The Burning Side(79)

And finally, he surrenders.

Finally, he trusts me with his weight.

Finally, we crest and summit and cry out.

It’s a flare in the darkness—a brazen and burning forgiveness.





LEO


September 5, 2022

THE NIGHT HOURS HAVE NEVER been very kind to me.

I startle awake in my moonlit trailer, where I face off with Cody. With a roaring inferno. With raindrops poking my head, trapped alone in an empty trailer where the door is sealed shut.

I shiver, my heart trying to sprint from my body.

I flick on a lamp and catch my breath.

Then, April’s smile. Her voice. Are you saying I have to wait nine more years to marry you? The good is always more sluggish to return to mind than the bad.

After our night beneath the stars, April had to get back to her apartment to relieve the babysitter. She said, “Talk tomorrow?” And she hung from my lips by a kiss that had more promise than our wedding day.

But here I am, alone again with promises and their limitations.

I check the clock. 4:02.

Sighing, I shuffle to the kitchen and drop a bagel into the toaster.

The divorce papers are still on the table, and I consider taking a lighter to them. I meant it when I said I want to be married to her, and I believe she meant it too. Yet the painful memories endure.

I eat my bagel dry. Then I leave the divorce papers and find my wallet. Pull out a different piece of paper. And grab my car keys.



* * *



“?Hola?”

“Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Who is this?”

“…Leo.”

It is 7:35 in the morning, three hours since I gave up on sleep. If I had waited any longer, I would have chickened out.

Rico’s gravelly voice brightens. “Leo, good to hear from you.”

“Do you have breakfast plans?”

I’ve already driven to Waco. I took a chance.

By eight o’clock we are at a gas station near Jed’s, standing at a side counter and ordering the best huevos rancheros I’ve had in my life. We swipe away limp shreds of lettuce and sit at a little wooden booth.

“I don’t know why I called.”

“Doesn’t have to be a reason, mijo. I’m glad you did.”

We go hard with the Cholula, and we eat quietly while day laborers come in for warm food, jugs of water, packs of Marlboro Reds. They’ve been working for hours already.

Eventually I say, “Why—”

But I shake my head and shift in my seat. A version of this repeats itself twice more. I want answers. Why didn’t you get help? Why didn’t she? Why didn’t you come for me?

But there aren’t answers, I realize. There are stories.

So I push past a thickness in my throat and ask, “What, uh, was she like? And you.”

Rico napkins off his hands and mumbles, “Un segundo, let me text Javi at the store.”

Then, for two hours, he tells me about their families and fights, their homes and inside jokes, their worries and losses. He does not hold back. He has no excuses, and many regrets.

The earliest years of my life have been chapters with missing pages and redacted lines. But at a gas station taqueria, my own story is given back to me.

Afterward, we do not hug. We don’t even touch. But we do grab some churros to go, Rico footing the bill with a firm voice that takes me back. “No, Leonardo.” He opens a tattered wallet and adds, softer, “Just let me.”

When I get back in my car, I hear Deb’s words. From where I sit, it doesn’t look like your dad’s fault either. And with a bag of churros warm in my lap, I glance to check that my father’s car is gone. Then I hunch over my steering wheel and weep.





RICO AND ANA


1984

THE SEASON IS HOT AND dry, and the electricity is cut again. Ana is on the couch, pulling thick hair off her neck into a ponytail. Rico grabs a mailer for the new El Rancho, and he starts to fan her.

“You going to feed me grapes next?” She giggles, reaching for the mailer. “Give me that.”

But he doesn’t. “No, mami, you’re doing enough.”

“I’m sitting on the couch eating chips.” She grabs a few more Doritos as proof, licking salt from one, two, three fingertips.

“And growing our chamaco.” Rico fans her again as they look down at her belly. Their son will arrive any day now.

“Aquí.” She snatches the mailer, but before Rico can protest, Ana puts her feet on his lap, his hands on her feet. “They hurt so bad.”

He makes a face of mock disgust and presses his thumbs into her arches. “You’ve got to stop taking so many shifts.”

“Sí, claro.”

She works a Texaco register; he washes dishes at IHOP. They need every cent.

His thoughts grim, he kneads her sore heels. As it is, Rico has a cavity tunneling toward his gums that he’s ignoring in order to make sure Ana can eat.

“Hey.” She fans herself with the mailer, sweat like adhesive between her belly and breasts.

“Hm?”

She takes a swig of Dr Pepper. “What do you think he’ll look like?”

“Ay dios mío, same as I thought when you asked me yesterday. Beautiful like you.”