Yuri Herrera: The Transmigration of Bodies

I do know. Yeah.

The Mennonite had left the land of his kith and kin on his own, and had adapted to the world of those always in a rush — silence and simple toil replaced by engines and cement. But at least back there he’d had his people nearby. Now, not even that. Who knows whose toes he must have stepped on, why he had to strike out on another path. Still. It was time to get on with it.

What’s the story? he gestured toward the Castro place.

Boy’s in there, the Mennonite responded. They didn’t touch him.

I’m going to have to ask him that myself.

Fraid that’s going be a bitch, Friend.

The twist in the Mennonite’s lips filled the gaps left by his words. There was no longer a Romeo to ask.

Fuckit, said the Redeemer. Same story on this side.

He tried to explain in a way that made it seem he understood more than he did: the Fonsecas hadn’t killed Baby Girl, she’d died of the disease, and all the body needed was to be prettied up a bit.

The Mennonite nodded and took a deep breath and then said This is the truly fucked-up part. Wait for me here. He turned and walked back to the Castro house.

In the two minutes that went by before Baby Girl’s father came out, it felt like the street contracted and began to throb. The Redeemer took out a smoke then thought better of it and put it back in the pack, glanced at the Castros’ place and then turned the other way. He crossed his arms. Fuckit, he repeated.

He heard the Castros’ metal door open then slam shut, and then panting, encumbered by sobbing, and steps approaching. He shot a quick sidelong look at the Bug and with an almost-imperceptible hand-pat signaled Stay put to Vicky and the Neeyanderthal.

When he felt him a half-step away, the Redeemer turned to face the man. Tho they knew each other, Baby Girl’s father stared and stared and stared without recognizing him, and steadily with each passing second the man aged as the news inhabited his body, despite his attempt to resist it, his attempt to hold it at bay with rage. He slammed the Redeemer against the hood of the Bug and started shouting in his face.

Bring her to me! You bring her to me now! In one piece, you sonofabitch! You bring her to me safe and sound, right now!

The man was clenching his fists and trembling and still making up his mind whether to throttle the Redeemer. Then his boys flew out of the house, berserk. The older one wielded a club and the younger one a bat, itching to find something to justify their tunnel vision, their hatred. As soon as he saw them, the Neeyanderthal got out of the Bug, thumbs hooked through his beltloops; Vicky stepped out too, slower, eyeing them from her side of the car. One of the two must have made an impression on the brothers, who continued their approach, but slower now. The younger pointed his bat in the Redeemer’s face.

The Mennonite held a hand up and said That’s not the way, son.

The kid stared at the Redeemer, reluctant to let go of his rage, but then his father began to sob and both boys dropped their weapons to the ground and held him.

The Redeemer thought they’d do better to scratch the wound than bandage it: those who lose a child shouldn’t be consoled; parents die to make room for their kids, not the other way around. He wasn’t being cruel; he just felt that a gash that deep had to be respected, not swaddled over with cuddles.

Sir, said the Mennonite, Will you let the nurse-lady in? Just for a minute.

The man nodded without looking up.

We’re going in too, the Neeyanderthal said.

The man nodded again. Okay let’s go, he said, turning toward the metal door and heading off, eight hundred years older than when he’d come out it the other way.

In the Castros’ living room hung a family coat of arms. The Castros had been noblemen and lords in some century or other in some castle or other on the opposite side of the world — and there was the colorful coat of arms to prove it. They were different from the Fonsecas that way: the only things the Castros held on to from their poorer days were those they’d marshaled up from many generations back. On the walls of the Castros’ living room, besides the coat of arms, there was nothing but photos of the boys in team uniforms and a diploma granted to Baby Girl for having finished her degree in psychology. Psychology. For fuck’s sake.

They descended a freezing staircase. The basement was full of shadows cast by a dim corner lamp backlighting a dozen chains with hooks from which hung calves, turkeys, and half a cow. The Redeemer didn’t say a word but at the sight of his raised brows, Castro said We don’t trust outside meat.

In a room adjacent to their private abattoir he saw Romeo, laid out atop some boxes. One of his legs was falling off the side, as tho he’d made a quick move to get up. They encircled the body in silence. Only the Neeyanderthal rubbed his hands together, saying Damn it’s cold. Vicky approached and began to study what was once Romeo. The Redeemer noticed he was dirty, that he still reeked of alcohol and had marks on his knuckles but no sign of blows to the face. Vicky examined his head and opened his shirt and palpated his ribs, sunken, beneath a blue bruise. The Redeemer turned to the Castro kids, whose hands were in their pockets.

What went down, muchachos?

The Castro kids were spitting images of their father, differing only by the quantity of hair on their heads and the way their flesh fought what was going on inside each of them. The older one jerked his shoulders up and down in a childish gesture and said We didn’t do jack. I mean, we talked shit earlier on, but we didn’t fight.

We liked him, said the younger one, sneaking a look at his father and continuing. Our jefe here always says the Fonsecas are fuckin users and climbers, but the son was a good kid.

So what’d you say? This was on Lover’s Lane, right?

Mhm, said the older one. We saw him on our way into Metamorphosis, and since he was going somewhere else we thought he was headed for the swanky strip club, so my bro here said Hey, pretty boy, this ain’t Vegas you know, and he said Fuckin deadbeats, I come here cos I carry big bills, not loose change. Stuff like that.

But we were just smacktalking, said the younger one. Even if it sounds like we wanted to fight.

There’s some people you just mess with, that’s just the way it is, said the older one.

The Redeemer nodded. He knew what they meant.

Then what?

That was early, the older one said. We took off after a little while to hit the other clubs, and we were on our way when we saw Romeo again, he was pretty looped, in the parking lot — no idea where he was going but he was staggering back and forth — and that was when he got hit by a van. It was backing up and I don’t think they even saw him.

The Redeemer stiffened in shock but didn’t dare turn and look at Vicky to corroborate what they were saying.

A van? You’re telling me a vehicle did this to him?

S’right. Tapped him and took off. Me and my bro here went to see if he was okay. He wasn’t breathing good but said not to call an ambulance, said it would pass. We picked him up and put him in the back seat of my car. Then we took off too, but on the way he asked us not to take him to the hospital, said please just let him hang with us a while, lay low and then he’d go home.

The Redeemer walked over to stare at the boys, straight into their eyes — back, forth, one, the other — searching for signs of a leaky lie.

And you didn’t lay a hand on him. That was it. You’re sure.

The boys nodded.

Well, said the older one, not all of it. We brought him back here and we were going to call a doctor but when we got him into the house he suddenly got real real light, and then heavy, and it took us a few minutes to realize he’d died since we didn’t think he was doing that bad.