Surviving Santiago (12 page)

“What does it say in English?” Frankie asks.

In both languages, I read the title aloud, “
Policías y para militares.
Police and . . . for military people?” It doesn't
make much sense. I read the next lines to myself because Frankie would never understand them in English.
Despite the promise of democracy and civilian rule, suspicious acts of violence continue. As usual, they are classified as street crimes.

I guess the article has something to do with the musician that was beaten up, but when I asked her after their phone conversation, Mamá said Papá had no proof. His note in the margin reads,
Guerra 1989 + Larranaga 1979
, which leaves me even more confused.
Guerra
means “war.” Larranaga sounds like someone's name.

Frankie turns to a stack of newspapers and magazines on the daybed. The top magazine is open to an article with the headline,
FOR MOTHERS OF THE DISAPPEARED, LIFE DOESN
'
T GO ON
.

Frankie reads aloud the author biography, next to a postage stamp–size color picture of Papá at the bottom of the page, “‘Marcelo Aguilar G. is the host of the weekday radio show
Oye, Nino
.' That's your father's article, right?”

“If it says so.”

“What's it like to have a famous father?”

It doesn't make him happy. Or nice. I'd imagined him showing up with an entourage to meet me at the airport, but he didn't show up at all. “I've hardly seen him since I got here,” I answer.

“Have you read any of his stuff?”

I shake my head. I haven't read his articles, just those two sentences about street crimes that make me
think I shouldn't be walking around Santiago alone, day or night.

He picks up the newspaper underneath and flips through it. On the next to last page is another picture of Papá, another article, this one called,
YOU BROKE THEM. NOW FIX THEM
. He reads slowly, running his finger along the column until he gets to the end. I watch his face for a reaction. There's a tiny curl of the lip, then a grunt, and finally, two quick nods. After setting down the newspaper with the page faceup, he lifts a pencil from the desk and opens the right-hand desk drawer. I see blank paper and some stray paperclips. He takes a piece of paper and writes down the title of the article in neat block handwriting as if working on a school assignment. A smile crosses his face. I wonder if he didn't like what Papá said at first, but got into it later, as if Papá's words changed his mind.

I stand between Frankie and the door, in case Graciela reappears. When he's done, I refold the newspaper and put everything the way we found it. I also make a mental note to read some of Papá's articles myself because it's embarrassing that Frankie has read them and his own daughter hasn't.

“Come on. Let's go outside.” I step toward the sliding door.

Still at the desk, Frankie writes something else. I squint to see the words:
Place item in right-hand drawer.
Suddenly, he glances back at me and claps his hand over the note. He folds it three times, presses the edges, and
slides it into the inside pocket of his jacket. “Gotta show you something, Tina.” He flashes his gap-toothed smile.

“What?” I ask, not smiling back. I thought he was finished with Papá's writing. And what's the item in the right-hand drawer? Before I can ask him, Frankie opens the drawer again, reaches way inside, and pulls out a half-full bottle of whiskey.

“Put it back!” I say, trying to keep my voice low and Graciela away.

“Want to see the other places they hide it?”

“No!” I snatch the bottle from Frankie's hand and shove it back into the drawer. “I already told you he has a problem.” My voice breaks. Right now, I want to kick Frankie out and never see him again.

But then he touches me under the chin, and our eyes meet. His fingers are warm, and his eyes mournful. “I'm sorry,” he says. “I do this at home all the time.”

“Raid your father's desk drawer?”

Frankie drops his hand to his side. “He prefers the inside of the toilet tank. Mamá makes me do it.”

“Why is it
your
job?”

Frankie stares at his feet. “If he catches her, he beats her. He can't beat me now. I'm too strong.” He looks up and slaps his chest. It makes a hard, hollow sound.

I imagine him standing between his parents, defending his mother. I clasp his wrist. My fingers barely go halfway around it. I focus on his eyes and move down to
the crooked bridge of his nose. “You are so brave, Frankie. Especially after he hit you.”

Frankie shrugs. “Doesn't matter, though. He goes out, begs for money, and buys more.”

“It's not your fault. You can't make him quit. They have to decide themselves.” I have the Madison Metropolitan School District's Drug and Alcohol Awareness Program to thank for the advice. I grab Frankie by his jacket sleeve and tug him outside. I don't want to talk about it anymore; he looks so unhappy. And I don't want to think about finding another of Papá's bottles in the tank of the downstairs toilet.

“So where are these birds?” he asks when I flip on the porch light.

“Here.” The wire roof glows in the light, and the bare branches cast jagged shadows onto the ground. Pablo perches on the top rung of a ladder. Víctor flies to the opposite end of the cage. I point to him. “He doesn't trust people yet.” Then I slip inside the cage. The heels of my shoes sink into mud. “Papá thinks he was abused. And”—I hold my hand toward Pablo—“the previous owner broke this one's wing so he wouldn't fly away.”

“That sucks,” Frankie says.

Pablo hops onto my hand, and I stroke his back. His claws tighten around my index finger. “How can people be so cruel?”

“Welcome to my country.”

I want to put my arms around Frankie, let him kiss me like he did the night before last, since the birds haven't cheered him up, either. But he doesn't even look at me. “How did your father get the parrots?” he asks.

“This one used to live next door.” I nod toward the house behind us, on the other side of the high fence. All I can see is its terra-cotta roof in the shadows. “He made too much noise, but Papá got him to quiet down.”

“And the other?”

“Graciela's husband brought him. He'd bitten off his foot.”

Frankie steps into the cage and stands next to me. He and the birds are so quiet that I can hear him breathe. Pablo shakes his tail feathers.

I take a deep breath. “My father has a thing for crippled birds. I think he sees himself in them.”

I expect Frankie to ask how my father became crippled, but he doesn't—just like he didn't ask me about Papá's seizure on Tuesday.

“This parrot can talk,” I say.

Frankie jerks his head toward me. “What does he say?”

“All kinds of things. He knows lots of swear words.”

“In my neighborhood everybody teaches their parrots swear words. They get together and have swearing contests with the birds.” Frankie steps close to me and leans over so his face is level with Pablo's. “Say something,” he orders.

“
Pégame un tiro ya
,” Pablo squawks.

“That's all?”

It occurs to me that Pablo didn't think up “just shoot me” on his own. My vision blurs, and in my mind is the image of a pistol in Papá's hand. I change the subject. “I was trying to teach him English, but it didn't work.”

Frankie kisses my forehead. “So that makes me smarter than a parrot.”

He holds out his finger, and Pablo hops to him. “Say, ‘I like Metallica,'” he says slowly. When Pablo doesn't respond, he tries again. And again. Víctor circles us and settles on a branch right above Frankie's head. Frankie twists around and smiles. “You! Say, ‘I like Metallica.'” Greeted with silence, Frankie turns back to me. “Maybe we need to bribe them.”

I've seen Papá give his birds grapes, so I go inside for a handful. When I return, Frankie stands nose to beak with Víctor, now on a closer branch. I poke a grape through the wire.

“I like Metallica,” Frankie says, holding up the prize.

“I like Metallica,” Víctor squawks.

I'm about to cheer when Frankie shushes me. I push the rest of the grapes through the wire, one by one. Frankie feeds a grape to Víctor and eats another one himself. Pablo, now back on the ladder, screams, “
¡Alfonso, conch'e tu madre!
”

Frankie laughs. “Okay, one for you, Mr. Jealous.” He balances a grape on the ladder, and Pablo snaps it up.

“I
think Víctor likes me,” Frankie says while we wait in line at the theater to buy tickets for
Duro de matar
. Bits of paper tumble down the street, blown by the chilly southern breeze.

“Maybe you can come over this weekend and show Papá how you got him to go near you. And talk, too.”

Frankie pops a grape into his mouth and shakes his head. “Forget it. Your old man's going to be as jealous as that other bird.”

“Pablo.” Realizing I should have borrowed Tía Ileana's old-lady wool gloves, I shove my numb hands into my pockets. “You think?”

Frankie munches another one of the grapes I snatched from the refrigerator on our way out. “Víctor wants to fly. He doesn't want to hear all the nasty stuff your father fed crazy Pablo.” He snorts.
“Pégame un tiro ya.”

I clamp my mouth shut, but my lip trembles. Pablo's words and the liquor bottle Frankie found in Papá's desk drawer tumble through my mind.

“Sorry, Tina. I shouldn't have said that. But with everything at home, I don't want to meet your father right now.” Frankie draws me into his body, blocking out the wind. “Okay?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. It's not like you don't want to see me,” I answer. Frankie squeezes me tight.

U
nlike
Gorillas in the Mist
,
Die Hard
doesn't leave me crying. We get dessert again at the
heladería
, where I try the
manjar
and discover that I like it even better than chocolate.

When we get to Papá's street, Frankie parks his bike at the corner. We walk hand in hand the half block to the house. All the lights are off.

“Good, they're in bed,” I whisper.

Frankie kisses me. I put my arms around his neck and hold him to me, to feel his soft lips against mine. They taste salty. I press my swirling stomach against his. His mouth, his body, keep me warm in the cold night air.

The light clicks on in the living room, and Frankie lets go. I glance inside at my aunt, standing next to the curtains. My father leans against her, his arm draped over her shoulders.

I grab Frankie's forearm. “There they are. Look.”

He turns away from the window. “When can I see you again?”

Last night, Papá said he wasn't working Saturday or Sunday, and he wanted to show me Valparaíso. Tía Ileana
is driving us, and we're staying overnight with some of his friends.

“I have to go out of town this weekend,” I tell him. Three days is way too long not to see Frankie. “How about Monday?”