Naomi Hirahara: Santa Cruz Noir

“I cannot say the same.”

He laughed again. A strange, wet sound. No humor. Only amusement. Martha’s head rolled on her shoulders toward me, and she blinked her good eye. I tried not to see her swelling, bruised face. A lump rose to my throat. Heat rushed through me, prickled my skin, and balled in my aching hands. Anger. Good. I had tried to forget that feeling, that candencia . Time I remembered.

Martha blinked at me again. A movement so subtle as to mean nothing. But her clenched jaw, her gaze locked onto mine, showed me different. She had every reason to be scared, but she was not.

“Not many remembered you left, Luis.” Rojelio studied me as if I was a simple curiosity. “But I did. I remembered. You know too much. I had business, you know, after Arellano was killed.” He crossed himself — in earnest or mockery I could not tell. “But Luis. I remembered to come for you. Aye. Arellano thought much of you. But this place? Your work?” He waved the Browning into space, his head nodding to accommodate the gesture. “This is beneath you. Truthfully, it disgusts me. You disgust me. Do you see it? Smell it on your body, when you come home after working for them, doing something so low they would never sink to it?” He wiped his mouth. Flicked his tongue across his dry lips. A lizard in the clothes of a man.

“You would not understand,” I told him. His compañero , unhappy with my words, shifted his frame from the kitchen sink. He lifted the rifle. Rojelio glanced back, cocked his head, and the compañero faded into the kitchen once more.

“Luis.” Rojelio stared at me, beady eyes narrowed, as if in disappointment. Then he laughed again. “What makes you think I want to understand?” He sighed, shrugged his shoulders. “This life. Our life. You cannot leave it behind. It follows. It follows, until it leads you where you’ve been going all along, kicking and screaming con espuma en la boca! ”

Se sigue.

Martha blinked, moved her lips, and moved her lips again. I finally understood the words Martha mouthed to me: Ven aqu í. Come closer.

“No! Please!” I begged, and leaned forward. Under the table, Martha slid the cold steel of a kitchen knife into my sweating palm. I clenched it tight. Blinked at her. I had to be faster, not only than Rojelio, but his compañero. I did not know if I was so fast, not anymore.

“Do you wish me to shoot her?” Rojelio said. Holding the gun to Martha’s head. She whimpered.

I ground my teeth. Patience. Wait for the moment.

Rojelio slid his free hand onto the table. There. Now. Or my family died.

I arced the knife from beneath, sliced the air, and it landed with a soft thunk ! In the back of Rojelio’s palm, pinning it to the surface. He screamed and dropped the Browning. I dove for it, smacking the floor hard enough the air left my lungs. The compañero had already raised his AK-47, eyes burning. I pointed the gun at him and squeezed the trigger.

His knee exploded in red-and-white pulp, like the splatter of a rotten apple. Warm, wet, red, and hard flecks of white sprayed my face. I fired again. This time I found my mark, and the compañero clawed at his chest, as if to dig the hole deeper.

Screaming overcame the fading thunder. Rojelio. I whipped the gun back, saw the color drained from his cheeks, yet he clutched at the knife handle, nearly had it free. I put a bullet in his head. He did not smile when it found him.

Martha fell into my arms, shaking, sobbing into my shoulder. I held her as tight as I could. Tasted wet salt on my lips. I let the gun drop, jerked my hand. As if it had bitten me.

“Papa?” A voice so soft. A voice so scared.

I looked down the hall, and there stood Juan. My eyes closed tight, tighter. But no matter how much I shut out the nauseating light, I could not undo what my son had seen.

Juan stands next to me in our backyard, and I hold his gun in my hand, still wrapped in the dishtowel. Sunlight burns orange across the fields and streaks the clouds with red as it lays itself to rest beyond the horizon. There is Lupe’s playhouse, bought at Kmart last Christmas. Juan’s old soccer ball still sits on the grass, untouched by anyone except time. My son has gained weight, like his father. Wears a goatee. It does not make him look more of a man, only like a boy playing pretend. I think to tell him this — this and how ridiculous he looks in his sagging jeans and shirt so large it hangs nearly to his knees.

“What is it, Pops? What’s up?” he says. “You and Mama need help with English on the bills again? It’s cool; I got time.”

I shake my head no. “Juan.”

“Come on, Pops. Call me Johnny, remember? Johnny Cruz!” He laughs.

“I’ll call you the name you were given.”

The laugh stops. He kicks his feet. Useless to start this fight with him. We watch the sun sink lower beyond the valley, setting the sky on fire.

“I found this,” I say, unwrapping the dishtowel.

Juan stares at the gun. His mouth opens, he stiffens. Then he relaxes, cool all over. “Whose is it?”

This game. I am so tired. “Juan.”

“ Qué ? You mean? Oh shit. Ha. You mean you think it’s mine?”

I will not hit him. I never have and I never will. I have seen men hit their sons, their wives, their daughters. It is only part of the sickness, not a cure.

A different strategy, then. I put my hand on his back. His body rigid beneath my touch, brittle. I have caught him. He knows I have caught him. “Juan. Listen. You are a good boy. I know this, in my heart. Por favor, tell me. Why?”

His shoulders slump. He crumbles beneath my hand. My soft, aching hand. “Pops...”

“Your mama found it. Not me. Think, Juan, if it had been Lupe.”

“Lupe would never go in the shed!” His voice cracks.

I sigh, and sit myself on the porch step, knees buckling, back sore.

“Juan! Juan! Play with me!” my daughter yells, her tiny footsteps rushing through the house, to us. I wrap the gun and cradle it in my lap before she bursts from the back door.

“Lupe, hey, hermanita . Go back inside, yeah? I’ll play with you in a little bit,” Juan says.

“But I heard you and Papa talking! Are you in trouble?”

“Lupe, escucha a tu hermano . He will play later,” I tell her, and offer a smile, the best one I can manage.

“Lupe! Lupe! Come in the house!” Martha shouts after her.

“I’m coming!” Lupe responds. She looks up at her brother. “Promise to play with me! You gotta promise.”

“I promise,” Juan says, and chuckles.

Lupe nods, and runs inside, banging the door behind her. It slams in the frame, BLAM, BLAM, until it rests.

Juan whistles, a dry, nervous sound, and rubs his eyes.

“You see?” I tell him.

“Yes,” he says, and sits beside me.

“Now. Answer my question.”

He cocks his head, eyebrows raised. “I thought you’d know, Pops. If anyone did, I thought you’d know.”

My turn to raise an eyebrow.

“Because of that,” he nods at the gun in my lap, “you get respect. I get it, with that. It’s like power, you know? You have one, your name rings out. Like your name used to.”

I shake my head, grit my teeth. “No. Respect from fear, Juan, is not the same. Your sister respects you. And not from fear. Your mama respects you, because you care for your sister, and you help us, and go to school. I respect you, because you are smart, and you have a good heart. The gun? It disappoints me. It is low. It is not for you, m’ijo. Your name should mean more.”

He cries, and looks away from me. It is okay for him to cry. If he cries, and knows he does not need the gun, he can cry.