Bulletproof Vest (23 page)

The manager signs me, and soon I'm going on auditions and getting callbacks for independent films and shows on HBO.

*   *   *

“I told Dad that you're coming,” Sonia says when she calls me early in December. “He's excited, said to give him a call.” She gives me his cell number. The last time she had gone to see him she had set one up for him.

I program the number into my cell under Dad, and whenever I scroll through the names and that three-letter word comes up, it stops me in my tracks.
Dad.
There he is, wedged between Cait and Dawn—Dad. It feels like a glitch, like a lie. No matter how many times I scroll past that three-letter word, I don't call him. It's been fourteen years since he packed up his truck and pulled out of our driveway in the dark hours of morning. Since I've waited this long to talk to him, I've decided to wait until we're standing face-to-face.

 

BOOK TWO

 

16

FAMILY PORTRAIT

 

 

MARTIN AND I ARRIVE
in Zacatecas a few days before Christmas. We check into a hotel, which has a sprawling courtyard that wraps around a water fountain. Plants in large clay pots line a wrought-iron staircase and balcony. Our room is on the second floor and has exposed wooden beams, terra-cotta tiles, and a terrace that overlooks the entire city of Zacatecas. In the distance a cable car carries tourists to El Cerro de la Bufa, the highest point in town. There is a larger-than-life-size statue of Pancho Villa mounted on a horse at the top of the cerro. I've heard stories of how one of my great-uncles fought in the Mexican Revolution alongside Villa, was one of his main generals, and I still remember the sense of pride I felt when I found out that my bloodline could be traced to the front lines of a revolution.

“What did you get your pops for Christmas?” Martin asks, placing his suitcase on the bed.

“Nothing,” I say. “That bastard should be happy I'm coming to see him at all.”

“Okeydoke,” he says, pulling out a change of clothes. “Well, I bought him a flashlight. I'll put both our names on it.” The flashlight is identical to one my father used to have and was rather proud of, saying that it was the same type of flashlight the police used. It's black, made of heavy metal, and has a far-reaching adjustable beam.

Two days later, we board a bus bound for Valparaíso at noon, and by three in the afternoon it's pulling into the dusty parking lot. Martin and I grab our backpacks and make our way through the dimly lit corridor in the bus depot. At six foot two, with shoulder-length blond hair that is cut in messy angles, he stands out among all the cowboy hats. Two doors down from the depot, there is a seafood restaurant. We step inside, find an empty booth, and slide across the orange vinyl seats. The Formica tabletop is sticky to the touch. A black plastic mortar filled with pickled jalapeños and sliced carrots and onions sits in the center of the table. The waitress comes over and we order two Coronas—the local brew.

“We made it,” Martin says, holding up his beer. We toast and with the first ice-cold sip I can already feel the three-hour bus ride and my hangover melting away. The night before, we had gone to La Mina, an old silver mine in Zacatecas that had been converted to a nightclub. The DJ spun a mix of music—everything from Michael Jackson to Maná, to the occasional corrido—my father's music. When El Rey came on, the whole place started singing along and, though I knew the lyrics by heart, had memorized them during those long, sleepless nights, I did not join the massive sing-along. When the music stopped, a few men in cowboy hats standing near the bar had cried out like wild cocks and I almost expected to hear gunshots.

I take another sip. Hard to believe that by this time tomorrow, my father and I will be face-to-face. The plan is to grab a bite, check into a hotel, shower, find an Internet café, and buy a few things, especially sunblock—Martin's nose is already bright red. I notice how a woman sitting at a table in the back of the restaurant keeps glancing over at me. She whispers something to the people she's with and they all turn and stare.

“What's wrong?” Martin asks.

“Those people keep staring at me,” I say, thinking that maybe we should finish our beers and leave, but then the woman is making her way over to us.

“¿Cómo te llamas?” she asks, when she reaches our table.

“Maria de Jesus,” I say, stopping at my middle name, a buffer.

“Maria de Jesus que?” she asks.

“Maria de Jesus Venegas,” I say.

“I knew it,” she practically yells. “You're Jose's daughter, aren't you? No, no, no, I was sitting over there and kept thinking I know that face, I know that face. You probably have no idea who I am, but I never forget a face.” She smiles big. “I'm your father's sister, your tía Esperanza,” she says, holding her arms out to me.

“She's my aunt,” I tell Martin as I slide out of the booth and give her a hug.

“Mira no más,” she says, taking a step back. “You're so tall! The last time I saw you, you were about this big.” She holds her hand at table level. “You must have been about three or four. How old were you when you left for the other side?”

“Four,” I say.

“Four? No, you wouldn't remember me. You were too young, but that face. I never forget a face. You look just like your mother,” she says. “How is she? Your mamá?”

“She's fine,” I say. “She's in Chicago.”

“How is everyone doing over there?” she asks, eyeing Martin.

“They're fine.”

“Is this your husband?”

“No,” I say. “He's my boyfriend.”

She and Martin nod to each other.

“We just got into town,” she says, still smiling. “We would have gone straight to your father's, but we were starving and needed to use the bathroom.”

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“California. We've been in Fresnillo for a few days, but we're going out to La Peña when we finish eating.” She glances back at Martin. “Have you guys been out to see your father yet?”

“We just got into town,” I say. “We're going to stay in a hotel and go out to his place tomorrow.”

“A hotel?” she blurts out. “What do you need a hotel for? Your father's place is right up the road,” she says. “How long has it been since you've seen each other?”

“I don't know. About fourteen years?”

“So you're one of the last ones to come see him,” she says. “The last time we were down here”—she pauses, looks up at the ceiling—“who was it? Sonia? Roselia?” She looks back at me. “One of them was here,” she says. Over the past few years, all four of my sisters had been to see him. Sonia had been the first, had gone to see him while he was still in prison. She had shown up on the other side of the bars during visiting hours with her two boys, and he had not recognized her. Later, she told me that for the two hours she had been there, while her boys played with their Power Rangers figures on the cement floor, my father had sat across from her and cried the whole time. “Does he know you're coming?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Sonia called him.”

“So he's probably waiting for you.” Her smile spreads ever wider. “No, no, no, you
have
to come with us.”

“No, really, it's okay,” I say. “We need to shower and run some errands. We'll take a taxi out to his place tomorrow.”

“A taxi!” She starts laughing. “Why are you going to waste your money on a taxi? We can take you there right now.”

*   *   *

Martin and I are crammed in the backseat of the Suburban between our backpacks and cousins that I didn't even know I had. The dust and sweat of the bus ride is still in our hair, our pores—this is not how I imagined my first encounter with my father. We sit in traffic, idling past pharmacies, liquor stores, dental clinics, panaderías, carnicerías, and fruit stands.

“All the norteños are down here right now,” my aunt says, looking back at me from the passenger seat. “That's why there's so much traffic.”

It's easy to distinguish the locals from the norteños, the rusty trucks assembled with parts salvaged from junkyards amid the ones that gleam in the afternoon sun and have plates from Texas, California, Colorado, Arizona, and Illinois. A local truck has a blue truck bed that reads Toyota on the back and a gray hood with Jeep written across the front, while the norteños drive la troca del año—the latest model, even if it's all a façade, purchased on credit, because once the holidays are over, the owners of those brand-new trucks will be returning to jobs busing tables, washing dishes, and mowing lawns in order to pay off those shiny trucks. But none of that matters now. It's the holidays, it's December, the one month out of the year that the norteños descend upon the narrow streets of this town with their trucks and fists full of dollar bills to spend on the músicos, at the horse races, the cockfights, and on women. It's the one month they can live like kings. I know. This was my father's routine.

“Does any of this look familiar?” my aunt asks.

“No,” I say.

“Really? Nothing?”

“Nothing,” I say.

“No, what are you going to remember? You were still young when you left this place.” She's right. I have no memory of this place. It's as though whatever came before that long, nauseating bus ride along the mountains had been nothing but a dream, and once I crossed over to the other side, even the memory of that dream vanished.

We clear a few speed bumps on the edge of town, and soon we're driving down a two-lane road, the wind roaring in through the open windows and whipping my hair into my face as we go flying past a lumberyard, a yonke, and dried-out cornfields. We clear a slight curve and then we're turning left onto a dirt road. Dust fills the cabin as we bounce along, driving over rocks, gullies, and a shallow river. A few cows grazing along the water's edge look up and watch as we idle past. Martin takes my hand, shoots me a smile.

On the other side of the river, there is a slight hill, and a fifteen-foot adobe wall that appears to be melting runs the length of the hill, like a fort. Two dilapidated limestone pillars stand on either side of the entrance, and a few chickens scatter as we go through. There are doorways that lead to roofless rooms built into the wall, rooms in which the afternoon sunlight is pouring in like a golden liquid, rooms that lead to arched doorways that frame the distant mountain range, rooms with trees growing from their dirt floors and nopales sprouting from their thick adobe walls—nature reclaiming its territory.

“Now, does anything look familiar?” my aunt asks as we make our way past a small church with whitewashed walls, a large bell sitting in the tower above.

“Nothing,” I say. We drive by a few small houses, dogs come running out, barking as we go by, then retreat.

We pull up next to an old blue Chevy truck that looks exactly like the one my brother had driven down from Chicago when he left some seventeen years ago. I can't believe this barren, dusty place is where he spent the last two years of his life. Three dogs come running at the car, barking at us.

“Don't worry,” my aunt says, pushing the door open and shooing the dogs away. “They won't bite.”

She and the others make their way across the dirt road toward a small L-shaped cinder-block house with a tin roof; Martin and I follow. A pile of chopped wood sits next to two eucalyptus trees in front of the courtyard wall, and a few chickens cluck about in the shade of the trees. Clotheslines are strung across the courtyard, and jeans hang upside down and inside out next to towels. One of the towels has a pink flamingo dipping its long stick-legs into an aqua-blue pond. I recognize that towel. It's from the factory where my mother worked years ago.

His black cowboy boots and jeans are the first thing I see, the rest of him concealed behind the pink flamingo. He pushes the towel aside and makes his way toward us. He's wearing a straw hat, a plaid shirt, and walks with a bit of a limp. His right shoulder seems to hang lower than his left. It looks like it fell out of the socket and was only partially put back in place. He's thinner, seems somehow deflated. His gut is gone. I've heard he stopped drinking, maybe that's why. Either way, Sonia warned him that if he drinks while we are here, we are leaving—that is the deal.

“Look who I brought you,” my aunt announces, stepping aside, as if my being here were her doing. The others move out of the way, like a curtain parting. He squints in the afternoon sun as if trying to recognize me. The skin above his eyes droops and rests on his thin eyelashes. His hazel eyes still have a tinge of green in them. He no longer has a beard, and the dimple on his chin is plainly visible—the same John Travolta dimple my brother had. He glances over at Martin, back at me, then at my aunt.

“Did you guys drive down here together?” he asks her.

“No,” she says. “We were at that mariscos place. You know, the one next to the bus station? And we were just finishing our meal when I see this girl and this gringo walk in and I kept staring at her and thinking, ‘I know that face, I know that face' and, look at her, isn't she Pascuala's image in the flesh?” she says. “She's darker than Pascuala, but that face. It's the same face, isn't it?”

He looks at me.

“When did you arrive?” he asks.

“A few days ago,” I say. “We've been in Zacatecas.”

Again he's observing Martin, who takes this as his cue to deliver the one line he rehearsed on the three-hour bus ride.

“Hola,” Martin says, holding out his hand. “Me llamo es Martín.”

My father shakes his hand, his gaze wandering back toward me. We eye each other, as if we were perfectly matched in a duel, uncertain of who will have the nerve to make the first move. Hard to believe that after all these years there he is—alive and in the flesh. It's like coming face-to-face with someone who's returned from the dead.