The Last Karankawas(10)
“Hike!” Carlos turns for the handoff. The ball slides into Jess’s grip and he is gone. He spins past Hector and makes it as far as the rusty merry-go-round before Freddy wraps him up and out of bounds. The next play, Carlos has the option and pitches it; Jess takes it all the way. They win, naturally.
Later they sit on the merry-go-round, chugging from the cans, warmed enough from the exercise to sweat in the chill wind. Ram wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You hear from your dad at all, Jess?” he asks. He has fond memories of Orlando Rivera, who once open-hand-slapped one of Jess’s cousins from the Valley for calling Ram the N-word.
“Not really.” The beer tastes sour, but Jess swallows.
“Where’s your dad at?” Freddy wants to know.
Jess stays still, doesn’t meet his eyes. “He’s in Huntsville.”
“Locked up,” Hector adds. “For running drugs.”
“No shit?” Freddy’s brows lift. “Respect.”
Hector pops the top on another. “Stone-cold baller, Mr. Rivera. You should’ve seen him, primo. Running them right out of his house, even the Bloods.”
“Aren’t there cartels and shit down here?” Freddy asks.
“No,” says Carlos, rolling his eyes.
“Yes,” says Hector. His voice carries a hint of drama, of relish. He’s like that. Jess’s skin crawls; rare temper rises in his throat. “Mr. Rivera wasn’t scared of them, either. Just kept running his whole chunk of the east side with balls of steel until the cops busted him.”
“Shut the fuck up, Hector,” Ram says, snatching Hector’s untouched beer from his hand and glaring. “Why are we even talking about this?”
“Jess doesn’t care. Do you, guey?”
“He’s right,” Jess snaps. He fights to keep his voice and face calm. “Shut the fuck up, dude.”
Hector looks annoyed at being chastised in front of the cousin he is trying to impress. He mutters, “Shit, bro, didn’t think you’d be touchy about it.” Ram leans over and passes Hector another beer, brings up something that happened in history class last week, and they all begin to laugh. Even Jess, fingers vised around his beer can—remembering the way he grips the hatchet on the boat—telling himself inwardly, Laugh.
* * *
The trouble began for William in the year 1066. It is believed that he visited England and met with his cousin Edward the Confessor, the childless English king, where Edward promised to make William his heir. William planned to take over the English throne upon Edward’s death, only to be betrayed: On his deathbed, Edward instead granted the kingdom to Harold Godwinson, head of a powerful noble family. In January 1066, Edward died and Harold was proclaimed King Harold II. William began making plans to invade.
The stack of letters glints in the dim light. It has been two weeks, but he hasn’t moved it. Jess switches off the lamp and closes his eyes.
* * *
The girls usually watch TV in the evenings, but this time only Yvonne and Ana Laura stay up. Jess arrives home after a long day of dredging and unloading their haul—thirty-eight sacks—at Johansson Oysters. Both girls are snoring in front of Jay Leno. In the kitchen, a plate of arroz con pollo sits on the stove for him, covered with a paper towel.
He opens the fridge for a drink, and she speaks from behind, startling him, as she usually does these days. “Your sister left that for you,” Mama says. “The least you can do is eat it.”
The skin around her eyes is loose, as if too weary to fasten to her bones. The bar stool gives a creak as she settles in, even though she is little more than a ratty robe and what once was the best ass on the block according to his shithead friends.
“Pour me an iced tea,” she says quietly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
When he slides the full cup to her, she doesn’t drink from it, only runs her finger around the lip.
“You’re getting skinny out there on the bay.” She tilts her chin, a gesture he has seen in Sarita. “They feed you o qué?”
He pauses with his hand on the covered plate, surprised. He didn’t know she knew about his job. Yvonne must have told her, or one of the girls. “We bring food sometimes. Mostly snacks. We eat when we get back on land.”
She stares into her tea, appearing not to hear him, and when she speaks again, he knows she wasn’t listening. “Those letters. His. You haven’t read them, have you.” It wasn’t a question.
Jess pushes buttons on the microwave and watches the plate spin, the numbers blink down. How long can he stay this way, his back to her, her question unanswered? Avoiding the conflict. He wishes for peace; he longs for it. He is tired of every brief exchange becoming a battle.
But he steadies his shoulders. “No.” He waits.
She scoffs. “Can’t forgive, can you, even for a father who loves you, who provided for you.” Her tone has an edge now. “Maybe you can’t make time to visit, but you can at least read what he’s taken time to say.”
“Why should I?” Jess asks over the beeping of the microwave, hearing his voice rising in anger. Again. “Why should I read anything he sends? He fucking screwed us—”
“Watch your mouth.”