Into the Beautiful North(68)

From the backseat, Tacho piped up: “Oh, good!”

Chava looked at him in the rearview mirror with a bemused half-smile on his face.

They were in Del Mar, on the far side of La Jolla. The ocean was insanely blue—Nayeli thought she could see porpoises in the surf, cruising north. Surfers rode the sultry little waves toward shore. Hang gliders like giant multicolored kites drifted in the sky.

Suddenly, Nayeli said, “I still want to find my father.”

Idly, Tacho said, “Why would he want to go back?”

“Me,” she replied.

“Ay, m’ija,” he sighed. “All they need is a few hot-air balloons to make it perfect here.” Ahead of them, a hot-air balloon rose. “Oh,” he said. “America wins every time.”

Chava cleared his throat.

They turned their attention to him.

“I have only been to the camp a few times,” Chava told Nayeli. “I make it my habit to stop at the store to buy them supplies. It is…” He thought for a moment. “It is very hard where they live.”

They got off the freeway and entered the town. All green: palm trees, ice plant, ferns on patios, pine trees, gardens, lawns. Big haciendas everywhere—or the red-roof-tile versions of haciendas. Fine cars. All shiny. Tacho felt he could definitely live in Del Mar. Atómiko awoke and looked out at rich ladies in hats. “Nice,” he noted. They pulled into the lot at the big supermarket. Atómiko stayed in the car, and the other two followed Chava Chavarín into the store.

Glories of food. The yellowest peppers. The reddest apples. The crispest asparagus. Small cartons with mushrooms piled inside like snowballs. The vegetable bins periodically sang “Singin’ in the Rain” and started to sprinkle water on the coddled produce. Nayeli ran her hands through the mist and laughed.

In the meat section: no blood, clean cuts set out neatly like books in a library. Fish lay in mounds of ice, no stink. Tacho was thrilled that refried beans came in different flavors in Los Yunaites: they sold traditional beans and vegetarian beans (which was kind of odd, in his opinion—weren’t beans already vegetables?), hot ’n’ spicy jalape?o refried beans, and chorizo-flavored beans. They also had low-fat beans. Nayeli lost interest in the Mexican section and found herself studying the breakfast cereals. This was truly astounding to her. Who was Count Chocula? What was a Boo-Berry?

Two young white men with shaved heads were standing at each end of the aisle, watching them.

Tacho insisted the Quaker Oats guy was gay. “Look at him!” Tacho said, pointing to the oatmeal box. “He’s like the old queen who does an Elizabeth Taylor drag show!” Nayeli laughed and pushed him away.

“?Ay, Tacho!” she gasped.

He made her laugh so much she couldn’t even breathe. She was so happy. Tacho was back!

They turned to head up to the coffee aisle. A boy was there, blocking the way. Sully.

“Hey, Jimbo,” he called.

“Yeah, Sully.”

They turned. Jimbo was behind them. His stubbly scalp bore an 88 tattoo. He was as tall as the top of the highest cereal shelf. They turned back to Sully. He wore a military jacket. He had heavy black work boots with bright red laces.

“Check out the wetbacks,” Sully said.

“I can smell ’em from here,” Jimbo said. They snickered.

Nayeli and Tacho stood in place, looking up at Sully. He was smiling at them. Why were they so afraid of him?

“You illegals?” Sully asked. “Are you, amigos? Wets?”

“Jesus,” Jimbo said. “They’s mute, too.”

Sully shook his head.

“We have standards,” he said. “We have laws. ?Comprende?”

“Sí,” Nayeli said, taking Tacho’s hand and trying to move past Sully.

“Hey,” he said softly. He moved in front of her. “Don’t you want an American baby? Huh? You came here for an American baby, right? So you can stay forever?”

“Mud people,” Jimbo offered.

“I’d do you,” Sully said. “But, you know, I don’t want the AIDS.”

Jimbo barked out a single laugh.

“Check out the homo,” Sully said.

He reached out to touch Tacho when Chava Chavarín ran into the back of his heel with his shopping cart.

“Ow!” Sully yelled.

“Oh!” Chava cried. “So sorry! Sorry, boys! Stupid Mexican! My fault!”

He had Nayeli and Tacho in tow and was out of the aisle and in line at the checker before Sully and Jimbo could regroup.

“Who are they?” Nayeli asked.

Chava shook his head.

“Don’t look at them.”

The two boys appeared and hovered, glaring and looming but unable to do anything with so many witnesses around. Before they slammed out the electric doors, Jimbo pointed at them.

“Catch you later!” he called.

“Some people,” Chava noted mildly, “don’t like us here.”



Nayeli had no idea where she was. They crossed the freeway on a small bridge, heading away from the beaches and the magnificent buildings. The hills were dry, yellow. Valleys and small canyons fell into shadow. In the distance, the fields and hills were crimson, pink, yellow, baby blue.

“Flowers,” Chava said.