THURSDAY, JULY 2, 2009
I wake up when he walks in the room.
But I pretend I’m asleep. I’m too nervous to talk to my brother.
He switches the light on and gets himself ready for bed. When he’s all set, he sits on his mattress, facing me.
“Hey, Man.” I yawn like he just woke me up.
“Hey, T.”
“It’s good to see you.”
“You, too.”
He swallows hard and says, “Thanks for getting in the way.”
My God, how am I supposed to respond to that? No prob, bro. Anytime?
I don’t know what else to say. So I ask him if he really means it.
He says he does and it’s not going to happen again.
I let that one hang in the air for a bit. “Really, Man? You sure?”
“Tío Ed and the group guys, especially Charlie and Lou. They just wore me down. They attached themselves to me. Tío Ed almost never left my room. They got me talking. There’s stuff I need to do. People I want to see.”
“That’s good, Manny.”
“Mami and Papi. You and Xoch. Frank. I wanna see Elena again. We got really tight in Delano. And Gladys.”
“Gladys? Abita’s Gladys?”
Manny says they’ve been texting. She’s been rooting for him. He says he let her down with what he did. He says he let us all down.
I tell Manny he scared me.
He says he’s sorry.
“I’m still scared, Man.”
“Me, too, T. But there’s stuff I wanna make right. Stuff I’ve done that I’m not proud of. If I’m not here, I can’t make any of it better.”
He starts talking about his future. Going to college. Farming. Getting married someday. Having kids someday.
I tell him it’s good to hear him talking.
“I feel a lot better,” he says. “But I got a long way to go.”
“You’re gonna get there, Manny.”
“I think so.” Then he climbs in bed. “Big workday today. I’m gonna get a couple hours.”
“Sleep well, Manny.”
He switches off the light. “See you in the morning.”
“See you in the morning, Man.”
* * *
Xochitl flips opens the shade. Sun pours into the room. “Up and at ’em!”
Tío Ed’s there, too. He’s holding pill bottles and paperwork in his hands. He looks right at me. “First things first. I know that even before you came down here, you’ve had a rough time sleeping in close proximity to your brother.”
“No,” I say. “It’s fine. I’m fine. What’s going on?”
“It’s all right, T,” Manny says. “We have to talk about this.”
What we talk about is everyone involved—including Manny—agreed that he should still have someone sleeping in the room with him. But they’re worried about me being traumatized by everything that’s happened. In the Captain’s Quarters. On the road. And here in Hatch.
So Tío Ed says he’ll sleep in Manny’s room. Xochitl says, no, she’ll sleep in Manny’s room. Ed says even the group guys say they’ll take turns.
I appreciate that they’re worried. I really do. But I want everyone to stop making a big deal about this. I don’t want Manny to feel bad. I don’t want him to think I’d be relieved to get away from him.
“Tío Ed,” I say, “I’m a light sleeper. I know I’ll get up if Manny gets up. Xochitl can sleep through anything. Same with old guys. You sleep like logs. So I’m good right here. I’m not switching rooms.”
Eventually, they give in and say I can stay with Manny. But the minute things get rough, other arrangements will be made.
Next order of business is drugs.
There will be a daily meds chart—signed and dated by Dr. Fuentes so we know that we’re working off the correct, current prescription.
Tío Ed describes the demeaning pill-taking protocol, which I’m going to be a part of.
I hate that we’re treating Manny like a baby. “You okay with this, Man?”
“It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
“T, if I don’t do it this way, I have to get admitted. Part of the deal with Doc.”
So I do it. I check the list. Check the pill bottle. I watch Manny take one out. Put it on his tongue. Watch him swallow. Then search Manny’s mouth and under his tongue for a hidden pill, as he says AHHH and makes a big silly show, trying to convince us this whole thing isn’t extremely awkward.
The protocol complete, Manny says, “Can we get to work now?”
“Sounds good to me,” Xochitl says.
“Let’s get to it,” Tío Ed says. “The world needs its chile.”
FRIDAY, JULY 3, 2009
We print out our design for the entrance walls of the stand. And we head outside into the sun.
To get the entrances big enough and to make room for windows, Wendy and I have to take out a couple two-by-four studs in the middle and ends of the walls.
We do not know how to do this.
On either side of each of the entrances we’ll be stacking windows two by two.
We don’t know how to do that, either.
Tía Luci does. And she’s here to help. She asks if we need a tutorial on her electric miter saw.
“We’d appreciate that,” Wendy says. “I’d like this to remain a nub-free zone.”
“Show us how it’s done, Tía,” I say. “But please watch your fingers.”
She shows us how to measure and cut the two-by-fours. Then she teaches us how to reinforce the crossbeams on top of the entrances. That way we can rip out studs without the roof caving in. After that, she shows us how to frame the windows.
I look at Wendy. She looks at me. “We got it.”
Luci says to call if we have questions. And she leaves for work.
Wendy and I go real slow. We know that if we do something wrong, we could mess the shack up bad. And we could get hurt.
We check each other’s measurements. We swipe a pencil against a square to mark our lines straight. We take turns running that screaming saw and watch sawdust cover the earth and cover our skin. We wear that dust proudly.
We knock out studs for the entrance on one side. We breathe deep sighs of relief, then high-five and whoop when the shack roof does not cave in. Because we reinforced it right.
We frame the windows. And hammer them in.
The way we get it done is not pretty. Wendy and I miss nails when we hammer. I smash my thumb a couple times. We both pound nails in crooked. And take too much time pulling them out again. We even mess up and hammer in boards at an angle instead of square. Whenever it happens, we have to pull them out and do it over.
Neither of us cares that we suck as carpenters. We just do it. We work all day until, finally, as the sun sets, we stand there quiet, looking at a wall with a huge entrance and four windows on each side.
“Hey, Martinez,” I say.
“Yeah, Avila?”
“Who ever would have thought?”
“Not me, man.”
“We should celebrate this, Wendy. Cuz suddenly, we’re, like, two people who designed something. Then built it.”
“Sparky’s?” she says.
“Tío Ed did say they serve the best green chile cheeseburger in New Mexico.”
“And that means Sparky’s green chile cheeseburger is the best cheeseburger in the whole wide world.”
“Are we worthy of one of those?”
“Is that a question people usually ask before they eat a burger?”
“Nope. But we’re not people.”
“What does that even mean, Teodoro?”
I walk up to the stand, and I hug one of those two-by-four studs that’s holding up the roof. I yank on it. I try as hard as I can to pull it out of place.
Wendy sees what I’m doing. She hugs another stud and does the same.
We shake and pull like crazy. And those things do not budge one bit.
“You know what that means, Wendy?”
<
br /> “I think it means we’re worthy, Teodoro.”
“Yes. And it means we were professional today.”
“I’m starving. Let’s go!”
* * *
Damn … damn … damn …
Pretty much, that’s all we say while we devour the best green chile cheeseburger in the universe. And we say it with our mouths full. And neither of us gives a rip.
After our burgers are gone and we’re dipping fries in milkshakes, I tell Wendy there’s another thing I’d like to be honest about.
I tell her the car didn’t break down the night of her concert. “I lied about that.”
She asks me why I lied.
“Um, I guess I was too nervous.”
She asks me why I was so nervous.
And suddenly, I wish I hadn’t brought it up. Because the answer is a big crazy conversation you probably shouldn’t have with the actual person who you were nervous about seeing. Because the reason you were nervous is you were afraid they might actually like you.
And if they liked you, then they’d want to know you for real.
And if they got to know you for real, they would realize they do not, in fact, like you. And they would stop wanting to be with you.
And that’s the reason you lied and you didn’t go to the concert.
And you were right—I mean, I was right to be nervous and right to not go. Because, in the end, it turned out exactly like I’d imagined.
I don’t say any of that stuff to Wendy.
I just shrug and tell her I don’t know why I was so nervous.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I was nervous, too. And maybe a little scared. And maybe not just a little.”
“Yeah,” I say, “I just wanted to tell you. Because even though stuff didn’t work out, I still want to be honest.”
SUNDAY, JULY 5, 2009
We’re home the morning after spending the Fourth with the group guys at a cabin deep in the Organ Mountains. They go up there every year so they can celebrate the holiday as far away from fireworks as they can get. Turns out the popping and whistling sounds are problematic for some vets. Manny would be one of those vets.
When Xochitl and Manny get to work, we sneak into Ed’s office. Wendy hands me her thumb drive.
I had told her she had to hear Xochitl’s song, and finally, today is our chance.
The laptop is closed this time. The microphone is put away. And the guitar is in its case.
I flip the screen up. There’s an e-mail staring me in my face.
I cannot not read it.
July 3, 2009
Kristi,
Yeah, I’m sure.
Of course I want to go. But I have to stay down here until I know my brother is all right. I hope you find the right singer and I hope you have a kick-ass tour!
Love and Hugs to all Rays,
X
I don’t want Wendy to know that I’m reading Xochitl’s e-mail. So I block the screen and scroll down quick.
July 2, 2009
You sure? Anything we can do to talk you into this? We need our X-factor on tour! ☺
-K
I’ve got to know what came before these mails but reading more of Xochitl’s private correspondence will have to wait.
Stealing her private song files, however, cannot wait.
* * *
Out in the shack, we download the files onto Wendy’s laptop and we listen to that Sally song. Then we listen to all of them. Songs about Manny coming home and more songs from our road trip. They’re deep. Slow. Gut-wrenching. Desperate. Beautiful.
There’s so much about what’s happened that I couldn’t describe it to anyone if I tried.
But Xochitl did it in these songs.
Wendy says, “You told me Xochitl was in bands, but I didn’t know she had a voice like that. And her songs are incredible.”
“My sister is the legit real deal.”
Wendy says there was a long stretch when Xochitl didn’t come into their room until really late. Like after Wendy was already sleeping. The songs explain what she was doing at night and what she had been doing during lunch.
She says that after Manny went to the hospital, Xochitl started going to bed early.
I beg Wendy not to tell Xochitl what we did. If my sister wanted us to know about these songs, she would have told us about them.
Without saying a word, Wendy presses play. And we listen to them all again.
* * *
At night, when I know Manny’s asleep, I sneak downstairs, back to the office.
The e-mail thread is still there.
I scroll down.
July 2, 2009
Dear Ms. McConnell,
I’m sorry to say there’s been a change in plans. I was so humbled that the Ray crew wanted me to open for them and pumped for the opportunity to be on the tour. But now I’ve got serious family stuff I have to deal with so I can’t make any commitments for a few months, at least. I’m so sorry. Please think of me in the future.
Thanks and keep in touch,
Xochitl Avila
What the hell?
I scroll down.
June 18, 2009
Dear Ms. McConnell,
Count me in! Getting new songs together now. I’ll be sending you a demo in a couple weeks. Thank you so much.
Sincerely,
Xochitl Avila
June 18, 2009
Hi Xochitl,
I’m the producer/promoter for Ray Is a Girl’s international fall tour. I know Kristi has talked to you about opening for them. Normally, we have another of our own artists open, but the Ray crew is pretty stuck on the idea of you opening. We’re looking for a solo singer-songwriter, someone who could sit in with the band on backing vocals for a few songs. If that sounds like something you’re into, send me some of your stuff so I can run it by folks here at SubPop.
Just so you know, we’ll have a couple weeks of rehearsal in Seattle in early September. We’ll start off with some Midwest/East Coast college shows for a couple months. Then we head to Europe, then back to the East Coast for some shows at bigger venues. We’ll work our way west, to LA, SF, and Portland, and finish up in Seattle at the Moore Theatre in spring.
We’ll give your demo a listen, and if we agree with the band, I’ll send a contract with itinerary and all details.
All the best,
Laura McConnell
SubPop Records
* * *
I can’t sleep. My mind is stuck on the fact that Xochitl got the word from SubPop right when we got here. And she worked her ass off to make those songs. But she never said anything. She didn’t want to get our hopes up? Or was there part of her that knew it might not work out?
Then Manny tried to do it, so she shut the whole thing down and got her mind set on taking care of her brother.
It kills me that when summer ends, I’ll be on my way home to start senior year.
And Xochitl?
She’ll be hauling chile. Selling the last of the green. Harvesting red in fall. Closing down the farm and the stand for the winter. Driving Manny to see doctors. Looking under Manny’s tongue to make sure he’s taking his meds. Xochitl will be living in dusty little Hatch, New Mexico, thinking, Today Ray Is a Girl is in Amsterdam. Today they’re in Toronto. Today they’re in New York City … and I am not.
FRIDAY, JULY 10, 2009
I’m cruising through equations—parabolas and ellipses and hyperbolas.
Then, Boom! Thunder rattles the shack.
And before I know it, I’m in a ball under the table, trembling, crying again.
Wendy drops to her hands and knees. She gets her face real close to mine. And she tells me it was just thunder.
“I know that, Wendy.”
She gives me a hand up. Leads me to the entrance. She pulls the tarp back a crack and we watch the storm roll by.
When rays of sun finally break through, Wendy says, “Let’s take a drive.”
I get behind the wheel of the Dodge
. “Huh-uh,” she says. “Scoot over.”
Wendy turns right on Valley Drive. She heads into Hatch, then hops onto I-25, the freeway to Las Cruces.
Soon, we’re parked in front of Dr. Fuentes’s office.
“What are we doing here, Wendy? What’s going on with my brother?”
“Ever since Manny … Teodoro, sometimes you seem good. And sometimes you seem preoccupied, or lost, or anxious. You’ve been through a lot. And I want you to feel better.”
We’re not here for my brother.
“I think going in there could be a good thing, but this is your call. No judgment either way.”
I can’t move. I can’t open the door. I can’t walk out of this truck.
Because if I do, I’m admitting something to Wendy.
I get how nuts that is. Because she knows what I’ve been through. She knows what I’ve seen. She’s seen me cry. A bunch of times. Wendy knows. She knows. She knows. Getting out of this truck and seeing that doctor is not admitting a thing.
But I cannot do it. “I get it,” I say. “Thank you. But I’m doing better. I’m fine. I’m good. And we’ve got a ton of work to do, so…”
“Okay,” she says. “We’ll go back. No worries. It’s not my place, Teodoro.”
Wendy turns the key and backs the truck out.
And it hits me in the gut, the idea that it’s not her place.
“Can you stop the truck?”
She stops.
“It’s not your place, Wendy?”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head. Laughs like she’s confused and exhausted. “Is it, Teodoro?”
“Yes. Yes, it’s totally your place.”
“Okay. Good to know. What do we do now?”
“I guess you park the truck and I go in there and get my head checked out.”
We take a seat inside.
And when I’m called to see Dr. Fuentes, Wendy holds out her arms. She gives me a squeeze and says, “Proud of you, dude.”
Doc Fuentes asks me a lot of questions.
I answer him straight up.
He says I’ve seen a lot of tough stuff, so my anxiety and jumpiness make sense.
He asks about my sleep.
I tell him some nights I sleep pretty well. Some nights, I get stuck on those pictures in my head. But I always get up in the morning ready to work. And even though I’m distracted, I can push through and get stuff done.
American Road Trip Page 18