The Last Karankawas(16)

Luis and I were lying in bed, in the quiet after sex, before sleep, when I mentioned it. I told him that to me, Galveston is new. Fresh. Salt in the air instead of diesel and concrete. There’s ball clubs for days in the Houston area: independent, minor league, the Astros—the team he and I both grew up idolizing from different sides of the river. He’d have to start over, but that’s what tryouts are for. I told Luis all of that. I led with the teams.

But he frowned, his palm still stroking my hip. I have the starting spot here. I’m building a brand. Coach thinks I’ve got my whole career ahead of me. Why would I go anywhere else?

Because there’s no future for us in the Valley. I gritted my teeth against the weight of what I was saying, a truth I’ve known since cars wheezed past me on the international bridge. We will live here and die here, minutes from the spot where I climbed out of the river, where my mother cleaned houses and covered up bruises. Shouting distance from the place where my father still works, fucks women, coaches a kids’ baseball team.

I said this, but Luis laughed. We have a future, M. Mine is yours.

Outside, the Valley air pushed against the windows, drawing sweat beads against the glass. A car alarm went off down the street. It could have been my mother’s car. It could be my cousin’s, or my tía’s, or mine, or belong to any of the people in this town that Luis and I know and have always known.

That’s not enough, I thought, and finally found the courage to say out loud, Luis, I want my own. But he was asleep by then.



* * *



Mija. Someone taps my arm and I look over. Tío Raúl stands in the aisle, grinning. Behind him, three more of my uncles hold flimsy plates of nachos, popcorn bags, tall plastic cups of beer. They lean in, and their cheeks where I kiss them are pink, flushed with drink and the thrill of a winning game. We’re not gonna bother you here, we just wanted to say hi.

Where are you sitting, Tío?

He points to a spot in the center section. Got us some good seats this time. Front row to your boy. Hell of a show so far.

Boy’s throwing the shit out these pendejos, Tío Carl says around a mouthful of popcorn. See that fastball he’s got?

The curve, Tío Steve adds. Drops like no fucking thing. Almost as good as yours, ’jita.

Anyway. Tío Raúl glances over at the other girls and nods; they smile politely. We’ll see you later, Mercedes.

They make their way into the aisle, curving around the field, back into the center section where people have given up on seats in general and are crowding the rails right up against the netting to protect against foul balls. I watch my uncles take their seats in full sight of the field. They holler as loud as they want because they can.

Like them, I rise for the seventh-inning stretch. Sling an arm around Teresa and Jessica and sway to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Clap my hands to “Deep in the Heart of Texas.” Luis is in the dugout, and try as I might, I can’t see him from here. I can’t see him, so he can’t see me. The realization that this is all I want surges into me as if I touched an electric fence. As if I held fast to one and climbed.

We’re at one, two, three strikes you’re out when I pull away. It’s time, you see. Or maybe you don’t.

Ves: This is not the moment I’ve been waiting for. Just the latest in a series, times where I am faced with a choice I decided on long ago. I made this choice years ago while the doctor set my arm, my father’s face grimacing and red above me, sobbing, Lo siento, mija, mi vida querida, lo siento. I decided again with the flashlight of border patrol screaming in my eyes. And again, last night: Luis’s breath ruffling my hair, my words of wanting more hanging in the air between us like the hanging curve he used to throw. Before I showed him how.

The other girls look up, startled, as I take my purse and jacket and climb through them. Excuse me, excuse me, I apologize as I pass. I need to go. I’m sorry. I’m smiling. I need to go.

Because I do. As I make my way down the aisle, I feel stronger for the knowledge. This spot, this space, this fucking city. If I stay here, yo voy a morir. Or, worse, live a whole other life just like the one I left across the Rio Grande: mindful of how I move, what I do and say, how it affects and represents a man.

I’m going, with or without Luis. He doesn’t know yet, but he will.

Walking around the dugout feels illicit. No river here, no one waiting to point me away from the red zone and back toward the bleachers behind the dugout. Invisible lines dissipate beneath my sneakers. I cross, already feeling like I belong.

My uncles cheer as I climb the steps to them, a few rows up behind home plate. They laugh and scoot over on the bleachers to make space for me. They call me mija. They call me babygirl. Your boy’s gonna close this puta out, babygirl. I kiss their cheeks and take the beer they pass.

The bottom of the seventh goes scoreless, although Andrew M. gets in a good double to right. From here, I can look straight into the dugout. I chew sunflower seeds, sucking the salt from their gritty shells, and watch Luis adjust the jacket over his pitching arm.

He doesn’t notice me until they take the field at the top of the eighth and he once again strides over to the mound. He punches the toes of his cleats into the dirt as if planting a flag. He removes his cap to wipe his brow and looks behind home plate. Directly at me.

The batter raises his shoulders and readies. José adjusts his mask, crouches in the dirt. The girls behind the dugout clap and call out encouragement. My uncles mutter. I look straight ahead into Luis’s eyes and the 11 on his chest and, for once, I don’t think of my father. Instead, it’s Galveston, and Jess, a little house with a porch on a street named after a fish. Me, bussing tables in a diner on a bay I’ve never seen.