Lone Star Legend (12 page)

“Well, yeah. You haven’t been supportive, and it makes me unhappy, but there’s nothing I can do to change your mind about
it, and I don’t want to quit writing for Nacho Papi. And I know how you feel about it, so I can’t be around you without being
aware of your feelings. How you feel about me, for what I’m doing.” Sandy strained to speak calmly and state her case without
emotion.

“Oh, okay—so it’s
my
fault because I was honest with you, like you wanted me to be?” His words were shaky, with more than just anger. “I guess
I should have pretended to think this stupid Web site was great, so you’d be happy? So we wouldn’t be at this point now, having
this ‘talk’ about our relationship? It’s all my fault, is that it?”

Sandy became afraid that he was about to cry, and then felt teary-eyed herself. “No,” she said. “I’m not saying it’s your
fault, or that you should have said anything different. I’m just telling you, I think we’ve grown apart. We want different
things out of life, and we can’t expect each other to change our lives to conform with the other person’s ideals.”

Sandy stopped talking. The first tear had rolled down Daniel’s cheek, and her first tear wasn’t far behind. She wished, suddenly,
that she hadn’t started this. It was way more difficult than she’d expected.

“Okay, well, just stop right there.” He started talking loud and fast, words spilling out of his mouth like he was trying
to keep her from interrupting. “Because I need to talk now. You’re saying all this stuff about me conforming to your ideals,
and me not being honest, and you can stop right there, because I’ve been having some problems with you, too. I haven’t wanted
to say it, because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but you haven’t exactly been the ideal girlfriend lately, either.”

Sandy started in surprise. She opened her mouth, but Daniel didn’t let her speak. He became louder. “One, you’re always rude
to my friends. And they notice. And I’m tired of it, and I can’t cover for you anymore. Two,
you’re
the one who’s not supportive of
me
. You’ve never liked my writing, and it’s pretty obvious, and I don’t really appreciate your lack of honesty about it. And,
three, yes, your writing for that site embarrasses me. My friends have been talking about it. I didn’t want to tell you, but
now you’re forcing me. Yes, it’s embarrassing, and I wish you wouldn’t do it, but you don’t care about my feelings, so I think
we should break up.”

He finished practically on a shout that Sandy knew Matt would be able to hear from the other room. Tears were streaming down
her face now, but they were tears of anger. She couldn’t believe he was making these accusations. She knew he was only saying
these things because his feelings were hurt. But still, he was hurting her now, on purpose. And he was trying to break up
with her before she could break up with him. It was obvious.

And she was glad now. She felt like she was seeing his true colors, in all their ugly, mismatched glory.

“Oh, and another thing—we never have sex when I want to,” he blurted. “And you’re… you’re not good in bed.”

At this, Sandy finally blew her top. “You know what, Daniel? I felt bad about coming here to break up with you, but now I
don’t. Thanks for being a complete asshole about everything and making me realize that I should have dumped you a long time
ago.” She turned and walked to the door. He stood there frozen, arms still crossed on his chest and the frightening sneer
still on his face. Sandy gave him one last look and decided against saying anything else. She opened his bedroom door, went
through, and slammed it behind her.

Matt jumped in surprise as she walked through the living room. He had the TV on mute and had obviously been eavesdropping.
But Sandy didn’t care.

She exited the apartment without another word, leaving it for the last time. And it was a relief. She was bitterly happy that
she’d never have to be there again.

T
he worst part about breaking up, Sandy found herself thinking the Sunday after the break up she had initiated, wasn’t that
she missed Daniel. She didn’t, at all.

As she drove south on I-35, back toward the scene of the Chupacabra to interview the man himself, Sandy mused over the past
weekend. It wasn’t that she missed Daniel’s conversation, or his lack of it, or the mediocre sex. It was that now she didn’t
know what to do with all her spare time. And not because she’d spent so much of it with Daniel before, either. But she’d devoted
a lot of time to him, so to speak. Waiting for him to meet up with her. Waiting to hear what his plans were before she could
make her own. Waiting for his opinion before she could make a decision.

Saturday, the day before, for instance, she’d felt burned out and didn’t think she could write one more word—not for Angelica,
not for QBS, not even for her blog. So she’d gone to the bookstore. Through force of habit, she’d started with the literary
fiction, picking up titles by the same authors she always sought. After a few minutes of this, she’d realized that she wasn’t
enjoying herself, one, and that, two, it was because most of the authors she read had been introduced to her by Daniel.

Feeling rebellious, she’d gone back to the front of the store where the brighter-colored selections were piled on tables.
As she perused the popular novels, she imagined Daniel disapproving. “A little lowbrow, don’t you think?” he’d say. Or “Sandy,
please
.”

She’d ended up curled in a chair, devouring something Daniel would never approve of: a romance about a plus-sized Latina vampire
who had fallen in love with a disabled African-American werewolf from the wrong side of the tracks.

In the end, she’d left the romance at the store and gone home with slightly more serious stories. But it’d felt good at the
time, indulging in something that wasn’t on Mister MFA’s recommended reading list.

Sandy took the turnoff that led to the middle of nowhere. Having this Daniel-shaped space in her life to fill, she reflected,
wasn’t the worst problem a girl could have. Not by a long shot.

As she neared Tío Jaime’s house, she slowed down to make sure she wouldn’t miss her turn amongst the masses of cacti that
bordered mini-forests of scraggly trees. She was going back to interview the old man, this time with questions from readers.
Her plan was to do a feature called “Ask the Chupacabra,” sort of a video advice column. Tío Jaime’s first video interview
was one of the site’s most popular posts to date. Angelica loved Sandy’s advice column idea and was already talking about
building it into something more—something they could sell.

Thinking of Angelica made Sandy remember that she needed to get Tío Jaime’s signed release form. She made a mental note to
ask him for it as soon as she got to his house.

When Sandy drove up, the old man was walking out from behind the house in his usual uniform of jeans, plaid shirt, and straw
hat—with a shovel in his hand. He recognized her car immediately, again, and waved hello. Sandy waved back.

After exchanging pleasantries and small talk about the weather, the goats, and Cano’s diet, Sandy cut to the chase. “Tío Jaime,
my boss really liked that last interview I did with you, and so did our readers. I was wondering if you’d be interested in
doing another.”

The old man squinted into the distance with a slight frown on his face. “You know, m’ija, I’d really like to, but…”

Now Sandy frowned. Here it was. He was going to say no. He was going to say he wished he hadn’t done the first one.

“… but I have so much work to do while it’s still light outside, and I don’t think I’ll have time to do it all if I sit around
talking for an hour. You know?”

Sandy did know. Suddenly she felt guilty about showing up in the middle of the day and imposing on Tío Jaime in this way.
It’d been very presumptuous of her to assume he’d have nothing better to do.

He turned to look at her. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Maybe you could help me?”

The next thing she knew, Sandy was behind Tío Jaime’s house helping him dig holes and stuff tomato and chili pepper plants
into the ground. He said he didn’t mind shoveling, but that bending down hurt his back. After a few rounds of planting, Sandy
knew what he meant. Feeling lucky that she’d worn jeans and flats that day, she kneeled on the ground so he wouldn’t have
to. Then she plugged four-inch blocks of dirt into the ground until her fingernails turned black and her hair stuck to the
perspiration on her face. “Tío Jaime,” she finally said, “how many tomatoes and chili peppers do you
need
?”

“Oh, not that many,” he said. “But I like to grow extra and give them to Mrs. Sanchez down the road. She makes them into picante
sauce and gives me a few jars every year.”

By the time they were done and Tío Jaime had led her into the kitchen to wash her hands, Sandy felt like she had literally
earned the right to interview him again. He seemed to concur, because he asked if she was ready with her questions.

“Do you mind if we record outside this time?” she asked. “The porch makes a better background, I think.”

“Whatever you need to do, m’ija.”

They moved one of the kitchen chairs out next to the bench on his porch and Sandy set up her camera so that the sun was behind
it.

“Tío Jaime, like I was telling you earlier, the readers really liked your first interview.” He smiled at this, completely
bemused. “I didn’t tell them your real name, but we’re calling you the Chupacabra.” At this, the old man laughed aloud. “So
now we want to do a feature called ‘Ask the Chupacabra.’ The readers send in questions, and you answer them.”

“Well, I don’t know what they could ask that I would know the answer to,” said Tío Jaime. “I’m just an old man ranching goats.
I never went to college or anything.”

“No, don’t worry about that. I’ll just ask, and you answer naturally with the first thing that comes to mind, and if you don’t
feel comfortable we’ll stop. Does that sound okay?”

He smiled and shrugged. Encouraged, Sandy pressed Record on her camera and began. “Okay, first question. This is from a man
calling himself the Wild Juan. The question is, ‘What do chupacabras eat?’ ”

“Well, that’s dumb,” said Tío Jaime. “They eat goats.” After a pause, he added, “Goat tacos, with chile and lime. And preferably
a Tecate on the side, also with lime. Next question.”

“Next one’s from La Sirena, and it has two parts. One, she asks if chupacabras get married. Two, she asks, if she and her
boyfriend have been living together for five years and he hasn’t proposed yet, should she wait around any longer?”

Tío Jaime sat back and looked into the distance. By his side, Cano came to attention and waved his tail attentively. “Well,
not only do chupacabras get married, but sometimes they get divorced, too. As for this woman’s boyfriend, I’d have to know
more about the situation. I guess I’d have to ask what
she’s
waiting for.” There was a pause, and Sandy wondered if he was consciously putting in dramatic timing or just thinking up
what to say next. The Chupacabra continued. “If he’s been living with her for five years, obviously he’s too lazy to go out
and find anybody else. It sounds like he’s just waiting for her to get good and mad and force him to pop the question. That
way, if it doesn’t work out, he can always blame her and say it was her idea. So, the
real
question is, does she want to marry a man who’s lazy and doesn’t take responsibility for his actions? If so, she should start
nagging him right away.”

This time, Sandy turned the camera right in time to catch Cano bark his agreement. She smiled to herself as she pulled up
the next question. Her readers were going to love this interview.

A
FTER THEY WERE
done recording and Tío Jaime had served them another glass of lemonade, Sandy asked if he needed any more help around his
property. She didn’t want to do any more physical labor but felt that it was the least she could offer, considering that he
was helping her to do her job.

“No, m’ija, not right now. But come back in a week and you can help me weed that garden.”

Sandy said she would. A slight breeze blew by and lifted her hair. Strangely, the otherwise hot and still day had become breezy
on Tío Jaime’s property. Next to them on the porch, Cano had surrendered to the impulse to take a quick nap. His nose made
little whistling sounds in time with the rise and fall of his ribs as he slept. Sandy wondered if she should leave and let
the old man get back to his work. But he seemed content to sit there quietly with her, and she felt content that way, too.
It was peaceful, here on his porch. In a little while she’d have to get up and drive back into town and back to work. But
not yet.

“You know, you remind me of your aunt in some ways. Your great-aunt, I mean.”

Sandy knew he meant Aunt Linda. She waited to hear what else he’d say.

“You have a profile sort of like hers, and you remind me of her when you smile. Plus, you know, she was a writer, too.”

“She was?”

“Yes. In fact, I thought when you and your mother came here, you would see…”

He stopped talking and Sandy turned to see what had caught his attention. It was a black car pulling into the long, dusty
drive. A black BMW, in fact. Sandy watched curiously as it rolled across the gravel.

“Oh, good. You’ll get to meet Richard,” Tío Jaime said. “I didn’t think he’d be here so soon.”

Before Sandy could ask who Richard was, the man himself stopped his engine and emerged from the car. He wore a disassembled
suit: pinstriped pants and a white shirt with collar and silk tie pulled free from his neck. He was a good-looking young man
with thick black hair and black eyebrows to match, a nice firm chin, not too short—but Sandy noted that he looked upset. Or
uptight. Or just plain uppity, maybe. Like a self-important politician. Or maybe like a lawyer. Yes, a lawyer, she thought.
And then she was even more curious. She and Tío Jaime stood to meet him.

“Sandy, this is my nephew, Richard,” Tío Jaime said. “He’s a lawyer. He’s here to visit me from California. Richard, this
is Sandy. She’s Linda’s niece’s daughter. You remember Linda.”