Amigoland (31 page)

Don Fidencio sat back and crossed his arms. No one spoke for a long time, unsure if he would remember more.

Finally the old woman dropped her hands to the table. “At least we should give thanks that it turned out in this manner, that
they didn’t take you away to live with their people.”

“Still, the way it happened,” he said.

“Some other way and you might never have returned to this place.”

He knew he had made up most of what he’d said, but now he wasn’t exactly sure which part this was. Maybe his grandfather had
told him some of these details. He wondered if he hadn’t confused some of his own story with the one he’d heard as a young
boy. Or if it wasn’t the other way around. If it wasn’t really his grandfather’s story mixed up with his own, which would
mean he might not have had the accident in the yard and then the other one in the hotel room. It was possible, he thought.
And why not? Why couldn’t he have imagined one for the other, then mixed up which was which? If he had trouble knowing when
his dreams weren’t real, why couldn’t the same happen when he was awake? But then he remembered that one of the accidents
led to him being locked up in that place and all because of The Son Of A Bitch, whatever his name was. So no, it had happened
to him at least once, that he could clearly remember. But the rest?

No one had said anything for the last minute or so, making the silence and its uneasiness all the more obvious. It seemed
the only thing left for him to do now was open his eyes.

O
n the way back to the hotel, Isidro remembered a shorter route that avoided the long loop around town and instead cut through
the country, skirting alongside the orange groves that buzzed with workers up in and around the base of the trees. Don Celestino
and Socorro held hands but spoke very little along the way. They kept all four windows rolled down in order to stay somewhat
cool on what was easily the hottest day of their trip. Then later, when there was another vehicle on the road, usually a truck
loaded with oranges, they would quickly roll up the windows on the driver’s side until the dust had settled behind them.

Once they were back in town, Isidro took some of the less-busy streets until he pulled up in front of the jardin. Don Celestino
paid him for his services, including a little extra for his efforts in locating the ranchito, and reminded him to come around
early in the morning. After stopping for dinner in the same restaurant as the first day, they crossed the street and walked
to a pharmacy so Socorro could buy a calling card. Back in the jardin, he waited on a bench near the pay phone while she dialed
her mother’s number. The phone was still ringing when she smiled back at him, then cupped a hand over her other ear and turned
away to say hello.

As Don Celestino had missed his afternoon nap, he was having trouble keeping his eyes open. Their visit had lasted much longer
than he had imagined it would. The lunch had led to coffee and more talking, mainly between his brother and the old woman.
Twice more she invited him to spend the night, forgetting that he had already accepted her offer. Don Celestino finally stood
up and excused himself and Socorro, saying they’d be back early tomorrow morning. Now he worried if he had done wrong in leaving
his brother out there. If he fell or got sick in the middle of the night, they probably wouldn’t have a doctor nearby. Though
his brother wouldn’t need his medicine again until the morning, Don Celestino would have felt better knowing he hadn’t left
the pills back at the hotel. They had come all this way with him still healthy, and he could just imagine getting back the
next morning and learning that something terrible had happened to him. Then how would he explain it to Amalia? Against your
wishes we took your father from the nursing home and went to Mexico, but then left him to spend the night at a ranchito with
a confused old woman and her granddaughter, and it just happened that he got sick on us. What did she care about some old
promise her father had made to their grandfather a lifetime ago?

“That was fast,” he said when she came back. “Was she mad?”

“She wasn’t the one who answered,” Socorro said, and sat next to him on the bench.

“So you talked with your tía?”

“No, with my brother Marcos. He came to visit the day after we left.”

“And he plans to spend some time with your mother?”

“He said two more days,” she said, “but that before he leaves he wants to meet you.”

S
he hadn’t wanted to exactly, but she didn’t want to tell him no either. They were supposed to be packing, then checking out
of the hotel, then finding the driver, then going for his brother even though they had promised to let him stay the night,
and then finally heading to the station so they could take the next bus to Ciudad Victoria. Once they were back in the room,
though, he had started with a little kiss on her cheek, followed by an innocent-enough hug, but then another kiss behind her
ear and a longer one at the back of her neck, near her shoulders, and finally one on the lips as tender as the first. And
once he had so easily undone the metal fasteners, she knew they wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon.

Only when the evening light had dimmed and he was holding her from behind did it seem there was time for her to say anything.
“But I thought that was why we came back to the room?”

“It was, but you saw how it got late on us.”

“You were the one who said it wouldn’t take long.”

“Yes, but if we leave now, we’ll be on the bus all night, then get there tired, and what good will that do us?”

“Then tomorrow, when we get back?”

“Maybe. Remember, I have to take Fidencio across. Who knows what kind of a fight he’s going to give me.”

“And after that?”

“If it’s not too late. You saw how long it took us to get here.”

“That was because we left late. If we leave early, there should still be light.”

He didn’t respond because it didn’t seem her comment needed a response. Right now what he wanted was to hold her in his arms.
How was he supposed to know when the first bus would pull out of Linares and after so many stops arrive in Ciudad Victoria,
only so they could wait around for the next bus to take them the rest of the way to Matamoros? After being intimate, his favorite
part was the time when he could relax and be grateful they had found each other and could be together in this way. Was that
asking so much, to be able to enjoy this quiet moment?

“Then you don’t want to?”

“I didn’t say that,” he answered, opening his eyes once again. “We go to sleep now, and tomorrow we see how things turn out,
that’s what I meant.”

“Say if you don’t want to meet him.”

“You were the one who at first didn’t want me to meet your family.” He pulled away some and turned over onto his back; it
was clear that she wasn’t going to let him enjoy the moment. She stayed where she was, as if she had failed to notice his
retreat or, if she had, that it didn’t matter.

“That was before, with my mother and my tía, the way they are. This is different with my brother.”

“And how do you want me to know how they do things in your family, when you tell me ‘no’ and then suddenly you tell me ‘yes’?
At least I told you how things were from the beginning.”

But he did know, and knew that she knew that he knew. So why pretend? She had explained to him how her mother had been against
the relationship before she could even invite him to come over to the house. She remembered telling him that maybe someday
he’d be welcome, if one of her brothers could change her mother’s mind, at least get her to accept him. And now Marcos, her
youngest brother, was here, so why was it such a mystery that she would want them to meet? Even more, he knew the reason his
children were neither for nor against them was because he had avoided telling them anything for fear of how they would react.
So there was nothing to say about the relationship, since for them it didn’t exist.

“Tell me what’s going to happen with us, Celestino,” she said a few minutes later. “After we get back.”

Earlier he had turned the other way, onto his side, so now they had their backs to each other. Lying there in the dark and
with the drone of the air conditioner, she wanted to believe that he could have somehow dozed off, but she knew better.

D
on Fidencio woke up early the next day with his arms and legs wrapped around the extra pillow. Though the shades were drawn
and only the bathroom light was on, he was pretty sure it was morning. There was no partitioning curtain or another old man
in the room; his own bed was missing the rails that the aides raised every night and then had to come back to lower from one
side each time he had to trudge over to the toilet. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of something clanging atop the stove
that he finally recalled where he was. He smiled for only a second before he let go of the pillow and stuck his hand under
the covers and reached for his crotch. Then he patted the mattress under him and on either side. The pillow, he remembered,
had been between his legs. All of them were dry, though. In his old head he tried again to understand how it was that two
accidents could still be considered accidents. He thanked God that the last one had happened away from that place, away from
where they would have forced him to start wearing the diapers that the rest of them did, and from there how long would it
be before they put him in a wheelchair or started spoon-feeding him at The Table Of Mutes? Since arriving there he’d seen
men much younger than himself lose control of their bodies. Their eyes lost all correspondence with the person behind them,
not to mention with the person in front of them. Their bowels gave way or simply shut down for good. They had to be fed once,
then again because their mouths would open before they chewed the food. And he thanked God even more — lying down and not
on his bare knees only because he worried about ever standing up again — that this last accident had happened someplace other
than in his daughter’s house, where he would have never heard the end of it.

With much sacrifice, he sat up in bed and placed his feet on the floor. As soon as he felt the coolness of the cement, he
knew that he’d forgotten to wear the padded socks his doctor had recommended. Wasn’t it enough that he could remember to brush
his teeth and comb his hair and almost always pull up his zipper and that he wasn’t telling the same story over and over like
the one who liked to tell everybody about his ugly finger? At least his grandfather’s story had been handed down to him and
he was only trying to keep it from slipping away, though he never imagined having to retell it with so much detail. His throat
still felt raw from talking so much the day before. After his brother and the girl had left, he had made up so many things
he couldn’t say where the truth ended and the less-truthful parts began, so that with time it all became the same to him.

He grabbed his cigarettes and lighter off the nightstand and shuffled to the bathroom to take care of his morning business.
Once he had turned around and backed up some, he pushed his boxers down past his knees and, holding on to the sink, lowered
himself onto the pot. As soon as he was comfortable, he lit his first cigarette, making sure to keep his arm extended so the
ashes wouldn’t fall on his underwear. What could be more pitiful than an old man spending his last days wearing underwear
with burn marks on them? These were the new pair the girl had bought for him after his accident. They came with what looked
like tiny alligators on them. At least that was what he thought when he first saw them — now he couldn’t tell if they were
lizards. Carmen had offered to wash his clothes later today. He would have to ask her then — alligators or lizards? A man
should know what he has on his underwear. For now he would say they were alligators.

From where he was sitting, he reached into the sink and tapped off the ashes. It seemed years since he had smoked indoors,
much less while on the pot. Before it used to be that there was always someone watching. It was a miracle that he had been
able to get out through the back gate. Or that he had been outside when his brother came around. If it had been drizzling,
as it looked like it might, he would have stayed inside and waited for later. Or even that his accident in the hotel bed hadn’t
been something worse like another stroke that might have landed him in the hospital and from there back in the nursing home.
He realized that it was only by a miracle of God that he was so far away from that place and all those strangers. And really,
how many miracles could one old man expect to have?

A
s he had grown used to for this last year, Don Celestino woke up alone the next morning. It took him a few seconds to recall
that he hadn’t gone to bed alone, though. The lights were still off, but he could make out the shape of his pants on the chair.
At first he thought she might be in the bathroom; the door was half shut. It was possible that she’d gotten up to relieve
herself and figured it wasn’t worth closing the door the whole way. But she was also modest when it came to her body, preferring
the room as dark as possible when they were intimate or, if it was during the day, as it usually was at his house, for them
to stay under the covers. At least if there were some sound, any little bit, coming from that part of the room. How many minutes
had gone by now? Five? Ten? These last few mornings he’d been the one to wake up first, much earlier and more alert. It was
still dark outside. The hotel didn’t have a restaurant and the lights were off in the lobby. She wouldn’t have thought to
go out for a walk at this early hour. He had a feeling he should get up to see where she was, but he also sensed that he might
be alone for more obvious reasons.

“Socorro,” he called out finally.

He did it again a few seconds later, but still with no response. In the harsh light of the bathroom, he found that she had
taken her brush and a few toiletries and had left the clutter that was on his side of the bathroom vanity. The area was wiped
clean, with no sign that she had ever actually been there. The handwritten note attached to the mirror was all that she had
left behind: