It took a while for her to focus. “Bobby?”
I guess I wasn’t what she had in mind. “It’s Gabriel,” I said, “Fancy meeting you here, Angel,” trying to make light of her grim condition, pretending to myself that she wasn’t almost dead.
“Angel,” she whispered.
Quickly I removed my shirt and draped it over her, suddenly embarrassed I was staring. I cradled her head and shoulders.
“Are we there yet?” she gasped, clutching my shirt.
“Where?”
“Home.”
“Let’s get you to the car. You’re a long way from anywhere.”
She shook her head and pointed at an unfinished brick wall. I scrutinized the wall and the house beyond. Why hadn’t I noticed it? Maybe it was all those sunflowers and cactus. But it was my house. It was my unfinished wall, and my garden. Those were my trees and my roses. And yes, she was my housekeeper. I felt slightly nauseated, trying to calculate the mileage to my place. It made no sense. I should have had another hour to travel.
Rafaela ignored my confusion and made a great effort to rise. Despite her shattered appearance, she mustered a subtle power from somewhere, refusing my help almost defiantly, and limped ghostlike toward the house. “Sol,” she said. “Find Sol.”
I helped her into my house, which had been so transformed by her attentions I felt like a stranger. “Is Sol inside?” I asked, making my way through the rearranged furniture, scanning the proliferation of ornaments and pictures on the walls.
She shook her head and pulled scraps of paper from what remained of a shredded pocket. I spread and joined the crumpled pieces of a poem. “Mi casa es su casa?”
“No. It’s the other side,” she advised me.
I turned the poem over and read the notice about some wrestling championship. If Emi had been there, the thing would have called for a snide remark of some sort, but I simply asked, “What does this mean?”
“This,” she paused after every word, “is where he will be.” It took great exertion for her to say anything. “Please.”
“All right,” I agreed, urging her to lie down, pretending to understand. “Rest. Don’t worry about Sol. We’ll find him.”
I tipped a glass of water to her swollen lips and pressed a damp cloth to her forehead. One eye was completely shut by a blackened bulge. Blood and mud formed great scabs across her skull. Incredibly she seemed to have no broken limbs, though there was no part of her that was not bleeding, bruised, or torn.
The tenderness I felt for her saddened me. I had for so long yearned for my place in México, for the tropical privacy of my hideout. If I held a historic connection to this place, it suddenly felt vague. I hadn’t recognized my own place; maybe it was those strange brass-knobbed chairs she’d placed next to the fireplace. Where did she get those ugly things? But it wasn’t just decorative. No one in my entire family had ever bothered to come here. They called it Gabe’s Folly. “Hey, ése, what about investing in the homeland—East L.A.?” they snickered.
And the romantic thing I felt for this woman was maybe only that—a romantic thing. The house felt strange, and so did my feelings. I stared at Van Gogh’s sunflowers and wondered how my stupid idea had brought her here, had brought her this terrible punishment, had caused her to lose her child. I didn’t understand how this had happened, but I felt accused. I thought I was doing her a favor, but she worked for me in order to have a place to live. I thought I was helping her education, but I was only patronizing her. I thought she might fall in love with me, but she was only fixing up my house, and I was part of a net of favors and subtle harassments that unconsciously set her up. And she had taken this beating for me. It was my story, wasn’t it?
“Who did this to you?” I wanted to know anyway.
“I—” Her single open eye seemed to search somewhere inside of herself. “I ate him.” She grabbed me. “Is that possible?”
Nothing made sense.
She fell back. “He can’t hurt us anymore.” There was a brutal satisfaction in her words.
“No. Of course not,” I said stupidly.
“The package,” she said. “Did you get it?”
“Yes.”
“What was inside?”
“You don’t know?”
“Was it . . . ? A child’s heart,” she whispered. “How could they do such a thing?” Her face burned with rage and then sudden fear. “I have to find Bobby. To get Sol back.” She jumped up but crumpled to the floor.
“Hey, hey. Take it easy.”
“Help me find Bobby. To give him this.” She pressed the printed notice on me. “Sol is safe here. Tell Bobby.”
I looked over the notice and read the date. Sunday, June 28th. “Tomorrow,” I said. “Noon, tomorrow.”
“There isn’t much time. Will you go?”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“I can take care of myself,” she glared at me fiercely. She groped at the shredded remains of her clothing and clutched at something tied to her waist. To my surprise, it was a silver pocketknife. “Sol cannot. Besides, no matter what, I won’t be far.”
There was a voice calling up the path to the house. I looked out the window to see Doña Maria. “Didn’t you say it was her son?” I asked quickly.
“She doesn’t know anything.”
I knew her as a prying old lady, but obviously she hadn’t pried enough to sniff out the crimes of her own household.
“Who are the others?” I asked.
“I only heard the other voice. I never saw the face. Be careful,” she warned, as Doña Maria’s footfalls marched over the tiled patio.
“Rafaela! Have you returned?”
I noticed Rafaela recoil at the sight of the woman, but Doña Maria paid no attention, bustling about the house with nurselike authority, washing and dressing Rafaela’s wounds. I justified to myself, even she should be helpful in a situation like this.
“I wondered where you had gone. You should have told me. It’s not wise to just disappear. Well, you know my Hernando disappeared, but he’s always disappearing. Leaves me alone for months. So what else is new? But you. Something terrible could happen. Well, and look at you. It’s a wonder you are alive. Let’s see. No broken bones. But what are these tears down your back? Like the claws of an animal! Did you lose a tooth? What brute could have done such a thing to you? No. No. Don’t talk now. You need to rest. You’re bleeding down here. Is it that time of the month? Oh, no . . . no, no, stop crying, dear. Let me wash it away. Close your eyes. It will heal. Close your eyes. Try to forget.”
“Doña Maria,” I announced. “I’ll need to use your phone as usual.”
“Of course. Of course. Go on. Lupe’s there. Go on.” She followed me out the door. “Blessed Mother of Jesus, what a horrible thing. And the boy? What about the boy? Oh my God. The poor child. It’s God’s wishes. Yes, God’s wishes. What are we to do? But what is the world coming to?”
At Doña Maria’s, I tried to reach Emi’s cellphone. No answer. I hooked up the modem from my notepad and typed furiously. I imagined my words bunched up in some digital holding cell. The package! What did you do with it? What did Buzz find out?
Meanwhile Emi’s old messages popped up. It was so goooood last night. Doing it with someone literate is soooo much bettah. Literate SEX. I never knew that conjugating the verb “to come” in four out of four Romance languages could be so thrilling. Now how do the Italians say it? Vengo. Vieni. Veniamo. Baby, how about it? Let’s conjugate some verrrbbbbsss.
Doña Maria’s television flickered with some Mexican version of Oprah. I picked up the remote and surfed through the channels on the chance I might pick up some news, some CNN. But the thing that caught my attention was a channel that looked like the L.A. Thomas Guide. Next channel zoomed in for a close-up. I scrutinized the screen and recognized a distorted version of downtown L.A. At least that’s what the street names indicated, but distances were skewed and the streets weren’t parallel. But it was close enough.
A flashing indicator marked X moved around the map. The indicator seemed to be located at the downtown freeway interchange. I calculated it would be right there in that homeless parking lot mess. I watched it move up what was now Limousine Way, blink toward the Music Center, and up Bunker Hill to Angel’s Flight. What was it tracking? And how did this system get on Doña Maria’s TV? Who else was watching this? I watched the indicator run up and down several streets.
Suddenly I noticed Lupe in the room staring at the television. “Lupe,” I asked, “What is this?”
She shook her head. “The men came to put in the satellite dish. Now they tell me this is what you get.”
I made her program the remote to remember the channel and pointed to the blinking indicator. “Tomorrow, I’ll call you from Los Angeles. Then, you tell me where the X is, understand?”
She shrugged.
I returned to my telephone hook-up while scanning the desk area for notes, numbers, anything. I grabbed what looked like a customs freight receipt and a notepad with numbers. Beneath the notepad was a travel itinerary. The name at the top: C. Juárez. Was it a coincidence? Or did it confirm Buzzworm’s strategy: You don’t have to go anywhere; things just come to L.A. In any case, it was time to get back there.
I glanced at the TV; the indicator was still proceeding north. Seemed to be in Chinatown now. I had heard they could implant microchips in pets. Transmitters in dope, or maybe in human organs. Insidious and sophisticated. But who were they?
I slipped out of the house, refolding the pieces of Rafaela’s flyer, customs slips, and C. Juárez’s travel itinerary, stufing it all into my pocket. I had some business to take care of and not a lot of time.
When I got back to the house, Rafaela was sleeping. Her breathing was heavy, and I saw her face and body twitch in agitation. Despite my imagined horror of her dreams, I felt relief because at least she was alive.
“Don’t disturb her now,” Doña Maria pushed me away from the room. “And don’t worry. I will take good care of her until you return,” she smiled like a nurse. “She will be as good as new.”
I took a last hard look. I knew I would never see her again as good as new. I saw the starched lace curtains billow in the window. I had the impression that the house was filled with sunflowers—living and painted—and lace—tablecloths, doilies, bedspreads, pillows, sheets, and curtains—all woven in a sunny tapestry about the house. Had she had me in mind as she dressed the house? I guessed not.
I had little time to ponder any of this. I ran from the house to my car and backed away. I saw my property—my property that I no longer recognized or perhaps had never recognized—become a speck in my rearview mirror. And then it was gone.
CHAPTER 40:
Social SecurityI-5
“I heard you need a special card. A social security card. How do I get this card? What is social security?”
“Do you want to work and pay taxes?”
“I can work.” Cuz looks serious.
“Don’t worry about it,” says Bobby.
“Is it true that people here all have guns, and they can shoot you if you make them mad?”
“Who told you that?”
“I heard it on the boat.”
“It’s an exaggeration.”
“Is it true there are medicines here you can take to make you crazy or make you float, and people here take them all the time?”
“More exaggerations. What else did you hear on the boat?”
“They said there is music. Rock ’n’ roll. Music with perverted words you can sing over and over to make you crazy. It’s right on the radio.”
“Here.” Bobby punches the radio on. “Listen for yourself.”
“I can’t understand it. Is it really perverted? Can they really sing anything they want? Do I have to understand it to go crazy?”
“Don’t worry. This is not what’s going to make you crazy.”
“Is this your car? How did you get such a car?” Little cuz looks out the windows. Everything along the I-5 swooshing by. She’s in a cherry-red Camaro, and everything’s swooshing by.
“That’s Camp Pendleton. That’s where I landed when I came here.” Bobby don’t tell her how many times he’s passed the place. Never been back. Camp’s quiet now. Used to be a busy place. Brother and he got bused up the coast. Probably to be sent to some home. They didn’t know. Got scared. Escaped from the bus. Scared they’d get somewhere and be found out. Found out they weren’t refugees. Found out and sent back. 50,000 refugees, all looking alike. Who was gonna notice two boys? They just ran away. Bobby says, “When I arrived, I was twelve, just like you.”
Cuz is hugging her Barbie Doll still in the box. Not gonna be the same troubles Bobby had. Not gonna let her cry like his brother.
“Take it out of the box,” Bobby says.
“No. I like it in the box.”
“Why did your brother jump ship?”
“He said if he didn’t, he’d be sent back. He could die in the ocean or die in prison. My brother was studying. He’s very smart. But my mother always said he talked too much. I don’t know, but I think he was talking too much.”
“Politics.”
“They say you can talk as much as you want here. This is good for my brother.”
“You talk a lot yourself.”
“Why did you come here? Do you know my village?” Cuz takes out a piece of paper folded in a square and folded again.
“What’s that?” Bobby suddenly swerves the Camaro. He’s thinking this twelve-year-old’s maybe a smuggler. Wah Ching got her smuggling. And he’s a dope.
“Dirt,” she says, opens it carefully, then folds it all back again. “It’s my village. The dirt from there.”
Bobby rolls his eyes and breathes again.
She just keeps on talking, “You speak a little strange. Why is that?”
“I don’t have to speak the language so much anymore. That’s the way it is. Do you always ask so many questions?”
“My brother says to ask questions. Then listen carefully and keep my eyes open. I promised to do this until I see him again.”
Bobby’s not saying nothing about the brother. If he’s lucky, he’s dead. Or maybe he’s hanging out at El Corralón in a fluorescent orange suit costing forty bucks a day. Waiting for immigration. Probably going for asylum. But probably gonna be busted. Nobody to say he’s got a big mouth. Nobody to say he’s dead meat back in the homeland.
Cuz is staring at her new Nikes. Made in China. Nikes get in. But not the bro.
Seems like the drive’s a cinch. Never got to L.A. so fast. But then inside, it’s a mess. Wall-to-wall all up and down the 5. Stopped up like a bad drain. Gotta get off the freeway. Take the side streets. Get by through the alleys. Takes hours. Streets stretched and shrunk this way and that. Someone put this city in the washer/dryer. Shrunk 50 percent in places. Then ironed it out 200 percent in others.
Bobby parks the Camaro. Locks in The Club. Automatic locks the doors. Introduces the cuz to her new home. Unlocks the security door. Unlocks the double bolts. House is stuffy. Locks the security door, but keeps the front door open. Opens some windows. Cuz looks out the bars at Koreatown.
Phone rings. It’s the Chicano reporter again. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday,” he says.
Seems Bobby’s been trying to get home since yesterday.
“Yeah,” says the reporter. “Something’s gotta give. Like the pressure’s building.”
Bobby don’t know nothing about pressure, but he sure could use a smoke. “I called that number,” Bobby says. “Lady answered. Took a message. Said Rafaela and the boy weren’t there.”
“I don’t know how to tell you this. Rafaela’s hurt. She’s okay, but she got beat up. Some thug. No. She’s fine. She’s back at my place like I told you. She’s gonna be fine. I feel like it’s my fault. I mean it’s not my fault. I feel responsible. Listen. Will you listen? Sol got separated from her. Right. The boy’s disappeared. I don’t know. I have
a flyer she gave me. It’s something called The Ultimate Wrestling Championship. Yeah. One of those Lucha Libre events. I know it sounds crazy. She insists the boy can be found at this fight. It’s all on the flyer. Look, I gotta catch my flight back. I’m leaving México City now. You got a a fax? Call me at my office. I’ll be back in L.A. in a couple of hours. I’ll check my messages.”
Don’t make no sense. What’s this flyer? Ultimate Wrestling. It’s a joke. Go ahead. Put it in the fax.
Bobby’s looking at the paper slipping out the machine. Mi casa es su casa! Bobby’s screaming. The bastard! Is this a joke? Where is that hijo de puta reporter? He calls him, but it’s the office phone. Reporter’s in the air over México. Damn. What’s this? A pinche poem? You sending me a poem? What the hell! He’s supposed to find Sol in a poem? It’s no use. He’s talking to a machine. He’s talking to Audex.
Little cuz looking at Bobby. Still hugging the Barbie in the box. Still asking the same questions. What’s social security? They said you had to have it. Bobby can’t think. He dials up a number and hands the cuz the phone. Keep the cuz busy.
“You have reached the offices of the Immigration and Naturalization Service. If you wish to hear this message in English, press one. If you wish to hear this message in Spanish, press two. If you wish to hear this message in Vietnamese, press three. If you wish to hear this message in Mandarin, press four. If you wish to hear this message . . .”
The cuz goes for the TV, fools with the remote. Remote turns on the VCR. Snaps on the tube. She don’t know. She’s just curious. It’s all new to her. America’s a surprise. Channels changing like crazy.
Bobby’s not paying no attention. He’s gotta find Sol. He’s staring at the tube trying to think. Tube’s got Korean channel speaking something. Maybe it’s Russian. Some’s Swahili. Spanish channel’s speaking English with an accent. Everybody in the Mexican soap’s speaking the Queen’s English. Other hand, network’s speaking fluent Castilian. Some’s even in Mandarin. He understands it. He’s thinking too it’s not a mistake; it all makes sense. But! Does Connie Chung even speak Mandarin? Does that Trek character Chekov speak Russian? Or George Takei, does he speak Japanese? Does Anthony Quinn speak Greek, Turkish, or Spanish? Does David Carradine speak anything but slow English? Who’s gonna understand all this all the time? This some joke?
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