Bulletproof Vest (11 page)

“Hijo,” Andrea says, “don't let your guard down with Jose. People say that he's been making the rounds at the taverns, saying that the next time he sees you, he's going to kill you.”

“Ay amá, he won't do anything,” Manuel says. “El que nada debe, nada teme.” It's true that Manuel didn't owe anyone anything, had done nothing to provoke Jose—or anyone for that matter—and so had no reason to fear that some imbecile might show up at his door one day wanting to collect on some outstanding debt.

“El que nada debe, nada teme,” Andrea says. “That's how the saying goes, but you have to be careful. They say that if you want to know the truth, just ask a child or a drunk, because they will always tell the truth. And if those are the things that Jose has been saying when he's intoxicated, it's because that is what's on his mind, and once a man begins to speak his thoughts, it's only a matter of time before his words become his actions,” she says, perhaps thinking back to when Jose had been plotting to kidnap Pascuala, as he had been talking about it for some time before he actually worked up the nerve to enlist the help of his two cousins, and set up camp at the tavern near Nico's house.

“That man just knocked himself out,” shouted the girl that Andrea had as her lookout, the minute his head had hit the rock.

The loading of the groceries had been a mere pretense, a lure, because Andrea had been onto him all along. She knew he was at the tavern with his men, and it was precisely because Manuel was with them that Andrea had insisted that they wait, that they spend the night at Nico's if they had to, because God forbid that man overtake them on the road and end up hurting Manuel—or worse. Since the day Jose had laid eyes on her daughter his presence upon them had been relentless, with him on the boulder, and then the endless serenades.

“That man is obsessed with your daughter, Andrea,” her mother said, looking up from her knitting, when they heard the drums and horns coming from across the river for the umpteenth time, “and nothing good can come from an obsession like that.”

Had Andrea's husband still been alive, he would have put Jose in his place, but he had been killed when she was thirty years old, leaving her with six kids to raise on her own. Though she probably heard the shot that took his life, she paid it no mind, as guns went off in those parts at the same frequency that cocks sang out at dawn. It wasn't until she heard the door to the courtyard swing open and heard the footsteps, which were not those of her husband, that she knew something was off.

“Bacilio, is that you?” she called out from the kitchen, where she was pouring tea for the kids. There was no answer. “Well, if it's not Bacilio, then who is it?” she said, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped outside, and then the messenger was telling her that her husband had just been shot in front of the dry goods store. She went running, not realizing that her kids went trailing after her.

When she arrived at the store, a crowd had gathered in front of the stoop. Her husband was lying on the ground and a dark pool was spreading around his head. Andrea dropped to her knees and took him in her arms. He had been shot in the face, and though his eyes were still open, she knew he could no longer see her, nor could he see as, one by one, their kids arrived on her heels, and the way Pascuala had begun to tremble as the dark pool crept closer to her bare feet. Four men helped Andrea carry the body back to the courtyard, and there they hosed him down and changed his clothes while they waited for the coffin to arrive. In the morning, they loaded the coffin onto the carriage and took it away, buried under a mound of white flowers.

“Is mi apá really never coming back?” Juan, who was five years old, asked her every night before going to bed, and every night he got the same response, and every night he cried himself to sleep. Manuel, however, was eleven, the eldest, and he had taken his father's death with a manly resolve.

“Let's go feed our father's horse,” Manuel said to Juan, on the morning the carriage took the coffin away. Ever since Andrea's husband had been killed, Manuel had been her constant companion until he married and started having kids of his own, and it's precisely on the day that Manuelito, Manuel's son, marries his sweetheart at the civil court, that the two of them are making their way down calle Atotonilco, when they run into Jose and his friend Ricardo.

“This is my brother-in-law,” says Jose, throwing his arm around Manuel and introducing him to Ricardo. Though Jose has been drinking for three days straight, with barely any food or sleep, he's surprisingly coherent.

The two men shake hands, and Jose invites Manuel and his son to join them for a drink. Manuel declines, saying they have business to attend to and must be on their way. But Jose insists, telling Manuel that even though he's no longer with his sister, there's no reason why they can't still be friends. Manuel relents, agrees to join them for just one drink, but Manuelito talks his way out of it, and heads back home.

“So, Jose tells me that you're from Santana,” Ricardo says once they're inside the tavern.

“Así es,” Manuel says.

“I was at some horse races there a few weeks ago and lost a good bit of money,” Ricardo says, removing his cowboy hat and carefully placing it on the surface of the bar. “Then, just the other day, I found out the races had been fixed.”

“I wouldn't know anything about those races,” Manuel says. “I wasn't there.”

“But you're from Santana.”

“That is correct.”

“So you must know something,” Ricardo says.

The bartender pours their drinks and once they've finished the first round, Jose buys another, and by the time the bartender pours them the third round, Manuel's family is already making their way along the winding cobblestone streets, past the local businesses as they close for the evening. Because even though Manuelito had started walking back home, soon enough he was running through the copper light of the setting sun until he reached the house, out of breath and shouting for his mother and sister, saying that they had just run into Jose, and he had taken his father with him, and then the three were rushing back up calle Atotonilco toward the only tavern at that end of town.

“All you men from Santana are the same,” Ricardo says, polishing off his drink. “Nothing but a bunch of cowards.”

“Ya,” Jose says. “Let it be.”

“Let it be?” Ricardo says, grinning. “You're the one who has it out for this cabrón, not me.”

“I don't care who has it out for who, gentlemen,” the barkeep says. “Take it outside.”

The three men step outside, and when Manuel's family arrives, the argument over the horse races that may or may not have been rigged has escalated, and a small crowd has gathered. Jose's gun is in his hand, and Ricardo is holding Manuel's arms behind his back.

“Here is your man,” yells Ricardo. “Suénatelo.”

“Jose, put your gun away,” Manuel's wife says. “You've had too much to drink.”

Through bloodshot eyes, Jose stares at Manuel's face, a face that is so much like Pascuala's face—the face that had kept him nailed to the boulders behind her house for years, waiting and hoping that she would step outside so that he might catch a glimpse of her face. There's no reaching her now. Each time he calls the house and she answers, the minute she hears his voice, she slams the phone back onto the receiver.

“Suénatelo,” Ricardo yells, and a unanimous gasp escapes from the crowd as Jose raises his gun and aims at Manuel's face.

“Don't do it, Jose,” Manuel's daughter says as a few curtains from nearby windows are pushed aside.

“Suénatelo,” Ricardo says.

“Te vas a arrepentir, Jose, te vas a arrepentir,” Manuel's wife says, tears already streaming down her face.

He lowers his arm, though their voices rage on around him like an irredeemable argument. Do it. Don't do it. He has two choices now. Either he pulls the trigger or he walks away, but how do you walk away from a man you've forced to stare down the barrel of your gun? Half the town, it seems, is now standing around, waiting to see what he will do, whether or not he'll have the nerve to pull the trigger, or had it all been nothing but talk?

“Are you or are you not a man of your word?” Ricardo yells, and in a single motion Jose reaches over, removes Manuel's hat, and places it on his own head as if saying, You won't be needing this anymore. He lifts his arm, aims his gun at Manuel's face, and fires a single bullet.

*   *   *

“Imagine? When would Manuel have ever thought that your father would repay him the way that he did?” Tito, my grandmother, would ask me, years later. “When Manuel took you kids to the other side, he had not planned on staying, but your father talked him into it, and so he stayed and worked for a bit, and once he came back here, one day he told me, he said, ‘Mamá, you should see, over there men work cleaning tables, cooking, and washing dishes. Over there men are doing for money what they would never do in their own home. It's disgusting,' he told me. Manuel believed that the best thing for a man was to work his own land, and he was right. He saved up enough money to buy a tractor, and after he came back, never again did he return to the other side, nor did he want to. When would my son have ever thought that your father would go and do what he did?

“The bullet hit Manuel right here,” she said, pointing to the nook above her top lip and in between her nose and left cheek. “It broke through his front teeth and lodged itself in the back of his head, where it exploded. Had it not been for his family being there, my son probably would have bled to death right there on the street. But the thing that helped him was that his wife and daughter picked him up right away. Manuelito was there also, but the minute the gun went off he ran away, because God forbid that Jose turn the gun on him—he had already threatened him, don't think he hadn't.

“They flagged down a car and drove Manuel to the nearest hospital, two hours away. The doctor there took one look at Manuel and told his family that they should take him home, because he already knew. But how could they take him home? They had to try and so they took him to the hospital in San Luis Potosí in an ambulance. Ya ve que San Luis has some of the best doctors in the world, supposedly? Once there they hooked him up to so many tubes and monitors, even his food had to be fed to him through a tube because he couldn't chew. My son was in so much pain. ‘Mamá,' he said to me one day, ‘if you were to take a hot coal and place it on my skin, it would be nothing compared to the pain that I feel.'

“For twenty days we had him in that hospital, and then one day he told me he was thirsty. He hadn't asked for anything, yet suddenly he wanted a drink of water, so I went down the hall to find a nurse, or anyone who could give me a glass of water, and when I was making my way back to his room, he walked right past me. I felt him go by in the corridor, and that's how I knew that he was gone.”

 

7

LOVE, SWEET LOVE

 

 

DESPITE OUR INITIAL ENCOUNTER
, Sophia and I end up being good friends. It's Saturday night, and we are leaving a party. We step out onto the porch when we run into a tall, dark-haired guy whom I've never seen before.

“You were in that dance show, weren't you?” he says, smiling at me.

“Yeah,” I say, as the screen door slams shut behind him, leaving Sophia out on the porch. Earlier that night, there had been a dance show at the high school and Sophia and I had performed in a few of the numbers.

“You were really good,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say, and there is something about the way he's looking at me that is frightening and exciting all at once.

“Are you leaving?” he asks.

“Curfew,” I shrug, though I have no curfew, as I don't even have permission to be out, but Sophia has to be home by midnight.

“I'm Dominick,” he says, extending his hand to me. Our hands slide into each other, and the warmth of his hand in mine makes me want to stay there, in the doorway, for the rest of the night. “So?” he says, still holding my hand. “What's your name?”

“Maria,” I say.

“Ah, Maria, like in
West Side Story
,” he says.

“Uh-huh,” I nod. Someone comes pushing through the doorway, and he takes a step closer to me. I catch a whiff of his cologne, and oh how I wish I could stop time.

“Maria!” Sophia yells. “Are you coming or not?”

“That's my ride,” I say.

He moves aside, still smiling, as I slip my hand away and go out the door.

On Monday morning I walk into my first-period class, Spanish 203, and the minute I sit down, the pretty Italian girl that I've often helped with her homework turns to face me.

“My cousin Dominick really liked you,” she says.

“Dominick is your cousin?” I say, my cheeks flushing at the very sound of his name.

She nods.

“After you left the party, he did not stop talking about you.”

“Really?” I say, feeling like I have just struck gold, because I have not stopped thinking about him all weekend. I kept wondering where he had come from, and whether or not I'd ever run into him again.

“He's back at school now, but he'll be coming home for the summer in a few weeks,” she says. “If you want, I can get you his number.”

Dominick, I soon find out, had graduated from the other high school in town the year before. He and his girlfriend had been the prom king and queen, and though everyone thought they'd get married, they had broken up soon after they went off to college. I get his number and leave him a message, and when he comes home for spring break, he calls me back and invites me out for dinner. I tell him Wednesday night is good, mainly because I know my mother will be at the prayer meeting at her church until late.