The Guardians (16 page)

While I waited up, hoping Gabo would just come home on his own, all kinds of fears crossed my mind. I'd heard somewhere that there was a shortage of priests lately. Maybe they were resorting to drastic measures now to keep the numbers up. Sequestering undocumented orphan boys like my Gabo with promises of being taken care of here for now and by God for eternity. I'm not trying to be a smart-ass. All we want is our buen muchacho to come home—me and la Winnie Tuerta. One night she was whimpering outside Gabo's bedroom door. We both slept on the couch, like we expected him any second.

GABO

Most Holy Padre en Jesús Cristo:

Primero, thank you for delivering me from the possibility of going to prison. Santo mío, I am sinking. Pray for me.

“Turn these stones into bread,” Satanás told Our Lord while He fasted in el desierto. Use God to help you, is what he meant. Jesus refused. Not I, Señor Santo. I fell into temptation as easily as a rabbit falls into a trap.

The dawn when el Abuelo Milton came for me, he let me drive his truck from the police station to his house. All the way el Abuelo Milton would not stop casting aspersions on El Toro.
“CABRONES LIKE HIM WOULD STEAL FROM THEIR OWN GRANDMOTHER,
”el señor abuelo said, riding next to me. (He looks like Don Quixote, Padre Pío. One day I will finish reading that book. But, as you know, my mind is consumed lately.) El abuelito was right about the greed of the Palominos. Jesse had gotten my new sports shoes but El Toro had taken the medalla my father left me. It was of Saint Christopher, the santo of travelers. My mamá gave it to him. It was all I had that El Toro said was worth anything. It did not even fit around El Toro's fat neck but he took it anyway.

As soon as we were in the house of el abuelo I ran to the bathroom, sick, mostly from self-disgust. When I came out he was fumbling around at the stove scrambling up eggs. “
MAN DOES NOT LIVE BY BREAD ALONE,
”he said out of nowhere.

I stopped in my tracks, “Sí, Abuelo. Man shall not live by bread alone… .”

“
BUT BY HUEVOS AND SOME CAFECITO, TOO,
” el Abuelo Milton said, pulling up a chair at the mesita for me, “
SO COME AND EAT. áNDALE,

CARNALITO
.”

The toast was burned y los eggs dry. He served us both café from a little pot on the stove that looked like it came from the cowboy campfire days. It was so tarnished you could not see its original color. The coffee tasted like high-octane. I never eat breakfast but I ate like I had just come back from forty days in the desert, wiping my plate with a piece of crust. I was so grateful for my freedom. After I washed the dishes, I called in to work.

But it was el abuelo who telephoned my tía. “
LET ME START BREAKIN’ THE NEWS TO HER,
” he said. He told my aunt I had spent the night at his place. An explanation to come later—or maybe not—he added. It would be up to me, he said afterward, letting me know I could take him into my confidence. I imagined mi tía Regina at home yelling after they hung up. She would yell until she scared away la Winnie, all the birds and creatures around and she became hoarse. By the time I got home, so tired of being angry, she would not even speak to me. That was when I decided to go to see Father Juan Bosco. He offered to take me in; at least until my tía calmed down.

Mientras, with el viejito, he seemed determined that we should bond. “
WHY DON'T YOU TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR PEOPLE DURING LA REVOLUCI
O
N? FOR EXAMPLE, MY JEFITO FOUGHT WITH PANCHO VILLA.
…” (Sí, Su Reverencia, he shouts to the point of hurting uno's eardrums so that I must put my fingers in my ears. He cannot see me, anyway.) Old people liked to talk about el bandido Pancho Villa turned revolucionario. I tried to recall the cuentos I had heard about my great-grandfather Metatron's hacienda. Pancho Villa's men had ransacked his home when he was a little boy. They pulled down los chandeliers and even carried off the ornate roperos and brass beds from Spain. Later, the new government gave most of the land to the peons who worked on it. “All this made my papi's grandfather grow up to be a bitter man,” I said.

“
YOU SEE HOW THAT WORKS, MUCHACHO?
” El abuelo was all smiles, as if the fact that my ancestors and his father possibly were enemies somehow now made us related. I scratched my head. What difference
did it make if I descended from once-great landowners? My family's story was not like that of García Márquez's Buendía family—one generation tied to the next in a magical Latino country Nor was I como el gringüito Harry Potter—with all kinds of tricks up my sleeve to impress people.

“I am not going to be one more invisible Mexican here picking up dirty dishes in restaurants,” my papá told my aunt the last time she asked him to stay “My people back home need me and I need them.”

“OKAY, OKAY,
”el abuelo finally said, finding his chair and sitting back down.
“THE TRUTH WAS MY FATHER NEVER EVEN MET PANCHO VILLA… .
”Then he cheered himself up again.
“BUT HE WAS A TRUE REVOLUTIONARY … YOU CAN BELIEVE THAT.
”

My father, too, I thought. The old man did not have to go so far back to make his point, whatever it was. La Revolución had not ended México's problems. And that was the purpose for a revolution, was it not, Santito? So I told him about my papá, not to boast but because I think he is the bravest man I will ever know. “My father fought in the highlands of Guerrero,” I said. “That was before I was born.”

El abuelo's ears perked up.
“IS THAT RIGHT?
”he said.

“I don't know much, Don Abuelo Milton,” I said, “but the government had once granted the families there the rights to produce timber. Pero outside companies came in and took over. When the communities rose up in protest, the military came. My papá went to join the fight. In his youth, he said he was an idealist. Later, los narcos went and cultivated drugs. They brought wealth to the region but also engendered greed among the local officials. The families that had always lived there were forced to migrate in order to find work.”

“ENGENDERED, EH?
”

“Engendrar
… It means …”

“I KNOW WHAT IT MEANS, SON,
”el viejito said, tapping la mesita with his long, skinny fingers.
“BILINGUAL AND A SMART-ASS, HUH?
”

“Disculpe, Don Abuelo Milton,” I said. But I still wondered what his point was. “So, are you saying that it is okay to break the law if you think the government is wrong?”

El viejito was quiet for a few moments. He stroked his cottony beard as if realizing that maybe I was not as confused as I seemed by getting
myself almost arrested. Then he said,
“NEVER MIND ALL THAT FOR NOW,

CARNALITO. WHEN YOU GET READY TO GO ON HOME, I'LL LEND YOU MY TROCA. BRING IT BACK WHEN YOU CAN. MEANWHILE, YOU KEEP YOURSELF OUT OF TROUBLE, YOU HEAR ME?
”

Su Servidor sin Mérito

REGINA

Soon as it starts to warm up it's always something. Pero los insects are invincible.

Nobody knew about the Moth Destroyer. (Except Gabo, who didn't approve.) That's the name of my invention. With so many animal-rights people about, it wasn't like I thought I could go on the Home Shopping Network with my manual exterminating tool. It's a contraption I rigged one night when I was sure the moths were about to carry away my house and me with it. Although the Moth Destroyer is not patented, here is how it's made: It consists of three fly swatters arranged fanlike and wrapped tight with electrical tape to a paint roller stick.

I had tired myself out swinging fly swatters and rolled-up newspapers, using bug spray, and even going after them with a handheld vacuum. “It sucks 'em right up in midflight,” I had said to my nephew one morning, all excited about my newest line of defense.

“That's cruel,” el Gabito replied, who doesn't seem to be bothered by the moths or any of the other insects that mob the house.

“It's nothing bugs wouldn't do to us if they had the technology,” I said, a little disappointed that he didn't have any interest in joining my crusade.

Above all, ants are my nemeses. Last summer they bit me up so bad in the garden I ended up driving myself to an emergency clinic in Canutillo, where half the time the doctor is out. This time the doctor was in. We don't have doctors in Cabuche. I don't like to think of the war the ants have declared on me, because they are winning. Eventually this will mean the end of my planting.

Next, I'll have the centipedes to worry about. These are not ordinary centipedes, neither, whatever that could mean. Flying ants, mice with bushy tails, low-flying bats, tarantulas, tiny lizards, and underground ranas that only come out after the rains. They quack. Don't even get me started on the arachnids. It's like Jurassic Park. A couple of weeks ago I woke up with a scorpion crawling around in my ear. I pulled it out without realizing what was stirring in there. I turned on the light. It was scrambling along my pillow, injured. I had broken off its tail. With all my screaming, Gabo came running. Before I was able to come down on the scorpion, my sobrino caught it in an empty coffee can. He slapped the lid on it and took it outside. I was pretty sure the scorpion would die anyway, with no tail to defend itself with, but I didn't say nothing to Gabo. My nephew is now calling his coffee can Salva Insectos. Or “Bug Catcher,” in English, if he decides to patent it, he says. He keeps it next to his bed, ready for my next scream.

People have heard about the time of the butterflies—like in Man-zanillo, México, when the monarchs fill the skies with their shimmering flutter. But around here what we have is the Season of the Moths. And they are not associated with rebirth, like the butterfly that comes out of its cocoon. Here moths mean death is around. That's when I go on moth patrol.

And during moth season this year was when I was caught in my boxers by none other than Miguel. At least he didn't find me pretending to sing karaoke like I was doing earlier that evening. But the humiliations were adding up. There'd been the dropped pie in the parking lot. Then there was the Fanta mustache that Sunday at el abuelo's that he never told me about. I discovered it when I got home and took a look in the mirror.

Now he saw my legs.

That evening, with my Gabo still away, I was standing on the back of the couch, in bare feet, toes gripping on for dear life. With my weapon in both hands, I was just about to aim for a moth—I'd never seen one so big. It was plastered on the ceiling fan like a wet maple leaf. Just then I heard a deep voice out of nowhere say, “She's armed and considered dangerous.” Because it was pitch dark I couldn't see it was Miguel peering in through the window. But he could plainly see me. With Gabo being away, Miguel had come to check on things. I lost my balance and went flying forward with the giant moth swatter. Meanwhile, Miguel was outside being attacked. “Hey! Will you let me in already?” he called, running toward the door. “It's terrible out here!”

As soon as I got myself together (which wasn't too easy with the bruised shin I got against the coffee table), I went over and pulled him in quickly slamming the door behind him. “I think you got a wasps’ nest under the vigas,” he said. “Something real big was buzzing around me out there. And it wasn't alone.” It seemed hard to believe, but Miguel was more afraid of bugs than me. Sitting down on the arm of the couch, he put his hand to his heart to catch his breath. “I could use a Valium,” he said. Where was I going to get Valium?

“I've got some aspirin,” I offered. “I heard that's good for men to prevent heart attacks, after a certain age.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not quite that age yet,” he cracked. That was one wisecrack too many I had let slide. I was about to put that man in his place when I noticed he was staring at me. Not just at my face, neither. In all the commotion over our shared insect terror, I forgot that I was hardly dressed for company. Hardly dressed at all. As usual when alone, I was in boxers and a skimpy T-shirt. I ran to the bedroom to change.

It was too late to try to impress him with the new dress I had just bought at Sears. The only things I'd ever gotten there before were appliances. Not the big ones, neither. Just the handheld size. The big ones, like everything else, came from las segundas. I ended up putting on the jeans and blouse I'd been wearing earlier, when I cleaned the oven. My mother had always said that the older a woman got, the more she had to cover up. These covered me up pretty good. When I finally got the nerve to come back out, Miguel was still there. He was still looking, too. I almost made an about-face and went back in my bedroom. But then I said to myself, Steady, girl, you have company. Don't freak out.