The Same Sky (7 page)

Humberto dropped me off at our dwelling, which my grandfather had built after Hurricane Mitch consumed everything in Tegucigalpa. I had been a child when the river rose up and covered the city, leaving mud and misery in its wake. My grandfather was a shopkeeper, and he was able to salvage enough to pay for wooden slats and construct one room. He walked through the thigh-high mud to find a tin roof, which he weighted down with rocks. It’s said that Tegu never recovered from Hurricane Mitch, but there we were, Junior and I. Like most of our neighbors,
we did not have running water or a bathroom, but we did have a few bushes outside where we could relieve ourselves.

Why God made certain decisions, I could not even dream of knowing. God only gave my grandparents one child—my mother—though they had yearned for more. God sent Hurricane Mitch to Honduras, and yellow glue. Yet He also gave us the stars, the feel of the cool night on our faces. He gave me my brothers, and the way I felt when Humberto looked at me. I believed God watched over me. I was lucky in this. Many people I knew feared that God had forgotten them.

That night, the front door was closed, which was a relief. (I was always afraid it would be kicked in, our pallet and small collection of cookware gone.) But when I whispered for Junior to let me in, he did not answer. I shoved the door and it fell open. I scanned the room; all seemed in place. On the pallet, there was a lump of blankets. I approached, put my hand on my brother’s back. He was breathing deeply, fast asleep. I closed the padlock and lay next to Junior, my arm around his small body. I knew then what the end of hope smelled like: yellow glue on your brother’s breath.

10
 

Alice

T
HERE’S THE ICE
festival, of course, and New Year’s Eve—when people drive their Jeeps into the Amphitheater, place flares on them, and drive down Route 550, a winding dragon of light into town—but in Ouray, Colorado, the Fourth of July is the biggest event of the year. I woke up alone in the lumpy bed that had been my parents’, took a quick shower, and headed to my sister’s house in my red-white-and-blue flared skirt and cropped blouse. (And my red boots.)

Jane was already pulling the second sheet of cinnamon buns out of the oven. (The first lay scavenged on the stove.) It didn’t look as if she’d showered, and her pajamas were an unflattering maroon. “Hello, hello!” she cried when I slid open the screen door to the kitchen and entered.
“Wow, look at you,” she said tartly. “Lipstick and everything.”

“Thanks,” I said, though her words hadn’t exactly been a compliment.

“Here,” she said, handing me a plate. “Coffee? Eggs?”

“Hell, yes,” I said, savoring the hot cinnamon bun. “God. This tastes exactly like Mom’s.”

“It’s her recipe,” said Jane, “and her pan.”

“Wow,” I said brightly, awkwardly.

“Please, let me pour your coffee,” said Jane. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s fine,” said Jane, through gritted teeth.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I’m just tired,” she said. She ran her fingers through her hair. Her youngest, Benjamin, ran into the kitchen holding out an empty plate.

“Dad wants more!” he announced.

“I’ll get it,” I said, standing up. “Go take a shower, Jane. I can take over in here.”

“Ha!” said Jane, wresting the plate from my hands.

When Benjamin had run back outside, Jane sank to the kitchen floor.

“Jane!” I said, alarmed.

“Just let me sit,” she said. “I’ve been standing since five.”

“Why didn’t you ask me to help?” I said.

“I don’t want to have to
ask
,” spat Jane.

I filled a mug with coffee and cream, the way she liked it. I handed Jane the mug and sat next to her. The linoleum
floor was dusted with crumbs and muddy footprints. “Three is too many kids,” said Jane dully.

“Give me one,” I said.

We both started to laugh. “Which one?” said Jane.

“Any one,” I said, suddenly sad. “I just want one.”

Jane pulled me close.

“Is everything okay with you guys?” I said.

“Not really,” said Jane.

“What is it?”

“Not today,” said Jane, standing up.

“Is it Dennis?” I asked. “Is it Dad?”

“I
am
going to take a shower,” said Jane. She set her mug on the counter. “And I don’t use cream anymore,” she said. “I’m trying to be on a goddamn diet.”

“Mom said ‘goddamn’!” cried Gilmer, appearing in striped pajamas.

“Gilmer!” I said, trying to sound like a mother.

“Well, she did say ‘goddamn,’ Aunt Alice,” explained Gilmer earnestly. “We’re not allowed to use swear words in this house.”

“I think I see the Tickle Monster,” I said.

“No!” shrieked Gilmer, running outside.

“Oh, yes,” I said, starting the chase.

Fifteen minutes later, I collapsed in a deck chair by the barbecue pit. My father was snoring in the hammock, and Dennis and Jake looked grizzled, half drunk, and very happy. I put my hand on my husband’s knee and he covered it with his own. “How’s that brisket?” I asked.

“Looking good,” said Jake. “Looking very, very good.”

“That’s true,” said Dennis, nodding.

“More Tickle Monster!” called Benjamin, running toward me. I held up my hands.

“No more,” I said, shaking my head.

“More, more, more!” yelled Gilmer, his voice going thin, as if he was about to start crying.

“Sorry, honey,” I said.

“You can’t start them up and quit,” said Dennis evenly.

“Oh,” I said, chagrined. I was sweaty and annoyed, sick of running across the lawn in my tight-fitting boots. I wanted more coffee and some scrambled eggs. “Can you do it?” I asked Jake.

“Nope,” said Jake, sliding down in his lawn chair and pulling his baseball cap over his eyes.

“Get up,” said Dennis in a nasty tone.

I got up.

“Yay! Tickle Monster!” said Benjamin.

“Try to catch me now!” said Gilmer, pulling his pajama pants down and peeing in the yard. The parade-goers were assembling a block away, and a firefighter in full gear pointed to Gilmer and whooped.

“Somebody’s naked!” cried fourteen-year-old Rick, turning on the garden hose.

It was 7:55 a.m.

11
 

Carla

I
N THE MIDDLE
of the night, Junior stirred. I had been dreaming of playing with him in the mud, tossing the Frisbee an aid worker had given us. In the dream, Junior’s belly was round, his legs fat. My grandmother cooked red bean soup in the metal pot that had been stolen years ago. It was a shock to open my eyes and see my skeletal brother staring at me. “What is it?” I said.

“I’m hungry.”

I sighed. There was nothing left of the money my mother had sent. I had eaten a rotten piece of chicken at the dump and had vomited for days, so I had been wary of bringing Junior scraps of food. In the kitchen we had only empty space, but I stood. “Go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll make you something very delicious.”

His gaze was blank.

“Are you sniffing Resistol?” I asked.

He shook his head, but would not meet my eyes.

“It will hurt your brain,” I pleaded. “It will kill you, Junior. You can never go back once you begin.”

“I know,” he said sadly.

I went to the cabinet. We had a bit of cooking oil left. I had eaten a stale tortilla that morning, trading a wire spool for the food. Now I berated myself for not saving a bit for my brother. He rose from the pallet and I gathered him in my arms. “I will take care of you,” I said. He nodded, his face impassive. I wondered if he believed me.

I did not want to leave the house. I knew it was stupid—I knew the things that happened in the dark, and you can imagine them, too, I am sure—but I could not let my brother starve.

“Don’t let go of me!” said my brother as I stepped away.

“Hush,” I said. “Stay here.” I opened the door.

My home—silver hills rising to meet a dazzling sky. I felt heavy with the knowledge that the beauty was a mirage. Gangs, some made up of strangers, many consisting of boys I knew, roamed the streets. They had guns, these boys. They killed out of boredom. There were robbers, and there were people like me: so hungry that we would do what we knew was wrong to survive. There were men who wanted a woman’s body and did not care what the woman felt. I could find a man like this, just sell a few minutes of myself for food. I tried to think of another option.

I walked in the black toward Humberto’s house. If he had anything, he would give it to me. I stepped quietly, almost screaming when a mangy cat brushed against my leg,
then ran away. I was shaking and my heart beat fast. This was no way to live. It came to me like a lightning bolt:
This is no way to live
. I walked more quickly. When I arrived at Humberto’s, I peered in the window and saw that everyone was asleep.

I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t fair to wake Humberto and his family. We were all hungry, for God’s sake! I leaned against the cement wall, slid down into the dirt outside his house, hugging my knees to my chest. I wished for my mother, but I had no money for a phone call. My mother had said she would send money the week before, but the man at the Western Union insisted there was nothing in my name. I felt a creature—an ant?—crawl along my calf, then to the top of my kneecap.

There was no point in crying. I was a pragmatic girl. My brain scanned like a radio, looking for a plan. I could try to break into a house, to steal food. I could walk into the city and stand outside the Western Union until they opened. For a minute I thought about sniffing glue myself, just to quell my panic and fear. Instead, I stood up and knocked on Humberto’s door.

“Who is it?” asked dead Milton’s girlfriend, Gabriela.

“It’s Carla,” I said.

Humberto opened the door. “What’s going on?” he said. He rubbed his eyes.

“What’s going on is that I’m going to America,” I said. “Are you in or are you out?”

Humberto shook his head. “You’re crazy,” he said.

“Can I please have a small bit of food?” I said. “Junior is so hungry. Just this last time.”

“Don’t give it to her,” yelled Gabriela, the witch. Though she had been kind to me when I became a woman, even giving me a menstrual cloth to use (and wash each night), I knew Gabriela envied my youth and the way Humberto loved me. She guarded each scrap he brought home from the dump. If I were the jealous type, I would be jealous. But I knew what was meant to be.

Humberto rummaged in the cupboard, pulled out a heel of bread.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You idiot,” said Humberto. “Are you really leaving?”

“In one week,” I told him, making the decision so easily it must have been the right one. “This is not a life,” I said. “You can come with me, or I will leave you behind.”

“You idiot,” repeated Humberto, shaking his head. And then he gripped my face with both his warm hands, and he kissed me.

12
 

Alice

T
HE FOURTH OF
July parade—historic cars, the fire truck, baton twirlers, and a 4-H float—lumbered down Main Street, leaving confetti, candy wrappers, and sunburned spectators in its wake. Jane’s kids ran home by themselves, their pockets full of Jolly Rancher candies and plastic beads, while we folded the camp chairs and hauled them up Oak Street. The altitude (or maybe the festivity) was making me tired. “Remember when we used to have a float?” I said.