Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

Afterward they made me wash my face and get dressed. I wasn’t even crying anymore. I was numb, in shock.

“White Fence,” Smiley said right before he walked back out into the party, into the music and laughter. “Don’t you forget.” A warning, pure and simple. An ugly threat.

I never told my friends what happened, never told my family, never told my husband. What could they possibly have said or done that would’ve helped? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. The sooner you learn it, the better: some loads you carry on your own.

THEY MAKE A big show of it when they come for Puppet. Must be six cop cars, a helicopter, TV cameras. That detective wasn’t lying; all it took was an anonymous phone call. “I saw who killed the baby.” One minute Puppet is preening on the corner with his homeys, acting like he owns the street, the next he’s facedown on the hot asphalt, hands cuffed tight behind his back.

I run outside as soon as I hear the commotion. I want to see. Lorena and Brianna come too, whispering, “Oh my God, what’s happening?”

“It’s the bastard who shot little Antonio,” says an old man carrying a bottle in a bag.

We stand at the fence and watch with the rest of the neighborhood as they lift Puppet off the ground and slam him against a police car. Then, suddenly, Brianna is crying. “No,” she moans and opens the gate like she’s going to run to him. “No.” Lorena grabs her arm and yanks her back into the yard.

“José!” Brianna yells. His real name.

He can’t hear her, not with all the shouting and sirens and the chop chop chop of the helicopter circling overhead. And I’m glad. He doesn’t deserve her tears, her reckless love. Instead, I hope the last thing he sees before they drive him off is my satisfied smile and the hatred in my eyes, and I hope it burns him like fire, night and day, for as long as he fouls this earth.

IT’S FRIDAY EVENING, and what a week. The freezer at work broke down, Maple changed the rules on vacation time, and one of the boys cut his finger to the bone chopping onions. There was some good news too: Looks like Puppet isn’t going to be back. As soon as they picked him up, his boy Cheeks flipped on him and told the cops everything. A few punks still hang out on the corner and stare the neighborhood down, but none of them know that it’s me who took out their compadre.

I fall asleep on the couch when I get home and don’t wake up until a few hours later, but that’s okay, because I’m off tomorrow, so I can go to bed whenever I want tonight and sleep in. I couldn’t do that when Lorena and Brianna were here. They’d be banging around in the kitchen or blasting the TV every time I tried to rest. I’d be cooking for them or doing their laundry.

I love them, but I wasn’t sad to see them go when they moved out last week. They’re in Alhambra now, living with a fireman Lorena met on the computer. He’s really great, she says, with a big house, a swimming pool, and a boat. And so good with Brianna. I was thinking she should ask him about his ex-wife, find out why she’s not around anymore, but I kept it to myself.

When I get up, I water the garden and pick a bunch of tomatoes. The sun has just set, leaving the sky a pretty blue, but it’s going to be one of those nights when it doesn’t cool down until past midnight. The kids used to sleep out in the yard when it was like this. Manuel would cut up a watermelon he’d kept on ice all day, and the juice would run down their faces and drip onto the grass.

I sit on the back porch and watch the stars come out. There’s a little moon up there, a little silver smile in the sky. Oso barks next door, and another dog answers. Music floats over from Rudolfo’s shop, old ranchero stuff, and I think, You know, I’ll never eat all those tomatoes by myself.

Rudolfo looks up from the newspaper he’s reading as I come down the driveway, trailed by Oso.

“Blanca,” he says. “Buenas noches.”

He reaches out and turns down the radio a bit. He’s drinking a beer, and a cigar smolders in an ashtray on the workbench. He picks up the ashtray, moves to carry it outside.

“Go ahead and smoke,” I say.

“You’re sure?”

“No problem.”

He lived next door for years before I found out he had a wife and son back in El Salvador. He got in trouble with the government there and had to leave. The plan was that he’d go to the U.S. and get settled, then his family would join him. But a few years later, when it was time, his wife decided she was happy where she was and refused to move north. I remember he told this like it had happened to another person, but I could see in his eyes how it hurt him.

“I brought you some tomatoes,” I say, setting the bag on the workbench. “I’ve got them coming out of my ears.”

“You want a beer?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say and lower myself onto a stool.

He reaches into a cooler and lifts out a Tecate, uses his bandanna to wipe the can dry.

“I’m sorry I don’t have any lime,” he says as he passes it to me.

“It’s good like this,” I reply.

He lifts his can and says, “Salud.”

I take a sip, and, boy, does it go down easy. Oso presses his cold nose against my leg and makes me jump. I’m wearing a new skirt. A new blouse too.

“Another wild Friday night, huh?” I say.

Rudolfo laughs. He runs his fingers through his hair and shakes his head. “I might have a few more in me,” he says. “But I’m saving them up for when I really need them.”

He asks about Lorena and Brianna, how they’re doing at the new place, and wonders if I’m lonely now that they’re gone. I admit that I’m not.

“You get used to being by yourself,” I say.

“Yeah, but that’s not the same as enjoying it,” he replies.

I like the way we talk to each other. It feels honest. Things were different with Manuel. One of us always had to win. Husbands and wives do that, worry more about being right than being truthful. What goes on between Rudolfo and me is what I always imagined flirting would be like. It’s kind of a game. We hint at what’s inside us, each hoping the other picks up on the clues.

I didn’t learn to flirt when I was young. I didn’t have time. One year after that party I was engaged to Manuel, and the last thing I wanted him to know were my secrets.

A moth flutters against the bare lightbulb suspended above us, its wings tapping urgent messages on the thin glass. Rudolfo tells me about something funny that happened to him at Home Depot, how this guy swiped his shopping cart. It’s his story I’m laughing at when he finishes, but I’m also happy to be here with this handsome man, drinking this beer, listening to this music. It feels like there are bubbles in my blood.

A song my mom used to play comes on the radio.

“Hey,” I say. “Let’s dance.”

“I don’t know, it’s been years,” Rudolfo says.

“Come on.” I stand and wiggle my hips, reach out for him.

He puts down his beer and wraps his arms around me. I pull him close and whisper the lyrics to the song in his ear as we sway so smoothly together. You forget what that feels like. It seems impossible, but you do.

“Blanca,” he says.

“Mmmmmm?” I reply.

“I’m seeing a lady in Pacoima.”

“Shhh,” I say.

“I’ve been seeing her for years.”

“Shhh.”

I lay my head on his chest, listen to his heart. Sawdust and smoke swirl around us. Qué bonita amor, goes the song, qué bonita cielo, qué bonita luna, qué bonita sol . God wants to see me cry. He must have His reasons. But for now, Lord, please, give me just one more minute. One more minute of this.