Carry Me Like Water (32 page)

“Well,” Diego wrote, “what am I supposed to do about it? Are you going to give me a job?”

Mundo laughed. “Nobody works for Mundo. And Mundo don’t work for nobody, neither. This vato,” he said pointing to himself, “ain’t never gonna make nobody else rich. They hire you to clean their shit-stained bathrooms and make them smell like no one ever crapped in there and they don’t pay you nothin’ because they tell you they can’t afford it, and then they go home and drink wine that costs them twenty bucks a bottle. Fuck that, man, this baby don’t work to make the gringo rich.”

“My boss isn’t a gringo,” Diego wrote.

“That’s worse than being a gringo. That pinche sold out his own people. He makes money in the barrio and then spends it on the west side of town. Your boss is the worst kind of pinche there is, know what I’m sayin’? He can bite my hairy ass.”

“What do you want to do about people like him—line them up and shoot them?” Diego shook his head.

Mundo snapped his fingers and spun himself around. He aimed his fingers at Diego like a gun and laughed. “They should die real slow, see? Burn them or something and make barbecue out of them—that’s what pigs are good for.”

“But it’s pigs like that that give people like me jobs.”

“Man, that guy has you right where he wants—right under his foot.”

“Maybe,” Diego wrote, “but being under my boss’s foot keeps me from getting wet. It’s kind of like an umbrella.”

“But it don’t rain in El Paso, Diego, know what I’m sayin’? And someday that bastard you work for is gonna step down on you real hard.”

“I got a strong back—stronger than his foot.”

Mundo laughed. “I don’t know if you’re a pendejo, or what, but me, I got feet for the street.” He did a dance step on the sidewalk. “And I got hands that like to touch women real nice or to bust people’s faces in.” He smashed a fist on his own open palm. “Magic hands and magic feet, see? I don’t think too much about my back.”

Diego laughed. “In that case, my back is magic, too.”

“If you say so, my man—if you say so,” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s make it—let’s go have some brews. You like beer?”

Diego nodded. He looked down at his clothes again. “You want to wait while I change my clothes?”

“Yeah, I’ll wait down here for you.”

Diego went into his apartment and looked through his closet. Mundo was right, he thought, his clothes were boring. He put on a clean white shirt and some black pants, washed his face and combed his hair. Diego studied his face. It wasn’t bad, he thought. Sort of a friendly face—it wouldn’t scare anybody off at least. He was too thin, though. “I don’t have a body like Mundo’s,” he told himself. “It’s not a body that was made for dancing.” He rolled up the sleeves on his long-sleeved shirt. Diego gave himself a hard look in the mirror. His heart pounded. It was the first time in his life that he was going to a real bar, Vicky’s didn’t count. He skipped down the stairs and lit a cigarette.

Mundo looked him over. “You know what, if you got yourself some new clothes you could get a babe like that—easy,” He snapped his fingers. “You dress like an old rukito.”

“New clothes won’t make me hear.”

“No, man, you got it all wrong. Women don’t care about ears—they care about other parts. Know what I’m sayin’?”

Diego laughed. “So where are we going?”

“I thought we might check out this new place—downtown. It’s got a pool table, the whole bit. It just opened up this week. It don’t even have a name yet. I’ll teach you how to play pool.”

They walked down the street in the early evening, Mundo talking and talking. Diego read his moving lips and watched his hands move in the air like doves as they walked toward the nameless bar.

14

T
HE MORNING WAS COOL
. Eddie sat at the edge of the bed watching Maria Elena sleep. He’d been sitting there for almost an hour. Lately, he had taken to thinking he might forget what she looked like if he didn’t sit and memorize her face. He wanted to hold her and make sure she was real. On certain days he could not believe she loved him, that anyone could love him. But she was there, pregnant and lovely in the morning light of the early summer. He quietly walked out of the room and made his way into the kitchen. He drank his coffee and stared at the poem he had been writing. It had been a long time since he had tried writing a poem. Something about the way Maria Elena called him corazón made him want to pick up a pen and write a poem for her. She had begun teaching him Spanish and he felt himself changing as he learned her language. Eddie had never realized that languages were so physical, the way he carried them around with him—the way they carried
him
around. He had lost all interest in work. He had lost all the interest in the life he was living in Palo Alto. He no longer lived there. He felt as cool and clean as the light on his wife’s face. He was happy it was Saturday. Saturdays made him feel younger and lighter—like a schoolboy free of the burdens of learning things he had no interest in learning, things somebody mistook for knowledge.
Today, he wanted to know, to acquire new knowledge. He wanted to drink his coffee and stare at his wife.

Things were almost perfect. There was still the space reserved for his brother. Eddie was tired of feeling the emptiness of that space. He wondered if his brother’s presence would make his life perfect. “Well,” he thought, “the hell with perfect. Happy is better. Happy would be good.” Maybe Nena would find Diego. He could sense her hunger for her brother. He could see it when she spoke his name. Maybe he would take her to El Paso and they could look for him. Maybe they would both find the missing pieces of themselves and they would be whole.

Eddie stared at the blank pages of his journal. He had nothing to say to his brother today, nothing at all. It made him sad to think he felt so empty and wordless. His words to his brother had kept him alive for the many years he had lived alone, had kept him alive long enough to meet the woman who married him, the woman who had loved enough to hold him even when he was far away from her—far away from himself. He wondered to himself how he could love this woman so much and still feel this emptiness. It was not her fault, he thought, his life was too heavy for her to carry. His writing would help her carry the load.

Eddie had been writing to his brother for as long as he could remember. He had lost what he had written as a child. But he had saved every piece of writing he had ever written since he had been in college. He had learned to write and think clearly by writing in his journal, he had learned to understand himself, to see himself through his writing. If he had not written, he was certain he would have disappeared.

He read over the poem he was writing for his wife. He wanted to give her the finished poem when the baby was born. He stared at the words. Today, they seemed meaningless, but he needed to finish it. It was important to make sense of the chaos—it was essential. Eddie would write his way back into meaning—then he would give it to his wife.

I will be a good mother.
Maria Elena stared at her naked body in the minor. She studied it. She rubbed her hands on the tight skin around her baby. I
wilt love you and I will cherish all your days and I will tell you everything about the history of the world, how it came to be, how we must save it, and I will tell you the sad stories of our lives and how we found happiness, and how strong you made me feel when you were kicking me—kicking me to let me know you were alive. Little boy, I will love you more than any child has ever been loved.
She noticed she was weeping. She thought of her mother, how she yearned to have her here, here in this room to show her that she had carried her child as carefully as any child in any womb had ever been carried.
And I will tell you how your grandmother suffered, how she loved—and how she saved her children. You will carry her name in your heart, and carry the voices of your people …

“Eddie? Eddie. Wake up.” Maria Elena whispered his name loudly, but her voice did not wake him. She laughed at herself for whispering. There was no one in the house but them. “Eddie?” she said out loud, “Eddie?” She shook him.

“Uh.”

“Eddie—wake up.”

He rolled over slowly.

“What?” he was still more asleep than awake.

“Eddie—my water broke.”

“What?”

“My water bag broke.”

“Oh my God!” He jumped up from the bed, slipped on a pair of jeans that he’d left lying on the floor, and threw on a T-shirt. “Don’t be nervous.”

Maria Elena took a deep breath. She was sitting awkwardly on the bed. She had neatly dressed herself in a thin cotton dress. She seemed excited, but there was a decidedly calm look on her face. She imagined herself holding her baby, touching the soft skin of her child. She was ready.

“I should pack,” Eddie said.

“I’ve packed already.”

“You got everything?”

“I got everything.”

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Eddie, just take me to the hospital.”

“Oh my God,” he yelled, “we’re going to be parents.”

He laughed and screamed and jumped all the way to the car. “Be quiet, Eddie, you’ll wake the neighbors.”

He honked the horn as they left the house. “We’re gonna have a baby!” he yelled out the window as they drove away. “And he’s gonna be hell!”

Despite the pains that made her body feel as though her back might break, Maria Elena laughed at her husband. She was glad there was so much of the boy in him—it would make him a good father. He kept staring at her on the way to the hospital.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” she said.

“It’s three-thirty in the morning,” he said, “No one’s out but us.”

A baby, she thought. She squeezed her husband’s arm as she felt another contraction. “Jonathan Edward Marsh, drive like hell. He wants out—and he wants out now!” She took a deep breath and trembled. The pain was harder on her body than she’d imagined. A baby, she thought. My God, I’m going to have a baby. “A baby!” Eddie yelled as they pulled up to the hospital.

15

F
OR TWO WEEKS
, Mrs. Cantor came every morning and left when Lizzie arrived at noon. On Tom’s suggestion, Lizzie had arranged a schedule with her, and a few friends often came for a few hours, giving them a chance to take care of their own chores. Lizzie was given a list of phone numbers of people who had offered to do small things for either Jake or Joaquin. Old friends of Joaquin’s, Mike and Connie Sha came by often just to sit with him and talk. They were shy at first, and their calmness disturbed her. One afternoon, Mrs. Sha arrived unexpectedly and shoved Lizzie out the door insisting she had to get some fresh air: “It’s so lovely today,” she said. “Take a walk, buy yourself something at the store.” She went out for a long walk and was happy not to think about anything. She bought herself a deep blue sweater, and picked up some groceries on the way back. When she returned, Mrs. Sha was holding Joaquin in her arms, and Mr. Sha was telling him a story. It was obvious to Lizzie that they had claimed him as a son.

Before they left that afternoon, Mrs. Sha offered Lizzie some manzanilla, Joaquin’s favorite tea. “When our Xin Wei was sick,” she said softly, “Joaquin was the only one who didn’t stop coming. He was with us till the end. My sister said my Xin Wei had shamed our family. Joaquin wanted to know why any illness should mean
shame. He was angry with her—but my sister only said what I had been thinking.” She squeezed her husband’s hand.

“We will not leave him.” Mr. Sha spoke slowly and softly as if to make her understand that they must be kept informed of Joaquin’s health.

“I promise to call whenever he needs anything—anything at all. Jake will do the same.”

They seemed reassured.

Mrs. Sha and Mrs. Cantor made it their job to make sure there was something on the stove or in the oven. “He won’t eat,” Mrs. Cantor complained as Lizzie walked into the apartment every afternoon. “Two weeks and he hasn’t eaten enough food to feed a pigeon. My husband was like that near the end.” Elizabeth always kissed her before she left and told her, “Not to worry, Mrs. Cantor, I’ll eat it. I eat enough for both of us.” Mrs. Cantor always managed a smile. “My son should have married such a girl.” Lizzie would hug her, and she would look into her eyes and say, “I adore you, Mrs. Cantor.” Mrs. Cantor never left the apartment until she heard Lizzie’s words.