California Sunrise (16 page)

“You are my brother,” Juan repeated. “You owe me help.”

“I don’t owe you anything. I barely know you.”

The knock on the door startled him.

“Is something wrong, Dr. Raúl?” Graciela stuck her head into the room.

Mierda!
Of all the people ...

“No, Graciela. Everything is fine. Please go back to the front.”

“Who is that?” Juan sat in one of the office chairs after Graciela had left.

“One of the assistants.”

“She is trouble, that one.”

“On that, we agree.” Raúl took the other chair.

The men stared at each other.

What was he going to do about his brother? Hell, who
was
his brother? He looked like someone who could handle himself in a knife fight. God, he hated what weapons did to people, especially kids. He’d already patched up too many knife and bullet wounds in his internship. Violence always brought trouble, and he couldn’t have it following his brother into the clinic.

“You can’t stay here.” If he said it often enough, would Juan believe him?

“Fine. I’ll take my chances with the
federales
.” Juan stalked toward the door.

“No. Wait.” The specter of deportation chilled Raúl’s bones.

“For what? For you to decide your family is important to you?”

Raúl stood, his fists clenched. “My family has been gone from me for over a decade.
Mamá
and
Papá
left me here. Alone.”

“They wanted you to have a better life. Not wind up like me, running from everyone—the cartel, the Mexican law, the American government. You had a chance! Now look at you—a doctor. And you weren’t alone. You had Uncle Santino.”

“Right. Santino, who beat me every night for being a drain on his family. When he wasn’t beating his wife, that is. I made myself who I am in spite of my family. You could have made different choices, Juan. You were always a hothead.”

“There aren’t too many choices in Mexico, Raúl.” Juan whirled away from the door, a tight coil of flesh, before landing back in his chair. “The best parts of government are still corrupt, and drug money creeps in everywhere. The only hope is that everyone will leave you alone.”

“Why didn’t you stay out of trouble?” Raúl sat.

“Someone has to fight for the country. It can’t stay this way forever. Our ancestors built great civilizations. We should do the same.” He leaned forward, sinewy hands gripping his knees. “I need a place to stay for a little while, Raúl. That’s all I’m asking. If I go back to Mexico, they’ll kill me. I just need it to die down for a while.”

“What did you do?”

Juan’s grin changed the entire look of his face. “I may have blown up a few of their warehouses. Some people may have been hurt—important people.”

It was hard to breathe. Raúl couldn’t imagine it. His world was sane compared to dynamited buildings, dead criminals, and contract killings.

“Okay. You can stay at my condo.”

“
Gracias.
”

What had he done? If the feds ever found out, he could be sent to jail.

“I can call my lawyer—the one who was working to get you back to the States. There must be refugee status, even for Mexicans.”

Juan shook his head. “I need to go back.”

“But you could be killed. It would break
Mamá
’s and
Papá
’s hearts.”

“I know.” Juan twisted his hands. “But it can’t be helped. Sometimes, when you see something wrong, you need to stand up, be a man—even if the consequences are bad.”

“Even if they kill you?”

“Even if they kill me.”

• • •

“What’s that?” Raúl asked Juan as he set up an electronic contraption in the spare bedroom.

“Police scanner.”

“I thought the feds were after you, not the police.”

His brother shrugged. “It’s the best I can do. Sometimes the chatter is informative.” He smiled. “For example, I know that your Joe Wilson is trying to get the police union to support him in his version of ‘papers, please.’”

“That will never happen. Most of the cops are Hispanic.” Raúl followed Juan to the kitchen.

“And pretty conservative.” Juan opened and closed some of the cabinet doors.

“What are you looking for? And what are you doing?”

“You know, for a doctor, you have shitty eating habits. You need a woman. Where’s a fry pan?”

He pointed to one of the cabinets, hoping the pan was there.

“Why don’t you have one?” Juan asked.

“One what?”

“A woman. You’re smart, a doctor, and”—Juan looked him up and down—“not bad looking for a Mendez. Jorge got himself a girl, and he doesn’t have half the things going for him that you do.”

“None of your business.” His brother had no right to come into his home and tell him how to live his life.

Pans and utensils clanked as Juan assembled the tools he needed to make dinner. “We’re having fajitas. Simple. Watch and learn. Better for you than those ugly burritos you keep eating.”

“You’re a killjoy.” Raúl pulled a beer from the fridge. “Want one?”

“Not now. Maybe with dinner.”

Irritation climbed up the back of his throat. ”I’ve got some work to do. I’ll be in the living room.”

“Suit yourself.”

Settling himself with his tablet and beer, Raúl clicked on the television for background noise. Instead of reading, he stared at the news without seeing it. The first time the scanner squawked, he jumped.

One more thing his brother was imposing on his life. Maybe he’d been better off without older brothers. He was having enough trouble with one. What would three have been like?

He’d give his right arm to know.

Except he’d been given the opportunity to get to know one of his siblings, and he was squandering it by letting his irritation get the better of him.

What would Juan think of him going to a support group? Would he get all macho and tell him to grow up like his uncle had? His uncle had always followed that advice with a smack to Raúl’s face.

He heaved himself from his chair and returned to the kitchen. Savory odors of frying onion and green peppers made his stomach growl.

Juan looked up from his cooking. “Finished with your work?”

“Decided talking with you was more important. I don’t know how long I have before you get yourself killed.” His attempt at a joke fell flat, but Juan merely grinned at him.

“So what do you want to know?”

“What was it like? After you left, I mean.” Raúl sat at the kitchen table and took a long draught from his bottle.

“After they forced us out?” Tension tinged the edges of Juan’s voice. “It was all very civilized in a surreal kind of way. They ‘processed’ us—fingerprints, questionnaires—you know. Then a bus ride, and we were back where we’d started almost twenty years earlier. All of that effort for nothing.” He smacked the metal spoon on the frying pan. “Fortunately,
Mamá
and
Papá
had kept in touch with the relatives, sending them money when they could.”

“Wait. They were sending money to Mexico? We were barely surviving ourselves. How could they have done that?”

Juan’s glance was sharp. “It’s what is done. No matter how poor an immigrant is in America, they are richer than most in Mexico. We are family. We take care of each other.”

Way to pile on the guilt. While he’d sent money to his family now and then, it had been at his convenience, not a sacrifice.

“What did you do when you got there?”

“What everyone does—looked for work and a place to live.” He dished out the food. “We made it like we did here, with everyone doing lots of jobs.
Mamá
and
Papá
insisted Jorge and Javier learn a trade. It’s turned out well for them.” He put the plates on the table. “I’ll grab that beer now, okay?”

Raúl nodded. They were alike, he and his family. Hard work and determination made life possible, if not profitable. How could America turn away people like that?

Peter was right. It was better for Raúl to fight for the rights of immigrants than to spend his life angry at things he couldn’t control. Not ready to bring up the subject of support groups yet, he took a safer route.

“I went to a meeting last Saturday.”

“Oh?” Juan put a basket of warm tortillas on the table and sat. “What for?”

“We’re organizing to fight the laws being passed that make it difficult for all Hispanics to live in America—like that ‘papers, please’ law in Arizona.”

Juan nodded as he filled his tortilla with steaming meat and vegetables.

“It’s an odd mix of people—day laborers, aging activists from the Cesar Chavez days, professionals. Mostly Hispanic. Some whites.” He took a bite of the fajita. “Oh, man. Where’d you learn to cook?”

“When I first went out on my own, I was like you—eating what passes for fast food at home, too proud to do women’s work. But I missed
Mamá
’s cooking, so I had her teach me a few things. I picked up more here and there. You should do the same—or find someone to cook for you.” He laughed. “Why is it you don’t have a woman, little brother?”

Raúl took another bite of the fajita and chewed slowly.

Juan’s bottle hit the table with a clink. He stared at Raúl and waited.

Right now I don’t have one because I’m keeping you a secret.

“They tell me I’m moody.” He stood and poured water into the fry pan. “You cooked. I’ll clean.”

“Let me guess.” Juan leaned back against his chair. “You’re in therapy or something like that and don’t think a big, macho guy like me would understand.”

Raúl soaped the pan, scrubbed, rinsed, and turned it upside down on the counter. How had Juan suspected? He dried his hands, still stalling for time.

“I dated a therapist once.” Juan gestured with his beer bottle. “I was in Mexico City for a while, doing some organizing. We hit it off. She was hot. And smart. Really, really smart. That’s why she didn’t stick around with me. She could see where everything is headed.”

“And where’s that?” Raúl grabbed another beer.

“Same thing you and
Mamá
are worried about. I’m going to say the wrong thing to the wrong person and that will be it.” He sat up. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not how I want to go. I want to live a long time with a good woman, six or seven kids, and two dozen grandkids.” He shook his head. “But it’s not in the cards in my line of work.”

“Then why not give it up?” Raúl’s heart ached. This was the first conversation he’d had with Juan in over a decade. It might be the last.

“Like I said. Someone has to stand up for the honest people in Mexico.”

“Why you?” Why couldn’t anything in his screwed-up life be normal?

“It’s a good way to use all the anger I have about being deported. If I help make Mexico a better place, people won’t feel the need to leave, and families like ours won’t be torn apart.”

Raúl had nothing to say. God knew there had to be people in the world who stood up for what was right.

“I hope both your dreams come true—you build the Mexico you want and spend your old age in a seaside village surrounded by family and pretty
señoritas
.”

Juan raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

Their bottles clinked, followed by a loud squawk from Juan’s bedroom.

“Ambulance needed at 2730 Lincoln Lane. Possible heart attack.”

Alicia’s house.

• • •

Once she knew the paramedics were on the way, Alicia called Sarah.

“
Abuela.
Something’s wrong. She fell asleep in the recliner and won’t wake up. An ambulance is coming.” Her voice choked.

“You need someone for Luis. Hunter’s home. He can take care of Hannah. I’ll be right there.”

“
Gracias.
”

“Hang in there, Alicia.”

Alicia hung up the phone and got a blanket to cover her grandmother. Then she began to circle the living room, stopping to shake her grandmother’s sleeping form on every round, hoping she would wake before the paramedics arrived.

After what seemed like an hour but was only five minutes by her slow-moving wristwatch, the sound of a siren howled down the street. She dashed to the front door, flung it open, and went out on the porch, arms waving.

The paramedics rushed up. “Where?”

“Here.”

Her grandmother looked small next to the young men who worked on her.

What would happen if she died?

Fear and pain radiated through Alicia’s body, and she began to pray.

The men worked rapidly, speaking back and forth in a jargon she didn’t understand. Soon her grandmother’s fragile figure was loaded on a stretcher, and the men were pulling her out the door.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she said. “Someone’s coming to watch my son.”

“We’ll take care of her, ma’am,” one of the EMTs said.

She nodded, unable to speak. Her face felt tight, as if her skin had lost the ability to change her expression or focus her eyes.

A howl came from Luis’s room. The commotion must have awoken him, because her son’s eyes were open, focused on the light from the emergency vehicle playing across the ceiling.

She picked him up and held him close. He squirmed in her arms, but she couldn’t release his warmth. Tears dripped from her cheeks to the top of his head, and she kissed the spots where they landed.

The screen door slammed.

“In here,” she called out.

“You poor thing,” Sarah said. “Here, let me take him. Be careful while you drive.”

“He’s fussy.”

“He’s scared,” Sarah said.

“So am I.”

“Get going, then. Find out what’s wrong. We’ll be okay.”

“Thank you,
hermana
.”

She handed Luis to her sister, ran to her car, and drove to the hospital.

Watsonville had muted to a dull black-and-white photo. Even the streetlights were dim. As she approached the low, white set of buildings, her panic rose. What would she do if anything happened to
Abuela
?

The first person she saw was Raúl. A strange man stood next to him.

Raúl rushed to her and gathered her into his arms.

“How did you—”

“Police scanner.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m here for you now.”