by Gary Soto
Jason felt bad for his uncle. It seemed that Uncle Mike possessed no luck, and now, no vest. His only warmth on a November day was a T-shirt and a few tufts of hair on his chest.
They exited the elevator, left the building and got only a few steps into the cool autumn air when someone touched Uncle Mike’s arm.
“Michael Anthony Hernandez,” a voice called.
Jason stopped. He thought for a second that it was Eric, the gangster, throwing his voice. He turned and recognized the man: it was one of the men in suits who had come to the house earlier—the ones they had thought might have been the religious types with pamphlets. The man was showing his uncle a badge in a leather pouch.
“Yeah, I’m Hernandez.” Uncle Mike stuttered. “But, you know, I’m kind of busy right now. Maybe we can get together a little later, maybe over coffee?” He started to take a step, but the other man, the one with a canned ham for a neck, placed a large hand on his shoulder.
The officer in plainclothes read him his rights. “You have the right to remain silent…”
Slack-jawed, Jason watched the scene. He had seen rights read to bad guys on television, but now he was witnessing it firsthand. The police were nice enough to allow Jason to hug his uncle goodbye—yes, in spite of his morning shower his uncle emitted a mighty odor, like Eric had claimed. But in this embrace, his streetwise Uncle passed on all he was worth: the lottery ticket, which was worn from being thumbed but still valuable to an adult without warrants for his arrest.
Chapter Seven
When Jason scampered home and related his uncle’s arrest to his mother, she brought a knuckle to her mouth, let out a little yapping Chihuahua-like bark, and produced a long tear from her right eye. The tear picked up speed as it rolled down her cheek, but dried almost immediately as her mood changed to anger. She grumbled, “I told him to pay those parking tickets, but did he listen? No!” She then turned to the telephone in the hallway: it was still unplugged, as was other phone in the kitchen. Strangers were still calling and seeking handouts from the lottery winner. The rumors would not subside.
“Do you think he tried to call us?”
“Probably,” Jason answered. He realized that his uncle didn’t have his cell phone number—he had checked it several times. Blake had called, and his mother had called, but there was no message from his uncle.
When she plugged in the landline phone, it began to holler. She picked up. “Yes,” she asked cautiously, with both hands around the receiver. With her eyes cast downward, she listened, pulling at a string on her sleeve. Finally, she said, “You’re what?” Her eyes became dark, her brow wiggled. She gasped, and she smiled, and she frowned. “No, really?” His mother pointed a finger at the receiver and mouthed, “It’s your Aunt Marta. She says she’s getting married. Oh, my god!”
To the lottery winner he’d seen on TV, Jason figured. Now he understood why his aunt had come by yesterday—she probably wanted to make the announcement. Jason bit down on his lip to punish himself. And he had thought—they had all thought—that she was there seeking a handout. He bit his lips a second time—how he deserved the pain!
His mother hung up. “She’s getting married. I can’t believe it! She’s…” She used her fingers to count out her sister’s age. “She’s about forty-eight, I think.”
“I saw, Mom,” Jason remarked.
“Saw what?”
“Me and Uncle were waiting at Starbucks and we saw her on television.” He explained that he had seen the million-dollar lottery winner being interviewed by the news reporter Sylvia What’s-Her-Name, and that Aunt Marta was standing by this guy in suspenders.
“I’ll be darned,” his mother chimed. “Life is so weird.”
Jason could see the wheels of his mother’s mind turning as she realized that her half-sister was marrying a millionaire. A smile spread like sunshine across her face. “Oh, my god—a wedding! She clapped her hands against her cheeks. “I can’t believe it, Marta getting married.”
Jason wondered whether this wedding would conflict with basketball practice. What would he say to Coach Bacon?
His mother stood up, flustered. “What am I going to wear?”
“Clothes,” Jason answered truthfully.
His mother shook her head. “Jason, weddings are special! Not any old rag will do.” She clucked at her son and was heading off to her bedroom when the telephone began to ring. She stopped and, soldier-like, did an about-face. She ran to the phone and picked it up. “Marta?”
Right away, Jason could tell that it wasn’t Aunt Marta. No, the call was from his uncle holed up in the county jail. His mother’s face quickly became a storm cloud, and her voice thunder. Her eyes flashed lightning bolts. “See! I told you! You think you can get away with murder.”
Jason thought that her outburst was too harsh with the insinuation of murder. It was way over the top. He hurried over to the kitchen, plugged in the phone, and got on the line. “Hi, Uncle,” he greeted.
“Jason, my boy,” his uncle crowed. “I’m sorry you had to witness me being carted away. But they were pretty nice guys.” He said that he had gone to school with one of their brothers, and the officer had shared his double-decker ham sandwich with him on the drive over to the jail.
But Jason’s mother halted this trip down memory lane. She cried, “Now what are we going to do?” She told him that they had just celebrated Thanksgiving, and that meant Christmas was just around the corner. She started to cry and asked, “Do you want an orange scarf to match your orange jumpsuit? I could knit you one!” Then she hollered that with time on his hands, he could knit one himself, using his fingers as knitting needles.
“Relax, Sis,” Uncle Mike said. There was cheer in his voice. “I’ll chill for a day and be out by tomorrow. Do we have plans for dinner?”
“Tomorrow? That’s great!” Jason chimed. “You’ll be out in time for the wedding—you can eat there.” Jason divulged the family’s hot-off-the-press news: Aunt Marta’s impending marriage to the million-dollar lottery winner.
“No way!” Uncle Mike exclaimed. “To the guy we saw on TV? The barber?”
“Yeah, him.” Jason was thinking how lonely his aunt must have been all these years. Now she’d found someone—a retired barber with coins in his front and back pockets. The guy was rich, and that made Aunt Marta rich, too. He wondered if steak was in order for the wedding banquet.
“Ah, too bad, you probably won’t be around,” his mother teased. “You might not get out, you know.”
“Oh, Sis, the system can’t do that.” Uncle Mike felt that the judges were most likely in the holiday spirit, so they would let bygones be bygones. He also hinted in a near whisper that he had gone to school with one of the judges, and if that judge heard his case he would be stepping out of his orange jumpsuit by lunchtime. This judge—Uncle Mike wouldn’t speak his name—was a real crack-up and even partied once with Los Blue Chones.
“That’s enough!” Jason’s mother hollered. She hung up, but Jason stayed on the line. He asked, “How’s jail food?”
“Delicious. Mushroom soup on rice the second I arrived. Yummy stuff, I tell you. It’s almost like Weight Watchers cuisine, like real lean. Oh, yeah, and we got all the Kool-Aid we could drink. Plus, I had me a hot shower.”
Dinner sounded like a horrible grayish glob, but Jason was encouraged by his uncle’s happy tone. He was also pleased that his uncle had gotten to take a shower, his second for the day. He pictured a wet dog howling in the shower.
“But they took away my toe ring.”
“Forget ‘bout your stupid toe ring!” his mother exclaimed as she got back on the line. “Why are you doing this to us? What are we going to do?”
“Just wait it out, Sis,” Uncle Mike stated. “I see the judge tomorrow, unless, of course, I can get out on bail now.”
“What’s bail?” Jason asked.
His mother explained that it was money borrowed to get out lowlife relatives from jail.
“Do you know h
ow much it is?” His sister had softened. Jason could feel that she was going to cry.
“Well, it could be ‘bout $5,000, or less if they consider the weeks I slept in a car. That was almost like time served.” Once, Uncle Mike had been cuffed by the police when the owner of the car had complained that a disheveled person was not only sleeping in the back seat, but also helping himself to a bag of potato chips.
“But, hey, I was just trying to survive. I was living for my art.”
“And what art is that?” his mother snapped. “Air guitar?”
“Mom, for your information, air guitar is an art,” Jason countered. “And Uncle is just having a hard time right now.” Jason felt it only right to come to his defense. He told her that once his uncle got his guitar out of hock from the pawnshop, his life would change, the world would change. He would be making music again.
His mother grumbled.
“Hey, I got to go,” his uncle informed them. “They’re serving ice cream for dessert.” He told them that he got to make two calls a day, and this was his first. He promised to call later that night.
Jason hung up. He hurried into the living room and embraced his mother.
“He’ll be out soon,” Jason reassured. “You were great!” He hugged her middle and pushed air out of her. “Uncle is just being Uncle. He can’t help it.”
“Yeah, I know,” she sobbed. “And that is what frightens me—he’ll get out and get into more trouble.” She released a long sob and pulled away from her son to honk her reddish nose.
* * *
That Monday night at dinner, his father moaned between bites of leftovers—the Thanksgiving turkey had been robust the previous Thursday, but now, four days later, it was a ladder of bones, with only a little white meat still clinging on. The stuffing had lost its form and now was soggy bread. The canned cranberry sauce resembled frozen blood. The gravy was the color of mud.
“You were with him?” Jason’s father asked as he brought a spoonful of cranberry sauce to his mouth. In it went.
“Yeah, we were trying to cash the lottery ticket.” He described the scene, but left out many of the details of the day—Sylvia, uncle’s heartthrob; Eric, the gangster, and his missing lawn mower; Pete, the giant with the chrome bumpers; and the old lady with the swampy lawn where snakes and creatures undoubtedly welled and multiplied like germs.
“Maybe it’s good for him to have a little time out,” his father suggested. His fork was ready to scoop up another haul of cranberry sauce.
“My poor brother,” his mother murmured. She tapped the corners of her eyes with a napkin and said, “His downfall began when he learned guitar. He should have stuck with welding.”
“But the guitar is cool,” Jason mumbled through a mouthful of mashed potatoes. He cleared his throat. “I want to learn.” He had decided that sports weren’t his thing. He couldn’t even beat those fourth-graders on the public court.
“The…guitar…is…out…of…the…question,” his mother enunciated slowly. Her eyes flashed, drying the tears that a moment before were on the verge of spilling. She then said in rapid-fire, “You understand me? You’re going to do your school work and if you learn a musical instrument it’s going to be the tuba. Get me?”
The tuba! The fat-butt musical instrument that blared nothing but farts? Jason looked down at his turkey drumstick. He had peeled off the skin like a sock and moved it to the side of his plate. He could see that it wasn’t a time to announce his artistic aspirations, not with his uncle in jail.
“And now Marta’s getting married.” His father scraped a bun through a puddle of gravy on his plate and shook his head. “And to the guy who won two million dollars?”
“Just a million, Dad,” Jason corrected. “But that’s still way rich.”
Jason’s father growled that some people had all the luck. Then he pushed his plate away and examined the debris of bones sitting in gravy. “But Marta, she’s a…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“A swell gal,” Jason finished for him. He had heard his father use this phrase in the past when describing older women and thought he should employ it now. Indeed, Jason had recognized for the first time how polite and kind his aunt was. He had only seen her as a quiet person who liked to dunk donuts into her coffee. But she was deeper than he realized, and sneaky. To think that she had a boyfriend they had never heard about. Sure, he was old and chubby, but he was someone to hug.
“And we’re going to the wedding,” Jason’s mom announced. “It’s Tuesday evening.”
“But it’s basketball practice, Mom,” Jason said in a near whine. He informed her that he had a chance to become a starter.
“But I thought you said you were real awful,” his mother answered.
“True, Mom. I used to be real awful, but now I’m just awful.”
“I don’t care. You’re going to the wedding.” His mother admitted that it was a strange time to get married—in late November, and on a Tuesday—but she had to put her foot down. Marta deserved to have family at her wedding.
Jason helped his mother with the dishes and bagged the leftover turkey dinner—they were done slaughtering it, but would save the meatiest bones for soup. He left the house to jog over to Kings Canyon Middle School, where Coach had called an impromptu basketball practice.
“Hi, Coach,” Jason greeted. He was startled by how bright the gym was, and how empty. A few teammates were at the other end of the court, playing tag.
Coach was bent over a duffle bag and bringing out basketballs that rolled onto the court.
“Jason,” Coach greeted. “I heard you won a million dollars.” He stood up and shook the last basketball out of the duffel bag.
“Nah, Coach, it was this other guy. I just won…” Jason wasn’t sure if he should divulge the amount. He finished his sentence with, “just a couple of thousand. My mom’s going to make me save it for college.”
Coach pointed at Jason’s shoes. “See if she can spare a little of your money for new shoes.”
Jason had to agree. If only he had a pair of those shoes with the red stripe down the side, he would be dunking left and right.
Only six players showed up to practice, and they were enough to nearly make the coach give up. All of them were heavier from Thanksgiving, a lethargic group. One player actually had gravy on his sweatshirt.
“That’s enough for tonight,” Coach called through his cupped hands. “Practice again tomorrow. And lay off the pumpkin pie—you guys are moving too slowly.” Coach informed them that Enrique Gomez was out with an ankle sprain. He was debating who would start.
Let it be someone else, Jason prayed. During practice, Coach had chewed him out repeatedly. Yes, he was OK at sports, but no superstar. What he really wanted to play was the guitar, not the tuba like his mother wanted. So maybe his uncle hadn’t made it big—Jason would do it for his uncle. He approached the coach. “I’ve got something to tell you, Coach.”
Coach was zipping up his windbreaker. The duffle bag full of basketballs lay at his feet. His face said: What?
“I can’t be at practice tomorrow,” Jason announced. He had decided that he might as well come out with it. “My aunt is getting married.”
“What, at the end of November?” He started toward the panel of light switches. His untied shoelaces slapped the polished wooden floor. “No one gets married in November. You’re making up an excuse, Rodriguez.”
“Nah, Coach, it’s true,” Jason countered. He didn’t like being accused of concocting a lie. “My Aunt Marta’s getting married. I’m not making it up.”
“Jason, do you really want to play hoop?” Coach asked, the question echoing off the walls of the cavernous gym.
“I don’t know,” Jason said as he walked toward the coach. “I’m not really that good.” He made this statement with his head bowed but peering up, hoping that the coach would argue and come up with something like, “That’s not true. You’re almost first-string.”
But Coach just reached
into his pocket for his keys and brought out a bunch. He fiddled with them as he searched for the key that locked the gym. “If you’re not here Tuesday, consider yourself benched for two games.” Coach waited for a response. His eyes were on Jason. “Are you with us or not?” he finally asked.
Jason didn’t like the question. His poor uncle was in jail—eating grand food and taking hot showers, but still—and his once sad and lonely aunt was getting married. His mother was right. He couldn’t miss her wedding. “I don’t think so, Coach,” Jason answered and walked away, hurt.
A rough man, Coach replied, “It’s your choice. You can’t go back on what you decide.”
The overheads went off and the basketball court was plunged into darkness.
* * *
When he got home at eight-thirty, his father was asleep in the recliner and his mother was on the Internet in the den. He joined his mother. He learned that Uncle Mike had gotten a call from Sylvia What’s-Her-Name, the television reporter. Or was the call for him, the other lottery winner?
“What time did she call?” Jason asked. He could read his mother’s mood. She was shaking her head, as if in disbelief that the woman reporter, a professional with straight white teeth, could see anything in her brother, back in high school—or now. He was in jail, for Pete’s sake!
“An hour ago,” his mother answered as she rose from the desk, her face aglow with the light of the computer screen. She sat back down in her chair, which was cushioned with two pillows. “I sort of remember her from school. She was nice. What the heck did she see in Mike?”
“Did you tell her about Uncle?” Jason asked. He was hoping that she hadn’t, as it would have been embarrassing for her to discover that the guy she liked in high school was presently playing checkers with inmates at the county jail—that was what Jason figured his uncle was doing, unless it was lights-out and he was trying to sleep in his squeaky bunk.
“No, I just said that he was away for a while.” His mother said that the reporter had left her telephone number.