FOR THE FIRST weeks of September, life was wonderfully ordinary. When I woke in the morning, Jake had gone to Conroe’s and Pete was curled up in his place. We went for walks around Lady Bird Lake or just to work, passing Chávez Memorial and waving at whoever was outside smoking or watching the smokers. Grupo told me the injured student was recovering at St. David’s. He’d been shot in the leg and was expected to be fine, though he wouldn’t play football for a while. The shooting had been gang-related, and when the Gang Prevention Task Force came in on Wednesday evenings, I served them the best brisket, which I’d set aside.
Marion was stopping kids in the hallways, she said, making them change their gang-colored shirts, dragging them into her office and handing them tees she’d gotten from Goodwill and Savers. Jake gave her a few boxes of Conroe’s shirts, and we got a kick out of seeing students walk by with our logo on their chests. The girls wore the XXLs belted with leggings.
As Homecoming—always held on the first weekend of October—approached, Marion presided over meetings late into the night. She stopped by our house some evenings, staying for a beer and telling us how conflicted she felt. “On the one hand,” she said, picking at her Shiner label, “it’s just stupid to go ahead with the Homecoming football game. And the dance. It’s dangerous. A big fat invitation to disaster.”
“That’s true,” said Jake.
“On the other hand,” said Marion, “what do these kids have to look forward to? Some of them won’t graduate. Only a very few will go to college. This weekend—it’s the best night for some of them.”
“Good point,” said Jake. He looked wistful, and after Marion left and we lay on the couch, I ran my fingers through his hair. “Was Homecoming your best time?” I asked gingerly.
“Of course not,” he said, clasping my hand. “But you never feel things so deeply—so strongly—as you do in high school. You know?”
“I guess,” I said. I couldn’t have cared less about Homecoming—Ouray High didn’t have a football team. I remembered hiking Mount Sneffels by myself instead of going to the school dance, trying to get closer to my mom somehow by getting higher, by going to one of her favorite spots (albeit one she’d forbidden me to climb to alone—or at night). It hadn’t worked, and I’d made my way down freezing cold, hating her for leaving me, vowing never to let myself be such a sucker again.
“We played Del Valle,” said Jake. His voice was far away. “It was a close game, and in the last quarter I fucked up.”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” I said.
“It was a series of fuck-ups, but we didn’t play like we could have. I caught a pass and tried to run it, trying to be the big shot. I should have passed the ball, but I ran, and this big guy brought me right down. I blew it.”
“That was a long time ago,” I said.
“I still feel like an ass about it,” said Jake. “And my girlfriend at the time, Francine LePour, she got really drunk at the after-party and I had to hold her hair back while she puked.”
He looked up at me, and I was surprised to see how upset he’d become. “It’s all over now,” I said. “Everything’s fine now, honey.”
Jake sat up. “I’m not asking you to fix it,” he said sharply. “I’m just saying it sucked. Can you listen to me, for once?”
Tears sprang to my eyes. “I don’t understand what’s wrong,” I said.
“I just feel like—” Jake began. My phone buzzed, and he stopped talking. He met my eyes. The phone rang again. I picked it up and saw that it was Jane’s husband, who had never called me before. “It’s Dennis,” I said.
Jake shook his head, made a disappointed sound in his throat. He stood and went into our room. Pete followed, climbing into his crate at the foot of the bed. Jake shut the bedroom door with more force than was necessary.
“Dennis?” I said, answering my phone. “What’s going on?”
“Hi,” said my brother-in-law. “Listen, I … it’s bad news. I’m calling with bad news. I wanted to let you know … well, we lost the baby.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, Dennis, no.”
“It happens sometimes,” said Dennis. “But Jane’s taking it hard. I just thought you ought to know.”
“When did this happen?” I asked. “What can I do?”
“Night before last.” Dennis sighed heavily. “Jane started bleeding and just … it wasn’t meant to be. The doctor said there was probably something wrong with the baby. It’s early—this just happens sometimes.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“It’s been crazy, Alice,” said Dennis. “Jane just got home a few hours ago.”
“I’m coming,” I said. “I’ll get a flight out tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” said Dennis.
“I’ll call when I land,” I said.
“I don’t mean to be …” Dennis stopped, sighed again. “Listen,” he said, “Jane said to tell you she’ll call you when she wakes up. You don’t need to come here. To be frank, we could use some time as a family.”
“I am family,” I said, booting up the laptop.
“You know what I mean,” said Dennis.
“Okay, I’ll see you soon,” I said, hanging up the phone.
After a short Internet search, I booked a flight to Denver. I’d arrive by morning, and could deal with getting to Ouray from there. It was a six-hour drive; I could rent a car or grab a flight to Montrose. I thought about waking Jake, to tell him what had happened, and what I felt I should do. But I was afraid of him telling me I should wait, call Jane in the morning. I didn’t want to hear about how I had to stand by, feel my feelings, process. Moving simply felt better than being still.
I tossed a few things in a bag, went into the kitchen, and jotted a note on the pad we used for grocery lists. Then I called Austin Taxi and headed out.
39
Carla
MARCOS LED US from the Nuevo Laredo train station along a wavering path to a bank of reeds, beyond which was a campground. From the campground, I could see America. The enormous river was all that separated me from my mother and my second brother, Carlos. The only ones in the world who had to love me were just across the water. Unhappily, the Rio Bravo was guarded by men in gleaming SUVs, men equipped with cameras, spotlights, even helicopters. Keeping me—and all those like me—out of America was an important operation, I could see. I felt despised, a cockroach.