Against the Wall (4 page)

“You're not a harlot, either.”

“Give me time,” I say, just to needle him.

“Are you thinking about getting married?”

“God no.”

“Good,” he says shortly. He thinks I'm moving too fast with Chip. “I hope you know you can come back home.”

“How can I do that?”

“I'll make room.”

“You mean you'll kick out Eric, because you don't want him there anyway?”

He scowls, sipping his drink. “The arrangement with him is temporary, and you're more important. I've thought about looking for a bigger place, too. I just don't want to stress April out by suggesting it.”

I take pity on him. He's a first-year detective, overworked and underpaid. He covered my tuition at SDSU for several semesters until my parents finally got over their butthurt about my choice of schools and started pitching in again. I'm worried that they'll withdraw their support if they find out I'm living in sin with Chip. I can apply for financial aid, but this carhop job won't put a dent in my college fees.

“Anyway,” Noah says. “I just thought I'd check in and make sure everything is okay. I haven't seen much of you lately.”

“I've been busy.”

He stares at me for a long moment. I look away first, fighting the urge to cover the bruises on my arm. Noah has a sharp eye, and he's familiar with the signs of domestic violence. He might get the wrong idea.

“I understand if you'd rather not come over while Eric's there. Maybe we can go out to dinner every other Sunday. As a family, or just the two of us.”

I'm touched by his suggestion. He's not the most sensitive guy. In some ways, he's a lot like Chip. He's smart, athletic, and handsome. People like him, especially women. Before April, he was quite the ladies' man.

Noah is a winner. That's the best way to describe him.

But he was never a jerk, never spoiled or quick-tempered. Our parents raised us to help the less fortunate and to treat everyone with kindness. That was a positive aspect of our strict religious upbringing.

“You should go out with April,” I counter, clearing my throat. “You work too much.”

“I'm trying to get things done before the baby comes.”

“You two won't have any time to go out
after
the baby comes.”

“Good point,” he says, rubbing his jaw. “I'll plan a weekend trip.”

I smile and finish my soda. “What would you do without my guidance?”

I have group today.

I hate group. In my experience, group therapy is a bunch of criminals lying about what they've done to others and crying about what was done to them. I can't stand that shit. I have a strong sense of pride and personal responsibility. I've lied plenty, but not about the crimes I've committed or the harm I've caused.

I killed a man. I'm guilty as hell. I don't make any excuses for it. There's no justification for what I did.

My public defender said I could claim self-defense because I didn't bring the knife to the fight. Oscar's buddy passed it to him. When Oscar tried to stick me with it, I took control of the blade and turned it on him. But I didn't try to plead innocent because I wasn't a victim. I was an active participant.

It all started with Junior. His sister got raped and murdered by some sick bastard. The killer was targeting Latina girls in our neighborhood. Noah caught him attacking April and shot him dead. But Junior initially suspected Oscar, a rival gang member from Eastside. We drove by Oscar's house one night and Junior opened fire, peppering his car with bullets. I'd been riding passenger, and I told Junior not to do it, but that motherfucker never listened. He crashed his car into a ravine and got arrested. I fled the scene and managed to evade the police.

Oscar found me on the street a few days later and demanded my Chevelle as payment. He made some veiled threats at April. I said that if he wanted my car, he'd have to take it from me. We agreed to meet at Brown Field for an old-school throwdown.

I could've walked away. Instead I decided to handle my business gangster-style, and we both paid the price. I paid with almost three years in lockup. He paid with his life.

The only witnesses to the fight were Eastside members and Oscar's homegirl. They wouldn't have backed up my self-defense claims, so I plea-bargained for manslaughter and got the minimum sentence.

Asi es la vida
. It is what it is.

I'm not bitter. I'm alive.

But I'm not going to group therapy with a fucking spring in my step. I don't want to listen to any sob stories and I sure as hell don't want to tell mine. Talking about your problems is a cruel and unusual punishment. If counseling wasn't a mandatory condition of my parole, I'd have shined on it without a backward glance.

The meetings are at a community rehab center in a seedy area on Broadway. All of us rejects can attend a session and score a bag of dope directly after. I get there early but wait until the last minute to walk in. It's a typical setup. Bunch of chairs in a circle. Slump-shouldered thugs in baggy jeans. Watered-down coffee.

There's a black guy in the center of the group. “Are you here for violent offenders rehab?”

Violent offender: that's me. I mumble my name and sit down.

“I'm Benji Jackson,” the black guy says. I realize he's the moderator, though he looks more like one of us than a social worker. He introduces me to the group.

Benji starts talking about some new program. It's based on breaking the cycle of violence and making a conscious effort not to reoffend. We have to sign a peace agreement and promise not to be verbally or physically abusive. I'm used to these kinds of rules in counseling sessions but I take them with a grain of salt. Prison is a cesspool of aggression and racism. Promises made in group are easily broken.

After the opening spiel, Benji asks a guy named Travis to continue last week's discussion about his parents.

I want to roll my eyes before he even starts.

“Things are still pretty tense at home,” Travis says. He's a surfer type with long hair and a thin face. He reminds me of Jack, the coworker I beat up for attacking Meghan. “I feel like they're watching every move I make and waiting for me to screw up.”

“Have you tried apologizing?” Benji asks.

“Apologizing for what?” Travis looks incredulous.

“You hit your mother.”

“She called the cops on me!”

“Maybe that was the best thing for you.”

“I don't think so.”

“We've talked about enablers before. These are the people who ignore your criminal behavior or support your drug habit. Your parents stopped enabling you and prevented you from hurting anyone else. You should thank them.”

Travis crosses his arms over his chest. “Never gonna happen.”

“You sound like a little bitch, bro,” the guy next to me says.

“Language,” Benji warns.

“Sorry,” he says. “You sound like a complainer.”

The rest of the group agrees, which doesn't surprise me. What does surprise me is that they don't give anyone a free pass. Every time one of the guys uses offensive language or shows a lack of empathy, they get called out.

Benji takes the floor again near the end of the session. “I want you to think about secondary victims this week. These are the people you didn't hurt directly, but they suffered all the same. Your friends and family, the victim's friends and family. Violent crime has a ripple effect, often leading to more acts of violence.”

My chest tightens as I picture Oscar's girlfriend, who witnessed the fight. She literally watched him die.

It's too disturbing to dwell on, so I let my mind go blank to match my face. Pushing out bad thoughts is the only way I can deal sometimes. This therapist wants me to do the opposite, to wallow in fucked-up memories and regrets.

Ni madre
.

“For homework, write an apology letter to a secondary victim. No excuses, no explaining. Think about their feelings, not yours.”

The guys promise to do their homework and bring the letter to the next session. They actually seem sincere. After the group breaks up, I have to wait in line for Benji to sign the form for my parole officer.

“You'll get more out of this if you participate,” Benji says, handing the paper back to me.

I mutter thanks and make my escape. This group is the worst yet. In the others I could just tune out.

I don't start at Fine Ink until tomorrow, and I don't want to go back to the den. Everything in there reminds me of Meghan.

Seeing her yesterday was torture. She makes my chest hurt. She makes my dick hurt, too. I don't know why she kept my chain. She stared at me like she wanted to hate-fuck me, and damned if I wasn't ready to indulge her. I was dying to grab her and crush my mouth over hers. I almost couldn't hold myself in check.

But then she left for her rich boyfriend's house. I know he put those bruises on her arm. I saw him do it. I'd like to hunt him down and smash his arrogant face in. To hell with that bullshit peace agreement.

I rake a hand through my hair, glancing around the parking lot. I can't hang out in this neighborhood without getting hit up by a drug dealer or spotted by one of Junior's crew. There's a liquor store and a hooker on every corner.

I hop on the next bus just to get out of there. I sit on the bench with my stomach roiling and my eyes closed.

It's harder than I thought, being free. It's overwhelming.

When I open my eyes, I discover that I'm in a familiar neighborhood. Chula Vista encompasses a large area between downtown San Diego and the Mexican border. It's not all poverty and mean streets. The foothills of Telegraph Canyon are quiet and woodsy. Between the foothills and the coast are the urban neighborhoods, like Castle Park and Eastside. Right now I'm in Eastside.

Enemy territory.

I get off the bus on impulse, the same way I boarded it. Twenty minutes later I'm standing across the street from Oscar's old house. It's a duplex. One side has a cracked sidewalk with weeds, an empty flower planter, and some faded toys.

Oscar had a kid. I remember hearing that his girlfriend and the baby were home during the drive-by. I'm glad they weren't hit. I haven't thought about them in years. I've never wondered what it was like for her to raise a kid on her own.

I don't know what I'd say in a letter to her. I can't tell her that I felt obligated to fight Oscar, or that the knife wasn't mine. I can't tell her that I assumed he'd win.

The place appears empty, curtains drawn. There's a patched section of stucco that I imagine is a bullet-hole repair. My throat tightens at the sight. Then a beat-up Monte Carlo I recognize as Oscar's rumbles around the corner.

It's surreal. I almost expect to see his ghost behind the wheel.

Oscar's girlfriend parks in the driveway and gets out. She's still homegirled out, with Pachuca-style hair and makeup. Underneath the armor, she's pretty and slim, even delicate. She dismisses me with a dirty look and starts unloading groceries from the trunk.

I don't think she recognizes me. I'm about to walk the other way when she pauses, studying me again. Her face goes pale and the grocery bag tumbles from her arms. Oranges spill down the driveway, rolling toward me.

Fuck.

I gather the stray oranges from the street and come forward. She stares at me as if she thinks
I'm
the ghost. I realize that she's afraid of me, and it's a strange feeling. I don't remember scaring girls when I was younger. Maybe I'm more intimidating now.

“You're Eric Hernandez,” she says.

“Yes.”

She bends to collect the rest of her groceries, watching me warily. “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I was just…passing by.”

She does a quick survey of the deserted neighborhood. Then her gaze settles on me again. After a short hesitation, she heads toward the house, gesturing for me to follow. I wait by the screen door. To my surprise, she opens it and waves me in.

I set the oranges on the counter while she puts the groceries away. I consider Benji's suggestion, but I can't bring myself to apologize for killing Oscar. It wouldn't be sincere. I don't even know if I'm sorry.

She rinses the oranges in the sink and sets them aside. Then she removes a pack of cigarettes from her purse. “When did you get out?”

“Two days ago.”

She leans her hip against the counter and lights a cigarette. Her lipstick leaves a mark on the filter, like a crushed berry. She's prettier than I remember, but harder, too. Brittle. Although she seems nervous, she doesn't tell me to leave. I think she expects me to say something.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“Noemi.”

I glance around her place. It's small and worn-down looking. There are some robot toys scattered around the living room. “Do you have a boy or a girl?”

“A boy. He's in kindergarten.”

I relax slightly at this news. Maybe that's why I came. To find out if they were okay.

She taps her cigarette into a glass ashtray. Her cheetah-print top and skinny jeans cling to her trim figure. She's petite, with small breasts and nicely flared hips. I could span her waist with my hands. My throat goes dry at the thought.

“I lied to the police,” she says, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “I told them I didn't see who pulled the knife. But I did.”

Her matter-of-fact statement catches me off guard. I never expected anyone from Eastside to back up my story. Street code prohibits speaking to the police, and only fools rat out their own clique. I'm surprised that she'd say this to my face, however.

I shrug, as if it doesn't matter. It does, but I don't blame her for my prison stay.

She finishes her cigarette, relishing each drag as if she hasn't had one in a long time. Then she stubs it out and asks, “What happened to your car?”

“It got seized as evidence and sold at an auction.”

She shakes her head at the irony. “That's messed up.”

“Neta,”
I say shortly. For real.

“You were stupid to fight him. He was bigger than you.”

“But he didn't win, did he?”

She skims my torso, reassessing me. Not as a threat, but as a man. I remember how she looked at me before the fight. She watched me take off my shirt with interest, biting the edge of her knuckle. “You know what else is messed up?” she asks, lifting her gaze. “Oscar had another girlfriend. I found out after he died. She was six months pregnant.”

Shit. I took a dad away from
two
kids. “I'm sorry.”

“Maybe you did me a favor.”

I don't think so. I don't believe she's glad he's dead, either. Oscar might have been a cheating son of a bitch, but she loved him. It's written all over her face. Her eyes get watery and her chin wobbles with emotion.

“Do you need money?” I ask.

“Why do you care?”

“Because life around here is hard, and I made it harder for you.”

“I have a job,
vato
. I pay my own bills.”

“Doing what?”

“I work at Club Suave.”

Club Suave—the singles bar where April used to be a cocktail waitress. I can picture the sexy uniform and fishnet stockings on Noemi.

I can picture them off her, too.

She moistens her lips anxiously and my pulse thickens. There's something between us, a twisted sort of attraction. She invited me in. Her expression is challenging. I think she might do me just to make Oscar roll over in his grave.

I'm game.

I move closer and put my hand on her waist. Her quick intake of breath is the only encouragement I need. I press her back against the counter and kiss her. She tastes like cigarettes and I don't give a fuck. Because she responds to my touch, and it feels good. It feels good to be wanted, even if it's for all the wrong reasons. It feels good to thrust my tongue into her mouth and bury my hands in her hair.

It feels good to take her to the bedroom, and forget about Meghan.