Did I imagine it? Perhaps. But it seemed that Ernesto nodded—a promise—then turned again and ran.
“Come with me, miss,” said the officer. Three other officials were grabbing people; they handcuffed us and shoved us into air-conditioned trucks. If anyone protested, they were beaten. I did not protest. A part of me was broken, tired, ready to just go home. I did not understand what God wanted from me, and where He was taking me, and why.
We were piled on top of each other, taken to a squat cement building, a jail, where one by one we were interviewed. I knew what I was supposed to do in this instance: pretend I was Mexican, so as not to be sent back home. My brother was in Mexico now, in the company of a boy I did not understand or trust. It was my duty to find Junior.
So when the woman asked me the name of the president of Honduras, I told her I had no idea. When she asked who the Mexican president was, I said proudly, “Vicente Fox.”
The woman shook her head. “Vicente Fox was the president of Mexico many years ago,” she said. “Look. I can put you on that bus, and you will be in Tegucigalpa tomorrow morning.”
Just hearing the name of my city melted my insides. I thought of Humberto, his lips, his curling black hair. I thought of my house, the pallet where I could sleep unmolested. But then I thought of Junior, so small, adrift in Chiapas.
“I am Mexican,” I said. “I just forgot! Of course, the new president is …” She waited, but no name came to me. More specifically, only one name came to me: Vicente Fox. “The new president is …,” I said, helplessly.
The woman watched me with patience. Her eyes were so soft I wished for a moment that she would adopt me herself. I had to force myself to stay in my plastic chair instead of leaping into her lap and begging her to save me.
“The president of Mexico is …,” I repeated. I held my breath and bit my lip, praying for the answer to appear in my mind. I put one tired foot on top of the other. I wrapped my arms around myself, digging my fingernails into my skin. I stared at the official, wondered if she had children, if she sang lullabies at night.
“Yes?” said the woman. She held her pen aloft, ready to seal my fate. Outside the jail, a row of buses idled, waiting to return us to the places we belonged.
28
Alice
AFTER DINNER, WE got into bed. Lazily, Jake kissed my neck, then my collarbones, my breasts. I turned to him. We made love tenderly at first, and then frantically, as if trying to reach a place we’d lost the directions to. Was he thinking about Lainey? I was thinking of myself, in a way—how I might look from above, my hair tangled, nightgown abandoned, moving above my husband, his eyes closed, large hands grasping at the meat of my waist. We both climaxed, technically, but I felt far away from Jake, and for that matter, far away from myself. This was a strange time in our marriage: we were being fashioned into personalities by reporters like Lainey, but we were losing sight of who we’d hoped to be, who we were, and what the hell we wanted.
Jake was leaving town in the morning, so he rose around 10:00 p.m. to head into Conroe’s and prepare the ribs for the next day. I was still wide awake and decided to join him. Through rainy streets, we drove to the restaurant, detouring to grab pastries from La Mexicana Bakery. The fecund scent of Austin—the smell of things growing; too many things, growing too fast, but thrillingly so—calmed me, brought me back to myself. Why had making love with Jake left me unmoored? I decided not to think about it.
At Conroe’s, we worked together soundlessly, classical music on the radio. Pete slept in his crate. Around midnight, I was cutting fat from a brisket when I heard a rapping on the window. I looked up and saw Evian standing in the rain outside Conroe’s.
“Honey?” said Jake.
“It’s my deal,” I said.
“Damn right it is,” said Jake.
I washed my hands and pushed open the door. Evian saw me and rushed forward. “Oh, Alice!” she cried, throwing herself against me, a wet storm of fruity-smelling body spray and booze. There was a dull thud as the side of her face hit my rib cage. I hesitated for a moment, stunned, but then slowly lifted my arms and folded them around her skinny shoulders. “My mom kicked me out,” said Evian, her voice rapid-fire and muffled against my shirt. “She hates Sam. She won’t let me smoke. I can’t handle it! I can’t handle it!” Evian sobbed wildly for a while. I patted her shiny jacket.
Over her head, I watched the kitchen nervously, afraid that Jake would see our embrace and be angry. I could see the little painted sign I’d hung above the refrigerator: Home is where the heart is. I’d found it in the pile of trash the previous owners had left in the living room of our Mildred Street house. I’d also found some beat-up pots and pans and a Crock-Pot that worked fine once you duct-taped the crack in the lid. I found it surprisingly easy to feel hopeful when I read the plaque, rather than focusing on the fact that the previous owners of our house had perhaps given up on the sentiment while packing for Pflugerville.
“Shh, shh. What can I do?” I said.
She took a deep breath and pulled back, presenting me with her tear-stained face, made grotesque by some sort of multicolored mascara. It’s not that I fell for her histrionics, but I remembered clearly being a teenager and wanting a mother. I guess I saw a bit of myself in Evian, though we hadn’t had the sort of face paint Evian favored at the Ouray Variety Store. Her pupils were wide, and I tried to remember if this meant she was drunk or stoned.
“I don’t have anywhere to go!” she cried. “Sam doesn’t have a house! He lives with the football coach. I can’t go there!”
“Sam lives with the football coach?” I asked.
“He’s the quarterback!” Evian wailed. This was surprising news, as Sam was certainly tall but not very broad. Maybe he was the JV quarterback. Sometimes it seemed as if every man I met in Texas was, wanted to be, or had been a quarterback.
“His mother’s on drugs,” cried Evian. “I have nowhere to go!”
“I’ll take you home,” I said. “Let me get my keys.”
“No!” shrieked Evian, folding inward and howling as if someone had kicked her in the spleen. Jake came to the door.
“Alice?” he called, pushing open the screen.
“Here,” I said. “I’m here, with Evian.”
“Oh. I see,” said Jake. He went back inside, not stopping the screen door from slamming (as he knew it would) with an emphatic bam. He couldn’t have planned it better: Oh. I see. Bam!
“Wait here,” I told Evian.
In the kitchen, Jake was making coffee-chipotle sauce. He raised his eyebrows when I came in. “Her mother kicked her out,” I said.