Until I Find Julian (11 page)

“You're the matter,” she says. “You've been gone forever. How was I to know if you weren't caught somewhere? Never coming back?” She shoves her hair behind her ears.

I look toward the living room and see my note on the table. An empty soda bottle rests on top of it. How could she not have seen it?

“Look.” I point to the note. “I told you where I was going.”

She shakes her head.

“Under the soda bottle.”

She pushes the door open, cranes her neck, and glances at the table. “I didn't see it.”

She had to have seen it.

I hesitate.

I look from the table and then at her.

She steps away from the door, then tries to close it.

“No.” I'm almost shouting, my foot holding the door open. “Tell me what's going on with you.”

“Nothing at all.” Her nose is in the air. She sees that I'm not going to let her close the door, so she pulls it open and stamps into the kitchen as if I don't exist.

I lean my head against the wall for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Then I grab my writing book and follow her. I slide onto a chair, the book in front of me. I act as if everything is all right. “I'm going to write some words here.” I smooth out a page. “It's time I learned more English.”

“A waste of time.”

“You don't have to write anything, Angel. Just spell out a few words.” I slide the book toward her.

“I'm too tired.”

“You could help me,” I begin, but I'm saying it to her back.

She's gotten up from her chair and lifted the curtain at the bottom of the window an inch or so. She stares out at the alley. “There's no one there.”

“They're gone, then.” I'd forgotten all about them. “Help me, Angel.” I try to say it so she doesn't know how angry I am.

She sinks down on the chair again. “You should learn to say the words before you write them down, Matty.” Fresh voice.

I'm ready to explode. “All you do is hang out.”

She uncurls her bare feet from underneath her and goes into the living room.

“You could just—” I begin, but she brushes past me and goes back into the bedroom. She doesn't bother to shut the door and I can see she's grabbing her bag and the sweater she picked up in the desert.

Stamping into the kitchen, she takes a little of Sal's money from the table. “I'll pay you back; don't worry.” She slams out the door.

I watch from the window. She runs along the alley, her bag bouncing on her shoulder, and turns the corner. Where is she going?

I can do that too.

I go out the front door.

It's really late now, and the streets are empty: no people, no cars. It's not that dark, though, so I run all the way back to the pine trees.

I take that small path, breathing in the sharp piney smell to calm myself. A small animal crashes away from me.

I sink down and huddle under one of the trees. What's wrong with Angel?

Last night, everything was different. She pulled me outside in the yard, past the junk that littered the lawn, and showed me small cactus flowers that were blooming under a rusted-out table.

“You can hardly see them in the dark,” I said.

She nodded. “I couldn't wait until tomorrow, though. Don't they look beautiful?”

She was smiling at me, happy.

Weird.

And another thing. She cleaned the whole kitchen during the morning while I was gone; I saw that. She scrubbed the last of the cereal stains off the floor and the fingerprints off the cabinets.

I sit under the tree for a long time. I'm so quiet now that I hear the small noises the forest makes: the swish of the branches, a soft hoot. I look up slowly, moving my head an inch at a time, and I see an owl, feathers so soft, yellow eyes blinking.

Suppose Angel doesn't come back?

Angel, who helped me cross the river, who shared soup with me.

Angel with her bag over her shoulder.

Was she heading toward the train station?

I picture her climbing onto a train just before it begins to move.

Angel sitting on one of those seats next to the window, napping while the engine carries her south.

Angel gone.

Would she do that?

I scramble up and run through the trees, down the narrow path where I saw the deer. I veer onto the street, my sneakers slapping the pavement, my breath loud in my ears.

I see that woman again; this time her hair hangs straight down her back. She carries an umbrella, swinging it along in the dark.

Never mind that she sees me, an illegal. I'm fast and I'm away from her.

Angel!

I have to make sure Angel is still there.

I circle a telephone pole
and a pair of garbage cans, dash across the yard, and push open the kitchen door, not even bothering to close it behind me. Fingers crossed, I call, “I'm back, Angel,” and stop to catch my breath.

I walk through the house, holding my side. The bedroom is neat without Angel's bag and her things on the floor.

Empty.

Everything is completely quiet.

“Angel?” It almost sounds as if my voice is echoing. “It's Matty. I'm here.”

Where is she?

In the kitchen, I sink onto a chair. She's going to take the train south. Maybe she'll go back over the border. She knows how to do that.

I race back through the living room, slip on the rug, right myself, and tear out the front door.

I don't care who sees me….

I have to find her before she gets on a train.

I stumble over the curb, stubbing my toe. My eyes tear. I don't even know her last name.

Suppose I never see her again?

The train station is a block ahead now; I raise my head, searching. I take the steps to the platform two at a time, and slide onto the nearest bench, my chest heaving. Sit, I tell myself, just for a second.

From there, I can see the length of the station. It's totally empty; a few overhead lights cast a yellow glow across the platform and shine on the tracks. It's late; no one's there…

Except for the figure huddled on a wooden bench, under one of the lights, all the way down at the end.

I stare at the tracks. They run a long way, partners, next to each other, before they disappear into the dark. There's no train in sight. I have a few minutes to figure things out, so I stay where I am, thinking. What can I say that will make her come back?

But then I go toward her, still not sure what will make her change her mind. I sit down next to her, but I can't think of a single word.

Her feet are up on the bench, her arms circling her knees. Her fingers and hair are so much cleaner than the first time I saw her.

“Let's go home,” I say.

She doesn't answer.

“Come on, Angel.”

She turns her head away.

“I don't even think there'll be a train this late.”

She rests her head on her knees. “One will come along sooner or later, and I'll be on it.” She shrugs. “I'll send the money back; you know I will.”

She's been crying, and now tears slip down her cheeks. “Don't cry.”

She brushes furiously at her cheeks. “I never cry.”

“I'm sorry.” I raise my shoulders, trying to think of what I've done.

“I don't belong here,” she says.

I shake my head. “I don't either.”

“I don't belong anywhere.”

Belong.
I can almost see Abuelita's thick gray braid swinging, her hands rough as she slips the medal and chain around my neck. Mami sings at the stove, turning to pop a spoonful of rice pudding into my mouth. There's Lucas spinning around, grinning at me. And outside, the cat purrs as she feels the sun on her back.

“Maybe you don't have to belong in a place,” I say slowly. “Maybe it has to do with belonging to people.”

“I don't have people,” Angel says.

“Why aren't you home with…” I hesitate. “Your grandfather?”

She turns to me, her eyes huge, swimming with tears, her voice so low I can hardly hear her. “My brother, Diego, is my family, but now he's in the army.” She wipes her eyes. “He says that will help him become a citizen; we'll live legally in Texas someday. We'll even bring our grandfather.”

She stops talking, and I wait.

“Diego doesn't know that I'm not with our grandfather.”

She looks at the tracks. Is that a train in the distance? “I can't even write to Diego. Can't write…” Her voice trails off. “I wanted to go to school so much.”

The train wails. I grab her arm. No way is she going to get on that train.

But it seems as if she hasn't even heard the rumble on the tracks. “Just before my mother died, we were living in Texas, then Mexico, back and forth. I never knew my father. I was late starting school, but my teacher was friendly, even though she knew how far behind I was.”

I reached for her hand.

“But then Diego and I were picking crops, so I didn't go to school. He took me to our grandfather's in Mexico, and I started school all over again. I was so tall, so much older than the others. The little kids in my class laughed at me. I just about knew the alphabet. I lasted only a few days.”

She glances along the tracks, sees the train, and stands. I stand with her, still holding her hand.

She begins again. “My grandfather was furious with me. ‘No one lives here who doesn't go to school.' I never told him I couldn't read. And after Diego left, we had our last argument. I walked out.”

She raises her shoulders. “So I've been walking ever since, grabbing food here and there. Sometimes people help.”

I shake my head.

“You see?” she says. “You see? I can't read. I can't write. And the odd part is that I love my grandfather. He feeds the animals outside, and when he holds out his hand, birds swoop down and rest on his wrist, eating small pieces of fruit.”

I don't know what to say.

“I can't do anything,” she whispers.

“You know all about the desert,” I say. “And you swim better than anyone.” I reach back and loop her bag over my arm. Still she doesn't move. “I'm here because of you, Angel.”

The train explodes into the station with a blast of wind behind it. Bits of paper swirl onto the platform. Whatever Angel says next is lost. We close our eyes against the dust that rises up from the tracks below.

“I'm really tired,” I tell her.

“Mateo-Matty.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out Sal's money, the paper bill and silver coins clenched in her hands, and gives them to me.

I take them, because without them, she can't change her mind and take the train away from here.

We walk home together. Only a few cars are on the road, their lights beaming. The houses are dark; people are wrapped up in bed, sleeping.

At the back of the house, Angel stops. “You left the kitchen door open.” She's almost back to her old self.

Inside, I close the door slowly, quietly. We stand there looking at each other. I reach into the closet and pull out a can of soup; I can almost taste tomatoes and onions.

“I have no more secrets,” Angel says. “Not one.”

I nod, opening the soup. Later I'll write a memory about Abuelita. I know now why Angel's so mean sometimes. I think about her grandfather and wonder if he wishes things were different.