Night fell.
A truck was parked across the parking lot entrance, its trailer filled with crates of beer, as though for a party. The folks ahead stopped to study the truck as they waited for us to catch up. I touched one of the bottles. It was hot. The ground beneath the truck was no longer earth but pavement.
Together, we shuffled toward the entrance of the lit warehouse.
Miseria and me looked at each other sidelong.
The joint would probably fill up later, considering the amount of booze they had on hand. It was still early for a Saturday night. The beers still hadn’t been stocked in the fridge.
A hulk stood at the door.
“What’s playing?” my brother asked.
He looked us up and down.
“You here for the matinée?”
Since none of us said anything or showed any signs of leaving, he studied us a while and then, in silence, shifted his massive heft out of the way to let us pass.
Place was a shithole. Darker inside than out. Night still fell, and the folks who’d been boozing for hours looked like zombies.
The ceiling was so tall, it dwarfed us. But I tried to keep my fear under wraps. A song I’d never heard was playing. The walls, once white, were now a cruddy gray, and the light, smothered in cigarette smoke, was dim. The smoke surprised me. I didn’t remember it from my dream.
Out of all of us, Walter was the only one walking tall. We split into groups of two or three. Miseria headed toward a section with tables and I stood next to her. I couldn’t turn my back to anyone. I peered around for a familiar face, but all I saw was a bunch of zombies. Now and then, the others glanced back at me.
Miseria’s face was fixed in a smile, proof that everything was all right. But it was different from the smile she wore before. She was searching too. Like me, like everybody else. I was waiting for the first sign of what the earth had shown me. From that moment on, everything would come crashing down on us, unstoppable till the blade.
On the tables, between the glasses and bottles, were cards: colors, diamonds, hearts. The only women in that joint were Miseria, me, and the other girls who’d followed us. The rest of them, all men, didn’t take their eyes off us.
We walked up to a table. The other players moved to make room. I didn’t understand what they were playing, but the scent that wafted up from the table and the men’s bodies and from the glasses and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts reminded me of the smell that had clung to my old man’s clothes, hair, and skin. Some guy passed me a heavy glass. Before the glass, I felt the touch of his hot hand. I took a sip. Though I didn’t recognize the flavor, I liked it and took another, longer swig, then handed it back.
I saw my brother walk toward a long bar lining one end of the warehouse, past the tables. Two of our people followed. He walked with a confidence that caught my attention. He leaned on the bar, ordered something, took the bottle of beer handed him and paid. Then he turned around and drank straight from the bottle. He never drank straight from the bottle when we went out. It bothered me. No one in there drank like that. He took a swig from the bottle again. Even the folks at the tables started glaring.
I walked up to him and said:
“Finish it, Walter.”
Instead, as if not hearing me, he passed the bottle to the kid next to him, who drank from it without wiping first. They roared and started making a racket.
Everybody watched my brother and the two guys as they laughed and passed the beers from hand to hand. Until at some point Walter knocked one back, choked, and started sputtering. He tried to carry on drinking, but the coughing got in the way. Foam spilled from the bottle to the floor. Seeing this, my brother, still coughing, dropped the bottle and let it smash on the ground. Doubled over, he started puking.
Behind me, a prickly voice dripping with disdain. The same voice I’d heard the evening of the stained boots. The voice of Ale Skin.
“Look at what these barrio scum motherfuckers are doing.”
Turns out I hadn’t recognized Walter’s hand in my dream. He swiveled to face Ale Skin and pulled out a blade like the thing had been on standby. The effect of the beer was gone. Walter was alert. He lunged at Ale Skin, who dodged him by a whisker.
Ale Skin pulled a knife from the back of his pants and turned to face him.
Other skinheads milled about too.
Miseria was shoving one of them around, come from hell knows where. She grabbed a bottle and I looked away. Next thing I knew, the bottle was broken and the guy on the floor.
Ale Skin shrugged off his jacket, eyes fixed on my brother. He was waiting for Walter to attack with his blade. And Walter was waiting for the moment Skin’s knife would shift in his left hand: in his face, I saw something animal-like. Skin lunged and my brother leapt back. But Skin kept pressing him with the hand that held his jacket. Walter jabbed again and Skin swept the blade away with his jacket, then kicked out his leg. Walter was hurt. He used his forearms to keep the knife off his body. Until, finally, he landed a kick on Skin, whose knife flew far from his body. Spotting an opening, Walter sent a volley of punches at Ale Skin’s mug, knocking him down. Things had taken a turn again. My brother slammed Skin furiously into the ground.
The bouncer rushed in, pussyfooted behind Walter, hauled him up and clamped him. Ale sprung up. Knowing Walter couldn’t shake the two of them off together, I scanned the room for help. But everybody was busy tussling. No one was free.
Now Ale Skin was the one caning my brother. Walter took punch after punch, one two, one two. He couldn’t move, I couldn’t watch. I spotted Ale Skin’s blade. It wasn’t far. I had to grab it, no matter what. I tried to get close, but a hard kick floored me. I couldn’t move.
“Get her,” I heard someone say.
I looked up and glimpsed the guy who’d punted me. Miseria and another chick rushed to tackle him. The guy stepped back and fell over me.
A hand swiped Skin’s knife from right in front of my eyes, and brushed me. I knew that hand. I knew the arm that grabbed the man on top of me and heaved him up like a trash bag then slugged him, knocking him out.
It was my old man.
Realizing this, my breath caught in my throat.
My old man hid the knife and snuck up to where Walter was brawling. He body-slammed Ale Skin, forcing him to stop swinging and retreat. Shocked, the bouncer who held my brother loosened his grip enough for him to wriggle free.
“Out of the way, you old shit,” said Ale Skin.
And my old man, fast like someone who knows how to move in shadow, pulled out the knife and drove it into his flesh.
Iwas numb.
As though the gray of the walls had infected us with something.
Inside was a shitshow. We headed toward the exit. None of us had got off scot-free, but we weren’t too bruised up either. I was being shoved, swept away. I felt a hand on my waist. It was the old man. I didn’t need to look to know it was him. Insults reached me like a dog’s barking.
“This doesn’t end here, motherfuckers!” screamed the skinheads we’d left behind.
Their voices wanted to pummel us. But they didn’t follow. They stuck with Ale Skin.
I’m not sure how I knew that Ale Skin wouldn’t make it out this time. No matter what they did, Ale Skin was as dead as Hernán.
I couldn’t speak. Walter kept yelling and all I wanted was for him to shut up. For everybody to shut up and leave me alone with my brother. As always.
At some point, my old man let me go and stood there.
“We’ll see each other again,” Walter said.
Our old man said nothing, but relief shone in his eyes.
Twice I’d seen my old man kill.
Part Three
Eartheater, the place where you learned to eat earth no longer exists. Everything will come crashing down,” said Señorita Ana in my dream.
I looked around. I didn’t know where we were. It wasn’t my barrio, or the junkyard.
“What is this place?”
“I told you not to go back. That it wasn’t allowed,” Ana added. “Look at me now. They’re coming for you. Will you keep on seeing?”
“No.”
“What about me? What about everything you promised?”
“I don’t want to anymore, Ana.”
“But you could find them. Have them locked up. For me. They’ll keep killing, out there. Don’t you get it?”
Her voice was so horrifying I woke up.
Walter, what if we went away?”
I couldn’t tell if he was asleep, but the moment he heard me he turned around and stuffed his head under a pillow. It made me happy to see him asleep in that bed. For a few minutes, it was like nothing had happened.
I waited. Listened to him breathing.
When I was about to leave, he said:
“Put the kettle on.”
I turned on the burner, filled the kettle, set it on the stovetop, and stood watching the flame. My brother came in, opened the fridge, took out a bottle of water. He poured a glass and stood next to me, propped against the wall. He watched the flames as he drank.
“Remember when you forgot the old man’s kettle and it went totally black? He wanted to kill you.”
I watched the kettle till it clouded in my mind.
I didn’t think I’d be so sad to leave.
Instead of answering, I asked:
“What about the bottles?”
Walter took another sip of water and said:
“The bottles stay.”
We kept on watching the fire, in silence. Though I could tell the kettle was getting too hot, I didn’t move. Walter turned off the burner, held the kettle under the faucet, and let a stream of water pour over it. Meanwhile, I grabbed the mate and the half-empty packet of yerba.
We sat at the table in the suite.
Not long after, Miseria shoved open the door and came in without knocking.
She glanced at the mate and sat down next to us. She was smiling differently.
“I can get some scratch from selling my bike. I’ll bring the tools, though, they might come in handy,” my brother said, as though it was just the two of us.
“I’m done with the earth,” I said to Walter, who said nothing.
Miseria looked at me, wide-eyed.
I handed the mate to my brother, who passed it to her after filling it with water. Their fingers brushed.
“Where will we go?” I asked.
I don’t know why but I wanted them to stop touching.
“I’m coming with you,” Miseria cut in.
“Hell no. I don’t want to end up behind bars,” said Walter, and he slammed the mate on the table to show the conversation was over.
Miseria didn’t scare. Instead, she grew bolder.
“I’ll tell my ma I got a job. And come with you.”
We looked at each other, Walter and me.
“What sort of jobs can you even do?” he said.
“Hell if I know. But she’ll let me come with you if I tell her I got a job.”
I said nothing but thought of how Miseria wasn’t much older than I was when my old lady was killed. And that I liked the thought of her coming with us.
We were quiet for a long time. Then Miseria said:
“We’ll take the mate,” and laughed.
And I could tell Walter was crazy about her.
He got up and walked toward where I sat.
He kissed me on the forehead.
“Let’s go, lil sis,” he said.
Walter went somewhere with Miseria. Her house, I think. I didn’t see them leave.
I lay down on my bed for a while. I was exhausted but wired and couldn’t get to sleep. The worst combination. Not even my heart was resting. I shut my eyes.
What about Ezequiel? I wondered.
Ezequiel stays.
I had no one to talk to about it, so I asked and answered myself.
What about Ezequiel?
Ezequiel stays.
I opened my eyes and riffled through one of the drawers for a mirror. Mamá’s. I thought of all the times I’d seen her look at herself in that mirror and tried to find some trace of her in it, something of Mamá’s to help me in that moment.
I watched my lips moving.
Ezequiel stays.
I grabbed the blanket and pulled it over my head. I shut my eyes and cried.
Ezequiel was glad I’d asked to meet him.
I studied myself in the bathroom mirror and scanned my face for a change. Either there was nothing or I couldn’t find it. Same old eyes.
I brushed my teeth. Applied mascara. Slung my backpack on. Fumbled for the keys, went outside, closed the door. As I was about to turn the key, I stopped. Why bother lock up if we’re leaving? I left the door open. Tossed the keys in my bag and headed toward the precinct.
Ezequiel was at the entrance when I got there. I gave him a quick kiss. He wasn’t angry I hadn’t called. He asked if I wanted to go to his house and I said no, I’d rather drive around.
“Where?”
“Wherever. I need to talk,” I said. But as soon as we got in the car, I fell quiet.
He said he wanted to get something to drink and I nodded. We pulled over to a grocery store run by some old woman. Ezequiel told me to choose whatever I wanted and I grabbed two beers from the fridge. All I cared was that they were cold. I flashed them at the woman and asked her for a packet of peanuts.
“I’ve got them by the kilo.”
I asked her for a hundred grams.
Ezequiel didn’t want beer. He asked her for three nips of something or other, and we left.
We drank for a while, stood on the pavement. Then Ezequiel said:
“Let’s split.”
We got in the car.
I set my half-empty beer between my feet and ate a fistful of peanuts to stave off a stomachache.
“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?”
“We’re going away,” I said, like that was all he needed to know.
Ezequiel went quiet as he drove. I waited for him to say something else.
“We’re going away, Ezequiel, we’re leaving the house.”
“What for?”
“I can’t deal with the people or the earth anymore.”
He looked as if he hadn’t heard me, just kept driving like it was nothing. Then he slowed down and turned into a dark, empty street.
“I’m done with dead people,” I said.
Ezequiel pulled up to the curb and parked in front of a tree, his hand still on the steering wheel. I stared outside. I sipped on the beer again and again.
“Far?” Ezequiel asked.
“No clue.”
I finished the beer, opened the door, got out, and tossed the bottle. I was trying to figure out how Ezequiel and me could carry on together, and it was all the same to me. Talking on the phone, texting. There was nothing I could say, nothing to comfort either of us.
I sat back in the car and looked over at him.
“We’ll think of something.”
I looked down. Ezequiel was quiet. He drank. I eyed the second beer.
“Take me to the cemetery?”
“The cemetery?”
I said yes, but that we should hit another shop first. We were gonna need a lot more booze.
We were off. Three of us. Three cell phones, three backpacks. Mine and Walter’s were fit to burst. Miseria’s was lankier than she was, like all she had in it was a pair of leggings.
We walked along the shoulder, the darkness shattered by the headlights of a truck barreling toward us. Another passed, then another. Nonstop trucks on the road. Their lights so strong they kept half-blinding us.
I could’ve asked Ezequiel to drive us but hadn’t wanted to. The day before, I’d almost puked in his car. Besides, it would’ve been twice as hard to skip town.
I kept on walking, clutching my cell as though, from then on, Ezequiel would be held inside it.
We crossed an avenue that swelled into a
river when it rained. I never used to like going there as a kid. I thought the gutters would swallow me up. The memory made me laugh.
Most of the houses were dark. Businesses were shuttered, as usual. A cat peered through a broken window, eyeing us like it didn’t give a shit.
The lights came and went with the trucks. There was hardly another soul around.
I thought of what Walter had said: “When we leave, we’ll catch a bus or a train, or whatever comes our way.”
We passed an abandoned gas station. It was huge, and I couldn’t remember if I’d once seen it open or if it’d always been like that, boarded up with planks that hid the inside from view. Never any lights on. Whenever I went by there, I’d stand around and read the stuff scrawled on the wood. I’d memorized nearly every phrase. In a heart: “Yani & Lara 4ever.” Beneath that: “Lucas, ur days r up.” In black spray paint: “Power 2 Youth.” Farther on, a stencil all around the barrio: “Melina dances in my lesbian heart.” And scrawled across the wall, in huge letters: “Teen Respekt: Podestá is ur turf.”
I skidded to a stop. Took a few steps back so I could see everything together: “Podestá is ur turf.”
Before Walter sold his motorbike, Miseria asked him to teach her to ride. Walter had said no and Miseria had answered:
“I don’t mean now. Out there, when you get another one.”
Out there, like we were headed to China.
Miseria and Walter were almost a block ahead of me.
Alone, stopped in front of the gas station, I slipped off my shoes and pressed my feet into the earth. I pressed down hard and read the graffiti a couple more times. It was time to go.
I crouched, reached down. The earth was cold but pleasant: it was earth, not trash or dust. Earth from here. I grabbed a bit, clasped it in my hand. Would the earth know I’d been there?
I stood up and stuffed it in my pocket.
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