The Same Sky(41)

“I’ll take you to the front door,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said, “if we don’t show up they’re gonna close us.”

“Hmm?” I asked.

“They’re trying to close our school,” said Evian. “Again. Don’t you read the papers? We’re not worth it. If they close Chávez, I’m dropping out. I am not going back to Travis.”

“They won’t close the school,” I said.

“Attendance is an issue,” said Evian. “Also, the testing is an issue. We’re too dumb.” She laughed hollowly. “And too many pregnant.”

I pulled into the parking lot and saw Marion Markson cheerily playing crossing guard. She hugged some students as they approached, stopped others to speak to them seriously, meeting their eyes. She wore a bright orange pantsuit and seemed to laugh easily. “Oh, Lord, Principal Markson’s waiting out front,” said Evian, smiling and shaking her head. “Tell you what, Ms. Conroe,” she added, raising her eyebrows. “They close Chávez, the one I’m most worried about is Principal Markson. That lady is really into this school.”

“She is the principal,” I said primly.

“Yeah, we’re lucky,” said Evian. She leaned over and hugged me quickly. “See you tonight!” she said, alighting from the car and jogging toward school. I spotted Sam in a crisp letter jacket, standing by the door. When Evian reached him, he grinned and put his arm around her shoulder. She turned back and waved to me, then approached Principal Markson, who greeted the couple warmly and shooed them inside. As I drove out of the parking lot, I saw Officer Grupo, leaning against his squad car and sipping a Big Gulp soda. I raised my hand as I drove past and he gave me a thumbs-up.

Chávez looked different in the early morning. It seemed hopeful, a happy place, a refuge. I was glad to be a part of it.


That afternoon, Principal Markson came in for a Sweet Stacy. I handed her the sandwich, and she eyed the plate hungrily. The line behind her was long, but I said, “Principal Markson?”

“Marion, please!” she said.

“I wanted to talk to you … about Evian.”

“Oh,” she said, surprised. “I’m not sure if this is the best place.”

“She’s staying with me,” I said. “I don’t know if …”

Marion’s phone buzzed, and she held up her hand. “Let’s talk another time,” she said. “Are you free Friday night?”

“Uh,” I said. “Yes, actually. Sure. Coffee?”

“Hold on, please,” said Marion into her phone. To me, she said, “I could use a real drink, if you want to know the truth. You know Donn’s Depot on Fifth?”

“Yeah,” I said. It was a dim cantina with a cocktail waitress who could remember your name even if you hadn’t been in for years. For some reason, the entire place was decorated with Christmas lights year-round.

“Friday night at eight?”

“Sounds great,” I said. And it did sound great. I needed some counsel and I needed a ladies’ night out. I served the man after Marion with a smile.


After Benji and I had cleaned up and closed Conroe’s for the day, I went home and picked up Evian’s things and our dirty clothes, heading to Frank’s Coin Laundry. I’d found a copy of Mr. Bridge at a used-book store, and I read it while the washer ran. It was sad to read about someone so fully devoted to his work that he didn’t see his wife, though she was right next to him. I knew there was a companion novel, Mrs. Bridge, about how her life had played out alongside his. After transferring the clothes to the dryer, I thought about my mom and dad. Their lives had been impossibly, perfectly entwined. I had always thought this was what I wanted, but when my mom had died, my father was no longer whole.

I brought the laundry home and folded Evian’s things, her tiny underwear and T-shirts, her jeans and miniskirts. I went into Mitchell’s nursery and dismantled the crib, emptied the bureau of baby clothes, gathered the diapers and baby toys from the closet, and put it all in the storage shed in the backyard. In the crib’s place, I put an inflated camping mattress with clean sheets and pillows. I stacked Evian’s things in the bureau, gazing only for a moment at the baby bunny I had painted on its side.





31




Carla


I HAD BEEN JAILED in the same town where I had lost my brother. He and Ernesto might have climbed a train in the hours I was asleep, but I went searching for them anyway. By the time I reached the plaza in which I had been apprehended, the sun was so white that everything appeared to be covered in a film of sand. The metal tracks were empty, glinting. I hated The Beast, and yet I needed The Beast to reach my mother.

I knew I could not remain in the station. Stumbling down a narrow street, I saw a dark doorway and a sign that said “El Bambi.” I had watched the movie Bambi in the window of the PriceSmart electronics store. I am not stupid, but I was lost and tired, and a brothel seemed as good as any place to go.

Inside El Bambi, there was little light. The floor and the bar were made of concrete, and a dozen white plastic tables were unoccupied. There was a smell of beer, sweat, and fried beef. A jukebox glowed, illuminating a fat woman in a gold dress. She turned toward me and narrowed her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here, little girl,” said the woman, who was maybe twenty years old. I could tell she was Honduran, with light skin and hair dyed red and pulled away from her face. The straps of her shoes cut into her feet. I knew about places like this: we had them in Tegu, and some of the girls I’d gone to school with worked inside. You danced in provocative clothing for men who bought you beer or gave you fichas, little plastic chips you could trade for money at the end of the night. Usually, you had sex with men for money, too, but some girls claimed they remained virgins. A girl named Patrice told me she could drink thirty beers in one night and still stand up, which was both impressive and very sad. I had tasted a beer once, and never again. It made my mouth feel as if I had ingested a cleaning product: numb and scalded simultaneously.