These Dreams Which Cannot Last

by Matt Flickinger

  The house smells like coffee when he opens the door. Zain’s mom and Aunt Mellie’s voices are quiet in the kitchen. He can picture them at the table, fingers wrapped around their mugs. He considers calling out that he’s back, but doesn’t. Instead he pushes the front door closed behind him quietly and sneaks down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “This is what I’m saying, sis,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain’s mother sniffs. It sounds like she’s crying, or was.

  “I know. I need a day,” she says.

  “Yes, you do. Take it. I’ll take Zain out, go bowling or something. I want to have some time with him anyways.”

  “Thank you, he’ll enjoy that. I just…It’s been hard.”

  “I can’t even imagine. You’re looking good though.”

  “I’m not. I’ve put on so much weight.”

  “Wine weight,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain’s mother laughs. How long has it been since Zain has heard that sound? he wonders. It is silent for a moment, then someone scoots a chair away from the table. Zain tiptoes back to the front door. He reopens the door and closes it loudly. “Hello?”

  “In here, running man,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain meets his mother at the entrance of the kitchen. “Good morning,” she says. Her eyes are swollen and red.

  “Good morning,” Zain says.

  “How was your run?”

  She never asks about his runs.

  “Really good. I kind of got lost,” Zain says.

  “Glad you made it back,” she says with her usual half smile. She walks down the hallway and shuts the bathroom door behind her.

  Aunt Mellie bends down behind Zain as he collapses into a chair at the kitchen table, and wraps her arms around his neck, resting her chin on his head. “You want some coffee?” she asks.

  “I’m sweaty, sorry.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “I’ll get some water in a minute,” he says.

  “I got it. Shirt looks good.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “Ice?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I thought maybe we’d grab some lunch today, just you and me,” she says, filling a big glass at the sink.

  “It’s pretty early for lunch,” Zain says.

  “We can hang here for a while. Your mom has some things to take care of.” Aunt Mellie sets the glass on the edge of the table, “plus, it might take us a bit to get there, cowboy.” She slides the glass over like a bartender from one of those old western movies. Zain catches the glass, a bit of it spilling over onto his hand. “You up for an adventure?” she asks.

  “Sure.”

  “Sure,” Aunt Mellie says, her mouth turned down in silly imitation. “Come on, you’re on vacation!” She pulls out a chair and sits across from him, looking at Zain with that mischievous Aunt Mellie gleam in her eye, “we are hangin’ today. Serious hanging. Now,” she leans in and looks back over her shoulder. “I told your mom we are going bowling. Which is totally lame,” she throws her hands up in a shrug, “but cool if you want to.”

  “Or?” Zain asks, bending over his glass.

  Water fills pipes in the wall as the shower switches on in the bathroom behind them. Aunt Mellie leans closer, “How about a little seafood?”

  “I like seafood,” Zain says.

  “How about a little Mexican seafood?” She asks, sitting back up.

  “Sure?” Zain says.

  “Good. Then it’s settled.”

  “What’s so adventurous about seafood?”

  “There’s only one place to get good Mexican seafood around here.”

  He looks at Aunt Mellie, the gleam in her eyes growing. “Wait,” he says.

  “Come on, nephew.”

  “Juarez?” Zain whispers.

  “If you’re not up for it…”

  Zain still remembers bits and pieces of his family’s last trip to Juarez eight years ago. The ornately decorated walls of the restaurant, the heaping colorful plates of enchiladas, his mother whispering not to drink the water. Mostly, though, it was the adventurous feeling as they crossed back over the border that he recalls. Zain hadn’t really understood they were in a totally different country until they were sitting on the bridge waiting to reenter El Paso. His dad suggested going over for a quick lunch a couple years ago, but the idea was shut down by his grampa. Still too dangerous, he said. When Zain asked about it later, his father explained how this place used to be different. El Paso was the only place in the country with that kind of a relationship with such a large neighboring foreign city. Almost like one big city with a border cinched in the middle, like a belt, holding it all together. Not like San Diego or Nogales or any of the little towns that shared a border, definitely not like boring River Valley, he said. When the cartels took over, though, El Paso and Juarez split. Separated from its other half, like a bloody surgery separating Siamese twins, El Paso was left lonely, looking south at a suffering sister city it couldn’t save, over a fence that never really mattered until then. Later that week, Zain caught a couple of his grandma’s stories about the drug cartels. Terrifying tales his mother would not be okay with him hearing. Stories about listening to gunfire from her porch, and one about the owner of that restaurant they used to dinner at going missing. They’ll probably find her head in the desert, his grandma said. Zain’s mother came into the room before his grandma could tell any more, but couldn’t shut her up fast enough. She had told enough. The stories were scary, but remembering them now, it is his father’s face that is the worst part. His head nodding in sad surrender, as he agreed that it probably wasn’t a good idea to cross, all his excitement from just days before totally depleted. In every visit since, Zain has looked over at the city across the river, at the little houses stacked down the steep dirt hills, remembering and wondering, feeling like he has been missing out on something.

  “I’m down,” Zain says, “let’s do it.”

  “Hell ya,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Even though things have gotten better in Mexico, it still takes a long time to cross the bridge. As they near the border check station, Zain watches the cars coming the other way, into America, zigzagging slowly around cement barriers. The people in the cars coming over the bridge look like most others they passed on the freeway on the way to the border. Zain wishes he would’ve brought his sketchbook. He pulls his phone from his pocket, taking pictures. One of the border sign ahead, then the barriers, then a shot over the barrier of a little girl in the back of a dusty Oldsmobile, a line of dark hair almost reaching her eyebrows. He sends the pictures to Charlotte with a title, “heading to Juarez.”

  “Almost there,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain’s phone dings. He checks the text, “Cool! Stay safe.”

  The outside of the restaurant looks like a mission, like the Alamo, but newer. It smells delicious inside, like grilled vegetables and fish. Aunt Mellie chooses a table close to the bar, under an umbrella of Palm leaves. The wall of the bar looks like brown fish scales, a few of the wood scales painted blue and green. It is a happy looking place, Zain thinks.

  When the waiter comes, Aunt Mellie orders their drinks in Spanish.

  “I wish I knew Spanish,” Zain says.

  “Me too. I only know enough.”

  “More than me.”

  “You haven’t needed it yet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” Aunt Mellie says, “I learned because I needed it, living on the border.”

  “I live on the border.”

  Aunt Mellie raises her eyebrows. She thinks for a while before answering, “River Valley isn’t the same.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Aunt Mellie sits back in her chair and spreads her arms, “look around, nephew.”

  The place is mostly empty. There are a couple guys at the bar. Zain looks over his shoulder. Two other families sit under their own Palm leaf umbrellas. �
�Okay?”

  “What’s different?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not about them. About us.”

  Zain and his Aunt are the only people at a table that aren’t a full family.

  “We’re just the two of us?”

  The waiter places a glass bottle of coke in front of Zain and a plastic cup full of ice. He pulls a yellow drink in a short glass from the little tray and sets it in front of Aunt Mellie. Zain grabs his coke bottle, tipping it toward the glass.

  “Wait,” Aunt Mellie says. “Drink it from the bottle.” Zain sets the bottle back down. “The ice might give you a stomach ache,” she says. She takes a drink from her glass. “Have you figured it out yet?”

  Zain looks around again. “We’re the only white people here.”

  “Exactly,” Aunt Mellie says, taking another drink.

  “But we’re in Mexico.”

  “Yes. But you didn’t notice. That’s the thing with River Valley. It has just enough diversity to teach you not to notice your whiteness, enough of a balance that you won’t notice what you are missing. But when you hear Spanish, it is foreign. For me it is home. River Valley has just enough color, but not enough culture.”

  Usually when Aunt Mellie goes off, Zain is into it. But this is different. It feels like she’s lecturing at him. She’s never done that. Especially about his home. And, even though River Valley isn’t a place he is particularly protective about, Aunt Mellie’s tone is making him upset.

  “River Valley lacks the cooperative culture that makes other border cities special,” she continues. “Your town is an anomaly. A lovely little town sitting on a border it doesn’t embrace, only tolerates.”

  The way she says it, your town makes him feel extra defensive, “There are a bunch of Hispanics in River Valley, though,” Zain says. “My friend Jackson—”

  “Yes, but,” Aunt Mellie takes a drink, thinking, “River Valley isolated itself. White settlers rooted down, established expectations before anyone else was granted access. By the time they had to accept anybody else,” she takes another drink, “that isolation preserved a boringness that became the town’s trademark. Even the town name, River Valley. What other town on the border do you know that doesn’t have a Spanish name? The immigrants brought their culture, but by then it didn’t matter. They faded into the expectation of otherness. Didn’t demand their own place outside their homes, even their own neighborhoods. But what else could they do?”

  Aunt Mellie takes another long drink, the ice clinking in the bottom of her glass as she sets it back on the table. Zain doesn’t know what to say. He looks down at the menu. It’s in Spanish. He recognizes a few of the words, but not enough.

  “Anything look good?”

  Zain holds the menu up between them. He’s never really thought of his town like that before. He feels like crying.

  “I’m sorry,” Aunt Mellie says after a bit. “I kind of went off there.”

  “No big deal,” Zain says.

  “I think it’s why your mom moved there, though. It’s safe. I get it, I guess. Get it for her. Your dad liked El Paso, though. Appreciated it. But your mom wanted out. You know they lived in El Paso together, right? ”

  Of course he knows. Dad was from Albuquerque, came down to New Mexico State where he met Zain’s mom. They lived close to grandma and grandpa after graduation, then they moved to River Valley when Zain’s dad got a job. Zain lowers the menu, “they moved to River Valley for his job.”

  “There were jobs here, always are,” Aunt Mellie says. “But they took a weekend trip to River Valley and she loved it. And he loved her.” With that she finishes her drink.

  Zain’s phone dings in his pocket. The waiter comes back to the table. Zain orders the Camarones a La Diabla, a bit heavy on the attempted accent. As the waiter leaves, Zain’s phone dings again.

  “You’re a popular guy,” Aunt Mellie says. “A young lady perhaps?”

  Zain pulls his phone from his pocket and smiles. “Oooh! It is a young lady,” Aunt Mellie says.

  “Just looked at the photos,” the text reads, “the picture of the little girl is amazing! She is adorable and kind of sad.” Definitely what Zain was thinking when he took the picture.

  “Well? Don’t keep her waiting,” Aunt Mellie says.

  Zain sets his phone on the table and takes a sip from his Coke. It tastes different. Warmer, sure, but different than American Coke. Sweeter, not as fake.

  “Playing it cool,” Aunt Mellie says. “How do you like the Coke?”

  “It’s delicious!” Zain says.

  Aunt Mellie smiles, “it’s the cane sugar. That’s what Coke is supposed to taste like.” Zain takes another drink. It is better, for sure. “So, you gonna dish or what?”

  “Dish?”

  “Your lady, nephew. Do I get details?”

  Zain burps and blows it into the air.

  “Good one. At least give me a name.”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte. Classic name. Pretty?”

  Zain thinks how to answer. If he wants to at all. What would his Aunt’s reaction be? How would he describe Charlotte? Aunt Mellie raises her eyebrows, waiting with a warm smile, her lecture face completely gone.

  “She’s gorgeous,” Zain says.

  “Of course she is. Do you have a picture?”

  Not for the first time, Zain regrets not having a picture of Charlotte, “No.”

  “Have you kissed her?”

  Zain’s face explodes with warmth. He can actually feel the skin reddening in his cheeks. He takes another drink and looks away, but not before seeing the smile on Aunt Mellie’s face. She turns and raises her hand to the barkeep, signaling for another drink.

  “You’ve kissed the gorgeous Charlotte and don’t have a picture to show your Auntie?”

  It does seem a bit weird that he doesn’t have one. But she’s not really the selfie taking kind, he thinks. Snapping his own when she isn’t looking would be creepy, not that he hasn’t considered it. Probably no creepier than drawing her when she isn’t looking.

  “Why not ask her to send you one?” Aunt Mellie says, like it is the most obvious solution.

  “What? I couldn’t do that.”

  “She put her lips on yours, I’m sure she won’t mind a little pic. Tell her it’s to show your cool Aunt. She’ll be stoked you’re talking about her.”

  “You don’t know Charlotte.”

  “Nephew, I get all the ladies. If there is anyone in your life that knows girls, it is me.”

  Zain laughs. That is most definitely true. He’s actually been wondering about his Aunt’s girlfriend situation. The lady he met last time was cool and super pretty. Leslie, or Lily? Something like that. Aunt Mellie hasn’t mentioned her yet, though, so Zain hasn’t asked. Maybe they broke up, he thinks. He hopes not, she was super nice.

  “Zainy, just ask her.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Well, what have you been texting her today?” Aunt Mellie scoots her chair around the corner of the table to sit next to Zain. He grabs his phone before she can. “Relax,” Aunt Mellie says, her hands in a surrender, “you don’t have to show me the dirty ones.”

  “What! There aren’t…dirty ones.”

  Aunt Mellie laughs. “Come on. We can figure this out. I take you to a dangerous foreign land for the best Coke and shrimp in the world and you can’t even get me a picture of your girlfriend?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Zain says. At least, he doesn’t think so. Maybe though. He can’t think about that right now. Not with Aunt Mellie smiling at him like that. That smile probably does get her all the ladies. Zain opens his phone and passes it over. Aunt Mellie only scrolls up a couple inches, not reading anything from last night’s conversation. Her face changes as she looks over the pictures he sent.

  “Damn. These are good.” She scrolls down to Charlotte’s text. “She’s right, the one of the l
ittle girl is sad. You have a good eye.”

  “Thanks, I think I might do a piece about the border.” The title comes to him as he watches his Aunt’s face looking at the little girl again, her finger tracing the girl’s face. “I could call it The Real Border. Something like that.”

  The waiter comes back with Aunt Mellie’s drink. She looks up at Zain, “I think that would be awesome. You’re still drawing?”

  “A bunch lately. I got a sketchbook.”

  “Did Charlotte buy you this sketch pad?”

  Zain shakes his head, “no, but she gave me the idea.”

  Aunt Mellie hands him back his phone, “it’s perfect. You sent her pictures. It’s her turn.”

  It does kind of make sense, Zain thinks.

  “Text her this,” Aunt Mellie says, waiting until Zain pulls up the text screen. “I was inspired. Maybe you send me a picture?”

  Zain considers it, shaking his head.

  “Okay. How about this? ‘Thanks. Your turn.’”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Okay. How about ‘I’ve been telling my cool ass Aunt about you and she won’t stop pestering me until I show her a picture of you?’ No punctuation, of course. Make it sound urgent.”

  Zain laughs, “That actually sounds okay.”

  “Yes!” Aunt Mellie says, taking a drink. “Send that shit.”

  Zain types out the message, “My Aunt wants to see a picture of you. Can you send me one please? She won’t stop bothering me.” Before he can read over it a third time, he hits send. Aunt Mellie moves her chair back around to her side of the table.

  “So, while we wait. Tell me about the lovely Charlotte.”

  “She’s really cool,” Zain says, “she writes stories and knows a lot about music.”

  “Very nice.”

  “We went to a show on Saturday. My mom doesn’t know though.” Aunt Mellie pulls her fingers across her lips, zipping them closed. Zain doesn’t tell her about the joint. “We saw this band, The Debutaunts, with an au. Like taunt.”