Carla
I WAS SEVEN YEARS old when a black car pulled up outside my grandmother’s house (which was also my house, as I have mentioned). I had just returned from doing the washing in the river, rubbing my hands raw getting all the dirt out of strangers’ pants or worse: the pants of people I knew! I hated the way my skin grew red and chapped, how I couldn’t stop myself from pulling ribbons of dead skin from my fingers. But my grandmother was old, her own hands curled with arthritis that only a few sips of guaro would ease. She hung the clothes on a rusted wire, and my twin brothers toddled around her in circles, their feet caked in mud and God knew what else.
The car slid to a halt. I squinted against the sun, watched as a fat woman stepped from the driver’s side and put her hands on her hips. Smoothing the front of her dress, my grandmother moved toward the woman. They spoke in hushed tones, my grandmother looking down and nodding, her lips pinched together in a way that meant she was scared.
My grandmother was not scared of much. She kept a crowbar underneath our pallet and had twice prevented robberies with her loud voice alone. No one who knew us would dare to steal from Ana—everyone understood that she was doing her best to raise her grandchildren in an uncertain world. But as jobs dried up and bad men grew more powerful than good, desperate strangers began walking farther from the city, toward neighborhoods like mine. They were looking for money or food, hoping for safety, searching for a way to remain in a place that had become unrecognizable.
My grandmother beckoned my brothers. Carlos and Paola (whom we called Junior) moved toward her with halting steps, pushing their chests forward and then throwing their feet out to catch themselves. Junior wobbled, flapped his arms like a chicken who had been disturbed, then fell on his naked bottom. He began to cry. Carlos waited, and when his brother dried his eyes, Carlos took his hand and helped him rise. They approached my grandmother and the fat woman.
“Only one,” said the fat woman. “I would prefer the quiet one, but the choice is yours.”
“What’s going on?” I said, standing up.
“Nothing to do with you,” said my grandmother. To the fat woman, she said, “They cannot be separated.”
The woman shrugged. She wore a tight tank top and had large breasts. Her jean shorts said “Sweetie” on the back pocket. I liked her shoes, which were called jelly sandals and could be bought at the market in the city.
“The mother only paid for one,” said the woman. “I’m busy. Let’s get this part over with before the whole neighborhood gets involved.” (It was true that people had begun to swarm around, sniffing trouble like a dog smells food.)
My grandmother looked very old. Her shoulders were bony underneath her faded dress, but her stomach pooched out. Her face was full of lines, especially around her mouth and across her forehead.
“Fine,” said the fat woman. “This one. In we go.” She picked up Carlos, who did not make a sound. With her other arm, she unlocked the trunk of her car. “Anything you want to send along?” said the woman. “Diapers, water …?”
“What are you doing with Carlos?” I said. I think a part of me already knew, and I felt a mixture of terror and envy.
“He’s going to be with his mama,” said the woman. Carlos looked straight at me, opened his mouth. I shook my head, willing him to keep silent.
“Carlos!” cried Junior. “Carlos!”
Carlos began to sob soundlessly, his face contorting into a mask of fear. He tried to climb out of the trunk, but the woman held him in place, her hand splayed on his head.
“Don’t take him,” I said. “Please. Take me instead.”
The woman looked me over appraisingly, taking in my dirty feet and callused hands. “Nobody paid for you,” she said. And then she pushed Carlos down and slammed shut the trunk.
“He’ll suffocate,” I told my grandmother, my voice brassy with panic. From inside the trunk, Carlos began to make terrible sounds.
“Carlos!” said Junior.
“He’ll be fine,” said the fat woman. The sky above us was sand-colored, as flat and pale as desert. A lone grackle cawed, but there was no answer. I wished I knew how to stop time, to keep the shining car from departing with my brother inside. I put my hand to my mouth, bit hard on my knuckle. I wanted to do something, to feel something, to be the one leaving, and not the one left behind.
The fat woman got into her car and drove away.
“Hush, Junior,” said my grandmother. Junior had abandoned himself to sorrow: he was blubbering loudly, his face covered in tears and snot. Ana picked him up and he curled into her body.
“What about me?” I said.
“Keep hanging up the washing,” said my grandmother. But she came to my side and included me in her hug. “God will watch over him,” said my grandmother. “God will watch over us all.”
4
Alice
WHEN I HANDED Principal Markson her Sweet Stacy sandwich (chopped beef, sausage, and coleslaw on a soft bun), she peered over her glasses for an extra moment. “Alice,” she said, pushing the burgundy frames back into place, “what in heaven’s name are you doing here? Is the baby in the back somewhere? Asleep in a nest by the smoker?”
“The adoption didn’t work out,” I said, the simplicity of my words belying my mangled heart.
“Oh,” said Principal Markson. “Oh, Alice. I’m so sorry.” She held her paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. The phone buzzed, but she did not look away from my face.
“Well, you know …,” I said, but could not think of a way to finish the sentence.
“I’m so sorry,” repeated Principal Markson.
“If you want, I can give you back the sweater,” I said, my voice wavering as I pictured the small garment, which Principal Markson had knitted herself. When she had time to knit, I had no idea. Principal Markson, a heavyset black woman, was in charge of Chávez Memorial, which had been called Johnson High until the city shut it down the year before and replaced all the faculty. Most of the new teachers and many of the students came into Conroe’s at lunchtime, though ever since the Texas Monthly “Best BBQ” issue, we had to let them skip the line or they’d never get a morsel.