up the environment. And maybe in an attempt to make no big deal out of it, he slipped in the fact that he was a divorced man. “Yeah, my ex-wife and kids live across the street from me,” he said.
“Oh,” I said. If I were the bold type I would have said, “Oh?” to get more information. He looked at me for a second as if he expected I might have a question. I didn't. I had a million. A million questions I didn't ask. Then he went back to talking about his community activism.
That day, after we got the new garden ready, Jesse stayed to eat. Although he is on the skinny side, he devoured his meal, as my mamá used to say about such appetites, like he was going on a long trip. After gulping down two fat brisket burritos, he had half an apple pie. He got up from the table without picking up his plate. He was walking around the house, looking at my knickknacks on shelves and windowsills, when we both lost sight of him. I found the huerquillo in my bedroom.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. I was standing right behind him and startled him, I think.
“Nothing,” he said, leaving right away, “just the bathroom.” I looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. At the school I've had money taken from my purse twice. I checked my purse. There were two dollars and change in my wallet. Just like I'd left it.
“We can shoot some hoops tomorrow, if you want,” Gabo said, looking tall next to the shabby boy as he stood up to say good-bye to his friend with an extravagant handshake.
When Jesse took off in his old Impala, I asked Gabo about the handshake, the sprouting goatees he and his friend were growing, and the boy's hand tattoo. “Do not concern yourself with Jesse,” was his only response. “He is just my friend.” He started getting ready for work. “Tía, if Jesse keeps helping us with the garden, do you think it would be all right to share some of our vegetables with him to take home to his familia? I mean, we had a lot this past year and it's not good to let food go to waste, right?”
When had we let anything go to waste? I can all the surplus produce for winter. Anything that gets by me in the refrigerator or in the fruit bowl goes into the compost. But if it's halfway edible we throw it out to the cottontails, birds, stray cats, la Tuerta, and even the naked neighbor's dogs that she lets run all over the mesa.
I said, “Yeah, whatever,” to Gabo, answering the way the students do when they think I'm just one more person in their lives who doesn't make sense. Then I decided to share my latest business plan. “I got an idea of how we could make a little extra money with our garden. We could take the vegetables to sell at a farmers’ market.”
“Ay, Tía,” Gabo said, as if all my enterprises were just my idea of fun, “whatever happened with your new pie-baking business?”
Taking a good look at him then and there, I had to admit he was not the same boy he had been six months before, when my brother left him with me. You couldn't tell right away, especially if you didn't want to, but he'd gotten older, all right. His voice was deeper. The way he dropped his shoes at night when he came home from work and plopped down on the couch—he was Rafa, all over again—there, but always somewhere else in his head. It made me long for the child who said his prayers out loud every night. The last time I had seen him do that was before his papá had gone missing. All his innocence was oozing out of him a little every day and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
As for my business plans, after the splattered pie, I said, “Baking pies is risky business.”
“Like growing vegetables out here is not?” Gabo asked, without waiting for an answer but heading toward the bathroom to shower.
At the window I could see it was pouring rain down in the valley. Thesky behind los Franklins looked like a blackboard covered with chalk scratches. Soon, those heavy clouds would be heading our way The local
“Oh,” I said. If I were the bold type I would have said, “Oh?” to get more information. He looked at me for a second as if he expected I might have a question. I didn't. I had a million. A million questions I didn't ask. Then he went back to talking about his community activism.
That day, after we got the new garden ready, Jesse stayed to eat. Although he is on the skinny side, he devoured his meal, as my mamá used to say about such appetites, like he was going on a long trip. After gulping down two fat brisket burritos, he had half an apple pie. He got up from the table without picking up his plate. He was walking around the house, looking at my knickknacks on shelves and windowsills, when we both lost sight of him. I found the huerquillo in my bedroom.
“What are you looking for?” I asked. I was standing right behind him and startled him, I think.
“Nothing,” he said, leaving right away, “just the bathroom.” I looked around. Nothing seemed out of place. At the school I've had money taken from my purse twice. I checked my purse. There were two dollars and change in my wallet. Just like I'd left it.
“We can shoot some hoops tomorrow, if you want,” Gabo said, looking tall next to the shabby boy as he stood up to say good-bye to his friend with an extravagant handshake.
When Jesse took off in his old Impala, I asked Gabo about the handshake, the sprouting goatees he and his friend were growing, and the boy's hand tattoo. “Do not concern yourself with Jesse,” was his only response. “He is just my friend.” He started getting ready for work. “Tía, if Jesse keeps helping us with the garden, do you think it would be all right to share some of our vegetables with him to take home to his familia? I mean, we had a lot this past year and it's not good to let food go to waste, right?”
When had we let anything go to waste? I can all the surplus produce for winter. Anything that gets by me in the refrigerator or in the fruit bowl goes into the compost. But if it's halfway edible we throw it out to the cottontails, birds, stray cats, la Tuerta, and even the naked neighbor's dogs that she lets run all over the mesa.
I said, “Yeah, whatever,” to Gabo, answering the way the students do when they think I'm just one more person in their lives who doesn't make sense. Then I decided to share my latest business plan. “I got an idea of how we could make a little extra money with our garden. We could take the vegetables to sell at a farmers’ market.”
“Ay, Tía,” Gabo said, as if all my enterprises were just my idea of fun, “whatever happened with your new pie-baking business?”
Taking a good look at him then and there, I had to admit he was not the same boy he had been six months before, when my brother left him with me. You couldn't tell right away, especially if you didn't want to, but he'd gotten older, all right. His voice was deeper. The way he dropped his shoes at night when he came home from work and plopped down on the couch—he was Rafa, all over again—there, but always somewhere else in his head. It made me long for the child who said his prayers out loud every night. The last time I had seen him do that was before his papá had gone missing. All his innocence was oozing out of him a little every day and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
As for my business plans, after the splattered pie, I said, “Baking pies is risky business.”
“Like growing vegetables out here is not?” Gabo asked, without waiting for an answer but heading toward the bathroom to shower.
At the window I could see it was pouring rain down in the valley. Thesky behind los Franklins looked like a blackboard covered with chalk scratches. Soon, those heavy clouds would be heading our way The local
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