He landed on his knees. Hard. His head banged into the edge of the dresser. The parchment skin at his temple tore, and cool blood made its instant presence felt all over his face. It was greasy.
He wasn’t worried about the wound. He was worried that he’d shattered his knees, and he whimpered and cried. He thought cancer had hurt, but this was more vivid, and he could not get up, so the pain screamed louder and louder in his crushed joints as he ground them into the hard floor. Then the blood dribbled to the floor between his hands. He cried and yelled.
“Help! Oye! Me caí de la cama! Help me!”
Now, Angel, he told himself. We’re stuck. Think.
He reached up, grabbed a fistful of the sheet, and tried to pull himself up. He dropped back to the floor, where he knelt with his ass in the air and his hands on either side of his bowed head. Who was he kidding? He had no muscles left in his arms. He was truly trapped—jammed between the bed and the dresser. Unable even to move his knees under him to try to lever himself up. He pulled the collar of his T-shirt up to his temple and tried to stop the bleeding. His blood looked almost blue to him.
“God,” he said, “this hurts.”
God said nothing.
“I need some help,” he offered.
God might have been taking another call.
He looked around for ghosts. But he had been abandoned to his fate. For a moment, he was afraid Chentebent might come through the wall, grinning. The pain made him tremble all over.
“All right,” he said.
He laid his head on the floor. He’d wait. Someone would come. He was Big Angel. He was not going to die like this.
But what if he did?
What if nobody came until bedtime? He would be gone for sure. His body couldn’t take this. His heart already felt like it had been hit by a hammer.
“God? Are you there?”
And it hit him then: You are on your knees, pendejo. Confess. God had put him there, and there would be no getting up until he had done what he needed to do.
“I am dirty,” he began. “I am so dirty.”
It took him three hours.
* * *
Lalo was on his way to the back room to play Grand Theft Auto when he found Big Angel. Lalo had a little buzz on, nothing too rad—couple beers, couple shots. He stared at his old man down there like he was praying to Mecca or something.
“Yo, Pops,” he said. “Why you sleepin’ on the floor, G?”
He picked up his father, laid him on the bed, and covered him up. He didn’t notice the crust of blood on Big Angel’s face. He wandered back out of the room, grabbed the video-game controller, and started capping fools and crashing cars.
Big Angel slept, exhausted beyond the agony in his knees. And God gave him a gift of revelation: he dreamed the farewell party. He saw it all. He awoke in the morning to Perla’s cries of terror. She had seen the blood on his face and on the pillow, and they burst from the house, dragging him against his will to the emergency room, and the whole time he was refusing to die because of this very event. These cakes. This singing.
He exited the time bubble that had held him. Everyone was laughing and talking and still eating and throwing cake at each other. And Big Angel stared at Little Angel, feeling immense pity. You have never been put on your knees, he thought. And if you don’t do it for yourself, God will slam you to the floor and make you square your account. Just wait, Baby Brother.
I am so sorry.
Apparently, all this noise hadn’t awakened Lalo, who slid farther down in his seat near Pops, hung out his feet, and snored. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand.
“Chuds.”
* * *
Outside, the sleek white Audi idled at the mouth of the driveway. El Yndio sat behind the wheel. His new tattoo read: PRODIGAL. All down the inside of his right forearm.
He checked his phone. There was a voice message from Moms. “Mijo—ven. Por Dios. Come inside.” He didn’t delete it.
His window was open. He listened to them sing to his father. How many times had he driven up and down this street, monitoring the family? How many parties? How many arguments had he heard? How many door slams?
Every year he had stayed away made the wall between them feel higher, unscalable. It was almost impossible to admit that he was embarrassed by his own behavior. How could he ever admit that he had exiled himself?
He wanted to get out, he really did. He wanted to get out of the car and walk through the crowd and see Minnie and his mother fall to their knees when they saw him. Wanted to flaunt his long hair and muscles and expensive white jeans. He wanted to stride up to his father and forgive him.
And be forgiven.
That was the secret Yndio didn’t dare speak to anyone, and hardly acknowledged even to himself. He had walked as far away from Big Angel as he could, living a life Big Angel could not understand and would never condone. It felt like defiance. But like every true prodigal, Yndio’s deepest fear was that his father would close the door in his face.
He hung his head on the rim of the window and listened to the roar of the last lines of the song. And the barking of the neighborhood dogs. He wanted to say good-bye. But he could not. The window went up silently. The white car sat quiet in the night.
* * *
It was over, they were telling themselves. Well, except for the cakes. Los kekis, pues. Everybody wanted cake. None of them more than Big Angel.
He had two plates before him and a plastic fork in each hand, and he laid into the white and the dark with a furious joy. He had frosting on his chin and even on one cheek, and he didn’t care. Perla tried to wipe his face, but he shrugged her napkin away with his shoulder and gestured at La Gloriosa to put another slice on each plate.
“They won’t call you Flaco anymore,” she said. “They will call you Gordo.”
“Good,” he said and gestured at his plates. “Más.”
Minnie supervised the various girls and morras and rucas to help her distribute droopy plates to everybody. “No more food fights, you brats,” she warned.
Perla’s great cutting knife was so covered in clots of frosting that she took it to the kitchen for Lupita to wash.
Big Angel looked up at La Gloriosa and said, in Spanish, “I always loved you.”
She flushed. Turned away. She gave thanks that none of these kids really understood Spanish. “Love you too,” she said lightly. She excused herself and backed away and walked out of the yard. All she wanted to do was breathe.
* * *
When Little Angel came for his second piece of cake, he sat beside his brother. They looked at Lalo, who was laughing in his sleep. They shook their heads.
“You know I always loved you,” Big Angel said.
“Back at you.”
“Don’t go back to Seattle.”
“I have to. I have work. I have a life.”
“Who will take my place?”
“Not me.”
“You’re the only one. Lalo’s not a patriarch. Yndio’s gone. Poor Pato—he can’t do it. I choose you.”
Little Angel glanced at him and shook his head. “Maybe it’s time for a matriarch,” he said and pointed at La Minnie. “She’s the boss now,” he said.
Big Angel tipped his head and stared up at his daughter.
* * *
La Gloriosa leaned on the garage door and stared up at the night sky.
The street was silent. She didn’t recognize the glistening pearl car nosed onto the driveway. Nice. Not big enough, though.
She was talking to her son. She didn’t want to be disturbed. He was up there. Guillermito. None of that “Joker” nonsense. She wished him a good night every night.
“Mamá loves you,” she whispered.
* * *
Yndio had decided to drive away again. He checked his rearview mirror. Copper pools of light seemed to float on the sidewalks and blacktop every twelve feet, receding toward the distant glittering border. Lily pads on a black river.
“Oh hell no,” Yndio said.
For the first time in ten years, he opened the door.
* * *
The gunman stopped at the edge of the party. He had flipped up his collar to hide the tattoos on his face. Lalo, that puto, lived here. He stared hard at the crowd. He hadn’t expected some birthday. But this was even better. He was going to do Lalo with his own gun in front of his whole family. Teach them all a little lesson in respect.
He even knew what he was going to say: Here’s how you spell payback. He had to count it out on his fingers, wanted to make sure he had enough bullets for each letter of “payback.”
The gunman was looking at Lalo. Bringing it hard. He had the dude’s own .22 pressed against his thigh. He scoped all the raggedy-assed peeps in the yard, eating cake.
He was still burning with shame about the scene in the garage. There was no way to hold his head up with pride if he didn’t do something about it. And it had to be personal.
Really? That’s what he was going to say to Lalo as he pulled his gat. Really, bitch?
And a double tap right in the head. The rest in the chest. The partiers would freak, and he’d just walk fast right back out the gate. Be gone before they got it together enough to look for him or call the cops. Then Gio would come looking, but there’d be some surprises waiting for him.
He had no idea, and nobody in the crowd noticed, that Yndio was moving in the shadows, calculating the possibilities. Yndio knew that he could rush the dude and overpower him, but who would be hurt if the guy started to shoot? Yndio stared at Pops in his wheelchair and was shocked at how frail he looked. What would you do? he thought. How would Pops play this out?
The gunman stepped forward. Checked the old dude in the wheelchair putting a hurt on the cake. And the other old dude beside him, just sitting there. Looking all yuppie, chocolate on his face. Sheeit. Both of those old-timers had little notebooks in their laps.
He brought the pistol around and cranked the body back and jacked a fresh round into the chamber. That cold sound stopped the party in an instant. Silence. All faces swung to him.
People started to see the gun. Repelled by its force, they instantly surged away from it. Chairs tipped over. Chickenshits ran. The whole yard clearing out.
Minnie looked up. She smiled a little and blew a strand of hair out of her face. “Wha—?” she said, then saw the gun. She should have been heroic. She wanted to be heroic. But she found herself scrambling backward. Anything to get distance between her and the pistol. In her rush, she slammed into Yndio, who silently grabbed her shoulders, moved her aside, and kept going forward.
Big Angel was leaning toward his brother, saying, “I wanted to see Seattle.”
“Maybe you will.”
The gunman held the pistol in both hands and kicked Lalo’s foot. “Hey,” he said.
The brothers looked up. No response from Lalo.
The dude turned the pistol on the Angels.
“Stay,” he said. “Don’t say shit.” He kicked Lalo, hard, in the leg.
“Hey…” Lalo complained. His head lolled back, and he regarded the gunman through slit eyes. “Check yourself…puppet.”
Big Angel started to smile. Oh my God. It was a miracle. This little asshole. A revelation. God had spoken. He had to remember to call Dave if he survived this. He knew in his crumbling bones that he would survive.
He saw his father. He saw Chentebent. He saw the sailor who had come to their yard seeking blood. He heard his father’s voice as if the ghost of the old man were right behind him, the words he spat so many years ago. He saw his own end—not small, not wretched, but heroic. Vast. A legend that would never fade from his family’s minds or lips. And he rose.
He held out his hand to Little Angel, not for help, but to keep him in place. He forced his way slowly out of his chair.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked the man.
Instead of pulling the trigger like he knew he should, the gunman looked over and said, “Sit down, old man.”
“Chinga tu madre.”
How much disrespect was he supposed to take this day? These assholes were so mouthy, he was losing track. This had been the most ridiculous, messed up day of his life. This family. They were all crazy. And they all talked too much. The gunman’s plan to regain his lost self-respect had all seemed so clear: kill Lalo with his own gun in front of his family. But then the old man had opened his mouth, and the gunman was confused. He hadn’t come there to kill them all or he’d have brought more bullets. Thug life. Too much work.
“What did you say?” The pistol swung back to Big Angel.
Little Angel was caught in his seat as if pinned to it—staring in disbelief and confusion.
Big Angel was shaking all over, but shaking from pain and rage, not fear. “You heard me,” he said. “You little shit.”
Many of those left in the yard had never heard Big Angel swear.
He didn’t grab for his wheelchair. Just rocked in place. Anchored to the pendejo with the gun by his wrathful gaze.
The gunman stared back at him. “Back off, grandpa,” he said. “For reals.” He shook his head and took fresh aim at Lalo’s face. Made a disparaging sound.
But Big Angel was already moving. Slow. It was only two feet. Sliding glacier-like to the side, nearly tripping over his son’s splayed feet, until he straddled Lalo and held his own body between his boy and this gangster trash.
All was silence.
“The fuck you doing, viejo?”
Big Angel still had a plastic fork in his hand.
Little Angel was seeing everything in the clearest detail. The fork was covered in black cake and dark frosting. And he saw Perla trying to break through the crowd. She was shouting, but there was no sound. And he saw Minnie staring in disbelief at this scene and at the white-clad beast approaching them.
Yndio?
Big Angel raised his fork at the pistolero and pointed it at him. They aimed at each other.
“Get out of my yard,” Big Angel said.
The dude’s gun wavered. “Get out my way, fool,” he said. He glanced at Little Angel and back at the patriarch. “Dude,” he said sideways. “You don’t want gramps capped, you best sit his ass down now.”
Big Angel snapped his fingers in the man’s face. “Hey, look at me. If you want to shoot my boy, then shoot him. Go ahead.”
“Say what?”
Big Angel smiled, showing all his teeth. It was the smile of a wolverine. The gunman had never encountered this before.
“But I’ll rip your eye out with this little fork.” Big Angel put his fingers on his sparrow-bone chest. “Maybe you better shoot me first. Shoot him through me, you little prick.”
“What?”
“Shoot here. I’m dying anyway.” He shrugged one shoulder, lips tugged down. Shrugging in Spanish. “Put the bullet through my heart. Right here. See? It’ll come right out and hit Lalo.” He patted his chest. “Kill us together. I’d like that.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Do it!”
“I’ll do it, old man.”
“Good! Do me a favor. Right there. I won’t feel a thing.”
“Daddy!” Minnie cried.
The dude looked over his shoulder. The crowd was starting to move again. Toward him. Some screaming old lady was knocking people out of her way, running from the kitchen. Oh shit—she had a huge knife in her hand.
“But if you don’t kill me, I vow that I’ll cut off your mother’s head. And your father’s head. I can’t wait to do that. And I’ll go bowling with them.”
Perla’s voice came from behind: “Son! Save your father!”
They were starting to shout at him. He swung the pistol at the crow
d. Damn. He looked back at Gramps.
A man’s voice: “Sorry I’m late to the party.”
Big Angel turned his head and then looked again. Out of the shadows, Yndio appeared and put his arm around his father’s shoulders.
The old man looked up at him. “Hi, mijo!” he said.
They fell into family theater as though they had been in rehearsals for a month.
Yndio felt vast relief. He should have known this was how it was always meant to play out. He performed his role with no hesitation.
“Hi, Pops. What’s this here?”
Big Angel’s small grin filled Yndio with pride.
“Oh,” Big Angel said, as if they were talking about the weather. “Some pendejo is going to kill us all.”
El Yndio was flying now. They were going to do this Big Angel style all the way.
“Kill me first, asswipe,” said El Yndio. “That’s my advice.”
These people were all crazy. The dude lowered the pistol and spun around to make his escape.
Minnie moved to block him and said, “Hey, bitch.” He looked over his shoulder for just a moment, a brief pause that was all it took for Yndio to strike. His right fist streaked into the side of the man’s face and cracked his jaw and cheekbone. The dude lifted off his feet and hit the concrete so hard the pistol flew out of his hand. Minnie stepped on it, holding it to the ground.
Big Angel turned to Little Angel and said, “Look at my kids.”
The crowd closed on the gunman and started kicking. He scrambled on his hands and knees and withstood a gauntlet of pain until he was able to pump his arms and legs and speed toward the gate on all fours, then on his knees and then stumbling into a run.
Out in front, La Gloriosa watched him run and fall, run and fall, caroming off cars as he went. “What’s your problem?” she called.
The House of Broken Angels Page 25