Part 4 (2/2)
”Nothing.”
”Tell me.”
”Nothing, just talking to myself.”
”Saying what? Tell me.”
She inched away when she felt his bare chest against her back.
”I said, 'You act like you know what it is to be alone.'”
”I was alone for almost half a year before I found you,” Don Celestino said. ”That wasn't long enough?” He kissed her along the shoulders, as he had been doing before he excused himself.
”I thought it was.”
”Then?”
”Maybe other people would think it was.”
”What people?” He nuzzled up and set her hair to one side so his lips could reach her neck.
”Your brother, maybe he would think it was a long time.”
”He's been alone already for years.”
”So then he knows what it's like.”
”Only because she left him.” He moved his hand across her hip and then down toward the little rolls of skin near her belly, but she moved her arm in a way that blocked the rest of his path.
”Then his alone is different from your alone?”
”They were separated, she didn't want to see him.” Socorro turned to face him. ”And you think you know everything that happens between a man and his woman?”
”No, I just know they were not together and for years not even in the same town. Why do I need to know the reasons?”
”He was still married to her, Celestino. He was still her husband.”
He liked how she said his name more intimately now, without the ”Don” attached to it, and sometimes it was difficult to remember when it had been any other way between them. He was savoring the moment when he realized she was still looking at him, waiting for a response.
”Why do you want to talk about other people right now?”
”Your brother.”
”Yes, I know who he is.”
”Then maybe you can tell him that we're friends... more than friends.”
”Please, Socorro.” He reached for her as she pulled away.
”What would it hurt to at least call him?”
”Please, no more,” he whispered to her. ”Can we just stop talking?”
She thought about this for a moment, then twisted back around, leaving a s.p.a.ce between their bodies.
”Is that what you really want, for me to be quiet?”
”Yes, please, no more.” He kissed her on the shoulders as he had earlier. He tried to inch over and get past the pillow she was holding.
”Then maybe we should just take a nap,” she said.
”How do you mean?”
”You know, a nap, when you close your eyes and sleep and then wake up later feeling rested. That's one of the other things people do in bed.” She turned over with the pillow now between her legs.
Don Celestino looked at her back and wondered what it would take for her to turn around. A couple of minutes later, he rolled over and gazed at the ceiling-fan blades, which continued to whirl about with no regard as to what was occurring a few feet below them on the bed.
Socorro could hear him sighing behind her as if he might be exhaling his final breath and only she could save him. She had no intention of turning around, though. He could stay awake the rest of the afternoon, and with that rolling pin between his legs to keep him company. He was lucky she didn't go flush the rest of his vitamins down the toilet.
12.
This time it happens early in the morning. Don Fidencio sees himself pus.h.i.+ng the walker down a long street. And here he thought he would never get away from that place where they kept him locked up. Only now he wonders where he might be headed. He has on only the bottom half of his old work uniform with his red suspenders holding up his pants. No s.h.i.+rt, no unders.h.i.+rt. What has his life come to for him to be walking around in public without a s.h.i.+rt? Was this the only way to escape without anyone noticing? I might as well be a homeless one, un trampa. Later his mailbag falls somewhere along the way but when he looks over his shoulder and then back he is pus.h.i.+ng a wheelbarrow and not the walker. He arrives at the first house and knocks. A beautiful dark-haired woman opens the door wearing only a towel. Have you seen my mailbag? The woman says she has something for him. He thinks it might be the mailbag and if not the mailbag then maybe something having to do with her towel, but then she shows him a large manila envelope. He tells her she needs the correct postage before he can take that from her. But instead of taking it back she rips open the end of the envelope and pours some dirt into his wheelbarrow. Then she closes the door. The same thing with the next house, only this time the man is wearing overalls, the same kind that old man Lucas used to wear on the farm so many years ago. No one has any idea where his mailbag could be, no one has the correct postage. Dirt is all they have for him. House after house. Most times they hand him a manila envelope. But some people also have the standard-size envelopes or airmail envelopes. One has a postcard with a little mound of dirt balanced on it. He can never guess what kind of letter the next house will have or what the dirt will look like. It goes from black dirt to reddish dirt to yellowish dirt and once even comes out as mud but all of it turns into plain brown dirt once it gets mixed in with the rest of the pile. When he asks the people what the dirt is for they tell him to keep walking. But where to? How far? By now the pile of dirt is several feet high and so tall that he has to look to one side just to see where he is going. At the end of the long block he turns to the left and now he pushes the wheelbarrow through an open field. At one point he reaches up to wipe his brow and realizes the wheelbarrow is moving without his actually pus.h.i.+ng it. He holds on to the handles only to keep from losing his balance on the uneven ground. When he reaches the shade of a large mesquite the wheelbarrow stops altogether. Next to the tree is a deep hole, long enough and wide enough for a man to lie down in, but inside it he sees his canes. Tangled roots bulge from the sides like varicose veins. All that time searching in closets and under beds and behind furniture, and this is where they came to hide them. There's the aluminum one with the four p.r.o.ngs at the base. He used to take it with him when he walked in his neighborhood just in case he needed to defend himself against one of the stray dogs. The wooden one with the knots along the shaft is lying on its side and he can see where he had his initials burned onto the pommel. The black aluminum cane with the foam-cus.h.i.+oned handle is in there but he can barely see it because it is leaning against one corner of the hole. He holds on to the tree and guides himself down onto one knee. Then he lies on his stomach to see if he can stretch his arm down into the hole. He is less than an inch from touching the handle of the black cane when the wheelbarrow tips forward and the dirt pours out.
13.
The morning light s.h.i.+ned brightest in the far corner of the therapy room. One of the girls had stopped to buy pan dulce, and the white bag lay torn open on the kitchen table. The pink cake had been the first to go; someone was still picking at the chocolate mollete and had left most of the sugary crumbs on a paper napkin. The boom box atop the refrigerator was tuned to a Tejano station, which was loud enough to be heard at the other end of the room.
Don Fidencio sat next in line to The One With The Hole In His Back. Earlier he had been first in line, but The One With The Puffy Cheeks came up and said that The One With The Hole In His Back had to go first because he wasn't supposed to be in his wheelchair too long on account of his wound. Don Fidencio had to do as the man said and move over. Never mind that he had made special efforts to be there early, wolfing down his tasteless oatmeal, limiting his time on the pot, pus.h.i.+ng his walker there ahead of time. And for what? So The One With The Hole In His Back could cut in front? It wasn't fair, but he had come to understand that very little was fair if a man happened to live in a prison. He ate only when the aides told him to eat; he watched his baseball games at the volume he wanted only until one of them came around and told him his neighbors were trying to sleep, no matter if it was extra innings or not; he bathed only when it was time again for them to wash his parts, and never as good as he would have done it himself; and he was allowed out of the main building by himself only to sit on the back patio for a smoke, and only during certain hours of the day.
Of the eight people waiting in line, he was the one person sitting in a regular chair and dressed in clothes decent enough to be worn out in public: black orthopedic shoes, khakis, checkered flannel s.h.i.+rt, red suspenders, red-and-black Astros cap. The One With The Hole In His Back wore his usual maroon pajamas and tan moccasin slippers, but now also with his beige cowboy hat that normally hung off the headboard.
He motioned for his roommate to come closer.
”WHAT DAY IS IT TODAY?”
Don Fidencio pulled away when he remembered the volume of his roommate's voice. ”Tuesday.”
”EH?”
<script>