This morning, he couldn’t make his feet tread the well-worn path.
There were things he knew: the sun would rise, he would work hard,americanoscould not be trusted. He knew that Roman would test him, that Angel would try to keep the peace, and that Mamá would always be there for him. Now the steady predictability of his life had vanished. It was like he was creeping close to the edge of his world, and one missed step could send him plunging over the cliff. He’d give much to be at Roy Lester’s estate on this Monday morning, groaning and complaining about cleaning the pool. Instead, he was going to question his own people about a murder.
Outside, Mamá and Francesca pulled a cart of dirty linen they’d picked up from the Hotel Estelar. Francesca leaned over, her hand on the small of her back, complaining no doubt. Mamá stoked the fire under the water heater and poured lye and soap into buckets.
Mamá. Oscar rubbed his tired eyes. She wasn’t as strong as she pretended.
Papá had died less than a year after Angel was born—an accident at the railyards where he’d worked since he and Mamá had come from Mexico. Oscar had been just nine years old, and Max ten, but they’d quit school and worked in the fields—they’d had no other choice. Then, when Max had turned his back on them, Oscar had been left alone to do his best for the family, and no one could say he hadn’t tried. He’d managed to keep Roman and Angel in school until eighth grade, although he wasn’t sure if he’d done right by them. Yes, they had learned to read and speak English, but schooling came with a price.Gringoteachers fed themamericanoideas along with the egg and glass of milk they got every morning. They came home ashamed of their heritage, hungry for American ways, and—at least in Roman’s case—disrespectful of their elders.
Oscar remembered his own schooling: Don’t complain. Don’t demand decent wages. Work hard and be grateful. No, the schools full of brown children weren’t being taught to be doctors and teachers and businessmen. They were being trained into a docile army of lettuce pickers, potato sorters, and fish packers. Roman had figured out theamericanoshell game quick, and by the time he started working at the packing house, he was already talking about unions and fair wages. That kind of talk could get him on a bus to the border.
Oscar tossed the tepid remains of the coffee into the sink. May God save them fromgringoswho claimed to offer them charity and from their own people who told them to stand up for more. Oscar rinsed his cup and stared through the tiny curtained window above the sink.
The Garcias’ house, like many others in thecolonia, was a cobbled construction of scrap wood and corrugated tin. The cracks were stuffed with rags to keep out the wind, but still they struggled to keep the house warm in the winter months. Francesca’s husband, José, had lost his job after a drunken binge and gone north to find work. That was three years ago. No one expected him to return. Maybe that was why Alonso carried on as he did. How could he learn about honor with no father?
Oscar pushed through the screen door and walked purposefully across the grass. It was time to do the job Brody had paid him for. He knocked and waited.
Alonso pulled opened the door. “Hola, Oscar,” he said with surprise. “Why do you knock? Are you a stranger now?”
Oscar cringed at his mistake. He’d been going in and out of this house without an invitation since he could walk. He followed Alonso into the house. Bedding was rolled along one side of theopen room. The other side held a small table and a gas stove as old as Francesca. A pot bubbled on a burner and the unmistakable aroma of beans filled the house.
Lupita looked up from where she sat at the table, breaking off bits of dough and flattening the pieces into tortillas. “Oscar!” She jumped up and smoothed her dress. She poured a cup of coffee from the percolator on the stove and brought it to him.
He took a sip, suddenly tongue-tied. He wasn’t a detective like Brody. How was he supposed to question his own friends about a murder?
“Find work yet?” he finally said.
Alonso frowned. “Nada. But I have a plan to make some big money.”
Oscar didn’t put much stock in Alonso’s get-rich-quick schemes. He pulled two dollars of Brody’s money out of his pocket and gave it to Lupita.
“Thank you, Oscar.” Lupita tucked the money in her waistband and gave him a grateful smile.
“Just until I put my plan to work,” Alonso said. “What about you? Anything?”
This was the time to tell them about Brody. “Not yet.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Tell me, what do you remember about that night at Lester’s?” What was wrong with him? He sounded like agringopolice officer.
A look passed between brother and sister. Alonso stood quickly and refilled his cup from the percolator. Lupita bit at her lip. The tortilla in front of her was so thin it might drift away in the breeze coming through the back door.
“I know Max was there, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Alonso turned back to him. “We didn’t even talk to Max.”
Oscar settled into his chair as if he had all the time in the world. “When did he leave?”
Another look between them. Lupita, nervous. Alonso, more like a warning.
“Early,” Lupita said quickly.
“Sí,”agreed Alonso, equally quickly. “Why so interested in Max?”
Oscar kept his face impassive. “Just wondering.”
Alonso went on, still speaking fast. “We finished with the party. Slept in the gatehouse until the first trolley. Then the police officer came here and asked questions.”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. He was blond, not friendly. We told him we didn’t see anything and that was the truth. Now you come and act like the police did.” Alonso straightened from the wall and walked to the door. “This isamericanobusiness, nothing to do with us.” He opened the door and stood beside it.
