by Jaime Cortez
“No,” says Alex. Alex looks scared. Maybe Officer Jon’s English is too fast for Alex to understand.
“Can you tell him in Spanish?” I ask them. Officer Poncherello explains it in Spanish, and then Alex says no again.
“Alex, this is an emergency, una emergencia,” says Poncherello. “You’re really hurt and we need to cut these off so we can help you. Is that okay?” Alex is quiet for a moment, like he’s thinking about it. Why is he thinking about it?
“Okay, yes,” says Alex.
* * *
The gringo begins cutting off Alex’s sweatshirt up the side and folding it open like a newspaper he is about to read. Then he cuts into a black T-shirt. Then a dark green T-shirt. Then a bloody white tank top. Jesus, how many shirts is Alex wearing? Under the tank top, I see that Alex is already wearing a bandage on his chest. What??? The ambulance guys look at each other. They’re confused too. The bandage is full of blood on one side, and I see something coming out from underneath the bandage—oh my God.
A GIANT BOOB.
I know fat dudes have boobs. When we fight, Sylvie always tells me I have big boobs, and I’m not normal. But that boob is big, like a woman’s.
“Gordo,” says Pa. “You and Sylvie go home.”
“But I wanna see,” I say.
“GO!” says Pa. I look at him, and he is giving me his hard look. I know that look. It’s time to go home. Me and Sylvie walk away. As soon as we get far enough, we begin to talk.
“Did you see that?” I ask Sylvie.
“Of course I saw those big tetas. I was right there too, dummy.”
“Man, oh man,” I say. “I never seen a man with such big chichis.”
“What are you talking about?” asks Sylvie.
“I’m talking about Alex, dumbass,” I say to her. “Alex has big boobs for a man.”
“Jesus Christ,” says Sylvie. “I can’t believe you’re so dumb. Alex is not a man, bozo.”
“What?” I say. “What do you mean?”
“Alex is not a man. He’s a woman. She’s a woman. Didn’t you know?”
“But Alex dresses like a man. He fixes the car, does all the man stuff. Even his voice, he sounds like a man. Mostly.”
“But he’s not. She’s a woman.” She starts laughing at me.
“Why are you laughing?”
“I can’t believe you, Gordo,” she says. “I can’t believe you are such a moron, who doesn’t know who’s a man and who’s a woman.”
“How was I supposed to know, Sylvie?” I say. “No one told me.” She’s laughing so hard she can hardly talk. Sylvie laughs as we go up our driveway and back into the house. She sits in her spot at the kitchen table and shakes her head like she can’t believe what she’s seeing.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Does Alex have a wiener or does he got a pussy?”
“Of course, you can’t have big ol’ boobs and a wiener at the same time. She has a pussy. She’s a woman dressed up like a man. That’s all.”
“Why? Why does Alex dress up like a man if he’s not?”
“Because that’s what she wants to do. Instead of being a normal lady, she wants to look like some old guy with a crappy mustache.”
“Dang, Sylvie. That’s cold-blooded. Alex never did nothing to you. He’s just different,” I say.
“Different is the same thing as creepy. Look at her. And think about it. Have you ever seen anyone visiting her since we moved here? Have you ever seen a sister visit her?”
“No.”
“A brother? A cousin? A tia?”
“No.”
“A friend. You ever see a friend visit?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Why do you think no one visits?”
“Maybe he likes to be alone.”
“Naw, bozo. She’s a creepy weirdo. Only that evil dog, Choco, likes her.”
“Alex is just different, Sylvie. Everybody is different.”
“She’s too different.”
* * *
I don’t know what to say no more, so I shut up. I guess Alex really is too different and creepy, now that Sylvie said that. Sometimes I feel different too. Maybe I’m creepy like Alex. Sylvie and a bunch of boys at school, they’re always telling me I’m a sissy. Everything I do is a problem: the way I laugh, throw a baseball, or run. They tell me I talk like a big, fat girl. I tell them “shut up” or “fuck you” and mostly “leave me alone.” Sometimes they do leave me alone, sometimes they don’t. It’s not a good idea to be different.
We both look out the window to see the action at Alex’s. Jon and Poncherello roll the wheely bed down the driveway to the ambulance. Alex is lying in the bed and his bloody arm and good leg are wrapped in bandages. They open the back doors of the ambulance, fold up the wheels, and roll in the wheely bed. They drive off with the sirens on, and the dog chorus says goodbye to poor Alex.
My ma and pa come back to our kitchen and sit at the table. The food is cold, but we all start eating. Everybody’s talking about every little thing that happened at Alex’s, but nobody is talking about the boobs. I feel like I’m gonna go crazy if somebody doesn’t talk about the boobs.
“I thought Alex was a man,” I finally say. Sylvie laughs at me. She talks to me, but she doesn’t make any sounds. I watch her mouth, and I can see she is saying “stuuuuupid.”
“I thought you knew,” says my ma.
“So all this time you knew?” I ask.
“Of course I knew, hijo.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you never asked. Didn’t you notice, couldn’t you see, hijo?”
“But you always talked about him like he was a man.”
“He is like a man,” says Ma.
“But Ma—” I start to say.
“Basta. That’s enough of that,” says Pa. “We’re gonna eat this nice machaca, drink our coffee, and we’re not gonna talk about that marimacha anymore, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” I say. “But what’s a marimacha?” Pa gives me the look again.
“Never mind,” I say. Pa is eating angry. I can see the muscles in his neck moving.
* * *
Two days later, I’m helping my pa hang a new screen door when we see a yellow taxicab pull up into Alex’s driveway. I have never seen a yellow taxi in real life, only in the movies. The back door opens, and I see Alex. He gets out of the car real slow. He has one arm in a cast and in the other he has a big paper bag with handles. He—she—begins to walk, bent over like a beat-up old hunchback. My pa stops working and raises his hand at Alex like an Indian chief. Alex sees him. She looks like she wishes she hadn’t seen him. Alex moves his head a little toward my pa and waves a little at me. I wave back. He opens the door, walks in, and closes it behind him.
Later that day, my ma makes chicken enchiladas and lines up six hot ones on a plate and covers them with ’luminim foil. She tells me to take it over to Alex. I don’t want to go to Alex’s house. Seems like he’s a different person now that she’s really a woman. I walk the enchiladas over to Alex’s and knock on the door. Choco hears me and starts barking. While I wait for Alex to get the door, I start to feel a little nervous. Sylvie is right. Alex is sort of creepy, if you think about it. I don’t want to be here at her house.
Alex opens the door. Hair all wild, striped pajamas, no shoes. She has dark circles around her eyes, like she lost a mean fight.
“Hi,” I say. “My ma sent this to you.” I hold out the plate in front of me. “Chicken enchiladas.”
“Thank you, Gordo,” says Alex. She takes the plate. “Tell your mami I love chicken enchiladas and God bless her.”
“Okay, I’ll tell her you said thanks.” Alex smiles. I never seen her smile before.
She puts down the plate on a little cabinet by the door. She waves goodbye with her good hand. I wave goodbye, and Alex closes the door. Maybe Alex isn’t a creep, just a little weird.
A few days later, my pa is mowing the lawn and I’m raking, a
nd Alex limps up Hudson Street to our driveway. In one hand, she has a cane, in the other, a bag. She is limping but looks better. Her hair is combed, her clothes is clean.
“Hola, Antonio,” she says to my pa.
“Alex,” he says. “How are you doing? You’re looking strong like Tarzan.” They laugh.
“I’m doing better. I have something for you,” says Alex, “to thank you for helping me when I fell.”
“You don’t have to give us anything. We’re glad to help.”
“No, no,” says Alex. “You were all helpful. You even took care of Choco while I was away. I saw that he had food and water when I came home. I want to give you this.” She gives Pa the bag. He takes it, reaches in, and pulls out a beautiful bottle. It’s long and round on the bottom, kind of like the genie bottle in the TV show I Dream of Jeannie, except it’s blue. The cap is a giant blue diamond. My pa looks surprised.
“Caramba. Tequila El Máximo?” says Pa. “This fine tequila is too much.”
“I brought back two bottles last time I went to Jalisco. I got them for a special day. I want you to have it. Please.”
“Thank you. I’ve never had it,” says my pa. Alex smiles a crooked smile.
“I have glasses,” says Alex. She pulls out two tiny glasses from her pants pocket. Pa smiles. I don’t know if Pa likes Alex, but I know he loves tequila. And beer. Plus whiskey. He grabs the big diamond bottle top and opens it. He holds the bottle up to his nose, closes his eyes, and smells it. He smiles, like he’s smelling cookies in the oven or something.
“This smells really good,” he says to Alex.
“The label says El Máximo, so we’ll see about that,” says Alex. Pa takes a tiny glass from Alex, and he pours out a drink for each of them. Alex holds his glass up, and they clink their glasses together.
“Salud,” says Alex.
“Salud,” says Pa. Pa drinks one small gulp. Alex drinks it all in a second. Pa looks happy.
“This is nice, Alex, but I feel bad accepting such fine tequila.”
“I live alone, Antonio. If you and Señora Esperanza hadn’t helped me, I could have passed out and bled to death, who knows. I owe you.”
“You should have someone move in with you,” says my pa. “Think about it. You’re a woman, and women shouldn’t live alone. Too dangerous.”
“Maybe so, maybe so,” says Alex. “I have to go now. I never thanked your mujer for the enchiladas. They were so good.”
“I’ll let her know,” says Pa. Alex waves at me and walks away. I wave goodbye. Pa looks at the bottle and whistles.
“So nice,” he says. He looks at Alex like he is confused.
“So strange.”
* * *
About two weeks later, I’m riding my bicycle up the street, and Alex comes around the corner in her beat-up red truck, and there is a pretty girl riding with her. I remember what Sylvie said about Alex never having visitors, so of course I feel nosy, and I have to check it out. I stop along the side of the road and wave at them so they’ll look at me and I can get a better look. They pull into the driveway and they both step out. The girl smiles at me. She’s super pretty. It’s like a movie star landed here on Hudson Street. Beautiful round face, light skin, big brown eyes, nice smile, pretty dress with flowers.
Alex goes to the back of her Toyota pickup and opens up the tailgate. There are two suitcases and a bunch of cardboard boxes tied up with rope. She uses her good hand to try to unload the truck bed, but she’s having a hard time moving the boxes around with only one hand.
“You want me to help you with the bags?” I ask.
“No thanks, Gordo,” says Alex. “We’ve got them.” She turns to the pretty girl, saying, “This is Delia. She’s going to live here from now on.”
“Hola, I’m Delia,” she says. We shake hands.
“I’m Gordo. I live over there,” I say, pointing to the house.
“Good to meet you,” she says. “Your house is pretty.”
“Thank you,” I say. I get embarrassed. Our house isn’t pretty. It’s tiny, and it’s pink with blue, like a stupid baby shower. I hate pink, but every other Mexican loves pink because that’s the color they always use to paint houses. Still, Delia is pretty, so if she thinks the house is pretty, maybe it is, and I never noticed.
“Nice to meet you,” I say to Delia. “I’ll see you later.” I head up the street to finish my ride. I look back at her as I ride away. Her hair is really long and shiny. Delia is like the collie dog Lassie. Everything about her is pretty.
As I ride my bike up Hudson Street, I think that if Alex is like a guy, maybe Delia is like her girlfriend. They’re like jotos, but they’re both girls, and one is not girly. If they really are girlfriends, Alex got lucky, because Delia is foxy and nice.
* * *
For a while, we don’t hear anything more about Delia. Everything is quiet at their house, except for Alex coming and going to work at Coast Mushrooms. Then one morning, while my pa is at work, Alex visits us at our house with Delia. We have never had Alex in our house, but my ma is very cool about it. She loves visitors.
“Come in, come in,” says my ma. I want to sit with them at the kitchen table and listen to their stories, but I know Ma is gonna chase me away if I do because that talk is not for kids. Instead of trying to stay in the kitchen, I go to the living room and sit on the sofa closest to the kitchen and pretend to read Encyclopedia Brown Gets His Man.
Of course, Ma asks them if they’re hungry.
“No, no, we already had breakfast.”
“Coffee?”
“Yes, coffee would be nice,” says Alex.
“Now that I’m settling in next door, I really wanted to meet you, Señora Esperanza,” says Delia.
When Alex introduces Ma, it’s the most royal introduction.
“Esperanza is a good woman. A great mother,” says Alex. “The best neighbor possible. A magnificent woman.” Ma looks embarrassed and laughs a little.
“So how has it been so far, Delia?” asks Ma.
“It’s different here. It’s kind of cold. All that fog in the mornings. When I ride to town with Alex and it’s foggy at night, I feel like I’m in a monster movie.” Everyone laughs.
“The hometown,” asks Ma, “is it very warm?”
“Yes,” says Delia. “Tropical.”
“Don’t worry about the fog,” says Ma. “You’ll get used to it. So tell me, what are your plans now that you’re here in Watsonville?”
“I’ve been working at the mushrooms,” says Delia.
“Coast Mushrooms. With me,” says Alex.
“I work and send back money to my madre. I want to keep working, earn money, send more money back home. I want her to use the money to send my younger sister to high school so she can be a secretary or a bank teller. Educated. Not like me.”
“Delia and I first met at the mushroom plant,” says Alex.
“Alex is a manager there,” says Delia.
“Not a manager,” says Alex. “I’m only a shift supervisor.”
“She tells everyone what to do, even the men,” says Delia. “If I do a good job there, maybe I’ll be a manager one day too. I’ll tell those hairy men what to do.” Delia and Ma laugh, then Alex talks.
“Delia thinks it’s a good idea to keep working at the mushroom plant. At first, I agreed, but now I think that’s a bad idea. The women are all gossips and traitors, and the men are pigs. It’s not safe for you there, Delia. You should stay home.”
“But I need to work and make money,” says Delia.
“That’s not a good idea,” says Alex. “I think you need to stay home and not be out there running around. This is not El Salvador. You don’t know how things work around here.”
“But I need to work and help my family and pay for my expenses. I like working.”
“I’m paying for the food, the rent. You don’t have to worry, Chiquita.”
“But—”
“And I can give you money for your family,” sa
ys Alex. “This discussion is boring our host, Esperanza, so we’re not going to talk about this here anymore.”
“If Delia is not going to be working at the mushroom plant, maybe she can take some English classes,” says my ma.
“That’s a good idea,” says Delia.
“Absolutely,” says my ma. “In this country, if you want to succeed, you have to learn English. I learned a little. The basics. They give free classes at the library. We can go there to sign you up. You’ll need to fill out some papers, but Gordo or Sylvie can help you. They’re good at doing papers. They do them all the time for me and Antonio.”
“Gracias. Que bonito,” says Delia. “Your kids have two languages. They can help you.”
“When they first started kindergarten, they only spoke Spanish. But the little ones, they’re like sponges. They learn it like it’s nothing. Tell me about your country, Delia. What part of Mexico is El Salvador in? Is it pretty?” asks Ma. Delia is quiet. Alex is quiet.
“It’s a different country from Mexico. It’s very pretty,” says Delia. “The country is very green, big trees, like a jungle. So many greens, you can’t imagine. We have lakes, volcanoes. I don’t mean to brag, but my country is beautiful. And sad. And dangerous. You can’t imagine.”
“Why is that?” asks Ma.
“The government, Doña. No one is safe. My two brothers, they were in San Salvador protesting the elections. They said the elections were stolen, and the government murdered them.”
“Oh no,” says Ma. I stop breathing. When Delia speaks again, she sounds like she wants to cry.
“We think they got killed, but we don’t know for sure because they got disappeared. We never even got to see their bodies. My beautiful brothers. They say the government shot the protesters and even innocent people walking by.”
“Ave Maria purisima, how terrible,” whispers my ma. I lean toward the kitchen to hear better.
“My mother and father and me, we went to the hospitals, to the police offices, and finally to the army offices to ask for the bodies. We filled out all these papers at the office and waited almost five hours. Then they came back and told us that nobody died, that there was no massacre. It was just the police trying to control a violent gang and now the criminals are in jail. They told us to go to look for my violent gang brothers in jail. I told them my brothers weren’t criminals. They were just protesting. Then that soldier looked me right in the eyes and said, ‘What you’re saying about people getting killed are lies against the government, señorita. If you or your family ever come back and say such things, we’ll throw you all in jail for anti-government defamation. Or worse.’ He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed hard and said, ‘You should be careful. A girl should be careful, because there are dangerous people out there who do bad things. We have your address now, and we will come by if we learn anything. I hope your family is not involved in any violence in the future. We know where you live, señorita. Are there others like you? Maybe some sisters?’”