“Nothing’s out there,” Chet mumbled, stepping onto the porch, his bare feet
feeling the sticky wood from the Popsicle he slurped down at sunset.
Tropical air swept against his body and moonlight defined the oaks and pine
stumps across the street where he played war.
A voice rang out and Chet jumped and pissed himself. The man who spoke was
standing to his right with a straw hat on and a flowery shirt. “Hey, hey,”
he said, “it’s all right. I’m your landlord, Dick Damone.” Chet shivered.
“Really. I own this place and your Grandma is Rita, Rita Helena del Turo,
and you’re Chet and you’re renting this place from me, Dick Damone, right?”
His smile enabled Chet to swallow a big scream. “I guess.”
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Chet said, pulling his T-shirt over his swimming trunks.
“Course you’re not. Why should you? Boy you’re size can take care of
himself.” The man smiled again. “What are you, ten, eleven?”
“I’ll be seven in two days.”
“Seven, Lordy, Lordy, age of reason. You know what that means?”
“No.”
“You care?”
“No.”
“You want me to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but you got to do something for me first.” Chet’s throat burned with
fear. “Come closer, boy.” Dick Damone had a bill in his hand and he was
snapping it. “You like money?” Chet stopped moving. “This here is a hundred
dollars and you know what a hundred dollars can buy?” Chet shook his head.
“It can buy a lot of toys. You like toys? Chet nodded. “What kind of toys
you like?”
“I don’t know.”
“You have any toys?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
Dick Damone let out a noise that made Chet back up. “Not right,” the man
said to Chet. “Not right to grow up without toys. Tell you what, Chet. You
give this to your grandma and tell her half is for toys and half is for a
ride on the hammer. Okay, can you remember that? Half is for toys and half
is for a ride on the hammer. Say it.”
Chet repeated. “Half is for toys and half is for…” Chet looked down at his
flat feet. “I forgot.”
Dick Damone had folded the bill up into an airplane. He sailed it at Chet
and struck the boy on the chest. “I’ll bring you something next time.”
*
An hour after Dick Damone left Grandma showed up. Her teeth were purple and
her breath was fruity and she wobbled into Chet’s room, inquiring about his
evening. He was afraid of Grandma Rita. She had long black hair she tied
back in a ponytail and scorching dark eyes that never blinked or watered.
She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing white shorts and a bathing
suit top. The white made her legs look darker, stronger, like she could
climb to the top of any mountain in her bare feet. Chet didn’t know what to
say or how to say it. He was sitting up in bed, the hundred-dollar bill in
his fist, the word “toys” like a wind whistling through his ears. He knew
one thing for sure: she was going to get mad. He’d talked to a stranger. He’
d taken money from a stranger. But didn’t this stranger know grandma? He
called her Rita and that was her name. And he knew his name. Chet. So he
wasn’t a stranger.
“Mi’jo,” she said, “Why are you frowning? You sad. Sick.” She came closer,
touched his forehead. “Scared?” He nodded. “Scared of the silencio?” He took
his hand out from under the sheet and opened his fist.
She stared at the balled up bill. “Where did you get this?” He tightened. He
knew that tone. “Speak up.” She snatched it out of his hand and tears
blurred his vision. “Look at me.”
She looked like a puppet looming over him, a crazed wooden figure with
bright red lips and big dog eyes. “Answer me.”
“Half is for toys and half is for a ride on the hammer.” He shouted it out
like it was the pledge of allegiance.
She grabbed his ear, yanked him out of bed. “You stupid little fuck.”
Hearing went out in that ear but the other one recorded her shrieking. “Who
gave you this?” She released his ear and took hold of his hair, yanking till
he peered at her. “Who?”
“A man.”
“What man?” Chet forgot his name. He could see, in his mind, his face, a
turtle with blue eyes and long yellow hair combed back, but he couldn’t
remember his name. Slaps rained down on his backside and Chet howled, “I don
’t know. I don’t remember. Please. I’m sorry.”
She tossed him forward, exhausted. “Turn around.” Pain flared around his
body but none of it hurt as much as that scowl. “This man touch you?”
“No.”
“You ever see him?”
“No.”
“He knock on the door?”
“No.”
“How the fuck did you get the money?”
“He gave it to me. It was hot. I opened the door. I went outside. He was
outside, in the dark, by the bushes.”
“And?”
“He said your name. And my name.” Her face changed from soldier to a soft
cloud. “Pendejo,” she muttered, and smiled. “He say he was our landlord?”
“Yes,” Chet cried out. “Landlord.”
“Bastard.” She laughed like his hands were on her ribs. She rubbed her lips,
looked at her hands, then Chet. “I’m sorry, mi’jo, but our landlord is a
Diablo. Do you know what a Diablo is?”
“Devil.”
“And you know him and his ways?”
“Yes,” Chet said. “I know.”
“The Diablo is after me, mi’jo,” she said, flattered.
“Why, grandma, why?”
“Because I’m pretty and particular.”
“Particular,” Chet said with difficulty.
“It means I pick who I like and he doesn’t like that.” Her shoulders sagged
and she peered at Chet like he was a sick cat. “Forgive me, mi’jo. I’m
loca.”
*
The lights flickered and browned. The weather had swung back to winter. Chet
knew not to call Rita at the restaurant. He listened to the dull roar of the
storm, knowing he was on his own. He cried himself to sleep.
He didn’t feel Rita’s kiss on his cheek, a pressure that usually woke him
but he heard voices, muted and foreign and spiked with laughter and grunts.
And they weren’t in his mind or outside his window. They were behind his
door.
His eyes opened. The dark was heavy in his cold room. Someone stumbled and a
man said, “Yeah, like that. That’s nice. And you’re nice and yeah, back it
up, yeah,” His groan was bearish and wounded and Chet heard his grandma hush
him. “Cabron, please, we’re not alone.”
“I can’t.”
“Try.” Grandma squealed and said, “Dios de Madre, Cabron.”
“I know,” he said, “relax.” The talk coarsened and words came clipped and
crude and Chet’s fear of an intruder mauling his grandmother was happening.
And he was next. And he couldn’t move. He hadn’t prepared for this, this
plucking. That was what was going to happen. Parts of himself, a finger, an
ear, his thingie, plucked and eaten for desert by a beast with white eyes
and no hair. He wasted his time praying.
Chet pissed himself and what did it matter? His blood would hide his
accidents and stain the insides of this house forever. They’ll have to burn
it and start over and suddenly Chet remembered who owned the house: Dick
Damone.
Saying his name made Chet smile. Dick Damone was back. Chet got of bed,
peeled off his wet underwear and threw them under the bed. This was twice
now he had pissed himself and what would Dick Damone think of that? Baby,
probably.
Chet stripped off the sheets and sopped up the wet spot with his T-shirt.
Dick Damone wouldn’t give him another hundred if the man knew he was pisser.
But if he did, Chet wouldn’t give it to Rita this time. And why should he?
Rita had jars of quarters and nickels and dimes and in the drawer by her bed
were fives and tens and twenties. She had enough money to buy Chet any toy
he wanted but she didn’t because she was busy. She was working. She was
tired. She was loca.
Chet put on socks and sweats and lay on top of his blankets. Someone was
coming to check on him. He knew that for certain. And he waited, listening
to the wind thrum through the pines, hoping that someone would be the man
with the money. Footsteps approached the bathroom next to his room and he
heard a muttering through a torrent of piss.
Cold hung in his room like a smoke. His door swung open and Chet tightened.
“Hey there,” Dick Damone said. “You’re up.” Chet nodded. “Been up long?”
Chet shook his head and the man put his hands in his pockets. His shirt was
unbuttoned and Chet could see a trail of lipstick smudges leading from the
man’s neck to his belly.
Dick Damone cleared his throat. “So, what did you get?” Chet shrugged. “Your
birthday, remember? You said you would be seven in a few days.” He came into
the room without ducking. He was bony with broad shoulders and a little
head. His eyes and nose reminded Chet of a hawk and his mouth was wide like
a monkey’s.
“Nothing,” Chet said. The man sat on the edge of the bed. He smelled like
sweat and fungus. “She forgot.”
Dick Damone reacted like someone spit in his face. “What?”
“She forgot. She’s busy and she’s tired and she’s…”
“No, no,” he said. “That’s no excuse.”
“I understand.”
“Understand this,” he said, pulling a roll of money out of his pocket.
“I can’t,” Chet said. “She’ll get mad.”
“Don’t tell her.” He put five twenties by Chet’s hand. “Hide them, okay.
Hide them somewhere…” He paused, looking about the room. “You know what I
would do? I’d just carry it around. Take it out of my pocket, show my
friends, you know, use it to buy stuff they don’t want anymore, like a
pocketknife or gopher skull. I don’t know what kids think is valuable today
but I’d use it and pretend like I had a lot more.” He stood up, awkwardly.
“Do what you want with it, but have fun, okay?”
*
When Chet woke up, Grandma was in the kitchen, wearing a robe and staring at
her cup of coffee. Strands of dark hair stuck out from her head and there
was shadow under her eyes. “Hi.” She squinted at him like he was stranger.
“Fix yourself something.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You will be and I’m telling you right now I won’t be in the mood to do it,
understand?”
“Okay.” He fixed himself cereal and sat across from her, eating slowly,
knowing if he chomped or slurped she’d get up and leave. He wanted to know
about the man and if the man was going to come around again. Having the
money in his pocket and her not knowing it made him feel different, older in
some way. “How was work?”
“Fine, for a Friday.”
“You hear the rain?” he asked.
She blinked at him and there was a hitch in her voice. “I’m sorry I missed
your birthday.”
“It’s okay. You’re busy.” Her face contorted and her bottom lip fattened,
the look scaring Chet. He’d never seen Rita cry or admit to a mistake. She
didn’t seem to have enough time to dwell on something that would soon be
forgotten.
In public Rita burned 100 watts brighter than she did at home. Everyone
seemed to love her and want to touch her. She gave out hugs and kisses
freely. Sometimes she’d disappear behind a building with a man, leaving Chet
to count in his head the seconds she’d be gone. Once he reached Mississippi
fifty and Rita returned carrying her shoes and acting like ants were
crawling on her. All the men and certain women, it seemed to Chet, wanted
some of that light she gave off. And even the ones who watched from afar and
muttered about Rita Helena del Turo didn’t speak about the boy at her side.
Dick Damone was the first who’d talked to him and though he tried not to
make anything of it, the man had left a splinter in Chet’s heart. He set his
spoon down and Rita looked at him like missing his birthday was his fault.
“He told me,” she said, glowering.
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb. The man who was in the house last night. The man who came
in your room.”
“The landlord.”
She sniffed and frowned. “He’s that and much more.”
“He’s nice.”
“Nice.” Her voice soured and she leaned toward Chet, flushing. “Nice is not
him and I don’t know what he told you but he’s not a nice man. Nice men don’
t give little boys money and messages.”
Chet swallowed, trying to hide his opinion of the man. The floor was cold
and he pressed his bare feet into the linoleum. He could tell Rita Helena
del Turo was in a mean mood. He pushed back his chair. “Can I be excused?”
“Why?”
“I’m done.”
“Done listening to me—is that what you’re saying?”
“No, I’m…” Chet faltered.
“What, speak up.” Her intensity stirred the vein by her left eye, and he
could feel her disgust, her wanting to blame him for not telling her about
his birthday. Morning light eased into the kitchen like a liquid. He heard
birds singing. It was stupid to think the landlord would stick around for
breakfast. Chet touched the pocket with the money. “I’m sad.”
“Sad,” she mocked. “Sad about what?”
“Sad you forgot.”
“Oh,” she said. “You’re all alike. You know that? One hurt and you’re ruined
for life. Is that the game were going to play till you’re eighteen, huh?”
“No.”
“Good, because I won’t put up with it. You think you can find someone else,
find her and don’t let the door hit you in the ass when you leave.”
Chet touched the money again, which seemed to back down the sob. “I’m not
sad, anymore,” he said.
“Well, then, what are you?” He looked away, focused on the Aunt Jemima piggy
bank on the counter. All his wishes were in there. Hundreds. “I’m talking to
you,” she said.
“I know,” he said, “and I’m listening.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I forgot.”
“Oh, that’s interesting. You can forget but I can’t. Is that fair?”
“No, I guess, I don’t know.”
“Well, either it is or isn’t.”
“I don’t know.”
“Look at me.” He focused on her nose, long and thin, with small nostrils. He
tried to back up and remember the question but he couldn’t clear his head.
The birds outside screeched. Chet imagined himself a cat, grey and muscular
with yellow eyes, trotting around puddles on the muddy street, a
blue-feathered bird in his teeth.
His grandmother stood up and tightened her robe. The middle finger on her
left hand flicked up and down and Chet knew she was restraining herself. The
noise outside rolled away and her voice moistened his ears. “Okay, I see,”
she said. “I see what we have to do. We have to have a party.”
TONI MORRISON - Beloved
JON KRAKAUER - Under the Banner of Heaven: A Story of Violent Faith
GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ
JAMES ELLROY - L.A. Confidential
HENRY MILLER - The Rosy Crucifixion (Sexus, Nexus, Plexus)
