Until I Find Julian (7 page)

Something is in my
eyes—
a pinprick of light; it's almost blinding.

I raise my hand to push it away. And then I realize it's morning. A sunbeam darts through the edge of the curtain like an arrow, changing the color of the floor to honey, the couch pillow to gold. The warmth on my face reminds me of mornings at home.

It seems as if I slept for only moments. Angel sprawled on the bed under Mami's quilt, and I threw myself on the couch in the living room.

I look around. On the windowsill is a small pencil drawing of a woman. It's Julian's work! The woman's face is turned away, but a thick braid rests on her shoulder.

Abuelita?

Propped up in the corner is the guitar.

I peek through a gap between the curtains. Outside someone is jogging down the street; then someone else, a bulky woman, marches by, holding a purse up to her chest. Two kids fight a duel with their backpacks, never stopping, probably on their way to school. A pickup truck lumbers down the street.

Everyone is awake.

Can they see me?

I tug the curtains together and the arrow of sunlight disappears.

I reach over and pull the guitar onto the couch with me, picking at each one of the six strings, hearing the difference in the sounds. One reminds me of the chimes at San Pablo Church at home. Another plinks high and thin: the meow of the stray cat as she greets me after school.

Angel stands in the kitchen doorway. “Be quiet, Diego. They'll hear you.”

Diego! That was the name she whispered in the truck. “Who is that?”

Her hand goes to her mouth. “Nobody. You just looked like a guy who might be named Diego.” She presses her lips together for a moment. Then she shakes her head. “My brother.”

She rushes on. “If they hear you outside, they might think this place is haunted. They'll guess some idiot ghost is trying to make music.”

I'm ready to ask her to tell me more. But I can see she doesn't want to talk about him. “I forgot,” I say instead. “You never read what I had to say about Julian.”

She goes into the kitchen and I follow her. I put the pad on the table and open it to the Julian section.

She doesn't reach for it. She doesn't even look interested.

If only I could look up and see Julian sitting at the table, or cooking at the stove. From the window, I see the backyard, the alley, and in the distance, just a hint of what might be a forest.

“I have to eat,” Angel says. “We have to eat.”

I glance at her. Her face is white as milk. And I feel it too now, a hollow pain in my stomach.

Yesterday we ate sandwiches that Felipe put together for us in the truck, but we've had nothing since.

“We can't go to a store yet,” Angel says. “It's too early. People will wonder why we're not in school.”

I miss school. That's a surprise.

She begins to go through the cabinets, running her fingers over the shelves, searching. She finds something and smiles back at me, holding up a can.

It's soup with a picture of a bowl, steam rising in a swirl above vegetables and rice and meat. My mouth waters.

Angel is way ahead of me. While I clean up the cereal and pick up the shards of the bowl that I broke last night, she rummages through the drawers, pulls out a can opener and a pair of spoons, and puts the can of soup on the burner.

But nothing happens. The stove doesn't work. I fiddle with the knobs, then shrug. “No electricity. Right!”

We stare at the can with its picture of chicken and carrots. I imagine the dark soup simmering, then bubbling around the edges, the wonderful salty smell of it filling the kitchen, the whole house.

“We'll eat it cold,” Angel says.

She opens it and brings the can to the table, holding it as if it were a baby, careful not to spill even one drop.

She sets it down exactly in the center between the two of us. “I warn you—” Her freckles dot her nose; her cheeks are sunburned. “I'm a fast eater.”

“Don't worry,” I say, “I'll beat you.”

She grins. We dip in our spoons, but we don't try to race each other. We're just glad we have enough to eat. We keep going until every piece of vegetable, every tiny grain of rice, every shred of meat is gone. Then I tip the can and hold it out. “Go ahead,” I tell her. “Take the last sip.”

And she does, a drop sliding down her chin. She rolls her thumb over it and puts it in her mouth. “I never tasted anything so good.”

I nod, running my tongue over my lips. I stare out the kitchen window, at the tree branches that bend toward me.

But where's Julian? I have to start looking now. “Maybe you'll spell out a couple of words in English for me so I can start looking.”

“Leave me alone for a while,” she says. “I can't be doing stuff like that all the time.”

What's the matter with her now? Maybe she's thinking about her brother. Maybe she's thinking about home.

Never mind. I go into the living room. I think of the building Julian was working on. I'll find it.

Haven't I found my way here, thousands of miles?

With the taste of soup
still in my mouth, I say, “Angel, I have to go out for a while.”

“People will wonder why you're not in school. I told you that before, Matty. We'll have to go to the store later.”

She thinks she's my mother.

I press my lips between my teeth. And then I say it slowly, my words spaced, and I can hear the anger in my voice. “I have come here, all these miles, to find my brother, to make sure he's all right.”

I brush away thoughts of prison or death. “I'm the only one to help him, Angel. If I get caught, there's nothing I can do about it. Not one thing. It will just have to be. And no, I'm not going to the store right now.”

“Where, then?” she says, checking the cabinet for food again.

“He was working on a building near here. I want to see it. Maybe I'll find something.” I shrug. “I don't know.”

“I'll come with you. I'm good at this kind of thing.”

I take a breath, and then two or three more, calming myself. “You don't have to do that. You might get caught. People will think you should still be in school.”

“What am I supposed to do all day? Stir a pot on the stove that doesn't work?” She grins, surprising me. “Look at a blank TV?”

“You can't sit still for a minute.”

“So I'm coming.” She flips her hair off her neck. “It's hot.” And then, “Where is it?”

“I'm thinking.” I turn away from her before she can say anything to that, and open the back door slowly to glance outside. No one is in the yard, which stretches across three houses. No one is in the alley beyond that. “Come on.” For once I'm the one who's in charge.

We scurry across the yard and down the alley. I try to remember what Tomàs might have said about the building.

On a busy street?

No. It wasn't that.

Maybe stories. Yes. Ten stories high.

And the name of the avenue…No, he didn't say that either. He said it would be the tallest building in the town.

We stop at the end of the alley, hesitating, and look up. Not far away is a building with scaffolding…. We crane our necks. It looks ghostly with floors missing. Sunny blue sky filters in here and there.

We keep going past rows of shops; in dusty glass windows, we see piles of summer shirts, sneakers, and men's jackets on hangers.

Angel and I glance at each other as we pass the food store. We can smell something….

Meat and salads, a whiff of garlic and onions, a vat with pickles swimming in vinegar at the door.

Angel can't resist. The door is open. She walks inside and stands there as I motion to her to come back outside.

The man behind the counter watches her, but at last she backs out the door. “That's my favorite place right now,” she whispers as we circle around a man stuffing a huge sandwich in his mouth; it drips tomatoes and mayonnaise.

Next to me, Angel hurries. She's thinking about being caught. She's right again. People may look at me and think
Immigrant. Illegal immigrant. Wetback.

I step out on the street and cross to the other side. Angel follows, hurrying away from the food store where the man in the apron stands at the window.

And then we're running.

Flying.

Now the tall building is only blocks away.

We reach that corner and stop to take a breath. In front of us is a gray slatted fence. The building isn't finished, not nearly.

But where are the workers?

I stretch my neck looking, and shiver thinking about being up so high, balancing myself on the beams.

Angel moves two of the fence slats aside and squeezes herself through to the work site.

“Not a good idea.” I whisper, in case anyone is around. “Come back.”

She pays no attention. She just keeps going.

All right. I'll do the same thing.

I duck my head and go through the fence. Inside, I search for friendly faces, for faces that look like mine, with dark eyes, dark hair, smiling faces. But I don't see anyone. And there's no noise: no sound of hammer and drills, of workers on platforms.

But there is someone. A watchman? He looks a little like me, but much older, with lines slashed across his forehead. He puts down a newspaper and stands, staring, then comes toward me.

I take a chance and speak in Spanish. “I'm looking for my brother Julian.”

The man shakes his head.

“He worked here, before…”

“Before,” the man repeats in Spanish. “There's no one working now. Everyone is gone, and the building might never be finished.”

“But maybe you knew my brother,” I begin, but something makes me turn. On the other side of the fence I see a police car, turret turning, red and blue lights flashing. Two policemen burst out of the car, shout,
“No trespassing!”
and come through the fence, slats breaking off.