by Sam Hawken
It was the obsession with elevators and escalators first. Freddie would draw pictures of them and talk about them and that was all he wanted to do. Cristina searched online and saw that children with autism sometimes had very narrow interests and would perseverate on whatever that interest was. In the back of her mind, the evidence file filled up.
After kindergarten he was still affected and the county paid for him to be transferred to a private school specializing in special needs education. When she first visited Cristina was put off by children in wheelchairs who could not sit up or children so severely autistic they barely moved under their own power. This was not her child, this was not where he belonged.
The school worked with him for three years before the diagnosis changed. He had Asperger’s Syndrome, a kind of autism, and though the news was bad Cristina felt vindicated because all the research she’d done was right; she knew her own child best.
They wanted to know the medical history of the parents, but Cristina could only give her side. Freddie’s father did not answer letters or emails and eventually Cristina stopped trying. She suspected he didn’t want to be held responsible for this, the way he hadn’t wanted to be responsible for a child in the first place.
Her attention drifted and she didn’t even realize she was daydreaming until one of the other mothers approached her. “Excuse me,” the woman said. “Excuse me, miss?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I wouldn’t bother you, but your son just hit my son twice.”
Cristina stood up sharply. “I’m sorry. My son has autism. I’ll get him right now.”
She saw the expression change on the woman’s face, from concern to repulsion. Autism. As if it were catching. As if it were deadly. “It’s all right. I didn’t know—”
“No, I’ll get him. He needs to say he’s sorry.”
Cristina strode out to the monkey bars. Freddie was at the very top, hugging himself and rocking back and forth. His eyes were puffy with tears that hadn’t yet come.
“Freddie?”
“I don’t like those boys!”
“Freddie, come down here, okay? Mom needs to talk to you.”
Now he cried and Cristina felt herself crumble a little. “I don’t like those boys!”
“Come down from there. Come on, baby.”
Freddie climbed down reluctantly until Cristina was on her knees, holding him. His shoulders hitched and he breathed hot in her ear. “They’re mean to me.”
“I know, but you can’t hit. Now you have to say you’re sorry.”
It took time to cajole him and eventually he took her hand and let her lead him to the bench where the mother sat. She had a boy near her eating cheese crackers from a plastic bag. Again the look.
“Say you’re sorry, Freddie,” Cristina prompted.
Freddie did not look the boy in the eye. “Sorry,” he said.
“Sorry for what?”
“Sorry for hitting.”
“I’m really sorry,” Cristina told the mother.
“It’s all right, really. I didn’t know.”
I didn’t know your son has autism.
“Come on, Freddie, let’s go play somewhere else, just you and me.”
Cristina guided him away and across the spotty grass to a toddler’s playground with swings that had rubber seats with leg holes, a sandbox and a climber that was low to the ground. There was no one around.
“I want to play with my friends,” Freddie said.
“I know, but let’s play over here for a while. Let’s make tunnels in the sand, okay? Or we can play spaceship. See, there’s a steering wheel on the climber.”
Freddie pulled away from her without speaking and mounted the climber. He put his hands on the spinning wheel and spun it, making a machine noise. “It’s like an elevator motor,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess it is,” Cristina said.
FIFTEEN
FLIP DRESSED IN A PAIR OF DARK JEANS and a white shirt from his closet. The shirt needed to be ironed and though his mother offered, he did it himself. He wished he had better shoes than the same sneakers he’d been wearing since Coffield, but he did not have the money or the time to shop.
His mother insisted he sit down for a proper dinner. They ate and sat in front of the television for a while. When nine o’clock came around, Flip heard a car horn sound twice in the street. “Got to go,” he said.
“Don’t stay out too late!”
Emilio was in the same car as before, only this time the stereo was pumping Lil Rob. He’d changed from his t-shirt into something more respectable and put gel in his hair. He pushed open the passenger side door and beckoned to Flip. “Hey, man, get in!” he said.
Flip put on his seatbelt as Emilio cruised away from the curb. He saw the porch light in front of his mother’s house go on. It was possible she would be up when he came home, just waiting.
“Right on time, huh?” Emilio said.
“What?”
“I said we’re right on time!”
“Yeah,” Flip said. The music was punishingly loud inside the car, especially with the windows up, trapping the sound. His first instinct was to crank the volume down, but then Emilio would be offended and that would be a problem. He suffered instead.
Emilio bobbed his head to the rap and when they stopped at lights he tapped the steering wheel in time. Flip wondered if maybe he was on something. He did not want to be caught in the same car with someone who was high. They drove west, parallel to the river, and passed near the airport. Incoming planes blinked in the sky.
“Where are we going?” Flip asked.
“A good place. You’ll like it.”
They left 180 and turned south, then angled off to the west. They were within blocks of the border now. For a moment Flip thought they were going to cross over and party in Juárez and his heart picked up a beat. Going to a club was risky enough, but crossing was something else altogether. If his parole officer found out about either, he would be going back to Coffield for sure.
“Almost there,” Emilio said. He killed the music, but Flip’s ears were still stunned. “There. See the sign?”
Flip looked and saw where Emilio pointed. The club’s name was written large on a lighted sign: LA RAYA ANTRO. The parking lot was crowded with cars and there was a valet service by the door. Emilio drove up to the waiting men in white gloves, put the car into park and got out. Flip did the same.
“Don’t bury it, okay?” Emilio told the valet and passed a folded bill in a handshake. He handed over his keys, then came to collect Flip. They went to the entrance together. A man held the door for them and they passed into darkness.
New music crashed over them and as they passed through the shadowed entryway the smells of fresh sweat, perfume, alcohol and cigarettes came to Flip. When they stepped out onto the main floor, the place opened up around them, mad with lights. The dance floor was crowded, the driving beat of Latin house moving their bodies. Flip saw the DJ lit from below, his face like a devil’s, mirrored sunglasses shining.
“Come on,” Emilio said. He led Flip through the throng of bodies, past little tables and knots of people. There were lots of women, women everywhere Flip looked, and he was overwhelmed by them. He saw tight dresses and curves, styled hair and manicured fingernails. One girl threw her head back laughing, but the sound of it was swallowed up by the music.
Emilio brought them to a pair of booths positioned at right angles to each other near the far side of the club. Both were packed with new faces. Emilio started introducing him around, but the names were half-drowned and he couldn’t remember them all anyway, though he tried. Emilio introduced a few of the girls. All of them seemed to be with someone and Flip could not help but be disappointed.
“Where’s José?” Flip asked.
“José? He doesn’t hang out here. He’s in the VIP room.” Emilio gestured vaguely toward the back of the club. “We’ll go see him in a little while. Get something to drink, relax, okay? Just gra
b a spot anywhere.”
It was impossible to sit in the booths, so Flip found a place to sit by one of the small tables. A waitress cruised through the press of bodies holding a tray of drinks over her head. Flip signaled to her and she came close. She had to lean down so he could speak directly into her ear. “Corona Extra,” he said.
“A few minutes,” the waitress told him and then she was gone.
Flip looked around. Emilio was deep in conversation with someone whose name Flip couldn’t remember. He searched his memory. Benicio. He filed that away.
There were a few girls at tables nearby. Flip tried to catch their eye and when one turned her head this way he smiled at her. She smiled back before one of her friends caught her attention and she looked away. Flip hoped she’d glance over again, but she didn’t. Finally his beer came.
The beer was cool and clean-tasting, straight from the bottle. Flip had never been a heavy drinker, but he appreciated a good beer. He finished half of it quickly and thought about Enrique and Javier and Omar and how much they would like to have a beer right now. Omar was not going to get out, not ever going to taste beer again. Flip drank some more for Omar, who was probably getting tattooed by Javier right now as a fuck you to the COs. That was his rebellion.
When the waitress came around again, Flip ordered another.
“Who’s paying for this?” the waitress asked.
Flip pointed out Emilio. “My friend.”
“Oh, I know him. Okay.”
He was four bottles to the good by the time Emilio returned to him. The man clapped Flip on both shoulders. “Hey, man, why don’t you get out there and dance? Anybody can sit and drink. Let’s get you circulating.”
“When do we see José?”
“You want to see José?”
“Yeah. Then I’ll dance.”
“Okay, come on.”
Emilio conducted Flip through the crowds again, this time to a wide passageway in the very back of the club. They had to pass by the DJ booth where girls crowded around trying to get the man’s attention. Some of them looked very good to Flip. They all looked good to Flip. He thought about touching one girl on the ass just to see what she would do, but Emilio tugged his arm and they were past temptation.
In a length of hallway there were four doors. Emilio went to the second on the left and knocked. Someone inside cracked the door, peeked out and then swung it wide to allow them in.
The room was semicircular and scattered with couches and tables. There was a private bar manned by a woman showing lots of cleavage in a black dress. Music from the front of the house played through speakers high on the walls.
José held court from a big couch that let him sprawl out almost completely. He sat with a man Flip didn’t know on one hand and a girl on the other. There were other girls, too; more than Flip could keep track of.
“Flip!” José declared. He sat up and sloshed his drink onto his knee. “You made it!”
“I made it,” Flip said.
“Good, good. Is Emilio taking care of you?”
“Sure.”
“Get something from the bar, okay? Talk to some girls.”
“I will.”
Flip went to the bar where the woman bartender fixed him a strong margarita without being told. He sipped it, tasting salt, lime and tequila. All the girls scattered out in front of him, on couches and chairs, talking to each other or to their men. He didn’t know where to begin.
Someone touched him lightly on the arm and he swung around fast, nearly toppling his drink. The girl beside him recoiled as if she was afraid he might hit her and immediately Flip felt bad. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay. Buy me a drink?”
“Sure, but I think José is paying.”
“José pays for everything.”
The girl ordered some kind of pink and fruity-looking drink and Flip watched her. She was petite and dressed in red. Colored highlights in her hair shone dark auburn. She was light-skinned and had small breasts that her top emphasized. Her eyes were a golden brown.
“What’s your name?” she asked him.
“Huh?”
“Your name. What is it?”
“They call me Flip.”
“Flip?”
“My real name is Felipe. Felipe, Flip… you know.”
The girl smiled. Flip thought she was the most beautiful girl in the room. “Flip, I’m Graciela.”
“Graciela. Nice to meet you.”
“I haven’t seen you around before.”
“No, I’m new. I just got in,” Flip said. From prison, he thought, but didn’t add. Graciela did not seem like the kind of girl who would be impressed by such a thing and suddenly Flip found it very important that she think well of him.
“Do you work with José?”
“Actually I just got a job at a warehouse.”
“I thought everybody here worked with José.”
Flip did not know how to answer that. He asked himself what he would tell a total stranger. “José is a friend of a friend,” he said at last. “He’s looking out for me.”
“I understand.”
“Good, because I don’t,” Flip joked. He laughed and she laughed and Flip wished they were somewhere else besides this loud, smoky room. She looked very good, but he thought she would look good in anything; she was that kind of woman.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“Sure, okay.”
They found a table no one was using and sat across from each other. Flip drank from his margarita and wished he’d just gotten a beer instead. But then what would Graciela think of that? Too working-class, too ordinary? He felt stupid that he couldn’t recognize what she was drinking, but he didn’t know that stuff.
“Where are you from?” Graciela asked him.
“Oh, I’m from El Paso. My parents are from here, too. Well, my father was from Juárez, but my mother came from here.”
“Ah. When you said you just got in, I thought you were from somewhere else.”
There it was again. Flip did not want to lie to her. “I was away for a few years. Doing other things.”
“Okay,” Graciela said and Flip felt a great tension ease.
“Where are you from?”
“I come from here, too. I grew up in the Second Ward.”
“Really? So did I.”
“That’s cool,” Graciela said. “Maybe we were neighbors and didn’t know it.”
“Maybe.”
It was easier to talk to her then. From time to time Flip looked over her shoulder and saw José with Emilio or somebody else, deep in conversation. Once Flip thought he caught José looking at him from across the room.
Flip learned that Graciela went to cosmetology school and worked at a craft store during the day. She had three sisters, all younger than her, and an older brother who died. About how she met José she was less candid, but Flip didn’t care. He liked listening to her, even over the din of the house music, and watching her mouth form the words. Twice she asked him questions and he didn’t realize it. He blushed.
He told her what he felt she should hear: about his family and growing up without brothers or sisters, but with plenty of cousins. About his father dying young. He did not tell her about shoplifting at eight and doing bicycle theft by thirteen. He did not tell her how he went to Coffield.
By the time he checked his watch it was after midnight. They had four drinks between them and Flip felt sluggish. He looked around for Emilio, saw him kissing a girl in the corner. José was still drinking and still talking. When he caught Emilio watching, he smiled and waved.
“I should probably get out of here,” Flip said.
“You have to go?”
“My mother… I’m living with my mother right now. She worries. If I stay out too late, she’ll never let me forget about it.” Flip started to get up, jostled the little table and almost toppled their glasses. Across the room Emilio looked over and Flip signaled to him.
“Hey, wait,” Graci
ela said. “Let me give you my phone number. You can put it in your cell.”
“I don’t have a cell phone,” Flip confessed. “Can you write it down?”
“You don’t have a cell phone? Where have you been living?”
“I mean I had one, but it broke. I need to get a new one.”
“Give me a minute. I think I have a pen in my purse.”
Graciela went away and Emilio came over. “You been talking to that girl a long time,” he said. “What’s she like?”
“Nice,” Flip said.
“‘Nice’? What, are you kidding me? Is she good to go or what?”
“Not tonight, I don’t think,” Flip said.
“That’s too bad, because she is fine.”
“You think maybe you can take me home?” Flip asked.
“Take you home? The place doesn’t close down until two!”
“I know, but I think I’m going to call it a night. I don’t have money for cab fare.”
Emilio rolled his eyes. “You don’t need to take no cab. I’ll do it. But you’re cutting in on my time, man. Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
Graciela returned with a napkin and gave it to Flip. “Here you go,” she said. “If you can’t get hold of me, just leave a message.”
Flip folded up the napkin and put it in his pocket. “Thanks. I’ll give you my number when I have one.”
“All right,” Graciela said and she smiled. “It was good to meet you, Flip.”
“Same here.”
Emilio interposed himself between them. “I don’t want to break you two up, but Flip says he has to go right now. So…”
“Good night, Flip.”
“Good night.”
“You want to say thank you to the boss,” Emilio told Flip and jerked his thumb toward José.
“Yeah, right.”
Flip went to José. The man’s head bobbled and his eyes were glassy. The short table in front of the couch was crowded with empty glasses. Flip did not know how many were José’s.
“How’s it going, Flip?” José asked.
“I’m leaving now. I wanted to thank you for a nice night out.”
“Leaving?!?”
“Yeah, I got to go, man.”