“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Jake evenly. He looked old under the fluorescent lights. I saw fine lines around his eyes that I’d never noticed before.
We both leaned against the steel counters we’d salvaged from a restaurant on South Lamar when the owner had been arrested for trafficking heroin. “I think I’m going to tell her she can stay with us tonight, and that’s all,” I ventured.
Jake whisked with fervor. He set the metal bowl down sharply, snapped his head up, and said, “I disagree.”
“Noted,” I said, pushing the door open and stepping outside.
“This is a really important week for me,” said Jake. “Lainey’s here for six more days.”
“Fuck off,” I told him.
I went to Evian and took her hand. “You can sleep on our couch,” I told her, leading her to the truck.
“Thank you,” she said. I noticed she was dragging a large garbage bag, which she explained was her belongings. (“Mostly dirty laundry,” she told me.) I couldn’t tell if I had done the right thing, but I felt strong at least, as if I was taking charge of something.
I made Evian a bed on the couch with a sleeping bag and two pillows. I even found a mini-tube of Crest and an extra toothbrush that had probably not been used before. I brought her a washcloth and a bar of soap and told her to sleep tight. Pete had stayed at Conroe’s with Jake.
“Hey, Alice?” called Evian as I was changing into pajamas.
“Yes?”
“Do you have, like, a Wi-Fi password?”
“Oh, sure,” I said. I jotted it down, WHERESTHEBEEF, and brought it to Evian, who seemed to have recovered completely from her previous hysteria. She sat on the couch in my pajamas with her legs crossed, tapping away at her device. I went into my room and tried to fall asleep, but sleep would not come. After a while, I heard the front door open. Jake tiptoed to our room, changed quickly, and climbed into bed.
“I’m awake,” I whispered.
“I have to get some rest,” said Jake. “Lainey and I are leaving in a few hours.” Since Jake had told Lainey about the different styles of Texas barbecue—hickory-smoked and slathered with sauce in East Texas; South Texas barbacoa, beef heads smoked in a hole in the ground; direct-heat, mesquite-flavored “cowboy style” in West Texas—she’d gotten the go-ahead from her editor to take Jake on the road. “Are you sure you and Benji can handle the rush?” asked Jake.
“We’ll be fine,” I said.
“She can’t live here,” said Jake.
I breathed out. “She has nowhere else to go,” I said.
Jake spoke with a measured calm, as if he had practiced his words on the walk home. “I know you wanted a baby,” he said. “I know how much you want to … take care of someone. But this girl isn’t ours. She needs more help than we can give.”
“Noted,” I said.
Jake paused. I knew he was fighting the urge to yell. “When I get home from the trip, I don’t want her here,” said Jake, his voice tight. “Is that noted?”
“I can’t promise anything,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m saying this with love, but I don’t really like who you’re turning into,” said Jake.
I turned from him, curled into myself.
Jake spoke quietly, his voice deadly sad. “I know you’re disappointed with our life,” he said.
I was quiet. He was right.
“I’ve worked so hard—we both have, Al … and you are always … you are still disappointed. I hate myself for that. But you know what, Al? I want to be happy. If you can’t even try to be proud, or even the tiniest bit satisfied, I don’t know what to say. I can only disappoint you for so long. It’s killing me.”
“Jake …,” I said.
“Yes?”
The hope that I would say the right thing—that I was satisfied; that I didn’t want a child, not anymore; that I would stop fighting God’s plan, would stop trying to fashion a baby out of a dog or an opportunistic teenager named after a brand of bottled water—hung in the air, it must be said, like smoke. And then it dissipated. Jake rolled over and closed his eyes.
I must have fallen asleep, because something woke me—the sound of a car pulling up to our house. The clock radio on my nightstand read 4:03. Stumbling from bed, I went into the living room to see that the couch was empty. I heard voices outside, and pushed open the front door.
“Evian?” I called. “What are you doing?”
Two men sat on my porch swing. One wore a leather jacket and one a sleeveless T-shirt. Both were smoking, dropping ash onto the ground. “She’s having a little discussion,” said the one in the jacket. He watched me steadily, and I felt scared. They were drinking something brown from crystal glasses that had been my mom’s.
“Don’t worry, Ms. Conroe,” said Evian. She was leaning against a post, and had dressed and reapplied her makeup. She also held one of my mother’s glasses.
“Evian, come back inside,” I said.
She laughed, and the men laughed with her. “Let’s roll,” said the one in the jacket, and the two men stood. The swing crashed into the side of our house. Evian tossed my mother’s glass onto the lawn and followed the men down the steps and toward a sedan with tinted windows.
“Evian!” I cried. “Come back here!”
I ran down the walk and grabbed her arm before she could get in the car. She yanked it back with force. “Who do you think you are?” she hissed. “You’re giving me a couch to sleep on, lady, you’re not my mother!”
She slid into the passenger seat and slammed the door, and the car peeled away. I stood by the street, my hand covering my mouth. Who did I think I was? Who?
29
Carla
I LAY AWAKE ON a mattress as thick as my wrist. When I moved my body, the springs complained. The smell of urine filled my nose. In my whole life, I had never slept by myself, and I couldn’t stop thinking of my brother, whom I had failed. I prayed for assistance, though I was no longer sure that anyone was listening.
By the time my interview had concluded, the last bus of the day was gone. I supposed I would be transported back to Honduras in the morning. I am ashamed to remember how close I came to losing faith during my night in the Mexican jail.
I finally fell into a deep sleep, and I saw Humberto. He was waiting for me inside my grandmother’s house. Without Junior, Humberto and I could make a life together. I had not sold my crumbling home; I had left in haste and without the thought that I would return. But in my dream, Humberto had swept the floor and filled the kitchen with ingredients. I could even smell onions frying. Humberto opened his arms and held me—not in a romantic way, but as if I were a baby needing comfort.
After what had happened to my body, I no longer wanted to kiss Humberto, or anyone. All I wanted was a motherly embrace. I wanted my mother. I hurt.