Into the Beautiful North(15)

They laughed behind their hands.

Suddenly, there was Steve McQueen.

“He has a stupid little cowboy hat,” Tacho noted, marking McQueen a few points down on his mental fashion scorecard.

Garcí a-García kept his enthusiasm in check as long as he could, but when Mr. McQueen shot a bunch of bad guys out of windows while Yul Brynner merely drove the wagon they were riding in, he could no longer stay silent. ?Era más macho, ese pinchi McQueen! That was what Tres Camarones needed! Real men doing manly things like shooting sons of bitches out of windows! He let out a yell: “?VIVA ESTIP McQUEEN!”

Irma could not believe this.

“?VIVA YUL BRYNNER!” she hollered back.

“?ESTIP!”

“?YUL!”

All around them, people were shushing them.

Tacho noted, “I thought you wanted quiet.”

“Be quiet yourself, you fool. ?VIVA YUL!”

Someone threw a wadded paper cup at Aunt Irma, and she piped down with some grumbling. She was furious. She could see Garcí a-García down there, turning to his seatmates and explaining the many wonders of Estip McQueen. And McQueen wasn’t even a Mexican!



Nayeli sat with her mouth open. Tacho was snoring softly beside her. She looked deeper into the theater and saw Yolo and her family calmly watching.

Didn’t anybody else feel the electric charge she felt?

She watched the rest of the movie in a daze. She hardly saw what happened on the screen—she had already sunk deep into her own thoughts. When the lights came up and the people clapped and Yolo whistled and Tacho snorted awake and Garcí a-García stood and accepted all the kudos, Nayeli remained in her seat.

“M’ija,” Tacho said, “I’m tired. I’m going home.”

He air-kissed her cheek, but she didn’t notice it.

Nayeli pulled her father’s postcard from her sock and studied it. A cornfield with an impossibly blue sky, an American sky: she had seen it over and over again in the movie. Only American skies, apparently, were so stunningly blue. She turned the card over. It said: “A TYPICAL CORN CROP IN KANKAKEE, ILLINOIS.” She more or less understood the message. Una cosecha típica, she told herself. Don Pepe had written, “Everything Passes.”

She rose slowly and drifted out the door.

Yolo and La Vampira were waiting outside.

“?Qué te pasa?” La Vampi asked.

Yolo said, “Are you all right, chica?”

Nayeli waved them off.

“Hey,” said Yolo. “We’re talking to you.”

Nayeli gestured for them to follow her and walked to the town square.

She absentmindedly swept off a bench and sat down. Her homegirls sat on either side of her. She held up a finger for quiet while she thought some more.

She finally said, “The Magnificent Seven.”

They stared at her.

“So?” said Yolo.

“Bo-ring,” said Vampi.

“The seven,” Nayeli repeated.

“What about them?” Yolo said.

“We have to go get them,” Nayeli said. “We have to go to Los Yunaites and get the seven.”

“?Qué!” Vampi cried. “?Estip McQueen?”

“?No, mensa!” Yolo snapped. “He’s dead.”

“We have to stop the bandits before they come and destroy the village. Don’t you see? They’re coming.”

“So?” said Vampi.

“Who is going to fight them?” Nayeli asked.

Yolo dug her toe into the ground.

“Cops?” she said.

“What cops?” Nayeli asked.

Yolo shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess… your dad would have.”

They sat there.

“We go,” Nayeli said. “We find seven men who want to come home. But they have to be—what?”

“Soldiers,” Yolo suggested.

“Right! We interview men. Only cops or soldiers can come.”

Vampi held up a finger.

“Perdón,” she said. “Where are we going, again?”

“Los Yunaites,” Yolo said.

“What? Are you kidding?”

“We’re not kidding,” Nayeli said.

“Oh, great,” Vampi complained. “There goes my week!”

“We have a mission,” Nayeli said. “We’re only going there to bring the men back home.”

Vampi said, “Maybe you can find your father.”

Nayeli looked at her. She sat back down.

“What about my father?” Yolo demanded.

Vampi replied, “He’s not a cop.”

They sat there, stunned by the enormity of Nayeli’s plan.

“We will only be there for as long as it takes to get the men to come,” she continued. “The Americanos will be happy we’re there! Even if we’re caught!”

“You’re crazy,” Yolo said.

“Dances,” Nayeli whispered. “Boyfriends. Husbands. Babies. Police—law and order. No bandidos.”

They sat there for ten minutes, looking at the ground.

“Pin tenders, too,” Yolo offered. “Because, you know, I am tired of working at the bowling alley.”