“I’m Navarro,” he sits and motions for me to do the same. We’re separated by a small, round conference table, all sorts of papers stacked in the center of it.
“Juan,” I answer as I slouch in my seat.
“They told you we’re here to talk about what kinds of jobs you can look for once the cuff comes off?”
“Yeah, man.”
He picks up a piece of paper and a pen. “Let’s start by finding out what kind of work experience you’ve got. Tell me the last two or three jobs you had before you went in.”
“Let’s see.” I rub my chin like I’m really considering the whole thing.
What a crock of shit.
“I was a regional administrator for the RH. That involved managing six employees…you know, the teenagers we sent out to make the deals? And see, I kept track of who was going to which high school to push poison on the kids. Then, if they didn’t sell their quota, I’d impose corporate incentive plans—things like threatening their mothers and sisters. If someone’s employee evaluation wasn’t satisfactory, the company was pretty clear about the consequences, and it usually started with damage to your family and ended with damage to your body.”
I pause to see what the guy’s reaction will be. I figure, if I’m lucky, he’ll be pissed enough to bounce me on out of here and I’ll get to go work on the plants some more.
He raises an eyebrow then leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Nice try,” he chuckles. “Really. You know where your mistake was though?”
I glare at him.
“The fact that you even know what an incentive plan or an employee evaluation is. Don’t waste your time and mine, Juan. I’ve seen your records—all of them. Elementary school, middle school, high school, the court records, your first arrest at eighteen, all the way up through your incarceration and on to what you ate for dinner last night. I already know you’re smart, and I know you’re not a typical gangbanger. Why don’t you cut the crap and let’s figure out a way to get you back in the world with a chance at a normal life.”
I shake my head for a moment until I meet his eyes. “Odalay, vato. Do a lot of homeboys fall for that? ‘Cause you’re right—I’m smart. Smart enough to know that there ain’t no normal life waiting for me out there. I’m a felon. I was convicted in the murder of child, man. A tiny little girl whose worst offense in this life was playing with her dolls in the wrong front yard at the wrong damn time. No one, and I mean no one, is going to give me a normal life.”
He meets my gaze with a firm, unyielding expression, his jaw set and his lips tight. He slides the pen and paper toward me. “Write down the last two jobs you had before you went in.”
I roll my eyes and pick up the pen. I look down at the sheet where there are four spaces for each job—title, employer, length of employment, and list of duties. I sit up straight, and write carefully.
1. Lawn boy. The neighbors. Sixth grade through eleventh grade. I mowed grass with a machine that I pushed.
2. Soccer Coach. Floresville Youth Soccer League. Summer after eleventh grade. I coached soccer to little kids. Like the one I went to prison for helping kill.
I smirk and slide the sheet back over to him. Navarro doesn’t bat an eye as he reads what I’ve written. He pushes the paper to the side and takes the next one off the top of the pile, sending it toward me just like he did the first.
“I know you got a GED while you were in. Write down any other courses you took. Even stuff you studied on your own. Could be online gambling, how to seduce a woman in thirty days, whatever. You never know when something you’re interested in could be a marketable skill.”
I sigh. The guy just isn’t going to give up. All I want to do is get my dishwashing job and a studio apartment then rinse and repeat in a different town every few months until the RH forgets about my ass and my parole is served. If I can stay alive and under everyone’s radar long enough, there’s a chance I could live in peace. Maybe even visit my mother someday. But fuck it. I don’t have anything the hell else to do, so I fill out his useless damn form.
1. Coursework completed – Web design I and II. AutoCAD Gaming design I and II. App development I. Translation specialist certification (Spanish). Psychology 101, 201, and 301. Landscape design I and II. Botany 101, 201, and 320. Drawing 101 and 102. Painting I, II, and III. Precalculus. Trigonometry. Biology II.
2. Other experience and studies – Plants. I read a lot about plants.
I push the paper back at him. He studies it, his lips pressing together tighter and tighter as he goes along. Finally, he looks up at me, eyes blazing.
“You’re really trying to screw yourself over, aren’t you?”
“Whatever, man,” I mutter, watching him cautiously.
He sits back. “You serious? You’re halfway to a college degree and you’re not going to cooperate with vocational placement? You’ve got a fucking translation certificate? You know how hard it is to get one of those? People go to college for years and can’t pass that exam.”
I shrug. “I grew up speaking Spanish. It’s not rocket science.”
“You grew up speaking kitchen Spanish, 1vato. It’s not the same thing. Plenty of native speakers don’t pass the test the first time.”
I shrug again.
“So, you like plants? I see the landscape design, the botany, all that.”
“Yeah, they’re okay,” I mumble, not wanting to let on about my secret fascination.
“You ever thought about a job in a nursery? Working with plants? You’d be outdoors, wouldn’t have to deal with customers too much—I mean, no offense homez, but you don’t seem like much of a people person.” He smirks, and I can’t help but crack a small smile.
“I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe I just wanna wash dishes at a restaurant somewhere. Isn’t that what guys like me do? Spend eight hours a day up to our elbows in dirty dishes in the far back of the kitchen where we can’t see no one and they can’t see us? Then we stand around out in the back alley and smoke some cigs during our breaks.”
“You smoke?” he asks as if it matters.
“No.”
“Then why would you want to be a dishwasher?” He’s following my fucked-up logic now, I guess.
For some reason, I can’t shake this guy. Usually the gangbanger attitude keeps people at bay. It ensures that they don’t try to tempt me with crap about hope and a future I know I can’t have. But it’s not working with Navarro and that pisses me off.
“I don’t want to be a fucking dishwasher, and I don’t want to waste my whole day sitting here talking to you about nonexistent jobs I’ll never get hired to do. I know what my future is. Quit trying to tell me it looks like something else. The only future a guy like me has is one that includes a gang, prison, or a graveyard, 2ese. Just let me get to it.”
I stand up, knocking the chair over as I do because it makes noise and that intimidates your opponent. Pretty Boy taught me that the first week I started living with him and Lobo. Back when we were just punks handing out pills to kids down at the middle school.
“Make as much noise as you can in a fight, bro,” he told me. “Confuses everybody, gets ‘em off-balance. You gotta take every advantage you can get.”
It’s become second nature to me now, but somehow, with Navarro, it feels like more of a show than ever. He sits calmly and watches me as I flip him off and stomp out of the room.
Ten minutes later, I’m sitting on my bed, head resting against the wall as my mind spins with ideas of a job in a greenhouse. Fuck. I hate that he put it there. I hate that he wants me to grow hope. I haven’t had hope in years. Not since the day the INS sent mi madre back to Mexico. I don’t have the time or the energy for hope. It’s all I can do to stay hidden and alive.
I hear a knock. Then a voice travels through the flimsy, hollow-core door. “I’ll see you next week, Juan. Same time, same place. Bring me three job listings from the paper that you’d like to apply for.”
I scowl and don’t answer.
“It’s not a request,” he adds before I hear his footsteps receding down the hall.
If only I could explain to him that I’m not what he thinks. I’m not just any gangster looking to be rehabbed. I’m not a guy that the RH will ever let go. Hiding out and staying buried is the only way I’ll ever be free, and being free is the only thing I have left to hope for.
In the days since I’ve seen Beth, the yearning to catch a glimpse of her hasn’t lessened. But I’m used to being deprived of things I want. I’m used to wishing in vain. This is no different than the thousand other things from my previous life that I wish for every day. I keep my head down, spending any unscheduled time in my room alone or out tending to the plants. I convinced the house manager to get me a few small groundcover plants to put in the rose beds, so I’ve had a small task to fill the time.
The other two guys living here seem fine, but I stay as far away as possible. One was in for involuntary manslaughter in a DUI, and the other guy was part of an auto theft ring. They tried to make nice the first few days I was here, but I haven’t had a friend since I went in four years ago and I’ve learned to live without. I don’t talk to anyone, and they don’t talk to me. Makes things a lot simpler, and it helps extend your lifespan as well. The other two seem to be happy with the unlimited access to TV and a gaming console, so I’m left to wander the outside of the property at will.
I’ve been trying to decide how much space the groundcover plants will eventually grow to fill. Without a tape, my measurements are approximate, and I’m walking back and forth along the planter on the side of the building, pacing off the length one more time, when I hear the door to the house next door open and shut. I try not to turn and look—I really do—but it’s like I have no control over my head as it swivels on my shoulders, my body following right behind. Before I can blink, I’m standing there, staring right at Beth.
She’s wearing a sundress, the hem falling to a couple of inches above her knees. It’s flowered and has little straps on the shoulders, bringing instant memories of her as a little girl in those dresses her madre put on her.
“Your mom would be proud,” I say, remembering at the last second that I can’t simply walk over to her without setting off my cuff. It sobers me rapidly.
She tilts her head at me in question. “Why is that?”
“The dress,” I answer, wishing I hadn’t turned around now. She’s so fucking beautiful that it hurts. “She used to put you in dresses like that when you were little, no?”
She looks down at her clothing then back up at me, a smile rippling across her face. “Oh my gosh, you’re right. I never even thought of it. I can’t believe you remember that.”
She walks closer until she’s standing in front of me, a touch closer than you’d normally stand for a conversation. I catch a hint of cinnamon in the air around her and feel every nerve in my body stand at attention, like the whole battalion is salivating, ready to sit down to a feast. And really, being near Beth like this is a feast. For my eyes, my nose, my ears, my skin. Even though we’re not touching, I can feel her as if she were stroking one of her soft hands down my arm.
“I remember all sorts of things about you, linda,” I say, my voice rough.
She blushes. “I remember a whole lot about you too.” Her eyes sparkle in the afternoon sun, and I feel more out of my element than I ever have in a gang war or a prison lockdown. I’m drowning, and I’m not sure what to do about it, because simply willing it away doesn’t seem to work. I’m also hungry, so starved for any scrap of who I used to be, that I just can’t send her away. Not yet.
“So,” I say, gesturing to the patio around the corner at the back of my house. We walk that direction slowly. “What do you remember about me?”
When we reach the patio, I pull out the bench at the picnic table that’s there, abandoned, just like me.
We both sit, and I straddle the bench so I can face her. She leans the side of her face on her hand as her elbow rests on the tabletop.
“I remember how much you loved your mom,” she tells me. “She was a really sweet woman.”
I nod. Most of the pain I used to feel when I thought about my mom has dulled. I risked a visit once, years ago, before my arrest and conviction, when I knew the cops were closing in on me and I might not ever have another chance. I try to write her as much as I can. She quit going to school in Mexico when she was eight or nine, so she has to get someone to read the letters to her. It’s hard for her to find people she can trust to help her write back too, so I don’t get many return letters, but when I do, I can tell that she’s been reading what I sent. She was heartbroken over the conviction, but there wasn’t much I could do. I wasn’t willing to end all contact, and the return address to a prison makes it pretty damn obvious where you are.
“Yeah,” I tell Beth. “Mi madre is the best. She gave me as good a life as she could. I was a lucky kid.”
She nods, sadness washing over her features. I hate to see it, hate to see the sympathy or whatever the fuck it is. I’m a man. I don’t want a beautiful woman viewing me as something to be pitied. I struggle not to let my frustration show.
“So, where is she now?” Beth asks.
“She’s near Monterrey, and she’s got a place to live with her sister.” I don’t tell Beth that it’s a corrugated metal shack with a dirt floor and that my mom has had to move four times in seven years so he won’t find her. I don’t tell anyone about him. Ever.
“That’s good,” she says, giving me a small smile. She folds her hands on the top of the table primly, and I can’t help but reach out to touch one finger. Softly stroking the ring that circles it.
“And your parents? How are they?”
“Good. My mom had a heart attack a while back, but she’s doing well, and the doctors say she should be just fine.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Did it scare you?” I bring her hand down to the bench, holding the tips of her fingers in mine.
“A little, but she’s tough, and I feel good about the recovery.”
“Good.” I watch my thumb rubbing gently over her fingers as if it’s not attached to my body. Her skin is so soft that it sort of inhibits my ability to think straight. I hear a little sound from her and look up into her eyes. They’re sweet and warm, maybe a little tired.
“Juan?” she asks quietly.
I clear my throat, looking back down. “Yeah, linda?” I know I need to quit touching her. I’m sure that’s what she’s about to say, but I just…can’t. I can’t. It’s been so long since someone talked to me, wasn’t a threat to me, touched me, let me touch them. I feel like I’ve died and gone to Heaven just from this one little point of contact, my thumb on her fingers.
“I always had a thing for you. You know, a crush or whatever.”
I chuckle, the bitter irony of it all catching me hard in the solar plexus. I waited years to hear Beth say something like this to me, and now that she finally does, it’s too late.
“I always had a thing for you too.” I keep my head down, watching our now intertwined fingers so that she won’t see the sorrow on my face.
“I think I might still have a thing for you,” she tells me so softly that it’s almost a whisper.
Now I look up into her eyes. “Oh, 3mi corazon,” I answer sadly. “You can’t. You know that. I’m not for you, and you’re definitely not for me.” I let go of her hand and scoot back away from her.
She doesn’t move, just watches me thoughtfully. “But you’re out now, and you can change things, can’t you?”
I scratch my head and huff out a laugh. “Yeah, it’s not that simple, chica.”
“I know it’ll be hard—getting a job, finding a place to live—but you can do it. I’ll help you. It’s what I do. I know people who can work with you.”
I stand up, realizing what a mistake it was to let down, even for a few minutes. If I thought a job in a greenhouse was the shiny diamond of hope, I had no idea what talking to Beth Garcia could do. It’s
like someone setting the Crown Jewels in front of me. But, of course, if I reached out, they’d be wrenched away before I ever touched them. Just like every good thing in my life has been wrenched away for the last seven years. I know better than to fall for that trick again. Fate loves to fuck with me.
It’s time to remember who I am. An RH. Put the mask on and get back to business.
“Hey, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I don’t need no help. Between the RH and the penal system, I got more help than I know what to do with. Really. Save it for your girls next door.”
She blinks at me. Then her eyes narrow and her lips purse. God, when she does that, it makes me want to plunge my tongue in her mouth and fucking eat her up.
“You keep telling yourself that, Juan. Tell yourself you don’t need us anymore—4tu familia. Because that’s what we are. What we’ll always be. I’ve already called David and he and Tomás want to come up and see you. They’re ready to help. My mom is sending some tamales for you, and I’ve asked Alexis and her boyfriend Gabe to come with me one of these weeks to meet you.”
Wait. What the fuck? Panic wells up inside of me. No, no, no. This is not how it’s going down.
“What the hell, Beth? Are you fucking crazy? 5Madre de Dios.” I grip my hair in both hands, pulling hard to try to keep my fists from punching something. “I’m not going to hang out with your hermanos, and you shouldn’t be talking to your madre about me at all. What the fuck are you thinking?” I totally lose my cool at this point, pacing around the patio like a caged cat. I’m so used to being confined that I don’t stray from the concrete, ensuring that my cuff won’t get set off.
6“Estas loca. No sabes nada de mi vida,” I start ranting in Spanish. I’m that pissed.
“I know more about your life than you think,” she counters. “And maybe I’m crazy, but nothing I’ve said is any crazier than what you did! I know you were upset when the INS took your mom, but to run off and join the RH? What the hell were you thinking, Juan? Why would you do something like that?”
Buried (Hiding From Love #3) Page 3