Do They Know I'm Running? Read online

  Pulling up outside the trailer, he tugged his key from his jean pocket and slipped it in the lock, opening the door as quietly as he could, only to find his aunt waiting in the kitchenette, sitting at the table in her plaid robe, sipping Nescafé.

  “You’re up already,” he said clumsily.

  She responded using Spanish, peering over the edge of her cup.—Is it your turn to be the problem around here? Her eyes were sad and proud and blasted from exhaustion, her hair lying tangled across her birdlike shoulders. Her face was narrow and dark, weathered, an indígena face; shortly she would slather on pancake to lighten its complexion in preparation for a day at the cash register.

  Roque went to the fridge, saw a can of guava nectar and another of 7UP, his weakness, picked the latter and popped the lid, all to avoid an answer.

  —I don’t expect you to be a virgin. Your mother named you for a poet, it’s your privilege to act like an idiot. You’re using protection, yes? Please tell me that much.

  “It’s not your problem,” he replied in English, a way to assert his distance. It was one of those ironies, how the older ones praised the new country but stuck to the old country’s tongue.

  —Not today, but when the baby arrives and you have no clue if it’s really yours?

  “It’s not an issue, okay?”

  She cocked her head, studying him.—You’re telling me she’s a boy?

  He rolled his eyes, put down his can and ambled over to the table. Agony aunt, he thought. He’d read the phrase in a book recently and thought instantly of Tía Lucha. Leaning down, he kissed her graying black hair, the texture of stitching thread, a smell like almonds, some dollar-a-bottle shampoo.

  He switched to Spanish.—We’ll pretend you never said that.

  On the shelf behind her, Salvadoran sorpresas, little clay tableaus made in Ilobasco, shared space with skeletal Day of the Dead figurines. He’d often celebrated El Día de los Muertos with her, it was why he’d never felt singled out for misery despite his mother’s death. He learned not to take it personally. Sorrow was inescapable, a condition, not a punishment.

  —We’ll pretend because it’s not true, or because you’re ashamed?

  —Don’t make me angry, Tía.

  —So it’s a girl.

  —A woman.

  —And she’s not pregnant.

  —She can’t get pregnant.

  Tía Lucha studied him like he was suggesting something impossible, or infernal.—She told you that?

  —Can we change the subject?

  —Oh Roque, don’t be a fool, women lie, especially about that.

  —Tía …

  —And then they come and tell you, “I can’t believe it, it’s a miracle, a blessing from God.” How old is this woman?

  Roque turned to head back toward his brother’s bedroom.—I’ll check in on Godo.

  She closed her eyes and rubbed the lids.—Don’t wake him, please.

  Acidly, Roque thought: Godo asleep? Now that would be a miracle.

  He sometimes wondered if being parentless wasn’t a blessing in disguise. It gave him a kind of freedom from the usual attachments that seemed to hold others back. Life would be more fluid for him because love and desire and ambition would be a question of choice, not obligation. And yet, if that were true, how would he keep from merely drifting? Wasn’t that what love and respect were about, providing gravity? Otherwise there was just loneliness.

  The oven door stood slightly ajar; an aromatic warmth greeted him as he bent down to peer inside. Two plates covered with napkins rested on the middle rack.

  —One of these for me?

  —You know it is.

  Using a dish towel, he pulled out one plate. Beneath the napkin, he found his breakfast: pureed black beans with cream, fried plantains and yucca, corn tortillas.

  He joined her at the table with his plate, wondering how angry she would get if he added some peanut butter. He’d been known to plow through an entire jar in a single sitting, until she told him that if he didn’t stop he’d end up in emergency with a bowel blockage. Even as he stole a glance at the open oven door, secretly craving the other plate, Godo’s share, he pictured the jar of crunchy in the fridge. He was ravenous. Sex did that to him.

  Tía Lucha glanced back toward the bedrooms to the rear.—Your brother. No matter what I do, no matter what I say … Hand to her mouth, eyes spent.—Nothing gets better. Another miserable night.

  Not glancing up from his plate, Roque said:—Don’t worry, Tía. I’ll take care of it from here.

  WHAT THE WHOLE THING GETS DOWN TO, GODO THOUGHT, HEAD tilted back, draining the last few drips from the can—the trick to it, as it were, the pissy little secret no one wants you to know? He crushed the empty and tossed it onto the floor where it clattered among the others, then belched, backhanding his scarred lips to wipe them dry. Figure it out, cabrón: The whole thing gets down to knowing which guilt you can live with.

  He sat propped on pillows in the mangled bed, his altar to insomnia, the bedside lamp still burning. Soon daybreak would smear the curtains with its buttery gray light. He shuddered. Strange, fearing the night, lying awake with the room all lit up like you’re some sniveling bed wetter, only to dread the dawn.

  Across the room the rabbit-eared TV flickered. Nothing to watch at this hour, of course, just news any idiot could see through, no-name reruns. He’d squelched the sound, only to conjure not silence but the usual holocaust zoo tramping through his brain.

  Focus on the physical, he reminded himself—the moment, as they say. The doughy mattress sighed beneath his weight. Armpit stench and foot funk added a manly tang. The rest of him was a wreck. He’d been hard and sleek after basic, plenty of PT, then hulking around the scalding desert with seventy pounds of gear, buffed and brutal. Now? A hundred and eighty pounds of discharge, a mess in the bed, a hash of scars weepy with some nagging infection.

  As for his face, well. It was all still there, basically, and that was no small matter. He’d met another jarhead in the ward at Landstuhl who’d been trapped in a burning truck, an IED attack, all the flesh of his face melting from the heat. The doctors tried to put something back but there’s only so much magic in the bag. The guy came away hairless, beardless, his face a kind of mask—no chin, no ears, no nose—his remolded skin this mottled waxy pink. Sent home like that to Parkersburg and his hillbilly bride-to-be.

  So, Godo thought, things could be worse. Nice mantra. Next time you’re in the moment.

  He licked his rough lips, already parched again, but resisted the urge for another brew. Two six-packs down, plus Percocet for the pain, a Lexapro chaser for the depression, erythromycin for the nagging infection in his leg—so it went, every night, flirting with sleep, chasing off the sickness, the ghosts.

  He’d made it through the night okay, though. Mostly. Nothing too stark, thank God. Just the Al Gharraf firefight in scattershot flashback, strobing through memory, blending with Diwaniyah, Fallujah … The jittery images stitched back around through memory on endless rewind—the crippling light of an RPG, deafening chaos, tracers vanishing into shadow, the shadows firing back, and the staggering upchuck stench of blood and shit everywhere, men he knew. Himself.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose until polarized geometries flared and whirled on the backs of his eyelids, then his hand moved on, gently fingering the pitted scars on his face. Little ugly cousins to the ones on his legs, his arms, dozens of them, jagged red clots of seared flesh. Shrapnel so hot it cauterized its own scalding wounds. Not Al Gharraf or Diwaniyah or Fallujah. That other thing. But don’t go there. You held it at bay all night, don’t give in now. Be strong. Down that rathole lies the guilt. And, you know, screw that.

  A tear threaded down his cheek. He made no move to wipe it away, preferring to pretend it wasn’t there. Instead, he reached up and gripped his head, as though to keep it whole. An invisible hatchet cleaved his skull and he fought back a scream, begging for time to pass, so he could take another Perc, the pain
a banshee inside his skull. Breathe, he told himself. Pain is just there to betray you. Pain is illusion.

  Time passed … two minutes … five … Gradually the banshee’s wail subsided, leaving a backwash of dread and leaden numbness. But that was okay. That was pretty good, actually.

  He dropped his hands from his head and rose onto one elbow to liberate a hissing fart, then the next thing he knew a dog appeared in his mind’s eye, scavenging at dawn. Christ no, he thought, why now? He noticed it then—first light, the curtains—and everything coalesced. There they were, his squaddies, geared up in full battle-rattle, high on Rip It or ephedra or coffee crystals swallowed dry, Chavous in the Humvee turret manning the Mark 19, the rest lugging their M16s, throwing down the checkpoint … a crunching hardpack underfoot, the sky a whirl of grit, ominous flares of dawnlight in the east … the family of four, dad in his rumpled suit, mom in her hijāb, the bug-eyed boy, the swaddled infant, crammed into their rust-bucket Cressida with the single headlight … the horn-honking American pistoleros in their black Chevy Blazer, drunk on their own swagger behind the tinted glass … a shouting match with the Blazer’s driver, a dare, Godo’s big macho fuckup … the emaciated dog, arch-backed and trembling, lingering in the corner of his eye … noticed too late, the haji in the full-length abaya, garb of a woman, walk of a man, strolling up to the checkpoint … Godo preoccupied, Gunnery Sergeant Benedict stepping forward to cut off the cross-dressing haji… then the sheering blast of scalding light, ripping good Gunny Benedict into blood and wind.

  Cutting the world in two, before and after.

  His hand lurched toward the nightstand, reaching for the pill bottle, but he caught himself, drew back the hand. No. No more Perc, not yet. Not that kind of pain. Unless you down them all.

  Better yet, a weapon. He had a Beretta 9mm in the drawer, two loaded clips, a .357 Smithy with speed loaders under the bed, keeping company with a Remington pump. Name one man who returned from war, he thought, and didn’t weapon up, if only to cut short the weirdness.

  He closed his eyes. In time the dread and self-pity drifted back into the toxic beery Percocet fog. He forgot what he’d been thinking.

  A timid knock at the door. “Godo?”

  Roque peered in. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks flushed. He’d run home from somewhere. The big mystery—where?

  Roque said, “You awake?”

  “Take a wild guess.”

  Roque ventured in, profile dappled with color as he snuck a glance at the TV. Godo had to admit it stung, knowing his hotshot musician faggot little brother wouldn’t share the room anymore. Neither of them could be quite sure what might happen when Godo shot up in bed in a howling sweat. But Roque wasn’t camped out on the front-room couch, either. He was sneaking out at night, getting some action, some poon, some pashpa. It was one more thing to hate him for—they were brothers, after all.

  “It’s time to check your leg.” Roque turned away from the TV. “The dressing, I mean.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “You always say that.”

  Godo cocked a smile, clasping his hands behind his head. “Really? Hey, here’s a thought.” He belched.

  “When’s the last time you looked?”

  “Oh, blow me.”

  Somewhere outside a car door slammed. A dog started to bark. Like that, the thing materialized in the corner of his eye again: starving, child-eyed, razor thin, slinking in the rubble, waiting for a corpse to feed on. Benedict’s corpse, what was left of it.

  Roque pointed to the leg. “You want to go back to the ER?”

  Godo snapped to. “What?”

  “You want to go back to the ER, have them drain off another six ounces of pus?”

  “I want six ounces of pus, I’ll drain your dick. Where you sleeping these nights?”

  Roque blushed. Godo wagged a knowing finger.

  “Roquito’s got himself a mamasota.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Got himself a scraggle, a gack. A little bicha.”

  Outside, another car door slammed. The dog’s barking grew more crazed. Godo felt a prickling of sweat on his neck. Hard to explain to people, this thing he had with dogs now.

  “Godo, please, I need—”

  “Que vergón, cabroncito.”

  “I need to check the dressing on your leg.”

  “Come on, humor me—who’s the lucky squirrel?”

  For the merest second, a defiant gleam enlivened Roque’s eyes. He was pissed. Here it comes, Godo thought. Gonna tell me how hot his mamita is, maybe even spit out her name. But before that could happen Roque’s expression regained its put-upon blankness.

  “I’m not playing, Godo, you always—”

  “Hey, hembrito, I’m not playing neither. Gotta make sure you’re taking the proper precautions. Like, you know, you putting one bag or two over her head before you fuck her?”

  The kid flinched like recoil from a slap and Godo almost dared him: Come on. Say it. Have some balls and say it. But by degrees the hate drained from Roque’s eyes, replaced by a sad superiority. Go ahead and mock, he seemed to be saying. Then look at yourself, check out your face. From now until the day you die, the best you can hope for is a pity fuck. Even if you pay for it.

  Suddenly, from the front of the trailer, the muffled crash of shattered glass. Tía Lucha screamed. Roque froze.

  Godo scrambled to the edge of the bed, reached underneath, pulled out the Remington pump-loader, weapon of choice for close quarters, and chambered a round of nine-pellet buckshot. He rose to his feet, swaying.

  Outside, the dog fell silent.

  Roque reached out his hand, whispered, “Godo, wait, let me check—”

  Godo cracked back hard with his elbow, slamming Roque’s jaw. To his credit, the kid didn’t cry out, just a breathy grunt as he spun down and away with the blow. We’ll save our sorrys for later, Godo thought. Gotta know which guilt you can live with. The impact clarified everything. Inside, the mental fog lifted, his thoughts turned solid and simple and whole. Outside, the visible shimmered. His skin pricked with sweat, his breathing slowed and steadied. He was in the moment. Crouching to lower his center of gravity, gunstock nudged tight to his shoulder, he flattened himself against the wall and inched out into the hallway.

  ROQUE STAGGERED FROM THE BEDROOM IN A BLUR OF PAIN, JAW seizing up as he tried to peer past Godo. Bit by bit, like working a puzzle, he made out two men in black raid jackets, hovering over Tía Lucha in the low squat living room at the trailer’s far end. They held pistols. Laminated shards from the door window lay scattered across the drab carpet. The acronym ICE in white letters flared across the backs of their jackets. They were immigration agents, la migra. Then why break in?

  Planted on the couch, hands flat against the tattered cushion, his aunt gazed up at the two strangers, eyes flaring. In the corner, Roque’s guitars, a white Telecaster and an Ovation Legend acoustic, rested upright in their chrome stands. He felt a sudden, embarrassing urge to rescue them.

  Godo inched forward, strangely calm. Where the hall opened onto the kitchen, a joining crease in the trailer’s flooring gave way beneath his weight, emitting a pealing moan. Both agents spun their heads around.

  Godo shouted, “Hands in the air!”

  The one on the left was bodybuilder thick but short with a buzz cut tapering into a widow’s peak. The other was willowy, red-haired, skin dusted with coppery freckles. They pivoted apart, raising their weapons. “Federal agents!”

  “Like hell!”

  Godo had the drop on them both, the freckled one exposed, the kitchen counter shielding the one with the widow’s peak, at least from the waist down.

  “Put the weapon—”

  “You broke in!”

  “Your weapon! Drop it! Now!”

  Outside, someone charged down the narrow gravel passage between trailers, his body thudding against the aluminum walls as he got chased, caught from behind, wrestled to the ground amid curses in both Spanish and English, then
a helpless yowl of pain.

  “I’m not saying it again!”

  “Put your weapons down!”

  “¡Godofredo, no, escúchame!” Tía Lucha, pleading: Listen to me.

  The one with the widow’s peak edged farther left and a little forward, crouching low behind the counter. Freckles stayed put, barking, “Put the goddamn weapon down!”

  “Look at me,” Godo said, that same offbeat calm. “Look at my goddamn face. Go on, shoot, think I give a fuck?”

  From behind, Roque, a whisper: “Godo—”

  Mistaking the plea for a warning, Godo swung the shotgun toward the counter. “Back the fuck up.”

  Widow’s Peak froze. His trigger finger fluttered. Freckles brayed, “Last chance!”

  “You’re fucking intruders!”

  “Put the mother … fucking … weapon … down!”

  “You, not me!”

  “¡Ellos te matarán!” They’ll kill you. Tía Lucha’s voice, all pity and terror, it froze the men where they stood. For a second—five? ten?—no one moved. Outside, the pursuers rustled their prey to his feet, thudding against the trailer wall once more, then crunching back along the gravel the way they’d come. The ensuing silence felt like a sign. Roque dared to hope that no one would die, common sense would win, everyone would step back from the lunatic edge and—what? Laugh? Shake hands? Exchange abrazos?

  Widow’s Peak spoke up for the first time. “I can place a slug through your brain, crater face, before you get off round one. Not to mention, you shoot, the woman gets hit. Who you think you’re fooling?”

  Godo, shotgun already trained that direction, tsked mockingly. “Perro bravo.” Mean dog.

  “Won’t say it twice.”

  “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, puto.” Godo tightened the coil of his finger around the shotgun’s trigger. “I’m a pill-crazed killer. And I don’t know who that woman is.”

  The trailer door flew back. All heads turned—except for Godo and Widow’s Peak, their eyes locked in mirrored stares, weapons up.