“I’m here with Jenny Martinez and Missy Hawthorne, two students at the University of Texas.” The two girls smiled and waved at the camera. La Sirena continued. “And they have a story to tell us. Missy, I’ll start with you. You were recently at a function for Lolita Boutique, correct?”
“That’s right,” Missy said with a slight blush. Then she faced the camera directly and explained, “I’m launching a career as a lingerie model.”
“While you were at the party a man approached you and showed you a press pass, correct?”
“Yes. He said he was a famous journalist and that he could get me an interview and photo shoot with a top magazine.”
“What magazine?” La Sirena leaned forward with a concerned look on her face, reminding Sandy of a real talk-show host.
“He didn’t say. But he kept hinting around that it was something really big—that he’d fly me to New York or LA or something.”
“And what was that man’s name?” La Sirena asked.
“George,” said Missy the lingerie model. “George Cantu.”
La Sirena turned to face the camera. Behind her, George’s old staff picture popped up on the screen. It was quickly replaced by a succession of unflattering photos of George in various settings. There was one of him eating at a party, with a bit of dip smeared on the side of his mouth. There was another in which he’d been caught grinning lecherously at a woman in a bikini. Sandy recognized it from the lowrider show they’d covered three months ago. It seemed like it’d been years.
“George Cantu is a writer for Buzz News in San Antonio. As longtime Nacho Papi readers will remember, he worked for us until a month ago, when he made a name for himself at Buzz by writing a character-assassination piece on our own Sandy S.”
Behind her, the monitor dutifully switched to photos of Sandy. These, mercifully, were flattering. Sandy almost didn’t recognize herself in them. There was one in particular in which she was wearing a strapless evening gown that had been lent to her by a local designer for a party in Atlanta. Sandy looked hot in that picture—she couldn’t deny it. More than one man had hit on her that night. And yet she wondered if Francisco or one of the new tech guys had airbrushed it to smooth out her skin and add the smallest shadow of cleavage. She frowned at the thought.
“Missy, did George ever get you an interview or a photo shoot?” La Sirena asked.
The girl shook her head. “No. I had dinner with him twice, and he kept making excuses for why it hadn’t happened yet. And he kept trying to get me to go back to his place. He said he wanted to take some Polaroids to show his producers. And, like, hinting that he could do more, if I did more for him. You know?”
“Oh, we know, Missy.” The monitor went back to the picture of George leering as La Sirena turned to the other young woman, who was a more petite Latina with dark hair, and didn’t seem like the lingerie modeling type. “Now, Jenny, you weren’t so lucky, were you?”
Jenny shook her head, looking equal parts rueful and excited to have her turn in the spotlight. “No. I met George at a party downtown. I told him I was a singer-songwriter, and he said he could get his bosses to do a story about my band.”
La Sirena nodded sympathetically. “And then what happened?”
Jenny did blush. “I went home with him that night, and we… uh… hooked up.”
Sandy shook her head as she watched the monitor. That poor girl. Sandy decided to interview the girl and her band later, to make up for the fact that she’d had to sleep with George.
La Sirena said, “You told me, when we met, that something unusual happened while you and George were being intimate. Would you like to share that with us now?”
Everyone in the editing room with Sandy paused. Sandy was surprised by La Sirena’s tasteless question, but found herself taking a step forward to hear the answer.
“When he, uh,” the young woman said. “When he, uh, reached that point, you know… He called me a name.”
“A bad name?” La Sirena pressed.
“No. Someone else’s name.” Jenny looked a little regretful now, as if maybe she was reconsidering her decision to tell this story on the air. Sandy felt even more sympathy for her.
But La Sirena leaned forward and urged her onward. “Whose name?”
“Sandy S.,” said the girl. “He called out ‘Oh, Sandy!’ ”
Right on cue, the picture of Sandy in the strapless gown went up on the monitor. There was a quiet gasp in the editing room. A couple of staff members turned to look at Sandy, who had been the one to make the noise. She felt as if a bucket of mud had just fallen on her head. She couldn’t have been more shocked, disarmed, or disgusted if the answer had been his own mother’s name. Or Angelica’s. Or the current president’s.
La Sirena faced the camera with a triumphant smirk on her face. “Wow, George. We knew you missed Nacho Papi, but we didn’t know you missed it that much.”
Sandy hurried out of the editing room. She wanted to flee the scene but knew she had to stop Angelica from putting this segment on air first. La Sirena was wrapping up the interview when Sandy got there. She and her guests said goodbye and stood up, and then, fast as cartoon characters, the staff members and interns prepared the interview set for something else. La Sirena and her guests had walked a little way from the set with Angelica, who was congratulating them on a good job.
Sandy marched over and interrupted their conversation. “Hey. You didn’t tell me you guys were going to talk about that. I didn’t agree to that.”
Angelica looked at her in surprise. “What’s wrong, Sandy? It was a good story. It completely discredited that piece George did with your ex, and that picture of you looked fantastic. I thought you’d be happy.”
“No, I’m not happy. I’m completely humiliated!” Sandy practically shouted it, then saw the two interviewees looking at her in open curiosity. La Sirena had her usual smile pasted in place. Why, Sandy wondered, was she the only one who saw how wrong this was? She stammered, “I just didn’t think it was going to be so… personal.”
Angelica laughed. “Oh, come on, Sandy. You, Miss TragiComedy Texas, are worried about a story being too personal?”
The other women laughed, and Angelica led the two guests away. La Sirena put a hand on Sandy’s arm, reminiscent of Angelica’s but less rough. “Sandy, I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t know. I thought it was just going to be a story about George using his press pass to meet women. I didn’t know it was going to turn into something so… creepy.”
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Just between you and me, the girl wasn’t even sure he’d actually said your name. It was probably just ‘baby’ or ‘mami.’ But this way it’s a better story, and we get him back for what he did to you, right?”
Sandy didn’t answer.
“Listen,” La Sirena said, her voice as sweet as a skinny latte, “you look stressed. Why don’t you go somewhere and chill out? Go shopping or something. I’ll cover for you with Angelica, and I’ll take your news segment for the day.”
Sandy pulled away from the younger woman’s fake-friendly touch. “No, I’m fine. I can do my own segment. Thanks, anyway.” She finished with a fake smile of her own, not wanting La Sirena to see that she was annoyed.
Get it together, Sandy told herself as she walked to the news set, smiling at the co-workers she passed. Now wasn’t the time to fall apart emotionally. She didn’t want Angelica—or that two-faced La Sirena—to think that she couldn’t handle her job. Not after how hard she’d worked to get here in the first place.
60
Entry from Aunt Linda’s journal, December 23, 1966
Jaime says if I wanted to leave Miguel, I could go up to the Hill County with him, where his cousin works on a goat ranch or some such thing. I’d have my own house, he said. No funny stuff. I told him there was no way. No, I’m not happy here. But I made my bed and now I have to lie in it. Besides, Rudolfo lives in Austin now and if I went up that way, he’d probably dra
g me right back home.
Mom says Ruby’s doing good up in California. I’m glad for her. Even though we aren’t close, I always wanted better for her. She’s young. It’s not too late.
It’s almost Christmas. Think I’m going to try pyracantha berry jelly. That’s what that bush is outside. Found a book about it at the library and they had the recipe, too.
61
Later that week, Sandy sat in her car in the parking lot of a south Austin diner. It was 10 A.M. on a Thursday, not a likely time for any Nacho Papi readers to be indulging in pancakes. There were only a few elderly types inside, in fact. But Sandy was reluctant to go in nonetheless. She felt shell-shocked, afraid to show herself in public and risk getting yelled at.
So she sat in her car with a drive-through latte, holding her aunt’s journal. She’d opened it to a random page in the middle and was puzzling out the words. Rudolfo was her grandfather on her mother’s side, of course. Miguel was her mother’s late uncle, Miguel Trujillo, whom Sandy had never known. The Jaime in the journal was very obviously the man Sandy knew as Tío Jaime. But what had happened? Had her great-aunt left Miguel for Jaime? If so, no one in Sandy’s family had ever talked about it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her cell phone’s ringing. It was a number she didn’t recognize, area code 212. New York City.
“Hello?”
“Sandy?” A man’s voice. “How are you? This is Jacob. Jacob Levy.”
Sandy sat and listened to Jacob Levy talk. It was the first time he’d ever called her. He talked fast and clear, like a radio DJ hurrying through a sponsor’s message. He was proud of the work she’d been doing. He was glad she was staying strong through the surprise publicity about her love life. He hoped she’d seen the latest page views and ratings, and that she was proud of how much attention she’d brought the show and the site. His voice reminded her of Angelica’s: he was professional and upbeat, without any break in the flow.
“Yes, Mr. Levy. Thank you, Mr. Levy.”
“Call me Jacob. Okay, Sandy, I have a meeting to get to now. You keep up the good work. I hope to see you in town soon.”
“Yes, sir. Jacob.”
He hung up and Sandy sat still, absorbing the moment. Jacob Levy was happy to be getting ratings and page views. It made no difference to him whether it was Sandy’s life they were talking about or a made-up character who had the same name.
She looked at the time on her phone. It was just past 10 A.M. now, and she was scheduled to record her show segment, a quick overview of the news and then an interview with local activist Tito Z., at two that day. She really should have been on her way to the office right then, to check in with everyone and see what was going on. But instead she started her engine and drove off in the opposite direction.
THERE WAS A strange car in Tío Jaime’s driveway.
“What are you doing here?” someone said through the screen door before she could even get close enough to make out the face behind it. The door opened and nephew Richard emerged. Sandy stopped in her tracks, in the yard. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” he said loudly, as if to keep her from coming any closer solely with the force of his voice. “My uncle has filed a cease-and-desist.”
Sandy crossed her arms and swallowed hard. He was right. Of course he was—he was the one who’d written the letter on his uncle’s behalf. But, at the same time, he wasn’t right. He was wrong about her.
“Where’s your uncle?” she said. “I came to visit him. Not for the Web site.”
“Right. Where’s your camera? In your bag? We don’t want you here anymore, so you can go find someone else to mock for profit.” He stood there like a tall, leafless tree. He wasn’t wearing a suit this time, but even in a golf shirt and khakis he looked formidable. Righteous and ready to argue his case to the death.
But in this instance he was wrong. Sandy swallowed again and took a step forward. “I wasn’t mocking him for profit, and I didn’t come here for the Web site. I visit him all the time. You wouldn’t know because you hardly ever visit. He’s my… My great-aunt was his… He’s my friend. You don’t know.”
Richard scoffed audibly. “Well, he can’t see you, so you have no reason to be here.”
Sandy was worried then. “What do you mean, he can’t see me? Where is he?” He said nothing, only tightened his jaw and looked at the distant, omnipresent goats. Sandy took the few steps to the porch so she wouldn’t have to talk as loudly. “Is he okay?”
“No, he’s not okay. Ms. Saavedra, my uncle is very old. He might risk his health working outdoors all day, and he might perk up when pretty young girls come to visit him, but the truth is, he’s in very poor health and the last thing he needs is the stress of being made into some kind of online celebrity.”
The way he said that phrase, almost in a sneer, made Sandy wonder how much Richard knew about her. How much he’d read about her. Still, she wasn’t going to back down now. “What do you mean, poor health? What’s wrong with him?”
“What’s going on?” Tío Jaime’s voice came from inside the house.
Sandy exhaled slowly. He was here, then. “It’s me, Tío Jaime.”
“Sandy? Richard, why didn’t you tell me Sandy was here?”
Sandy wondered why the old man hadn’t come outside. And then the screen door was bumped open and she saw.
He was using a walker. For some reason Tío Jaime couldn’t walk. Slowly—painfully slowly—he hobbled through the door in short clunks of the metal walker. He bent over the contraption in frustration, trying to force it through the narrow doorway.
“What happened?” Sandy gasped. “Why are you—?”
“Tío Jaime,” said Richard, “you need to stay inside. It’s almost time for us to go.”
The old man wasn’t wearing his hat, and his thinned gray hair fell over his eyes. He shook it away impatiently as he finally cleared the doorway and joined them on the porch. “I don’t need to stay inside. I heard Sandy and came out to see her.”
“Tío Jaime, this is the woman who sold the T-shirts with your picture. This is the woman who put you on TV without your permission. It’s because of her that those boys came over here the other day. She’s the one causing all the problems.” Richard’s voice had become loud again. He seemed to think Tío Jaime didn’t understand what was happening—that he wasn’t in his right mind and didn’t know who Sandy was.
Did he?
Silence fell over the group on the porch and Sandy replayed Richard’s words in her head.
Yes, she was the one who’d used Tío Jaime’s image—who’d made him into a celebrity—without his permission. She had tried to rationalize it to herself but, at the end of the day, yes, it was her. She had done it all.
He was right. She was definitely the one who had caused all the problems.
Sandy felt her face heat up. She looked down at the floor and felt the two men looking at her.
It was true. She’d been the one to cause all the problems. Not just for Tío Jaime, but for herself. The hard realization of it made her face burn.
And what was she doing here now, Sandy asked herself. True, she may not have been planning to record Tío Jaime for the site or for the show—not this time—but she’d been about to interrupt whatever he was doing that day. She’d come to visit him because doing so always made her feel better… about the problems she had caused for herself.
And here he was now, in poor health. The man was too weak to walk. And she hadn’t even noticed the strain he was under this whole time. She’d been too self-involved.
Sandy felt tears well up in her eyes. She wished Richard wasn’t here watching her. But, despite his presence, she looked up at the old man and said, “Tío Jaime, I am so sorry.”
His eyes met hers, but he said nothing. Sandy had to squint to keep from crying outright. She had lied to him. He’d given her so much, and asked for so little in return, and she hadn’t even been able to honor his wishes. Tío Jaime had been nothing but kind to her—and to he
r aunt—and she had used him for her own selfish needs. “I’m sorry,” she said again. What else could she say?
Tío Jaime looked away. He turned away, dragging the walker in the direction of his front door, and began the long hobble back the way he’d come. Sandy stumbled forward to open the screen door for him, but Richard was already there. He held the door until the old man had gone inside, and then he closed it quietly before turning to face Sandy.
“You need to leave now.”
With a sniff, Sandy nodded. She should leave. He was right. She had no right to be there.
But… “Richard, I just want you to know. I’m sorry for any trouble I caused your uncle. Truly, I am. But I need you to understand. I didn’t do anything… I wasn’t trying to do anything that would—”
“Save it,” he said. “The damage is done, and the sooner you’re out of here the better.” He was staring into the distance again, like he always did when talking to her. As if she was too horrible a person to look at.
It hurt.
Sandy felt like she couldn’t leave until she’d made him understand. “I’m trying to tell you that I didn’t mean to cause your uncle any trouble. I know it’s hard for you to believe it, seeing it from the outside, but I really care about him very much. I wasn’t trying to use him to make money. I just thought that, if other people could get from him what I get from him—his words, his humor, his perspective on life—then maybe they’d—”
“Give you more money?” He did look at her now, and Sandy wished then that he hadn’t. She could see it in his eyes: he did think she was a horrible person. She wished now that she had left when he’d asked her to. But because she hadn’t, she got to hear what he’d say next. “Or maybe that they’ll tune in to hear the latest installment of your sex life and make you more famous?”
Lone Star Legend Page 19