Kind of Kin (9 page)

“Did you hear what that man said?”

“Who?”

“That old rancher in the duster.”

“What rancher?”

“Never mind. Let's go.” She reached for her coat.
All the way back to the apartment, she fumed—and not just at the insult and the
insolence of the old man, but also at her husband's obliviousness. She tried
three times to explain the moment, but Charlie just shrugged.

“What d'ya expect, babe? You know you're going to
get criticism any time you put yourself out there. You know that. If you can't
take it, you'll have to just stay home and be talented in your room.”

Stay home and be talented in your room. How she
hated that line! If Charlie had used it once over the past fifteen years, he'd
used it a thousand times. At the apartment she flounced up the stairs, flung her
coat onto the hall chair, and stormed into the living room, where she fixed
herself a drink and turned on the television, tuning it to Fox 25 Primetime News
at 9.

Tuesday |
February 19, 2008 | Night

Brown's farm | Cedar

I
n the
thickening dark Luis sits at the table with his head in his hands. His thoughts
run this way, that way, but every direction carries him to a street without
exit; he cannot see where the road from this place will go. He is hungry, a
little cold, though not so cold as inside the barn. He did not climb through the
window this night but walked into the house through the door where, yesterday,
the boy cut away the yellow tapes. Inside the kitchen Luis stood in the cold
light with the refrigerator door open, looking in. No food on the grated shelves
or in the drawers. He knew this already, he had eaten already the last apple. He
uncapped a jar of yellow paste, dipped his finger, but the paste was sour, made
his belly hurt worse, and he carefully screwed the lid down, set the jar back
inside, shut the door, groped his way to this room, where he sits now waiting
for the clouds to open in the night sky outside. Then maybe the moonlight will
slant through and show him where to search in the black kitchen. There will be
tins of beans somewhere, he thinks, and soup maybe. But the night is thick dark,
and Luis cannot seem to thrust away from his chest this despair.

The clouds will not part, the despair tells him,
and his sons will not find him, because they do not know he is here, and he
will not find them because he had only the word written down, the strange
name of the town somewhere in this Oklahoma, but the boy took the coat where the
paper was hidden, and Luis cannot remember the name of the town, something like
stupid monkey or hand, a name told to Beto on the telephone at the taqueria in
the last message, delivered on the day Luis was readying to leave on his
journey. His sons were traveling to a new town, they told Beto, a new job. They
do not know that the tire broke, the truck stopped on the roadside with the
people inside, no food or water, no toilet, no air—and so much time lost. By the
time Luis arrived at the chicken plant where he was to meet them, his sons had
been gone to the new town already a long time, and so they do not know about the
men in their tan shirts and straw hats swarming the barn here, yelling, herding
the people in clumps, the young women weeping, the faces of the young men steely
and blank—this Luis saw from between the slats, his chest galloping, his breath
knotted hard—or if his sons do know, they will think that their father has been
bused back to Mexico with the others.

Maybe that is the best thing. Maybe he should put
on the electric lights in every room, let the gringo sheriff with his round
belly come. Then they will conduct Luis on the bus to the border and watch him
walk across. All the world knows that this is how it is done. Unless they
discover from the ink marks on your fingers that you have been carried to the
border already many times, and then they will put you in their jails for many
years before they ride you to the border again and push you out onto the street
and watch with their hands on their holstered guns while you walk across the
bridge. Then you will be in Matamoros or Tijuana or Ciudad Juarez, maybe five
hundred miles from your village, maybe nine hundred, with no money and no means
to go there except your two feet. Some of the people will telephone their
families and ask for money for the bus to return home, but there is no one in
Arroyo Seco for Luis to call. His wife, Margarita, has been dead almost ten
years, and his daughter, Ausencia, is also dead now, since the summer. Cut down
on the street by gunfire. Cut down for no reason. Her children scattered to live
with the relatives of her husband, who has been working in the North for three
years. No family now in Arroyo Seco. No reason, he thinks, to return there. He
could die here this night. Inside this cold house. It would be no different than
if he disappeared in the desert. He will be one of the vanished ones. His sons
will wonder a little maybe—so the despair tells him—and then they will
forget.

No! Luis chastises himself. This is a sin, not to
hope.

He leans forward, presses his forehead against the
hard table, prays now the same as he prayed on the journey inside the creaking
truck, the supplications repeated then without ceasing, without count because he
had no beads to count them, until the peace would come in his heart, until he
could breathe, until he was not oppressed by the small space and the smell and
the darkness. Then would he see Margarita as she had been when she was young, in
the cornfield, on the path to the water well, in the churchyard, her shy eyes
looking sideways, smiling. He would see his daughter, Ausencia, as a tiny girl,
and his seven sons, each one a little size smaller than the last, Cesár,
Eduardo, Mateo, Hedilberto, Tomás, Federico, and the youngest, Miguel, whose
face Luis held longest before him, though he has not seen Miguelito since he was
a youth of thirteen years riding away in the back of a hay truck, as the others
had ridden away, one by one, year by year, in a wood cart, a produce truck, a
bus, and who would have believed that Luis himself would one day make the
journey? But it was Miguel who had written the letter soon after Ausencia was
killed: Come, Papa, there is work here, our cousin owns a good business, Eduardo
is here, Tomas says he will maybe come from California. What is there for you in
Arroyo Seco? Come live with us, come work with us, you can send money home for
the children, and when they are older, we will bring them here, we are their
uncles, they will work with us, they will know their cousins in the North, our
sons and daughters, you will know them, too, your grandchildren, come, Papa.
Please come. And Luis had been persuaded, not knowing that he is too old—not too
old to work, no. He is still strong, he can work as well as his sons, he knows
this. But there was not a way for him to understand until it was too late that
he is already too old for the journey.

GodSaveYouMaryYouAreFullOfGraceTheFatherIsWithYou

BlessedAreYouAmongAllTheWomenAndBlessedIsTheFruitOfYourWomb

JesusSaintedMaryMotherOfGodPrayForUsSinners

NowAndInTheHourOfOurDeath.

In the dark place behind his eyes she looks the
same as on the walls of the church, hands clasped in prayer, golden rays
circling her crown and blue robe. This is not a holy vision. Luis knows that he
is not humble enough to receive a holy vision. It is an imagining, brought on by
his hunger, but the image brings peace in the same way the images of his young
wife and daughter and sons brought peace on the journey. Inside his chest the
weight eases. He turns his face to the side. The room is lighter now, a tiny
lifting of the darkness. In the next moment he knows what he must do. Very
simple. He must find the boy. He does not know how this will be, but he believes
that Our Lady will show him. Because the boy has the coat, the coat has the
paper, the paper has the name of the town where his sons are working,
guaymono, guaymano,
Luis cannot remember how it reads,
but the boy speaks a little spanish, he will tell Luis where this place is.
Maybe he will tell him how he can go there. Maybe it is not very far.

He hears a small sound then, and his heart jumps.
He sits up rapidly, prepares to run. On the far side of the table stands the
boy. Luis thinks at first this must be a new imagining, materialized from his
hunger, but then he smells the coat the boy holds in his hands. The odor is
vivid, real. Not an imagining.

I have your coat,
the
boy says. He starts forward, but Luis flinches.
Pardon
me,
the boy says. He places the coat on the table. The odor is
familiar, the smell of manure transferred from the corral to the coat when Luis
fell as the people pushed and shoved climbing into the truck. The scent is not
sharp now, as it was in the beginning, but muted, soft. How strange, Luis
thinks, to be glad for the smell of old cow dung.
Thank
you,
he whispers.

I have food for you also. In
the . . .
The boy gestures outside toward the barn.
I look there but I dont see to you. The food is in
my . . .
He shakes his head, makes the motion of
putting his two arms through straps and hoisting something heavy onto his
back.
I dont know the word.

Backpack,
Luis says. He
reaches across the table for the coat, searches the pockets for the paper, and
holds it out to the boy.
¿You know this name?

The boy carries the paper into the kitchen, opens
the refrigerator door, lifts the paper to the cold light so he can read. Guymon,
he says, and looks back at Luis.

¿Is a town?

Yes. I think so.

¿A town or a city?

A town, I think.

¿Where is this
town?

I dont know.
The boy
returns to the table, gives the paper to Luis.
Is possible
I can say to some person to tell me.

¡No! Please. If they know I am
here it will go badly for me. For my sons also.

I dont speak nothing, no
problem. I . . .
The boy blinks, pushes his hair back from
his eyes.
Tomorrow I bring more food. If I am able. Is
difficult. My aunt and my uncle . . . they are living me when my
grandfather . . . while my grandfather . . . I dont know
the words. The . . . police take him.

The police. Yes, I know. I saw
this with my eyes. ¿Then the old one is your grandfather?

The old one. I suppose. He is
not much old. A little old. Like you.
The boy talks in english then.
Luis shakes his head to show he doesn't understand. The boy looks around a
moment.
It makes cold, ¿no?
He steps back into
the kitchen, clicks the refrigerator door closed, and returns, bringing a box of
matches. The boy disappears into the next room, which is very dark. In a moment
Luis sees through the archway an orange glow.
¡Come
here!
the boy calls. When Luis goes to the next room, he can see the
shapes of chairs and a large sofa in the steady glowing light from a gas stove
on the wall. The boy stands in front of the stove holding his flat palm in the
air above it. He passes his palm back and forth.
Warm,
he says.
Very . . .
pretty.
Luis goes to the stove, stands beside the boy, warming his
hands.
¿How are you called?
the boy asks.

Luis Jorge Ramirez
Celayo.

My name is Dustin.

I heard your uncle calling.
Luis cups his hands, makes the voice of the uncle softly:
¡Du-u-s-tee!

Dustin or Dustee.
The
boy shrugs.
The other or the other.

If you want to capture the
mare you will have to move more slowly, and then very sleek and
fast.

The boy looks up.
¿What do you
call her?

Mare.

¿Not horse?

Horse is one word, but mare is
better. Mare is the right word for the female. She was teasing you. She
wanted more sugar. A cowboy must learn to move suavely. I worked many years
with the horses. I could show you.
The boy answers rapidly in
english.
Pardon me,
Luis says.
I dont understand.

A moment, please. Is necessary
I have more words. I have a book.
He crosses the room, makes
scrabbling noises in the drawer of a small table near the door. He flicks on a
tiny flashlight with a narrow white beam and goes into the dining room. After a
moment Luis can hear him in the far part of the house: thumps, small thuds,
another sharp word in english. The boy returns with a small fat yellow book in
his hand. He sits on the sofa and shines his little flashlight on the pages.
Slowly, tediously, using bad spanish grammar and many turnings of the dictionary
pages, he makes Luis understand: His mother is dead. He lives here in this house
with his grandfather but his grandfather hides the mexicans and he will be in
the prison a long time. The cousin of the boy has told him this. He wants to
capture the mare but he has one big problem. His uncle carried away the bridle.
Now he must walk to see his mother.

But you said your mother is
dead,
Luis says. The boy goes suddenly silent. He sits with his hands
in his lap, unmoving, his head lowered, as if he is ashamed to be caught—doing
what? Telling stories? Luis does not want to shame the boy.
Maybe I didnt understand,
he says
. I dont hear
very well.
The boy says nothing. After a moment Luis asks
quietly,
¿She is alive then, your mother?

The boy shakes his head no. He doesn't look up.

¿A ghost?

¡No, not a phantom! She
is
. . . He flicks on the flashlight, thumbs through the
pages.
A voice.

¿You can see her?

No. I hear only. My mother is
. . . a spirit voice.
Suddenly the boy stands.
I go now. I think my aunt . . .
He speaks
rapidly again, his fingers plucking fiercely at the thin pages of the book. The
only word Luis recognizes is
hospital
.

¿Your aunt has sickness?¿She
is in the hospital?

No. Yes. There is a man who my
aunt . . . ¡oh, I dont know the words! This night my aunt goes to
the hospital with a person. Later, when she arrives to her house, if she is
not able to see me, she wants . . . to see for me here.

¿She will come search for you
here?

The boy nods.
If my aunt sees
you also, is maybe a problem more big.