Still, we thought about it: America. We thought about it all the time. I’m sure you think you can imagine what we dreamed of—buffet tables of food, video game arcades. I will tell you my secret. When I dreamed of America, I imagined lying down in a large green field, watching my mother unpack a picnic dinner. The basket was filled with anything I could dream of, but before we ate my mother pulled me close to her. I could remember her smell: faintly floral, rich, bready. She ran her fingers through my hair, pressed my face to her chest. “I love you,” she said. We were warm in a circle of sunlight. “My daughter, I am here,” she said. That was it, the sum of my dream.
Humberto dropped me off at our dwelling, which my grandfather had built after Hurricane Mitch consumed everything in Tegucigalpa. I had been a child when the river rose up and covered the city, leaving mud and misery in its wake. My grandfather was a shopkeeper, and he was able to salvage enough to pay for wooden slats and construct one room. He walked through the thigh-high mud to find a tin roof, which he weighted down with rocks. It’s said that Tegu never recovered from Hurricane Mitch, but there we were, Junior and I. Like most of our neighbors, we did not have running water or a bathroom, but we did have a few bushes outside where we could relieve ourselves.
Why God made certain decisions, I could not even dream of knowing. God only gave my grandparents one child—my mother—though they had yearned for more. God sent Hurricane Mitch to Honduras, and yellow glue. Yet He also gave us the stars, the feel of the cool night on our faces. He gave me my brothers, and the way I felt when Humberto looked at me. I believed God watched over me. I was lucky in this. Many people I knew feared that God had forgotten them.
That night, the front door was closed, which was a relief. (I was always afraid it would be kicked in, our pallet and small collection of cookware gone.) But when I whispered for Junior to let me in, he did not answer. I shoved the door and it fell open. I scanned the room; all seemed in place. On the pallet, there was a lump of blankets. I approached, put my hand on my brother’s back. He was breathing deeply, fast asleep. I closed the padlock and lay next to Junior, my arm around his small body. I knew then what the end of hope smelled like: yellow glue on your brother’s breath.
10
Alice
THERE’S THE ICE festival, of course, and New Year’s Eve—when people drive their Jeeps into the Amphitheater, place flares on them, and drive down Route 550, a winding dragon of light into town—but in Ouray, Colorado, the Fourth of July is the biggest event of the year. I woke up alone in the lumpy bed that had been my parents’, took a quick shower, and headed to my sister’s house in my red-white-and-blue flared skirt and cropped blouse. (And my red boots.)
Jane was already pulling the second sheet of cinnamon buns out of the oven. (The first lay scavenged on the stove.) It didn’t look as if she’d showered, and her pajamas were an unflattering maroon. “Hello, hello!” she cried when I slid open the screen door to the kitchen and entered. “Wow, look at you,” she said tartly. “Lipstick and everything.”
“Thanks,” I said, though her words hadn’t exactly been a compliment.
“Here,” she said, handing me a plate. “Coffee? Eggs?”
“Hell, yes,” I said, savoring the hot cinnamon bun. “God. This tastes exactly like Mom’s.”
“It’s her recipe,” said Jane, “and her pan.”
“Wow,” I said brightly, awkwardly.
“Please, let me pour your coffee,” said Jane. “Don’t strain yourself.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s fine,” said Jane, through gritted teeth.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I’m just tired,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her youngest, Benjamin, ran into the kitchen holding out an empty plate.
“Dad wants more!” he announced.
“I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Go take a shower, Jane. I can take over in here.”
“Ha!” said Jane, wresting the plate from my hands.
When Benjamin had run back outside, Jane sank to the kitchen floor.
“Jane!” I said, alarmed.
“Just let me sit,” she said. “I’ve been standing since five.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” I said.
“I don’t want to have to ask,” spat Jane.
I filled a mug with coffee and cream, the way she liked it. I handed Jane the mug and sat next to her. The linoleum floor was dusted with crumbs and muddy footprints. “Three is too many kids,” said Jane dully.
“Give me one,” I said.
We both started to laugh. “Which one?” said Jane.
“Any one,” I said, suddenly sad. “I just want one.”
Jane pulled me close.
“Is everything okay with you guys?” I said.
“Not really,” said Jane.
“What is it?”
“Not today,” said Jane, standing up.
“Is it Dennis?” I asked. “Is it Dad?”
“I am going to take a shower,” said Jane. She set her mug on the counter. “And I don’t use cream anymore,” she said. “I’m trying to be on a goddamn diet.”
“Mom said ‘goddamn’!” cried Gilmer, appearing in striped pajamas.
“Gilmer!” I said, trying to sound like a mother.
“Well, she did say ‘goddamn,’ Aunt Alice,” explained Gilmer earnestly. “We’re not allowed to use swear words in this house.”
“I think I see the Tickle Monster,” I said.
“No!” shrieked Gilmer, running outside.
“Oh, yes,” I said, starting the chase.
Fifteen minutes later, I collapsed in a deck chair by the barbecue pit. My father was snoring in the hammock, and Dennis and Jake looked grizzled, half drunk, and very happy. I put my hand on my husband’s knee and he covered it with his own. “How’s that brisket?” I asked.
“Looking good,” said Jake. “Looking very, very good.”
“That’s true,” said Dennis, nodding.
“More Tickle Monster!” called Benjamin, running toward me. I held up my hands.
“No more,” I said, shaking my head.
“More, more, more!” yelled Gilmer, his voice going thin, as if he was about to start crying.
“Sorry, honey,” I said.
“You can’t start them up and quit,” said Dennis evenly.
“Oh,” I said, chagrined. I was sweaty and annoyed, sick of running across the lawn in my tight-fitting boots. I wanted more coffee and some scrambled eggs. “Can you do it?” I asked Jake.
“Nope,” said Jake, sliding down in his lawn chair and pulling his baseball cap over his eyes.
“Get up,” said Dennis in a nasty tone.
I got up.
“Yay! Tickle Monster!” said Benjamin.
“Try to catch me now!” said Gilmer, pulling his pajama pants down and peeing in the yard. The parade-goers were assembling a block away, and a firefighter in full gear pointed to Gilmer and whooped.
“Somebody’s naked!” cried fourteen-year-old Rick, turning on the garden hose.
It was 7:55 a.m.
11
Carla
IN THE MIDDLE of the night, Junior stirred. I had been dreaming of playing with him in the mud, tossing the Frisbee an aid worker had given us. In the dream, Junior’s belly was round, his legs fat. My grandmother cooked red bean soup in the metal pot that had been stolen years ago. It was a shock to open my eyes and see my skeletal brother staring at me. “What is it?” I said.
“I’m hungry.”
I sighed. There was nothing left of the money my mother had sent. I had eaten a rotten piece of chicken at the dump and had vomited for days, so I had been wary of bringing Junior scraps of food. In the kitchen we had only empty space, but I stood. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll make you something very delicious.”
His gaze was blank.
“Are you sniffing Resistol?” I asked.
He shook his head,
but would not meet my eyes.
“It will hurt your brain,” I pleaded. “It will kill you, Junior. You can never go back once you begin.”
“I know,” he said sadly.
I went to the cabinet. We had a bit of cooking oil left. I had eaten a stale tortilla that morning, trading a wire spool for the food. Now I berated myself for not saving a bit for my brother. He rose from the pallet and I gathered him in my arms. “I will take care of you,” I said. He nodded, his face impassive. I wondered if he believed me.
I did not want to leave the house. I knew it was stupid—I knew the things that happened in the dark, and you can imagine them, too, I am sure—but I could not let my brother starve.
“Don’t let go of me!” said my brother as I stepped away.
“Hush,” I said. “Stay here.” I opened the door.
My home—silver hills rising to meet a dazzling sky. I felt heavy with the knowledge that the beauty was a mirage. Gangs, some made up of strangers, many consisting of boys I knew, roamed the streets. They had guns, these boys. They killed out of boredom. There were robbers, and there were people like me: so hungry that we would do what we knew was wrong to survive. There were men who wanted a woman’s body and did not care what the woman felt. I could find a man like this, just sell a few minutes of myself for food. I tried to think of another option.
I walked in the black toward Humberto’s house. If he had anything, he would give it to me. I stepped quietly, almost screaming when a mangy cat brushed against my leg, then ran away. I was shaking and my heart beat fast. This was no way to live. It came to me like a lightning bolt: This is no way to live. I walked more quickly. When I arrived at Humberto’s, I peered in the window and saw that everyone was asleep.
I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t fair to wake Humberto and his family. We were all hungry, for God’s sake! I leaned against the cement wall, slid down into the dirt outside his house, hugging my knees to my chest. I wished for my mother, but I had no money for a phone call. My mother had said she would send money the week before, but the man at the Western Union insisted there was nothing in my name. I felt a creature—an ant?—crawl along my calf, then to the top of my kneecap.
There was no point in crying. I was a pragmatic girl. My brain scanned like a radio, looking for a plan. I could try to break into a house, to steal food. I could walk into the city and stand outside the Western Union until they opened. For a minute I thought about sniffing glue myself, just to quell my panic and fear. Instead, I stood up and knocked on Humberto’s door.
“Who is it?” asked dead Milton’s girlfriend, Gabriela.
“It’s Carla,” I said.
Humberto opened the door. “What’s going on?” he said. He rubbed his eyes.
“What’s going on is that I’m going to America,” I said. “Are you in or are you out?”
Humberto shook his head. “You’re crazy,” he said.
“Can I please have a small bit of food?” I said. “Junior is so hungry. Just this last time.”
“Don’t give it to her,” yelled Gabriela, the witch. Though she had been kind to me when I became a woman, even giving me a menstrual cloth to use (and wash each night), I knew Gabriela envied my youth and the way Humberto loved me. She guarded each scrap he brought home from the dump. If I were the jealous type, I would be jealous. But I knew what was meant to be.
Humberto rummaged in the cupboard, pulled out a heel of bread.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You idiot,” said Humberto. “Are you really leaving?”
“In one week,” I told him, making the decision so easily it must have been the right one. “This is not a life,” I said. “You can come with me, or I will leave you behind.”
“You idiot,” repeated Humberto, shaking his head. And then he gripped my face with both his warm hands, and he kissed me.
12
Alice
THE FOURTH OF July parade—historic cars, the fire truck, baton twirlers, and a 4-H float—lumbered down Main Street, leaving confetti, candy wrappers, and sunburned spectators in its wake. Jane’s kids ran home by themselves, their pockets full of Jolly Rancher candies and plastic beads, while we folded the camp chairs and hauled them up Oak Street. The altitude (or maybe the festivity) was making me tired. “Remember when we used to have a float?” I said.
My dad laughed. “Your mom loved that sort of stuff,” he said.
“What? Parades?” I asked.
“She loved using a glue gun,” said my father.
“Who doesn’t?” said Jane.
“She loved pasting crepe paper onto poster boards,” said my father. Jane and I exchanged glances: it was rare for our dad to talk about our mom.
“She did?” I prompted.
“She loved modeling clay,” he said. He nodded soberly, then said, “Well, see you later. Told Bill I’d stop in for coffee.” He turned on his heel and strode away from us, toward the Episcopal church, raising his arm in farewell.
“Who’s Bill?” I said.
“The new pastor. He’s young,” said Jane. “How come I don’t remember Mom using modeling clay?”
“She’d make us snakes, little snakes out of clay,” I said. “And she’d make those signs for the store. Remember? ‘Fresh Strawberries’ or ‘Ortega Taco Shells Half Price—Have a Fiesta Tonight!’ ”
“Have a fiesta tonight?” said Jane.
I nodded. Jane looked teary. “Come on,” I said, taking her folding chair and carrying it up Oak Street. “Come on, Jane. Life’s a fiesta.”
She smiled, but it was fake. I was her sister, and could tell.
Late that afternoon, we returned to town for the Fire Hose Fights. Jane, the younger kids, and I piled into the apartment over Hill’s Market to watch the action from the front window. This year, Dennis and their oldest son, Rick, had formed a team. “We’re going to win, Aunt Alice,” Rick, a towering fourteen-year-old and star of the tiny high school’s basketball team, had said the night before. “It’s all about leaning into the water.”
“Maybe I should try,” said Jake.
Rick let loose a rude laugh, then caught himself and said politely, “I’m sorry, Uncle Jake. But it’s too late to enter.” He didn’t say that Jake was out of shape and hated to be cold or uncomfortable in any way. Jane had taught him manners, it seemed.
We opened beers as the teams faced each other along Main Street, readying themselves to be battered by water shooting from a fire hose. Dennis and Rick wore football helmets and pads covered by foul-weather coats and pants. Some wore motorcycle helmets or bulletproof vests.
“I really shouldn’t,” commented Jane, taking a large sip of a beer, then putting it aside. Benjamin knocked over a chair and began to wail.
“It never stops,” murmured Jake. I met his gaze and grimaced playfully. Though I’d always wanted children, Jane and Dennis’s life did seem hellish. Our lazy days in Austin seemed like a distant, wonderful dream: crossword puzzles, afternoon siestas. But Jake did not wink in response, or smile. His face was nakedly, painfully sad.
“Oh, have another beer,” I told him, annoyed. He shook his head and looked away. I knew what he wanted from me: sadness equal to his, wallowing, maybe tears. But I was not that sort of woman. I turned my attention from him—he was an adult, after all, and could take care of himself. Though I realized it wasn’t fair or even right, I despised him for his weakness. After all, he was the one who had decided to stop trying for a baby! I had told him a thousand times that taking action was the way to move past sorrow. But perhaps everyone needs to learn this lesson for themselves. I’d grown impatient waiting for him to figure it out.
“Ow!” shrieked Gilmer, who seemed to have pulled the bathroom shower curtain down and become entangled.
“Oh my God,” said Jane. She pressed her fingers to her eyes.
“What can I do to help?” I said, settling into a chair to watch as the adult teams turned on their jets.
Jane just sighed.
“Holy Christ!” yelled Jake, looking out at Main Street. “Rick and Dennis just knocked somebody down!”
“Yahoo!” cried Jane, cheering up, lifting her fist. “Go, baby!”
Later, we gathered around Jane and Dennis’s dining room table for brisket. “Dad?” said Jane. “Would you like to say grace?”
“Grace?” I said. “Since when do we—”
“God, our Heavenly Father,” said my dad, “we thank you for the food we are about to share. We thank you for our health and our loving family. We ask for your blessings, now and always, and a special blessing for Jane and Dennis’s new baby. Amen.”
Jane lifted her face and met my stunned gaze. “Yup,” she said. Her face was pale, resigned.
“Congratulations, you guys!” said Jake, standing up to hug Jane and Dennis. His words were falsely cheerful, like fluorescent bulbs over a hospital room.
“Wonderful news,” said my father. He repeated, “Wonderful news.” And then Benjamin knocked over his Kool-Aid and began to cry.
“Look at this smoke ring,” said Dennis, holding up his meat and pointing. “We’re in the hands of a master here.”
“Honey,” said Jane, “can you get Ben some more Kool-Aid?”
“No,” said Dennis. “No, I cannot.”
Jane stood up, used her napkin to sop up Benjamin’s spilled drink, and then burst into tears.
“Did I tell you guys,” I said, “that I’m going to help out at the high school?”
“What?” said Jake.
“Yeah,” I said. “The principal of Chávez Memorial High has asked me to meet with some of the kids. I’m going to mentor a girl named Evian when school starts in the fall. In fact, Evian shot her brother. By mistake.”
Even Gilmer went silent. Jane sank back down in her seat, seemingly relieved to be out of the spotlight. “Did you say shot her brother?” said my father.
“That’s what I said.”
“Wow,” said Jake, sounding hurt. “I didn’t know you were going to say yes.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said my father.
The Same Sky: A Novel Page 5