Crazy Messy Beautiful

by Carrie Arcos

  “That was pretty good,” I say.

  “Yeah, I love that it really holds up, even after all this time. Today, Dorothy would be caught in a love triangle with the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion,” she says, “but she would have run off with the Good Witch and made her way to LA, where they would have signed on for their own reality TV show and wound up hating each other.”

  “A little cynical there.”

  “Maybe.” Callie stands up and takes the empty bowl to the kitchen. I follow behind.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “The world needs more happy endings, don’t you think?”

  “Sure, but that’s not reality. Most of the time things don’t all work out in the end.”

  “Doesn’t mean they can’t.”

  She gives me a look. “When’s the last time everything came together like that for you or someone you know?”

  “Tonight’s coming together. In a weird, unexpected way.”

  “You know what I mean. Something big, like everything working out in the end in some huge, life-changing way.” She stares at me expectantly.

  I don’t need to think about this. I know my answer. “Just because they haven’t yet doesn’t mean they won’t. As long as there’s more to the story, there’s always hope, right?”

  Callie has an odd expression on her face. I don’t know her well enough to understand it. She turns her eyes toward the ground. Finally she says, “I suppose so.”

  We stand there in silence for a bit until it becomes clear the night is over.

  “I should probably go,” I say.

  Callie walks me out and watches me put on my helmet, which makes me fumble around with the strap a bit more than I usually do. It takes me three times to actually start the bike. She waves good-bye as I pull away.

  On the way home, the streets seem more alive than usual. The dark outlines of trees and parked cars are more vivid, pulsating with life. Everything is more than it was just hours ago. And even though I’m only going the maximum thirty-five miles per hour, I feel like I’m flying.

  WE HAVE LOST EVEN

  When I get home, Dad’s reading on the couch.

  “How’d it go?” he asks. He puts his book down and takes off his glasses as if to see me better.

  “Good.”

  “Did you get a lot of work done?”

  Work? Oh, right. It hadn’t felt like work at all. “Yes.”

  He stares at me for a few moments before dropping his gaze. “Glad we could have this titillating conversation.”

  “Sure thing,” I say, and head upstairs to my room.

  Instead of sleeping, I draw Callie. She makes a good subject because of her strong profile. I noticed it while we were on the couch. It’s funny how I never noticed in class.

  I start with an outline of her face. Then I try to fill in the details, but I can’t. They’re fuzzy. Does she have freckles? Does her nose curve down at the end, or up? Is her mouth small or wide? Her eyes give me trouble too. I remember their color, like sand, but I can’t see them clearly enough. I can manage the pupil okay, but the iris is off and so is the shape. I rip the paper out of my notebook, crumple it up, and toss it to the floor. I start over again on a clean page.

  Many pages and disappointing eyes later, I take a break to get a snack. It’s late, but the light is still on down in the living room. From the top of the stairs, I see Dad sitting on the couch below. He’s hunched over and his hand is on his temple like he’s got a headache. I’m about to call out and ask if he’s okay, but his voice cuts me off.

  “You can’t just show up or call me like this,” he says.

  I duck at the top of the stairs.

  “We’ve been through this. I can’t be that person for you anymore. I’m sorry.”

  His voice is a rough whisper traveling up the stairs to me. It scrapes my gut like sandpaper.

  “Leslie. I . . . we are never going to be that.”

  I listen intently. Who’s Leslie?

  “At one time, yes, but . . . I do care about you . . .”

  His words are broken up, punctuated with something I can’t hear on the other end.

  “I have a family. You knew that from the beginning.”

  Dad stands up and paces a little, listening to this person he says he cares about. Some person I don’t know.

  “You will get through this, I promise. But I can’t be the one to help you through it, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things. And I know you’re angry and hurt, but please . . . don’t call me again.”

  He ends the call and stares at the phone in his hand.

  I move to stand. I don’t know what I’ve just heard, but I know I can’t stay here a second longer.

  Dad’s head snaps up and he sees me.

  “Neruda?” He coats my name with the same raspy whisper he used on the phone.

  I bolt toward my room. I close the door and lean against it for a few minutes, unmoving. There’s no knock from Dad, no attempt to explain what I overheard. I sink down in a lump on the floor, hugging my knees to my chest and replaying Dad’s conversation over and over in my mind. It becomes a loop I can’t stop hearing. But maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. All I really know is that he was talking to a woman named Leslie. Leslie could be anyone. Maybe she’s a coworker from USC. She could be some long-lost relative for all I know.

  Then the floor creaks on the other side of my door. Someone is just outside.

  “Neruda?” Dad whispers my name.

  I remain silent, still, hoping he will go away.

  The floor creaks again. Footsteps travel down the hall to my parents’ room. The door opens and closes softly.

  Callie’s distorted eyes stare up at me from their place on the floor. They look crude and ugly, but I stare at them anyway, willing them to help me block out what’s on the other side of the door. Instead, they speak of things I don’t want to hear.

  I’M EXPLAINING A FEW THINGS

  “Morning, Neruda,” Mom says to me when I enter the kitchen. She’s sitting at the table, drinking coffee. Everything seems perfectly fine and normal.

  I head for the cabinet and find a PowerBar. I want to get out of there quickly.

  Dad stops me. “Can I make you some breakfast?” he asks, which is a surefire indication that everything is not fine. Dad hasn’t fixed me breakfast since I was, like, ten years old.

  “No, thanks,” I mumble. I rip open the PowerBar and take a huge bite.

  “What about you, love? You want an omelet?”

  “I’m okay. That’s a sweet offer, babe.” Mom places her hand on his. “What’re your plans this morning?” she asks me.

  “Taking the bus to Ezra’s.” I stare at my parents’ hands and wonder for the millionth time since last night who Leslie is.

  “Be careful,” Mom says.

  I catch Dad’s eyes for the first time that morning. That’s when I see it. A flash of guilt before he drops his gaze.

  “It’s just a bus ride,” I say.

  I push open the screen door and let it slam behind me.

  • • •

  No one comes to the door, no matter how hard I knock at the metal screen. My raps aren’t loud enough to be heard over the Latin pop emanating from inside, but I wait, not feeling comfortable enough to enter without being invited in.

  Eventually a woman with long black-and-gray wavy hair and a flowered apron comes to the door.

  “Hi. Is Ezra here?” I say.

  She opens the screen door. “You must be Neruda.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Cecilia, Ezra’s mom.”

  I can see the resemblance. She’s got his eyes and mouth, especially when she smiles.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “Come on in.” She holds the door open for me. “Everyone’s out ba
ck.”

  I follow Cecilia through the house and out the sliding glass door to the backyard. A large rectangular table covered by a white tablecloth, plates of food, and purple flowers takes up the middle of the lawn. Seated at the table are a bunch of adults of varying ages. Two little kids are playing on the swing set in the back corner. There’s a Ping-Pong table set up on the patio. My stomach reminds me that I’ve only eaten a PowerBar today when it smells the meat cooking on the grill. I hold my hand against it as if that can stop the growling.

  “Neruda!” Ezra sees me and calls out.

  “Hey, Ezra.” I go up to him and he gives me a hug. Then he grips my shoulder and finds my eyes. “Glad you could make it.”

  He tilts up the round-rimmed black hat he’s wearing.

  “Mom, come here and meet my friend Neruda.”

  She smiles at me and says, “We just met.” Then she pulls me in for a hug and whispers in my ear, “Thank you for keeping my boy company while he was in that terrible place.”

  Her hair smells like shampoo. She pulls away but still holds on to one of my arms. I kind of want her to let go.

  “He needs a plate of food, Ezra,” she says.

  “On it.”

  “You want something to drink?” she asks. “A beer? No, what am I saying, a soda?”

  “Sure,” I say. I’m not used to being treated like I’m someone important. Cecilia finally lets go of me and walks over to the table to see if anyone else needs anything.

  Ezra makes me two carne asada tacos and one with pastor and we sit down together. He introduces me to his whole family: two aunts and uncles, three cousins, his sister and her husband, and his niece and nephew. I greet the men with handshakes and the women with hugs. The only people missing are Ezra’s dad, who died a couple of years ago, and his brother, who also passed.

  Ezra’s mom stands up and addresses all of us. “Today is a good day.” She places her hand on Ezra’s shoulder. “This is the first birthday in a long time that we get to celebrate at home with you. I am proud of you, son. Those years were not wasted. They happened. They helped shape who you’ve become, but they do not define you. I look forward to seeing what the future brings. Happy birthday, Ezra.”

  Cecilia bows her head, as do the others around the table. “Lord, bless this food. Bless this time together. Thank you for family and friends. Amen.”

  We all say “amen” in response.

  “Now eat, before it gets cold,” his mom says.

  I do as I’m told and close my eyes, savoring the first bite. The carne is just as good as you’d find at the street cart up by me. Ezra’s uncle passes me some beans and rice. I add a generous amount of salsa, guacamole, and chips to my plate.

  Around the table, Ezra’s relatives share all kinds of stories about his childhood.

  “What about the time he got all mad and ran away?” his sister says.

  “Was that when he broke Nana’s dish?” his mom asks.

  “Ma—” Ezra starts to say.

  “Oh, boy. I was so mad,” his mom says.

  “You told me that Dad was going to ‘handle me’ when he got home! Of course I ran away. Packed a bag and rode my bike over to the park.”

  His aunt Becky says, “Yes, and then you showed up at my house. Oh my goodness. You looked so scared and dejected, pobrecito.” Poor thing. She reaches out to touch Ezra’s cheek. “Mijo, I didn’t have the heart to turn you in right away. I think I made you a quesadilla and let you watch TV.”

  “The best quesadilla I’d ever tasted, to this day,” Ezra says. “How long was I gone?”

  “About four hours,” his mom says, and laughs.

  “Nah. I remember it feeling like forever.”

  “So I called Miguel,” Aunt Becky says, “and he came to get you.”

  “You ratted me out,” Ezra says, shaking his head at her.

  “And he didn’t even get a spanking,” Ezra’s sister says, still sounding bitter even though this happened years ago.

  “Nope. Dad took me out for hot chocolate. I remember it was late and he said he wanted to talk to me, man-to-man. He asked why I’d want to hurt my family by running away. He told me that whatever happens, no matter what bad things we do, there’s always a way back through family. Family will be there when everything else is stripped away. You don’t turn your back on family.”

  This last line resonates. The group becomes quiet the way people sometimes do when they have heard something meaningful and need to allow it time to sink in. I can’t help but think about my dad.

  “And then he grounded me for two weeks the second we got home,” Ezra says.

  Everyone laughs, dispersing the wave of emotion just as quickly as it settled. They continue to weave in and out of the past. Every time they creep toward the present, the gap of time punctuated by Ezra’s absence is awkwardly felt.

  Several tacos and sodas later, I go inside to use the restroom and walk past an open door. I know I shouldn’t snoop, but it’s open, so I figure I can take a look around. The room is clean—too clean—more like a guest bedroom than one actually being used. Dodgers posters and paraphernalia mark the walls, along with a couple of pictures of old, classic cars. A black suitcase sits next to a twin bed. There’s a large bookcase filled with mostly comics, stacked. As I walk over to the shelf, I spy a small basket with a pile of pictures inside. I reach for the photos. They’re all of a younger Ezra.

  “Mom left it exactly the same.” Ezra’s voice comes from the doorway.

  I drop the photo I’m holding of Ezra and a girl at what looks like a school dance.

  “I told her she shouldn’t. She could have changed it. Made it an office or a guest room or something. She said, ‘Why would I do that when you’ll be back?’”

  “It’s a nice room.”

  “It’s a boy’s room,” Ezra says. He stands with his hands in his pockets and looks around.

  I pick up the picture again. “Who’s this?” I ask.

  It’s one of those photos where the guy is standing behind a girl with his arms wrapped around her waist. She’s wearing a strapless purple dress. Her black hair falls super long over one shoulder.

  “Daisy Torres,” Ezra says, his voice heavy with the memory.

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “She was gorgeous.” He sits on the bed. “We were so young. She was . . . everything. The love of my life. I thought I’d marry her someday. But you know, one mistake, and then”—he snaps his fingers—“ten years pass, and . . . well . . .” Ezra says everything with just enough feeling that I know he still cares for her.

  “Where is she now?”

  “I don’t know. She went to college in Santa Barbara, that’s the last I heard. She wanted to be a teacher.”

  “You didn’t stay in touch?”

  “What—and date her from prison? Come on, man. She needed to live her life. I didn’t want to stop her from doing that.”

  Two young lovers ripped apart by one misstep. It’s tragic, but it gets me thinking.

  “So she might still be available,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Well, if you don’t know where Daisy is or what she’s up to, think of what else you don’t know. What if she’s single and hoping you will call her?”

  “Oh, are you some matchmaker now?”

  “I’m just saying, if you still have feelings for her, maybe you should consider looking her up.”

  Ezra takes the photo from my hand.

  “I used to have this picture where she was looking off to the side. I looked at it all the time when I was locked up, until I realized that it wasn’t really her anymore, you know? Five years had passed. I had changed. Not only physically but, you know, I’d grown up. And the photo I was looking at was of this beautiful e
ighteen-year-old girl. But she wasn’t a girl anymore. She wasn’t my girl. And all these experiences that I wasn’t a part of now defined her. So I tore up the photo.”

  He places the picture of them at the dance back in the basket.

  “You really never talked to her after you went to prison?”

  He shrugs. “She tried to contact me a couple of times, but I didn’t want to see her.”

  “Why?”

  “She needed to move on. I knew there was no way I’d be getting out early. And I didn’t want to hold her back. So I had to let her go.”

  “You still love her?” I ask.

  Ezra gives me a look, then quickly turns away. “I haven’t seen her in ten years. I don’t even know her.” He puts the basket of photos back on the shelf.

  “Santa Barbara’s not far. It’s only a couple hours away. If she’s there, she’s practically local,” I say.

  Ezra stares at me like I’ve said something he’s thought of doing, but then his eyes harden. “No, she’s . . . We were a long time ago. It’s all good, man—time for me to focus on the future, anyway. Hey, did I tell you I’ve got an interview set up?”

  “That’s awesome. For what?”

  “A marketing company up in Bakersfield.”

  “Oh, wow. That’s really far. But cool.” I try to make my voice sound upbeat, but I don’t want Ezra leaving for Bakersfield. He’s only been out of prison for six months. I’ve just gotten used to being able to see him as much as I want. If he moves to Bakersfield, it would be like he is still in prison.

  “Yeah, I need to go where I can get a job. A real job. Man, it’ll be better than working in my uncle’s garage.”

  “I thought you liked working on cars.”

  “It’s good for now, while I get back on my feet, but it’s not what I want to do for the rest of my life.”

  “Well, then I hope it works out,” I say.

  “Thanks.”

  Ezra sifts through the photos in the basket. “Man, if I could go back and talk to my younger self. The things I would tell him . . .”