Carry Me Like Water (23 page)

“
Come on, you know you’ll always be my baby.”

She pushed him away. “I can’t, Mundo, I just can’t.”

“
Don’t you love me?”

She kissed him on the cheek. “I love you. Eres mi vida. But I’m not going to marry anyone I can’t grow old with.”

“
I’ll grow old with you, baby.”

She shook her head. “You’ll be dead before you’re thirty.”

“But I’m alive, Rosie,” he whispered in the dark. “Baby, I’m alive.”

He slept most of the week; he didn’t seem to be getting any better, though he didn’t get any worse. Diego brought some food home from Vicky’s every day, and although Mundo ate it all, he didn’t seem to enjoy it very much. He didn’t do anything all day as far as Diego could tell, except lie in bed. Diego brought magazines home for him to read, and it seemed that Mundo liked them pretty well, but he didn’t say too much except that he liked the pictures. On Wednesday, Diego asked him if he was feeling all right.

“Just tired,” Mundo said. “I just need to get some rest.” Mundo wondered why this man cared, why this man wanted to bring him back into the world of the living. He thought it strange that the presence of this man made him want to be strong again. Maybe he had died, maybe this man was a spirit, a holy ghost. Maybe, he was being prepared for something. “And maybe I’m just going fuckin’ nuts.”

As he lay in bed, Mundo wondered why he had not died. He was getting tired of his life, and yet he felt powerless to change the way he lived. His gang and Rosario, that was all he loved.
What else is there?
He noticed that this deaf man had books in the room—they were nothing to him, they did not call him. He thought of his father, whom he had not seen since he was seven. He did not remember anything about him anymore except that he had once told him that the gringo would always hate him, and people like him. He remembered no words of love. He thought of his mother, who rarely smiled, the stoic resignation in her face. Only Rosario knew how to talk to him, and yet he felt she was leaving him. “
Rosie, tell me
you love me.” “It doesn’t do any good, Mundo.” “It does, it does do good.” “What does it change? You stay the same.”

He pictured her dark eyes, her shaking head. He looked around the room. He hated when he thought too much. Thinking made him feel bad. “I’m going fuckin’ nuts.”

By Thursday Mundo looked stronger to Diego. Friday evening, when Diego came home from work, he found Mundo had taken a bath and changed into some of his clothes. “Hey, man,” he smiled, “where’d you get this coat? It’s wild, man. You dress like those old geezers that hang around Sacred Heart Church, you know that? You gotta do something about this, you got that? How do you expect to get yourself a good jaiñada?”

Diego looked at him. “What’s that?” he wrote.

“What’s what?”

“That last word—I don’t understand that word.”

Mundo looked at him and laughed. “A babe, man, a mamacita. An overnight special, know what I mean?”

Diego nodded. “How do you spell it?”

“Oh man, how the fuck do I know? It’s not a school word, Diego. A jaiñada isn’t something you spell—it’s something you get. And I’m telling you, man, that you’re not gonna get it wearing these clothes.” He grabbed the pen and pad from Diego and wrote in large letters: jaiñada. He looked at the letters. “Something like that, man. Don’t matter, anyway, how you spell it. Either way you got to get new clothes.”

“I like my clothes.”

“No, man, you gotta change your image. You gotta change your attitude, got it? That’s what la teacha at La Jeff used to say to me all the fuckin’ time. ‘You gotta change your attitude, Edmundo.’”

“You got too much attitude,” Diego wrote, “the wrong kind.

“And what’s La Jeff?”

Diego motioned him to stop. “What’s La Jeff?”

“La Jeffs a high school. Only went there one year. Bunch of marranos teach there, Marrano City—pigs—that’s what they are. Nobody has a name. And when la teacha remembered my name, she’d say it all wrong. Anyway, man, you gotta change your attitude.” He walked over to Diego’s desk and waved his suicide note
in the air. “I read this, Diego. I’m not a good reader, you know? But I know what this fuckin’ says, and I’m tellin’ you, man, that you got the wrong idea. Shit, man. You thinking about killin’ yourself is a pendejada—it’s bullshit, got it?”

Diego stared at him, and pressed words on his pad angrily, “You shouldn’t have read that. You shouldn’t go around reading other people’s letters.” Diego ripped the sheet off his pad and threw it at Mundo.

Mundo picked it up off the floor and read it. “Relax, don’t get all worked up. Easy, I’m on your side. You helped me out. I figure I can help you out, too, got it? It works that way, you know? And I say that it’s a helluva lot better to start killing other people than killing yourself. Know what I’m sayin’? No te dejes. If you let yourself be pushed around, it’s your own fuckin’ fault—that’s what my old man used to say. That’s the smartest thing he ever said even though he is a goddamned liar. No te dejes, Diego. Your mom and your sister, they’re gone, man. So what? Fuck it. You’re not fuckin’ dead, man. You think the fuckin’ world cares if you kill yourself? You think they’re gonna feel bad when they find your body smellin’ up your apartment? That’s bullshit. They’re not gonna give a rat’s ass. When I quit school, la teacha didn’t cry. They don’t give a pinche peso. Man, they don’t know your name—and they don’t wanna fuckin’ know. They’re gonna care when you fuckin’ make ‘em care. And that’s the way it is.”

Diego stood motionless. He shook his head. “So far, your philosophy has gotten you into a trash can. They left you for dead. Isn’t the way you live suicide?”

Mundo crumpled up his note. “No. That ain’t suicide. Suicide is when you wear these clothes, man. Suicide is when you take a knife and cut yourself until you fuckin’ bleed yourself to death. I don’t work like that, you know? When someone stabs my ass in the streets, it’s because I’ve pissed them off so bad they want my pinche ass in the ground. But the motherfuckers know my goddamned name. I make sure they know, got it?”

“Pissing people off doesn’t seem to be much of an ambition.”

“Oh man!” Mundo shook his head. “You go to that goddamned library to learn things, but shit…” He stopped. He grabbed Diego’s
letter and waved it around. “Just think about it.” He threw himself on the bed. Diego looked at him. He was young. He didn’t seem to be over twenty. Apart from the stitches on his brow, he looked like he’d never been stabbed.

Diego looked at him and shook his head. “Some day, somebody’s gonna kill you.”

Mundo laughed. “Yeah, man, just go to the fuckin’ funeral.”

Diego nodded and half-smiled.

“I’ll be around, Diego. I know where to find you.” He got up from the bed and headed for the door. He turned around and looked at Diego. He walked back toward the bed and picked up Diego’s letter. “Tear it up.” He handed it to Diego. Diego put it on his desk. “I’ll see you around.”

Diego nodded. “Yeah,” he wrote, “see you. Come around to Vicky’s sometimes, and I’ll buy you a beer.”

Mundo stared at the note and nodded. He untucked his shirt and strutted out of Diego’s apartment.

As he walked back toward El Segundo barrio, Mundo fluctuated between exhilaration and revenge. “I want to find that sonofabitch—I’ll find him and make him wish he never saw a trash can in his life.” He understood being stabbed, but being thrown away? “One more fuckin’ person throwing me away.” Mundo wondered why the first thing he ever felt was anger. He pushed the face of the man who stabbed him away. He thought about Diego and nodded. He wondered at people like him—not that he knew many—not like him. He wondered why some people were kind and others were not. The strange, deaf man’s kindness had helped bring him back to life, and he was suddenly happy to be alive. He wanted a beer, could almost taste it. He wanted to shoot a game of pool. He liked the feeling of the streets under his feet. As he walked, a cool breeze kicked up, and he promised himself he would pay the deaf man back. Somehow he would pay him back. He stared at the tatoo on his arm. How long could Rosie love a man like him? What could he do to make her stay? He wondered if life would ever be any different for him. Could he get rid of his fist and save his hand? He hated when he thought about things too much. It made him feel small and lost and hopeless.

7

H
IS BREATHING WAS
labored through the oxygen mask and it seemed to Jacob a sad and painful thing when sleep was something the body had to work for. He wanted to look away, and yet his dark lover was still beautiful to look at, too beautiful to be dying. He followed each breath, saw his chest rise up and down slowly like a calm wave on a quiet summer ocean. He rubbed his hand on Joaquin’s arm, up and down to the beat of his breathing. It wouldn’t be so bad if we could stay this way forever, he thought. Just like this. It would be good. He stared at his lover’s body. Already it was going away, already he could see the bones through his perfect flesh more clearly than he had ever seen them. It was as if they were rising out of him like the morning sun rose out of a dark earth. Soon they would reach the surface.

He felt a touch on his shoulder. His body straightened, his back stiffened. His hand jerked up, and he abruptly turned around as if to strike the person who had just disturbed his world. The nurse took a step back—she was as startled as he had been. She stared into his impenetrable blue eyes. He relaxed and his arm dropped to his side. She smiled at him. “Sorry, she whispered. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I shouldn’t go around touching people. It’s a vocational hazard.”

He laughed nervously. “Guess I’m a little jumpy.”

“Actually, you’re a lot jumpy. You’re entitled.” Her voice was strong, friendly, disarming. She tried not to stare at him—something about him was disturbingly familiar. “You just missed the doctor.”

“Damnit!”

“Not to worry. He said for you to call him this afternoon at his office.” She spoke as she changed the bag to Joaquin’s IV and made sure the oxygen tank was working properly. She touched his forehead, then softly combed his hair with her fingers. “He’s nice-looking—beautiful, looks like a boy still,” she said softly. She looked directly into Jacob’s eyes. She wanted to ask him questions. She knew them, knew those eyes. She tried to remember where they’d met, maybe a long time ago—didn’t it seem that she’d known him all her life? She felt a chill, ignored it. She even knew his voice—or was it that he simply reminded her of someone? She wanted to touch him. “You look like a boy, too,” she said.

He wanted to ignore her, yet her voice made him smile, made him want to speak. “You always talk to your patients like this?”

“Only when they happen to be drop-dead gorgeous.” She laughed. “Did I embarrass you?”

Jake laughed. “No. It’s nice.”

“Well, I’m a nice person. Damn fine nurse, too—my name’s Lizzie. Did I meet you in a former life?”

“I never had a former life. Maybe we met in a bar.”

She offered a handshake to Jake. “Lizzie,” she said again.

Jake took her hand and shook it firmly. There was something about the way she touched him. “I’m Jake—and if I was straight I’d many you.” He was amazed that he’d said something like that to a woman. It wasn’t his style to flirt—not even with men. He wondered what it was about this woman that made him want to be a boy.

“Sure you would. That’s what they all say.”

Jake laughed again. “Do you make it a habit of flirting with gay men?”

“Well, yes,” she said. “It’s safe.”

He smiled. “Smart girl.”

“Yeah, smart girl.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, if you need anything just yell.” She started toward the door, then turned around.
“You know, his eyesight’s going. Doctor Michaelsen’s going to put him on medication to kill the bacteria—”

“Does it work?”

Lizzie put her hands together as if she were going to pray, then placed them on her lips. She thought a while.

“Yes. Generally, it works.”

“When doesn’t it work?”

She was silent for a minute. “Sometime’s the patient’s very tired.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Anyway, Dr. Michaelsen said he’d fill you in when you called him at his office.” Jacob shook his head, but said nothing. She patted the back of his head and walked out the door. A few seconds later she poked her head through the door again. “Yes, you can take him home. As soon as Tom gives his approval, you can take him home. He doesn’t have to stay here if he doesn’t want to.” He doesn’t have to die here, she wanted to add.

He turned around and stared at her. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“Magic,” she said. “If you work here long enough you can read minds.” She disappeared down the hall.

What a strange woman, he thought, strange and beautiful and strong. He felt something urgent come over him. He shook his head. “This is crazy—she’s just a nurse—she’s just being nice. It’s her job to be nice.” He sat there for a long time and stared at Joaquin. He pushed his chair closer and placed his head on the bed and closed his eyes. He thought about one of the times he’d left him. He pictured the kitchen where they’d fought: “
You said you’d be home after work. Since when do you work until 11.30 at night?”

“
Oh great, J, now you’re acting like a middle-class housewife.”

“
I’m not a housewife, and I’m not middle class you stupid sonofabitch. Jose, Mike, and Connie came to dinner—and you’re the one who invited them. We ate without you. They send their regards.” He grabbed a piece of cold chicken from the stove and threw it at him. “We had chicken. It was good.”

“
You do that again and I’ll kill you.”

“
You have no imagination, you know that. Jake? You’re a very old story: you drink too much, you go out with other men, you don’t talk.
you don’t know how to say I love you, you don’t know how to say I’m sorry—and you threaten people. A real credit to white boys everywhere.”

“
Shut up, J! Just shut your mouth—and don’t open it until I tell you to.”