Last Summer of the Death Warriors

by Francesco X Stork

  “It wasn’t necessary,” D.Q. said. “I’m only going to be here one night. Then we’re moving to Casa Esperanza.”

  Helen and Father Concha glanced at each other. D.Q. did not notice the glance. “I would feel better if you stayed here.”

  D.Q. stared at her. The woman stood her ground. Pancho thought he would not like to get in the ring with her.

  “Let’s take it a day at a time and see how you feel,” the Panda said. “If you don’t feel well from the treatments, it may be easier for you to be here. It’s an option to consider.”

  “Can you check to see if Pancho can stay with me tonight?” D.Q. asked Father Concha.

  Father Concha and Helen looked at Pancho. Pancho nodded to both of them. “It’s okay with me,” he said.

  “I’ll go check.” Father Concha seemed happy to have something to do.

  “May I?” Helen pointed at the green chair Pancho had just vacated. Pancho moved out of the way and headed for the door.

  “Don’t go,” D.Q. pleaded.

  “I’m going to get my things.”

  “Later, please.”

  Helen sat down. Pancho stood between D.Q. and his mother, not knowing where to go. He went over to the empty bed, jumped up and let his feet dangle. Helen crossed her legs. D.Q. was looking away from her, his eyes fixed on the distant mountains. There was a remote control on the table next to Pancho’s bed. Pancho grabbed it and turned on the television. He pushed down the volume until it was barely audible, then propped the pillow against the backboard and leaned back to watch the screen. It was a daytime soap opera. He couldn’t hear the dialogue, but it was a relief to have something to look at, like having a cereal box to read during breakfast.

  “I really need you to sign the guardianship papers,” D.Q. said calmly.

  Helen glanced quickly toward Pancho. He pretended to be absorbed in the soap opera. She spoke softly but firmly. “I understand that’s what you want.”

  “It was what we agreed on.”

  “We agreed that you would be in Albuquerque for a month.”

  “And I am here and will be here for a month. But sign the papers now.” His voice rose up a notch.

  “If I sign the papers, who’s to say that Father Concha won’t yank you out of the clinical trial before it’s over, or even before it begins? You agreed to give me a chance to help you and do what I think is best for you, the way a mother would do in a normal family situation.”

  “A normal family situation?” D.Q. asked sarcastically.

  “Daniel, we need to concentrate on your healing. We need to direct all our energies to you getting well.” She took her hands from her lap and placed them on the armrests of the chair. There was a long pause when she seemed to be waiting for D.Q. to say something. Pancho quietly began to surf the channels. He stopped when he saw a Tom and Jerry cartoon. “It is not helpful to dwell on the past,” she said.

  “I have an idea,” D.Q. said, perking up. “What if you sign the papers and we leave them with a disinterested party? At the end of the month, that person gives the papers to Father Concha. That would address your lack of trust in Father Concha, wouldn’t it? Although it’s hard for me to understand how you trusted him enough to leave me with him seven years ago, and you can’t trust him to keep his word for a month now.”

  “Daniel…”

  There was a knock on the door. A tall, distinguished-looking man with black hair entered the room. “Hello, Helen,” he said immediately upon entering. “Good to see you again.” He nodded at Pancho, then turned to D.Q. “Daniel, I’m Dr. Melendez.” He walked over to the window, dragged a chair to where D.Q. was sitting, and sat down. “How are you feeling?”

  “Just great,” D.Q. said.

  “Good,” Dr. Melendez responded. “That’s the kind of fighting spirit we want from you.”

  Pancho got off the bed. This seemed like a good time to escape. He was embarrassed to be in the room.

  “Don’t go,” D.Q. said.

  Dr. Melendez and Helen both looked at Pancho. Pancho froze in mid-step. He sat back down on the bed.

  Dr. Melendez leaned forward. “I want to go over what we are going to do today and tomorrow. You should know that we are very familiar with your case. I got your records from your doctor in Las Cruces, and I understand fully the treatment you’ve been receiving to date. Here at Children’s, we have had some success using a combination of drugs to supplement the radiation therapy. In the next day or so, we hope to get a fix on the program we’ll use as well as the optimum dosages. Any questions so far?”

  D.Q. grinned as if he could see through the doctor’s cheery facade. Pancho thought he looked like a cornered boxer. There was no way he would be able to overcome the energy and willpower of the people in front of him.

  Dr. Melendez continued, “There will be some side effects beyond those you have experienced from the radiation. But here again, we’ve made some strides with medication to counteract negative side effects.” He waited for D.Q. to ask questions. There were none forthcoming. “Well, we should get started as soon as possible.”

  “How long does the treatment last?” D.Q. asked.

  Dr. Melendez looked at D.Q. as if he didn’t understand the question. “How long?”

  “The clinical trial. How long does it last?”

  Pancho could see confusion in the doctor’s face. He turned toward Helen for help. “The usual protocol is three months. Two weeks of treatment with two weeks off. Then after that, it is continuous as needed.”

  “Where is Father Concha?” D.Q. asked nervously. “He needs to be here.”

  “I’ll go get him,” Pancho said.

  “No, stay here,” D.Q. said, full of urgency. “What do you mean, ‘continuous’? I was told it lasted two weeks.”

  “That’s correct,” the doctor said. “The first phase is a highintensity phase that lasts two weeks.”

  “And then?”

  “We let you rest for a couple of weeks, we evaluate the effects on the cancer if we can, if the effects are detectable, we see how your immune system is holding up, we make adjustments to the treatment as necessary, and we continue for two more weeks.”

  “But only if the treatment is effective. I understood that at the end of a month, you would be able to see if the treatment is working.”

  “I thought—” Dr. Melendez began to say to Helen.

  She nodded. “Daniel, at the end of the month, we will see where we are. That’s a fair statement to make, isn’t it, Martin?”

  “Martin?” D.Q. asked.

  “Stu is Dr. Melendez’s lawyer.”

  “Oh, man.” D.Q. placed his hands over his eyes.

  Dr. Melendez reached out to touch D.Q.’s shoulder. D.Q. leaned out of his reach. “Should we proceed with today’s schedule?”

  Pancho wasn’t sure to whom this question was directed. He wondered whether Father Concha had stayed away on purpose.

  “We’ll be okay,” Helen said.

  “Good. I’ll get things ready.” Dr. Melendez left the room without looking at D.Q. or Pancho.

  Helen stood up and went over to D.Q., whose face was still hidden. “Daniel, I know you don’t trust me. I am not even sure I deserve your trust. But I’m going to say this anyway. In return for your willing cooperation in this clinical trial, I promise you that at the end of the month, if there are no hopeful signs, if there is no measurable improvement, I will turn guardianship over to Father Concha.”

  D.Q. dropped his hands and slumped down in the chair. He looked like all the fight had been sucked out of him. “What is ‘hopeful’? What is ‘measurable improvement’? What is this success that your doctor keeps mentioning? Is it a permanent cure? Not that I have any legal choice, as you know, but I agreed to turn myself over to you and your clinical trial for one month. I did it because I wanted to make sure I could say to my own conscience that I tried everything there was to try. The agreement was, you’d either grant guardianship to Father Concha or sign emancipation papers
in return for one month: two weeks of chemo and two weeks of recuperation with you. Not for one month provided this or provided that. If at the end of one month, a cure or an extension of life with some kind of quality seems possible, then Father Concha will make the call as to future treatment. That’s what I was led to believe would happen here. I kept my end of the bargain. I am here. We gave you the emancipation and the legal guardianship forms to sign and you did not do it.” He closed his eyes for a moment and then he straightened himself up in the chair. “But don’t worry. I’m going to go through the ‘initial phase,’ as the good doctor calls it.”

  “All right,” she said. She seemed like she wanted to say more or like she hoped D.Q. would say something else to her.

  “Helen,” D.Q. said, “would you mind leaving us? I need to undress.”

  “No, certainly not. I’ll leave you now. Good-bye.” She turned toward Pancho. “Nice to meet you.” Pancho nodded.

  Just as she opened the door to leave, D.Q. said, “Helen, I think it would be better if we didn’t see each other. It’s too distracting. I need to focus on the healing process, as you say.”

  The fair skin on her face turned red, from hurt or anger, Pancho didn’t know. “You are still coming to stay with us after the initial treatment session.”

  “Yeah, that was the deal. Good-bye, Helen.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Pancho and Father Concha walked side by side toward the van. D.Q. had been wheeled out on a stretcher to start the medical procedures. Father Concha had obtained permission for Pancho to stay with D.Q.

  “Have you ever been in a hospital before?” Father Concha asked.

  “No.” He didn’t think identifying his sister’s body was what Father Concha meant by “being in a hospital.”

  They passed by a children’s playground. Plastic horses of various colors were stuck on thick springs. People had gone to a lot of trouble to make this hospital not look like a hospital.

  “What’s going to happen to D.Q.?” Pancho was just trying to get a clearer picture of when and how he could carry out his plan.

  Father Concha slowed down as if he didn’t want to rush an answer. “Are you asking whether the clinical trials have any chance of succeeding?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “What will happen to him after the treatments? Where’s he going to end up?”

  “Ahh. Where’s he going to end up?” Father Concha slowed down even more. The harder the question, the slower he needed to walk.

  “It doesn’t look like his mother will let him go.”

  “No, it doesn’t look that way.” Father Concha stopped walking. They were on a sidewalk leading to the parking lot. People in back of them began to go around them. There was a concrete bench a few feet ahead, the kind where people sat while waiting for a bus. Father Concha walked toward it and sat down. Pancho waited a moment and then sat next to him. He thought Father Concha was going to continue speaking, but he had turned silent. Pancho wanted to ask why the mother had left D.Q. at St. Anthony’s, but the question could be taken to mean that he was willing to get involved in D.Q.’s life, and he was already in deeper than he cared to be.

  “It is not easy to get involved with someone in D.Q.’s situation,” Father Concha said.

  “You mean someone who’s dying.”

  “I would say someone who is trying very hard to live purposefully.”

  “Sucking out all the meollo from the bone.”

  “Así es,” said Father Concha. It was the first time Pancho had heard him speak Spanish. He hoped that was all he was going to say in Spanish because his Spanish was not all that great.

  “I’m not getting involved.” It came out as a warning, which was fine with him.

  Father Concha did not respond. He stretched out his legs. Pancho noticed that the priest’s socks did not match: The left sock was blue and the right sock was black. The black loafers were worn out and needed polishing. Father Concha joined his hands across his stomach, like someone about to take a nap. Pancho saw him close his eyes. Just when he thought the priest had fallen instantly asleep, he heard him say, “How long were you thinking of staying with us?”

  Pancho looked at him quickly, surprised. Father Concha’s eyes were closed. It was possible that D.Q. had said something to him, but what? All that D.Q. knew or had guessed was that Pancho had his own reasons to come to Albuquerque. He had to stop thinking that everyone knew exactly what he was up to.

  “How long do you want me to stay?” Lying and pretending required an energy he preferred not to waste.

  Father Concha nodded. He seemed grateful for the honest answer. “If you could stay with him while the treatment lasts, that would be good.”

  “Until he goes to his mother’s.”

  “He’s going to need you more than ever when he’s with her.”

  “Need me for what? What am I supposed to be doing other than pushing him around? I don’t get it.”

  Father Concha pulled his legs in and sat back on the bench. His voice was even-tempered. “You don’t get it?”

  “No. I don’t know why he needs me. If he wants moral support or whatever, he’s looking in the wrong place.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is that what he’s looking for? What does he want from me?” Father Concha stuck both hands under his armpits and lowered his chin. He twitched his nose and mouth like someone about to sneeze. “What do you think about death?”

  Pancho jerked his head back like someone had hit him with an invisible jab. “Death? It happens. People die all the time. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “It doesn’t scare you?”

  “Hell no! Why would it?” He thought suddenly of the revolver in his backpack. Then he thought of his sister. The idea of death filled him with anger, hatred, a suffocating urgency, remorse even, but there was no fear anywhere. Then he realized: Maybe that’s what D.Q. wants. When he turned, he saw a mysterious grin on Father Concha’s face.

  Father Concha took a wallet from his back pocket. He opened it and lifted out all the bills inside. Pancho could see they were all twenties. “It’s three hundred dollars,” Father Concha said, handing him the money. “One hundred for you, and the rest to spend with D.Q. Do some fun things when he is up to it. There are many interesting places to see in and around Albuquerque.” Pancho held the money in his outstretched hand as if it were contaminated. “You are owed more, I know. You will be paid for your time as agreed. It’s all I could get right now.”

  Pancho lowered his hand. Putting the money in his pocket right then somehow felt inappropriate. He tried again to calculate how much he would be owed by the end of the month at thirty dollars a day, but he quickly gave that up. Whatever the amount, it would not be enough. He had not given much thought to what he would do after he found Bobby. He had an image of getting on a bus and going to Mexico. But he knew it was unrealistic to think that he would survive in Mexico. People came from Mexico to the United States looking for jobs, not the other way around. It didn’t really matter what happened afterward. He would go someplace and try to survive. The point in time where he met Bobby face-to-face—that was all of the future he allowed himself to contemplate.

  “You shouldn’t have many expenses. Everything has been taken care of at Casa Esperanza. If you need anything else, you can call this number.” Father Concha took a card out of his wallet. Pancho read it.

  “He won’t want anything from his mother.”

  “I’m giving you her phone number in case you need to get in touch with her.”

  “Must be an Anglo thing,” Pancho said, finally stuffing the money and the card in the side pocket of his pants.

  “The wrangling between mother and son?”

  “Yeah. It’s weird.”

  “It’s something that’s hard for you to imagine, isn’t it?”

  “She must have really screwed him for him not to want anything to do with her. She seems like an all-right lady.” He tried
to recollect the image of his own mother, but all his memory could come up with was a faded photograph of a woman in a wedding dress, holding a bouquet of daisies.

  “She is a mother, and her perspective toward his treatment is that of a mother who does not want to lose her son. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  Pancho shook his head. He understood where she was coming from all right. What he couldn’t understand was how a parent and child could get separated in the first place.

  Father Concha said, as if trying to fill in the gaps of Pancho’s understanding, “Seven years ago, when she brought Daniel to St. Anthony’s, it was only supposed to be for a summer. We don’t take kids that young, normally. But Helen was an old friend and I made an exception. She was in a bad state of mind. Her husband had just died and she was suffering from a mental illness. Then the summer turned into a year, and a year into two, and things slowly began to turn around for her—marriage and a successful career as an artist. She visited Daniel frequently as soon as she was able. When Daniel was fourteen, she wanted to take him with her, but he refused to the point of becoming ill. I don’t know how to describe it. He did not like the rich, comfortable life his mother offered him in Albuquerque. He was happy at St. Anthony’s. He was thriving there, doing well in school. We forced him to spend holidays with her and her new husband, but he always wanted to come back. She had every right to make him stay with her, but she sacrificed her wishes for his happiness.

  “Then came the diagnosis of cancer six months ago. It is different now. He is her responsibility. She sees it as her duty as a mother to make sure he gets the best treatment available. She has too much at stake not to fight for him. And…she has fought internal battles of her own and won. She knows how important it is to want to live, to have the right attitude. She honestly wants to give this hope to Daniel. She believes that his best chances of survival are with her.”

  “She thinks he can make it?”

  “She believes it with all her heart and soul.”

  Pancho paused to think. All that he knew about D.Q.’s illness had come from D.Q. Maybe the kid was overly pessimistic. He himself knew the results of going into the ring believing you could win versus the self-fulfilling effects of thinking you were going to get beat. What did he know about D.Q.’s illness? But then again, why should he care? He decided to ask the question anyway. “Does he have a chance? Do you think he can make it?”