Authors: Maria Venegas
Bulletproof Vest
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PARA MI QUERIDO VIEJO
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It's no wonder that I had no father and that I had already died one night twenty years before I saw light. And that my only salvation must be to return to the place ⦠where my life had already ceased before it began.
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WILLIAM FAULKNER
,
Light in August
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CONTENTS
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3.
WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM
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6.
RUNAWAY TRAIN
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8.
WE CALL POLICE
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9.
THE FUGITIVE
11.
YOU SAY JERUSALEM, I SAY PARIS
20.
SHOOTING GUNS LIKE SHOOTING STARS
EPILOGUE: EL CORRIDO DEL CIEN VACAS
JOSE MANUEL VENEGAS
Zacatecas, Mexico, 1967
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PROLOGUE: AMBUSH
(Zacatecas, Mexico, 1998)
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MEXICO'S RURAL 44 IS THE ONLY ROAD
that leads from the taverns of ValparaÃso back to his ranch. Unless he decides to spend the night in a bordello, eventually he will be on that road. But there he is, standing at the bar, one foot propped on the chrome rail, the heel of his cowboy boot wedged against it, his hand wrapped around a beer, the músicos playing a corrido just for him.
He takes a cold one for the road, settles his tab. The tires of his gray Chevy grip the concrete, the truck jerks with every shift of the gears. The lights of ValparaÃso fade in the distance while he drives into the stillness of the desert night. The stench of a decomposing carcass fills the cabin as he pushes a tape into the deck and cranks up the volume. Drums and horns come thundering from the large speaker he rigged behind his seat, each note blasting through him as he listens to one corrido after anotherâto ballads of long-ago heroes, outlaws, and bandits.
His music and the stars above are his only companions. His truck swerves freely. The headlights slice through the pitch dark and bugs fly in and out of the beams. Some hit the windshield, leaving milky streaks on the glass. He drives past the ditch where he and his buddy recently drove off the road; the truck rolled twice before hitting a mesquite, his arm pinned under the hood for six hours before anyone found them. Best to take it nice and easy, he thinks. Take it right down the middle of the road, wouldn't want to end up kissing a tree again.
The beams catch the taillights of a stalled blue car on the side of the road in front of the slaughterhouse. Pobre pendejo, he thinks. He idles past, noticing the car is empty. He takes a swig, and in the rearview mirror he sees the headlights of an approaching truck. And then it's upon him, flashing its high beams in rapid succession, practically pushing him out of the way. He pulls slightly onto the gravel to let it pass. The truck flies by in a fury, and soon it has vanished around the only curve on the road between town and his home. Must be in a hurry. He reaches for his beer, but before the can touches his lips, his truck is lit up in a hail of bullets. Every muscle in his body contracts, pulling him toward the steering wheel. Hot pressure pierces his body, bullets skid across his scalp, singeing his hair. All around him glass shatters as the truck slows to a halt. The music has stopped. The speaker behind his seat is pumped full of lead.
The sound of his breathing fills the cabin and a warm stream runs down his face and neck. Through the cracked side mirror he sees the headlights of the blue car flick on. Two men with machine guns emerge from the ditches on either side of the road, run through the beams, and jump in. Tires screech as they speed off in the opposite direction. Pinches culeros, he thinks, watching their red taillights vanish in the distance.
He prays to the Virgen de Guadalupe, to the Santo Niño de Atocha, to San Francisco de AsÃs, to any saint who will listen. It might be hours before another car comes down the road and already the blood is collecting inside his shirt, his right arm growing numb. He stares at the keys, still in the ignition, reaches for them, turns them slowly and, to his surprise, the truck fires right up. It's a goddamn miracle. He reaches for the scorpion gear knob, manages to shift into drive, and soon he's clearing the curve and drifting home.
The sounds of creaking metal and shattered glass fill the truck's cabin. He turns left onto the dirt road that leads to La Peña. The truck picks up momentum on the downward slope and wobbles violently as it rolls over gullies left behind by the flash floods of the rainy season. It flies past the Virgen de Guadalupe shrine and, in his mind, he makes the sign of the cross: up, down, left, right. His truck glides into the river, crawls up the slight incline on the other side, and clears the entrance to La Peña. But he's lost speed on the ascent and his focus is fading while the pool collecting in his shirt keeps growing. The truck inches past the small limestone church; the bell sits quietly in its tower above. The entrance to his courtyard comes into view. His right arm slips off the steering wheel, and the truck veers off the dirt road, crashing into a cinder-block wall. The hood flies open and sends hot steam hissing into the cold night. He drifts off, comes to; he pushes the door open and slips into unconsciousness.
There is a distant barking, which seems to be traveling through a long tunnel toward him, then claws are digging into his shoulder, wet tongues sliding over his face and neck. He opens his eyes and his two dogs are standing on their hind legs; he swings at them and falls out of the truck. A cloud of dust envelops him when he hits the ground. He pushes himself up and leans into the truck. It takes all his might to pull the weight of his body toward the house. Staggering, he goes up the dirt road, past the two eucalyptus trees where the chickens sleep, past the encino woodpile he recently chopped, and then he's at the courtyard gate, pushing it open and stumbling past the parakeet cage, the propane tank, the half rubber tire filled with drinking water for the dogs, the plants arranged in large rusty tin cans along the cinder-block wall, until he reaches the blue metal door of the house and collapses.
In the early hours of dawn, while the chickens are still tucked away in their trees and the chill of night lingers in the air, Doña Consuelo, the elderly woman who lives on the other side of the dirt road, goes out for her morning walk. She adjusts her headscarf and leans on her cane as she makes her way toward the small church, her Chihuahua prancing alongside her. She turns the corner and there it is, pressed up against the wall, like a metallic bird shot down from the night sky, its carcass riddled with bullets. In the driver's-side door alone, there are over forty holes. The windows are shattered, the door still ajar, the seat slick with blood, and the rumors start circulating:
Jose is dead. Pumped full of lead. His truck completely destroyed.
By the time the news sweeps across the desert, crosses barbed-wire fences, travels north, and makes it to the other side, there are conflicting stories.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
“Hey, did you hear about Dad?” my sister Sonia asks when she calls me.
“No,” I say. I'm at work, trying to decide on what to order for lunch. “What happened?”
“He got ambushed,” she says. “Apparently there were two guys with machine guns.”
“Oh.” I continue browsing through the menu. “So, is he dead?”
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BOOK ONE
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1
BULLETPROOF VEST
(Chicago suburbs, 1987)
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THE FIRST GUNSHOT
snaps me out of my sleep. I lie in bed and stare at the two blinking red dots of my alarm clock: 12:35 a.m. It's Thursday night and my father has been playing cards with the neighbors. I can almost see the eye of the gun following its target, and then the second and third shots ring out. Something is different. Whenever he drinks and fires his .45, it's always in rapid succession, four or five bullets following one another into our front lawn or out at the night sky.
My sister Sonia is the first out of bed. She hears someone coughing, as if choking, outside her bedroom window. She goes outside and walks around the side of the house, follows the red streak along the white aluminum siding. My father is leaning into the wall, just below her bedroom window. He's covered in blood, his gun still in his hand.
“Escóndela,” he says, handing his gun to her. The gun is still hot to the touch. She takes it and helps him inside.
By the time I step out of my bedroom, he's standing in the middle of the living room, slightly swaying forward and back. He's looking right at me but his gaze feels as if he's looking at me from a distant mountaintop. My mother is next to him, in her white slip, pressing a towel under his chin.