18
Don Fidencio hobbles along the shore, making sure his cane doesn’t sink too far into the sand. The strange part is that Amalia is a little girl again, while he is still an old man. Even Petra is only in her thirties, so beautiful and happy. He can see Amalia is wearing the bathing suit they bought for her at the Kress, while her mother has her blue jeans rolled up to her knees and is wearing one of his mail-carrier shirts, with the tails tied into a knot. Neither one seems to notice that he is old and using a wooden cane. That, and he is wearing only his boxers, held up by his trusty suspenders. There are other children there now, running and playing in the water. It must be late summer, the time of year when he usually took the family to Boca Chica. The truck is parked at the southern tip of the beach, near the mouth of the river. Petra walks to the back and, on the tailgate, makes chicken-salad sandwiches for the family. Only he sees her hands are much larger than he remembers, thick and burly, like the hands of a man from Oklahoma that he bunked next to when he was working in the CCC camps. He remembers how the man used to pick up a railroad tie and walk off like nothing. More than sixty years have passed since he has seen hands like this. Where could Petra have gotten these hands? What happened to her young, delicate hands? No wonder she’s not wearing her wedding ring. How, with those breakfast sausages for fingers? He asks her if she would like help making the sandwiches. It seems an unusual offer to make, considering that in all the years they were married he never helped her with these sorts of things. And suddenly he wants to help her make sandwiches? What could be next? Making the bed? Scrubbing the toilet? But really, he asks only because he is worried about what kind of job she will do with those hands of hers. He imagines her leaving a big thumbprint in the middle of the white bread and he knows that as tasty as the sandwich might be he won’t like that. Who wants to eat a sandwich disfigured in this way? But when he offers to help she doesn’t hear him or maybe just ignores him, and goes on. The children have waded into the mouth of the river. The distance to the Mexican side is maybe thirty feet and the water barely reaches their chests. He sits in the lawn chair to keep an eye on them, but when he looks down again the lawn chair has large wheels attached to its sides. One of the little boys is giving Amalia a piggyback ride in the water and after they reach the other side she turns and in Spanish shouts, “We’re in Mexico, Daddy! We’re in Mexico!” He waves and, as usual, yells, “Tell them I said hello and that your father is puro Mexicano!” The children beg him to come over to the other side, and after much persuading, he tries to stand but finds his legs have finally given out on him. He tries repeatedly and keeps falling back into the seat. Finally he rolls the chair closer to the shore, until the wheels begin to sink in the marshy sand. In the weightlessness of the water the old man feels his body young again. He lifts his feet as he floats on his back. He sways along with the river’s current, keeping his eyes shut and feeling the water lap against his renewed body. In the distance he can hear the laughter of the children, but when he opens his eyes he’s now in the community pool in Amalia’s subdivision. Of all places to be. He was there years and years ago when he went up to Houston to visit her and go watch a baseball game. Several families are gathered around the patio tables and some men are grilling shish kebabs. From all the decorations it looks like the Fourth of July. It seems cloudier here than a second ago when he was floating in the river. He is happy to be the only one in the pool. No one seems to notice an old man floating on his back, his underwear now clinging to him in an unflattering manner. The people carry on with their conversations, but with his head halfway in the water he hears only muffled voices. He can barely make out the metal sign hanging from the fence. But how come? But how come? he remembers her asking him the one time he took her to the public swimming pool. What did the words on the sign say? Why did the man tell us we couldn’t go inside, Daddy? Just because. But how come, if they let all the other people? What did the sign say, Daddy? If he was grateful for anything that day, it was that she was still too young to read what it said about the dogs and Mexicans. But how come, Daddy? How come we have to go home? The water looks dirty, that’s how come — now shut your mouth. And that was all. How could he explain it then, if today, after so many years, he still doesn’t have the words to answer her question? He thinks if he can remain very still in the water, just floating, maybe not even breathing, they might not notice him. That’s all he wants now, for them to leave him alone and just let him float. He figures he can wait until it gets dark and they leave, then get out of the water. And it’s working — he hears less and less of their muffled talk. He feels so at ease that he ignores the tingling in his left calf. This is the happiest he has felt since his accident in the yard, however long ago that was. All he wants is to keep floating along, but a few seconds later his leg cramps up so much that he loses his steadiness and goes down. And there, underwater, he realizes the cramp is really someone pulling on his leg. He strains to see who it is, only the pool water is now as murky as the river. But he knows without seeing his face that it has to be The Son Of A Bitch. The old man yells for help: ?Ayúdenme! ?Ayúdenme! ?Me estoy ahogando! These are the loudest words he has ever shouted, but it all happens underwater. The pool is deeper than he ever imagined. The people keep laughing and having a good time at their barbecue. And he begins to swallow water.