What if I’d never gotten married at all? Maybe I could’ve gone with Ruby and Jose to California, to help out. Or told Mami
I was going to California with them, and then gone somewhere else. Ohio, Wyoming, Oregon. New York City. Argentina. Spain.
Paris. Africa.
I could have been a missionary. I could have been a teacher, at least. Instead, here I am. I can’t even move a few hundred
miles, no matter how much I want to. At first I thought Miguel would kill me if I left. Now I know he’s too lazy, but my father
would kill me, instead. Because everyone in town would find out, and he and my mother wouldn’t be able to stand the gossip.
It’s less embarrassing for them to have a daughter who’s unhappy for life, than a daughter who gets talked about.
And what would I be doing but trading one man for another? Every night I wish I could trade men, but what if it doesn’t stop
there? I trust Jaime, but I hardly trust myself. What if I leave with him, and then I can’t stop? I don’t want to hurt him
but I don’t know if I can keep from doing it, at this point. Sometimes it feels like I’m not a real woman anymore. I’m an
animal. A witch. What if I get a taste of freedom and never stop leaving?
Where would it end? At the end of the earth…?
That’s enough crazy talk. Back to real life.
Entry from Aunt Linda’s journal, January 19, 1968
Everyone is mad at me, and I’ve never been so happy.
Mami cried. Papi pulled my hair and called me a sin-vergüenza. But I stood my ground. It was going to take more than slapping
and hair-pulling, from Papi, Mami or Miguel, to stop me.
Jaime came over to our house and told Miguel what we were going to do. I was afraid for him, but he said it’d be best this
way—to tell the truth, face-to-face, without sneaking around like thieves.
At first I thought Miguel was going to fight him. But no, he was too much of a coward, or maybe he realized in his heart that
we’d never belonged together. But he had to save face, either way. He told Jaime to go ahead and take me, that I was only
half a woman, anyway, who couldn’t bear children and didn’t want to do anything but read all day.
If I’d still been 23 or 24, I would have flown into a rage, probably, and tried to tear his eyes out. Or at least spit in
his sorry face. But now that I’m 25, I know better than to bother with worthless people. I let him say what he wanted while
I packed my things and left. It was worth it, to get away.
We’ve been here two days now and it’s just like Jaime said it’d be. One house for him, one house for me. Mesquite and cactus
as far as you can see, and mercifully cooler than it was in the Valley. The soil is full of lime but I think I can do something
with it. Already, I love the goats. They’re so good and quiet. Jaime says we can drive to Austin or to San Antonio some weekend
and see the sights. For right now, I’m glad enough to see my own little house. My own garden. My own life.
I’m happy. I can never go home again, of course. I’m going to miss Mami. But I’m happy. I’m free.
Time: Thursday, June 22, 3:36 PM
From:
[email protected]
Subject: straight to hell
you will go straight to hell. as He is my witness I can tell you that you will burn in hell for what you have done. this is
not the way He meant for young women to serve, showing themselves to be whores like “Sodom and gommorrah” and He will show
you the error of your weigh. you should give yourself over to Him and see his Light. as God is my witness, repent right now
and He will forgive
Time: Thursday, June 22, 5:43 PM
From:
[email protected]
Subject: Please contact me.
Dear Ms. Saavedra:
Philippe Montemayor gave me your personal email address. I hope you don’t mind me contacting you. I’ve been following your
story on Buzz News and Nacho Papi and would love to interview you for the LA Chronicle. Would you please call me?
Jim Mayer
Online Features Editor
Los Angeles Chronicle
Time: Friday, June 23, 1:47 AM
From:
[email protected]
Subject: thanks
Dear Sandy,
You don’t know me because I’ve never written to you before and my blog isn’t famous like yours. But I had to write and tell
you that, no matter what happened with Geek Boy and Papi Chulo and all that stuff, I’m glad you’re online.
I’ve been reading your TragiComic Texas blog almost since the beginning. I like it because you’re a lot like me. My dad left
my mom when I was little, too. I had to work my way through school, just like you. And I also want to be a writer.
When my friend told me you were the same writer as Sandy S from Nacho Papi, I was so excited for you, but also for myself.
I thought, if you could get a job like that, maybe some day I could, too.
When I see you interviewing the Chupacabra, it reminds me of my grandfather, who recently died. So it makes me a little sad,
but also happy that you could find someone like that in your own life.
I’m glad you didn’t take your blog down after everything that happened, because sometimes when I feel discouraged about stuff,
I go back and read certain things that you said, and that makes me feel better. Sometimes when my boyfriend calls me names
or we fight, I think about you getting tired of Geek Boy and not letting him put you down anymore. And I think that, if you
can do that and come out okay, then maybe I can leave my boyfriend too and raise our baby on my own, and still have my dreams
and know that they can come true.
Sincerely,
Mary Helen Molina
S
andy walked into the office at 10:45
A.M.
on Friday, her eyes spazzy from reading for so long, going back and forth from her
aunt’s faded ink on yellowed paper to the e-mails on her computer and text messages on her phone screen.
She had spent hours reading over her online diary, agonizing again over whether to delete it. In the end, she’d deleted only
the very personal parts about Daniel. Even though she’d never used his name, people knew it was him she was talking about.
And now that that was the case, she removed everything about him that she wouldn’t have said in public. Then she did the same
for her mother and father. Then she did the same for herself.
In the end, she was surprised by how much was left. There was quite a bit she didn’t have to be ashamed of. Maybe not the
most interesting bits, but enough so that she didn’t feel like she’d spent all her private time trashing her loved ones online.
This morning, she felt not
good
, exactly, but better. Definitely a little better.
“Hi, Sandy!” piped La Sirena as she entered the staff room. She was sitting with Lori and, as usual lately, the two of them
looked giggly, like girls at a slumber party. “What’s wrong? You look tired. Want me to take your segment for you today?”
“No, thanks.” Sandy kept her voice mild, hiding her annoyance with La Sirena’s constant offers to “help” by taking Sandy’s
stories from her.
Lori, at least, seemed to recognize that her old friend might not appreciate her new friend’s eagerness, and she hastened
to change the subject. “Sandy, I guess you heard the news, huh?”
“What news?” Sandy heard a lot of news, all the time. It was her job. But she figured Lori was going to tell her something
new about their jobs—probably that they were going out on location, or that they’d hired yet another staffer.
Angelica came into the room. “Sandy. Where’ve you been? You missed the big announcement.”
Behind her, George emerged from her office. George Cantu, aka Papi Chulo, aka the man who’d ruined Sandy’s life.
“George is back!” Angelica caroled. As if that was good news. As if that wasn’t the last thing Sandy would ever want to hear
at this point. “He’s rejoining the staff. I was hoping you’d get here early so we could talk about doing a big segment on
it today. You and George can have a big showdown on air. We can do a poll and let readers call to vote for which of you they
like better. Or which of you should apologize on air. Or something. I was hoping you’d be here to contribute ideas.”
Behind her, George stood there and smirked his everlasting smirk at Sandy. “I told Angelica we could take a few calls on air.
You could answer sob stories from women who went through bad breakups, and I can take calls from guys who’ve been done wrong.”
He didn’t even seem angry about it, or malicious. George was obviously only thinking about himself—his ratings and his popularity.
And he expected Sandy to feel the same way, as if this were some publicity stunt and not her real life.
“And this will be the perfect lead-in to our charity date auction. We can charge an extra hundred dollars for the winners
if they want to double-date with you and George!” Angelica stood there with an encouraging smile on her face, waiting for
Sandy’s reply. As if Sandy were going to agree instantly and start brainstorming more ways to put her life on display for
the good of Levy Media.
They were all the same, Sandy realized then. George, Angelica, Jacob Levy himself. They only cared about publicity and profit.
None of them cared about her dignity or even their own. It was as if they had no souls. They weren’t a family at all. They
were just—just characters. Badly drawn characters.
Sandy turned and walked out of the office without a word to any of them.
“Sandy!” Angelica called.
“Oh my gosh, Sandy!” Lori cried.
“Hey!” said George, who was probably most disappointed of all.
She walked out of the building and all the way back to her car. Then she got in and started the engine and began to drive.
She was going to the hospital, she told herself, to visit her friend. She didn’t deserve a friend like him, she knew. But
he was one of the few people she could trust right now.
A
N HOUR LATER
, a nurse was ushering Sandy into Tío Jaime’s room. She was relieved to find that he wasn’t in any ward identified as Emergency,
Critical, or otherwise frightening.
She had driven to the hospital nearest his house, then gone to the information desk and told them she was Jaime Escobar’s
niece, and now here she was.
It was strange to see Tío Jaime in the cold, flat light of a hospital room, dressed in white and pale blue like a baby, without
his hat or his dog at his side. It made him look old, Sandy thought as she took the chair at his bedside. But he was sitting
up, wide awake, and looked just as alert as ever and like he was ready to continue where he’d left off, describing the world
through the Chupacabra’s eyes.
“How are you?” he said. “Did Richard tell you where to find me?”
Sandy gave him a sheepish smile. “No. You told me you were going to the hospital, and I did a little investigating.”
The old man chuckled. “You outsmarted a lawyer. That’s good.”
“So what happened? Why are you here?” Sandy leaned forward in her chair to listen. She wished she’d thought to bring something
with her, but she’d been in too much of a hurry to get here and find out what was going on.
“Nothing happened, m’ija. I just had a little trouble with my sugar and Richard got scared and had them stick me in here for
a couple of days. He probably just wanted to get rid of me so he could have people come to my house and install a satellite
or some damn thing.”
“What do you mean, trouble with your sugar? You mean your blood sugar?”
“Yeah.” Tío Jaime waved dismissively, jiggling the IV bag that Sandy now saw was connected to his hand by a long, milky tube.
“The diabetes. It’s nothing.” He lapsed into one of his thoughtful silences, exactly as if they were relaxing at his house,
talking about society and other people’s problems.
Sandy thought of all the sweets she had brought to Tío Jaime’s house during her visits. He’d never told her he was diabetic.
She wanted to ask more about his condition but didn’t want to be rude. She wasn’t his family, after all, even if she did call
him uncle. And he didn’t seem at all interested in discussing it with her. “How long are you going to be here?” she finally
settled on.
“Not too much longer, I don’t think. Not more than two or three days.” Sandy frowned. He looked fine, but it couldn’t have
been such a trivial health problem if he was staying that long. He saw her look and added, “It’s nothing. They just want to
watch me for a few days so they can run up my bill. But Richard wants it, and he says he’ll pay for whatever my Medicaid doesn’t,
so I stopped complaining.”
“Do you want me to bring you anything? Magazines? Books?”
He considered the question. Sandy could tell he didn’t like asking for anything, but his room was the typically barren hospital
room, and he didn’t even have his TV on. He must have been bored out of his mind. “Could you bring me something to eat? Like
some of those cookies? The ones with the peppermint, if you can.”
Sandy frowned again. “I don’t know, Tío Jaime. Should you be eating cookies?”
“No, he shouldn’t.” A nurse had bustled into the room and answered Sandy’s question. “No cookies, candies, or anything sweet.
You know that, Mr. Escobar. Don’t be trying to get your niece into trouble.”
The old man grumbled at the nurse but said nothing while she bustled about him, arranging his bedding and IV, making note
of the information on various gray and beige monitors at his bedside. Then she turned and pulled the blanket off his feet,
revealing to Sandy that one of them was in a fat, bulky cast.
“How’s that foot feeling?” she asked.
“I can’t feel anything,” Tío Jaime muttered.
“Hmm. You’re lucky you still
have
a foot to cause you trouble. If you’d waited any longer to come see us, we would’ve had to take the whole thing off.” The
nurse gave Tío Jaime a stern look, then turned to Sandy with a kinder one. “Good thing you and your brother are here to watch
him now. Make him take better care of himself.” And, with that, she left the room as briskly as she’d entered.