Last Summer of the Death Warriors (6 page)

“
W
hat are you carrying in here, a ton of bricks?” Memo asked D.Q. He was dragging a red duffel bag to the van parked in front of the school. Behind him, Pancho carried his backpack and a suitcase in each hand, his own and D.Q.’s. D.Q. was in his wheelchair waiting for them.

“Careful, my books are in there,” D.Q. said. “Put the bag next to where I’m sitting. I may do some reading on the way.”

“You’ll be too busy yapping to read,” Memo predicted.

“Where’s the Panda?” D.Q. asked.

“He stopped by the kitchen to pick up some sandwiches that Margarita made for you.”

Pancho placed the suitcases in the van. He kept his backpack on. “We taking the wheelchair?” he asked D.Q.

“I guess we better.” D.Q. pulled the brake lever and lifted himself out slowly. D.Q. climbed into the front seat while Pancho folded the chair. Memo was making faces as if he was trying not to cry. “I want that room ready by the time I get back,” D.Q. told him. “Oh, shit!”

“What happened?” Memo asked.

“I forgot the perico.”

“The what?”

“My parrot. I left it on my desk. I wanted to take it with me.”

“I’ll get it for you,” Memo volunteered. He turned around and went inside the building in a run.

“What do you want that thing for?” Pancho asked, settling himself in the middle row of the van. He placed the backpack next to him.

“I don’t know. I like it. It’ll bring me good luck.”

“Yeah, like it did me,” Pancho said.

“Aaahhh.” D.Q. made a noise that sounded like the bleat of a baby lamb. “That’s a whine. Remember the first rule of the Death Warrior Manifesto.”

Pancho was about to tell D.Q. where to stick his Death Warrior Manifesto when Father Concha stepped out of the building. He was carrying a large plastic bag in one hand and a black briefcase in the other. “Ready?” he asked.

“Memo’s bringing me something I forgot,” D.Q. said.

Father Concha put the plastic bag and his briefcase in the seat behind Pancho. In the seven days that he had been at St. Anthony’s, Pancho had yet to catch the priest smiling. Father Concha got into the driver’s seat, buckled his seat belt, and started the van. Pancho closed his door just as Memo came running out. He handed the wooden parrot to D.Q. “Okay, little penguin,” D.Q. said to him. “Get my room ready. Don’t let Margarita put any sissy-looking curtains on the windows. I want manly stuff, you understand.”

“Yeah, manly stuff. Nothing sissy.” The van was beginning to move and Memo and D.Q. were still doing some kind of funny
handshake. Memo was wiping his left eye with his shoulder. Then the van accelerated. “See you, Pancho,” Memo called.

They were all quiet until they got to I-25 and then D.Q. asked, “You know any good jokes, Father?”

“No,” Father Concha said. He was looking in the rearview mirror, determining whether it was safe to switch lanes.

“Pancho, when we’re in Albuquerque, we need to have us some adventures. We should do fun things, maybe go out drinking, pick up some girls, live it up a little. I mean, how often will we get a chance to visit the big city?”

Father Concha cast a sideways glance at D.Q. Pancho didn’t think the comment required a response. Ever since D.Q. woke him up that morning, he had been jabbering nonsense.

“Oh, I just thought of a joke,” D.Q. was now saying. “This couple gets married and they get into an accident just as they leave the church. So they go to heaven and are waiting for St. Peter, and the guy says to his wife, ‘You know honey, eternity is a long time to be married, maybe…’”

Pancho saw Father Concha reach over and touch D.Q.’s arm. “It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything,” Father Concha said. “It’s all going to be all right.”

D.Q. exhaled loudly. “It wasn’t a good joke anyway.”

“We’ll go straight to the hospital. As I understand it, they’ll keep you there overnight,” Father Concha said.

“Is she going to be there?” D.Q. asked.

“Your mother? I told her it wasn’t a good idea. She’ll want to see you in a day or two, after the initial tests.”

“The deal was that I would stay with her during the waiting period. I’ll be megablasted with lomustine, vincristine,
prednisone, and I don’t know what else, kryptonite, and then I’ll stay with her for two weeks and that is it. She said she’d sign the papers if I did that. Do you have the papers? Did you bring them?”

“I have them,” Father Concha said. He continued, his voice even calmer than usual, “She’ll sign them, but not today. She’ll want to meet with her lawyer.”

“She’s had the papers since March. Her lawyer has read them. You don’t know her. She’s going to make me go through this and then she won’t sign the papers. She’ll just keep me in that ranch house of hers, pumping me full of chemicals and herbs. You can’t let that happen! She needs to sign guardianship over to you
before
I undergo this treatment. I thought that was the deal.” D.Q. was breathing heavily. Pancho could see droplets of his spit land on the windshield. He watched Father Concha carefully for any signs that he was getting rattled. There were none.

“You need to be open-minded about the treatment. Concentrate on being positive about it. Give it a chance.”

The next time D.Q. spoke, his voice was subdued. “I’m giving it a chance, Father. But I have to think ahead. I don’t want my last few months to be wasted. I have to take control here. You want me to have a positive attitude toward these trials, okay. You want me to believe that a miracle is possible? I believe a miracle is possible. But I’m not going to be a fool about it. You understand? You understand me. Say you understand what I’m trying to do here. Say it, please.”

“I understand.”

D.Q.’s shoulders relaxed, the tension going out of them.

“Remember the time we were coming back from Albuquerque, after the diagnosis was confirmed?”

“Yes.”

Pancho closed his eyes. He was glad that D.Q. and Father Concha seemed to have forgotten he was in the back. He was tired. Sleeping had been hard. He kept hearing his sister’s voice. At one point during the night, he got up and opened the exit door next to his stall. “Rosa, you out there?” he called out. It was entirely possible that he was losing his mind.

“You said that even if the prognosis was correct and my time was limited, that didn’t excuse me from the obligation to fulfill my duties in life. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I thought it was a harsh thing to say. I mean, at first I thought you were talking about my place in the rotation, you know, helping Margarita every two weeks and all.”

“I was.”

Pancho opened his eyes, but it was too late. He missed the Panda’s smile. He closed them again and leaned his head against the window. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to think. But every time he started to think, a rush of anger drowned his thoughts.

“What if you finally discovered your duty? Wouldn’t your primary obligation be to fulfill it?”

“Our primary duty in life is to live.”

“But to live how? Like a vegetable? With your head stuck in a toilet day and night, throwing up, so doped up against the pain that all you do is sleep?”

The .22 and bullets were in a plastic bag in his backpack. He could feel the revolver’s hardness with his hand. He heard on a television show that if a victim is shot more than once, that means the killer had something personal against him. He didn’t have anything personal against the man who killed his sister, unless you considered hatred personal.

“So what is this duty you have discovered?”

“Here, let me read you something. This is from
Walden
by Henry David Thoreau.” Pancho heard D.Q. turn the pages in a book.

“You should rest,” Father Concha said. “You’ll need all your strength for the blood tests and other procedures you’ll be going through.”

“Here it is. I’ll just read this and then I’ll rest. Pancho, are you listening? Listen to this.”

“Yeah,” Pancho said when he heard his name. He didn’t know what he was saying “yeah” to.

D.Q. read: “‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.…’”

He closed the book and put it back in the bag. D.Q. turned his head to look out the side window. He watched the same gliding hawk that Pancho watched. When the hawk had disappeared from view, D.Q. spoke. “Pancho, are you awake? Were you listening?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“What did you think of that passage, Pancho?” Father Concha asked, his eyes in the rearview mirror zeroing in on him.

“My father and I used to take out the
meollo
from inside the bones with a knife, and then we would spread it like butter on a hot flour tortilla. We’d put salt on it and hot sauce. It was good. Real good. Then we’d suck out whatever was still in the bone until the bone was clean.”

Pancho couldn’t see Father Concha’s face, but he was almost certain he smiled.

“You see, Father,” D.Q. said,
“that’s
what I’m talking about.”

H
e woke up when the van stopped. They were in the parking lot of the University of New Mexico Children’s Hospital. Pancho pushed D.Q. in the wheelchair, walking behind Father Concha. D.Q. carried the canvas bag of books and his suitcase on his lap. Pancho wished he had been awake when they entered the city. He had been to Albuquerque once before with his father and Rosa when he was thirteen, and he wanted to see if he remembered the buildings and sights his father had pointed out to them.

Father Concha filled out forms while D.Q. and Pancho sat in the lobby. “I hope Helen sent in the paperwork,” D.Q. said.

“Who’s Helen?”

“Helen Quentin-Morse. That would be my mother.”

“Who’s paying for all this?” Pancho asked. The place seemed expensive.

“Helen put me on her husband’s insurance.”

“Mmm.”

“What?”

“If you cut her off, who’s going to pay for your treatment?” Questioning the cost of things had become a habit.

“St. Tony’s has a health insurance policy for the kids. Besides, after these clinical trials are over, the treatment isn’t going to be that complicated or that expensive.”

“You don’t seem to think whatever they’re going to do here is going to work.”

“That’s something that we need to talk about. The balance of hope and acceptance is at the heart of what it means to be a Death Warrior. It’s an equilibrium that needs to be maintained. We’ll go over it in time. Anyway, I mention it now because here is where your training officially starts.”

Pancho shifted in his chair. It made him uncomfortable when D.Q. spoke that way, like the religious ladies who came to his trailer and tried to talk to him about the need to get saved.

“Why are you in a kids’ hospital?” he asked. “Is it because you’re a minor?”

D.Q. chuckled. “The cancer that I have occurs primarily in children. Brain tumors are the second-leading cause of cancer in children, behind leukemia. I guess I’m here because this is where the clinical trial is held. In fact, the stuff they’re going to pump into me is more toxic than what they would give a child.”

Father Concha was walking toward them, a bigger frown than usual on his face. “That doesn’t look good,” D.Q. said.

“They’re going to admit you,” Father Concha said, “but they can’t start any treatments until your mother signs the forms.”

“She didn’t do it.” D.Q. sounded as if he expected it.

“We called her. She’s on her way.”

D.Q. turned his head away. “I don’t want to see her.”

“You’re whining,” Pancho said. When D.Q. pierced him with a killer stare, he grinned.

Father Concha smiled for what could have been the third time that day. “Someone’s coming to take you to your room. I’m going to go look for Dr. Melendez.”

They sat next to each other, D.Q. sulking and Pancho taking it all in. It occurred to him that the only other time he had been in a hospital was when he had gone to identify Rosa’s body. They didn’t let him in to see his father because his father’s face, after his accident, was in no condition to be seen.

They were both looking in the direction Father Concha had gone when a woman appeared before them. She wore a nurse’s uniform of cotton pants and a blue blouse with green and yellow smiley faces. Her long black hair was woven in a braid. “Daniel Quentin?” they heard her say without either of them registering the meaning of her words. She looked first at one and then the other. A smile flickered across her face, as if she knew exactly why they were dumbfounded.

Pancho elbowed D.Q. back to life. “Oh, that would be me.” D.Q. raised his hand timidly.

“I’m Rebecca,” she said. “I’m supposed to take you to your room. Do you need a wheelchair?”

“Sure. I mean no. No, I don’t need one.” D.Q. used Pancho’s thigh to push himself up from the chair. “Can he come too?”

“Absolutely,” she said. Pancho grabbed the suitcase and the bag of books. They all took a few slow steps forward at D.Q.’s pace.

“You want to hold on to my arm?” she offered.

“Okay,” D.Q. threaded his arm through hers. He looked back and raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Pancho.

“Is this your first time at Children’s?” she asked.

“No, I was here once before. Initially. About six months ago. For a week or so, but I don’t remember seeing you.”

“I just switched to oncology.” They were standing in front of the elevator.

“Great. That’s great.” Pancho could tell that D.Q. was struggling to come up with something else to say. It was almost fun to watch. They stepped into the elevator and began to ascend. Then she turned and fixed her eyes on him. He swallowed hard and quickly looked away. “Are you his brother?” she asked in a friendly way.

“Me?” he heard himself say. He sounded stupid. And then he thought,
How can she possibly think that we’re related?
He wondered whether he should feel insulted.

“He’s my spiritual brother,” D.Q. said. Pancho didn’t know how much time had gone by from the moment she asked her question to when D.Q. answered. He felt like an idiot.

“I’m Rebecca,” she said again, stretching out her hand to him. He put down the suitcase and shook her hand.

“He’s speechless right now on account of being dazzled, but he actually can speak,” D.Q. explained. “His name is Pancho.”

There was a
ping
and the doors to the elevator opened.

“Pancho,” Rebecca repeated, looking at him again and smiling. “That’s a nice name.”

D.Q. held on to her arm as they stepped out of the elevator. He turned around and stuck out a whitish tongue at Pancho. Pancho might have whacked him in the back of the head had his hands not been occupied.

They walked down the hall past the nurses’ station. They could
hear a group of voices singing “Happy Birthday” out of one of the rooms. The walls were painted bright reds and blues, pinks, greens, and oranges. Pancho felt like he was inside a tube of LifeSavers. One little bald boy popped out of one of the rooms, pushing a red fire engine and wailing like a siren. He made a wide U-turn in the hall and went back into the room. “That’s the playroom,” Rebecca explained. They stopped in front of the open door and saw kids absorbed in different activities. One older boy played a game of Tetris on a TV monitor. Two smaller boys were building a LEGO castle. A woman sat on the floor reading to a girl. The girl lifted her head and waved directly at Pancho. “You’re a hit already,” Rebecca said to him.

“I taught him everything he knows,” D.Q. piped up.

They went a little farther down the hall. Rebecca opened the door to the next room. “This is it,” she said. “It’s next to the playroom, but once you close the door, it’s very quiet.”

D.Q. let go of her arm. “No, I like it noisy!” he exclaimed. “And look!” He walked up to the window and drew open the orange curtains. “You can see the mountains from here.”

“Those are the Sandia Mountains,” Rebecca said. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“This is perfect,” D.Q. said.

Pancho put the bags down just as Rebecca asked him, “Are you staying in Albuquerque?”

A blush colored his face. “With him,” he managed to mumble.

“We’ll be staying at Casa Esperanza. Who’s my roommate?” D.Q. asked, pointing at an empty bed.

“No one right now,” Rebecca said. “You have a single.”

“You think Pancho can stay with me while I’m here?”

“I can check,” Rebecca answered before Pancho could object. He didn’t want to sleep in a hospital. Despite all their efforts to be cheerful, it was still a place for sick people. “The hospital rules say visiting hours are over at eight
P.M.
, but on this floor, it’s really up to the shift supervisor. Usually, it’s just immediate family that’s allowed to stay.”

“He’s immediate family,” D.Q. confirmed. He sat on a green chair in front of his bed.

“Your spiritual brother, right?” Rebecca asked, winking at Pancho.

“Right,” D.Q. answered. Pancho stuck his hands in his pants pockets, then he took them out.

“Okay, I’m going to leave you and your spiritual brother alone for a while. You”—she pointed at D.Q.—“need to undress and put this little nightie on.”

“Not one of those things with the open back. They’re so humiliating!” D.Q. grinned.

“They’re not so bad, they’re very cool. The fresh air comes right in.” She smiled back. Pancho could tell it was something she had said many times before. “I’ll be back in about half an hour. The remote control for the TV is over on your night table. You can hang your clothes right in this closet. Okay? Nice to meet you all.”

Pancho stepped out of her way. He did not have the courage to look at her as she went past him.

As soon as she left and the door to the room closed, D.Q. moaned, “Ohhh! Ohhh! Ohhh!”

“What is it?”

“Oh, Lord almighty, creator of heaven and earth, she is sooo beautiful! I did not need to see that kind of beauty. I wanted to go through these procedures with some peace of mind, some semblance of serenity, and then to encounter such raw, awesome, unadulterated glory. How can I be at peace now? How can I not be affected by the fiery wings of desire?”

Pancho scratched his head. “Is that the girl you told me about? She seems a little old for you.”

D.Q. turned serious. “Marisol? No, we’ll see her when we move to Casa Esperanza. Rebecca is frosting. Marisol’s effect is on the eyes
and
the soul.”

Pancho opened one of the two doors inside the room. It was a bathroom with a toilet and a sink. He filled a glass with cold water and drank its contents in one gulp. Then he wet a hand towel and applied it to the back of his neck. It occurred to him that he had left his backpack with the revolver and Rosa’s diary in the van and he wasn’t sure whether Father Concha had locked it. Father Concha had taken out his black briefcase, so maybe he didn’t think there was a need to lock the van.

D.Q. yelled at him, “What are you doing in there, playing with yourself?”

The kid was a nervous wreck today. Pancho stepped out, the back of his head still wet. “I need to go get my backpack,” he told D.Q.

“No, don’t go,” D.Q. pleaded. “You need to be here when Helen comes. Please.”

Pancho went over to the other green chair. He turned it so that he too could look out the window at the mountains and then sat
down. “What luck,” D.Q. said. “A mountain view. Human beauty, natural beauty, we’re surrounded by beauty on all sides. And then there’s Helen.”

“You need to put on that gown like the lady asked you,” Pancho said.

“I don’t want to be bare-assed when she comes.”

“When who comes? The nurse?”

“No! Helen. Dearest Mother.”

“How do you know she’s going to come see you? Maybe she just signs the papers and leaves.”

“Why do you think she didn’t sign the forms before when she could? She needed an excuse to come over.”

“You’re her son. She wants to see you.”

“What she wants is control. She wants to make sure I get the full treatment. In more ways than one.” Pancho shook his head.

“What? Why are you shaking your head like that?”

“I don’t understand family squabbling. Family’s family, you know? Isn’t there something in your Dead Warrior Festo about that?”

“It’s Death, not Dead. And it’s MA-NI-FES-TO. Not Festo. Dumbo.”

“Whatever.”

“But you have a good point. I have to reflect on what you just said. But not now. I’m tired. I had no nap to speak of today. I couldn’t get the Panda to stop talking.” D.Q. tried to smile, but the smile ended abruptly. “Seriously, though, didn’t you find her beautiful?”

“Who?”

“Oh, like you didn’t even notice. I could hear your heart beat like a lunatic all the way up in the elevator.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess.”

“You know, I think she liked you. She kept eyeing you, I noticed.”

“That fog in your brain is getting thicker.”

“You are right about that, my friend.” Then he said, looking at the mountains, “Ah, Pancho. Can you imagine what it would be like to touch every inch of her body with your fingertips?”

They were both silent, each one of them lost in his own imaginings.