The Same Sky (20 page)

“Are you insane?” said Jake.

“Slightly,” I said.

“Is she gone?” said Jake.

“Who’s that?” I said.

“Evian,” said Jake.

“Oh, Evian!” I said. The television was muted, but I could see that the Canadian couple had chosen the gated community. On the screen, the wife appeared with a watering can and trowel, smiling unhappily in her huge new garden. “She’s not here now,” I said cagily.

There was silence on the line. “I need you to take her home,” said Jake finally. “We need some time to find ourselves again. Okay? We’ve been through a lot, honey. I’m asking you for this, and it’s important to me. I just want to come home to my wife. Please.”

I didn’t say anything, remembering how good it had felt to put clean clothes in the drawers of the bunny bureau. “Hello?” said Jake. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said.

Soon after this conversation, a large pickup truck with flashing lights turned onto Mildred Street. I could hear loud rap music as the passenger door opened and deposited Evian, a bit disheveled, on the sidewalk. The truck roared away. Evian came inside and said, “I am really tired.” She threw herself onto the couch, her head inches from mine. She stretched and yawned theatrically.

I practiced the words in my head:
I need to take you home now
. But when I opened my mouth, I said, “Do you want some spaghetti?”

“No,” she said, “I’m good.”

“Do you have any homework?” I asked.

She laughed. “No,” she said. Evian smelled like beer.

My phone rang. It was Camilla, from next door. “Is everything okay over there?” she asked. “I wasn’t sure you were all right.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Don’t worry about me.”

I hung up the phone. Evian fell asleep with her head on my shoulder. A new episode of
House Hunters International
began. A Canadian couple was looking for a Costa Rican bungalow in which they could begin a new life.

33
 

Carla

I
RAN TOWARD THE
shelter, pushing the metal door open and finding a dim room full of slumbering people. The room smelled like unwashed skin. I scanned the bodies but did not see my brother. A priest who had been reading in the light provided by a small window stood and approached me. “You are safe,” he said soothingly, quietly. “God has brought you to this place, and you are safe.”

Terror burns your skin from the inside. Constant watchfulness freezes your bones. Looking at the kindly priest, I almost fell to the floor. My shoulders slid down my back, and I took a shuddering breath. “Are you hungry?” he asked. I said nothing.

“Come,” said Father, and I followed him to a small kitchen where he ladled soup into a white bowl. He handed
me the soup and I ate. “Where have you come from?” he asked me.

“Tegucigalpa,” I said.

“And you are going to El Norte?”

“I am going to find my mother in Texas.”

He nodded. “You are all alone?” he asked.

“I was with my brother, Junior. And another boy, Ernesto.” I described them both, and Father told me to stand. “We have a soccer field in the back,” he said.

I was eager to get outside, but Father touched my arm and asked if I would like to have confession. Too afraid to admit the way I had been violated, I shook my head.

“Bad things happen to good people sometimes,” said Father. He placed his hand on my cheek. “God forgives you, if your heart is good.” I wanted to believe Father. I looked deep into his brown eyes, searching.

“My heart,” I said.

He nodded. “I know,” he said. “God bless you, my child. You are a strong person to make this journey.”

On his face, I saw pity. I knew he had seen terrible things, worse, perhaps, than the ones I had seen. He knew—as I did now—about what was possible. We had both tasted evil.

Father took my hand. If I spoke, I would beg him to keep me, to be not just a priest but
my
father. I could stay here in this place, cleaning and cooking for others. If he would never let go of me, I would do anything.

We went to the back of the room where so many were sleeping. By the door, a large map was taped to the wall. I stopped short and stared. I had seen maps in books when
I had gone to school. Father put his finger on a city by the bottom of the map. “Tegu,” he said. I watched him. He moved his hand up the map. “And now you are here,” he said.

“And Texas?” I said.

Five inches higher, he touched a blue ribbon. “The Rio Bravo,” he said. “And if you cross it, you are in the United States.”

It didn’t seem impossible, standing in that room, looking at a piece of paper. I’d come so far already. I thought for one moment about how it would feel to put my face into my mother’s hair.

“You could go back,” said Father, mistaking my quiet for fear.

I shook my head.

“Your hope,” said Father. “It inspires me, your hope.”

I was iridescent, empowered by his words. “What else can I do but hope?” I asked. I assumed he knew what things were like at home.

“Indeed,” said Father.

I pushed open the back door, and there he was. He was bouncing a half-deflated ball, wearing only a pair of athletic shorts. I ran to Junior. “I found you,” I cried.

“Ah, we’re in the middle of a game,” he said, pushing me away but smiling large. His hair was clean and his eyes looked less dull than I remembered. To the other boys, Junior said, “Keep playing. It’s just my sister.”

34
 

Alice

D
ONN’S DEPOT PIANO
Bar & Saloon had originally been an actual train station. When the wooden structure was slated to be replaced with a brick building, the older station was moved to Austin and attached to a boxcar, parlor car, and red caboose (the last now the ladies’ room). Surrounded by an outdoor deck, the building was soon filled with the musical stylings of Austin native Donn Adelman, who’d bought the place in 1978. Donn and the Station Masters played live music on the weekends, and on weeknights you could never be sure if you’d be hearing a new band, an old band, or your personal jukebox selections. I always brought quarters in my purse, just in case. Parking was a bit of an issue, as West Fifth had become snazzy—full of spas, fitness studios, and something called a Blo Dry Bar. Behind the Depot, I wedged my car into a
space uncomfortably close to a telephone pole and slithered out. It was happy hour, and the lot was almost full already.

I climbed the wooden steps to the deck and entered the bar. As always, the place was lit with Christmas lights. Though you couldn’t smoke indoors anymore, the scent lingered. Marion sat near the empty stage with a drink. I waved and went to the bar, where Toni said, “Alice!” and came forward to give me a big hug. I hadn’t been to Donn’s in two years.

“Hey,” I said happily.

“Where’s the big guy, the famous one?” said Toni.

The young man behind the bar leaned in. “Who’s famous?” he said.

“This one’s hubby. Conroe’s BBQ!” said Toni.

“Whoa,” said the man, who sported a reddish goatee.

“She’s famous, too,” said Toni kindly.

“I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” I said.

“You can’t come in here wearing those boots and order a Chardonnay,” said the man.

“She can do what she likes,” said Toni, unscrewing a large bottle and filling a pint glass to the rim with wine. I opened my purse, but Toni said, “We’ll run a tab,” shooing me away.

Marion stood as I approached. “What
is
that?” she said.

“Chardonnay.”

“Ugh, in a beer glass?” said Marion. “You’ve got to try the Loose Caboose.”

“Sounds good.” I sat down at the rickety table, took a sip of my wine, and sighed. “I need some advice,” I said.

“From me?” said Marion. She laughed. “You need advice and I need a miracle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, hon,” said Marion, smoothing her cocktail napkin. “I’ve got this one school year to raise the TAKS scores and attendance records. One year, and then they close Chávez Memorial. To be honest, I think they’re going to close us anyway.”

“What about the teachers?”

“What about the
kids
?” said Marion. She rubbed her eyes. “I tell them I believe in them. I tell them I
love
them. I tell them I’m proud of them. But when—sorry.
If
they close Chávez, these kids are going to be in big trouble. Some of them won’t even go to school anymore. Some of these kids’ parents went to Chávez. Well, it wasn’t called Chávez then, but my point is there used to be pride.” She sighed deeply. “The teachers will find jobs. Maybe in Austin, maybe not. I’ll find a job. But the kids …” She stopped talking and drained her Loose Caboose.

“So Evian has moved in with me … with us,” I began.

“What?” said Marion, leaning toward me. She wore a gold pin on her sweater—a Chávez jaguar.

“Her mom … she kicked her out, I guess.”

“Go on,” said Marion in a grim tone.

“I don’t know what to do. Jake is angry. He says … I don’t know, that we need some time to recover. I guess he thinks I’m replacing Mitchell with Evian. Or something. But I’m just trying to give her a safe place to live. Someone watching out for her.”

“My husband left me, my third year as principal,” said
Marion. She raised her hand and Toni began fixing another drink. “He told me I was married to the school. He wanted me home at night, to make dinner, to hear about his day. But there were basketball games, teacher meetings … there were kids who needed me, and I wanted to be there for them, the way their parents weren’t, sometimes. Graham was an adult. When I saw some kid who needed to talk, I knew whom God would want me to help. I prayed every time Graham threatened to leave. And every time, God told me what my purpose was.” She shrugged, accepted the drink from Toni with a smile. “But then Graham left,” she said.

“You’re amazing,” I said.

“And I’m alone,” said Marion.

“Doesn’t look like you will be for long,” I said, eyeing the older men in the bar, many wearing cowboy hats and Wranglers.

“I’m not alone
every
night,” said Marion. She winked. “But in a larger sense,” she clarified, shrugging.

“What do you think I should do?” I asked.

“Honey, I can’t answer that for you,” said Marion. Toni brought another pint of wine and placed it on the table. As I drank, I felt warm and confused. Toni took my empty glass away. Donn and the Station Masters took the stage and Marion and I listened, rapt and relaxed. Couples in their seventies and eighties took to the floor, two-stepping elegantly. A few younger hipsters moseyed out, and the elders revolved around them gracefully. A man with a bushy white moustache walked toward our table, his eyes fixed on Marion. “Oh, boy,” she said sotto voce. “Here we go.”

“Lovely Marion,” said the man, removing his hat.

“Hello, Clive,” said Marion.

“Would you do me the honor, darling?” said Clive. But as Marion was nodding, placing her hand in Clive’s, her phone buzzed.

“Forgive me,” she said, glancing down at the text. Her face went cold. “Oh, God,” she said. “Oh, no.”

“Marion!” said Clive, alarmed.

“There’s been a shooting,” said Marion. She stood, flustered, gathering her purse. “Gang-related, a football player …” she said. “Can you—”

“Of course,” I said. I stood and Marion hugged me quickly.

“Ask God what you should do,” she said as she hurried off. “Don’t ask me.”

Toni approached, and I told her what had happened. “Forget it,” she said when I asked for the bill. “Poor Marion.”

I sighed, slipping my purse over my shoulder.

“She tell you about the gym?” said Toni.

“What?” I said.

“Condemned,” said Toni. “Marion’s been in here, trying to convince Donn to hold the Chávez Homecoming Dance here in a few weeks. No way, Donn said, absolutely no way. Some of those kids are hoodlums, you know what.”

“I guess so,” I said. I made my way to my car, but it had become trapped between the telephone pole and a minivan. I sighed and began walking along 5th Street. It was only a few blocks to Lamar, where I could grab a cab. I was feeling kind of drunk anyway, and kind of sorry for myself.