He knew what the chambrosos would say, it was all because he was an orphan-the sloppy lust for cougar poon, the pissy sulk upon leaving, even the musical gunslinger ego bit to soothe his pride. And sure, from as early as he could remember he’d sensed an absence at the center of things. Her name was Graciela, she came to the States a Salvadoran refugee, pregnant with her first child, a boy. Three years later she was dead, a massive hemorrhage within hours of delivering her second son. And so there they were, Godofredo and Roque, two American brothers, a toddler and an infant-different fathers, both absent; same mother, now dead.
They got taken in by their spinster aunt, Lucha, also a refugee. Roque knew zip about his old man and what he knew of his mother came from a handful of faded snapshots and Tía Lucha’s tales, not all of them kind. He came to think of his mother the way some people regard an obscure and troubling saint. Mi madre descabellada, the unholy martyr.
As for Godo, he’d never forgotten what it was like: three years old, slow to English, wary of strangers, possessive of his mother who one day went to the hospital and never came back-and for what? Some little shit weasel of a brother.
THE SIGN AT THE STREET READ “HUNTINGTON VILLAGE,” THOUGH NO one could tell you who Huntington was: a trailer park, home to several dozen Salvadoran families, as well as Hondurans, Guatemaltecos, the inescapable Mexicans, even a few Pacific Islanders. The streets were gravel and the shade sparse, no laundry hut, no playground, no management on the premises. Here and there, a brave patch of grass. He lived in a single-wide with Godo and Tía Lucha and Tío Faustino, his aunt’s marido. She was no longer a spinster.
It was temporary, their living here, so Tía said, just until she and Tío Faustino could reestablish some credit. It wasn’t really their fault, of course, losing the house-a crooked mortgage broker, a Mexican no less, had slipped an extra loan into escrow, more than a hundred Latino victims in the scam. It would take years and lawyers and more money thrown to the wind before any of that resolved. Meanwhile they lived as best they could, crammed into six hundred square feet, Tía and Tío, Roque and Godo.
Passing the gravel bed near the gate that served as parking, Roque noticed that Tío Faustino’s rig was gone. That meant it was already four-Tío had left for the Port of Oakland, to get in the queue for container pickup. Roque redoubled his pace until he could make out the random tinny carillon of Tía Lucha’s wind chime swinging from the doorstep awning.
Pulling up outside the trailer, he tugged his key from his jean pocket and slipped it in the lock, opening the door as quietly as he could, only to find his aunt waiting in the kitchenette, sitting at the table in her plaid robe, sipping Nescafé.
“You’re up already,” he said clumsily.
She responded using Spanish, peering over the edge of her cup.-Is it your turn to be the problem around here? Her eyes were sad and proud and blasted from exhaustion, her hair lying tangled across her birdlike shoulders. Her face was narrow and dark, weathered, an indígena face; shortly she would slather on pancake to lighten its complexion in preparation for a day at the cash register.
Roque went to the fridge, saw a can of guava nectar and another of 7UP, his weakness, picked the latter and popped the lid, all to avoid an answer.
– I don’t expect you to be a virgin. Your mother named you for a poet, it’s your privilege to act like an idiot. You’re using protection, yes? Please tell me that much.
“It’s not your problem,” he replied in English, a way to assert his distance. It was one of those ironies, how the older ones praised the new country but stuck to the old country’s tongue.
– Not today, but when the baby arrives and you have no clue if it’s really yours?
“It’s not an issue, okay?”
She cocked her head, studying him.-You’re telling me she’s a boy?
He rolled his eyes, put down his can and ambled over to the table. Agony aunt, he thought. He’d read the phrase in a book recently and thought instantly of Tía Lucha. Leaning down, he kissed her graying black hair, the texture of stitching thread, a smell like almonds, some dollar-a-bottle shampoo.
He switched to Spanish.-We’ll pretend you never said that.
On the shelf behind her, Salvadoran sorpresas, little clay tableaus made in Ilobasco, shared space with skeletal Day of the Dead figurines. He’d often celebrated El Día de los Muertos with her, it was why he’d never felt singled out for misery despite his mother’s death. He learned not to take it personally. Sorrow was inescapable, a condition, not a punishment.
– We’ll pretend because it’s not true, or because you’re ashamed?
– Don’t make me angry, Tía.
– So it’s a girl.
– A woman.
– And she’s not pregnant.
– She can’t get pregnant.
Tía Lucha studied him like he was suggesting something impossible, or infernal.-She told you that?
– Can we change the subject?
– Oh Roque, don’t be a fool, women lie, especially about that.
– Tía…
– And then they come and tell you, “I can’t believe it, it’s a miracle, a blessing from God.” How old is this woman?
Roque turned to head back toward his brother’s bedroom.-I’ll check in on Godo.
She closed her eyes and rubbed the lids.-Don’t wake him, please.
Acidly, Roque thought: Godo asleep? Now that would be a miracle.
He sometimes wondered if being parentless wasn’t a blessing in disguise. It gave him a kind of freedom from the usual attachments that seemed to hold others back. Life would be more fluid for him because love and desire and ambition would be a question of choice, not obligation. And yet, if that were true, how would he keep from merely drifting? Wasn’t that what love and respect were about, providing gravity? Otherwise there was just loneliness.
The oven door stood slightly ajar; an aromatic warmth greeted him as he bent down to peer inside. Two plates covered with napkins rested on the middle rack.
– One of these for me?
– You know it is.
Using a dish towel, he pulled out one plate. Beneath the napkin, he found his breakfast: pureed black beans with cream, fried plantains and yucca, corn tortillas.
He joined her at the table with his plate, wondering how angry she would get if he added some peanut butter. He’d been known to plow through an entire jar in a single sitting, until she told him that if he didn’t stop he’d end up in emergency with a bowel blockage. Even as he stole a glance at the open oven door, secretly craving the other plate, Godo’s share, he pictured the jar of crunchy in the fridge. He was ravenous. Sex did that to him.
Tía Lucha glanced back toward the bedrooms to the rear.-Your brother. No matter what I do, no matter what I say… Hand to her mouth, eyes spent.-Nothing gets better. Another miserable night.
Not glancing up from his plate, Roque said:-Don’t worry, Tía. I’ll take care of it from here.
Two
WHAT THE WHOLE THING GETS DOWN TO, GODO THOUGHT, HEAD tilted back, draining the last few drips from the can-the trick to it, as it were, the pissy little secret no one wants you to know? He crushed the empty and tossed it onto the floor where it clattered among the others, then belched, backhanding his scarred lips to wipe them dry. Figure it out, cabrón: The whole thing gets down to knowing which guilt you can live with.