The Same Sky(44)

Father took my hand. If I spoke, I would beg him to keep me, to be not just a priest but my father. I could stay here in this place, cleaning and cooking for others. If he would never let go of me, I would do anything.

We went to the back of the room where so many were sleeping. By the door, a large map was taped to the wall. I stopped short and stared. I had seen maps in books when I had gone to school. Father put his finger on a city by the bottom of the map. “Tegu,” he said. I watched him. He moved his hand up the map. “And now you are here,” he said.

“And Texas?” I said.

Five inches higher, he touched a blue ribbon. “The Rio Bravo,” he said. “And if you cross it, you are in the United States.”

It didn’t seem impossible, standing in that room, looking at a piece of paper. I’d come so far already. I thought for one moment about how it would feel to put my face into my mother’s hair.

“You could go back,” said Father, mistaking my quiet for fear.

I shook my head.

“Your hope,” said Father. “It inspires me, your hope.”

I was iridescent, empowered by his words. “What else can I do but hope?” I asked. I assumed he knew what things were like at home.

“Indeed,” said Father.

I pushed open the back door, and there he was. He was bouncing a half-deflated ball, wearing only a pair of athletic shorts. I ran to Junior. “I found you,” I cried.

“Ah, we’re in the middle of a game,” he said, pushing me away but smiling large. His hair was clean and his eyes looked less dull than I remembered. To the other boys, Junior said, “Keep playing. It’s just my sister.”





34




Alice


DONN’S DEPOT PIANO Bar & Saloon had originally been an actual train station. When the wooden structure was slated to be replaced with a brick building, the older station was moved to Austin and attached to a boxcar, parlor car, and red caboose (the last now the ladies’ room). Surrounded by an outdoor deck, the building was soon filled with the musical stylings of Austin native Donn Adelman, who’d bought the place in 1978. Donn and the Station Masters played live music on the weekends, and on weeknights you could never be sure if you’d be hearing a new band, an old band, or your personal jukebox selections. I always brought quarters in my purse, just in case. Parking was a bit of an issue, as West Fifth had become snazzy—full of spas, fitness studios, and something called a Blo Dry Bar. Behind the Depot, I wedged my car into a space uncomfortably close to a telephone pole and slithered out. It was happy hour, and the lot was almost full already.

I climbed the wooden steps to the deck and entered the bar. As always, the place was lit with Christmas lights. Though you couldn’t smoke indoors anymore, the scent lingered. Marion sat near the empty stage with a drink. I waved and went to the bar, where Toni said, “Alice!” and came forward to give me a big hug. I hadn’t been to Donn’s in two years.

“Hey,” I said happily.

“Where’s the big guy, the famous one?” said Toni.

The young man behind the bar leaned in. “Who’s famous?” he said.

“This one’s hubby. Conroe’s BBQ!” said Toni.

“Whoa,” said the man, who sported a reddish goatee.

“She’s famous, too,” said Toni kindly.

“I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay,” I said.

“You can’t come in here wearing those boots and order a Chardonnay,” said the man.

“She can do what she likes,” said Toni, unscrewing a large bottle and filling a pint glass to the rim with wine. I opened my purse, but Toni said, “We’ll run a tab,” shooing me away.

Marion stood as I approached. “What is that?” she said.

“Chardonnay.”

“Ugh, in a beer glass?” said Marion. “You’ve got to try the Loose Caboose.”

“Sounds good.” I sat down at the rickety table, took a sip of my wine, and sighed. “I need some advice,” I said.

“From me?” said Marion. She laughed. “You need advice and I need a miracle.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, hon,” said Marion, smoothing her cocktail napkin. “I’ve got this one school year to raise the TAKS scores and attendance records. One year, and then they close Chávez Memorial. To be honest, I think they’re going to close us anyway.”

“What about the teachers?”

“What about the kids?” said Marion. She rubbed her eyes. “I tell them I believe in them. I tell them I love them. I tell them I’m proud of them. But when—sorry. If they close Chávez, these kids are going to be in big trouble. Some of them won’t even go to school anymore. Some of these kids’ parents went to Chávez. Well, it wasn’t called Chávez then, but my point is there used to be pride.” She sighed deeply. “The teachers will find jobs. Maybe in Austin, maybe not. I’ll find a job. But the kids …” She stopped talking and drained her Loose Caboose.

“So Evian has moved in with me … with us,” I began.

“What?” said Marion, leaning toward me. She wore a gold pin on her sweater—a Chávez jaguar.

“Her mom … she kicked her out, I guess.”