A journal of narrative writing.
Sun and the Moon
Page 3

That is what I planned to do, he says, go to America. But the only way I can cross with Maria Guadalupe is to fly over, maybe buy a seat on a little drug plane.

That will be difficult, Indio, even with connections. And those flights are rare because the Americans have all this fancy radar now, they will shoot you right out of the sky. No one will ever know. Your bodies will burn with the plane and the dope and nobody will even know you’re gone.

How, then?

Well that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the problem. Crawl through a tunnel full of bugs that might cave in, or get raped by coyotes. Glue yourselves to the undercarriage of a truck? Why don’t you just stay here in Valdemoro? The USA is a sewer, everybody using, even the little Viejas, my god! There is something so wrong over there. Don’t risk this little sweetheart.

They will find us.

Who?

The people that killed my brother.

Those people are already dead.

How do you know this?

Law of averages, which is erroneous when applied to small samples but foolproof when applied to large. Mexico is a large sample. Those people are dead. If they aren’t, they will be soon. No doubt your brother was looking for people, too.

Who?

Enemies, of course! The people who killed somebody else. On and on. Look at the result. The same thing will happen to the people who look for you. Stay here for a week with Maria Guadalupe and you will have nothing to fear, you could open a taco stand on the corner down there and no one will care who you are or why you’re here or where you’re from. You could probably do this tomorrow. The wheel turns. She makes another circle in the air, this one vertical. Her index finger goes slowly round and round.

Your vision of the world is interesting, he says. I wonder if it’s true.

Do what I say, Indio. You will find out soon enough.

* * *

Five men, four miscarriages and one stillbirth, she says as she brushes Maria Guadalupe’s damp hair. I gave up on men and I gave up on babies. Idiots and heartbreak, my god, life is too short! It’s easier with just a refrigerator and a television. I’m a little plump as you can see but who cares? I did the best I could but god has other plans.

Maria Guadalupe is falling asleep on her lap. She carries her into the bedroom and places her gently on one side of her big bed. She shows Epifanio pillows and quilts in the closet and points to the leather couch. Many fools have slept on that thing, she says. They say it is very comfortable.

Epifanio sits on that couch for a long time and looks out over the city. Lights flash and whirl far below; through the open glass doors he hears sirens and music from far away and long ago. For the first time in many months his heart is still. He can hardly believe it when a tiny hand pats his face good-morning and he opens his eyes to sunlight dancing across the walls.

* * *

After Teresa has left for work, Epifanio makes Maria Guadalupe eggs and ham. They eat on the patio which overlooks a busy street already clogged with honking vendor trucks and pedestrians. A warm breeze blows from the south and the sky is clear and boundless. After she finishes her breakfast, Maria Guadalupe hangs on the railing and looks below to the street, counting the tops of trucks with her little finger. Then she turns to him and, for the first time, speaks.

Are you my father?

I am your uncle.

Who is my father?

Jesus.

In the sky?

No, little Jesus. But Jesus just the same.

Is he in heaven?

I don’t think so, bonita.

Then where?

Nowhere, he says. Nowhere and everywhere. Just like god.

* * *

Speaking of food carts, says Teresa when she returns home from work that evening, a sly smile on her lips - Let’s put it this way, Indio: In Valdemoro you can wrap anything in a tortilla. Do you want a job?

Explain, please.

Well, Indio, sometimes lunch is just lunch. But sometimes it is much more. Sometimes it’s a burrito and an aphrodisiac because you can’t seduce your boss’s secretary. Sometimes it’s a burrito and a Coke with coke because you stayed up all night and are falling asleep at your desk. Sometimes it’s a burrito and an alibi because if your wife finds out what you did with the boss’s secretary after you slipped her the aphrodisiac she’ll shoot your stupid ass off. You are a community resource. Do you understand what I’m saying?

I think so.

A full-service taco cart.

Interesting.

If your tacos are good AND your services are professional and discrete, you will do very well out there on that corner….

Which corner?

The corner you buy, pendejo!

Maybe I can cut their hair, too?

… as opposed to a taco stand that just sells tacos. This is an American idea. It’s called “value-added.” If you are General Motors and make Chevrolets, why not dress them up and sell them for twice as much? These are then called Buicks. This is the reason Yankees are so rich. It’s all they think about.

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