Send Down the Rain(19)

After I sat up, Manuel knelt at arm’s length. “Se?or—” He looked concerned. “Are you okay?”

I thought before I spoke. “Yes.”

He offered his hand to help me stand.

The man in my arms began regaining consciousness. I sat him up next to me. Catalina shooed the group of spectators and they returned to their jobs. A few minutes passed while they let me dust myself off. Somebody brought the muscled man an orange soda, and he sipped it while leaning against the trailer. A pretty good bump was rising on his forehead. Catalina tended to him and whispered words I couldn’t hear. He nodded and glanced at me around her body.

Manuel sat with me. Saying nothing. I needed to know. “What happened?”

Manuel reconstructed the last few moments with both his hands and broken English. “You jump on Javier. Like cat. You and him wrestle. Fight. Then he go to sleep.”

I pointed at Catalina. “And her?”

“Javier good man. He grabbed Gabby just as she was about to step in the hot oil pan. Just trying to keep her safe. He was tickling her when you . . .”

“I thought I heard her crying.”

Manuel shook his head. “She was laughing.”

I put the pieces together. There was no good way to fix this.

Javier stood, steadied himself against the trailer, and then smiled and laughed at the men in a circle around him. He said something in Spanish, patted me on the shoulder, and Manuel laughed. “What’d he say?”

“He said he is going to call you El Gato.”

“What’s it mean?”

He smiled. “The cat.”

Manuel helped me to my feet while Catalina and Gabby brushed me off. I tried to apologize, but so few of my listeners spoke English that I felt like I was making matters worse, so I quit. I sat on the tailgate, finished my sketch of the old woman. I thought about giving it to her, but when I realized she couldn’t see it, I just set it on the table nearby, where the kids gazed at it and whispered. Quietly I ate my dinner, watching the good-natured Javier replay the events with a smile and good humor.

After three plates of what might have been the best Mexican dinner I’ve ever eaten in my life, I sat back and loosened my belt. A stuffed tick had more room than me. That’s when I noticed the women dropping something in the hot oil. The sound of something frying had my full attention, as did the smell. A few minutes later, they sifted golden brown handfuls of goodness out of the oil, drizzled them in honey, and served me six on a plate. “Sopapilla,” a woman said softly.

Evidently, word of my participation in Catalina’s departure from Juan Pedro had spread, and despite my near decapitation of Javier, a steady line of folks were smiling at me and patting me on the back. Most everyone in the park came through to shake my hand and say, “Gracias, mi amigo.” Several chuckled, patted me on the arm, glanced at Javier, made a fist, and said, “El Gato!”

I felt bad for Javier. A golf ball–sized bump had risen on his head and his left eye had swollen. Almost shut.

Mexican doughnuts are not what a diabetic needs to eat, but not wanting to be rude, I ate twelve. The combination of fat and sugar hung on my eyelids, pulling them down.

As the moon rose, an older man brought out a nylon string guitar and sang in the most beautiful voice I’d heard in a long time. When he finished some forty-five minutes later, Gabby was asleep in my lap, Diego was asleep on Rosco’s stomach, and both fires had been reduced to warm red coals. I stood and patted my pocket, looking for my truck keys, but Manuel waved his finger like a windshield wiper at me. “Se?or, you stay here. My guest. Please.”

The thought of not driving sounded good. I carried Gabby inside his trailer while he carried Diego, and we placed them on bunk beds. He then led me to his room, where Catalina had just changed the sheets. He pointed. “Please.”

“Manuel, this is your room. I can’t—”

Catalina spoke from behind him. “Mr. Jo-Jo, it would honor my brother if you’d say yes. He is very happy to have you and wants to thank you for what you’ve done. He doesn’t have anything else to offer you.”

Rosco stood looking up at me. The look on his face said Old man, let’s take the bed.

I thanked Manuel, pulled off my shoes, lay down, put one hand on Rosco, and closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids I watched the replay of the video, now some forty years old—the man with the machete. I was nineteen at the time. I could still hear the words and how he spoke them so fast.

Sometime during the night, I woke drenched in sweat. The sheets I had been sleeping on lay in a pile on the floor. Catalina stood in the doorway, holding a lit candle and looking at me. Somebody had placed a cold, wet hand towel on my forehead. Rosco had laid his head near mine. His paws were tucked up under my arm.


AT DAYLIGHT THE PARK again came alive. Fires were lit. The smell of breakfast. Within twenty minutes everyone was bathed, fed, dressed, and lined up for the bus. I walked out of the trailer and noticed that somewhere between last night and this morning, someone had washed my truck and wiped something shiny on the tires.

Manuel appeared with a small backpack over his shoulder, machete and hat in hand. He thanked me again and then joined the mass of men heading off for the bus. I sat on the tailgate and listened to multiple cries of “El Gato!” as the men waved, laughed, and patted Javier on the back. Javier’s eye was black and swollen, but it seemed to have little effect on his smile.