Until I Find Julian (10 page)

The bedroom door is closed
the next morning, so Angel must be sleeping. I tear a piece of paper from the notebook and scribble a message:

A—

Went to look at a factory. Don't worry.

I won't get caught.

I leave it in the living room on the scarred table in front of the couch.

It's a straight road, but it stretches a long way in front of me. It's empty, no people, no cars, and after a while it loses its city look: no longer cement, but a dirt road that sends up swirls of dust and grit that I feel on my tongue as I walk along. I'm slower now. The sun feels as if it's burning a hole through the top of my head.

But then, ahead, I see evergreen trees, odd shaped and thin, packed together. They send cool shade across the road, and a wonderful piney smell.

On the way back, I'll step into that forest. But for now, I hope that I'm on my way to Julian.

A few minutes after I pass the forest, the smell changes. It's a choking kind of smell that makes me want to cough, that makes me want to breathe through my mouth so I don't have to take in that thick odor of fertilizer.

The factory. I see a long, low gray building with a chimney spewing yellow smoke. I watch for someone to come outside, someone who looks friendly enough to ask.

I wait a long time until I hear a whistle. It's so loud that I put my hands over my ears. The doors open; men and women pour out, coughing, and head for benches with their lunches.

Could I just go over there? I look around. No policemen anywhere that I can see. I make myself walk to one of the benches. The four women sitting there glance up, sandwiches in their hands.

I clear my throat, tasting the fertilizer. “I'm looking for my brother,” I say in Spanish, my voice hoarse.

One of the women speaks, her voice as hoarse as mine. “What's his name?” And another, “What does he look like?”

And the one sitting at the end of the bench, her hair straight down her back, says, “He looks like this kid, I bet. What's your name?”

I can hardly breathe. “Mateo.”

“Dark eyes…” She raises her hand to her head. “Hair…”

She doesn't want to say every-which-way hair.

“And,” she goes on, “his name is Julian.”

I sink down on the edge of the bench next to her. I can't talk. I can't open my mouth. I can't say a word.

She takes a bite from her sandwich. “You remember?” she asks the others.

They shake their heads, chewing now, but they look at me carefully.

The woman knows. I watch her. I wait.

“He worked here, I remember,” she says. “A nice boy. A good boy. Gone now.” She takes another bite.

My words rush out. “But where is he?”

“I don't know, child.”

“Which way did he go?”

I can see she's becoming irritated, but I can't help that.

I point toward the road. Is it the way I've come, or do I have to go farther?

She tosses the paper bag over her shoulder. It hits the litter basket, falls back, and lands on the ground. If it hadn't been for Sal's food, I would have gone after it, eaten that crust and been glad to have it.

But one of the other women takes pity on me. “I think this way.” She points to the road, to the way I've come.

“Do you remember anything else?” Any tiny piece of information, almost like one of the chunks of chicken in Mami's soup, will make a difference.

But the factory whistle blasts again. The women stand. They have to go back to work.

Next to me, a woman puts her hand on my shoulder. “I think he said he owes someone.”

I hear the slap of
my sneakers—
He owed someone.
And why do I keep thinking of the miserable woman with the broom?

The sound of my breath—
What kind of trouble is he in?

Ahead are the green trees, bending toward me on both sides of the road.

I run off the road, onto a much softer bed of sand and needles; I breathe in the sharp smell of the pines and slow down.

Julian would love this spot. At home, Mami will be sewing at the kitchen table, worrying about him, worrying about money…

Worrying about me.

I touch Abuelita's medal.

The wind whispers to the branches with a sound like breaking glass. I veer toward a small path, putting one foot in front of the other.

Something moves.

I stand entirely still.

It's a deer, her color almost orange under the trees, her tail white, her ears high. She reaches up to pull a branch closer to her so she can nibble at the leaves.

For just that moment, all the worry melts out of me. How lucky I am to see her, to be here in this hidden world, to write about it someday.

I hear something and move behind the nearest tree, a tall one with zigzag branches. A twig gently scratches my cheek, and I reach up to touch it.

There's silence.

I wait for what seems forever; then I raise my head slowly, my hands grasping the trunk.

The deer is still there, no longer feeding. Her head is up, her ears twitching, her great dark eyes staring. She's heard what I heard.

There's a screech. I jump, almost darting away, then stare up into the tree. A large bird perches near the top, its yellow talons wrapped around a branch; its eyes are hooded, angry-looking. A hawk, I think. It blinks slowly; then it glides away and the deer jumps effortlessly over a fallen branch.

Both are gone and I'm alone.

But not quite.

I hear footsteps now, scratchy against the pine needles, so I stay where I am. A woman comes down the narrow path. Her streaked hair is swept up in back with a comb, and she's wearing boots.

She moves forward away from me, dropping fistfuls of seeds as she walks. The seeds are black, striped; I know what they are: tall yellow sunflowers grow from those seeds.

I follow the woman.

Why do I do things like this? It will surely get me caught.

Still, I raise one foot and then the other as I walk, so the swish of the sand and the pine needles is quiet.

The woman takes a long time going down that winding path, the pine bending over us. She stops, the seeds spilling through her fingers.

Something hisses.

I stand on tiptoes to see a gray striped cat, its back arched. It's much larger than the stray at home. It must be a bobcat.

The woman waits as the bobcat disappears up a narrow path, thick with fallen needles, and she follows slowly, giving it room.

I go after her, watching as she tosses more seeds; then I take another path, narrower still, veering away from her to be sure she doesn't turn and spot me.

I circle around a few straggly bushes, arms out to feel the branches, and then jump over a silvery rock.

I picture Julian here. I remember once walking along the creek together. I took big steps, trying to keep up with him, and he pointed to a silver fish swimming along, its tail flipping out of the water.

Julian and I smiled at each other, picturing it safe from our fishing poles.
Be safe, Julian.

Just beyond me is a pile of gray rocks, and a narrow opening.

A cave?

I walk toward it quietly, shuffling through millions of old pine needles and sand, staring at the narrow slit in the rocks.

Suppose an animal lives in that cave?

The bobcat? A coyote?

I have to go back. Maybe I could work at the food store again, although it doesn't need sweeping now; it doesn't need dusting.

And Angel will be waiting for me. I wonder about her.

All I know after all this time is that she has a brother, Diego, and yes, a grandfather.

It's hard to find my way out. One path leads to another, and then to another.

I begin to run again, the pine needles scuffing up. But I'm not so far from the road, I'm sure of it; I hear the sound of cars rolling along on the pavement, the beeping of a horn, a dog barking faintly.

I follow those sounds until I find the road, a car whizzing past.

I head for home.

Home?

It's amazing that I'm thinking about the house that way. We shouldn't even be there. And suppose we're caught?

What a long day—the factory, the women having sandwiches at the picnic table, one of them knowing Julian. I think of the pines as I head away from them, losing that clean, clear smell. I wish I could show the forest to Julian.

But then I stop. Julian lived here, right in that house, going back and forth to the factory.

He'd have seen this pine forest.

Wouldn't he have walked here the way I have?

And if he's still somewhere nearby, wouldn't he come back to walk along those needle-strewn paths?

Unless he's gone.

But there's something else: the woman with her streaked hair caught up in a large clip, her boots, the sunflower seeds she dropped for the animals in the forest.

I've seen her before, haven't I?

I stop in the middle of the road, the black tar sticky in the heat. She was at the unfinished building, standing there.

And she was crying.

I wonder why.

As I turn into the
alley, I see a man and a woman standing halfway down, looking up…

Toward our house?

The woman has a camera. Is she taking a picture? Do they want to move in?

My heart bounces up into my throat.

I back away and go around to the front. Opening the door quietly, I slip inside.

Halfway through the living room, I hear the bedroom door slam. It's so loud, I wonder if the man and woman outside can hear it. Do they wonder who's slamming a door in an empty house?

“Angel?” I whisper.

She doesn't answer.

I put my nose up to the closed door. “People are outside.”

She opens the door a crack, her eyes flashing.

“In the alley,” I say. “Two of them.”

“I don't care.”

I push my foot in so she can't slam the door again. “What's the matter with you?”