The Same Sky(11)

On my eleventh birthday, I made fifty centavos. Walking home, Humberto and I lagged behind. Ever since I had started gathering trash myself, Humberto’s odor did not affect me. He walked very close, and I thought about him putting his fingers beneath my chin, tipping my head up, and placing a soft kiss on my lips. (I had seen this slow buildup in American movies.)

At the door to my house, Humberto paused. His shirt was worn thin as silk, and his body was wiry, his skin scratched and dirty but to me, perfection. “Carla,” he said.

“Yes?” I said. I could hear my brother shuffling behind the door. After my grandmother died, Junior stopped going to school. No matter how much I raised my voice, telling him that he needed to educate himself, that he was too young to be left alone, he did not listen.

“Carla?” My brother’s voice sounded scared. But I ignored him: Humberto had a dreamy look on his face. This is the moment, I thought.

“I was hoping …,” said Humberto. Was he going to ask me to marry him? It was too soon for that. And he had so little money. I wanted to kiss Humberto, but I was not sure I wanted to stay here, in Tegu. Even with him.

“You could be my girlfriend, if you wanted,” said Humberto in the nonchalant voice he used when he was afraid but wanted to sound unafraid.

His face was as familiar to me as Junior’s. He had dark eyes, and hair that curled along the sides of his face unless he caught it in a rubber band. “I do,” I said. He sighed with relief, his smile showing his nice teeth.

“I won’t have sex with you,” I said. “I mean, I want to stay a virgin until my wedding.”

“I know,” said Humberto, who knew everything about me.

“I guess I’ve always loved you, you idiot,” I said.

“I know,” said Humberto. He cupped the back of my head with his large hand. “Good night,” he said. He pressed the side of his face to mine, his skin soft and warm. But there was no kiss.

“Good night,” I said. I watched Humberto walk off, admiring his long stride, his thin but muscled back, and then I whispered to Junior to open the padlock and let me inside.

In the middle of the room was a new dress. It was aqua, and made from some amazing fabric that fell across my hands in waves.

“It came today,” said Junior. He sounded strange. “Stefani brought it to the house.”

“Have you been crying?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I’m hungry,” he said.

We had so little food by this point. I made a paste of flour and water, and as we ate, I looked at the dress. When would I wear such a thing? What did my mother think my life was like? You could not eat a dress.

Still, after I scratched Junior’s back and he fell asleep, I slipped from the pallet and took off my clothes. I pulled the garment over my head. It fit me perfectly. Our mirror was cracked and rusty, but I could tell I looked like a supermodel.

“Happy birthday,” I said to the girl in the mirror.





8




Alice


AS SOON AS I stepped off the plane in Montrose (an hour and a half from my Colorado hometown), I realized I should have left my vintage skirt and red leather cowboy boots at home. Funky wasn’t really a thing in my family. My sister was waiting by the gate in high-waisted jeans, sneakers, and a functional anorak; her three boys wore athletic shorts and T-shirts.

Jake, who had recently grown a moustache, gripped my hand tightly. My father, in his John Deere hat and twenty-year-old parka, stood with his hands on his hips behind Jane and her kids. “Your dad scares me,” whispered Jake.

I squeezed his hand back. Jane came running, her smile huge and warm. She looked the same as when she was six, with her wheat-colored hair cut shoulder length, bangs straight across her full face. She hugged me so tightly I struggled for breath, and then she was wrapped around Jake, who shot me a look of thrilled panic. “Boys!” Jane yelled to her sons. “Come give your aunt Alice and uncle Jake a hug!”

We were swarmed by skinny arms and I breathed in the smell of dirty sneakers. Tears came to my eyes, but I brushed them away. “I’m so sorry,” said Jane. “Oh, Alice, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” said Jake sadly. “It’s been—”

“Where’s Dennis?” I asked, to change the subject.

“What do you think?” said Jane. “He’s running the store.” My parents had taken over the town grocery store, Hill’s Market, from my grandparents. My father, Joshua Hill, learned from his father how to be a butcher. He’d met my mother while hiking in the Bob Marshall Wilderness. Before they had us, my mom and dad hiked the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trail. They backpacked in Mexico’s Copper Canyon and ascended Machu Picchu. Then they returned to Ouray, took over the store, and never looked back. My mother told me that when Jane and I were born, all her dreams had come true. I still remember her voice breaking a bit as she said, “Now I get to enjoy.”

After she died, my father became quiet, leaving us with his parents and taking off for days at a time to go into the backcountry. He hunted and fished, teaching us to do both as well. The first time I brought Jake to Ouray, I challenged him to climb Mount Sneffels, my favorite Colorado fourteener. He barely made it to the picnic lunch before begging me to halt.

“You’ve got to reach the peak, or try,” I admonished him, using my father’s stern tone. “You can’t just stop!”