Oscar Casares (13 page)

He reached underneath the toolbox and pulled out a large brown jug filled with a chemical he used to spray livestock for ticks. The solution was mixed with water before the treatment was applied. The ingredients on the label stretched out into extra-long words that looked like a foreign language to Marcelo. What he understood was the symbol of the skull and crossbones.

Blood squished between his fingers as he rolled the meat into four little balls the size of tangerines. With his pinky, he poked a small hole in each meatball and poured in as much of the chemical as he could. He covered the opening by rolling the meatball around in his hands until it was nice and smooth.

He lay awake in bed. Olivia was asleep. About 2:30 he heard Charro barking in the distance. The sound was getting closer by the minute. He heard the dog knock over what sounded like the Hinojosas' trash can. A few minutes later it cornered an alley cat, which made every other dog in the neighborhood join in the barking. The meatballs were waiting in the yard, near the far end of the sidewalk that reached the curb, next to the mailbox, beside the fresno tree, under the bedroom window. He figured the dog would have its snack and walk off before the chemical made it sick. Somebody would find the animal in the alley the next morning. Marcelo told himself that at least he wasn't trespassing onto anyone's property. And if a dog happened to walk into his yard, where it shouldn't have been in the first place but came anyway and ate something that made it sick, was that really his fault? Where did it say his yard was open for dogs to come do their business?

Marcelo listened. The dog wasn't making a sound, but he sensed it was close to the house. He felt as if he'd trained his ears to hear what couldn't be heard, the way some people believed animals had the ability to see spirits that couldn't be seen. He whispered in the dark, “Closer, Charro. Un po-quito más, Charro boy.” Marcelo fell asleep listening to the distinct sound of dry leaves being stepped on right outside his window.

The next morning he was ready for a new beginning. Olivia made breakfast and he talked about his day while they ate. He had to check on some cattle off Southmost Road, visit an old man who owned a few Shetland ponies and gave rides at the flea market, and, finally, spend a couple of hours patrolling the river in the late afternoon. Before they knew it, it was almost seven o'clock and he'd have to hurry to be on time for his first appointment. Olivia walked him to the door and kissed him good-bye on the cheek. As he stepped onto the porch, his boot slipped forward and he had to hold on to the door so he wouldn't fall. A puddle of red and brown vomit covered the Welcome mat. The dark liquid trailed down the steps and along the sidewalk, until it turned into tiny drops, barely noticeable. Where the driveway ended, Marcelo found an even larger puddle.

He cleaned the mess by himself because Olivia felt sick as soon as she saw the porch. Junior refused to go out through the front when it was time for school. Marcelo acted confused about what might have happened. Flies had already gathered when he turned on the water hose to spray the porch and sidewalk. Except for some pieces of chewed meat that clung to the steps, most of what the animal had left behind flowed down the street and into the gutter. Marcelo tried to hide his guilt, but he couldn't help feeling bad when he saw the specks of blood in the puddle. He told himself he was only doing what he had to, what any workingman would've done. Nobody could blame a man for trying to hold on to his job. It wasn't his fault Sanchez hadn't listened. He had fair warning. Marcelo poured a jug of Clorox on the cement and scrubbed it hard with a tire brush. It took most of a can of Lysol to get rid of the bad smell around the steps. He threw the brush and the Welcome mat into the trash can. When he was driving away, the dog rushed out of Sanchez's yard barking and chasing him halfway down the street, past the red and brown stream and the gutter where it disappeared.

This was the morning Marcelo gave up. He'd get earplugs. They'd move to another neighborhood if they had to. Anything, but he wouldn't try to hurt the dog again. Charro barked on and off for the next few weeks. One night on, one night off. It was getting to where Marcelo could almost guess which nights the dog would come around. He began to accept the barking as part of his life. The noise never lasted more than fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. He used the time to go to the bathroom and relieve himself, instead of waiting until later, when he really had to go. He read the newspaper, which he never had a chance to do during the day. Sometimes he finished the paperwork he handed in every week. Once, he shaved. Another night he trimmed his toenails. He looked forward to his time alone. A couple of nights he even woke up by himself.

He was getting to work on time, especially to his weekly meetings. The supervisor had been going over how the USDA was extending its air surveillance program to the lower Rio Grande Valley. Marcelo wasn't looking forward to flying in a small plane once a week, but he figured he'd still have a few days to patrol on horseback. The other livestock inspectors were looking forward to a break from the heat. A younger inspector joked around and asked if the plane had an air conditioner. It was after one of these meetings that Olivia called the office. The supervisor answered the phone and said she sounded upset. Marcelo talked to her, but he couldn't get her to calm down. All she could say was that she'd had an accident. The supervisor told Marcelo it'd probably be a good idea if he went ahead and took care of his family. They'd call it a sick day.

Olivia met him in the carport. She was holding Arturo in her arms. The baby smiled and kicked his chubby legs when he saw his father walking toward him.

“I never saw him, Marcelo. I never saw him.”

Marcelo noticed a lump of black and reddish brown hair sticking out from underneath the Oldsmobile. It looked as if someone's fur coat had been run over. He walked around to the side and saw blood dripping from the dog's mouth.

“I didn't mean to, Marcelo. Fue un accidente.”

“It's okay, Olivia.”

“We were late for the doctor's, and Arturo, he wouldn't let me put him in the baby seat.”

“He doesn't like to be away from his mama.”

“I looked back before I put it in reverse,” she said. “But then the car rolled over something and I heard the worst sound, like crying, like I ran over somebody. I thought about the little Gomez boy. He's always running around in the streets. Me puse bien nerviosa. I didn't know what to do, Marcelo. I put it in drive.”

“Cacas,” the baby said and pointed at the backside of the dog.

This only made Olivia cry more. Marcelo held her in his arms. She was shaking. He helped her inside the house, and the baby stayed with her on the bed.

He walked back outside and squatted next to Charro. At least the body was far enough away from the street that the neighbors couldn't see. He imagined himself having to tell Sanchez what had happened. He wished he hadn't let himself get so mad the last time Sanchez came over. There was no way his neighbor would ever believe that it was Olivia who had been driving and that it was an accident. But what could he do? The dog was dead. Whether it was him or Olivia, nothing was going to bring the animal back to life. It was better if the boy believed the dog had run away again. At least it wouldn't be a shock to him this time.

Marcelo dragged the body farther into the carport and around the left side of the house, where the bougainvilleas blocked anyone from seeing him. Once he was in the backyard, he locked the wooden gate. Next to the cuartito, where he kept the water heater and all his yard tools, looked like a good place to lay the body. He walked back to the carport and used the water hose to spray the last traces of the dog off the concrete and into the grass. Then he pulled a shovel out of the cuartito and started digging a hole.

Marcelo scooped load after load of moist dirt. He tried not to think about what he was doing. The rain from two nights earlier had softened the ground, and he was grateful this made the digging a little easier. At least it wasn't too hot yet. His work would be done in no time, then he'd have the rest of the day free. He could wash the car or change the oil. He could take Olivia out to lunch and get her out of the house.

He stopped digging after a while and sat on the back porch steps. The hole looked deep enough to bury the dog, but something didn't feel right. What he had done to the animal only seemed crueler when he looked at the dead body. He felt that he owed Sanchez and his kid more than just a hole in the ground. He thought about it for a few minutes and decided to build a box for the dog. He looked around the cuar-tito and under the house, but he didn't have enough wood to make anything the animal would fit in. What he did have was a stack of cardboard boxes that Olivia had saved. He sliced the two largest ones with his buck knife and used some duct tape to hold them together. So the box wouldn't bend in the middle when he lowered it, he placed a piece of plywood on the bottom. He laid the animal on top of some old blankets and its splotched tongue flopped out. After he closed the dog's mouth, he sealed the top of the box with duct tape.

Marcelo hung his work shirt on the porch railing and began digging a larger hole. For the box to fit, he figured the grave needed to be at least five feet long and three feet wide. The sun had come out from behind the clouds and made the morning hot. Each shovelload felt a little heavier than the last. His back would hurt later. He had good reasons for burying the dog in his backyard, but he also knew he could never stand before Sanchez and his boy and tell them what had happened. He tried to console himself with the fact that he had built a box for the dog. It wasn't anything fancy, but in a small way it helped relieve his guilt. After a while he stepped into the hole and shoveled the dirt around him. The last time he'd worked this hard was when his father had passed away and, in order to save some money, he and his brothers dug the grave themselves. There were two shovels and five brothers. They took turns: two brothers working, two brothers resting in the shade, one brother telling stories about their father's life. They talked about how their father had lived on both sides of the river, but he'd always called it el Río Bravo. He used to say his biggest mistake in life was allowing his sons to be born Americans. He wanted everyone to know he was puro mexicano and had no desire to change. Specific instructions had been left for his body to be taken to the ranchito outside of Matamoros where his parents and his grandparents were buried. Marcelo thought about how different he was from this man. What would his father have done about the dog? Right or wrong, he always seemed sure of what he did. Marcelo had tried to live his father's life, but now it felt as if he were standing in the middle of a river trying to stretch his arms and touch both sides. No matter what he did, he'd never reach far enough.

He had been working for a couple of hours when he heard Olivia calling him from the back porch. His undershirt was drenched with sweat and he felt as if he'd been digging all day. Marcelo put down the shovel to find out what she needed, but he couldn't see her over the edge of the grave. He realized then that he'd dug a lot deeper than he needed to.

Don't Believe Anything He Tells You

Jerry Fuentes

H
ere's a piece of advice for you: If a guy named Jerry Fuentes comes knocking at your front door trying to sell you something, tell him you're not interested and then lock the door.

Jerry Fuentes is my cousin and he's a salesman. He might tell you he's something else, use a different word to describe what he does, but what he is is a salesman. And if you're not careful, he'll sell you something you had no intention of buying, never needed, and will probably regret for a long time after he and his cheap cologne have left your house. I know, because it happened to me.

“Hey,
primo,
how's it going?” he said, standing at my front door one day.

I hate it when he calls me primo. He calls everybody primo, even guys who aren't his cousins or related to him in any way. A few years ago, he moved to San Antonio and was working as a sports promoter. That's what he told the whole family. He had business cards with his beeper number and a slogan that said JERRY FUENTES—YOUR PERSONAL SPORTS PROMOTER. Jerry's got the connections, man, his brother Gabe kept saying. So Anna and I drove up to watch the Spurs play the Bulls, and there was Jerry out in front of the Alamodome, scalping tickets. He set us up all right, but the tickets weren't cheap. Then when we were walking into the building we heard Jerry go, “Hey,
primo.
” We turned around and he was talking to a Chinese guy.

That day Jerry came over, he walked into the house and sat right down in my La-Z-Boy. It was probably still warm from me sitting there, flipping through the TV channels. That was the first time Jerry had ever come by, but it looked like he'd been sitting in that chair for years. He looked relaxed, like he owned the place almost. He was wearing a light green sports coat with a pair of slacks that had sharp creases. The top button of his dress shirt was undone and some chest hairs were sticking out.

We didn't see each other in those days, except at weddings and funerals. Not that we saw each other that much when we were growing up. Jerry's ten years older than me, but now that we're both getting older, the difference in our ages doesn't feel that huge. He has more hair than I do and I think he uses hair spray. He's in shape for a guy in his forties, but I'm sure he's never done what you'd call hard work. Either way, staying young has helped him out with the women. I have to hand it to him there. Jerry's never been married and he always has a little movida on the side. Sometimes I wish I had done more of that when I had the chance. But that was part of the trouble at his last job. He was selling frozen steaks, door-to-door, for Archer Meats and spending a little too much time with some of the Valley housewives. Then there was more trouble when the supervisor figured out that Jerry was using the company meat to feed everybody who showed up at his pachan-gas. Jerry argued with him that each and every one of those steaks was an investment for the company and would, in time, be turned into a profit, which was one of his bigger lies, but it just goes to show you the guy has little or no respect for what's not his. That's why it wasn't any big surprise to see him sitting all comfortable in my chair.