Amigoland Page 4

  He suspected they were helping themselves whenever he was on the pot or out of the room for longer stretches of time and there was little chance of catching them in the act. Just the other day he had remembered to get up in the middle of his meal and head back to the room, but they must have known or been watching him because the room was empty except for The One With The Hole In His Back, who had fallen asleep eating his meal. Worse still was that by the time he pushed the walker back into the mess hall the attendants had already picked up his tray.

  The thieves must have been busy with the other residents last night because all the boxes seemed to be in order. He clicked his government-issue pen so he could record today’s inventory in one of his old pocket-size address books, the leather exterior as worn and cracked as the hands that were holding it. There were only a few blank pages left in this particular book and soon he would need to find more space for his notations. He thumbed through the rest of the pages, but they all seemed to be taken up with one name or another that he couldn’t place. It wasn’t until he turned the R–S tab and saw his own family name that the entries began to correspond some with his faded memory. Vicente had died from a bad heart, still in his fifties. Baltazar they shot in Reynosa, something having to do with a woman he was seeing after somebody else had seen her first. He couldn’t remember how Enrique had died anymore, only that it was sad. Luisa was from the cancer, but what kind he couldn’t say. When he turned to the next page he saw Celestino’s name. Of eight brothers and four sisters, only the two of them were left. At least he thought it was still the two of them. The youngest and the oldest, almost twenty years separating them. That the youngest was alive would make sense, he supposed, but what good reason could there be for the oldest to be alive and for the rest of his brothers and sisters to be gone? What sense did it make for him to be still walking around? For what? For him to be stuck here, waiting to die? At least if Celestino was alive he was probably out there living his life like a free man. If… They hadn’t actually spoken in years. Why, though?

  He sat down to wait for the hour that they would let him go outside for his first smoke. After that it would be only a few minutes until they served him breakfast. He opened the address book again. If he wasn’t mistaken, Celestino was the one who used to cut hair. Either he or Martín, but he thought it was more likely Celestino. And whatever it was, why they hadn’t talked in so many years, had something to do with cutting hair. He raised his cap and smoothed down his hair. Of all the things in this world to have an argument about. You call this a haircut? I told you not to touch the sideburns! It seemed ridiculous to him now, whatever started it. For only the two of them to be still alive and not talking.

  He had to dial twice, since the first time he misread the number and had to listen to a recording of some woman telling him he didn’t know what he was doing and that he needed to hang up and try his call again. The second time, he concentrated, keeping his thumb under each number next to his brother’s name and then using his other index finger to stab at the tiny digits on his phone.

  It rang. He was happy to not hear the woman’s voice. It rang again. She acted like he was the first man on earth to call the wrong phone number. Just wait till she turns ninety-one and see if she doesn’t dial a number wrong now and then. It was a common enough mistake. Nothing to criticize. Nothing to scold him about. They didn’t even have phones down here when he was born, that’s how old he was. No phones! None! Not even one! At least, not his people. Who knows what they had on the other side of town? But where he was, if you wanted to talk to so-and-so, you had to walk to wherever so-and-so was and do your talking. Not like now. The other day some young man, all dressed up in a suit with a tie, came to visit his grandmother, one of The Turtles, but he spent most of his time pacing up and down the hall talking to himself, like maybe he should be living in the part of the building where they locked up The Ones Who Like To Wander Off. Then Don Fidencio noticed the young man had an earpiece with a long white cord that connected to a tiny phone attached to his belt. Who would have imagined such things? A man talking to another man somewhere else and neither one of the two actually holding a phone in his hand. Not like he was doing now with the receiver pressed up to his ear. Only God knew how many times it had rung when he heard something click and a woman’s voice come on the line. She was different from the first, but still. It wasn’t seven a.m. and already he was about to get scolded, yelled at for the second time that morning. No sir, not Fidencio Rosales. He refused to listen to whatever she had to say and hung up. Yell at the next guy who marks the wrong number. He didn’t know why he’d picked up the phone in the first place, what was so damn important. Then he looked back at his thumb stuck inside the little address book.

  4

  Don Celestino heard the phone ringing in the living room and wondered who would be calling him in the middle of the night. When he glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand, the numbers looked as blurry as if he were underwater. He groped around trying to find his eyeglasses and finally had to get his face up close to the clock to see it was already 6:45 in the morning, much later than he normally woke up. Especially when he went to bed so early, as he had the night before. The phone was still ringing. He looked at the clock again. And here he had thought that by going to bed a little early he’d have that much more time in the morning. Now he had less than half an hour before he needed to be there. The bridge wasn’t so far away, but he would hardly have time to shower and shave or even take care of his hair.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and used the bedpost to pull himself up. The ceiling fan was on, but he was sweating all the same. Maybe all he needed was a little orange juice in his system and he would be fine. He headed toward the kitchen, staggering a bit, until he had to lean up against the wall before he could go on. He could feel his heart beating as fully as if he were still out working in the yard. It made no sense, not after a full night of sleep. It occurred to him he should sit down, but he worried that he might not be able to stand up later. And besides, the phone was still ringing. He was almost sure it wasn’t Socorro calling him. Whoever it was would probably wait while he drank his orange juice. It wasn’t more than a few sips that he needed anyway. Two or three more rings at the most. Don Celestino had barely opened the refrigerator door when it occurred to him that she could be calling to tell him she was delayed or that something had happened to her mother, that she wouldn’t be able to come today, or that, yes, she was coming, everything was fine, she would be there at the bridge like she had every other Thursday morning, only that this time she had shown up a little early and was waiting for him, and to please come for her now, or something else, something important, something that he would only ever know if he picked up the phone before it stopped ringing.

  He could hear the ringing in his head now. His chest seemed to tighten a little more with each ring. He was only two or three paces from his recliner, where he could sit to take the call. Whoever it was would wait that long. He’d never felt this way in the morning and he thought it might have to do with not eating enough the night before. It had only been a few months. How could they expect him to remember everything he was supposed to do along with checking his sugar level? The orange juice would help. Maybe he should have served himself the glass first. But right then the answering machine clicked on and the prerecorded voice announced that he wasn’t available at the moment and to please leave a message and he would be sure to call back. He was waiting for the caller to say something, waiting to see if it was her voice, when suddenly the line cut out.

  PART II

  5

  Near the far end of downtown, a street cleaner lumbered alongside the curb, whirling up a torment of dust and trash. The few drivers out at this early hour avoided the machine and the billowing cloud left in its wake. Most of the dollar stores and fabric shops would not open for at least another hour. By now the shopkeepers on the other side of the river were tossing buckets of soapy water onto the sidewalks in front of t
heir businesses, sweeping away the dust that had gathered overnight.

  Socorro glanced at her watch and then down the boulevard that led to the bridge. A flock of wild parrots squawked as they formed a green tapestry against the grayish sky. The group maintained its pattern, flying in the familiar direction of his house, then dipped beyond her line of vision. Socorro tugged on her skirt and looked down the street. She had woken up early to give her mother the medicine and then make breakfast and still have time to get ready. It took her several minutes to find a nice skirt and blouse that she could work in, and afterward pinned up her hair instead of simply keeping it in a braid. She debated before the mirror whether she should just wear her usual blue jeans. She had taken the black skirt off twice when she noticed the time and had to rush to catch her bus.

  Now Socorro wondered why she had rushed. All that worrying for nothing, as if she were some young girl. Behind her, the bridge was backed up with drivers crossing over to work or shop or bring their children to school on the U.S. side. Across the street, a few taxi drivers leaned up against their cars and vans, waiting for the next fare. Beyond them stood the hall where she had seen couples walking together to the dances on the weekends. She was still looking around for his car when a silver truck pulled alongside her and the driver waved, trying to get her to smile back. “Let me take you to breakfast,” the man said. She turned away, as if she hadn’t heard him. Just beyond the side mirror, black cursive letters informed everyone of the vehicle’s proper owner, but she saw this only as she searched for somewhere else to focus her attention. A figurine of a saloon girl on a tiny swing was dangling from the rearview mirror. He tapped the figurine with his finger, watching it sway to and fro. “Why work today? We have all our lives to work. Take the day off and come with me.” His thick mustache and long, dark sideburns looked as if they had been drawn with a piece of coal. She held on to the strap of her purse and turned her attention to traffic along the boulevard. Any second now her ride would be pulling up. Already it was past the time that he usually came for her. “A woman as pretty as you should not have to work so hard for her money.” The saloon girl rocked back and forth, her tiny red heels tapping against the smudged windshield. He liked what she was wearing. “The way it fits you,” he explained. “I don’t like my women too small, without enough to hold on to.” She dropped her left hand, tugged gently at her skirt. She heard a distant fluttering, and then another flock of parrots glided across the muted sky. “Why don’t you come over here, sit here next to me? You look about the right size.” He could tell she wanted to. “Only to spend a little time getting to know you, mamacita,” he said. “Look at all the room I have here for you.” He patted the vinyl seat. “Why do you want to be this way? There’s no reason to be afraid.” She felt flushed in that way she hated. Tiny beads of sweat were gathering along her neck and down between her breasts. She pulled at the collar of her blouse, hoping for any little breeze. She glanced behind her as if someone had just called her name. The sunlight shimmered off the razor wire above the back gates of the immigration offices. The serrated blades seemed newer and less rusted than the ones that lined the bridge. “Look, they just paid me last night. Come closer. Look, mamacita.” Some of the taxi drivers were staring now and one of them was saying something that they all found especially funny.

  “Mamacita, I want to talk to you. Why do you treat me this way, what are the people going to say?” He reached out for her and she pulled away, walked a few steps toward the end of the block. He followed her, stopped each time she stopped, inched forward with each step she took, then backward when she reversed her direction. “And why not, mamacita?” He reached for her again, then a third and a fourth time. Socorro knew that if he touched her, she was going to do or say something that she would regret, maybe even before she managed to get it all out. Just one more time, she kept thinking. Just one more time. It was only when she crossed the street that he finally left her, but not before he called her a puta and then other ugly words that she herself might have said if he hadn’t driven away so fast.

  She exited the bus, rubbing the key between her thumb and forefinger. Don Celestino had given it to her several months earlier when he dropped her off at the house one morning and then hurried off to make it in time for a doctor’s appointment. Maybe that was it — that he’d had an early appointment with the doctor. There could be so many reasons he had not come for her. Socorro knew it was a bad habit of hers to always imagine the worst. She walked a little faster and tried to put these thoughts out of her mind.

  Along the boulevard, the 18-wheelers surged to and from the bridge. She thought she could hear what sounded like a siren in the distance but couldn’t tell if it was getting closer or farther away. From the bus she had to walk only two blocks past the school before she was on his street. She also cleaned the house of one of his neighbors, which was how she had come to clean his. La señora Muñoz lived midway down the block in a small clapboard house surrounded by all shapes and sizes of plants, as well as the two papaya trees, a small palm, and a large ebony that dropped its pods and tiny leaflets near the street. Socorro could see a little boy crouched along the curb in front of la señora’s house. He had stopped to cram as many of the pods as he could into his backpack. The elementary school was several blocks away and he seemed too young to be walking alone. Socorro wondered where his mother could be. He was lost in his little world as he worked to stuff the pods into his backpack. She was about to ask if he needed help when the little boy finally stood up, but it was only so he could look past her at the ambulance that was headed this way.

  6

  Close to noon, after doing the cleaning and washing, Socorro packed his shaving kit and some clean clothes into a paper bag, then walked down the street to ask for a ride.

  “The thing is that he should not be living by himself,” la señora Muñoz said as she drove. She had come out in her housecoat and open-toed slippers.

  “Some people like to be alone.” Socorro looked out the window at the palm trees along the median. They were traveling up one of the main streets in Brownsville, the same one he’d taken to show her the barbershop where he had worked so many years.

  “But he shouldn’t be one of those people, not at his age. His wife would not have wanted him to be alone — that I do know. Don Celestino has been lucky until now.”

  “And his family?” she asked, hoping it didn’t sound like the cleaning woman was asking more than she should.

  “One of his daughters tried to get him to go live with her in San Antonio, but he wanted to stay here, in his own house.” La señora slowed down for the speed bumps leading up to the hospital. “No matter how nice a man he might be, you have to remember he is still a man and very thickheaded.”

  She stood outside the entrance, watching her reflection disappear and then reappear in the sliding glass doors. Before driving off, la señora had scribbled the hospital-room number on the back of an old receipt. Now Socorro held on to the receipt and the paper bag filled with his clean clothes. Just beyond the sliding glass doors, a thick-necked security guard sat behind a large desk, eating the last bit of an empanada. His dark uniform reminded her of the men and women who every morning asked her to state her purpose for wanting to enter the country. To clean your house, she felt like saying. Why else would she be there practically every day of the week? She waited next to the sliding doors, allowing others to walk by her. This wasn’t like the clinics on the other side of the river, where they had taken her mother when she started complaining about the terrible headaches and about her hands, which she could hardly open anymore. Or later after her first attack, when they had to rush her to the hospital. At least then Socorro knew she could open her mouth, defend herself if necessary. Not that she’d ever had any real problems coming across; she knew this, yet she hesitated as if someone would suddenly run her off, tell her she had no business here. Even dressed nicely, she was still a cleaning woman from the other side. She could see this every time the sli
ding glass doors came back together. And as if it were not already obvious, the hem of her skirt was smudged with some dust that she had tried to wipe away. She thought about leaving and simply walking back to the house or the bridge, but then the guard’s phone rang, and as he was cradling the receiver on his shoulder, searching through some paperwork, she had just enough time to scuttle past the desk.

  Once she arrived at the elevator, a maintenance worker explained to her how to find the room. Socorro stayed close to the plastic railing, making herself small as she walked by the nurses’ station. When she was almost at the room, she stopped altogether. She asked herself why she was doing this and if she shouldn’t have stayed at his house and finished the washing and cleaning, what he paid her to do. The rest of it, what had occurred those Thursday afternoons, was between them. And all of this was agreed to without either one of them having to say a word, as if they both understood that they had crossed some clear and definitive line. Only it had continued to happen. And so the line between being his cleaning lady and his lover had blurred before she realized it, and yet because no one else knew about them, the line had become more entrenched, like a moat intended to keep them apart.