tangled in the nearly leafless sycamore trees. My mom expected revenge, and she chose Eddie to see to this revenge. I thought she would have known better. After all, she was a grown-up. After all, she went to church every Sunday, and didn't the Bible say something about not taking another person's life?
"Mom," I said, "you can't do this." I flapped my arms at my side, as if I, the fallen angel, could take off and leave this place. So that's what they were talking about in the kitchen.
Her old Buick's headlights lit up the black asphalt lining the street. She pulled away from the curb, and I tried to run after her with my long strides. I might have kept up with her carâshe was a slow driver who went by the rules and used both hands on the steering wheelâexcept the wind pushed me in the other direction.
"No!" I screamed at Mom. "You can't ask him to do this!"
I slowed to a walk and turned around, head down. I loved my cousin, who many years ago tried to unhook me when I was hanging upside down. I would crave his friendship until my body disappeared altogether. Friendship is what I longed for, but nature was telling me to move on. When I looked up, my cousin was setting the hammer on top of the handgun, the tools of a terrible trade.
THE WIND that whips through the valley in fall sent me rushing toward Blackstone Avenue then shifted so that I once again ended up on Fausto's street. Radios were crying out Mexican songs, and over that I heard the frying of something deliciousâchicken tacos?
Came asada? Chicharrones?
I was aware that I couldn't eat, but the aroma...
I stood in the middle of the streetâand jumped out of the street and nearly out of my mind when I saw a ghostly outline of a girl roll past. I guessed it right away: She was dead, like me, and recently dead because she couldn't control her body. She was tumbling, and her long brownish hair was waving like seaweed. Her mouth was shaped into a sorrowful O.
"Dawg," I crowed to myself.
I wasn't the only one departing life in Fresno; others were shutting their eyes as the pulse in their wrists slowed to a stop, though their watches continued to bang out the time. I felt self-centered, me thinking all along that I was the only person to have lost his life. I asked myself:
Where are the others, the old and sick who gave up their ghosts daily, or those who died in accidents? Where were those who died from cancer, heart attacks brought on by heartbreak, or diseases I couldn't even pronounce?
This girl,
I asked myself.
Who is she?
I put my long-distance runner years to use and caught up to her just as she righted herself and wobbled dizzily. I was familiar with that sensation of dizziness, that and a lot more. Immediately, she began to style her hair back into place. Funny how she was primping even when she was a ghost. Who was there to see her but me? The sorrowful O of her mouth completely disappeared and was replaced by the sleepy look of someone shaken awake.
"You got to tighten your stomach muscles," I tried to explain.
She jumped backward, shocked by my presence. Her arms were raised in self-defense.
"Don't be scared," I said in a slow, deliberate manner. I wanted to be understood, trusted.
A curious look sprang up on her face. A line cut across her brow, and I could see by that single little line what she would look like when she got older. Then I realized that she would never get older.
"The wind," I said. "It'll blow you around. You have to tighten your stomach muscles, get really low if you want to stay in one place." I considered raising the front of my shirt to show her how to tighten those stomach muscles, but I was afraid that she would grimace at my knife wounds.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Chuy" I answered. I hesitated, but went ahead and boldly asked: "How did it happen? How did you die?"
She shrugged her shoulders and turned her face away. She didn't want to tell me.
But I was sure that her death had not been violent. She
"Mom," I said, "you can't do this." I flapped my arms at my side, as if I, the fallen angel, could take off and leave this place. So that's what they were talking about in the kitchen.
Her old Buick's headlights lit up the black asphalt lining the street. She pulled away from the curb, and I tried to run after her with my long strides. I might have kept up with her carâshe was a slow driver who went by the rules and used both hands on the steering wheelâexcept the wind pushed me in the other direction.
"No!" I screamed at Mom. "You can't ask him to do this!"
I slowed to a walk and turned around, head down. I loved my cousin, who many years ago tried to unhook me when I was hanging upside down. I would crave his friendship until my body disappeared altogether. Friendship is what I longed for, but nature was telling me to move on. When I looked up, my cousin was setting the hammer on top of the handgun, the tools of a terrible trade.
THE WIND that whips through the valley in fall sent me rushing toward Blackstone Avenue then shifted so that I once again ended up on Fausto's street. Radios were crying out Mexican songs, and over that I heard the frying of something deliciousâchicken tacos?
Came asada? Chicharrones?
I was aware that I couldn't eat, but the aroma...
I stood in the middle of the streetâand jumped out of the street and nearly out of my mind when I saw a ghostly outline of a girl roll past. I guessed it right away: She was dead, like me, and recently dead because she couldn't control her body. She was tumbling, and her long brownish hair was waving like seaweed. Her mouth was shaped into a sorrowful O.
"Dawg," I crowed to myself.
I wasn't the only one departing life in Fresno; others were shutting their eyes as the pulse in their wrists slowed to a stop, though their watches continued to bang out the time. I felt self-centered, me thinking all along that I was the only person to have lost his life. I asked myself:
Where are the others, the old and sick who gave up their ghosts daily, or those who died in accidents? Where were those who died from cancer, heart attacks brought on by heartbreak, or diseases I couldn't even pronounce?
This girl,
I asked myself.
Who is she?
I put my long-distance runner years to use and caught up to her just as she righted herself and wobbled dizzily. I was familiar with that sensation of dizziness, that and a lot more. Immediately, she began to style her hair back into place. Funny how she was primping even when she was a ghost. Who was there to see her but me? The sorrowful O of her mouth completely disappeared and was replaced by the sleepy look of someone shaken awake.
"You got to tighten your stomach muscles," I tried to explain.
She jumped backward, shocked by my presence. Her arms were raised in self-defense.
"Don't be scared," I said in a slow, deliberate manner. I wanted to be understood, trusted.
A curious look sprang up on her face. A line cut across her brow, and I could see by that single little line what she would look like when she got older. Then I realized that she would never get older.
"The wind," I said. "It'll blow you around. You have to tighten your stomach muscles, get really low if you want to stay in one place." I considered raising the front of my shirt to show her how to tighten those stomach muscles, but I was afraid that she would grimace at my knife wounds.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Chuy" I answered. I hesitated, but went ahead and boldly asked: "How did it happen? How did you die?"
She shrugged her shoulders and turned her face away. She didn't want to tell me.
But I was sure that her death had not been violent. She
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