“Oh, right,” I said, nodding. “Thirty thousand.”
She frowned. “Here I thought ten would solve all your problems. Thirty, well, that’s a different animal altogether.”
I smiled. “I appreciate it, Winifred, really.” I held the envelope toward her, but my fingers wouldn’t let go. I tried to be calm, but my mind was whirring—maybe we could try international again? There had to be some country somewhere that would let a forty-one-year-old adopt. Or we could find another surrogate? Maybe if we bought a bigger house and updated our file with a more impressive address? Maybe, somehow, something …
“It’s yours,” said Winifred. “I’m sorry it’s not enough.”
“Me too,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m not enough,” I added, surprising myself.
Winifred turned. “What is that supposed to mean?” she said, arching a perfectly plucked eyebrow.
“Nothing,” I said. “Forget it.”
But instead of standing up and leaving—which was her specialty—Winifred stayed next to me. “You are every mother’s dream,” she said. I snorted. “Don’t you think I see how much he loves you?” said Winifred. “Don’t you know how proud we are of what you two have made? Of course we wish we had grandbabies—I’d take a hundred, from anyplace on earth. Martin’s a damn fool with his white baby bullshit—can you see why I married his brother?”
I was crying, but nodded.
“I wish you had children, honey,” said Winifred. “But what you have already … that’s all I could ever hope for, for my baby—a love like yours. Don’t you know how lucky you are?”
And then, in her patented Winifred Conroe maneuver, she stood up and exited, leaving me in tears.
On our way back to Austin, we drove through downtown, stopping to let Lainey wander the hallways and pits of Harrison’s BBQ. She exclaimed over the famous sign at the doorway:
NO BARBECUE SAUCE
(Nothing to Hide)
NO FORKS
(They Are at the End of Your Arm)
NO CREDIT CARDS
(The Bank Doesn’t Take Barbecue)
NO KIDDING
(See Owner’s Face)
She took multiple snapshots, then wandered around, speaking softly into her phone, trying to describe the place. Though I had once thought of being a writer, watching Lainey—the way she had to slip outside of every experience to figure out how to explain it to others—made me glad I’d ended up behind the Conroe’s counter. If I tried to convey the way Harrison’s rooms smelled (smoky, salty, permanent, enveloping) or, for that matter, the way Jake’s brisket made me feel (cared for, satiated, warm, grateful), the words I came up with fell short so monumentally that it felt like shooting a bird to appreciate its feathers.
In the end, all the fetishism around Jake’s brisket was interesting, and I knew it made him proud, the way people wanted to know about his process. He worked hard, after all, alone in the night watching fire. But I thought all the details—what wood, what temperature, the chemical composition of collagen—took away from the experience of picking up Jake’s meat between your thumb and forefinger, placing it into your mouth, closing your eyes, and letting a wave—an indescribable wave—wash over you. It was delicious, sure, and you could ponder the bark all day, but that was beside the point.
From behind the counter, I got to watch the faces: Officer Grupo after a long night, a student unmoored in the world, a grandmother nobody cooked for anymore. They chewed, and felt cared for. Their faces were children’s—all pretense sliding away, revealing the most essential needs met. Mom’s on time to pick me up after choir. Dad’s scratching my back even after he thinks I’ve fallen asleep. I love you, from someone you dare love. I am hungry, and being fed.
That night, after we’d dropped Lainey at the Hotel Saint Cecilia, we returned home to Mildred Street. As Jake watched baseball, Pete next to him on the couch, I went into the small garden we had planted in the back. Not much came up in summer, so I had hit the farmer’s market that morning. I went into our kitchen with a handful of arugula, turned the radio to a jazz station, and took off my boots. I cut the stalks off beets, placed them in a roasting pan, and slid it into the oven. I sliced squash, zucchini, and crisp asparagus spears, then sautéed the vegetables in my mother’s cast-iron pan (it held the seasoning of a hundred campouts) with olive oil, salt, and pepper. I divided the buttery, bitter greens from our garden into two wide bowls, added the vegetables from Mom’s pan, then broke a bit of queso fresco on top. When the beets were ready, I sliced them, the blood-red juice staining my fingers, and arranged them on the salads, adding more cheese, salt, and pepper. I poured two glasses of chilled white Burgundy.
And then, filled with a quiet sense of accomplishment and joy, I brought my husband his supper.
27
Carla
THE BEAST HAD stopped in a fair-sized town. Junior and I were sitting in the shade of a tin roof eating mangoes Ernesto had given us. He seemed to have acquaintances in every place; when the train slowed, he would step off, disappear for a while, and return with water and food. I had thought he was running from his gang, but he no longer seemed scared. We never talked about what had happened to me.
In the town where I was caught by la migra, Ernesto was smoking cigarettes with a group of boys who had the number on their faces. We were waiting for the train to begin moving again, so we could jump aboard.
“I’ll be right back,” said my brother, standing up and stepping into the sunlight.
“Where are you going?” I asked. I had a guess; he found a way to refill his baby-food jar at most rest stops. I didn’t know if people gave him the glue or if he stole it. I hoped that our mother could help my brother get well in Austin, Texas.
Junior ambled off, toward Ernesto and his gang of thugs. I took a juicy bite of mango flesh into my mouth, the taste giving me pleasure. All of a sudden, a truck approached with sirens blaring and someone shouted, “?La migra! ?La policia!”
“Junior!” I hollered, jumping to my feet. I began to sprint toward my brother, but Junior was also running, following Ernesto away from the town square, toward the ramshackle houses that lay beyond it.
He did not turn. My brother, whom I spent every night curled around, my nose nestled in his earthy-smelling hair. He never glanced toward me, just pumped his legs forward, his arms moving rhythmically as he fled. I tried to catch up.
An immigration officer caught me by the wrist. I howled, tried to wrench free, but it felt like an alligator had clamped its teeth on my arm. “Ernesto!” I screamed.
Ernesto slowed. He looked back: his lovely face with its terrible black tattoo, his mouth open, gasping for air.
“Take care of my brother!” I cried.