The Last Karankawas(43)

I sat down instead, my knees popping, on the step next to him.

Marcos, I said again as I settled my bottom on the concrete. My voice steady this time. What are you doing here?

I was in town. I thought—I— He lifted his shoulders to his ears nervously. Looked out at the street as he spoke. I wanted to see you.

Again with the questions. They raced through my mind, fluttered as if with bat wings behind my lips. Where when with who why why why. You know I don’t hesitate to say what I want. I speak my piece. But right then, with him, I didn’t know where to start, and I was afraid. Afraid I would spook him, and he would leave. Afraid you might arrive at any minute and see us; afraid of what the wavering woman-child you were, feisty, quicksilver, chiflada, would do. Hit him or embrace him: toil and trouble, los dos.

The wind was warm, comfortable as it ruffled the sleeves of my camisa. I smelled jasmine though they weren’t in season—somewhere one must be growing in a cool, shaded space away from the summer sun. I didn’t see a strange car parked nearby. He must have walked here, or someone dropped him off. Who must he be spending time with, life with? Who who who.

?Por qué? I finally asked. Why are you here?

I told you. I wanted to see you.

Where have you been?

He sighed. Working. Just—around. All over.

Working, I said, and repeated it louder. Working?

Mama, please.

No. What control I had found I lost instantly. I slashed a hand in the air. No ‘Please, Mama.’ Not now, not ever. You—you—

Yet I couldn’t say it. Seven years of nothing. No letter, no phone call, nada. Birthdays—his, mine, yours—and Easters and Christmases we spent without him. The empty spaces, in the gym at your volleyball games, in the hard chairs at school plays and honor ceremonies, beside us in Sacred Heart every week holding hands during the Padre Nuestro: spaces beside you and me and your mother where my son should have stood. And soon not even your mother, nada más you and me. I thought it all and my eyes filled with tears.

He glanced around then back at me. His look like cobwebs. It made my eyeballs feel sticky and cold. Is she here? Carly?

No. My anger was welcome this time, boiling up in my throat to burn away that cold. That he would ask about you. That he would say your name. No. She’s not here. Ya se fue. You can’t see her. In my lap I was clenching my fists. Seven years, Marcos. Seven years y nada.

He puckered his lips and blew out a breath; I felt the cool air. I know. I’m sorry.

You know, I repeated. Betrayal thick and sour in my mouth. You’re sorry.

He said nothing.

?Y ahora? Are you back for good?

When he turned away from me, I could breathe again. He shook his head. No, just for the day.

Ah.

I’m sure my tone stung. I wanted it to, to pierce and lodge like a spina beneath his skin. He looked regretful, he did. But we know men, don’t we, ni?a, the many ways they leave and lie. I had tried to raise my only son to be better, to put familia before desire. So many women do this, easy as breathing, but a man? A good man? Rare as snow on la isla. I tried to teach him to be dutiful, content in who we are and what we had and the many tides and storms still to challenge our warrior selves. But I saw the itch in his eyes when your mother put her head on his shoulder; when you lifted your baby arms to him to be held, I saw the road. A poor man after all. I knew I had failed long before he left.

I sighed. So tired in that moment. Pues, tell me where you’ve been.

Everywhere. He nodded out to the street, west to the bay, east al Golfo. Working oil rigs, construction. All over. West Texas, even. The desert.

The desert? I asked, and my voice with its excitement gave me away. He turned his face to me, and I saw cobwebs, sorrow, and an old-world knowing; recognition stabbed in me, so cold and sharp I shivered. ?Dónde?

El Paso. And Santa Fe, too.

The desert. You don’t know, do you, that I once dreamed about it. How could you? I keep parts of me secret still. This longing lingers from when I was young. I have never been, never gone farther west than Del Rio on the border. Cesar had grown up for a time in New Mexico; he told me that on our first date, and I felt heat plump my lips, pool between my legs. Later I leaned my cheek on his naked chest and asked, What’s it like, the desert? He stroked his fingers through my hair and said, Red. The desert was a rainbow only of red, me dijo, different shades like chiles or the brick buildings on the Strand, like blood both fresh and dried. Red slashing a wound across the blue sky, air so dry your skin cracked when you made a fist. Sharp edges everywhere, plants with thorns, beasts with stingers and teeth. I sucked in my breath, hearing that, and I reached for him again in the dark. I longed for it, la violencia de esa tierra. We’ll go there someday, Nena, me prometió. You’ll get to see something other than this island. We never did—the first of many promises he would break to me.

A lifetime later, and it burns in my dreams still: the open space, rocks and mesas and sand that is not beach sand. An ocean of earth and sky. As a girl, I collected pictures of the desert, and each one drew a howl from my breast. A coyote, a wolf, when all along I had thought I carried a water creature within. We can have both, sabes—we carry many selves. I know that now. But I didn’t then, and all I wanted was what I could not have. Ves, I understand that urge, the one you have, too, that you think I do not see. Yo sé.

He had been to the desert. He had lived some part of my life without me. The jealousy, the longing, small explosions in my heart. Pop, pop, pop.