Authors: Antonio Ruiz-Camacho
asked, and Conchita looked at me like I was in first grade; “I don’t know, Susy girl, that’s a good question,” she said and looked down with a frown, like she’d never thought about it before; “That’s the kind of questions Jon asked all the time, you know, he’d just come up with these questions that were hard,” she said; “Anyway, Conchita,” I said because I didn’t want her to get depressed again, especially not after some stupid question that I’d asked; “There are no bears around here, so how come there’s a bear inside the restaurant eating our muffins? That’s just off,” I said; “Exactly, Susy girl! That’s my point! Doesn’t it sound like something out of a blessing? Of all the McDonald’s in the world, why would he choose ours? There has to be a reason for that, Susy girl, and a higher one at that!” she said cheerfully again, like she’d already forgotten what we were talking about a minute ago and I felt relieved, so I said, “Is it like a miracle then?” pretending to follow her; “Right! It’s like an apparition!” she cheered; “Why not?” I went on, and we giggled together; “We need to find a way to see him! We can’t miss this chance, Susy girl!” Conchita said, and so we were talking about miracles and apparitions and stuff like that when the manager showed up and called out to us; he told us to walk behind the restaurant because he needed to talk with us, and the police let us slip under the yellow tape, and when one of them pulled it up so I could pass, I felt a shiver; a cold sweat running down my spine and from the tip of my nose to my pinkies and my fingernails, but nothing happened; the cop ignored me; he didn’t notice anything different on my face or my smell or anything; the back parking lot had been cordoned too, it was empty and less noisy than the front and it even felt calm; there were no police cars, no fire trucks, no TV cameras, no onlookers, no protesters, only the fifteen of us, who gathered around the manager like when we’d meet at
the beginning of a shift by the frying machines; he didn’t say hello or good morning or, “Boy, what a crazy day,” nothing, curt and distant as always; he reminded me of Doña Laura the last days I lived in her house, she’d wake up in a bad mood every morning; “So, a goddamn bear that came out of nowhere invaded our workplace under circumstances that remain unclear at this point,” he spat, like he hadn’t seen the bear himself but he already hated him bad, like he could already picture himself being transferred to another branch on East Austin for having let this happen; “Police are still trying to find those who might be responsible for this, but that’s not the point; the point is, they don’t know what the hell to do with it yet, because simply shooting the damn thing, as much as I’d like that, is not an option for various reasons,” he said, tapping the asphalt with his left foot; he was a short, stocky, gray-haired man who would always wear these supershiny ugly brown moccasins; he’d wear the same pair to work every day, and I imagined him waking up early every morning to polish those hideous shoes like nothing else mattered; “So, since I don’t have a time line for this goddamn mess to be solved,” he was saying when Conchita cut him off, “I have a question; are they gonna let us see him?” she said, and the manager glared at her and barked, “What did you say?” and I thought, Oh boy, not again; I felt the guy was finally gonna snap because in the weeks after Jon died he and Conchita would fight every day; Conchita would ask him questions that put him on edge during the morning meetings, or she’d yell back at him if he gave her an order she didn’t like or pointed out that she was performing her duties “in a careless manner,” and other employees began to whisper that Conchita’s days were numbered and that the only reason she hadn’t gotten the boot yet was because the manager didn’t have the balls to fire a mid
dle-aged woman who’d recently lost a child, which made me feel anxious and frail; I imagined myself alone at the meetings without Conchita, struggling to understand a thing; “The bear!” she yelled at him, “What’s with it?” he cried back, “Are they gonna let us see the bear?” Conchita said; her voice broke in the middle of the sentence and I realized she was crying; my guts turned into a knot because I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t; I wished that she’d stop because I didn’t want the manager to fire her right there, but Conchita wouldn’t back down; “You have to do something about it! You’re the boss here; don’t you see this is a chance we’ll never get again? Ask them to let us see him!”; she yelled like it was an order; the tension felt like a piece of meat, heavy in the air, and I was sure everybody was thinking, This is it, Conchita will never french-fry another potato here again, and I closed my eyes wanting for the whole ordeal to stop; the noises from the front of the restaurant reached my ears again, growing louder inside my head, and I heard the walkie-talkies and the sirens and the live reports and the chants, GIVE BEARS A CHANCE! GIVE BEARS A CHANCE! again and again, but I also heard Conchita’s lungs, her hard breathing and her sobbing, very loud and close to me like my ears were pressed against her chest; “So?” she howled, “Are you gonna do something about it?” I opened my eyes and looked at the manager, but he wouldn’t say anything; I looked at his ugly moccasins first and then at his khaki pants and then at his white crisp shirt and then at his red face; his mouth was now shut and his eyes were watery, like it had just hit him, like he’d just realized why Conchita had gone bananas, but she wouldn’t shut up; “Can you please ask them to let us see him at least once?” she implored, and everybody’s eyes were on him, and he seemed small and flimsy; it was the first and only time I felt sorry for him, and when I did
I surprised myself because I never imagined myself feeling sorry for someone I was so afraid of, I never felt for Doña Laura what I was feeling for this man right there, not even when I knew what had happened to her father; I imagined the manager alone at home, polishing his ugly shoes by the bed, wondering why no one loved him yet; “I’m sorry, Concepción, I don’t think that would be possible at all,” he replied in a sorrowful voice that revealed he was human after all, a horrible one, but human nonetheless; “Okay,” was all Conchita said and covered her face with her small hands, with her chubby fingers full of silver rings, her sobbing sounded muffled and unstoppable; “Anyway,” the manager said after clearing his throat, “Corporate called to say it’s better for everybody to stay out of the picture, so you have to go, you’re all off the hook; it will count as a comp day,” he said and rolled his eyes, like he was the same old asshole again; “Just one more thing before you all leave,” he said menacingly, “talking to the media is strictly prohibited, or else you’ll be let go;” the rest of my shift mates made off toward the front parking lot but the manager called out again; “What part of
you have to go
didn’t you understand? You’re not allowed to stay and watch! This is not a goddamn show! Is that clear?” he yelled, but I stayed at the back by Conchita’s side; I looked in my purse and handed her a Kleenex, and as she blew her nose, I stroked her hair; “So, what do we do now?” I asked her to see if that cheered her up, “What are we supposed to do now, Conchita? I didn’t get what he said,” I lied; “You know what?” she said after she stopped sobbing and cleaned up the washed-out mascara around her eyes, “Let’s have some fun today, Susy girl, the day is ours! When was the last time you or me had the entire day only for us? Let’s go to the mall or the movies or whatever! How about that?” she said, making an effort to smile, and I thought that it
would do us both good because she was right, but I also thought I’d never gone to the movies in Austin and I didn’t know how much it cost; I worried it would be expensive and I was in no position to spend money on silly things; I needed to send all I could back home, and that’s when I thought of my Pedro and my Santiago and my Adrián again; I tried to remember the last time we watched a movie together, and I couldn’t; I tried to imagine how much they’d have changed since I left them behind in Cuévano with my mother, and I couldn’t; “I’d love to, Conchita, but I’m not sure, you know my budget’s tight and I probably should—” I was saying when Conchita cut me off, “Shhh! Do you hear that?” she said, “What?” I said, “That noise,” she said, “Don’t you hear it?” We stayed in silence and then I did, the noise seemed to come from inside the restaurant, slipping through the bottom of the back door, just a few yards away from where we were; it was a soft thrashing sound, like the sound you’d make tearing apart a plastic bag; “I do!” I whispered excitedly; “It’s him!” Conchita cheered quietly, her eyes filled with life again, like she was announcing that Jesus had arrived; “You think so?” I whispered; “C’mon, Susy girl, we can’t miss this chance!” Conchita said, and she pulled me in the direction of the restaurant, but I refused at first because I was afraid; what if the bear came out and attacked us, what if the cops found us peeking through the back door, but Conchita whispered, “Please, please!” imploringly, with her hands tied together like she was praying; I just hoped for the best and let myself be dragged along, and when we reached the door we put our backs against it and lowered ourselves slowly until our bottoms reached the ground; we waited there without making a sound until we heard it again, the noise grew real and clear, and when we heard it Conchita and I started giggling like little girls, giggling so hard we had to
cover our mouths; the desire to kick the ground in excitement was so powerful I felt like I was gonna pee in my pants; “What do we do, what do we do?” I mouthed to Conchita, and she just made the sign of “Shhh!” with a finger on her lips, and then we heard the sound of claws thrashing through plastic, searching for food; I imagined the bear sitting on the floor, mountains of paper and plastic trash and a mess of metallic trays all around him; his furry brown chest sprinkled with bread crumbs and threads of transparent plastic dangling from his snout; “He smells funny,” Conchita whispered after a while; “I know,” I whispered back because he did; a spicy smell similar to wet lamb’s fur reached my nose; from time to time the thrashing sound would stop and we’d hear brief grunts or movement around the door, and that was when I felt his heavy and lonely presence close to us; I felt him grand and alive and lost; “Your kids won’t believe their ears when you tell them this, Susy girl,” Conchita whispered in my ear; I looked at her, and she looked back; I wanted to tell her something, but I didn’t; I just reached out for her hands and grabbed them; I closed my eyes and saw myself back in Cuévano, stepping down from the bus with my hands full of gifts for my little ones; I saw them waiting for me by the road again, my Pedro and my Santiago and my Adrián taller than the last time I saw them, much taller now but happy to see me come home at last; Conchita and I stayed like that until the thrashing sound resumed; “He’s got to stop eating those muffins,” she whispered in my ear, and I had to nod; “I just hope he knows where the bathrooms are already,” I said and we couldn’t contain a laugh; and then we felt it, his big nose sniffing at our butts under the door, the charged, wild stuffy air that came out of his nostrils warming the ground and tickling us through the polyester of our pants; then he leaned against the door and we
felt a quick and strong push, and I froze; I felt goose bumps all over my arms; the laugh was gone; I eyed Conchita to check if she was scared, and she had this big, peaceful beam on her face; I made a sign to her that meant we needed to leave and she made a sign back that meant, “Not yet, let’s stay a little longer, please!” but then we felt it, another push on the door, stronger and violent this time around; I shrieked, and Conchita shrieked too, nothing else needed to be said after that; we just jumped out of the ground and started running; we crossed the empty parking lot in seconds, I hadn’t run so fast since I was a kid back in Cuévano, and as we ran we laughed; we laughed and laughed until we reached the bus stop, completely out of breath.
BETTER LATITUDE
It didn’t rain that Thursday afternoon, but the air tumbled over the city, old and musty, as if rolling out of a drawer that had been closed a long time. It was Laureano’s last week of school. I picked him up late because I’d had to take care of a last-minute walk-in at the office, and treated him to McDonald’s. You know your son; you know how much he loves that shit, and
I know, I know
it’s bad for him, but I wished for us to be in a festive mood. I didn’t want to go home right away. I needed my sore mind and his relentless energy to rest somewhere else.
I drove to the McDonald’s on Barranca del Muerto, the huge one overlooking Periférico that has an enormous playground out front—I’m sure you don’t know which one I’m talking about, for you’d never set foot in such a place anyway; you said that American fast food was tacky, that only wannabes and the poor craved it. Laureano didn’t eat one single Chicken McNugget. He gulped down his fries and orange juice as fast as he could and darted to the playground, as if they were giving away lollipops there. He spent a lifetime in the ball pit, leaping and jumping and splashing furiously, surrounded by kids who looked younger than he was. They regarded him with caution
and kept their distance, for he seemed too adamant about the whole business of having fun, as if it were a dead-serious matter. I remained at the table where we’d eaten, writing your name on the burger wrapper, an orphan french fry as a pen and ketchup as ink, watching Laureano through a large window below a sign that read
WELCOME TO PLAYPLACE
He looked like a frantic dolphin trying new tricks in the open sea, riding the waves of a multicolor storm. I tried to stay present, watch him go mad, but my mind was stuck with you.
Four weeks had passed since I’d last seen you, since the three of us had eaten dinner together. It was a Wednesday. You stayed over, we slept together but didn’t make love—I had my period. The next morning you sat next to Laureano at the kitchen table and watched him scarf down a bowl of cornflakes with cold milk while you drank black coffee and complained that you felt exhausted. You said you were reaching that age when one always feels tired no matter how much one sleeps. I felt like I’d reached that age some time ago but didn’t say anything. What was the point of discussing inevitable miseries with you so early in the morning, minutes from your departure? Laureano got ready for school and when you both were in the car I asked if we should wait for you that night. You asked what day it was. I said it. You considered it. You said you were not sure you’d be back in time for dinner, but that you’d come back for sure. I stayed at the curbside, watching your car until it turned the corner and I never saw it or you again. The morning lit with clouds, the shades of green in the tree leaves and the fuchsia blossoms of the bougainvillea creeping down the wall at the entrance of the house; all had grown pale as if it
had trouble breathing, paler than every color in Mexico City has ever been since I can remember.
We left McDonald’s in that deadly hour of the afternoon that’s neither lunch nor dinner time and when people at restaurants seem out of place. We came home and I said, Laureano, it’s bath time. He begged me to let him go outside and hang out in the tree house. I couldn’t believe his stamina. I felt tired all the time, it overwhelmed me to see this kid boasting of his energy, to see him only wanting to have fun, as if nothing else mattered. I wanted him to take a bath as soon as possible, for he’d been playing in that filthy ball pit barefoot and he hadn’t washed his hands since. I didn’t even want to think about the germs that stuck to his feet, his face. I wasn’t in the mood to argue, so I let him go.
An hour passed and he was still out there. It was that moment of evening right before darkness breaks. The sky drew white and I felt winter had reached us again even though it was late June. I slid the backdoor open and called for Laureano. He didn’t reply. I called him again. Your son, stubborn as a stale loaf of bread. I started in his direction, but suddenly his freckled face stuck out of one of the little windows and he said he was coming. He had this big, insuperable grin on his face. This little you.
Laureano jumped down from the porch of the tree house and ran to me with his cheeks flushed and gleaming. I said that it was bath time. He stopped dead in the middle of the yard and said I wouldn’t believe who he’d been hanging out with. I had zero interest in finding out. I’d been up since six thirty in the morning, it had been a hard day at the office, four pedicures (old diabetic widowers, customers delightful as hemorrhoids), one case of severe athlete’s foot, and one surgery to fix a good pair of nasty ingrown toenails. I had no energy left for riddles, but Laureano insisted that I guess. I mentioned some
of his stuffed animals by name—Denver, the giraffe; Pensacola, the rooster; Pompeya, the sheep—but it was no use. He giggled; he shook his head with tenacity and said I’d never find out. I give up, I said, and he revealed he’d been hanging out with you. Laureano’s eyes shone disarmingly, enraptured by jubilance. Little bastard happy like it was Kings’ Day. The flesh of my legs turned into Jell-O, squishy and tremulous. My lips quivered. For a second, I hated him. I wanted to slap him in the face and hug him and burst into tears and yell
WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME
all at once, but I didn’t. I imagined your lanky, six-foot-tall frame curled up inside that toy house next to our son, your salt-and-pepper hair scratching against the ceiling like a porcupine with a rash, your long, infinite arms and your strong hands struggling to fit in that box, and the image was heartbreaking and hysterical. I asked Laureano to tell me more, but he said there wasn’t much else to it. I forced a smile and cleared my throat and repeated,
bath time
. I held his hand. It was warm, soft with the newness and the hope and the fearlessness of youth. We came inside. I looked forward to a drink.
When Laureano was stripping off his clothes in the bathroom he said I had to wash his ears thoroughly because you’d taken a look at them and said they were yucky. I asked him to say that again, and he did. Did you really check his ears when you guys were together? Little you confirmed and added that you’d checked his fingernails and his toenails and his teeth as well. I grabbed him by the shoulders, bent down, and explored his ears. That’s when he said you’d deemed his fingernails and toenails neat, but that he could do a better job brushing his teeth. That’s when I thought
YEAH, RIGHT
A month had passed since he’d last seen you too. He seemed to be missing you as much as I was, but we hadn’t talked about it. I knew he’d long grown used to your intermittent presence in our lives. He already knew you’d only spend a couple nights a week at home, that you’d drop him off at school every now and then. I didn’t think it was necessary to address your absence just yet.
Then one evening at dinnertime he asked when you were coming back. We were finishing dessert. While I searched for an answer to the very question that haunted me every day, I offered him more lemonade. He gave me those eyes of yours that meant,
cut the crap, Mom
. I said you’d had to make a long trip for your job, longer and farther than usual, which was why you hadn’t been able to come home or even call, but that you would, soon. He asked where you’d gone. Little cactus thorns pierced my lungs. China, I said. He asked where in China. I wanted him to shut up and stop hurting me, but I said you hadn’t gone to Shanghai or Beijing, but to a town in the south, a village so small its streets weren’t paved but made out of powder, its airport so humble only one plane landed there every week. He looked at me with his eyes wide open in amazement, and I felt abominable for taking advantage of his six years of age. He wanted to know the name of the town. I said I couldn’t remember, for I’d hardly heard of it myself, and coaxed him to finish his fruit salad. He begged me to look it up on the world map we’d given him for his birthday, the one we’d just stuck on the wall above his bed. It was past eight. It was time for bed; we’d do that in the morning, I promised him. Little fucking you insisted, insisted, insisted, his fruity-smelling voice
growing louder and more unsettling, until I conceded. He charged out of the kitchen. I trailed behind him dragging my feet, wishing I could turn water into whiskey, wishing I’d made wiser decisions in my life.
I found Laureano standing barefoot on his bed, his index finger crawling along the mustard-colored corner of Asia, looking for you. No, it isn’t Hong Kong; that is actually a pretty big city, I said. He asked if it was Beihai, or Shantou, or Simao, or Xiamen, his finger hopping across the far-off land. He called out the names he found in southern China, and he read them fast. He was full of wonder, so smart and small. I thought about all the disgraces life had in store for him and how handsome he was and how well he could read at such an early age, a jumble of thoughts that made me feel very lonely. I wanted to kiss him forever and run away with him to another planet where I hadn’t met you and he was still my son, somewhere else where you were a different man and you were with us, but I just stood on the bed embracing him from behind, our feet touching on the duvet, my index finger pointing to the tiniest, most isolated spot I could find. All he said was
WOW
He said it was far and tiny indeed. I said, now it’s time for bed.
He didn’t mention you again until that Thursday. I had no idea where you were and every day I’d wonder why you didn’t even call. When he said you’d checked his feet and hands and face to make sure I was taking good care of him while you were away, I dismissed his daydream, his hallucination as a coping of sorts. But later that night, when Laureano was asleep, I climbed into the tree house to see if you were still there, if I could see you too. I couldn’t fit. I didn’t remember how small
it was. How did you manage? How did you sneak through the house without my noticing? Why were you visiting only him?
• • •
I knew that one day you’d be gone for good. I knew that in the end, I’d raise Laureano on my own. We were twenty-five years apart. I had no doubt one day I’d have to give Laureano the news of your final departure. I’d played the scene in my mind so many times. I’d even practiced, trying different faces before a mirror like in a crappy flick: devastated, mad, resigned. Always the same line:
LAUREANO, DADDY’S GONE TO HEAVEN
You insisted on having him baptized and sending him to a Catholic school, so I thought that if I said:
LAUREANO, DADDY HAS DIED
the first thing he’d ask would be whether you’d made it. I knew I’d hesitate, and that would mortify him. In my rehearsals, you were granted instant forgiveness, eternal salvation.
I liked to think that once you were gone, I wouldn’t have the nerve to keep sugarcoating shit for him, like I still do. I’d see myself becoming the badass honest mom I’ve never been:
No, Laureano,
GOD DOESN’T EXIST
and neither do heaven nor hell. That’s the bullshit Daddy wanted to believe in because it made things easier for him. And, no, Mommy and Daddy were never married.
That wedding picture on my bedside table is not authentic, it’s
THE FAKEST WEDDING PICTURE EVER
The first time you asked to see a picture of our nuptial ceremony, I rented the dress at a costume shop and Daddy dressed in a tuxedo that wasn’t bought for the occasion or anything stupid like that, and we got that picture taken at a photo studio near his office at lunchtime. And when I saw myself in that dress I wished we’d actually married, and when the photographer prompted us to smile I had to fight back the tears and I thought
WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING
in this hideous dress? Why am I ruining my life like this? And Daddy was constantly away from home not because of his job, but because he had another family and he lived with them, even after his wife died. Yes. Daddy loved you, Laureano. I think he really did, but he didn’t love you enough. He didn’t love me enough either. He said he did, but he didn’t. He loved us the same way people like him love pedigree dogs, expensive cars, time-shares in Acapulco.
WE WERE HIS PETS
an extravagant hobby he could afford.
And yet, I loved him. I really fucking did. It wasn’t a matter of being smart or idiotic or brave or weak or strong. I only hope this never happens to you, my son. That you know you’re falling fully, immensely, grandiosely, irreparably for someone
who’s going to fuck your life wholly, and still you can’t help yourself.
• • •
Laureano finished school the following week and I enrolled him in English summer camp, so that I could continue to work in the mornings. On Sunday evening I called my parents, for the first time in years, to see if things were different now. For some reason I thought that my father would be aware of your disappearance and that he might have changed his mind. Perhaps he’d want to meet his grandson. Perhaps he’d even ask me to let Laureano stay with them over the summer. When he heard my voice on the line, he asked
ARE YOU STILL FUCKING THAT MAN
I wanted to tell him that you’d been gone for over a month, that I didn’t know if you’d dumped me or died or what, but I just said yes, I was still with you.
SO YOU’RE STILL A WHORE
he said, and hung up.
Every evening, after dinner, Laureano would ask to go to the tree house so that he could play with you. Upon his return, he’d brag about all the fun things you guys had done together. Once, he brought his stuffed animals with him, not only Denver and Pompeya and Pensacola, but also José Alfredo, the boar; Acambay, the T
.
rex; and Blue Demon, the chimp. He crammed them all into his Spider-Man backpack, as if he were leaving home, and I watched him cross the backyard and rush up the rubber ladder at full speed, the backpack bouncing
sideways against his scapulae. You dashing out to you. When he returned he said you had played Chapultepec Zoo. You’d incarnated the zookeeper and he the vet, and together you had cured all the zoo animals of a rare ailment that impeded them from chewing leaves. Another evening, he packed in
The Cat in the Hat Comes Back
and
Little Red Riding Hood.
Later he told me that you’d read them aloud, giving each character a different voice, performing the stories as if you were onstage, as many times as he’d asked.