The Guardians (10 page)

“I bet Gabo read it,” I said, trying to make myself feel less ignorant. Miguel had the convertible top down and the noonday sun was already upon us. There were flies dancing around our cabezaheads and there was no air. After about a half hour my stomach started growling like I had swallowed a live pit bull and it was trying to get out.

“You hungry?” he asked.

“I'm too nervous to think about food,” I lied.

“Sometimes it helps just to eat,” he said, smiling.

“In my case, it's cooking,” I said. “Cooking relaxes me. Chopping, cutting, adding a little epazote or ajo, tasting—by the time the comida's done, I'm not even hungry no more. But I feel better.”

“You're making my mouth water, honey,” he said with a laugh and turning on the engine right quick. “Let's go get us some food.”

Had he just called me “honey,” I was asking myself when just then the coyotes’ door started to open. My eyes alone must have said, “¡Mira!” because Miguel turned to look. First the door opened wide, then the dirty wrought-iron storm door was pushed out by a stroller. My heart started pounding at the first sign of life we had seen there since that time when we went and actually knocked on the door. My nails clutched Miguel's forearm right through his shirt. He turned to glance at me for a split second, then looked back at the door.

La coyota made her way out with her two hüerquitos. They were in one of those baby strollers that fit two little kids. It was brand new and the babies themselves were dressed in what looked like new outfits. La coyota, too, was in her Sunday best, a tight, white satin dress and spiky high heels. She came out with her babies like they were on their way to church. Right behind her was her coyote marido, more feo than I remembered
him and more dressed up, too. He was wearing a shiny suit and brand-new-looking botas. I hated them chatting so happily together, like they didn't have a care in the world. La coyota was putting on a pair of designer sunglasses, her husband about to lock up the door, when he caught sight of us. How could they not? We weren't only parked right in front we were parked backward.

Me and Miguel both swallowed hard. I clutched his arm tighter but neither of us could stop staring. The coyote couple stared right back. They could plainly see us. It felt like an eternity passed with us four staring like that when el coyote said something to his wife and she went on her way, coming out through the front gate and pushing the double stroller down the street. As she passed us she gave us a nasty look. I gave her a nasty look right back. She didn't own the street. Meanwhile her husband leaned against the doorway, watching us. He wasn't going nowhere while we were out there. “So, it's gonna be a showdown, eh?” Miguel said under his breath. “Us or him.”

“Well, we ain't going nowhere, Miguel,” I said, gritting my teeth.

Can more than one eternity pass in the span of about five minutes? That's what it felt like while we three stayed like that watching each other before el coyote decided to go back into his house.

“Now what?” Miguel asked me. I stopped gripping his arm and he started rubbing it. “Now what?” he asked again. I covered my face. I couldn't bear to let him see me cry. Then I took a deep breath. “Let's go in and get him, Miguel,” I said. “Let's just go in and beat on him until he tells us something.” It was crazy. I realized how crazy later, but not then. At that moment it seemed right.

“What?” Miguel said, whispering like the coyote could hear us. “Do you think that jerk doesn't have a gun? Or that maybe someone else might even be there with him?”

“Yeah!” I said. My face felt so hot I knew I must look like my neck was being squeezed. “What do you want to bet Rafa is in there, Miguel?”

“I'm not arguing with you,” he said. “I'm just questioning how safe barging in there would be. He knows we're out here. He's probably in there waiting for us… .” Miguel put his hand on mine as if to hold me back. If el coyote was waiting behind the door with a gun, I was prepared to take that risk. It was my only chance to find out something about my brother's whereabouts. Even if el coyote said he didn't know nothing, at least I'd have had the satisfaction of him knowing that I knew he was lying.

Without even thinking about it, I started to jump out of the car. I felt Miguel's fingers barely grab hold of some strands of hair when an SUV that had just whipped around the corner almost hit the car door I had swung open so fast. “Regina!” Miguel cried out. Without slowing down, the driver of the SUV started honking as he passed us, pressing down on the horn so hard that the three people on the street all turned and looked at the SUV and then at me. Now for sure the coyote had to be on the alert for us.

Then Miguel said, “He's right there.” I closed the car door and settled back into the seat. You could hardly see him, but he was there, all right, standing behind the storm door, watching us.

GABO

Adorado Padre Pío, Surrounded by the Holy Angels, San Pablo, and All the Saints, and at the Feet of Dios,

At last, el Señor granted me a favor. Praise be to Him Who is truly magnificent and merciful. It came when I least expected it. It happened last domingo, Su Reverencia. My first time to read part of the liturgy during Mass. Little did I know that God had in mind to bestow on me such a great favor. (I have not told anyone yet, not even el cura, and he is my confessor.)

The church was very full for the noon Spanish Mass. (You know that I usually go to the
7 A.M.
Mass before going to work but Padre Juan Bosco asked me to this one and I could not say no.) It looked like everyone from Cabuche was there. I was not surprised to see my night manager from work with his familia and my computer teacher with hers but who I was really surprised to see was my tía Regina. Next to her was el Chongo Man. The schoolteacher did not look like someone who ever went to la santa misa. But there they were. (May the grace of Christ enlighten the hearts of all so that we may love him.) They were obviously looking for me. When she caught my glance my tía Regina's eyes so fixed on me, they seemed to be trying to say something like, “What the hell are you doing up there?” (That is how she talks, Santito.)

My tía Regina, watching over me, as always, was dressed for a change, out of respect. Her hair was brushed down, long, way past her
shoulders. Her shawl was made from an old curtain we found at la segunda. And she stood so straight, my tía looked like una reina. A queen who had come down from her castle to see how her people were doing.

Padre Pío, she hurts over my father, too. He was her hermanito, after all. Every time my father was at her place, he helped her—cleaning out the gutters, tarring the roof, whatever chore she needed done. She made big meals for him. “Aren't you going to sit down and eat with me?” he'd say. Mi papá did not like her to fuss over him. “You eat. Don't worry about me,” she would say. My tía loves to see people eat her food.

As I sat up at the altar waiting, the top of my lip was moist with anticipation of my reading. My manos were almost shaking holding my missal. I'd never spoken in public before. I looked around the church at all the roasted pecan faces. A lot of the women around here are gordas. Some are bien flaquitas. I think it has to do with very bad eating habits, too much drinking. Y drugs, también. There were girls with squirming chiquillos who looked like big sisters forced to babysit, but it was usually the case that they were mothers. All the women, young and old, came to church to kneel before la Virgencita. All of them with frowns and tears seemed to whisper, “Someone in heaven, give me a break.”

The older men's faces looked like they were made of the same leather covering as el Padre Juan Bosco's ancient-looking Bibles, fine cracks cutting into sunburned skin, from lifetimes of working in the sun. Half the rest of the men had caras de crudo, not crude faces but hung over. And as with every Mass, Santo, there were very few young or able men.

I always wonder—is it not considered manly to fear God?

It was then that it happened. I turned to face the altar, tan nervioso, as I said, and as I was looking high above, at the life-size crucifix that hangs there, the wisdom de Su Reverencia came to me:
“The One who is keeping you nailed to the Cross loves you and is breathing into you the strength to bear the unbearable martyrdom and the love to love divine Love in bitterness.”

That was when the grace of Our Lord was bestowed upon me. Even in church Satan could fool someone so desiring a sign as I had. But I saw it, Santo. At first, a single drop. Then a second and a third. Bright and red as the brightest, reddest rose in God's holy garden. Drops of blood slowly coming down the divine forehead of Jesus. I was not frightened at all. It was as if the thorns were piercing my own flesh.

I felt my head suddenly ache. I put my hands up to hold it. It could have been no longer than a minute of sheer agony. Then it vanished. And my body and soul were calm. Thank you, Diosito, I said.

When it was time to give my reading, I felt as if the querubines themselves carried me to the podium. God is all-merciful.

Su Servidor sin Mérito

GABO

Santo and friend of God, thank you for listening to me,

My saludos to you and to the Lord, my Father in Heaven. Please ask Him to look down kindly on me—I am trying to be good.

Padre Pío, I know you do not measure faith by how much a person dedicates himself to reading scriptures but I want you to know I read not only the Bible but everything. It was no one's recommendation or insistence. Reading just came to me. That was how I learned English. I read it before I could pronounce it. When I first went to school en Los Estados, my tía Regina made them put me in the right year for my age. Because I was un chavito migrante they were ready to stick me in the first grade. I was eight years old. I was so quiet they figured I did not know anything. Two weeks later, they moved me up to the fourth.

By then I had read my papá's old copy of
The Communist Manifesto.
He used to carry it everywhere with him. I was only six years old when I first tried to read it. My father saw how hard I was struggling, so he started helping me.

My tía Regina taught me a little Latin. My bisabuelo Metatron believed in a classical education. Regina first learned to read with a teacher who stayed on the hacienda. She always says, “rancho,” but they raised cattle, so I imagine it was more than that. Father Juan Bosco has promised to teach me Latin but so far
nusquam.
I remember my papá would stay up with me, no matter how tired we were, and my mother calling, “Get to bed.” He would light una velita if we did not have electricity
and when the candle burned out, then it was time to sleep. By sunup we were all out there working in the fields.

My mother never learned to read and did not care about books. My older sister, Karla, was a lot like our mother. She was a hard worker, too, but unlike our mother, she never complained about anything. If my hermana had an extra piece of fruit or gum, she would share it with me. When I was little she was the one who would give me a bath, outside in a tina. Karla never had any toys, so I was her doll. Then she started getting a bosom. My sister was still a child, twelve or thirteen years old. She would get so embarrassed. She was upset all the time. She did not want to go to school anymore. The other labor-camp niños teased her. I have not seen my hermana in about four years, Santito. Please pray for her.

Mr. Vigil, my English teacher, said a serious young man like me who never smiles would probably appreciate the Russians. So he started me with Dostoyevsky's novels. I read
The Idiot
and el
Gambler. Crime and Punishment
was my favorite.

“Do you think that by Raskolnikov turning himself in, God forgave him?” I asked Mr. Vigil. My English teacher thought for a moment, then he said in that very slow way of talking that he has, like he is thinking of not just one book but all the books he has ever read, “I don't know, Gabriel.” He is getting ready to retire soon. I hope our next teacher brings us up to the twentieth century. This is no reflection on the Russians, just on Mr. Vigil, who only likes very long books with a lot of details. I stopped in the middle of los
Brothers Karamazov
because of my papá's disappearance. It is hard for me to concentrate on anything anymore besides that.