Amigoland Read online

  She mumbled something back.

  “What was that, mi amor?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Nothing, just talking to myself.”

  “Saying what? Tell me.”

  She inched away when she felt his bare chest against her back.

  “I said, ‘You act like you know what it is to be alone.’”

  “I was alone for almost half a year before I found you,” Don Celestino said. “That wasn’t long enough?” He kissed her along the shoulders, as he had been doing before he excused himself.

  “I thought it was.”

  “Then?”

  “Maybe other people would think it was.”

  “What people?” He nuzzled up and set her hair to one side so his lips could reach her neck.

  “Your brother, maybe he would think it was a long time.”

  “He’s been alone already for years.”

  “So then he knows what it’s like.”

  “Only because she left him.” He moved his hand across her hip and then down toward the little rolls of skin near her belly, but she moved her arm in a way that blocked the rest of his path.

  “Then his alone is different from your alone?”

  “They were separated, she didn’t want to see him.” Socorro turned to face him. “And you think you know everything that happens between a man and his woman?”

  “No, I just know they were not together and for years not even in the same town. Why do I need to know the reasons?”

  “He was still married to her, Celestino. He was still her husband.”

  He liked how she said his name more intimately now, without the “Don” attached to it, and sometimes it was difficult to remember when it had been any other way between them. He was savoring the moment when he realized she was still looking at him, waiting for a response.

  “Why do you want to talk about other people right now?”

  “Your brother.”

  “Yes, I know who he is.”

  “Then maybe you can tell him that we’re friends… more than friends.”

  “Please, Socorro.” He reached for her as she pulled away.

  “What would it hurt to at least call him?”

  “Please, no more,” he whispered to her. “Can we just stop talking?”

  She thought about this for a moment, then twisted back around, leaving a space between their bodies.

  “Is that what you really want, for me to be quiet?”

  “Yes, please, no more.” He kissed her on the shoulders as he had earlier. He tried to inch over and get past the pillow she was holding.

  “Then maybe we should just take a nap,” she said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, a nap, when you close your eyes and sleep and then wake up later feeling rested. That’s one of the other things people do in bed.” She turned over with the pillow now between her legs.

  Don Celestino looked at her back and wondered what it would take for her to turn around. A couple of minutes later, he rolled over and gazed at the ceiling-fan blades, which continued to whirl about with no regard as to what was occurring a few feet below them on the bed.

  Socorro could hear him sighing behind her as if he might be exhaling his final breath and only she could save him. She had no intention of turning around, though. He could stay awake the rest of the afternoon, and with that rolling pin between his legs to keep him company. He was lucky she didn’t go flush the rest of his vitamins down the toilet.

  12

  This time it happens early in the morning. Don Fidencio sees himself pushing the walker down a long street. And here he thought he would never get away from that place where they kept him locked up. Only now he wonders where he might be headed. He has on only the bottom half of his old work uniform with his red suspenders holding up his pants. No shirt, no undershirt. What has his life come to for him to be walking around in public without a shirt? Was this the only way to escape without anyone noticing? I might as well be a homeless one, un trampa. Later his mailbag falls somewhere along the way but when he looks over his shoulder and then back he is pushing a wheelbarrow and not the walker. He arrives at the first house and knocks. A beautiful dark-haired woman opens the door wearing only a towel. Have you seen my mailbag? The woman says she has something for him. He thinks it might be the mailbag and if not the mailbag then maybe something having to do with her towel, but then she shows him a large manila envelope. He tells her she needs the correct postage before he can take that from her. But instead of taking it back she rips open the end of the envelope and pours some dirt into his wheelbarrow. Then she closes the door. The same thing with the next house, only this time the man is wearing overalls, the same kind that old man Lucas used to wear on the farm so many years ago. No one has any idea where his mailbag could be, no one has the correct postage. Dirt is all they have for him. House after house. Most times they hand him a manila envelope. But some people also have the standard-size envelopes or airmail envelopes. One has a postcard with a little mound of dirt balanced on it. He can never guess what kind of letter the next house will have or what the dirt will look like. It goes from black dirt to reddish dirt to yellowish dirt and once even comes out as mud but all of it turns into plain brown dirt once it gets mixed in with the rest of the pile. When he asks the people what the dirt is for they tell him to keep walking. But where to? How far? By now the pile of dirt is several feet high and so tall that he has to look to one side just to see where he is going. At the end of the long block he turns to the left and now he pushes the wheelbarrow through an open field. At one point he reaches up to wipe his brow and realizes the wheelbarrow is moving without his actually pushing it. He holds on to the handles only to keep from losing his balance on the uneven ground. When he reaches the shade of a large mesquite the wheelbarrow stops altogether. Next to the tree is a deep hole, long enough and wide enough for a man to lie down in, but inside it he sees his canes. Tangled roots bulge from the sides like varicose veins. All that time searching in closets and under beds and behind furniture, and this is where they came to hide them. There’s the aluminum one with the four prongs at the base. He used to take it with him when he walked in his neighborhood just in case he needed to defend himself against one of the stray dogs. The wooden one with the knots along the shaft is lying on its side and he can see where he had his initials burned onto the pommel. The black aluminum cane with the foam-cushioned handle is in there but he can barely see it because it is leaning against one corner of the hole. He holds on to the tree and guides himself down onto one knee. Then he lies on his stomach to see if he can stretch his arm down into the hole. He is less than an inch from touching the handle of the black cane when the wheelbarrow tips forward and the dirt pours out.

  13

  The morning light shined brightest in the far corner of the therapy room. One of the girls had stopped to buy pan dulce, and the white bag lay torn open on the kitchen table. The pink cake had been the first to go; someone was still picking at the chocolate mollete and had left most of the sugary crumbs on a paper napkin. The boom box atop the refrigerator was tuned to a Tejano station, which was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room.

  Don Fidencio sat next in line to The One With The Hole In His Back. Earlier he had been first in line, but The One With The Puffy Cheeks came up and said that The One With The Hole In His Back had to go first because he wasn’t supposed to be in his wheelchair too long on account of his wound. Don Fidencio had to do as the man said and move over. Never mind that he had made special efforts to be there early, wolfing down his tasteless oatmeal, limiting his time on the pot, pushing his walker there ahead of time. And for what? So The One With The Hole In His Back could cut in front? It wasn’t fair, but he had come to understand that very little was fair if a man happened to live in a prison. He ate only when the aides told him to eat; he watched his baseball games at the volume he wanted only until one of them came around and told him h
is neighbors were trying to sleep, no matter if it was extra innings or not; he bathed only when it was time again for them to wash his parts, and never as good as he would have done it himself; and he was allowed out of the main building by himself only to sit on the back patio for a smoke, and only during certain hours of the day.

  Of the eight people waiting in line, he was the one person sitting in a regular chair and dressed in clothes decent enough to be worn out in public: black orthopedic shoes, khakis, checkered flannel shirt, red suspenders, red-and-black Astros cap. The One With The Hole In His Back wore his usual maroon pajamas and tan moccasin slippers, but now also with his beige cowboy hat that normally hung off the headboard.

  He motioned for his roommate to come closer.

  “WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY?”

  Don Fidencio pulled away when he remembered the volume of his roommate’s voice. “Tuesday.”

  “EH?”

  “Tuesday. Today is Tuesday,” he said a little louder.

  “TUESDAY?”

  “Yes,” he answered, and nodded at the same time. “Today is Tuesday.”

  “ARE YOU SURE TODAY IS TUESDAY?”

  Don Fidencio stared at his watch, focusing on the enlarged numbers and the date. “Yes,” he said more confidently. “Tuesday, the first of February.”

  “THEY BROUGHT ME IN ON A TUESDAY.”

  “Pues, that must have been another Tuesday.”

  The One With The Hole In His Back raised his cowboy hat and scratched his head, pushing the wisps of white hair to one side.

  “LAST TIME I ASKED THE NURSE WHAT DAY IT WAS, SHE SAID TUESDAY. EVERY TIME I ASK, THEY TELL ME THE SAME THING: ‘TUESDAY. TODAY IS TUESDAY.’ YOU TELL ME, HOW MANY TUESDAYS CAN THERE BE? ARE THERE NO MORE DAYS OF THE WEEK? DID THEY CHANGE THE CALENDAR SINCE THEY PUT ME IN HERE? HOW CAN IT ALWAYS BE THE SAME? TUESDAY, TUESDAY, ‘TODAY IS TUESDAY,’ THAT’S ALL THEY EVER TELL ME.”

  Don Fidencio looked blankly at him.

  “Ask tomorrow and I bet you get a different answer.”

  The One With The Hole In His Back flicked his wrist as he turned away.

  This was the only time of day Don Fidencio saw his neighbor outside of their room. They served him his meals in bed and he didn’t spend any time in the recreation room or out on the patio. While in the hospital healing from his hip surgery, he had developed a bedsore on his backside. By the time he arrived at Amigoland, the bedsore had worsened enough that his body now needed to be rotated from one side to the other in order to relieve any pressure on the wound. Every two hours an aide came to turn him partially onto his side and then slip a couple of thick pillows under him so he would stay propped up in that position. The One Who Likes To Kiss Your Forehead stopped by once a day to change the dressing. A few weeks earlier, she’d come around, given The One With The Hole In His Back his usual kiss on the forehead, and forgotten to shut the retractable curtain all the way. Don Fidencio barely had to lean back to see the bedsore was located near the tailbone and appeared to be about the size of a fist, with the exposed meat infected around the edges, as if a small animal with very sharp teeth had spent the night gnawing out a hole. He winced as he pulled away from the curtain, cursing himself for not minding his own damn business.

  “Okay, Mr. Cavazos, it’s your turn now.” The One With The Puffy Cheeks crouched down and pulled the old man’s wheelchair closer.

  “LEAVE ME ALONE.”

  “Come on, Mr. Cavazos, this is going to be fun,” The One With The Puffy Cheeks said, stretching his big face into a smile. “Don’t you want to have fun?”

  “THIS IS FUN FOR YOU, TO TORTURE AN OLD MAN?”

  “We just want to make you feel better, sir.”

  “THEN YOU SHOULD LEAVE ME ALONE.”

  It took both therapists to lift him from his wheelchair up to the specialized walker. They helped him place his forearms on the padded armrests and wrap his hands around the two foam-covered handles. Once he was positioned, he gazed down at his fluffy moccasins.

  “You have to look up, Mr. Cavazos. Up at me,” The One With The Puffy Cheeks said, facing him, ready to walk backward. The second therapist was standing behind the walker, holding on tightly to the cinch they had strapped around the old man’s chest. “With your head up, Mr. Cavazos, like you and me are dancing a polka.”

  “YOU THINK THIS IS EASY?”

  “Nothing comes easy, Mr. Cavazos. We all have to work hard to see results.”

  The old man sighed and took a couple more tentative steps.

  “Spread your legs out a little, sir, and stand up more straight. You’re leaning too much on the walker.”

  “DON’T BE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO.” He took another two paces, stepping pigeon-toed, and barely moved beyond where they had started. He was leaning most of his weight on the armrests and his back end was hanging low, as if he were carrying an anvil inside his diaper.

  Don Fidencio stood up to leave. If he was going to waste his morning sitting around, he preferred to do it in his own room. He had already grabbed hold of the walker when The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy came up to him and stood a couple of inches from his face.

  “And good morning to you, Mr. Rosales. How are you feeling today, sir?”

  “Good morning,” he said as he strained to read the name stitched on her baggy scrubs. He had never met a person named Mandy, but he guessed it must be a woman’s name. She was small, like a woman or a frail boy. The scrubs were too big on her and he couldn’t tell if she had a pair of chiches in there somewhere.

  The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy helped him sit back down, then gave him a long rubber cord with handles on both ends. He held one of the handles in his right hand as she hooked the other handle around his right shoe.

  “You remember how we do these, Mr. Rosales? These are the ones for your arms.” She demonstrated by standing in front of him and curling her skinny little arm toward her chest. “It’s easy, right? Can you do ten like that for me, sir?”

  He nodded, not really sure what the girl had just asked him, but he agreed so she would stop with all her questions.

  “One… two… three… very good, Mr. Rosales, very good… four… five…”

  He continued on when she turned to help one of the other therapists with a resident. He wasn’t quite sure how pulling a rubber cord up and down was going to help one bit; the problem was with the strength in his legs, not his arms. But this was about the only thing there was to do at this hour, unless he wanted to go back to the recreation room to watch the talk shows with their guests that didn’t interest him, or take part in some silly group activity like playing volleyball with a balloon, or singing and clapping with The Jesus Christ Loves Everybody Women who came around every morning, tempting people with their free doughnuts. At least here he thought he could show the therapists how much he had improved, and then, God willing, they might tell the other ones to give him back his canes. And if he got his canes back, he was that much closer to leaving this place.

  “So good, Mr. Rosales. Very strong,” The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy said, leaning in close to his face. “Can you do ten more for me now, the same way?”

  If she wanted him to do twenty, he didn’t know why she didn’t say this from the beginning. She needed to make up her mind, instead of expecting him to follow her commands like some trained animal.

  “Eight, nine, and… ten! Very good, sir!”

  Next she wanted him to keep his arm curled and extend his leg, stretching the rubber cord in the other direction. This didn’t feel any more strenuous than the first exercise.

  “Three… four… way to go, Mr. Rosales… five… six…” She patted him on the arm. “You’re doing very good, sir.”

  After a while he lost himself in the singsong way she counted off the repetitions, and then counted them off again when he did the extra ten she asked for. He could have been up to fifteen repetitions or he could have been up to seventy-eight, he knew to stop only because she told him to and took away the cord and replaced i
t with something else, like the big yellow ball that he was supposed to hold between his legs and squeeze, over and over, as if he were a chicken laying an enormous yellow egg. None of it made any sense to him, the squeezing, the curling, the extending. All he knew was there was a time when his arms and legs were so strong that he could walk the whole day, sunup to sundown, even if he’d had to deliver the mail while carrying this skinny filipina on his back. And now here he was, doing these exercises so he could hold on to what little of him was left and maybe someday take this with him when he got out of here.

  “Last exercise, Mr. Rosales,” she said suddenly. “Over here, sir, on the table.”

  Her voice had startled him. He looked up when she took away the big yellow ball and gently grabbed hold of his hands to help him stand.

  “Don’t forget your walker, Mr. Rosales. Remember, no walking without the walker.”

  He shuffled across the room toward the matted table. He parked the walker to one side and sat on the edge of the exercise station, waiting for the girl to help him lift his feet so he could lie flat.

  “I’m going to take your baseball cap and put it right over here so you don’t forget it, Mr. Rosales.”

  He lay still as she hung the cap on one of the handles of the walker. The mat felt just as firm as his mattress back in the room.

  “Almost done, sir,” she said a little louder. “Don’t fall asleep on me, okay?”

  She lifted his left leg off the mat, then gently bent the leg in the direction of his chest, stopping when he moaned, then extended it a ways and lifted it up a few inches.

  “Can you move your leg down, sir? Pushing against my hand?”

  He tried to nod but found it difficult with his head on the mat. After struggling for a moment, he managed to push his leg down an inch or two. He could feel the tendons stretching and coming to life with every little bit that she moved his leg back up.

  With all the bending and extending, his khakis had risen and The Filipina Who Looks Like A Boy was now touching his bare skin. Her little hands felt soft from the lotion she must have rubbed on them that morning. He tried to remember the last time a woman had touched him. The showers and sponge baths didn’t count as touching since the aides were wearing gloves and working so routinely that at times it felt as though he were going through a car wash with a half dozen other old men waiting in their wheelchairs behind him.