“What is it, Pops? What’s up?” he says. “You and Mama need help with English on the bills again? It’s cool; I got time.”
I shake my head no. “Juan.”
“Come on, Pops. Call me Johnny, remember? Johnny Cruz!” He laughs.
“I’ll call you the name you were given.”
The laugh stops. He kicks his feet. Useless to start this fight with him. We watch the sun sink lower beyond the valley, setting the sky on fire.
“I found this,” I say, unwrapping the dishtowel.
Juan stares at the gun. His mouth opens, he stiffens. Then he relaxes, cool all over. “Whose is it?”
This game. I am so tired. “Juan.”
“Qué? You mean? Oh shit. Ha. You mean you think it’s mine?”
I will not hit him. I never have and I never will. I have seen men hit their sons, their wives, their daughters. It is only part of the sickness, not a cure.
A different strategy, then. I put my hand on his back. His body rigid beneath my touch, brittle. I have caught him. He knows I have caught him. “Juan. Listen. You are a good boy. I know this, in my heart. Por favor, tell me. Why?”
His shoulders slump. He crumbles beneath my hand. My soft, aching hand. “Pops...”
“Your mama found it. Not me. Think, Juan, if it had been Lupe.”
“Lupe would never go in the shed!” His voice cracks.
I sigh, and sit myself on the porch step, knees buckling, back sore.
“Juan! Juan! Play with me!” my daughter yells, her tiny footsteps rushing through the house, to us. I wrap the gun and cradle it in my lap before she bursts from the back door.
“Lupe, hey, hermanita. Go back inside, yeah? I’ll play with you in a little bit,” Juan says.
“But I heard you and Papa talking! Are you in trouble?”
“Lupe, escucha a tu hermano. He will play later,” I tell her, and offer a smile, the best one I can manage.
“Lupe! Lupe! Come in the house!” Martha shouts after her.
“I’m coming!” Lupe responds. She looks up at her brother. “Promise to play with me! You gotta promise.”
“I promise,” Juan says, and chuckles.
Lupe nods, and runs inside, banging the door behind her. It slams in the frame, BLAM, BLAM, until it rests.
Juan whistles, a dry, nervous sound, and rubs his eyes.
“You see?” I tell him.
“Yes,” he says, and sits beside me.
“Now. Answer my question.”
He cocks his head, eyebrows raised. “I thought you’d know, Pops. If anyone did, I thought you’d know.”
My turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Because of that,” he nods at the gun in my lap, “you get respect. I get it, with that. It’s like power, you know? You have one, your name rings out. Like your name used to.”
I shake my head, grit my teeth. “No. Respect from fear, Juan, is not the same. Your sister respects you. And not from fear. Your mama respects you, because you care for your sister, and you help us, and go to school. I respect you, because you are smart, and you have a good heart. The gun? It disappoints me. It is low. It is not for you, m’ijo. Your name should mean more.”
He cries, and looks away from me. It is okay for him to cry. If he cries, and knows he does not need the gun, he can cry.
“You will stop? For this family? For the ones that love you?”
“Yes, Pops, yeah.”
I smile at him. “Me and your mama, we left Mexico because of bad men. Because I did not want to be a bad man. I do not want my son to be a bad man. You can be better, Juan. Here, in this town. If you go to school. If you work hard. You can be better than me.”
I embrace him. He stiffens again, then becomes limp, and slowly he wraps his arms around me.
“Swear to me,” I say.
“I swear, Pops.”
Tonight, I will bury the gun at the edge of the yard after I dismantle it piece by piece. I will bury it next to the bodies of two dead men who once came to my home. I think perhaps Rojelio was wrong, perhaps the sickness won’t follow this time.
Me and Martha are cleaning the house on my day off. Her telenovela plays on TV, something to laugh at while we mop and sweep. Lupe is in her room playing dolls. Juan is still at school. Because he’s been good this week, I let him take the Toyota.
The phone rings from the kitchen, and I go to answer. When Juan’s voice crackles high and frantic into my ear, part of me wishes I had let it ring. I remember, then. He is a better liar than me.
“Pops!” he says. “Pops, I did something. It’s bad, and they won’t stop now, so I’m coming, I’m coming—”
“Juan. Slowly. Where are you?”
“Fuck fuck fuck. Aw man. Aw maaan.”
“Juan.” I keep my voice low, but Martha hears anyway. She hurries into the kitchen, her face creased in worry.
“Is it him?” she says. I nod. “He’s in trouble?” I squeeze my eyes shut, nod again.
“Where are you?” I say to him.
“Driving, Pops. They’re following me. They keep following me!”
Sirens sing, far away through the phone. A song for Juan. If he listens, if he stops — yes, prison maybe, but he will have a life still.
“Stop for them, Juan. Do it.” The kitchen darkens, and I lean against the refrigerator. Martha grasps my arm, steadies me.
“They’re following me! They won’t stop! I’m coming home. Okay? I don’t know where to go. I’m coming home.”
“Be calm, m’ijo. What did you do?” My ear burns against the plastic of the phone.
“A cop pulled me over and... Fuck. I had weed, okay? A lot. And I just drove away. All I did was drive! But now there’s more cops, and I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m—”
The sirens scream. Loud in the phone, too loud. They are not only coming from the phone. My eyes meet Martha’s. I see my terror mirrored in them. She shakes her head, mouths one word: No.
“What’s that noise?” My daughter runs into the sitting room. Her hair held back by a plastic tiara, her face scrunched in wonder, cradling her doll.
“Stay with her. Stay inside,” I tell Martha. Nausea wrestles with me. I push it down. Bury it deep. My wobbling legs carry me to the front door. I open it, and peer down the road into the late afternoon.
The screech of tires, the roar of an engine. There. My truck. A blur down the pavement, but filling my sight faster than I can believe. It slides across the road, leaving black marks like streaks of blood in front of the driveway. The smell of burning rubber, and I cough. Smoke fills the air. Juan stumbles from the car drenched in thick sweat, his eyes rolling wildly, panting. The police follow.
“Listen to them! Juan, whatever they say! LISTEN!” I scream at him, descending the front steps to our walk, running past the old oak and the swing I built for him long ago.
He stares beyond, at something I cannot see. Police cars screech to a stop, fencing him in. A young officer, crazed with adrenaline, yells into a bullhorn: “Put your hands in the air! Drop to your knees and put your hands in the air!”
“Do it, Juan! Do what they say!” I scream. Can he hear me over the damn noise? He jerks his head again. Okay, okay. He will stop.
Instead, he runs toward our home.
“Stop! Stop or we will fire!” the officer shrieks. His hand crawling toward his gun belt.