Part 10 (1/2)

After he was convinced he wasn't going to find anything under the bed, it took still more effort to pull himself back into the chair. Then he glanced at his wrist.w.a.tch and realized his brother and the girl would be coming by in twenty minutes to take him out to lunch. He'd resisted giving her a name like he had done with these people in the prison, but this also made it more difficult to now remember the real name that went with her face. Already he had met her five or six times, however many it was, and he couldn't think of her as more than the girl. It wasn't like The Turtles, so many to keep track of. There was only one of her, whatever her name was. They had taken him to dinner the other day, and the whole time he hadn't been able to remember her name until his brother happened to say it in pa.s.sing.

From the closet he pulled out the #3 and #4 shoe boxes before he thought to open the #2 box. As soon as they had brought him back to his room, he had written her name in one of his old address books. Which one, though? He had two bundles of the little books, each bound with thick rubber bands. He started with a red one and found the name Julio Betancourt, which meant nothing to him, as did Martin Colunga. This last name had been underlined several times, as if it had some particular importance, but still nothing came to him. Under M, M, he located the name Jimmy Udall, which made sense only because he had he located the name Jimmy Udall, which made sense only because he had MECHANIC MECHANIC written next to it, something he wished he had done with the other names: written next to it, something he wished he had done with the other names: NEIGHBOR, OLD FRIEND, OLD FRIEND NOT WORTH TALKING TO ANYMORE, WORK FRIEND, NEPHEW WHO DOESN'T CALL ANYMORE, NEIGHBOR, OLD FRIEND, OLD FRIEND NOT WORTH TALKING TO ANYMORE, WORK FRIEND, NEPHEW WHO DOESN'T CALL ANYMORE, etc. Scattered throughout several of the address books, he found only the initials - etc. Scattered throughout several of the address books, he found only the initials - DLN DLN or or LG LG or or JM JM or or SFL SFL - of women he'd had relations with, or tried to anyway, but he wasn't about to write down their actual names so Petra could find them. The phone numbers themselves were written in a special inverted code that he'd had trouble deciphering at times. - of women he'd had relations with, or tried to anyway, but he wasn't about to write down their actual names so Petra could find them. The phone numbers themselves were written in a special inverted code that he'd had trouble deciphering at times.

He stopped turning pages when he saw Chano Gonzalez's name. They had been good friends for years at work, but more so whenever it was that Petra left the house to live wherever it was she went. He and Chano would get together Sat.u.r.day nights to watch the boxing matches on television. Then Chano's eyes started going bad because of his diabetes, which he took care of about as well as Don Fidencio did, only Don Fidencio didn't have diabetes and could eat and drink whatever the h.e.l.l he wanted. So he started going for him in the car and bringing him back to the house, but it wasn't the same anymore because Chano could barely make out the television and Don Fidencio had to spend the whole time telling him who was winning and how. Later Chano had something go wrong with one of his feet and they had to cut his toes. And after that he only got worse: more toes, more parts of his leg, and finally his woman wouldn't let him out of the house, which was how he stayed until he died a few years later.

DEAD FRIEND, he wrote next to his name. He wrote the same thing next to every name, even ones who might have still been alive.

Under R, R, he found his brother's name, the only other Rosales listed in this particular book. He checked the cover to see if there was a date that might indicate when it became just the two of them left behind. In the end, though, he had to settle for finding the girl's name, written right next to his brother's name. The problem was, he couldn't read his own writing, as tiny and chicken-scratched as it had always been, only now also with this constant tremor that made it seem as if he had written it with the pen held upright between his corn-ridden toes. The he found his brother's name, the only other Rosales listed in this particular book. He checked the cover to see if there was a date that might indicate when it became just the two of them left behind. In the end, though, he had to settle for finding the girl's name, written right next to his brother's name. The problem was, he couldn't read his own writing, as tiny and chicken-scratched as it had always been, only now also with this constant tremor that made it seem as if he had written it with the pen held upright between his corn-ridden toes. The S S he could see, but the rest was a mystery to him. All those years of figuring out mailing addresses, and this is what he had to show for it. Sonia, Sulema, Severa, Sofia, Sylvia, Solidad - none of them sounded right. He could tell now he should've written the name in the same large block letters he had just used to write next to his friends' names. Don Fidencio shut his eyes and concentrated, concentrated, concentrated, the whole time hissing the first letter of her name until it sounded like he was releasing the air from a tire. he could see, but the rest was a mystery to him. All those years of figuring out mailing addresses, and this is what he had to show for it. Sonia, Sulema, Severa, Sofia, Sylvia, Solidad - none of them sounded right. He could tell now he should've written the name in the same large block letters he had just used to write next to his friends' names. Don Fidencio shut his eyes and concentrated, concentrated, concentrated, the whole time hissing the first letter of her name until it sounded like he was releasing the air from a tire.

When he opened his eyes, he gazed at the letters until he managed to untangle them one by one. There was the o o that looked more like a lopsided egg, and the that looked more like a lopsided egg, and the c c and the and the q q mixed up with the second mixed up with the second o, o, which looked like a cracked egg because it was too close to the first which looked like a cracked egg because it was too close to the first r, r, which swallowed up the second which swallowed up the second r r and third and third r r or a or a p, p, but then there was still another but then there was still another o o that did actually look like an that did actually look like an o. o.S-O-C-Q-O-R-P-O, he wrote at the top of the page. It was one thing to not be able to write and another to not know how to spell. He stared at this for a minute or so before he crossed out the Q, Q, then the then the P. P.S-O-C-O-R-O. Now it was so clear to him. Of course, Socorro. That was her name - Socorro. He used both hands to grab ahold of his walker and stand up. ”Socorro... Socorro... Socorro,” he said, shuffling out of the room.

They had taken a booth near the back of the little restaurant, where they would still be able to talk if someone put money in the jukebox. Steam billowed out each time the kitchen door swung open and one of the waitresses came out with a plate of food. The place was only half full. A teenage couple in hooded jackets sat in a corner booth where the owner couldn't see them sneaking kisses while they shared the plate they had ordered. At the next table three men in cowboy hats sipped their coffees while the older one of the group did most of the talking. A pair of Border Patrol agents sat close to the door, one of them keeping an eye on the kitchen workers, the other more interested in the carne guisada he had on his plate in front of him.

The food was already on the table by the time Don Celestino came back from the restroom, where he'd checked his sugar level. He had ordered the enchiladas verdes, Socorro the taquitos, and Don Fidencio the menudo. Once the old man started eating, he barely looked up from his bowl. Now and then he stopped between slurping his soup to take a deep breath and chew a tougher piece of tripe. His few remaining teeth clicked in a staccato manner as he gnawed at the meat until he could swallow it.

”Do you remember the last time you ate menudo?” Socorro asked.

He raised his hand to indicate she had caught him in midchew.

”Sometimes they serve it there,” he answered finally, ”but never with enough spices because people would be burping all night.”

”Maybe it's better that way, so you can sleep.”

”I barely sleep anyway, at least that way I would have a good reason,” Don Fidencio said, and spooned up some hominy. ”Last night I spent it lying there, staring at the ceiling. I would sleep for twenty or thirty minutes, then wake up and just be there. It came and went like that until the early morning, when I remembered something more from our grandfather's story and couldn't sleep anymore. And finally, after another hour, they served breakfast.”

”You should write it down,” she said, ”so it stays with you.”

He looked up at her and then at his brother.

”It was nothing that important, just something about when the Indians were attacking them.” He slurped up another spoonful. ”And anyway, n.o.body wants to know what an old man remembers.”

”Come on and say it,” Don Celestino told him. ”We've been waiting to hear what you would come up with for the next chapter.”

”So you can make fun? No, I prefer to stay with my mouth shut.”

”Go on, we want to hear what more you remember.”

”I prefer to keep it to myself.” He stirred his soup without looking up.

”And if you forget it later?” she asked.

He hadn't considered this. The girl had a point: so much had slipped away from him once. What's to say it wouldn't happen again? This afternoon he could lie down for his nap and wake up to find his memory had been erased completely or smeared to the point of being indistinguishable, like some of the names in his address book. At least if he told it to the girl - Socorro - she could hold on to it for him and tell him later, if he couldn't remember it himself.

”He told me a circus had already traveled through most of Mexico when it arrived in the north and stopped in Linares, before they planned to travel over to this side of the river. All of the families from around there went to see this circus. None of them had ever in their lives seen a bear or an elephant or whatever else they had brought in the circus. It wasn't like those fancy circuses they have today. This one was just a man who came to town with a few wagons full of animals n.o.body had ever seen. He stopped the wagons in an open field close to a river that pa.s.sed through one side of town. I think it was in the fall when this took place, but it could've also been the spring, or the summer. But maybe not the spring because they would have been busy in the fields.” He stopped to rub the back of his neck, then shook his head. ”He told me when it was that it happened, only I forgot that part even before my mind turned to cheese. What I remember was, the circus man had brought out the bear tied to a thick rope, but with so many people crowded around and Papa Grande only seven years old, he could barely see what the animal was doing. His brother was younger and could see even less, but then their father had the good idea to put Papa Grande up on his back so he could be higher. And their uncle did the same with the little brother. Now that he was higher, Papa Grande could see the bear standing on a block of wood and then standing on one paw, then on the other. The bear did more tricks, but by then Papa Grande didn't see them because something had caught his eye. Off in the distance, past the field and away from the river, he could see some horses. They were still more than half a mile away when he spotted them. At first he thought they were just horses, but when they got closer, he could see men on the horses and that these men were Indians.”

The old man scratched at the crown of his head. ”He never said exactly how many of them - but I guess maybe twenty or more, enough that he should have told his father or his uncle. Maybe he thought the Indians and horses were part of the circus, because he only kept watching them get closer and closer without opening his mouth. If he had, maybe it would have turned out different.”

”Maybe he was scared,” Socorro said.

”Not as much as when they grabbed his uncle, the one they scalped - it could have been his uncle they scalped first or maybe it was the circus man - I have trouble remembering which one they got hold of first. But it was with all the confusion that he got separated from his mother and his little brother, since she must have been trying to hide him somewhere. Then Papa Grande saw when the first arrow hit his father. That was the other part I remembered, how they killed him.” The old man stopped to point down to exactly where. ”Right to the bladder was where the arrow got him and how he bled to death. This is the man who would be our great-grandfather.”

The waitress refilled Don Fidencio's coffee cup, and he took his time adding the Sweet'N Low and then the creamer. Though his brother and Socorro had finished with their meals, he was only halfway through his bowl of menudo.

”So then to the bladder?” Don Celestino asked.

”Yes, down there to the bladder.”

”And you are sure he said it was there, nowhere else?”

”That was the way Papa Grande remembered it, to the bladder.” The old man used his b.u.t.ter knife to show him where again.

His brother only halfway nodded.

”What?”

”No, nothing.”

”No, nothing what?”

”It just seems like a curious place for the arrow to hit him, that's all.”

”And what is so curious about it? The bladder is a part of the body, every man has one. The Indian could have hit him anywhere - in the stomach, in the heart, in the kidneys - but he hit him in the bladder, like I just said.”

”Not the appendix?”

Don Fidencio set the b.u.t.ter knife back on the table. ”Already I told you what I remembered, the way he told it to me that last time. When I was there, not you.”

”I think you might be confused with that one part,” Don Celestino said. ”How would he know where exactly the arrow got him, that it was exactly in the bladder, if he was only seven years old? At that age, what could he know about a man's bladder?”

”He knew enough just seeing where the arrow was sticking out of his father.”

”And that was the only arrow that got him?”

”Maybe it wasn't the only arrow,” Don Fidencio said. ”I said an arrow to the bladder killed him - that's all I said. Who cares how many or where the others went? You think Papa Grande sat there counting the arrows that were sticking out of his father, writing it down, so that later you might believe the story?”

”I was only saying it seemed strange that the arrow would hit him right there.”

”Go talk to the Indians about that - they were the ones who did it.”

”Which Indians?”

”The Indians that attacked the circus,” the old man snapped. ”Now who is the one that can't remember things?”

”He means what kind,” Socorro said.