The Last Karankawas(8)
“So,” she says. “You’re back.”
Because it is expected, he walks over and bends to kiss her. The skin of her cheek dry, tasting of cold beneath the quick sweep of his lips.
“Sorry it’s so late. We got in and then I stopped because this man—”
“The game went well? You started?”
Of course, she only cares about the game. “Yes. They replaced me in the seventh when we were up by six.”
“Saving you.” She nods with approval. “Playoffs coming soon. How did you bat?” she asks, voice gone suddenly sharp.
“I went two for four, a double and an RBI single. But—”
“Two for four, chinga’o. Just because it’s spring break doesn’t mean you can slack off. More batting practice is what you need. Un tonto, this only son of mine.”
They shouldn’t hurt anymore, her comments; he knows to be ready for them, to let them roll off. But every time she calls him a fool it stings, makes it so he is no longer a man of seventeen but a small boy, her words clinging like barbs under the skin. “Come on, Mama.”
“And you left your cleats on. See, now you’ve got dirt everywhere.” She points. Jess looks down. When he raises his eyes, she is lifting the mug to her mouth and walking back into the room. The door closes with a groan behind her.
His fists hurt from where he is clenching them; his throat burns. He won’t cry, goddamn it. What is he, six?
He showers, weary, puts his face to the tile as the heat beats down on his shoulders. And finally, the sanctuary of his room. As the only boy, he gets his own; the girls each share, two on two. His baseball trophies are piled on the bottom shelf of the closet. Spines of Hank the Cowdog paperbacks and Tom Clancy hardcovers—he paid for the former, swiped the latter from the library—lean drunkenly against the mirror on his dresser. Empty beer bottles take up place of pride on the windowsill, remnants from the party last year after he hit a walk-off double and the Tornados won bi-district. Jess saved some of the bottles, rinsed them out, lined them up. They stand straight as a regiment, a few with peeling labels.
There are letters beside them, too, a small, unopened stack. He knows without looking that the postmark says Huntsville, Texas. Texas State Penitentiary. That they are addressed to Jesusmaría Rivera; his dad always calls him by his full name, which was his own father’s. Jess hates it.
Stretching out on the bed, a long, long sigh escaping him as his back muscles flatten on the mattress, he blinks into the darkness. Oystering seems like hard work. He doesn’t know much, but he’s seen boats coming in from the bay in the early mornings or at night, their nets up like butterfly wings. Were those oyster boats or shrimpers? Fuck, who knows the difference. But maybe he can learn. Mr. Pham was nice, and he could use the extra money as long as it doesn’t interfere with baseball. Jess does okay on water. He never gets seasick on the ferry over to Bolivar, not even that time fishing with Mr. Jackson when the boat hit choppy waters on the Gulf and Ram threw up all over the deck. He will go by Mr. Pham’s house the next evening after he sees Carly, he decides, and accept.
Restless now, he switches on his light. He ignores the letters, reaches for the book instead. Opens to the year 1045.
Young William’s early reign was uneasy, riddled with violence and corruption as feudal barons fought to steal his lands. Several of William’s guards died and his teacher was murdered. King Henry I of France came to William’s aid in those early years by knighting him when he was a teenager.
Jess envisions the sword, a flash of silver in the sunlight, coming down to tap the boy’s thin shoulders. You were a man then, weren’t you? You were respected, you were prized. A ceremonial touch was all it took. You had honor then.
* * *
Yvonne promises to get up early and make him breakfast on the first day; even though he has to report to the pier well before sunrise, Yvonne insists. He knows better than to argue once her mind is set. She is sixteen, but it is her nature these days to take charge. Since their father’s departure, and their mother’s slow drifting away, Yvonne has become the matriarch. She dresses Sarita in the mornings and braids her hair how she likes, helps Ana Laura with her English homework, makes sure Francie’s softball uniform is always washed. “Mama won’t like the noise of us getting up that early,” Jess says, and Yvonne responds as he expected: “Mama can suck it.”
So at 4:30 a.m. Monday Yvonne is throwing tortillas on the comal, waiting until they blister black on one side, the way he likes. She snatches them off the skillet bare-fingered—Jess remembers his mother’s hands, deftly turning the masa, unscathed from the heat. It’s a woman thing, she said when little Jess and Yvonne asked, pura mexicana. Pride and laughter warmed her voice; later she soothed Yvonne’s small, singed fingertips on ice cubes when she wasn’t quite womanly or mexicana enough.
By 5:15 a.m. he is climbing aboard the Miss Saigon, with Mr. Pham watching to check his balance. Whatever Jess does seems to work. Mr. Pham nods—that nod—and introduces him to the other crew member, a moreno named Rey with an eagle tattoo on his arm and a gold tooth that flashes when he smiles. Normally the deckhand crew includes at least one other, but their regular guy picked up a construction job inland. “We can use the help,” Mr. Pham says. “And call me Vinh.”
“Here.” Rey tosses him blue rubber work gloves, damp with the early-morning cool and bay water. Jess pulls them on, flexing his fingers. They smell of dirt and brine.