Last Summer of the Death Warriors (5 page)

H
e waited until all the lights in the dormitory were out. Then he waited some more. After they got back from the trailer, he and Memo had painted the storage room, so it had been a long day and it was hard to stay awake. When he thought everyone was asleep, he sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. He dug out Rosa’s diary from the backpack and held it in front of him. He searched for the tiny key in his wallet pocket and found it. He paused again for a second before he inserted the key in the lock and turned it. He opened the diary to the first page.

He read: “My DAIRY by ROSA SANCHEZ.”

He smiled at the misspelling. There were so many times when he had felt like grabbing the diary from Rosa’s hands and tossing it outside. He’d be on the sofa trying to watch television, and Rosa would be sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter asking him how to spell this and how to spell that. “If no one’s gonna read it, what difference does it make?” he would say to her irritably. “Oh, Pancho,” she would say without looking up, waiting for him to give her the right spelling, knowing that he would. Fortunately,
the words she asked about were easy words. He wasn’t a great speller himself.

Rosa had learned how to write and read at a school for so-called special students. A light blue van with round yellow lights on top would pull up in front of the trailer at seven twenty-five
A.M.
to pick her up. His father had already left for work, so it was up to him to make sure she got in the van. Mostly, he hurried her along by counting down the minutes until the van arrived. “Five more minutes,” he would say to her. “Thirty seconds,” he’d yell, as she ran around looking for a shoe. When the van came, he opened the door to the trailer to let the driver know that Rosa was on her way. He’d watch the van pull away and then he’d walk to the entrance of the trailer park, where he would wait for the regular school bus, the one for students who were not “special” like Rosa. He thanked his lucky stars that he and Rosa did not get on the same bus.

The special school that Rosa attended was a fifteen-mile drive from their trailer park. The first time he went there with his father, he was surprised to see that not all the students looked like the ones he saw in the back of the blue van. Rosa’s school was a regular elementary school large enough to have special-education classes. The hope was that at some point, the special students would catch up to the regular students and join them in their classes. But that would never be the case with Rosa. According to her teachers, Rosa’s mind would remain forever at the level of a not-very-bright ten-year-old. But a ten-year-old mind could read and write and add and subtract and work certain jobs, and so could Rosa.

Below her name, Rosa had written her address and telephone
number. Below that, she had written in pencil in small letters, trying not to waste any available space on the page:

The story of Rosa Sanchez life. My mother died when I was 8. I have a father that takes care of me now and I have one brother his name is Pancho. I am disebeld and go to special ed class every day. My brother Pancho tells me hurry up Rosa here comes the van. At school I like when missus Chavez reads to us. My papa gave me this dairy today. I will write to you and tell you my secrets I have. Well night now.

He thought that it must have taken her an hour to write those few lines. He flipped slowly through the pages. The pages of the diary were lined, and words crowded every line for forty or so pages. There were no dates on any of the pages, but he knew that their father had given her the diary when she was fifteen. Those forty pages accounted for the last five years of her life.

He hesitated for a few seconds and turned slowly to the last pages. Three pages from the end, he saw the name “Bobby” and stopped. He read:

I met a boy his name is Bobby. He’s not like the other boys. He says he wants to take me out in his truck.

He continued reading the various entries.

Bobby bought me a turcoise ring. I love Bobby. He told me he loves me also. He says we need to keep it a secret that we
love each other on account he’s older. But I told him that don’t make no diference.

I want tell Julieta about Bobby. I want Bobby and me and Julieta maybe go to the show with her and she can get a date also. But he say no. We needs to be a secret. I ask him if maybe he was embarased to be seen with me cause of my disbelity. He says no he just shy thats all.

I told Bobby today I want to wait before we do everything. He got mad at me. He thinks I do it with other boys and not him. I told him I don’t. I was waiting for my true love to come forever. I believe he is the one. My one and only. I want Bobby to feel the same way. I hope he understands why I wait.

I want Bobby to meet Pancho. Bobby says next week. I hope Pancho likes him. I think if I marry Bobby Pancho can work in construkshun with Bobby. After Pancho fineshes high school. Papa I miss you. I wish you were here to meet Bobby also. Can you believe someone loves your Rosa?

Then he read the last entry.

Bobby says his leaving me. He says his goin back to albuqerqe and wont come back. He wants to break up because he says his to old to play games. He says I’m not fun. I don’t even drink or nothing. He thought I was a party girl when he
first met me cause I was always happy all the time and he heard I like to have fun. I tol him I love him. He told me prove it if I did. I said I would. I say I don’t want to lose him. Tomorrow he will take me to a place where we can just have fun and I can show him if I truly love him. After that he will come meet Pancho. If I love him why am I afraid.

In all the years that he lived with his sister, he had never seen anything more than a few words written by her. When he saw her scribbling in her diary, he thought she was putting down gibberish, nothing that would make any sense to anyone else. But here she was, in her own words, surprising him, showing him a side of her he never saw because he never cared enough to see.

He closed the diary and locked it again with the tiny key. He put his right hand on top of it the way he saw people on TV put their hands on Bibles when they swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. This was the truth he swore: That no matter what happened, no matter what anyone said or pleaded, at the right time, he would honor his sister’s life by finding the man who hurt her and making him pay for the wrong done to her.

I
t rained before dawn. The rainstorm pelted the earth furiously for an hour and then stopped. Pancho walked out to the punching bag before anyone else was up. Rainwater had seeped in and tripled the weight of the bag, but the branch from which it hung had not bent. He began to hit the bag slowly. To work properly, a bag should be light enough to swing back and forth so that the boxer must adjust his feet in response to the movement. This bag did not budge. It stolidly absorbed Pancho’s hardest punches.
Thud. Thud. Thud-thud. Thud.
Pancho found a rhythm and stayed with it. After a few minutes, he felt sweat roll down his forehead. He increased the tempo.
Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.
His feet slid on the wet ground. The scars on his knuckles opened and began to bleed, staining the green canvas. Faster rhythm:
Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud.
Harder now. Hitting not just with the arms but also with the legs and shoulders. He felt the tension inside his arms soften into tiredness and then exhaustion, and at last there was some relief.

“I wish I could do that.”

It was D.Q. standing behind him. Pancho stopped. He took off his T-shirt and wiped his face with it. “You’re up early,” he said.

“I got up as soon as I heard the thunder.”

“You came out in the rain?”

“I got to the cocoon before the rain started.”

“The what?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

Pancho slipped the wet T-shirt over his head. He noticed D.Q.’s bare feet sticking out of the baggy blue jeans. They walked. D.Q. bent down to pick up a pecan. “Can you crack this for me?” Pancho stuck it in his mouth and bit it gently. He peeled off the shell and gave the intact nut to D.Q. “Nice,” D.Q. commented. “I can never get them to come out in one piece.”

“What happens to all the nuts?”

“We keep some, we sell some. We make pecan fudge and give it to benefactors. We fill about twenty big sacks the size of your punching bag back there.” When they reached the end of the grove, D.Q. pointed at a green hammock. “That’s the cocoon,” he said.

There were two patio chairs in front of the hammock. D.Q. lowered himself into one. The hammock had u.s. army printed on it in black letters. Pancho lifted a plastic flap that hung from the side.

“It has a net for the mosquitoes, and when it rains, that flap turns into a tent roof.”

“How do you breathe?”

“There are openings on the side for ventilation. It’s a neat feeling to be inside the cocoon in the middle of a thunderstorm.”

Pancho sat in the other patio chair. The sun emerged over the Organ Mountains. A breeze shook the branches above and drops of rainwater fell on them. “You were inside that thing during the storm?”

“I got in there just when it started to pour. It was nice and scary.”

Next to their trailer, his father had built a toolshed with a galvanized steel roof. Pancho remembered the sound of rain on the roof, like a bag of marbles spilling from the sky. “The paint in your room should be dry by now,” he said.

“I saw it last night. You and Memo did a good job.” D.Q. had his eyes fixed on the mountains.

“When are you moving in?”

“After we come back from Albuquerque. How long do you think it would take to walk over to those mountains?”

Pancho looked at D.Q.’s muddy feet. “On those two things?”

D.Q. wiggled his toes. “Hey, is that like the first time you smiled since you got here?” Pancho looked the other way. “Okay, how long do you think it would take a
normal
person to walk over there?”

“Half a day. Less.”

“No way.”

“I’ve hiked those mountains. They’re not far.”

“What was it like, hiking them?”

“Rocky. You have to be careful not to step on a rattlesnake.”

D.Q. sighed. “I’ve been looking at those mountains since I first came here and I’ve never set foot on them. Someone told me there were caves with Indian paintings made a thousand years ago.”

“The only caves I saw were used by people to take a dump.”

“Oh, don’t tell me that. I need to hold on to all the good images I have.”

“It’s the truth. Shit, rubbers, and beer cans. That’s what I saw in those caves.”

“Oh, well. That reminds me. Our trip to Albuquerque has been moved up. We leave tomorrow. The Panda is driving us.”

“How long will we be there?”

“You’re coming, then,” D.Q. said. He didn’t act surprised. He already knew what Pancho would decide.

Pancho thought about what he’d read in Rosa’s diary. “Yeah,” he answered. “I’m coming.”

“You’ve heard about my mother,” D.Q. said. It wasn’t a question or an accusation.

“Yeah.”

“There’s not much to the drama, really. After my father died, she went a little nutty and dropped me off at St. Anthony’s, God bless her. She married again, to this lawyer named Stu. And seven years later, it’s suddenly become very important to her to be a mother, which means getting involved in my medical treatment.” D.Q. paused to catch his breath. “This therapy that I’ll be undergoing in Albuquerque is intensive chemotherapy. Typically, what I have is treated only with radiation. The tumor is too diffuse to remove with surgery. I picture it like a low-lying fog that won’t go away. Chemotherapy so far hasn’t been successful for it. Nevertheless, there are always clinical trials that are trying different combinations of chemotherapy and radiation. My mother signed me up for one. It’s complicated. She’s threatening
to get a court order. She and I have different views on what’s best for me.”

“Maybe she’s right.”

“No, she’s not. I’ve done the research. It’s a trade-off. Maybe I get a couple more months, but at what price? I need to have my strength and wits about me. What strength and wits I still have. There are so many things I need to do. I need to finish the Death Warrior Manifesto. I need to get ready. I’m not ready. I need to train you to be a Death Warrior. I need to use what time there is to get both of us ready.”

Pancho was going to ask what exactly
he
needed to get ready for, but he didn’t. Some of the things D.Q. said were just crazy. They didn’t always sound crazy when you first heard them, but they sure seemed crazy when you thought about them. He could tell that it would be impossible to question or argue with every crazy statement he made.

“How long will we be there?” Pancho repeated.

“The initial phase of the treatment lasts two weeks. We’ll stay at this outpatient home called Casa Esperanza while that’s going on. Then there’s a two-week period to recuperate and wait for some initial results.”

“A month?”

“My mother wants me to stay with her during the waiting period, after we leave Casa Esperanza. She lives on the outskirts of the city. It’s a very nice place. You’ll like it.”

“I didn’t sign up for family drama.”

“No, that’s true.”

They were both quiet. Then, as if embarrassed by what he was
about to say, D.Q. spoke. “There’s something else about the trip to Albuquerque that I should tell you.” He stopped. “The last time I was there, six months ago, I had to spend a few days at Casa Esperanza.”

“And…”

D.Q. cleared his throat, then he made a smacking sound, as if his lips had stuck together and needed to be separated by force. “There was this girl that worked there. Her name was Marisol. I’m pretty sure she’s still there.”

Pancho waited for more. Was this information something that in any way concerned him? D.Q. was lost in some kind of memory, but it didn’t look like a happy one. Finally, Pancho interrupted. “So?”

D.Q. bent down to scratch his feet. “I wanted to tell you all the reasons for the trip. She’s part of the picture, part of the preparations. The scariest part of the trip in many ways.”

Pancho thought about it. Why would seeing that girl be the scariest part of the trip? He seemed to be on the verge of understanding when a pecan fell, hit him on the head, and bounced to the ground.

“Look.” D.Q. chuckled and pointed at the pecan. “Someone’s trying to tell you something.”

“And what would that be?”

“Knock, knock. Let’s go, Mr. Pancho. Let’s go to Albuquerque.’”