He couldn’t finish. In a flash he felt a hand shoot out to grab him by the lapels. The man leaned into his personal space, his face just a few inches from his own, his eyes shooting fury like flame, and he ground out in a menacing tone, “Don’t…ever…call…me…that…again.”
“Michael, please,” Charlotte cried to him, her trembling hands on his shoulders pulling him away. Her eyes were wide with panic. “Please. Let him go.”
Freddy felt the scorch of shame hearing her plead for his release, but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut. In his heart, however, he was vowing himself to a plan of revenge.
The man she called Michael took a deep breath and dropped his lapels with that macho lifting of his hands Latino men were so good at—a gesture that implied to touch him any further would dirty him.
“Never attack a man unless you’re prepared to back it up,” Michael said, then turned his back and walked a few feet away, like a matador turning his back on the wounded bull after he’d made the fatal lunge. Freddy felt his pride drain out of him like blood.
“Freddy,” Charlotte cried, “are you all right?”
Her solicitation infuriated him. Made him feel even more ashamed. “Yeah, sure I’m all right,” he sputtered, elbowing her away and straightening his tie. “Get rid of him before I call the police.”
“I can’t…”
“Get rid of him, I said,” he shouted in fury.
Michael spun around, his fists clenched.
Charlotte jumped in front of Michael and blocked his path. “Freddy, stop goading,” she called over her shoulder.
“Go inside. I’ll meet you there. I need to talk to Michael for a minute. Please, Freddy,” she said sharply when he didn’t budge.
Freddy bent over to pick up the champagne that was lying in the grass, thinking sourly that he couldn’t uncork it now or they’d be sprayed with the stuff after it was shaken up. This only added to his frustration, and he stomped toward the house, pounding holes with his heels in the soft, new gravel.
From the kitchen window he watched as Charlotte talked hurriedly to the man, her hands fluttering on the long row of buttons of his shirt. She was placating the son of a bitch! He had to put a stop to this. Quick. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, grown after a long, hard day of negotiating this girl’s future. Anger and frustration burned white in his brain, but he calmed down, telling himself now was the time for action.
Okay, okay, he said to himself. At least he was getting her out of town. Away from that Latin lover. She had this juicy part in
One Day In Autumn,
that would get her out of town for a few months. But she’d be back in her garden with this guy in the dog days of summer. That was no good…. He’d have to pair her up with some big names, some handsome actors.
As he watched the two from the kitchen window, he saw Mondragon lean over and kiss Charlotte soundly on the mouth while his hands roamed her body possessively. Freddy’s own mouth went dry again, this time in desolation.
He was totally consumed by his jealousy of the tall, handsome, masculine young man who was now reaching out for Charlotte’s hand, reeling her in, gently kissing her forehead at the gate. Only a man who was so utterly sure of his virility could cause a woman to tremble as Charlotte was trembling with one chaste kiss.
For twenty some years he’d raged against God for that freak accident that caused his impotency. That anger festered in his soul, like a fetid cancer. Now that cankerous, foul, soul-crushing anger had a target.
The obvious virility of Michael Mondragon.
T
he golds of early fall, like the golds of Charlotte’s hair, were gone again. Michael tromped through the leaves of autumn, leaves that had sheltered him from the sun’s scorching glare a few months earlier. “Nothing gold can stay….”
He missed her when she went away. She took a part of him with her, the best part. Their love had ripened over the summer months, and now that she’d left, he felt as dry and lifeless as the leaves that passed him on their fall to the earth.
He looked around at the tawny colors surrounding the nursery, shut up now for its winter rest. The crowds had gone; it would be peaceful till the madness of March. The pale ecru-colored cornstalks rattled in the wind by the makeshift roadside stand he’d set up to draw weekend tourists to the piles of fat, glossy pumpkins, bundles of dried everlastings, crisp red apples and a few crafts and jellies made by local women.
He trod on past the compost heaps, the sheds filled to bursting, up the road to the quaint stucco house with the bright green trim and yellow door sitting on the top of the hill. It had the best view of the valley. His father had built the house for his family fifteen years ago, once Roberto, Miguel and Rosa were educated in the Catholic schools and he could leave the suburbs. It was a modest house, a happy house, always filled with Mexican music, the smell of Mama’s cooking and the intimate sounds of Spanish. His father was more complacent since he’d returned and taken over the business. He was relaxing more in front of the TV, talking about taking a vacation with Marta—their first. The deep lines of worry were fading from his brow. Mama smiled more often, too, and took time to play with the grandchildren.
Like the seasons, however, Michael knew his time here was coming to an end. He’d be leaving soon, heading back to his job and his old life in Chicago. It was long overdue. He’d like to be back by the first snowfall. Now all he had to do was tell his father.
After taking a deep breath, he brushed a few leaves from his jacket, stomped the mud from his feet and entered the house to the warm calls of welcome in Spanish.
Maria Elena grabbed his hands and herded him with excited laughter to the fireplace. “Look, Tío Miguel,” she called, her face flushed from excitement and the heat of the flames. “Abuelo Luis lit the first fire of the season.”
“In my honor!” Cisco informed him, his eleven-year-old chest expanding with pride. “For my birthday.” Already the smell of chestnuts filled the room. Papa and Manuel were at the table, drinking beer and playing cards. In the kitchen, Mama and Rosa were preparing dinner. Often there would be an aunt and uncle visiting from Mexico, nieces and nephews, numerous cousins. Any family was welcome in this house.
Bobby hadn’t arrived yet. Michael rubbed his hands before the fire. It pained him that Bobby had kept his distance not only from him, but from the entire family throughout this summer. He was probably afraid that Michael would say something, or accidentally hint at the truth, and preferred to eliminate that possibility by steering clear. It hurt that Bobby didn’t trust his silence. It angered him that he kept away. He was missed by Mama at the Sunday dinners.
“Where is Roberto?” his mother worried as she looked out the front window. Her head bobbed every time she carried another steaming dish to the long wood table. “It has been several weeks since he’s come.”
“He’ll be here, Mama,” Rosa called back. “He knows it’s Cisco’s birthday. He won’t miss the party.”
“Won’t he?” Papa muttered. “He has no
respeto,
that one. He likes his wild lifestyle with those painter friends of his in Los Angeles. Staying out late, going to bars. He’s up to no good. He’d better behave himself if he ever does get here. Around these
bebés.
Manuel and Rosa, they are doing a good job teaching them to have respect for the family and our ways.” He waved his hand brusquely.
“Come away from the window,” he commanded Marta.
“This life’s five windows of the soul….”
Michael muttered.
Luis looked his way, wary. “What is it you are muttering now in your English?”
“Bobby is a grown man and able to choose his own friends,” Michael replied soberly, still staring at the fire.
“If we’re going to discuss respect here, we should respect him enough to honor, and welcome, his choices.” He was treading on dangerous ground now and needed to be exceedingly cautious.
His father stared at him, gauging his meaning. “He doesn’t choose us, his family. He is a stranger to his parents.”
“He’s as he always was,” Marta said softly. “A good and loyal son.”
“Loyal? How can you say that? Is he here now, for Cisco’s birthday? Is he here, in the family business like his brother and sister? No!” he thundered. “He
chooses
to help only in the summer. Because he needs the money, not because we might need him. He
chooses
to live in the city and paint walls with his friends who have purple hair and soft palms. I did not raise my son to be like this. He is the eldest. He should be more like the younger.”
Michael groaned and shook his head. “No, Papa. Stop.”
“What? I speak the truth. You are
fuerte
and
formal,
” he said, raising his hand to count off two fingers.
“Cisco, Maria,” Michael called to the children. His voice was terse and brooked no refusal. “Go and watch television for a few minutes. I want to talk to your grandfather.”
He had to talk to his father now. To tell him that he was leaving, as planned. He could see that his father thought otherwise. He was pushing him, relentlessly, to stay on. His decision would cause a divide in this family bigger than the San Andreas Fault, but the rumblings were beginning and the quake was overdue.
“I don’t want to watch TV,” Cisco whined, and moved closer to Michael. “I want to stay by Tío Miguel.”
Manuel looked up from his cards and spoke harshly to Cisco in Spanish, ordering him to leave his uncle alone. Cisco only wedged closer to Michael, his face rebellious.
“I can stay if I want to. It’s my birthday.” It was an open defiance, unthinkable in Michael’s day and age.
Manuel flushed and stood up in an angry rush, rocking the table and spilling the cards. Cisco ducked his head and Michael wrapped an arm protectively around the boy. Looking at his small, thin arms, he noticed several raised welts.
“It’s okay with me,” he replied in a calm voice, trying to douse the flame of fury in his heart. He abhorred any violence against a child. He’d felt the lash too many times in his childhood to bear its presence as an adult. He knew Manuel had a hot temper and a hard hand.
“Is that boy shooting his mouth again?” Rosa called from the kitchen.
“Let him be,” Michael called back. Then to Manuel, “I’ll read him a story while you finish your game of cards. I’ll talk to Papa later.”
“If it’s okay with you…” Manuel gave his son a warning look. “You must respect grown-ups,” he added to Cisco.
“Enough,” Luis shouted, waving his hand in the air to indicate to Manuel that he should sit down. “Stop bothering us, eh? We’re playing cards here. Marta, hurry with the dinner. I am hungry. And after, we will have a big cake, no? I love the sweets, and I’ll bring out cigars for your son’s birthday. Come, Manuel, let’s finish our game of cards and leave the children to the women.”
“Rosa,” Manuel called out to his wife, in imitation of his father-in-law. “Be a good woman for a change and throw some more chestnuts on the grate for the children. And some music, no?”
Rosa cast darts with her eyes at her husband, but out of respect for her father, did as she was told.
Michael felt Cisco’s arms loosen, but in the boy’s eyes he saw triumph. “Cisco, you little devil,” he whispered in his ear. There would be a few strikes from the belt at the very least for this infraction. But he knew Cisco wouldn’t feel the pain. How often had he and his father played out this scene? And later tonight, they would play the same roles again. The rigid father and the defiant son.
“Feliz Cumpleaños!”
Bobby swung wide the door and entered carrying a huge box in his arms. “Where is the birthday boy?”
Cisco leaped from Michael’s arms to check out the gift. Kids were as fickle as dogs when it came to handouts. “A stereo! Wow, thank you, Tío Roberto!”
Latin music began blaring from the speakers, Marta clapped her hands in joy and the children were dancing. The moment of tension passed. Bobby made a successful entrance back into the family, and dinner was about to be served. For a while, all was right with the world. This skirmish was only a four on the Richter scale, Michael thought. A minor quake.
After dinner Michael followed Manuel outside, closing the door tightly behind him.
“A word, Manuel,” he called out, catching up with him by Manuel’s red Mercury.
Manuel, bent over the door key, looked over his shoulder, surprised. He stood up immediately, showing respect. Michael supposed it was because he was his boss.
“I’d like to talk to you about Cisco.”
“Aiiee.”
He made a show of moaning in distress, but he was smiling. “That boy, he is a handful. A child of eleven and already he knows so much. He has too many opinions!”
Michael studied Manuel’s face. It appeared he was proud of his son. He cleared his throat and began cautiously. “I think he has too many bruises.”
Manuel’s face clouded immediately, but he made no reply.
“Listen to me, Manuel. I know you may think it is none of my business, but I’m making it my business. I don’t want to see any more bruises on that boy’s body. Or on little Maria Elena’s. If I do, you’ll have to answer to me.”
Manuel’s porcine features turned red and puffed with restrained fury.
“Look,” Michael said, putting his hands on his hips and steadying his breath. “I know these kids need discipline. If you must, spank them on their rears. But nowhere else. Belts and cords, those are the tools of cowards. Not to be used on children. They are your flesh and blood, not donkeys!”
Manuel only nodded once, sharply, then swung open the door of the car and closed it. Michael stepped back from the spraying gravel and dirt, then stood and watched the red brake lights disappear down the drive.
Bobby approached him, his steps crunching in the gravel behind him. “What was that all about?”
“Oh, just trying to break a pattern.”
“Speaking of which…Rosa told me what you said earlier. To Papa.” He looked out across the land, as black in the dark night as the sea. He cleared his throat. “Thanks,
hermano.
”
“You’re welcome.”
“Ah, Michael,” Bobby said in exasperation. “Listen to us. So
formal.
You—I can understand. But see what’s become of me? I’m becoming as stoic as you!”
They both knew that to be
formal
in the Mexican culture was to be steady. Serious. Women could be spirited and chatty. Men, though they could tell stories and laugh, were never gossipy. Men who were
formal
were careful of their words.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Michael replied with humor. “I simply can’t speak so easily in Spanish, like the rest of you.”
Bobby chuckled, but they both knew that wasn’t true. Michael’s Spanish had improved greatly in the past two and a half years, because he allowed himself to speak it.
“So, it seems they taught you something in that Ivy League college you went to, after all. I heard you quoted Blake tonight.”
“Rosa told you that, too?”
Bobby’s eyes sparkled with merriment. “Papa. He drew me aside and privately asked me what you meant by that ‘windows’ line. I almost burst out laughing in his face, but held back and told him I didn’t know nothing. That, I’m sorry to say, he found easy to believe.”
When Michael stopped laughing, Bobby spread out his arms in a theatrical gesture. His tone, however, was no longer teasing, but heartfelt.
“This life’s five windows of the soul, Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole. And leads you to believe a lie, When you see with, not through, the eye.”
Bobby paused, then said seriously, “I always thought of Papa when I read that.”
“Bobby, I’m sorry.”
“Why? Because Papa and I are estranged?”
“No. Because we are. I’m sorry for the distance.”
“Hey, man, it’s not your fault.”
“If not mine, then whose?” He shrugged. “I claim the fault. And apologize for it. I should have apologized long ago. It went on far too long, though you must admit you didn’t make it any easier for me.” Michael lowered his head and kicked the dirt. “I didn’t know what to say. What to do. I felt—forgive me, but I felt like I failed you somehow. Crazy things like I should’ve hung out with you more.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Set you up on dates.”
“Michael,” Bobby said, throwing back his head. He took a deep breath. “Miguel, when we were little, while you were dreaming of little girls, I was dreaming of little boys.”
Michael looked at the drifting clouds as they covered a quarter moon. “Mama said tonight that you were as you’d always been,” he said. “It rang true. I don’t know why it was so hard for me to accept that you’re gay. But I want you to know that I do. And it changes nothing. You’re my brother. I love you.”