Read Online Bulletproof Vest by Maria Venegas - Free Book Online

them came to the phone. He makes his way along the dusty streets of Valparaíso, his mind already racing ahead, looking for the excuse—for a way to justify something he doesn’t even know he’s going to do yet.
    He could have dealt with being rejected by his wife and by that country, even. His application was the only one denied, and if he ever wanted to step foot on American soil again, he had two options: cross illegally or use an alias. If he were to cross illegally and they caught him at the border and ran a background check, they would see that he was wanted by the authorities in Illinois for having skipped out on bail, and the last thing he needed was to land in prison on the wrong side of the border.
    His safest bet for crossing was to go under an alias, and when his wife had been in Mexico about a year ago, he had told her about a man that he knew, a man who fixed documents for people. If she were to wait a few more weeks, he could have a crooked passport made and they could drive up to the border and cross together. But she had not wanted to wait, and besides, she had told him, the business with a crooked passport sounded too risky. What if the name he was given turned out to be that of a criminal, then what? It would be best if she went ahead, borrowed a birth certificate from one of the brothers at her church, and then sent it to him. He could then have a passport made with it.
    â€œWhat about that birth certificate?” he asked, when he called her after she’d been back in Chicago for a week.
    â€œMire, Jose,” she said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back right now. The police are looking for you. There is a warrant out for your arrest, and they keep sending letters and stopping by the house. Besides, everyone knows that you are living with that woman. Why don’t you stay with her, start a new life for yourself, and leave us alone.”
    So that had been it. Though she had known about the other woman all along, she had waited until she was safely back on the other side to say to him, from ten thousand miles away, what she would have never said to his face. All along she must have known that there would be no borrowed birth certificate, not from this brother, or any brother.
    â€œWhat about the kids?” he asked. “Let me talk to them.”
    â€œThey don’t want anything to do with you,” she said.
    Back then, he had not believed her, but now he had witnessed it for himself, and the sting of that rejection pulls him into the cool darkness of the first tavern he stumbles upon. He wedges the heel of his boot against the chrome rail and orders a stiff one—anything to help douse the rage that is already gnawing at him. Not one of them had come to the phone—not even his baby girl, La Poderosa. This was the nickname he had given her when she was five years old and used to make him close his eyes before placing her hands on his aching head to pray for him, to ask God to take his headache away. When she was finished, she always asked, “Now do you feel better, Papi? Did your headache go away?” He always told her yes. Yes, he felt better. Yes, his headache had gone away. He promised he would never drink again. She had cured him. She was the powerful one—La Poderosa.
    But the day came when she refused to pray for him, refused to touch him, even. She was afraid that if she placed her hands on his head, some evil spirit from his never-ending hangover might slip through her fingertips—use them as a portal, and invade her soul. Even back then, the brainwashery had begun. He knew that his baby girl was afraid because her mother had made her afraid, had warned her that whatever evil spirit was in him could be transferred to her, and so La Poderosa stopped praying for him. But now, for her to refuse to even talk to him? He polishes off his drink and orders another.
    The hallelujahs had brainwashed his wife years ago.