Lone Star Legend

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  “Nothing. They just took off a couple of my toes that’d been bugging me. Like I said, they just want to run up bills.”

  Sandy knew what was going on now. She’d heard before about old people with diabetes having their toes removed. It’d almost happened to her grandfather on her father’s side, she knew. It only happened to very old people, who never went to the doctor. “Tío Jaime,” she whispered, aghast. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She thought back, again, to all the cookies and sweets she’d been bringing him. “And why’d you let me feed you all that candy?”

  He shook his head stubbornly. “You didn’t feed me anything. I ate them myself. And I can take care of myself. I know how much candy I can eat.”

  “Apparently you don’t!” Sandy indicated his mummy-wrapped foot, which the nurse had left uncovered.

  Tío Jaime grumbled again. “This isn’t because of the candy. It’s because I didn’t have my medicine. I got tired of going downtown and standing in those long lines, doing all that paperwork, just to see some smart-ass doctor and let him prescribe me more pills to stand in line for. I decided to just go without it. Nothing but a bunch of damn chemicals, anyway. It’s all a racket.”

  Sandy got up and arranged the blanket over his feet, feeling guiltier than ever. She wished she had known he was so ill. Or that he’d needed help getting his medicine. He’d never seemed sick. He’d looked healthy as a horse, working outdoors, at one with nature and all that.

  But, then again, she’d never asked about his health or anything else. She’d only talked to him about her own petty problems, and the petty problems of strangers.

  What, she wondered as she took her seat back at the old man’s side, would his uptight nephew say when he found out her part in all this? Maybe he already knew.

  “Tío Jaime, I’m really sorry about what happened. About those T-shirts and the TV show, and people going to your house to bother you.”

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I gave you permission. I signed the paper.”

  Sandy frowned. “No, you didn’t. You told me specifically not to do it, and I did it anyway. I let my boss do it without your permission. And then you only signed the paper to keep Richard from suing us. Why? Why did you do that?”

  The old man shrugged. “Because you’re the niece of my best friend. You made a mistake, but I didn’t want to see you get in trouble for it. Besides, that was the chance I took. I knew what might happen. I could have stopped you from taking those pictures, but I didn’t.” He smiled up at Sandy wryly. “That’s what I get for having a swelled head, thinking strangers needed my advice.”

  He was so good to take it this way. She smiled back weakly and shook her head. “I lied to you, but I’m going to make it up to you now. I’m going to get my boss to pay you for all your appearances, and for the shirts.”

  He shook his head. “No, m’ija. I don’t want any money. Don’t worry about it anymore. I was never mad about it. It was just my nephew. Speaking of”—he turned and looked at the clock on the bedside table—“Richard will be here soon.”

  “I’d better leave, then,” Sandy replied. “He wouldn’t be too happy to find out I’m visiting you.”

  “Maybe not. But…” He obviously had trouble forming the words of the request he wanted to make. “Would you come back again, maybe tomorrow?” He coughed and added in explanation, “It’s kind of depressing, being here by myself.”

  Sandy sighed and leaned down to give him a hug that took him by surprise. “Of course I’ll come back.” She stood and took a notebook from her bag. She wrote her phone number on a sheet of paper, then hid it under the clunky bedside phone while he watched. “Call me anytime and I’ll come back. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll come back tomorrow, anyway.”

  She gave him another hug then and left, wishing she could do more.

  65

  Entry from Aunt Linda’s journal, April 2, 1968

  We drove to Austin this weekend. They were having a carnival. It was beautiful.

  The library there is so big. I think it has every book ever written. They let me get a card there and I checked out more books than I can read in two weeks. I was greedy, but it felt good. In two weeks I’ll go back again, when I go to town with the eggs and the goat milk.

  Ruby wrote to me. She said she’s shocked, just shocked at my behavior. I had to laugh.

  Sometimes I wonder what I did to deserve this happiness. Maybe God was too busy to see what I’d been doing, and he’s forgotten to punish me for it so far.

  Usually, though, I don’t wonder. I just enjoy. Life’s too short for that kind of worrying. Too short and too beautiful.

  Entry from Aunt Linda’s journal, September 8, 1969

  I got a job. The elementary school needed someone who speaks Spanish, who can also read and write English, to help with the kids. So I’m a teacher’s aide now. I ride there on my bike in the mornings. It’s six miles.

  They call me Mrs. Trujillo at the school, of course, because that’s still my name. But I tell the kids to call me Miss Linda, instead. They’re all so sweet. I read to them and translate the stories so they’ll understand. They’re so smart and happy, most of them. It makes me wish I’d had my own. But God had another plan, so that’s okay.

  Jaime says that if I want to get married, we can just go to the church and say it, ourselves, in front of the altar. That God will understand, and we don’t need any paperwork.

  But I’m okay with it, either way. If God’s going to understand, then he already does, I figure. I don’t think of myself as married to Miguel anymore, and I don’t think it matters whether I call myself Mrs. Trujillo or Mrs. Escobar.

  I’m just Linda. I’m just me. Take it or leave it—I’ll be fine either way.

  I’m reading a book called The Age of Innocence. It’s sad, but good.

  66

  Sandy went on vacation the Friday George was rehired. Not from writing her posts, of course; her contract made that impossible. Luckily, she was practiced enough by now to write Nacho Papi posts in her sleep. All she had to do was string together something about Amber Chavez’s ass, some politician’s hair, or a hint of what was going on in her personal life lately. She could whip up a whole batch of posts and e-mail them to Angelica from anywhere. But after visiting Tío Jaime, she called in and gave all her news segments for the following week to Lori and La Sirena. Then she went home. To hide.

  “Sandy?” Early Saturday morning her mother quietly tapped at the garage apartment door, sounding like a cat scratching to get in. “Sandy, are you awake?”

  Sandy rolled out of her sofa and unlocked the door, then went right back to her sofa to sit and endure her mother’s conversation. Her eyes were blurred with sleep and old mascara. Her head throbbed in a low, insistent rhythm.

  “What’s wrong, baby? You look terrible. Did you stay up all night on the computer?”

  Sandy shook her head. She hadn’t stayed up all night on the computer. Half the night she’d read her aunt’s journal instead. For a split second, she thought about telling her mother about the diary. But just as quickly she decided to keep it to herself. Aunt Linda had entrusted it to Tío Jaime, and he had entrusted it to her. There was no reason to tell anyone else about it. Besides, her mom still thought it was strange that Sandy had made Tío Jaime a mini-celebrity by interviewing him as the Chupacabra so many times.

  Her mother joined her on the sofa and was unable to resist straightening the journal, the laptop, and Sandy’s last few coffee cups on the coffee table as she asked again, “What’s wrong, baby? Don’t tell me nothing. I can tell something’s bothering you.”

  “Nothing. I mean, it’s no big deal.” Sandy wiped under her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair, trying to look a little less pathetic than she must have seemed to her mother at that moment.

  “Is it that thing with Danny? Are people still sending you ugly e-mails at your job?”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s… my job, itself. You know the guy who wrote
that article about me and Daniel?”

  “Papi Chulo?”

  It annoyed Sandy that her mother knew George’s screen name, but she went on. “Yes, him. Well, Angelica hired him back. He’s going to be on the TV show with us now.”

  “What? No!” Her mother couldn’t have been more incredulous if one of her soap opera characters had admitted to killing another.

  Sandy was gratified that she at least grasped the gravity of the situation. “Yes. He’s back, and Angelica expects me to just show up at work like everything’s fine and do a segment with George where we argue about relationships or something stupid like that.”

  Mrs. Saavedra looked puzzled. “Okay. So what’s the problem?”

  Sandy sighed in exasperation. She should have known her mother wouldn’t understand. “The problem, Mom, is that I don’t want to be anywhere near that jerk.”

  “Why not, though? Why not do the thing with him, and show everybody that he didn’t get to you with his stupid article? Laugh it off. Make him look bad. Be the bigger person, like they say.”

  Sandy sighed again and fell back against a throw pillow, taking the other to hold against her chest. “It’s not just that. It’s…” How could she explain it so that her mother would understand? Her mother, who loved gossip and drama and was proud to have a daughter whose job embroiled her in gossip and drama? “It’s that the show’s not about other people anymore, Mom. Suddenly, it’s about me and my personal life and my issues with George and the other writers. People are only watching now to find out more about my love life, or because they’re hoping something bad will happen to me. It’s like I’m a soap opera character all of a sudden, you know? Not a real person anymore.”

  “Well, you’re famous now,” her mother said matter-of-factly, as if she’d fully expected this trajectory to take place in her daughter’s life.

  “But I don’t want to be famous for that,” Sandy said plaintively. “Not for who I’m sleeping with or not sleeping with, not because people are arguing whether or not I’m a whore or a bad person. I wanted to be famous for my writing. And my reporting.” Explaining to her mother, she realized, was helping her crystallize these thoughts in her head for the first time. “I wanted to be recognized for my work, and now it’s too late to do that. I ruined everything. I went too far and I can’t go back now.”

  Her mother made a sympathetic noise and put her hand on Sandy’s shoulder. Unlike Angelica’s recent gestures, her mother’s hand was warm and somewhat comforting, even if it couldn’t fix her problems with a single touch.

  At least I’m not stuck in the Valley, in the sixties, with a husband I don’t love and a lover I can’t have. Sandy laughed bitterly at the thought. Some people her age had to endure real problems, she knew. But knowing that didn’t make her petty problems any less unpleasant. She chuckled again, causing her mother to give her a worried look and to apply a hand to Sandy’s forehead.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? Maybe you’re coming down with something.”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.” Sandy gently pushed away her mother’s hand and stood. It was time to get up and get it together. “How’re you doing, Mom? Have you heard any news about Dad since his wedding? Is he completely miserable?” It had been three weeks since her father’s wedding, but so much had happened to Sandy since then it felt like only a few days.

  Mrs. Saavedra shook her head and stood as well. “I don’t know. I don’t care anymore. I’ve stopped worrying about that man.” She helped Sandy pick up the empty paper cups and crumpled napkins and carry them to the trash can in the kitchenette.

  “Oh. Well, good.” Sandy wondered what else to say. She wanted to keep her mom from worrying about her. “So what are you doing today?”

  “Working. I traded shifts with Hazel today. I’m going in from two to ten.”

  “Oh.” Sandy felt bad all over again. Here she was feeling sorry for herself, and meanwhile her mother had to spend her Saturday evening working at a bail bond office. “Well, that sucks.”

  Mrs. Saavedra laughed. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, baby. I traded with Hazel so I could have tomorrow off. I’m going to the movies.” She glanced away, uncharacteristically shyly, and added, “With a friend.”

  “Oh, really?” Sandy’s interest was piqued, but not rewarded.

  Her mother hugged her and then turned to the door. “Take care of yourself, baby. Take a long bath—you’ll feel better.”

  Sandy watched her mother hurry out of her apartment and back to her own life with all its little secrets. She wondered if she’d have that for herself, too, someday.

  She turned and looked at her laptop, which sat innocently on the table. That was where all her trouble had started, and she’d been the one to start it.

  Maybe, she thought, if she couldn’t have secrets anymore, she could at least have a life she wouldn’t be embarrassed to live under her real name.

  67

  She went back to the hospital Saturday evening. Tío Jaime had called and said that Richard had been there that morning and so most likely wouldn’t be back until the next day. The coast was clear.

  She was worried about Cano. It’d occurred to her the night before. How was the dog taking his master’s absence? Was Richard going over there to feed him? To pet him? To sit on the porch with him, in the breeze?

  She arrived at the hospital shortly after seven, when Tío Jaime was sure to have had his dinner. Bearing a gift of gourmet sugar-free chocolates, she rode the elevator up to her friend’s room.

  As she walked down the hall, her heels clacking past the nurses’ station to his room, her phone shook and buzzed in her bag. Taking it out, she recognized the hospital’s number. Instead of answering, she hurried to Tío Jaime’s room and saw that it was, as she suspected, him calling her.

  “Tío Jaime, I’m here.”

  Seeing her, he hung up the phone. “Oh. There you are.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, taking the chair beside his bed and setting the candies beside the phone, on his nightstand.

  “Oh, nothing.” His voice was falsely casual. She recognized in it the tone of voice she used when she was trying to keep the truth from her mother. “I just called to see how you were doing. And to tell you that I might be going away.”

  “What?” Sandy looked into the old man’s eyes to try to gauge the seriousness of his remark.

  The evening sunlight coming through the window made a square of yellow around his head and torso, like a rustic halo. He sat there grimacing, looking like a medieval saint in his pale gown and tangled sheets. “Yeah. My damn nephew, Richard, has been nagging me to move to California with him. He wants me to stay with him or with my little sister, his mother. He says something about how having me in their household will be easier for the bills or the taxes or some such thing.”

  “But you don’t want to move, do you? You don’t want to leave your house. And your goats. And… your life!” Sandy knew he didn’t. She could hear the reluctance in his voice.

  “Not really, no. I wish I didn’t have to. But I might have to, it looks like. I can’t keep asking Richard to pay for all my bills here.”

  Sandy could tell that he was upset and embarrassed to be explaining this to her. But she wasn’t worried about that. Her number-one concern right now was that he was being forced to leave against his will.

  The sound of footsteps in the hall—loud steps caused by dress shoes, not squeaky nurse shoes—startled Sandy. Then a man’s hand curled around the door, and she knew there was only one person it could be. She briefly considered hiding—ducking under Tío Jaime’s hospital bed. But it was too late. He was in the room now, and he was looking right at her. She sat up straight and faced him defiantly.

  Tío Jaime took the water glass from his bedside table and calmly sipped at it. He looked completely unperturbed, but Sandy knew he must have been holding his breath, waiting for his nephew’s reaction to her presence.

  “You again,” was all he said. Nothing more.r />
  He was cradling a basket of fruit in one arm. Somehow that made him look less wrathful than he had before, and Sandy felt herself relax a little. “Me again. I’m… Your uncle asked me to visit.”

  “I figured he would.” Richard stood there looking at the wall. He looked tired, she noticed. Stressed. But apparently he had resigned himself to her existence in his uncle’s life.

  “That’s right. I asked her to visit,” said Tío Jaime. “How’s Cano doing?”

  “He’s fine,” Richard replied. Then he turned to Sandy. “Ms. Saavedra, may I have a word with you, in private?”

  “No,” said his uncle. “Don’t talk about me behind my back. Whatever you want to say to my friend you’d better say right here in front of me.”

  Sandy had to hold back a giggle at the look of frustration on Richard’s face. It was obviously warring with the respect he had for the older man. Tío Jaime, on the other hand, had his chin thrust out stubbornly, like a child’s.

  Richard took a deep breath and tried again to get his point across. “Ms. Saavedra, as I told you before, my uncle isn’t well. He doesn’t need any more stress in his life right now, or any kind of extra excitement. Please respect that and leave him alone.”

  Sandy went on the offensive. “You made me think Tío Jaime had a heart attack or something. You made me worry that I had done something to bring it on. But I didn’t. And no one told me that he shouldn’t be eating sugar! I never would have brought him cookies if I had known!”

  “You brought him cookies?” Richard practically bellowed. “Why did you bring him cookies? Was that your bribe to get him to do your videos?”

  “No!” said Sandy and Tío Jaime, simultaneously. “She brought me cookies because I like them,” the old man added. “And because we’re friends. Besides, I can eat sugar if I want to. I can control it.”

  “Obviously, you can’t!” cried Richard and Sandy together this time, both pointing at his foot in its cast.