“It belongs to Marcos, but Jesse knows how to play it, too,” Jesse's grandmother said.
“Yeah?” TJ strummed an unmelodic chord. “How about playing something for us, Jesse?”
“Nah, maybe some other time.” Jesse didn't want to disturb his father. He was in a foul mood, and Jesse was afraid he would snap at him the way he had done to his grandmother.
Jesse's grandfather leaned into him and whispered, “
Ãndale
. Play something. It'll cheer your papi
up.”
The way his father looked, slouched in his chair, Jesse didn't think anything could make him feel better. Then an idea hit him. He walked over and took the guitar from TJ, who stood and let him have the piano bench.
“Wait, don't start playing yet,” Jesse's grandfather said. He gathered the rest of the bones from the dishes and fed them to the dog. Then he and his wife sat on the couch with TJ.
“This is actually a poem my dad wrote years ago,” Jesse told TJ. “I turned it into a song for a Spanish class project. It's called
Tragedia de Julia Hernández
.”
Jesse's grandmother had insisted that he take Spanish in school. She was irritated with Jesse's parents for not having taught him how to speak Spanish, even though they spoke it fluently.
Jesse's father sat up. He smiled curiously and asked, “Where did you find that poem, champ?”
“Mom kept all your poems and songs in a scrapbook. I found the scrapbook in a box in the attic.”
“Whoa, Mark,” TJ said. “Poems? Songs? And you're a pianist and a guitarist? Sounds like Elijah Nightshade might have a whole other career going for him.”
His comments were received with an icy stare.
“Julia Hernández,” Jesse's grandfather said. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“You told me about her, Pa,” Jesse's father said. “Remember? When I was little, you told me a story about a woman in your neighborhood who had been murdered by her jealous husband.”
Jesse's grandfather squinted, trying to recall a vague memory. “Oh, that's right. Julia Hernández. She used to live in our barrio in Dallas. And you wrote a song about her?”
“No, Pa. I wrote a poem. Jesse turned it into a song.”
“Well, let's hear it,” TJ said.
Jesse started slowly with a repetition of D minor, A minor, E, and back to A minor.
Then he sang:
Señores, tengan presente,
lo que en Dallas sucedió.
Pues ya lo sabe la gente,
que Julia Hernández murió.
Cincuenta y nueve es el año
en que Julia terminó.
Sin esperar ningún daño,
pues la vida le costó.
TJ followed the beat of the song, patting a hand on his knee. Jesse's father nodded along, obviously pleased.
Julia entró al Mollejón,
luego comenzó a bailar,
sin decirle el corazón,
lo que le iba a pasar.
A las once de la noche,
Julia andaba bailando.
Llegó el marido en un coche,
porque la andaba buscando.
Jesse changed keys while he played an interlude.
Then he continued.
Julia dejó de bailar
cuando el marido llegó.
Y él, sin mucho hablar,
para afuera la sacó.
De allà se la llevó,
para una casa sola;
y enseguida la mató
con dos tiros de una pistola.
Cuando ya muerta la vio,
y sin hacer mucho ruido,
también él se disparó,
quedando muy mal herido.
Rosa presenció,
y dio esta declaración:
que Julia muerta quedó,
cerca de un callejón.
Ya Julia está en el cielo,
y el marido en la prisión.
Dadle a sus padres consuelo,
y que Dios les de su perdón.
When Jesse was done, everyone applauded.
“Man, that was awesome,” TJ said, even though he hadn't understood any of the words. Jesse's father's face filled with pride.
“I can't believe you were able to turn that old poem into something special, champ.”
Jesse knew he wasn't going to solve his father's problems. But for the moment, he was glad that he been able to help him take his mind off them.
TJ looked at his watch. “Oh, man. I've gotta get going. I'm supposed to meet this gal in a little while.” He rose from the couch. “Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. Baron. And thanks for the concert, Jesse.” He stopped at the door. “By the way, I was serious about going to your game. Next Thursday, right?”
“Yeah, but don't you have to wrestle that night?” Jesse asked, because he knew the ACW was putting on a house show in Baton Rouge on Thursday.
“Nuh-uh. I know Mark does. But then, he's a superstar. His schedule's a lot fuller than mine. The only time the ACW books me is when they need me to get beaten up.” TJ opened the door. “We'll be in touch, okay?”
CHAPTER FOUR
A
fter TJ left, Jesse practiced driving with his grandmother. As usual, they stuck to residential areas. Jesse drove through Ralston Street and passed by his old house. Someone else was living in it now. The place looked the same, except that the holly bushes in front had grown so tall, they blocked most of the picture window. The new owners hadn't trimmed the bushes since they moved in.
When Jesse turned the corner on Bank Street, he gaped in disbelief at what he saw. He slammed his foot on the brakes. The tires shrieked. So did his grandmother.
“Güela! Look!” Jesse cried. “It's Duck!” He shoved the gear in park, undid his seatbelt and flew out of the car.
“Jesse, ¿
estás loco
? I don't see any ducks!”
A light-brown Labrador trotted along the sidewalk. It stopped at a cluster of monkey grass in front of a house and did its business. Then it kept going.
“Come here, Duck,” Jesse called. “It's me, boy. Remember me, Duck?” He chased after the dog, clapping his hands to get its attention. The dog stopped and stared at Jesse. Its ears perked up, and its mouth opened in what looked like a smile.
At that moment, a girl came running from the opposite direction with a leash in her hand.
“Come here, Samson,” she called. “Come here, boy.”
Jesse recognized her from school, but he didn't know her name. The girl was tall and thin. Her bangs came down to her eyebrows, and strands of dark-brown hair hung on the sides of her face, like long sideburns. But the hair on the back of her head was closely-cropped, almost shaven. She wore denim jeans and a black T-shirt with the words JAMAICAN RUDEBOYS in white letters.
The dog furrowed its brows. It looked at the girl, then back at Jesse. The girl bent in a crouch and dangled the leash. Finally, the dog padded up to her, and she hooked the leash on its collar.
“Hey, that's my dog,” Jesse said.
The girl gave him a sidelong glance. “No, he's not. He's my dog.” She caressed the dog's head. “Right, Samson?”
Samson? Jesse wondered if he was mistaken. It had been a long time since he had seen Duck. The dog was the same color, with a white patch on its chest. Its ears, like Duck's, were a darker shade of brown than the rest of its coat.
“We've had him for almost two years,” the girl said. “Ever since he showed up at our house without any tags.” She started to lead the dog away.
“Wait. Duck ran away from us two years ago,” Jesse said.
“So? That doesn't mean Samson's your dog.”
Jesse began to suspect that the dog might be Duck after all. “Hold on. I know how to prove he's mine.” He squatted in front of the dog and said, “Shake, Duck. Shake.” The dog lifted its right paw and Jesse took it in his hand.
“Big deal,” the girl said. “I taught him that trick a long time ago.” She tugged on the leash and brought the dog toward her. “Samson, shake.” Again, the dog raised its paw.
By that time, Jesse's grandmother had gotten out of the car. When she approached them, Jesse said, “Look, Güela. I found Duck.”
The girl let out a huff and rolled her eyes. “Ma'am, this is our dog.”
Jesse's grandmother took the dog by its snout and studied its face. She smiled and said, “No, dear. This is Jesse's dog. I ought to know. I gave it to him for his birthday.”
The girl's eyes widened in alarm. “But . . . but he can't be. Samson belongs to us. He's our dog.”
“I understand how you feel . . . what's your name?” Jesse's grandmother asked.
The girl bit her lip. She looked down the street, as if hoping someone would rescue her from the crazy people who were trying to take away her dog. “Wally,” she said.
“Wally?” Jesse stared at her skeptically. “Is that your real name?”
“Yes,” the girl hissed. “Wally Morúa.”
“What kind of name is Wally for a girl?” Jesse asked.
“What kind of name is Duck for a dog?” she fired back.
Good point. Jesse had named his dog Duck because when it was a puppy, he thought its bark sounded like a duck's quack.
“I have to go,” Wally said. “I'm sorry, but you made a mistake. Samson's my dog.” She started off.
“Hey, you can't just walk away with my dog,” Jesse said.
“Wait,” Jesse's grandmother said, putting up a hand like a traffic cop. “We need to discuss this, but not right now. Give me your home number, Wally, and I'll talk to your parents about it.” She opened her purse and pulled out a store receipt and a pen.
Wally's face sank at the thought that she could possibly lose her dog.
Jesse knew how she felt. He'd had the same sick feeling when Duck ran away from him.
Duck was a digger. Jesse's old house had a large back yard, but Duck insisted on digging underneath the fence and getting out. Three times he had run away. Jesse used to think that his parents' constant bickering frightened Duck.
If that was the case, Jesse couldn't blame the dog for taking off. There were times when he felt like running away, too.
Duck escaped for the fourth time when Jesse was in the process of moving. The gate to their back yard had been left open, and Duck ran out. Jesse searched all over the neighborhood for his dog. After they moved, he had his grandmother drive him back so he could hang up reward posters. He also checked the animal control shelter daily. If Duck ever returned to their old house, he had found it empty. Jesse had given up all hope of ever seeing Duck again. But here he was.
Wally reluctantly gave out her number. At least Jesse hoped it was her real number.
As he and his grandmother turned to leave, Wally glared at him and said, “He's still my dog.”
CHAPTER FIVE
J
esse's grandmother waited an hour before calling Wally's mother, who invited them over. As it turned out, their house was about a half-mile from where Jesse used to live. He had jogged past it millions of times. The house sat high on a hill. It was a two-story, multi-brown stone house with a spiraling stairway in front, two round towers and arched windows. To Jesse, it resembled a small castle.
They were met at the porch by Wally, her mother and Duck.
“
Buenas tardes
,” Wally's mother said, but her face did not look friendly. She introduced herself as Carmela Morúa. She opened the door and everyone, including Duck, entered the house. Jesse was surprised that Duck was an inside dog.
When he lived with them, Duck stayed outside, unless the weather was unbearably cold. He had a plastic igloo doghouse where he slept. He also had plenty of space in the back yard to run around in. Still, Jesse thought, those arrangements couldn't beat living inside a nice, cozy house. He wasn't going to ask, but he could have bet that Duck had never tried to run away from this place.
The windows were covered with giant Chinese fans. The living room was encircled with mismatched furniture: a paisley-design couch, an old loveseat with faded, green upholstery, a light-brown recliner and two burgundy arm chairs. Next to the recliner was a floor lamp with a silver, squiggly design and a blue lampshade covered with white stars. On the mantle, above the fireplace, was a framed photograph of Wally, her mother and Duck sitting on the grass of what might have been Brackenridge Park. In the corner of the room, near a window, stood a bird cage with a parrot perched on a wooden rod.
Jesse and his grandmother sat on the couch, while Wally and her mother sat across them on the loveseat. Duck situated himself on the floor in front of Wally. Jesse couldn't get over how well-behaved Duck was.
Whenever he would bring him inside the house, Duck would go wild. First, he would jump on the couch. Then he would go on a peeing spree, marking his territory on all the furniture. After that, he would scamper up the stairs and run across the hallway, then turn around and run back down. Jesse's mother would threaten to throw Duck back outside if Jesse didn't keep him under control. Looking at Duck, sitting on the floor, while Wally played with his ears, Jesse never would have imagined that the dog could be so calm.