by Gary Soto
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He grimaced, as if the words hurt him. “I was married—twice.”
“Twice! No way,” Gabe hollered. But his exclamation was lost in another roll of thunder.
“Yeah, and to good women.” He told Gabe how when he was in the army and stationed in Germany he fell in love with wife number one.
“She was German?” Gabe asked. He tried to picture a woman in a German military uniform, the kind in movies about World War II.
“She wasn't German German. She was part Turkish. Her father was from Istanbul and owned restaurants.”
Gabe became confused. The military uniform disappeared from the image inside his head. He couldn't envision a person who was part German, part Turkish, except that she probably looked like a lot of his classmates, who were half white, half Mexican. But his interest in race ended when his uncle told him how he was assigned to a parachute battalion.
“That's cool,” Gabe whistled, rising from the bucket he was perched on. He himself liked jumping from heights—trees and rooftops mostly. But that was kid stuff. What could be better than jumping from a plane, with the wind rushing past your ears until the parachute opened and rocked you slowly to earth?
“That must have been fun,” Gabe said.
“Fun? You're out of your mind, boy. It was dangerous and crazy.” Uncle Mathew looked in the distance when the lightning lit up the hills. His thoughts went far beyond the hills, to another side of the world. “But I messed up. I was drinking a lot of booze. I was stupid.”
Uncle stopped his story there. It was something that he didn't wish to share with his nephew. He told Gabe to go get them ice tea, and hurry up about it.
“Will do,” Gabe said, and he stepped to it. But when he returned from the kitchen, his uncle had left his station on the porch. He was out in the yard, a lone figure.
Poor Uncle, Gabe lamented. He had chased away his first wife. He couldn't imagine what had happened the second time around. It wasn't his place to even ponder it. Marriage, Gabe was learning, was complicated. He only had to think of his mother and his father—or a lot of his classmates’ parents. Few families stuck together.
The night was filled with static. The wind blew hot. The leaves of the corn rustled, and the chickens squawked in fear.
Gabe returned home two days later, his uncle not bothering to stop and visit with Gabe's mother. He was having trouble with the truck's alternator—the battery wouldn't store power. He patted Gabe's shoulder and said, “Too bad you won't be around tonight.”
“Why?” Gabe asked, as he hugged his cardboard box in his arms.
“‘Cause I'm bringing the goat out of the freezer.” His uncle laughed. His yellowish teeth glowed.
“Uncle, that's not even funny.” Gabe pictured the goat twitching on the ground.
Uncle Mathew chuckled, pushed the stick shift into first gear, and drove away. The exhaust pipe popped and the tools in the back clanged.
Gordo was on the front lawn, paws pressed together and sitting as still as a statue. Gabe stroked his head, the chrome bell under his chin tinkling.
“How's the barrio?” Gabe asked.
The cat meowed, but didn't move a whisker. He blinked sleepily.
When Gabe pushed open the front door of his house, he discovered a heavyset man on the couch. For a second, Gabe feared that he had entered the wrong house! But he recognized the owl-shaped clock, whose tail beat time to the seconds, and the family photos in wooden frames on the wall. There was no mistaking that the Raiders blanket on the couch was his—one corner was worn from his gripping it while he watched the games on TV.
“Hi,” the man said in a low, husky voice, not bothering to rise. He was lacing up a shoe. A bald spot near the back of his head appeared pink. He was a man who worked indoors. Maybe he was one of his mom's fellow workers from Kmart.
Gabe glanced at the man—his mother's boyfriend?—and headed straight to his bedroom. Right away, he knew that he had been rude. He should have offered at least a “Hi” in return. Why did he act like that?
A few minutes later, he heard the front door open and close, and then his mother's footsteps padding over the carpet toward his bedroom. She knocked and entered.
“Gabe,” she said brightly, “you're so tan, so skinny.” When she gave him a hug, he offered a polite squeeze. He could smell the perfume on her. “Tell me, how was it?” Her eyes took him in, from head to toe. “Look at you! Didn't Uncle feed you?”
His mother led him to the living room. Be cool, he warned himself. He could feel his mother's happiness at his homecoming. Why not return the happiness? His mother had to have someone in her life, and why not the portly fellow on the couch? She was a good mom, even though sometimes she flared up and yelled. She had to have something more than just punching the cash register at Kmart.
Gabe's mother read his thoughts: “You're wondering who that guy was.”
“Yeah,” Gabe admitted. “Is he your boyfriend?” It felt strange saying “boyfriend.” His mother had dated a couple of times since his father's departure, but it had been years since he had seen his mother with another man.
“He might be,” she answered girlishly. “We'll see.”
But Gabe could see right away—he was a boyfriend. She had a smile on her face and she seemed shapelier—had she lost a few pounds since he was gone? Her hair was also combed and her lips red with lipstick. She was dolled up, for sure.
His mother led him to the kitchen, where she made him a strawberry smoothie.
“Mom,” Gabe began. “Uncle Mathew is old school. He works really hard.” He shared with her the work he had done—the broken-down barn he had helped dismantle, the hours he had spent battling bees and killer flies in the garden, the roadside fruit stand, and the copper wire. But he stopped when Lucky trotted into the living room. The pup had grown. Instead of prancing awkwardly over his floppy feet, he was coordinated.
“Lucky!” Gabe cried, as he fell to his knees. Lucky leaped into his loving arms, his tongue busily mopping Gabe's face.
“He's been a good boy,” his mother reported, “except for one little puddle over by the pantry.”
After Gabe finished his cuddles and the attempts at shaking paws, his mother informed him that a boy had come by, asking for him.
“What boy?” Gabe's mood changed from giddiness to worry.
“I don't know,” she answered. “I was in the yard watering. He was with these other boys.”
Frankie, Gabe thought.
“He said that you owe him something. I didn't like him.” She made a sour face, and she said that he spit when he left. “He was a mocoso, a little snot.”
“He spit?”
“Not at me, just at the ground.”
Gabe was on full alert. He would deal with Frankie in time. For now, he rose, lifting his T-shirt off his body, and said as he left the kitchen, “I'm going to take a shower.” Lucky followed, like a sentry.
“What are you going to do, little dude?” he asked the dog. “Get in the shower with me?” He unbuttoned his pants and marched out of them. Reaching for the knob, he turned on the shower.
Lucky put his paws on the edge of the tub, but Gabe removed them. He climbed into the shower, screaming from the cold blast. He adjusted the temperature and lathered his body, which, he noticed, was darker. He examined his belly. It was flatter, with dimples of stomach muscles that impressed him. He hadn't really known they were lurking there, under a layer of fat.
He was home, and glad to be home.
When he got out of the shower, he noticed beads of water hanging from Lucky's chops.
“You were drinking out of the toilet, huh?” He was going to wag a finger at Lucky and tell him that he was a bad dog. But how could he? He toweled off and decided to let things be.
Gabe learned that his dad had come around. One early evening, he had knocked on the front door and called Gabe's mother's name, then Gabe's name. But his mother wo
uldn't open the peephole and look. No, she was done with him. The loser, she called him, the deadbeat. How dare he stand up her son! What kind of man was he?
Gabe learned this over a dinner of enchiladas, arroz, and frijoles—his first good meal in a week. He only ate one serving, and he turned down the soda his mother offered. Instead, his beverage was sugarless ice tea. He wondered what his dad was going to eat that evening, or if he would have anything to eat at all. Was he ill, maybe bedridden in a hospital, or suffering from a fever as he lay on a dirty blanket? Gabe dismissed these images. This dinner his mother had prepared was her special treat. The moment was about him and his mother. He braved the question.
“Do you really like him?” Gabe asked, hoping to open a conversation about this new boyfriend. He conjured up an image of the man lacing his shoe, and tried his best to block out the unsightly bald spot.
“He's nice,” she answered. “He's not Matt Damon, but he's kind and he's got a job.” She drank her ice tea, one eye on Gabe, and then said, “Pass the tortillas.” The subject was finished, and Gabe decided for the moment not to pursue it.
He helped with the dishes and then went outside, leaving Lucky behind. He couldn't risk parading him through the neighborhood—someone would say, “Yeah, I saw the dog. Gabe has it.”
He decided he would risk Holmes Playground. It was already getting dark, but he sought advice from Coach Rodriguez. They were close enough that Gabe felt he could ask him what to do about Frankie and the dog. He loved Lucky, the only living thing he could hug without embarrassment. There was no way that he could hide his pooch forever—or even for a week. He smiled when the idea of a disguise came into his mind. Maybe I can dye his white fur brown, he thought, or, even better, brown and black.
But Coach Rodriguez was gone for the day, and Gabe learned that he would be gone the entire week—something about a vacation in Santa Cruz. He asked about the last softball game and was told that they had won, 7–3.
With time on his hands, Gabe climbed the bleachers to watch the middle innings of an adult game of softball. The men were old. If they had any hair at all, it was gray. Their stomachs were as round as globes, and their sprints for balls spanked into the outfield appeared to be in slow motion. But they gave each other high-fives whenever one managed to throw a runner out at first, or lofted a ball that was lost in the lights.
Gabe slipped out of the playground. He walked two blocks in the direction of a strip mall to buy himself a bag of sunflower seeds. But he halted, a fox sensing danger. Sweat seemed to spring to his face when he saw Frankie and his crew in front of the 7-Eleven. One of them was sneaking a glance into a parked van, looking for something to steal.
“Sly fools,” Gabe whispered, as he waited for a traffic light to turn green. “You think people can't see you.”
Gabe hesitated. He then crossed the street, believing that he might as well have it out with Frankie. In time, Frankie would track him down. Why not throw punches now? He moved quickly through the strip mall, his head down. He was instantly on Frankie's radar.
“Hey, fool!” Frankie yelled.
Gabe didn't respond. He entered the 7-Eleven, where the bright fluorescent lights forced him to squint. He stood still as his eyes adjusted and then gazed at the cashier, a Middle Eastern man, whose beard was more smoky-gray than black. Gabe made his way over to the racks of candies and picked up a Butterfinger, weighed it in his palm, and set it back down. He next sauntered down an aisle where the sunflower seeds hung among the potato chips. From that aisle, he could spy Frankie and his crew standing shoulder to shoulder. They were only wannabe gangsters, but they were dangerous in their own way.
“Just do it,” Gabe ordered himself.
He exited the 7-Eleven without making a purchase, marched over to Frankie, and smacked him in the face with a heat-seeking fist.
Frankie was rocked, his hands immediately covering his face.
“How come you spit at my mom?” Gabe wasn't sure if Frankie had spit at his mother, but he was certain Frankie had spit in her presence. Still, his roar was real. No one would hold it against a son, defending his mother.
One of Frankie's crew, a short homey with pants low on his hips, flew at Gabe.
Gabe reached for his hair and pulled him to the ground. But the short homey, scrambling to his knees, hugged Gabe's leg and bit his ankle. Gabe pulled and lifted his leg, feeling teeth rake his skin. The short homey let go, his chin scraping the asphalt. The homey barked, “Ouch!”
Gabe growled when the third crew member climbed his back. Gabe spun and tried to shake him off. But the homey wouldn't let go. He was chopping Gabe on the back of his head and neck. Finally, Gabe staggered backwards to collide with a parked car.
“Uhhh,” the homey groaned. He slowly slipped off and bent over, hugging his stomach, the air knocked out of him. Gabe rammed him like a linebacker, and the homey dropped, still holding his stomach, his legs bicycling like a smashed spider.
Gabe's eyes flashed rage at Frankie. “What did you call me? A fool? Look at your homey on the ground. I'm going to put you there too!” When he raised a fist, Frankie backed up. His eyes were leaking. Gabe couldn't tell whether they were crybaby tears or tears of pain.
“I'm gonna get you,” Frankie cried. His mouth was twisted and snarling.
Gabe slapped him. “You're going to do what?”
Frankie put his hand up to the side of his face. He grimaced.
The homey that had been rolling on the ground and holding his stomach was now standing. He didn't seem to want any of Gabe.
The crew backed up, done for now, and ran to the street corner. They looked back. The short homey gave Gabe the finger. The other spit and yelled, “I know where you live.”
Gabe sneered. “Come by anytime. I'll mow my front lawn with your ugly face.” Gabe couldn't help but imagine the kid as a lawn mower. His teeth would be eating blades of grass.
Gabe started home, antennas up for Frankie and his crew. When he got there, his mom was gone—a note on the coffee table said that she would be home by ten. He showered a second time, soaping his body carefully. He probed the back of his neck, where blows had landed. He examined his ankle. “Dang,” he muttered. The short homey actually had bitten him, leaving two puncture holes. Punk vampire, he thought.
Afterwards, his hair still damp, he called Uncle Mathew.
“You woke me up,” he complained groggily.
Gabe raised his eyes to the clock on the wall: 9:37. He remembered his uncle's habit of hitting the sack early—with the chickens, he joked.
“I need Heather's telephone number,” Gabe said. “I'm sorry if I woke you.”
“What, you got a crush on her?” His uncle chuckled. Gabe could hear the bedsprings groan as his uncle sat up.
“Uncle, I got a problem.” Gabe explained the situation, rolling his right hand into a fist when he described the parking-lot scuffle with Frankie.
“You're in Fresno just one day, and you're already causing trouble?” Uncle Mathew asked how that was possible. He sighed heavily and growled, “Wait a minute. Let me get her number.” Gabe could hear his shuffling footsteps and then the sound of a drawer being opened and closed. The footsteps returned. “Here it is.”
After he gave the number, he told Gabe to be careful and come live with him if he wanted. He said he had only today sold that lumber from the old barn.
“That's great.” Gabe imagined dollar bills under his uncle's mattress. “I may have to come live with you. We'll see.”
“That would be all right with me,” Uncle Mathew replied. He followed up with a yawn and an angry outburst about the alternator he had had to replace in the truck.
“That's not good,” Gabe said.
“You got that right. It cost me seventy-eight dollars for a used one. And I had to drive all the way to Visalia to get it.”
Gabe listened to his uncle complain about the long drive, then thanked him and apologized for calling so late. After Gabe hung up, he dialed Heather.
He got her voice mail.
“Heather, it's me, Gabe,” he began. “You know, Uncle Mathew's nephew. Please call me.” He left his number.
Gabe went into the kitchen for a glass of Kool-Aid, but he rushed back to the telephone when it began to ring. He was careful not to spill his drink.
“Heather,” Gabe gambled.
“Gabe,” Heather replied.
“I got a problem.” He told her about the showdown with Frankie and his crew. He even told her about the bites on his ankle.
“Violence won't get you anywhere,” Heather responded.
“I'm not violent,” Gabe argued. He pointed in the direction of Frankie's house, six blocks away. “It's him, it's his whole stupid family.” He took a sip of Kool-Aid, the chill cascading down his throat. He told her why he had really called. “I know your dog Corky just died. I'm calling to see if you would take Lucky.”
“I don't know, Gabe,” she responded after a moment of silence.
“They're going to come and get him. They're going to make him fight.”
They went back and forth, Heather slowly melting until she finally agreed. “I'm actually going to be in Fresno the day after tomorrow. I'll pick up Lucky then.”
Gabe squeezed his eyes closed in gratitude.
“What if I call you when I get into town? It'll probably be around four.”
Gabe gave Heather the home address and his cell number. He told her she was really nice and added, “You know, my uncle likes you.”
She chuckled and said, “Of course he does. All little doggies like me.” She hung up before he could say that his uncle really liked her.
Gabe glowed at the possibility that Heather might also like his uncle, who was dirty from work most of the time but trustworthy. His uncle wouldn't mess up a third time if he got married—this, Gabe was sure about.
The glow didn't remain long, though. He could feel his hands shaking. He was scared. He bet himself that Frankie would return, and maybe with more help, possibly Tony. Then it would be him on the ground.
“I don't care,” he mumbled to himself. He returned to the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and brought out a handful of sliced bologna. He went outside.