Carry Me Like Water by Benjamin Alire Sáenz
“But you’re home now, Luz.”
“Yes, I’m home, but I lost my house in Juarez, and now I don’t have a pinche place to live. I think I’m going to look for something here in El Paso.” She paused and took a deep breath and coughed. “I have enough money. I worked my ass off in Chicago, and now I’m going to rest a while, Dieguito. I’m going to have to go back to work, but I can rest a while.”
“You’ll find a place,” Diego wrote, “something nice. There are lots of places here.”
“Never mind nice, Dieguito, just some place with a bed and a kitchen.”
“I’ve never had a place with a kitchen,” Diego wrote, “the only kitchen I know is at Vicky’s Bar.”
“You still working for that pinche?”
Diego nodded. “Where else?”
“You shouldn’t work for him, Dieguito. I see you’re still letting yourself get run over by everybody. God is going to lose patience with you. Carlos told me your boss has a brother who works with the migra. A bunch of bastards in that family—the poor mother. You should refuse to work for people that are in with the migra. Aren’t you afraid God will punish you?”
“Being deaf is punishment enough. If God punishes me for working at Vicky’s then he’s a bad God. Why are the wrong people always being punished?”
Luz looked at his answer and laughed. “Ay Dieguito! You always have something to say, don’t you? What would have happened if God had given you a voice? You’d be running this city and those pinches on city council would be working at Vicky’s.”
Diego laughed, his dark eyes lighting up in Luz’s presence. She had brought something back to him, something which only she could give. “I can’t believe you’re home—I just can’t believe it. Everything’s going to be all right—I can just feel it.”
“Yes,” she said, “here we sit in front of this damned church that burned down.” She stopped. “Did a gringo burn it down?”
Diego looked at her and grinned. He shook his head.
“Just thought I’d ask,” she said. “Anyway, like I was saying, Dieguito, here we sit in front of this burned down church, and you’re still living in that apartment with that pinche, cheap, poor excuse for a landlord and you’re still working for that bastard at Vicky’s and I don’t have a place to live, and you’re telling me everything’s going to be all right. Some things never change, Dieguito. You’re beautiful, my Diego. A piece of work, you are, amor.”
“But you told me we’d win someday, remember?”
“I’ve changed my mind, Dieguito. Thank God that I’m still pissed off, otherwise I’d just lie down and let a car run over me.”
Diego looked at her. He shook her gently. “Don’t ever say that,” he wrote. “Never say that.”
She thought a moment, and looked at him. “I was just joking, Diego. The car that runs over me is going to wind up in a dump. I swear I’ll come back from the dead and haunt that damned driver until he prays to God to take his worthless life. I was just joking.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“Why are you so uptight, Dieguito? What’s wrong?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he wrote. “Anyway, when did you get here? Tell me about your trip.”
“This morning. I flew in from Chicago. I had to spend the pinche night at the Dallas airport with all those flashy people. I swear, I’ll never understand the gringo—never. You should see the way they dress. Unbelievable, my Diego. Women paint their hair the same color as their nail polish, and their clothes are bright and baggy. Everybody is wearing baggy. Nothing fits anybody. They pay good money for clothes that fit too big. And they laugh at the way we paint our houses. I’ll never understand them, it’s just not possible—I could watch them and watch them and never have a clue. The pinches laugh at us, and think we want to be just like them.”
“Was it a nice airport?”
“You ask the damndest questions, mi Diego. Are you sure you’re not part gringo?”
“Maybe I am,” he wrote, and laughed. “I read in the newspaper that Dallas had one of the most modern airports in the world.”
“Yes,” she nodded, “it’s all very modern. It could use some graffiti if you ask me, Dieguito. Some parts of Chicago, mi amor, are just wonderful. Lots of graffiti. I read a sign there, and it said: THE RICH ARE SWINE. It was beautiful, just beautiful, mi Diego. The rich hate to read shit like that—it really pisses them off. I hate the rich. But that airport was too damned clean. And the chairs were uncomfortable. Who could sit on them? You’d think that the people who know so much about sitting could make some comfortable chairs, and they got little stores everywhere—twenty dollars for a T-shirt that says DALLAS. YOU know what I could do with twenty dollars? And me, I don’t even want people to know I’ve been to that damned city. Screw their T-shirts, Dieguito.”
“They have a famous football team.”
“What is that to me or you, Diego? What does a football team have to do with our lives?”
“I don’t know—I’ve never watched a game.”
“You’re not missing a damned thing, Diego—not one damn thing. People will throw money away on a goddamned ticket to a game—but they won’t put a dime in a beggar’s cup.”
Diego was sorry he’d raised the issue. He smiled to himself. She hadn’t changed a bit. “Did you like the flight?” he wrote.
“What’s happening to your handwriting, Dieguito? You’re beginning to write like an old man.”
“I’m tired, that’s all. Tell me about your flight.”
“Well, the flight, it was a beautiful thing. I felt like a bird. We flew right through the clouds.” She clapped her hands and laughed. “And Diego, my body felt—I don’t know—it felt good. And the stewardess brought me a beer, and I never wanted to set foot on the earth again. You should try it sometime. But then you know what happened? As soon as we landed at the airport, the migra stopped me. I swear those bastards follow me around everywhere I go. They’re a curse, Diego! As soon as I got off the plane, a migra dressed in blue jeans asked me for my papers. The sonofabitch asked me twice! His Spanish was the worst thing I’ve ever heard. Just listening to it made me want to hit him, I gave him one of my looks, one of those looks that told him he’d better protect his balls if he asked me anything else. And then he asked me a third time. I wanted to kill, Diego, just kill. God knows I don’t like to speak English to gringos, but I told him, ‘If you ask me for my papers one more time I’m going to go get my son, the lawyer, to drive one of those damn green vans up your ass.’ He said he was going to haul me in. He knew I was a citizen, the pinche, just by the way I answered his question. But the sonofabitch wanted some respect. Respect is one thing he’ll never get, not from me. He asks people for their papers for a living and the cabrón wants respect. He wanted me to be nice to him. I just walked away, Diego, just turned my back. He didn’t even go after me. If he would’ve followed me, I would have screamed, Diego, I would have screamed and let the whole damned airport think he was a molester. That’s what they are: they’re molesters. And poor Carlos, those bastards got him—but the last time I heard, he’d left El Salvador again. His gringa girlfriend sent him money to bribe his way out and get back to Chicago. He’s going to make it. Believe me, Diego, Carlos is going to make it. That gringa loves him. And Carlos, he loves her, too. And that gringa’s pinche mother’s going to lose her mind when they get married. I didn’t use to believe in purgatory, but now I’ve come around. I hope the Church is right about that—and I wish I got to choose who’d have to spend a lot of time there.” She reached for a cigarette and laughed. “Yes, mi amor, there’s going to be a wedding. Carlos and his gringa, they’re going to be happy!”
Diego watched her clap her hands and joined her. Luz lit her cigarette. She inhaled deeply and stared out into the streets. “The streets are nicer here than in Chicago.” She reached for Diego’s hand. Diego felt the softness of her age, the softness of her skin that was no longer tight around her bones. They sat on the corner
“I’m going to have to go and stay with a friend in Juárez until I find a place. She has my books, my furniture, and my altar. On Monday, I’ll start looking for a place to live.”
Diego watched her lips, her graying hair. He put his pen on his pad, and pressed down. He stopped before writing anything down.
“You were going to write something,” she said.
He nodded.
“What were you going to write?”
“You know how I don’t like Mr. Arteago very much,” he wrote, “he’s so cheap. No air conditioner, no heat. I was thinking that if you found a place to live with two bedrooms, then maybe we could be roommates. I’m easy to live with. Wouldn’t you like to be my roommate?” He watched her read the note. Diego tried to keep himself from looking too eager. He kept his gaze focused on the pad he was writing on. “And neither of us would have to live alone. It’s not good to live alone, Luz. I don’t like it.”
She put out her cigarette and lit another. “Yes,” she smiled. “But only on one condition.”
“What’s that?” Diego wrote.
“You have to quit your job.”
“That’s crazy, Luz. I can’t do that.”
She clapped her hands and pinched his cheek. “Ay Dieguito! It’s a wonderful idea! You could finally live in a house with a kitchen, and we could live very well, the both of us. Hell, it would be great. But I won’t live with you unless you quit working for that pinche at Vicky’s. While you’re getting rid of your landlord, you might as well get rid of your boss, too. Throw all the bastards out of your life, and be free, Diego. It’s time.”
“But I won’t have any money if I quit.”
“Look, Diego, you have a nice way about you. I know about these things. I know about people and how they carry themselves. Everybody likes you, Diego, believe me.”
“Everybody likes me,” Diego wrote, “because I can’t talk.”
“No, Diego, people like you because you’re intelligent, and because you’re generous. Why do you think the people at the plaza ask you for cigarettes? The bastards don’t know you’re deaf. People ask you for cigarettes because they can tell you’re the kind of person that will give them one. You’ll find a job. Believe me, Dieguito, you’ll find a good job, and that good-for-nothing you work for will never find another pendejo that will work for him like you have—and that’s for sure. That rat you work for will kill you with that disease he carries. I mean it Dieguito, he doesn’t deserve your loyalty.” She grabbed his hands, “These hands belong to a worker—and that man doesn’t deserve your hands, mi amor.”
“Even if you’re right,” he wrote, “it’s going to take some time to find another job. What will I do for money until then?”
“How much money have you saved?”
“Nothing, I had a little money put away, and I bought a new hat and some clothes—and I bought Mary a hat. I don’t have anything left. Well, maybe a few dollars.”
“You see what I mean? You’ve worked for ten years for that pinche and you haven’t got a damn thing to show for it. Ten years, Diego, and you have shit—his shit, Diego, you’re covered with it. Quit! It’s time. Tell him to stick that blue bar up his ass. The only reason he gets any business is because of your cooking. Walk away, damnit. We can live just fine with the money I’ve saved, I can find a job easy, Diego. You’ll find something, too, and we’ll be set.”
“I don’t like the idea of living off you while I’m looking for a job,” he wrote.
“Are your balls going to shrink?”
Diego burst out laughing. Luz threw her head up and clapped her hands.
“Is it a deal, my Diego?”
“It’s a deal,” Diego wrote. He took her hand and squeezed it. “MONDAY,” he wrote in big letters, “I’M GOING TO SAY GOODBYE TO VICKY’S BAR.”
3
As the old woman walked through the streets of the dark and empty city, she suddenly felt strange movements at her feet. She looked down and noticed an owl pecking at her bare feet as if it were a hungry hen attacking kernels of dry corn. She kicked it away, and the owl disappeared into the darkness. She walked steadily forward and wondered about the owl. She should not have kicked it. She looked down at her foot and saw the owl had drawn blood. She bent down and wiped the blood away. The mark disappeared same as the owl. She walked faster; perhaps the owl would return. Suddenly, she felt feathers around her ankles. She looked down and saw three owls rubbing against her. She felt the beaks pecking at her feet. She stopped, kicked them away one by one. As she kicked the first one, it flew into the air and turned into a rose. The rose fell at her feet. She kicked away the second. It too, flew into the air, turned into a rose and fell at her feet. She took the third by the throat and began choking it. But as she squeezed, she realized she was cutting herself on the thorns of a wild rose. She wiped the blood on her face. It was dawn, and she looked for the sun to save her. She would be safe in the day. Just as the sun appeared, an army of owls flew out of the rising sun—flew closer and closer. They began landing on the streets of the city, millions of them, millions and millions of them. The old woman found herself walking through a sea of hooting owls. They made a path for her as she walked. As she looked down, she saw they were feeding on rose petals. She felt unable to breathe. She wanted to scream for help. Doesn’t anybody see? Can somebody help? She felt as if her heart were about to burst, the adrenaline flooding her fragile body. She looked down at her feet and realized the owls had pecked away her flesh. She stared at the bones of her feet.
Rose trembled in the bed as she opened her eyes. She took several breaths and made herself relax. She could not help but pull back the blanket and stare at her feet. They were all there, all the flesh, the same feet. She laughed at herself.
It was the third time the dream had come to her. Three times was two times too many. She had never had a recurring dream. “What’s a dream, anyway,” she said to herself, “it’s the waking that counts.” She concentrated on the dawn. The sun was on the rise. The darkness was disappearing. Early summer mornings in El Paso were cool, and Rose stared at the open window to her bedroom. “So much light,” she said to herself. The weather was good for her bones, and for the first time in weeks, she was in no pain. “Rose, old girl,” she said in a normal tone as if she was outside of herself, “your mind’s getting as shot as your bones.” She sat up, and lifted herself to the floor as if by doing so, she could leave the dream lying on the bed where she had been sleeping. But she knew exactly what the dream meant, what the dream would extract from her. She wondered why she was suddenly panicking at the thought of her own death. Perhaps there was panic before the final calm. She took in a deep breath. “But the bones don’t hurt today, but the bones don’t hurt.” She walked to the closet and put on a white cotton dress Lizzie had bought for her. The cloth was as soft as her aging skin.
4
SUNDAY AFTERNOON Diego put the word out on the streets of El Segundo barrio that he was looking for Mundo. Diego waited for him on the steps that went nowhere. That evening he watched Mundo dance his way up the street.
“What’s the word?” Mundo asked as he reached out to shake his hand. “You got some more private-eye work for me, ese?”
Diego shook his finger in the air, wrote down a few words, and stuck a note into Mundo’s hands. “I’m going to quit my job tomorrow. I want you to be there when I do it. I’m going to give him this letter.” He handed a neatly folded piece of paper to Mundo who began reading the perfect handwriting:
Dear Gonzalo,
I have always hated working for you. I don’t like you—I never have. From the very beginning I could see that you were mean and cruel and awful, but I’ve never been able to figure out why. (I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?) I’ve worked for you for almost ten years (ten years!), and you have never given me a vacation, and you’ve never treated me like a real human being, and you never even pretended to treat me with any kind of respect.
Sincerely,
Juan Diego Ramirez
Mundo handed the letter back to Diego, thrust his fist up in the air and let out a yell. He picked Diego up and flung him around in circles, throwing him playfully back on the ground. He laughed and applauded, and did a dance up and down the steps that went nowhere. “Man, Mr. Diego, you should be writing for a newspaper or somethin’. You can do some smooth writing. That sonofabitch is gonna be mad as hell. It’s perfect. I know what I’m sayin’, Diego. It’s the most perfect letter you ever wrote.”
“You really think so?”
“Listen, you doin’ yourself real proud. I don’t read too much, you know, but I got a good eye. Look, I’ll read it to you. Watch my lips real good, just watch.” Diego handed the note back to him. He stood near the top of the steps, and began reading the letter aloud. As Diego looked up at him from a few steps below, he felt as though he were watching a play. He stared at Mundo’s lips and tried to imagine what his own words sounded like. When he finished, Diego clapped his hands and laughed.