Girl in the Mirror (36 page)

Thunder rumbled overhead as an evening storm moved in. Inside, the humidity deepened. The air grew thick and rank. A blue haze from the smoke of countless cigarettes hung low. Michael watched his father perform in his element. Even the most naive spectator could see that his father was a person held in great respect in this motley crowd. Through the evening the rest of his birds won, though one of the winners had to be put down, anyway. By the end of the fights he’d won a pot of dough, enough to replace the birds he’d lost and then some. Men gathered around Luis, admiring his birds, slapping him on the back.

You crazy old man, he thought to himself. Here in this visceral world of blood and guts his father felt right at home. Well, he wasn’t like his father. Never could be. Never would be, he decided.

Michael looked over the heads of the crowd and checked on his brother. Bobby was resting against the wall. His face was pale and smudged with dark circles under his closed eyes. It was getting late. The crowd had thinned. The eyes of the men that were left were bloodshot and their breaths reeked of cheap liquor. Michael shook his brother’s shoulder and set his mouth in a grim line. Blood and booze. A mean combination.

“Let’s go,” he said to Bobby.

Bobby stretched his shoulders and wiped a palm across his face, nodding. “None too soon. I feel like I need a bath. Maybe two. You go get Papa and I’ll go get the car.”

Michael fetched his father, where he stood laughing and joking with his cronies.

“All right,” Luis snapped, lifting his hands. “Just let me count my money. Help Manuel carry the crates to the car.”

He did so. Manuel helped him lift the crates without speaking, then led the way across the floor littered with brown and green bottles, cans and spit. Michael blinked wearily, eager to be gone. Outside, the fresh night air was like a welcome slap in the face. Thunder rolled; cool air was moving in. He gulped a few breaths over the crates, noting that the birds had quieted in the fresh air.

A few cars were clustered near the door. A few were cruising past, filled with laughing men, more drunk than not. Everyone was eager to get home before the storm broke. A few more cars were scattered like sleeping beasts in the brittle grass. Manuel’s truck was parked only a few feet away. They went there first, delivering the exhausted birds into the rear of the pickup.

Michael scanned the shadowed lot, his brows gathered, his eyes sharp. His father was stepping out from the Clubhouse. A few men huddled by a maroon sedan, shoulders hunched, money and something else being exchanged. He swung his head from left to right, a sense of foreboding rippling through him. Where was Bobby and the car? He should have been here by now.

“Bobby?” he called out. Sheet lightning flashed in the sky as the storm rolled closer. He could smell rain in the air. He walked a few paces in the direction of where they’d parked, his gut tightening. These guys here wouldn’t think twice about beating up a guy they thought was weak, much less gay. Wouldn’t even ask. They’d consider it sport. Damn, Bobby was wearing those linen pants.

Thunder rumbled like a growl, and again lightning streaked the sky. He saw two cars parked ten yards off, his father’s and a green low rider. Its doors were open. Someone was sitting on the hood. Farther out in the field, to the left of the cars, stood a circle of men, the tips of their cigarettes glowing in the black night. He heard a sudden swell of laughter. A shout. Then a few muffled grunts.

“Bobby!” Acting on gut instinct, Michael took off on a trot toward the noise, fists at the ready. He heard Luis and Manuel at his heels. Drawing near he heard the unmistakable sound of fist meeting flesh, and counted four men, maybe five. And one man was down on the ground, being kicked.

Michael picked up speed and vaulted into the group of men, ramming his shoulder into the chest of the one who hovered over his brother, pushing him off his feet to the dirt. He swung around to look at his brother. Bobby lay in the dirt, his arm over his face and his knees to his chest. Even in the dim light of the moon he could see that he’d been bloodied.

The vision cloaked his eyes with red. His months of well stoked anger bellowed from his mouth like a furnace of fury. He showed his teeth, raised his fists and lunged at the first man who was fool enough to get back up and fly at him. He was a big man, fat but soft. Michael felt his knuckles connect with jaw. Crack! He knocked the
delito
down. The pain felt good. Raw.

He threw back his shoulders, stretching his neck. “Come on,” he shouted at the rest of them, waving them in. “Cowards!
Cholos!
”

The three other men, thin and edgy, danced on the balls of their feet like bantam cocks, then charged. Michael got a left hook into one before he felt a solid punch in his gut. The air whooshed out of him, and he staggered back two steps. But he ducked his head and lunged, swinging again and again, his fists meeting hardened muscle. Michael was bigger, stronger than this guy, but the dark-skinned man with a blue hair net and a tattoo was a skilled street fighter, as tough as taut leather. An uppercut made Michael see white. He walloped mercilessly and they tumbled to the ground, grunting and swearing.

Manuel and his father joined the fight, taking blows and giving them back, hard. Their heart was in the fight. This was more than honor; this was family. They fought hard and mean before the other men took off, shirttails flapping in the wind as they sprinted across the field to their cars. Luis had to hold Michael back from chasing after them.

“Enough,” he called out, spit spraying.

The fight was over in a matter of minutes, but it had been bloody.

Luis was panting; his shirt was torn and his left eye was swollen shut. But he bore a grin that spread from ear to ear. “We fought them off,
mi’jos!
Together. Eh? The Mondragon men are conquistadors!”

Manuel laughed and nodded, dragging his sleeve across his bloodied nose. “
Sí
. They better not come this way again, huh. We’ll kick their ass.” He stumbled over to Luis and wrapped an arm around him, patting his back.

Michael hurried to Bobby, who had lifted himself up on one arm. His head was drooped over his chest and he was breathing hard.

“Bobby, how bad is it?” He was worried. This looked real bad. He bent down beside him and Bobby raised his head. Michael’s breath caught. Bobby’s beautiful face was a swollen, disfigured mass. His lips were cut, his eyes were black, his nose was bent, and blood flowed down his lumpy face like thick rivers through the Black Hills. Swallowing his bile, he gently took hold of Bobby’s shaking shoulders and leaned him against his own.

“No,” Bobby protested through broken teeth. “Blood.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“I think—” Bobby coughed, spitting out a tooth. “I think a rib is broken.”

Michael swore, sure much more was broken. Bones, ribs, his spirit.

Luis came up behind him and swore loudly when he saw his son. “
No lo creo…
Look what they’ve done to my boy! Call them back, Manuel. I want my hands on them!”

“Go get the car,” Michael counter-ordered.

“
Sí
, the car. Quickly,” Luis agreed, nodding. “We must get him home to Mama.”

“I think the hospital,” Michael said.

“No. No hospital.” Luis had a deep hatred for American hospitals. They were not for the Mexican people, he’d said for many years, ever since he was turned away when he was young and very sick. He stepped closer, taking charge.

“Does it hurt?” Luis asked his son.

“No,” Bobby mumbled.

“Can you endure?”

“Yes.”

Luis nodded, satisfied.

Michael saw a perverse pride in his father’s eyes, looking down at his battered son.

“A conquered man has no face or heart,” Luis said to Bobby. “But
mi’jo,
you have both.” With eyes shining he stooped to hug his son.

“No, get back,” Bobby cried, his palm outstretched.

“There’s blood!”

Luis hesitated, his hand in the air. He didn’t understand.

Michael did. “You’re cut,” he said to Luis. “Your wound is open.”

Luis touched his broken lip with his fingers, still not comprehending. He moved forward again.

“No!” Bobby shouted, scooting on the dirt, the effort causing him to wince. “Papa, get back. The blood.” He coughed and lowered his head. “I have AIDS.”

Luis’s eyes grew round with understanding. He yanked back his hand as though burned and sat back on his haunches. He turned to Michael, seeking verification.

Michael nodded, eye to eye.

“How? When?”

“You know how,” Bobby said, his voice soft and broken. “You’ve always known. You just wouldn’t admit it.” He lifted his gaze. He appeared resigned. Defeated.

Luis looked at Bobby, then Michael, with a dazed expression. This hit had been the hardest. He staggered to his feet and backed away.

Bobby squelched a sob and bowed his head. Michael felt the weight of him sag against his chest.

“Don’t walk away,” Michael shouted out after Luis’s retreating back. “You son of a bitch. Don’t you walk away! He needs you. Now more than ever. He’s your son.”

“He’s not my son!” Luis shouted back. He had tears in his eyes, but his mouth, swollen and dark with blood, was chiseled. Thunder rolled in response. They all stared at one another, stunned, not knowing what to do or say next.

“He’s not my son,” Luis repeated in a mumbled voice, stumbling backward like a drunk.

Manuel trotted after him.

“No,” Luis said in a slurred growl, waving him back. “Drive them home.”

“Throw me the keys, old man,” Michael called out, his voice laced with disgust. “We’ll drive ourselves home.”

Luis stopped and dug into his pockets, standing wide legged, head bowed. He pulled out his keys and threw them back. They skidded in the dust by Michael’s feet.

“Hey, Manuel,” Michael called out as he watched the two men walk away. “How does it feel to have some bruises, eh? You like it? Like you give Cisco?”

Manuel stopped like he’d been hit, bunched his fists, whirled around and stalked back, his face a red cloud in the darkness. Michael lifted his arm against him, expecting a blow.

“Esse,”
Manuel spat out, stopping at Michael’s feet. His eyes rolled in his head with fury. Then he bent near and ground out, “It isn’t me. It’s Rosa. Your sister.”

Michael took the news like another blow. Manuel spun on his heel and hurried after Luis.

“Damn.” Michael cursed, bringing his hand to his forehead. “What the hell’s going on here? Has the whole world gone nuts?” He laughed, because if he didn’t he would cry. “And Papa wants to make us men? This is machismo? You are cowards!” he shouted after them. “All of you!”

Bobby drew himself up, clutching his ribs with his hand. Michael hurried to grasp his arm and help him.

“No, back off,” he said, his face twisted with scorn.

“You think the blood can’t hurt you, too? You think you’re some kind of a god?” He pushed himself up to his knees, groaning in pain. Still he pushed Michael’s hand away.

“Christ, Bobby, let me help you.”

“I don’t need your help,” he cried back. “I don’t want your help.”

Michael gave it, anyway, grabbing hold of Bobby’s elbow and helping him to his feet. Michael led him across the grass, wincing inwardly as he watched each small, limping step Bobby made to the car a few yards away. He settled his brother in the seat, taking off his jacket and covering Bobby with it, then bending to swing his legs into the car for him. The linen trousers Bobby liked so much were torn and stained with mud. He closed the door, feeling the first fat drops of rain on his head and shoulders.

“Wipe your hands,” Bobby told him when he got in. The car light was dim, but bright enough to reveal their cuts and bruises. “
Madre de Dios,
look at your knuckles.”

“Don’t worry about me. Put your head back. It’ll stop the bleeding. Use the sleeve of my jacket to stanch the flow.”

“It’ll ruin the leather.”

“I don’t give a damn about the jacket. Use the lining, it’ll be softer.”

Bobby dropped his head back on the seat and brought the jacket to his nose.

Michael slammed his door and thrust in the key, determined to burn rubber to the nearest hospital. Where the hell was one, anyway? The engine roared and Michael swerved the car out of the field, sending a spray of gravel into the air. Catching sight of the Clubhouse in his rearview mirror, he prayed a silent prayer that the place would get struck by lightning and burn to the ground.

“I want to go home.”

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Silence.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and die there.”

“Cut it out, Bobby. I don’t need that.” He stepped on the gas and pushed on. “You don’t need that, either. Papa’s not worth it. He turned his back on you.”

“And you think you’re so different?”

Michael swung his head around to stare at him, feeling stunned. “What?”

Bobby was barely able to move a muscle in his swollen face, but somehow he managed a half smile. “You always say you’re not like Papa. Don’t you see? You are exactly like him. In so many ways.”