“And get some red-hot Takis, homes.”
“Right.”
“And ice cream.”
“Damn,” Minnie said. “You too fat already.”
“Look who’s talking, Godzilla butt.”
“Hold up,” she shouted. “I’m coming in there as soon as I get up, and I’ma whup your culo.”
“Take you like an hour to get up,” Lalo said. “I ain’t scared.”
Little Angel went inside to deliver his coffee.
* * *
morning coffee with pan dulce
all my women all around me
a good job
a garden full of chiles and tomatoes
Little Angel went back to see his brother. And there he was, still in his pajama pants, terrifyingly, ferociously awake. Big Angel didn’t speak, just beamed like some small lighthouse. He patted the bed beside himself again. Little Angel climbed on.
Their little raft going down the big river.
“Can you smell the cancer?” Big Angel asked.
“I. No. Not really, Carnal.”
“I can smell it coming out of my bones.”
“Damn.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Yeah, no, I mean, I see how you wouldn’t.”
Big Angel settled himself and grimaced as he sank against his pillows. “It hurts.”
“Bad?”
He looked at his little brother. “What do you think?”
“Stupid question.”
“Hurts enough so I get the message.”
For some reason, this made them grin at each other.
Big Angel pulled out his bent and disfigured notebooks. “This,” he said, “is for Minnie and Lalo after I’m gone. Sí?”
Little Angel nodded.
“Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.”
“When I’m dead, get in here and pick them up. Don’t let anybody else get them.”
“Jeez, Angel.”
“Don’t give them to the kids right away. Wait a while. You can’t forget.”
“I won’t.” Crazy old man. “What are they?”
Big Angel hid them again. “Me,” he said.
They listened to the sounds in the distance of the house and the yard. The way-back bedroom already had kids of indistinct provenance crowded in the gloom, playing video games. The doglets were barking—though sometimes they sounded like birds chirping. Perla was ordering Lalo around.
“How come,” Big Angel said, “we never kissed?”
“Kissed?”
“Don’t families kiss?”
“Like, brothers? Kissing?”
“Why not?”
They pondered this ghastly new possibility.
“Carnal, do you want a kiss?” Little Angel said.
“Not really,” Big Angel said and shrugged. “You know.”
“There you go!” Little Angel crowed, as if some appealing aperçu had been launched and had brought down the house. “You were just saying!”
“Sure, by golly.”
They lay side by side, arms crossed, listening to the holy idiocy of the family banging around. Lalo shouted “Chud!” at somebody.
Big Angel asked, “Qué es eso, Carnal?”
“Lalo,” one or both of them muttered. It was a cosmic explanation for everything.
Minnie shouted, “Get out of the flowers! Ma! The dogs are pooping in the flowers!”
The brothers nodded wisely. They were like a pair of magpies on a phone line, letting the morning warm them.
“Do gringos kiss?” Big Angel asked.
“Some,” Little Angel said. “I know guys. Kiss their dads.”
“Everybody kisses moms, though.”
“Kissing moms doesn’t count. It’s required.”
“Right, right. If you don’t kiss your mom, forget it, man.”
“Right? You don’t get to heaven if you don’t kiss your mom.” After a minute, Little Angel sensed his big brother staring at him. He turned his head. Big Angel was smiling at him.
“Actually, yes,” he said.
“What.”
“Yeah.” Big Angel nodded. “I would like it.”
Little Angel rose up on one elbow and kissed his brother’s burning forehead.
“Not so bad,” Big Angel said.
“No. It was okay.”
They had to change the subject.
“Big day,” Little Angel said.
“My last day.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Angel,” Big Angel said, grabbing his little brother’s arm. “When you leave tonight, don’t say good-bye.”
“I won’t.”
“Never say good-bye to me.”
“I won’t.” Little Angel looked away. “They forgot to get you a cake,” he said.
Big Angel guffawed.
“I have to go buy one now.”
“Carnal,” Big Angel said. “Get me two cakes.”
“Why not? What kind?”
“One white and one chocolate. Put my name on both. But don’t get joke candles. I can’t keep blowing out candles that light back up.”
“I guess you don’t have to watch your weight now,” Little Angel said.
A moment of silence, then Big Angel said, “Asshole!”
a kiss from my brother
* * *
César El Pato and Marco the Satanic Hispanic pulled up as Little Angel was getting in his rental car for the Target expedition. César jumped out of his little red ride and waved him down and climbed in.
“Wow,” he said. “Big car.” But in Spanish: Guau. Qué carrote.
Mr. Death Metal dragged over a lawn chair and joined La Minnie in the driveway and immediately bummed a cigarette from her.
“I love my family,” Minnie said.
“Whatever,” he said.
Little Angel fired up the big Detroit engine. Guau was right. It was no little Japanese four cylinder. This was a locomotive.
“Adónde vamos?” César asked.
“Buying the birthday cake.”
“Ah! Qué bueno! Un keki!”
They chuckled. They liked using folksy Spanglish. So amusing. Bikes were baikas. Wives were waifas. Trucks were trokas, and pickups were pee-kahs.
Waffles were, of course, two-syllable words, Little Angel’s beloved diphthongs: waff-less.
Don Antonio had hated Spanglish. They all got scolded, even as adults, if they said some bastardized border word. They didn’t realize it was funny till after he was dead that he hated that word troka. Because he believed the correct word was una trok. Oh, Father.
“How are you, Carnal?” Little Angel asked.
“Sad.”
“Me too.”
“No me gusta.”
“No.”
El Pato let escape one low, long quack of sorrow. He was nearly erased by all the tragedy falling upon him. His Mamá had still ironed his shirts until she was taken ill. Everything on Earth was filled with sorrow. Little yellow weeds that broke through the tarmac made him feel weepy. The moon, like some pale paper cutout in the morning sky, overwhelmed him.
They drove to Target together through the metallic drought light. All traces of yesterday’s rain had burned away. Punk-ass little Chicanitos with lowrider bikes and skateboards assembled on a dusty basketball court down by the McDonald’s. The bridge over the 805 was as empty as a zombie movie, though the freeway below was clogged. It was too early for anybody to be out in the hood except those poor suckers going in to work and the skater vatos skipping church.
“This all reminds me of when our father died,” said César and made a face.
Little Angel loved that expression. Though it denoted distaste and displeasure, it was one of the great family faces. A squinchy little monkey expression. It had vestiges of Mamá América in it. The old matriarch asserting herself in the faces of her children. All men had women inside them—they just could not admit it.
<
br /> “That was a bad time,” Little Angel said.
“Yes.”
“But we knew it was coming.”
“Yes.”
“He was hard on himself.”
“Chit. He was hard on everybody, Carnal.” El Pato shrugged one shoulder. Moved his hands upward in a double-flip gesture that denoted forever and the far distance and Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about it. “He kicked Grandma’s dog down the steps.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
They drove the mile to the bridge and across the 805. As they passed over the congested traffic, pigeons launched from the bridge and scattered over the roofs of the cars. They looked like doves for a second, diving off a pale cliff. All this gleaming Mississippi of Americans in their cars, rushing past the invisible barrio, unaware of the lives up here, the little houses, all these unknowable stories.
But Little Angel reeled it back in and focused on his brother. “He didn’t take care of himself,” he said.
“Taking care was not what he did, Carnal.” El Pato reached over and squeezed his knee. It seemed like the most beautiful gesture ever. “Were you sad, Angelito?” he asked.
“Of course. He was my dad.”
“I don’t know how I felt,” Pato said. “Very sad. But a little…glad? Is that bad?”
“No.”
“I mean, my poor mamá.”
“I understand.”
“Your poor mamá.”
“Thank you.”
“He wasn’t like other fathers. You know how Mexican fathers are. Wanna be good. Wanna be great.” He wobbled his head back and forth. “Some fathers.”
“You’re like that.”
El Pato quacked with pleasure. “Gracias, Carnalito.”
They smiled. Keeping it noncommittal.
“Hard. Hard.” Pato ran a finger along his chin, making little sandpaper sounds on his stubble. “A hard man.”
It was only three more miles to Target, but it felt like ten.
“Then,” said Little Angel. “He was sweet. All of a sudden. You’d come home and he’d have made a big supper.”
Pato pursed his lips.
“Supper. Really? What did Father cook?”
“Spaghetti with hard-boiled eggs.”
They laughed.
“He put the eggs in there instead of meatballs.”
They parked, but César wasn’t ready to get out of the car.
“Were you close to Papá?” he asked Little Angel in Spanish. “I mean, I know. You were close. Right? He lived with you.”
“Close?” Little Angel didn’t know what to say. Yes. No. Too close. Abandoned. What. “Sure,” he said at last.
“Sabes, Carnal? After he left us and came to Tijuana? We followed him. Angel found us later. Can you believe that? He came all the way on a bus and found us. We were living in the hills. In Colonia Obrera. It was rough. The boys there used to beat me up. Angel hit them with a pipe.”
Little Angel did not know this.
“He and I had to go out and walk around Tijuana looking for food. Mamá had nothing to feed us. Do you know how hot it was? MaryLú cried all day long.”
Little Angel suddenly felt guilty about his spaghetti.
“We didn’t steal,” Pato said. “Mamá would never forgive us for stealing anything. But we looked for dandelions. You ever eat those?”
Little Angel shook his head.
“We filled our pockets and shirts with dandelions. You can’t eat the puffs. But you can boil the plants and the flowers. Or fry them. If you have lard. Sometimes Mamá fried them.”
Little Angel turned and stared at his brother.
“So Angel came to Tijuana when I was a kid. Maybe twelve? He was already planning to marry Perla. He knew where my father…our father, perdón…was. At our abuela’s house. He went there every week.”
“I know.”
“She was the first one to move to Tijuana.”
“Yes.”
“She liked The Perry Como Show.”
They chuckled.
“She had to live on the border, pues. Just to watch it.”
“That and Lawrence Welk,” Little Angel said.
“Well, Angel told me. Father was at her house. And I ran. All across town.” César smiled sadly and stared out the windshield, shaking his head, as if watching a distant drive-in screen showing a touching film. “I ran all the way to Grandmother’s house. That was hard. It was up on that hill.”
“I know.”
“I had hard shoes. I got blisters, but I ran anyway. And I went in—I didn’t knock. I just walked in, and there he was. He was sitting in the big chair in her living room, watching television. Smoking.”
“Pall Malls.”
“He looked like a giant with clouds of smoke around his head. He never looked at me. I sat down and stared at him. I don’t know what I thought would happen. Nothing happened. He had gray hair. He looked a hundred years old. Watching a game show. And then he finally turned and looked at me.”
“Did he say anything?”
César blew a small chuff of laughter through his nostrils. “He said, ‘Which one are you?’ Just like that. ‘Which one are you?’ So I told him. He said, ‘I thought you would be bigger.’ Then he walked out of the room.” César opened his door and put one foot out of the car but sat there. “Why was he like that?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
César shook his head. “I didn’t like that,” he said and got out and slammed the door.
* * *
9:45 a.m.
Silence in the car as they returned to the house. The cakes they had pulled from the cooler would be decorated by 11:00. Pato had insisted on paying.
The gathering vatos y rucas had adjourned to the backyard. Old people still outnumbered them since old Mexicans were up before the sun and had worked a half day before these gamers and Netflix kids opened their eyes. No Mexican Little Angel had seen in his life ever slept leaning on a cactus like all the taco shop signs insisted.
La Gloriosa and Lupita were acting as Perla’s sergeants, knocking heads and moving tables. Uncle Jimbo sat over by the geraniums, smoking a cigar. He wore a straw porkpie hat and shorts out of which giant red legs emanated. Jimbo nodded and they nodded back, and he puffed away and shook a glass of Diet Coke choked with ice cubes. “Needs rum!” he noted. “And a butt-load of cherries.” He had a Confederate flag pin on his guayabera to let them know he was in no mood for raza bullshit.
La Gloriosa was revealed in her full morning power, backlit, hair outlined in silver, gleaming. César flushed when he saw her. So did Little Angel. The sight of the two of them standing there like sad doggies begging for a snack irritated her, so she spun away from them and unfurled a plastic tablecloth with decisive snapping downstrokes. Each muscled arm a rebuke of their inherent weakness. She thought: Go to the gym, cabrones. You flabby little men. Little Angel hurried to his coffee box and delivered himself a dose of Colombian. César vanished into the bathroom and could be heard locking the door.
Little Angel lingered behind her, sniffing the air.
“Don’t be foolish,” La Gloriosa said, but Little Angel didn’t know if she was addressing him or the scraggly kid who had wandered in on his way to the back room for a round of Mario Kart.
With rattles and bangs, Big Angel rolled down the hallway. He honked his bike horn. “I want to go outside,” he said.
All hands on deck. They wrestled the chair out the sliding door and onto the patio.
“I smell coffee,” Big Angel said.
Little Angel handed him his own cup.
“Instant?”
“No. Fancy.”
Big Angel handed the cup back. “Fuchi,” he said. “Get me some instant. And put Carnation in it.”
The Chiweenies saw him, rushed to his chair, and danced in wagging pirouettes.
“To my dogs,” he announced, “I am a legend.”
* * *
10:15 a.m.
“Thanks.”
“No, I’m asking. You rock?”
“Ah! Yes. Sure.”
“Hard rock or chick rock?”
“Chick rock?”
“Like freakin’ short-hair dudes. Alt rock. Mormons.”
I love this kid, Little Angel thought. “Oh. I see. Hard rock. Motörhead.”
The youngster nodded sagely.
More brilliant convo. Little Angel was happy. What was an uncle for but this: metal Tío taking this hormonal squall seriously. “Well,” he said, accessing his inner metal file: “God hates us all.” He knew how to toss bait at adolescents.
“Right, Tío?”
“Reign in blood.”
“Fuckin’-a, Tío!” The Monster bellowed: “SLAYER!”
They raised devil horns to the sun.
* * *
10:30 a.m., the worst time of the day
It was almost party time. Back in the bedroom, Perla and La Minnie were struggling with Big Angel. They had pulled the chair backward, against his will. Every inch made him more hysterical. He dragged his feet until the linoleum pulled off his slippers and then his socks.
None of them could remember what pills he was supposed to take at what hour. They had to trust his computer of a brain to keep track of all his mega doses. And his least favorites: the chemo lozenges. Minnie was certain he was hiding these under the bed, but she could never find them.
They muscled him into the bathroom and stripped him.
“Ay,” he said. He went limp in their hands and sagged, grunting. “No.”
They pulled off his diaper.
“No you don’t!” he said.
Minnie carefully wrapped the diaper in a tight ball and dropped it into the trash can.
“No, I said!” Big Angel was trying to sit on the floor. “Leave me alone!”
Every damned day, the same thing. “Come on, Daddy,” Minnie urged. “Stop being a baby.”
Perla ran the water. She was careful—kept her hand in the stream until she was sure it was perfect. Too cold and he’d curse, too hot and he’d cry.
“No bath today!” he said.
They lifted him into the water. He kicked weakly.
“Flaco! This is the one day you need to take a bath. Your party!”
“I don’t want a party.”
“Be good, Flaco.”
The House of Broken Angels Page 16