Amigoland (10 page)

She could hear him brushing his teeth now. At first she found it difficult to stay interested when they were only starting
and Don Celestino would suddenly stop and say he needed to go to the bathroom. A couple of times she had fallen asleep waiting.
Then one morning she was cleaning around the medicine chest when she found some pills inside a plastic sandwich bag tucked
behind a bottle of talcum powder. It seemed strange to her because he kept his medicines in a daily dispenser that stayed
on the kitchen table next to the salt- and pepper shakers. When she asked him about them, he told her that they were vitamins,
if she had to know, but that he wasn’t asking her about everything she carried in her purse. Socorro apologized and said she
was just curious. Another week went by and she found the same plastic bag in the bathroom cabinet, this time wedged behind
the hot-water bottle. He must have thought he had hidden it well enough, but he forgot that she’d been cleaning houses long
before they had become intimate and there were few places a cleaning woman didn’t look. All this time she had assumed his
trips to the bathroom had to do with a sudden urge to relieve himself, as a man his age might need to do. But now she noticed
how he came back more eager than before he left and somehow he seemed to have as much or more energy than a man half his age.
And then she remembered the little blue pills — his vitamins.

Socorro was facing the wall when he opened the bedroom door.

“Still awake?”

She stayed in the same position and adjusted the pillow. While she was still wearing her skirt and blouse, he’d come back
from the bathroom in only his briefs.

“Sometimes it can be hard to fall asleep alone,” he said.

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.

T
his 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.

T
he 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 his 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.”