The Same Sky(4)

My grandmother looked very old. Her shoulders were bony underneath her faded dress, but her stomach pooched out. Her face was full of lines, especially around her mouth and across her forehead.

“Fine,” said the fat woman. “This one. In we go.” She picked up Carlos, who did not make a sound. With her other arm, she unlocked the trunk of her car. “Anything you want to send along?” said the woman. “Diapers, water …?”

“What are you doing with Carlos?” I said. I think a part of me already knew, and I felt a mixture of terror and envy.

“He’s going to be with his mama,” said the woman. Carlos looked straight at me, opened his mouth. I shook my head, willing him to keep silent.

“Carlos!” cried Junior. “Carlos!”

Carlos began to sob soundlessly, his face contorting into a mask of fear. He tried to climb out of the trunk, but the woman held him in place, her hand splayed on his head.

“Don’t take him,” I said. “Please. Take me instead.”

The woman looked me over appraisingly, taking in my dirty feet and callused hands. “Nobody paid for you,” she said. And then she pushed Carlos down and slammed shut the trunk.

“He’ll suffocate,” I told my grandmother, my voice brassy with panic. From inside the trunk, Carlos began to make terrible sounds.

“Carlos!” said Junior.

“He’ll be fine,” said the fat woman. The sky above us was sand-colored, as flat and pale as desert. A lone grackle cawed, but there was no answer. I wished I knew how to stop time, to keep the shining car from departing with my brother inside. I put my hand to my mouth, bit hard on my knuckle. I wanted to do something, to feel something, to be the one leaving, and not the one left behind.

The fat woman got into her car and drove away.

“Hush, Junior,” said my grandmother. Junior had abandoned himself to sorrow: he was blubbering loudly, his face covered in tears and snot. Ana picked him up and he curled into her body.

“What about me?” I said.

“Keep hanging up the washing,” said my grandmother. But she came to my side and included me in her hug. “God will watch over him,” said my grandmother. “God will watch over us all.”





4




Alice


WHEN I HANDED Principal Markson her Sweet Stacy sandwich (chopped beef, sausage, and coleslaw on a soft bun), she peered over her glasses for an extra moment. “Alice,” she said, pushing the burgundy frames back into place, “what in heaven’s name are you doing here? Is the baby in the back somewhere? Asleep in a nest by the smoker?”

“The adoption didn’t work out,” I said, the simplicity of my words belying my mangled heart.

“Oh,” said Principal Markson. “Oh, Alice. I’m so sorry.” She held her paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. The phone buzzed, but she did not look away from my face.

“Well, you know …,” I said, but could not think of a way to finish the sentence.

“I’m so sorry,” repeated Principal Markson.

“If you want, I can give you back the sweater,” I said, my voice wavering as I pictured the small garment, which Principal Markson had knitted herself. When she had time to knit, I had no idea. Principal Markson, a heavyset black woman, was in charge of Chávez Memorial, which had been called Johnson High until the city shut it down the year before and replaced all the faculty. Most of the new teachers and many of the students came into Conroe’s at lunchtime, though ever since the Texas Monthly “Best BBQ” issue, we had to let them skip the line or they’d never get a morsel.


The Texas Monthly article had changed the length of the line outside Conroe’s, but the rhythms of our days remained the same. Jake woke at 1:30 a.m. Despite the hoodlums who roamed our neighborhood at night—I was roused by the sound of gunshots (or maybe fireworks?) more than once—Jake insisted on walking to Conroe’s, leaving me asleep. He passed two pi?ata shops (Raquel’s Partyland and Ruth’s Partyland), two bars (Club Caliente and El Leon), and four churches of various denominations. He’d promised not to walk through Metz Park or any alleys until daylight.

I’d bought Jake an antique Pasquini espresso maker during our honeymoon in Venice thirteen years ago, and the first thing he did every morning when he arrived at the restaurant (after telling Brendan, who tends the meat all night, to go home) was grind beans for a strong cup. Then Jake got to work trimming ribs, putting them in one of our five smokers by 3:30 a.m. The brisket cooks at a low temperature all night, hence the need for Brendan. Jake started the fires for the turkeys next, using post-oak wood and butcher paper covered in tallow harvested from the brisket he’d cooked the day before.

During the next few hours, Jake would sit out back in his favorite green lawn chair, keeping an eye on the smokers, perusing the three papers he had delivered to Conroe’s every morning. We loved the Austin American-Statesman “Life” section and the New York Times crossword puzzle; whatever squares Jake couldn’t fill in, I usually could. This was the time-consuming art of barbecue: Jake monitored the wood fires, maintaining their temperatures, reading the smoke the way his grandfather had taught his father, who’d taught Jake.

People arrived around 7:00 a.m. to set up chairs and drink coffee in front of our small restaurant, sometimes waiting four or five hours for lunch. A man across the street started renting chairs (five bucks for the morning), and it was rumored that savvy Austinites hired homeless men or students to stand in line for them, paying with money or meat. I never saw any evidence of this, though if I did I’d put a stop to it. That sort of behavior just isn’t neighborly, and part of what we were striving for was a sense of community. There’d been two marriage proposals in line already, so I knew we were doing something right.