Help Wanted (8 page)

"Let's play," Doña Carmen Maria suggested, the corner of her mouth lifting impishly.

Play!
Becky thought. She could feel her own mouth sag and a groan rise from the back of her throat.

"You know how to play?" Becky asked.

"Like Tiger." The old woman giggled with a hand over her smile.

Becky was scared to say no. So she asked Doña Carmen Maria a second time—the old woman's answer was "Let's go, girl."

Becky thought,
Man, she sounds like Dulce, except she's way old.

"Okay," Becky said. "You go first." She dropped the ball into the dust, and moved to give Doña Carmen Maria room to swing.

"Like Tiger," the old woman muttered. "I'm going to play like Tiger." She undid the top button of her sweater and pulled up her sleeves. She eyed the golf ball and the hole and told Queenie to be quiet. She struck the golf ball, which rolled smoothly and came within inches of going in. "
¡Casi!
" she yelled. She danced a jig that raised dust at her feet and approached the golf ball for an easy tap in.

Becky was impressed. But she figured it was beginner's luck. She dropped her own golf ball in the dust, positioned herself, wiggled her hips like she was dancing salsa, and swung her club. The golf ball raced like a rabbit past the hole.

"
¡Qué lástima, muchacha!
" Doña Carmen Maria snapped her fingers.

It took two more strokes before she got the golf ball into the hole. To her amazement, Becky found herself behind—three to two.

On the second hole, Doña Carmen Maria again struck the golf ball within inches of the hole. She smiled and shuddered. "When I warm up better, I'll get it in the first time."

Warm up?
Becky wondered. The sun was cooking the back of her neck. Her tongue was thick from thirst.

On the second hole, Becky's putt sent the golf ball left and four feet from the hole. It took her three more strokes before the ball rolled in. She was down seven strokes to Doña Carmen Maria's four.

"I like this game," the old woman said when she made a hole in one at the third hole. "I'm going to be on TV with Tiger. You see,
mi'ja.
" She laughed and picked up Queenie for a quick smooch.

Becky struggled. Sweat poured from her face as Doña Carmen Maria pushed away to a commanding lead by the sixth hole.
How is this happening?
Becky wondered.
The old woman is at least a hundred years old! It isn't fair!
And it seemed ironic when at the seventh hole Doña Carmen Maria used her club like a croquet mallet. She laughed when the golf ball rolled into the hole.

"There are rules!" Becky snapped.

"
¿Cómo?
" Doña Carmen Maria asked.

Becky recalled her parents' warnings about respecting elders.

"Nothing," muttered Becky. She lined up her shot and in anger sent it skipping across the dusty ground and ... into the hole!

"Way to go, girl!" Doña Carmen Maria said happily, her age-peppered hands coming together in patty-cakes. Then her mood darkened as she slowly sniffed the air. Her eyes became beady with worry. Queenie sniffed the air, too.

"
¡Ay, los frijoles!
" Doña Carmen Maria screamed. She let go of the golf club and scampered away with Queenie in the lead. But the old woman's foot got lodged in hole three, and she fell.

"
Ay!
" she chirped.

"Are you okay?" Becky asked.

Doña Carmen Maria didn't answer. She rose with a powdering of dust on her eyelashes and limped toward her house, yelling, "
¡Fuego! ¡Fuego!
" The old woman stopped and began to pat her sweater, as if she were on fire. "
¡Ay, mis llaves!
" She bent down and checked the pockets of Queenie's sweater. She cried that her parakeet, Banana, was going to be burned.

Becky boosted herself up onto the fence. There was smoke rising from the roof. "Ah, man," she whimpered. Doña Carmen Maria's house was on fire! "Fire!" Becky yelled, and she jumped over the fence, her golf club still in hand.

Doña Carmen Maria ran up the driveway, her arms flailing. She cried, "Banana! Banana!" She went to the backyard and rattled the back door.

"She's locked out," Becky said, and suddenly rued the day when her uncle had given her a set of golf clubs. Her parents would certainly blame her for keeping the old woman away from her house. They would scold that it was her fault Doña Carmen Maria's house was burned to the ground.

"
¡Está
locked!" Doña Carmen Maria cried. "
No tengo mis llaves. ¡Ay, Dios mío! ¡Están en la casa! En la
cookie jar.
¡No, no, en la mesa!
"

Becky pulled on the doorknob and yanked with all her might. The situation became worse when Queenie scooted through the doggie door.

"
¡Ven!
" cried Doña Carmen Maria. "Queenie!
Véngase.
" Her eyes were full of tears for her dog, her parakeet, and her house.

Becky yelled, "Step back!"

Doña Carmen Maria stepped back off the small landing.

"More!" Becky commanded.

Doña Carmen Maria stepped away and bumped into lawn furniture.

Becky brought the golf club high over her head and, eyes closed and shoulders hunched, let it fall hard. The window of the back door exploded and showered glass. The opening released a billowy dark cloud of smoke.

Becky coughed and, carefully, as she didn't want to cut herself on glass, pushed her hand through to fiddle the lock open. She covered her face as she stepped into the pantry area. She called, "Queenie! Queenie, come here." She could see the dog seated in the corner with a plastic hot dog between her paws. The dog's tongue was out and she was panting.

"Come here!" Becky yelled. She advanced three steps, her eyes tearing and her nose beginning to run. She didn't see any flames, just ash-colored smoke. But she could see the flames of the stove's burner—the pot of beans was burning away.

Queenie then rose, scratched herself, and disappeared from the kitchen into the living room.

Becky turned and went outside.

"
¿Y
Queenie?" Doña Carmen Maria asked.

"She won't come to me!" Becky cried. She lifted her face to the sky as she made out the sounds of a fire engine and then—was that Dulce's father's pickup truck?—the rattle of a vehicle's fender. The rattle seemed to grow louder and meaner. Becky pictured Dulce in the back of the pickup eating a red whip. She pictured Dulce with a fireman's helmet.

"Queenie!" Doña Carmen Maria called in a muffled voice. "
¡Véngase!
" She had stripped off a sweater and was holding it against her nose and mouth, like a bandit. She climbed the steps and disappeared into the smoke-filled kitchen before Becky could warn her not to go in.

"Ah, man," Becky wept. "
¡Señora!
Come out! You're going to suffocate!" Becky could hear Doña Carmen Maria bumping against a chair and then the twist of the knob on the stove—the burner was off. She then made out the hissing sound as Doña Carmen Maria put the ruined pot under the kitchen faucet. Her steps then ran across the linoleum floor and softened when she went into the carpeted living room.

Dulce's father's old pickup truck ground quickly up the driveway. Before he completely stopped, kids were leaping from the back of the pickup. Dulce was among them. She had a red whip licorice hanging from her mouth.

The kids ran toward Becky. One called, "Is anyone dead?"

Becky jumped at the thought. She pictured Doña Carmen Maria and Queenie all toasted in their sweaters. Their hair and fur were fried. Smoke was rolling off their bodies.

But Becky knew that wasn't their fate. The smoke had begun to clear, and she could hear Doña Carmen Maria cooing words of love to Queenie. Queenie produced two barks, and her dog tags chimed like bells.

Dulce's father hurried up the drive to the backyard. He told the kids to stay back and be careful with the broken glass. He entered the house, a hand covering his mouth, and opened the window over the kitchen sink. There were sounds of other windows opening and then the sounds of a fire engine rounding the corner.

"I'm in trouble," Becky bawled to herself. Tears filled her eyes, and she knew they couldn't put out her parents' anger when Doña Carmen Maria would later tell her story of golf and the burned pot of beans. Becky picked up her golf club, which prompted Dulce to say, "Let's play golf. I'll putt left-handed this time."

Becky propped her arms against her chest.

"Come on, girl!" Dulce reminded her that she had to practice if she wanted to be good.

"I hate golf!" Becky heard herself say.

"Don't say that," Dulce said. "It's funner than swimming." She told Becky how she had swallowed a lot of
nasty water when she beat the boy staying underwater so long. She described how the water came out of her nose, plus
mocos.

"That's stupid," Becky barked.

"Stupid?" Dulce said. She plunged a hand into her pants pocket and pulled out a soggy dollar bill. "He had to pay up when I won!"

Becky turned her back on Dulce and began to cry. She found herself running down the driveway. Her mother would be mad, and her father, and everyone in the world. She pictured her mother sniffing the air, thinking to herself,
Who burned the beans?

Me!
she answered in her mind. "Me! Me!" She pitched her golf club over the fence, and as she ran past the golf course, she felt her pockets for a golf ball. She flung it with all her might. The ball bounced and skipped and rolled into the sixth hole—a miracle shot at a time when it was just too late.

One early morning Richard Ortega stepped over a puddle formed by the one working sprinkler on the only green patch of his school's lawn. He shook a few dots of water from his shoe and examined the shoe's glossy tip: The last thing he wanted was a flaw in his dress uniform. It was the second Friday of the month, when a real army sergeant (retired) would evaluate their Junior ROTC battalion of middle school cadets.

"Dang," Richard muttered. Although the tip of the shoe might appear mirror-bright to some, Richard thought it was slightly dulled by those dots, which he raked off with his thumb. He considered rubbing his shoe on his pants leg and giving it a good polish. But he feared he would wrinkle the ironed crease of his pants, and he would then have two demotions to
his self-respect. Instead, he cut across the campus to the boys' room, so he could give the shoe a good polish with a paper towel. But when he ventured into the restroom, which was dark from some missing overhead lights, he found the towel dispenser empty.

"Aw, man," he moaned. Richard then looked to the stalls, where he snagged a fistful of toilet paper. In a clipped step worthy of his rank as corporal, he advanced toward a sink, only to find two boys hovering around the glow of a cigarette.

"What?" one of the boys snarled. Smoke rolled from his nose like a dragon.

"You look like a janitor," the other boy said. Laughing, he revealed a wreck of badly stained teeth.

True, Richard's uniform was khaki colored, but he would argue that he looked nothing like a janitor. After all, the corporal stripes were attached to his epaulets and his left sleeve displayed the insignia of Battalion 238, a roaring lion. And what about the row of ribbons for conduct, parade, and academic excellence? Those two boys, denizens of dark corners, would never know the last. They would never even know the inside of a high school if they didn't shape up. That was Richard's assessment of those two losers, although he knew better than to mess with them. One was named Tyrone and the other Jared, both troublemakers with the grime of their dirty deeds embedded underneath their fingernails. When they spit, they left green splotches
the size and consistency of pigeon droppings. Only last week the principal had collared them for scribbling graffiti on walls.

Richard backed away from the sink, not with the sharp military turn of a cadet but with the wariness of a boy watching out for his survival. He left the restroom and, for a moment, was startled by the hazy morning light that made him blink as his pupils struggled to adjust. He nearly ran into Desiree Sanchez, also a cadet but with the rank of sergeant. Desiree was in every class with Richard—except, of course, PE. But if she had been, she would have been the superior athlete, as she was tall, fast, and competitive. Her legs and shoulders were rocks. Running track, she would have left Richard in the dust. He was glad she was a girl.

"Hey! Watch where you're going—corporal!" Desiree scolded. "You almost stepped on my shoes."

"Oh, sorry, Desiree," Richard said. He glanced down at her polished shoes.

Desiree propped her hands on her hips. "
Sergeant
Sanchez. Not Desiree. That's just for when you and me are at the playground."

A surprised Richard gazed openmouthed at Desiree.
She pulled rank on me!
She didn't crack a smile that would have softened her eyes. In fact, her eyes darkened. Richard could not help but survey the two rows of ribbons and the red cord looped around one shoulder. He could only envy the dangling medal for
marksmanship. His eyes were weak, but hers, he figured, were eagle sharp. After all, she was on the shooting team, while he was relegated to watching from the back wall of the downstairs armory.

"What are you looking at?" Desiree asked.

"Nothing." Richard knew she must be thinking that he was staring at her breasts. That wasn't the case, but he figured that he might insult her if he said he was admiring her ribbons and not her figure. Girls, he had concluded a long time ago, were weird. He didn't know what to say. "I was just—"

Desiree didn't allow him to finish. She turned away when she heard her name called.

He completed his thought in his mind:
I was just looking at your ribbons, Desiree—really.
He admitted to himself that he was envious of her rank and the display of hardware that went with it. He was also—he swallowed an unexplainable hurt—envious because she was a better athlete, and her family was nicer than his. Sure, she appeared hard, but her mother was sweet, not like—he swallowed again—his own mother.