More Than Allies (12 page)

She waited her turn behind several customers. As she stepped away with her mug, she saw Rachel's husband Sandy across the room. He waved to her. She waved back, then went to the service counter for cream. When she turned around, he was right behind her. He insisted she sit at his table. In fact the room was full; if she had been paying attention, she would have taken her coffee in a paper cup. She wasn't comfortable with the idea of sitting with Sandy in the cafe. It was a long time since she had talked to him, and then there had been the children to absorb their attention. She could not now ask him the only question that came to her mind, which was, didn't he have any place he needed to be?

“The kids are growing fast,” he said. She smiled. There was a long awkward silence, then Sandy told her about a soccer practice he had been to the day before. Mason, a strapping boy and a natural athlete, was a budding star. All Dulce could think to counter that was that Gus had won the language scholarship. She blushed, saying it. Sandy smiled. “He's a bright kid. I wish the boys were in the same school, I miss seeing Gus.” She said that would be nice, but what really crossed her mind was that it would be nice if there was someone to talk to at school occasions. She always felt so clumsy and out of place, though she had always gone when summoned, as to parent conferences, where she was told Gus was a good student and a good boy. “Does he have friends?” she asked when he was younger. The teachers said, oh yes. Everyone likes Gus. After that, she thought it was probably a good place for him to go every day.

Sandy asked her what she thought of the new science program they piloted this year. She shrugged, too embarrassed to say she didn't know what piloting meant, and she didn't know anything about what Gus did in science. Sandy said, “Maybe the trial run was only in Mason's school. It's interesting. Last week they made cradles for eggs and threw them off the roof of the school.” What could she say to that?

“Where are you off to on such a beautiful day?” Sandy had an expectant, enthusiastic look, as if she might explain her plans to go horseback riding, or to shop for a new car. She took the grocery list out of her skirt pocket. “Peanut butter, bread, milk,” she read. Someone behind her pushed her forward against the table as he squeezed through a knot of customers. She leaned in, clutching her list against her chest. Their faces were close for a moment, until she was able to pull back again, flushed and awkward.

“Sit right there,” he said, and took her cup with his. “House special okay?” She nodded and tucked her list back in her pocket. The cafe was uncomfortably warm. The sun poured through the windows along the wall. Intense conversations rose from tables like steam. What did all these people talk about? Did they discuss books they'd read? Lovers? Did they make plans to fill their free time?

Sandy set the cup in front of her. “I'm thinking I'll take the kids up to Portland to the new science museum. Maybe Gus would like to come along.” When she didn't speak, he added, “In June, after school is out.” She knew she was frustrating him, not commenting, but she didn't have anything to say. If they called Gus and invited him to go, Gus could decide, but she didn't think they would ever hear about it again.

She did not know what you could see in a science museum. Stuffed things, displays, but displays of what? She had taken a general science course in high school, but she couldn't remember anything she had learned. She couldn't call up any of the words. She would have liked to go to Portland. What would he think if she told him she had never been? Maybe he would say, oh, but you lived in L.A.! because that made him think of Malibu and Hollywood. He would not have a picture in his mind of the barrio. He would not know that weeks went by and she didn't leave the block where they lived.

“Where will you stay?” she asked.

“A motel. Out by Oswego. With a swimming pool for the kids.” He was staring. “Let's just plan on it. On Gus coming with us.” He considered a moment, then said, “You could come.”

She took a long swallow of coffee and pushed her cup aside. “I've got to get to the store now.”

He stood up, too, and took her cup with his to the busing station. He walked with her through the throng to the door. Outside, in the bright sunlight, he said, “Where are you parked?”

“There's something wrong with my car. It's running hot, it's making noises.” She stepped away from him. “I'm walking.”

“I'll take a look,” he said. “Maybe I can do something.”

“No.”

“I'll give you a ride.”

“It's a short walk.”

“Come on,” he said. “I was on my way to the store right now myself.” He took her elbow. It was stupid, being steered along the walk, but she didn't want to pull away and insult him.

In the car, he said he had been talking to Mason about working in the yard this summer. “I want to take a lot of bushes out, put in some new landscaping.” He kept glancing at her. What did he want her to do? “Maybe Gus could help, too. I would pay him something. A boy his age, there are things he wants.”

Dulce felt hot prickles on the back of her neck. “He's going to get a paper route.” It was a complete lie. When he had suggested that very thing, she had discouraged him. She didn't want him going door to door, collecting.

In the store, she moved up and down the aisles, choosing house brands, thinking ahead through the week, buying more than she had intended. She glanced around several times; he wasn't in sight. The hot irritation on her skin eased.

He was waiting for her at the exit. He reached his arms out to relieve her of one of her sacks. “I'll drop you off. And take a look at the car.”

He pulled into the small lot behind the Coffee Bliss and helped her with the groceries. “They tow.” She pointed to a sign on the back of the cafe.

“I'm a regular,” he said. “Don't worry.” He followed her to her trailer. “I'll set these in here,” he said.

In the tiny space of her home, he seemed a large man. She had always thought of him as comfortably small, but she could not think where she had ever seen him outside of his house. She was herself a round, short woman. When they stood close together, she had to look up to him. She could not help thinking how different that must be for him, how unlike Rachel, who filled so much space.

He set one sack down on the table. She was still clutching the other one. He was looking over her shoulder at something. She craned her neck and saw that it was a photograph of her, Gustavo, and Gus as a baby.

“Your husband?”

Dulce nodded and set her sack down beside the other one. She turned to face the picture.

“He went to prison when Gus was four. He knifed a man in a fight, in a bar.” She could hear Sandy breathing behind her. The Gustavo in the photograph was a figure from the distant past. How long was it before she stopped worrying, every hour, what was happening to him in that place? He told her she would forget. He said she would find another man. His parents wanted her to come to Texas with Gus, but she thought, then I'll never forget. She was so hurt, and she wanted her mother.

You said to forget
, she thought, looking at the picture.

And now, was his stomach flat and hard? Was there bitterness in his eyes? Was he sorry he said,
forget?

She turned around. Sandy was so close she felt the warmth of his breath on her forehead. “I'm losing Rachel and I don't know why,” he said. He reached for her hand.

“I'm sorry,” she said, though she had no feelings for them. She could not imagine why they should be unhappy.

He bent and kissed her lightly.

The surprise was not that he kissed her. The surprise was that the kiss suffused her with warmth and longing. She had no lover. She had no friends. Sometimes, when the need was great, she lay on her bed with her own hand against her body, but she did not think she longed for a man. She had told herself many times that Gustavo was a great love, although she understood that this was probably not so. He had been romance and escape. Alas he had also been selfish and cocky, and, in the end, stupid and unlucky.

“Oh!” Sandy gasped.

She shook her head.

He grasped her hand so hard it hurt. He pumped it up and down as he spoke. “I didn't mean—I didn't know I was going to—oh God, Dulce, I'm sorry.”

She put her free hand over his busy one to still it. She lifted her head to kiss him again. She saw ahead only so far as that one kiss, but it was there, in front of her, and she needed it as the grass needs sun. He sighed and put his arms around her and pulled her close. He smelled of something bought, a cologne, a deodorant. He smelled of clean starched shirt. His mouth tasted of coffee. For a moment there was a promise between them of comfort. Solicitude. Simple gratification.

It was still early afternoon. School would not be out for an hour. His car was behind the cafe. No one would know.

She pulled away. “Please. Go home now.”

Flustered, he waved his hands in front of him, making the sacks on the table rattle. For one ridiculous moment she thought he was going to try to put the groceries away.

“Dulce, you're like family,” he said, though it had been half a year since he had spoken to her, even when she was there in his house, scrubbing his kitchen clean. “We've known each other a long time—”

“No,” she said. “Not at all.” She supposed she would never be able to set foot in their house again. Not a great loss.

He took out his wallet. “I want to give you something. I know it's rough. And now your car—Oh damn it to hell, I spent my cash at the store—”

He stood with his wallet open as if she might want to examine the contents. She took a step back, knocking against a chair.

“I didn't mean—don't think—” He shook his head miserably. She could still feel the print of his hands on her back.

Her face burned. She raised her hands to her cheeks. She felt suddenly lost between her two languages. She could find nothing to say to express her indignation and sadness. He put his wallet away and brushed the front of his shirt, as if for crumbs. The heat of her angry embarrassment had already burned off her surprise. She watched with disdain and pity as he fumbled to collect himself. She thought a man—an Anglo man—was a person who knew how to behave, a person who knew how to be in charge.

“It's all right,” she said. She did not say his name.

“I mean it about the summer trip,” he said. “Gus.”

“Go home,” she said. He stepped out, still looking at her. She shut the door.

She put some of the groceries in the refrigerator and left the rest in the sacks. She sat at the table and reinforced the buttons on her motel uniform. She had almost finished when she pricked her finger. Drops of blood bubbled up. She sucked her finger and stamped her foot. With one sweep of her arm, she sent the groceries flying. They were all over the floor when Gus came home.

He helped her pick it all up. There wasn't any way to explain to him what had happened. He was ten years old. She sensed his disdain, something new from him. She didn't know how to ask him, how have I disappointed you? She thought he looked frightened, too. There was less order in the world than he had thought. Maybe that was what growing up was, learning that nothing is firmly in place.

She baked the chicken and they ate in silence. While she did dishes, he showered and put on clean jeans. She bit her lip to keep from telling him to put on pajamas. Lately, he had taken to dressing at night in the next day's clothes. It made his morning short work. Usually, she found it endearing.

“Sit down,” she said. He was making her nervous, pacing in such a small space. He pulled the curtain aside to look out where there was nothing to see except other trailers. It was a hot evening, and he wore no shirt. His shoulders and arms were still round and soft with baby fat, but in his back he looked small, and his hips were slim. In another couple of years, he would begin to grow in earnest; he would fill out. He would have less and less to say to her. This was what she expected of a boy, though she had never lived with a brother. She had watched the boys in the barrio. She had watched their mothers.

“Sit down,” she said again. He plopped down on the couch. His pillow and covers were still messy from the night before. She had an urge to straighten it all up. Instead, she sat across the room, the table between them. She said, “There are things about your father you should know.”

His head jerked up, like an animal at a sound in the brush. “What things?” he said. His eyes had narrowed. There was a challenge in his gaze.
Watch what you say
.

“We were very young, Gustavo and me. When we married.”

His chin jutted forward. He slumped against the back of the couch, his legs out, his knees bent toward one another clumsily. He said, “You never got a divorce.”

She stared at the table. There were stains and burn marks in the veneer. She couldn't remember it ever being any better. The marks had been there when she moved in. It would be nice to have a new table, a table made of good wood.

She wanted to sit by him, but his gaze had a sheen of hostility in it. He thought she was going to say bad things about Gustavo. She only wanted him to have some realistic idea, any idea at all, what he was like. What he had been like.

“He'd left Texas and gone to a cousin's in L.A. He didn't have a steady job. We lived with other people. We never had any money.”

“So?” He feigned boredom. Maybe he was bored. Maybe the details of grown-up life were too tedious to consider, at his age.

“He liked to drink with his buddies. He liked to drive around. He got in fights.”

“I know what you're going to say. About him going to jail.”

“That's where all that took him.”

“You told me it wasn't his fault.”

“I said he didn't mean to. I said it was the other man's knife. But it was his fault, too. He was drinking too much. He was arguing. He couldn't back off and let things be.”