we do. They won’t make her. If we just do our jobs.”
“You’re just a boy.”
“It doesn’t matter, Silvia.” He lit a cigarette.
“You shouldn’t be smoking. You’re too young.”
“I’m a lot older, now.”
“I’d like to kill Homero.”
“Don’t argue with him anymore. He’ll kill you.”
“Fuck him.”
“He’ll kill you, Silvia. He showed us. He showed me and Yolie. He took us to a place, a
nd there was a woman dead on the ground. And he said, ‘She got what she deserved.’ Just leave it alone, Silvia.”
“You and Yolie have to get out of here.”
“He has Ileana.”
“He won’t hurt her.”
“Yes, he will. You know he will.”
He lit a cigarette, then turned on his computer. He remembered all the letters he’d written to Mrs. Fernandez. He didn’t remember anymore, the things he’d told her in all those useless letters. He thought that maybe in one of them he’d told her that he loved her. Sure, he had. He was eleven and had wanted a mother. Sure, he’d told her that. I love you. He hadn’t loved anyone for a long time. He’d loved Yolie. He’d loved Mando. He’d loved his mom and dad. He’d loved Ileana. God, he’d loved her more than he’d ever loved anyone. And he’d loved Silvia. And they’d left him alone in the world. And he hated that.
And now, he just couldn’t love anymore. Maybe it wasn’t such a big problem. Loving had never done him a damn bit of good.
He stared at his computer screen, then started writing. Writing and writing, though he didn’t know what good it did.
He’d had so many sad days, Andrés. But today was the saddest. Homero was taking Ileana to live with a woman who would take care of her. “You can visit her every day, if you want.” Andrés said nothing. He’d loved her from the first day his mother had brought her home. He’d taken care of her. She was his. It wasn’t fair. Why was he doing this to him?
“Yolie, you have to stop him! You have to stop him. She’s ours. She belongs to us, not to him.”
“It’s too late to stop him.” It was like Yolie had died. Like her heart had stopped beating. There wasn’t anything in her eyes anymore. “It’s too late,” she whispered.
So Ileana was going away. To live with an old woman. “She’s just an old whore,” Silvia said, “an old whore who’s too old to attract any takers. But Homero still owns her.”
Yolie packed all her things. “Tomorrow you have to go. But we’ll visit every day. We promise.” She didn’t say anything else. When Ileana tried to cling to her, she pushed her away. “Shut up! Just shut up!”
Ileana refused to stop crying. “Don’t let them take me!”
“Shhh,” Andrés whispered, then held her. “When Yolie’s asleep,” he said softly, “then we’re going. I’m taking you back to Mrs. Fernandez.”
“Will you stay with me?”
“Yes. We’ll both stay.”
Andrés thought of Yolie. But she was dead. That’s what he thought. Yolie was dead now. If she was alive, she would be helping them to get away. But something had happened to her. She was broken. She couldn’t be fixed.
He had to save Ileana—that was all that mattered.
When Yolie was asleep, they slipped out the door. Andrés knew the way. He’d taken this trip a thousand times in his head. He felt his heart pounding. Ileana didn’t say anything. Not a word. When they reached Avenida Juárez, Andrés took a deep breath. He could see the bridge to El Paso in the distance.
That was when he felt the hand on his shoulder.
He turned around and saw Homero. “Are you lost?”
Andrés shook his head. His heart was pounding. Nothing could make it stop.
Homero took Ileana by the hand. “Let’s go home.”
No one said anything as they headed back home.
When Homero took them inside, he slapped Yolie, for letting them get out. He stayed the night on the couch. In the morning, he took Ileana.
Andrés refused to talk. He didn’t say a word for three weeks. Sometimes men would come. He knew what they wanted. He didn’t talk to them. Anyway, they hadn’t come to talk. He didn’t care. Not about anything. Not anymore.
The first thing he said when he spoke again was, “I want to see Ileana.”
Yolie took him to her. Ileana hugged him, and he spent most of the day with her. “I’ll always love you, Andy.” That’s what she told him.
He went to see her three times a week. And she always said the same thing. “I love you, Andy.”
But he felt dirty now. And her love was pure. And he knew he didn’t deserve to be loved by her. So it hurt to go to see her. But always he would ask her. “Does anyone touch you?”
“No,” she said. And he knew she was telling him the truth because he could tell that she was the same. The world he and Yolie were living in hadn’t touched her.
The old whore used to watch them when he visited. She would cook a meal for them and let them talk. Mostly, Ileana would tell him stories she made up in her mind. He’d stopped writing stories—now it was she who was the storyteller. And the stories were all for him.
A year passed, and then another. And they lived that way. Andrés visited Ileana, and the visits were the only thing in his life that mattered. He and Yolie never said anything to each other anymore. He would buy the food with the money Homero gave them. The money they earned. He bought the food and cooked. Yolie didn’t do any of that anymore. She hardly ate. He knew she was taking drugs. Her eyes were always glazed over, as if a film of frozen ice were covering them. She laughed sometimes, but her laugh was hollow.
Andrés asked her once to stop taking drugs. “It’s all that matters, now,” she said.
Silvia and Amanda didn’t live together anymore. Silvia kicked Amanda out. “She does more drugs than your sister.” Amanda didn’t live another year. They found her dead on the street one December night. On the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe Silvia cried. They were like best friends, now, Andrés and Silvia. Some nights, Andrés would go to La Brisa and talk to Silvia and her friends. They all told him he was beautiful. But he didn’t feel beautiful, and inside he knew he was nothing but dirt.
Three years, they lived like that. Yolie on drugs and sleeping with the men Homero sent her way. Him, too. He would do what the men told him to do. That’s how they lived. But it didn’t matter because Ileana was still pure.
On his fifteenth birthday, he noticed that he was becoming a man. He was sprouting hair everywhere—under his arms, on his legs, between his legs, especially—and on his face. It was strange, to see himself with hair. Everywhere. Maybe, because he was a man, now, the men wouldn’t want him. He hoped the men wouldn’t want him.
He went to see Ileana on his birthday. He hadn’t seen her in a week. He bought some mangos for Carmen. He didn’t call her the old whore anymore. She wasn’t so bad. That old woman, she loved Ileana and took care of her. Even Silvia, who sometimes visited Ileana, didn’t call her the old whore anymore. “Carmen’s had a bad life.” That’s what Silvia told him. “Her husband died when she was young. A bad life. Sometimes, she still calls herself Mrs. Fuentes. As if that makes her more respectable. I told her to fuck respectability. Fuck all that.” Silvia. She told him things. She made him laugh.
He took the mangos and went to see Ileana. But when he arrived at Carmen’s house, he found Carmen lying on the floor, bruised and bleeding. She was sobbing and sobbing. “Where’s Ileana?” he yelled. “Where is she?” But all Carmen could do was moan. He ran to get Silvia, but she wasn’t home. He ran to La Brisa and found her there, sitting at the bar, putting on her makeup. “It’s Carmen,” he said. “And Ileana’s gone. She’s gone!” He tried to keep the tears away, but they were there. She took off her heels and ran back with him. They helped put Carmen to bed, and Silvia washed the blood off her lip and inspected her bruises. She stopped crying and moaning, and Silvia gave her a cigarette. She looked at Andrés.
“I sent your sister away. She’s safe.”
“Where did you send her?”
“With a friend. She’s safe, I promise you. Homero said it was time for her to go to work. So I sent her away. I wasn’t going to let anybody touch her. She’s a little girl. What kind of animals sleep with little girls? What kind of man makes money on that? He almost killed me. I thought the slaps would never stop. But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell him anything. He would’ve killed me—but his new woman stopped him. He’ll
do anything for his new women. For a while, anyway. He’s not going to pay for this house anymore. He said I could live in the street for all he cared.”
“You can live with me.” Silvia always said generous things.
“You’re sure Ileana’s safe?” Andrés was numb.
“She doesn’t live in this town, anymore, mi’jito.”
“Where did they take her?”
“They took her across.”
“To El Paso?”
“Yes.”
“And from there?”
“I don’t know. My friend knows a woman who wants a little girl.”
“What if the woman doesn’t want her?”
“That child is an angel.”
“What’s the woman’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know?”
“I didn’t want to know. In case Homero beat it out of me. What if I told him? What would he do to her? I can’t tell him what I don’t know. He’s brutal. He’s an animal.”
“But what about your friend?”
“I told her never to come back here. She worked for Homero. If she ever comes back, he’d kill her. For defying him. She’ll never come back.”
Andrés said nothing for a long time. “I’ll never see her again.”
“But she’s safe, hijo de mi vida.”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“She’ll send word. When Ileana is safe. She promised me.”
Andrés kept nodding. Andrés, who was almost a man now. At fifteen.
“You should go—both of you. If Homero knows you’ve helped me, he’ll get even with you.”
“I’ll cut his balls off if he comes near me.” Andrés thought Silvia just might do it. “You don’t have to work for him anymore.”
Andrés nodded.
Andrés watched Silvia make soup for Carmen. She fed her. “I used to call you the old whore,” Silvia confessed. “I’m sorry.”
Carmen laughed. “But that’s what I am. Just an old whore.”
That was the first time he ever got drunk. Yolie kept a bottle of Kentucky bourbon on the shelf in the kitchen. Sometimes her clients wanted something to drink. She always made sure to have a bottle. When he got home, it was there. And it was almost full. He took the bottle and went into the courtyard. He took a drink, then lit a cigarette. He drank straight from the bottle. He hated it. But he didn’t care. He hated a lot of things—this was easy, drinking bourbon. Easy as pie. He thought of Ileana, how she was free now. It didn’t matter that he’d never see her again because she was safe, and she didn’t have to live this kind of life. Her life would be good. She was safe.
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