walk. Though it was fall, the temperature hovered in the upper fifties, and the trees that had yet to cede their leaves to the onslaught of winter were bursting with life. Lucero noticed some worms inching along the trunk of an old tree. This is life, he said joyously. So much life.
Loja chuckled, thinking Lucero was acting a little strange,but before he could ask him about his mood, Lucero launched into one of his usual monologues. He counseled Loja on how to be a good man, a man who fought for his rights, who worked and saved, who knew how to eat and how to behave on all occasions. Lucero, who could easily spend $1,000 in a shopping spree at the local mall, drilled Loja on the need to have the right outfit for each occasion. If it’s raining, don’t wear sneakers, wear rain boots, he would tell Loja.
Lucero liked to cast himself as Loja’s older, wiser brother, though the two were practically the same age. Lucero was thirty-seven, and Loja was thirty-six, but Lucero recognized that Loja had felt lost in America. He knew about the drugs and about the two relationships that had left him broken and despondent. He also knew that Loja was an angry man, who had walked away from jobs out of pride.
When he had been mistreated at his first job when he arrived in New York, the exchange had left Loja weary and a little scared. If this was his welcoming, what else could go wrong? What else should he be prepared for? For a young man who believed in premonitions and signs, Loja’s first experience in New York had not been a good omen.
In time, his feelings hardened. No one seemed to have a soul here, he thought. There is no time for spirituality or even for kindness. Money, money, money, was all everyone thought about. The one thing he didn’t lose, the dream that he kept tucked away in his heart, was his desire to go home. But for that too he needed money.
Often, as he did that day in the park, Lucero would remind Loja of an aspect of his own childhood. Your mother knew how to dress you; you always had the best clothes, Lucero would tell Loja. Lucero said it as a fact, a statement without bitterness or pain, but Loja knew why Lucero always mentioned that particular detail of his childhood, and why he was so exacting about clothing. As a child, Lucero had seldom worn new outfits. Other boys, cruelly,would make fun of him. Because he was the older boy, he always wore new pants but had to take good care of them. His younger brother, Joselo, was waiting to inherit them. 2 Sometimes, Loja knew, Lucero hadn’t even had shoes to wear, which was ironic because the town of Gualaceo had once built its fleeting wealth on its reputation as the shoemaking capital of Ecuador. Everyone in Gualaceo, it seemed, could stretch a piece of leather over a wooden last and make a beautiful shoe.
Lucero had grown up poor, the oldest child of four—two boys, two girls—in a home ruled by a mostly absent shoemaker-father and supported by a short, stout woman who cooked for a living and kept her children under close supervision. Despite their poverty, or perhaps because of it, the boys had a carefree childhood, picking peaches and pears from the trees, and racing homemade wooden cars down the narrow streets that surround Gualaceo’s main square. 3
When Lucero was eight, in 1979, his father doubled over his worktable and died suddenly of a heart attack. His twenty-nine-year-old widow, Rosario, had to work nonstop to support the family, while keeping a vigilant eye on her children, particularly Lucero, who was overly attached to her. When she cleaned the house, he walked with her, holding on to the hem of her skirt. When she stayed up late at night sewing their torn clothing, he went to sleep at her feet. Doña Rosario, as everyone called her in a customary sign of respect for married or widowed women, was a stern disciplinarian. If the children misbehaved, she hit them. Lucero hated it when his mother turned her ire on him. He would run away, but his
Loja chuckled, thinking Lucero was acting a little strange,but before he could ask him about his mood, Lucero launched into one of his usual monologues. He counseled Loja on how to be a good man, a man who fought for his rights, who worked and saved, who knew how to eat and how to behave on all occasions. Lucero, who could easily spend $1,000 in a shopping spree at the local mall, drilled Loja on the need to have the right outfit for each occasion. If it’s raining, don’t wear sneakers, wear rain boots, he would tell Loja.
Lucero liked to cast himself as Loja’s older, wiser brother, though the two were practically the same age. Lucero was thirty-seven, and Loja was thirty-six, but Lucero recognized that Loja had felt lost in America. He knew about the drugs and about the two relationships that had left him broken and despondent. He also knew that Loja was an angry man, who had walked away from jobs out of pride.
When he had been mistreated at his first job when he arrived in New York, the exchange had left Loja weary and a little scared. If this was his welcoming, what else could go wrong? What else should he be prepared for? For a young man who believed in premonitions and signs, Loja’s first experience in New York had not been a good omen.
In time, his feelings hardened. No one seemed to have a soul here, he thought. There is no time for spirituality or even for kindness. Money, money, money, was all everyone thought about. The one thing he didn’t lose, the dream that he kept tucked away in his heart, was his desire to go home. But for that too he needed money.
Often, as he did that day in the park, Lucero would remind Loja of an aspect of his own childhood. Your mother knew how to dress you; you always had the best clothes, Lucero would tell Loja. Lucero said it as a fact, a statement without bitterness or pain, but Loja knew why Lucero always mentioned that particular detail of his childhood, and why he was so exacting about clothing. As a child, Lucero had seldom worn new outfits. Other boys, cruelly,would make fun of him. Because he was the older boy, he always wore new pants but had to take good care of them. His younger brother, Joselo, was waiting to inherit them. 2 Sometimes, Loja knew, Lucero hadn’t even had shoes to wear, which was ironic because the town of Gualaceo had once built its fleeting wealth on its reputation as the shoemaking capital of Ecuador. Everyone in Gualaceo, it seemed, could stretch a piece of leather over a wooden last and make a beautiful shoe.
Lucero had grown up poor, the oldest child of four—two boys, two girls—in a home ruled by a mostly absent shoemaker-father and supported by a short, stout woman who cooked for a living and kept her children under close supervision. Despite their poverty, or perhaps because of it, the boys had a carefree childhood, picking peaches and pears from the trees, and racing homemade wooden cars down the narrow streets that surround Gualaceo’s main square. 3
When Lucero was eight, in 1979, his father doubled over his worktable and died suddenly of a heart attack. His twenty-nine-year-old widow, Rosario, had to work nonstop to support the family, while keeping a vigilant eye on her children, particularly Lucero, who was overly attached to her. When she cleaned the house, he walked with her, holding on to the hem of her skirt. When she stayed up late at night sewing their torn clothing, he went to sleep at her feet. Doña Rosario, as everyone called her in a customary sign of respect for married or widowed women, was a stern disciplinarian. If the children misbehaved, she hit them. Lucero hated it when his mother turned her ire on him. He would run away, but his
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