First came the timid knock, followed by their laughter, thin and sugary as capulin jam. I peered through the kitchen doorway, gripping the spatula. Ma was pretending to slap her brother as he scooped her into his arms, twirling Ma until she shrieked, “Stop, manito, stop. Por favor.”
Tío Domingo looked the same as he did three years ago, except for a blue suit whose pant legs bunched at the ankles and a pair of black patent leather shoes, maybe a toupee. It’s not 1969 anymore, I wanted to tell him, when everyone in La Puente slicked back their hair and wore thick gold chains, and I did whatever you asked.
They were in the living room, catching up, when Tío said, “JB, you here?”
I pulled back, bringing the spatula to my chest, holding my breath. It was like I’d been holding my breath those three years, ever since I’d scored my first job at that east side convenience store. I was eighteen then and, like my uncle, I wanted women to chase me, wanted to spend money like it was penny candy. Pero, ¿sabes qué? I felt ripped off once I got my first paycheck. Chump change. That’s what I got for standing eight hours a day, all that “Yes, sir,” and “No, ma’am,” and “How can I help you?” When Domingo told me the one-time plan—I would siphon off a little cash each workday, and then on Saturday night, when the money was pouring in, he’d rob the place, doubling our money—I said, “Right on!” without hesitating. We scored once, saw dollar signs, and got our signals crossed the second time. I placed the money in the bag, and he walked out the front door. Just to show off or something, he returned to buy a pack of cigarettes. I’d gotten on the phone a minute before, and soon the sirens were wailing in the background. I rang up the purchase and handed him a pack of Kools. Then he split. The next day, he accused me of calling the cops right before he returned for the smokes. Vendido, he told me. I felt a crack in our plans, in us, and I knew it was over. It didn’t matter how many times I swore I’d been talking to my bro Teddy, the Viet Nam vet, and not the pigs. Go ahead, I told him. Call him right now if you don’t believe me.
“A lo hecho, pecho,” my uncle said. That was the first time I’d heard him use that phrase and the last shift the owner told me I’d ever work at the convenience store.
Now Tío was parading around our living room as if I hadn’t had to learn to trust in myself and my own dreams all over again. Like buy Ma a house, write songs, play guitar, tour with a band around the Southwest and beyond. Maybe get married and give Ma a grandchild. But Tío still looked good, damnit. Still oozed charm and confidence; still had that swagger. For a nanosecond, I felt an urge to hang out with him again, even though he was dressed like that, and I knew where it would all lead.
Tío strutted into the kitchen. “Well, well, well. ¿Qué onda, Betty Crocker?”
I lifted my free hand, the one without the spatula, in greeting. He moved toward me, but I kept monitoring the egg yolks, watching them harden into yellow Frisbees.
“Johnny-Boy,” he said, elongating the “oy” as if it were a shared pet name. “Is that any way to greet your uncle after all this time?”
After the chisme made the rounds and Tío had split the scene, I’d started over. Took any job I could get, hauling manure, laying sod at the golf course, planting potatoes, until I found my current employer. People had begun to respect me. My hand trembled as I turned up the heat beneath the skillet, praying that the crackle and hiss of frying eggs might mask the sound of his voice, intimate like the guitar in my favorite Roberto Griego song “Un Pobre No Más.” I willed my uncle to leave our casita, even knowing it would hurt Ma to see him go.
My mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Hijo,” she said, her arms folded.
Domingo held out his arms as if I were his long, lost son. I dug the spatula beneath the eggs and flipped them before reluctantly walking toward him.
“That’s right,” Domingo said. “That’s right.”
I almost gut-punched him. But Ma was wearing a hopeful smile, as if this could be some happy-ending story. I stiff-armed Tío Domingo, stuck my hand out like a sword, like Errol Flynn in those old black-and-white movies Ma and I liked to watch. Tío was forced to offer his hand, nothing more. Mine was a firm handshake, the kind I gave my employer. Domingo smirked at me. I nearly choked on the stench of Terrain, that shitty-smelling cologne I bought from Woolworth’s when I was trying to be like him.
“He’s working out at the old Greeves place, Dom. And playing guitar too. Rancheras, my favorites.”
“It’s no big deal,” I said, embarrassed that she was trying to impress him but also itching to grab my guitar and belt out a song.
“He got your musical genius, Connie,” Tío said.
“He didn’t get it from you,” she said.
“I can’t carry a tune. But I got other talents, right, JB?” Tío winked at me.
“New ones, I hope,” I said.
But Tío had already closed his eyes and was pretending to slow dance with a partner. Was he remembering a lost love in Amarillo or Denver or Albuquerque? We never knew whether to believe him when he told us where he was going. And we never heard from him until one day out of the blue he showed up on our doorstep.
“Dance with your mother, bro.”
He was testing me to see whether I’d become my own man, or if I was somehow still that naïve kid he’d manipulated just because he could. I stood my ground, clutching the spatula, until Ma extended her hand and said, “Juanito.” She gave me a familiar look, widened eyes that conveyed a lifetime of waiting on her older brother, even more so now that he deposited wads of cash in her hands during these infrequent visits. There was nothing to do but place the spatula on the stovetop, turn down the heat, and take hold of her. I held Ma as if she were a Saguache cactus, and we moved around the kitchen in a crooked ranchera, Ma singing a made-up Spanish song beneath her breath with words like, “No te preocupes, hijo.” She spun away from me while I burned inside like a brush fire had swept over me.
My uncle tousled my hair and then yanked it. I swatted his shoulder with the spatula. He grabbed my arm and twisted it. My hand opened, and the spatula flew from it. We all heard the splat of the utensil on the linoleum, and Ma, her back to us, reminded us that we were familia and told us to take care of each other.
“Looks like we’re back in business, ese,” Tío Domingo said, as burnt-egg odor filled the kitchen. “Just like the old days.”
The next morning, we drove west.
“Just to check it out,” Tío said about my job. But we both knew better.
We rumbled over the railroad tracks and through the empty streets, turning onto Commerce Boulevard from National Street. The bank towered over us, and the time and weather stats glowed in red on the marquee above the building. We passed Woolworth’s, Candelaria Confections, and the Grand Movie Theatre. Soon, my uncle motioned for me to stop at Donut Depot.
Once inside, my mouth watered at the pastries nestled all cozy in the glass case. Tío Domingo had told Ma that he’d stockpiled some money while working. I told him I’d been saving up for a house for Ma, which left no money for luxuries. I bit into a glazed donut. He kept pointing to the donuts, some with sprinkles and others with creamy fillings, and the clerk placed them in a bag.
I elbowed him. “Pay the guy, hombre.”
If looks could kill. The flaky donut stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I almost choked on its sweetness. I reminded him about the new house, that every dollar counted. I didn’t trust him enough to say I’d saved two grand for a down payment. Domingo glared at me but gave a plastic smile to the clerk who was brushing crumbs from the glass countertop. The doorbell tinkled, and a group of guys herded inside. The clerk gathered their donuts while I chewed on mine, waiting.
He handed the clerk a crisp ten from his billfold, thick with cash. “Next one’s on you, kid,” he said, elbowing me, as if we were both in on the joke. I doubted he’d ever pay for ten bucks’ worth of donuts again.
I carried the bag while Tío wiped his hand on his pants. Soon I was steering the pickup down Commerce and cracking open my window. Fresh air filled my lungs, and sugar was rushing through my veins, when Tío said, “You still driving this old jalopy?”
I recognized the movida, payback for putting him on the spot in the donut shop. “You got a problem with that, Domingo?”
“You’re bad,” he said, holding his hands up. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Good answer,” I said and gunned the engine.
The pickup zoomed forward. We ate the donuts as the truck engine hummed, and the paper bag crunched each time we pulled a donut from it. We talked about the Denver Broncos and the weather, and then he asked me about the house in the Bow-Wow, a neighborhood named after the wild dogs that once roamed its fields. I told him homes there were being remodeled, Ma had chosen her favorite, and I’d drive him by the house during his visit.
“You’re a good son,” he said.
“Ma’s a good lady.”
“That she is, my nephew.”
“She doesn’t know anything either,” I said. “Let’s keep it that way.”
We passed a mile or two of potato fields before Tío said, “You ever get tired of being a good boy?”
More payback, I guess. Or maybe it was a genuine question. No way of knowing with him. Either way, I gave what I got and said, “Do you ever get tired of being you, Tío?”
“Good one,” he said and lit a cigarette, took a couple drags. “You’ve changed, bro.”
“Keep on truckin’,” I said, “like the saying goes.”
Minutes later, he said, “We did okay, didn’t we?”
I thought I heard his voice catch and glanced over at him. “Ya,” I said, and I meant it. Sure, there was the rush we’d gotten during the robbery. Afterward, we’d hurriedly split the money while yelling, “Fuck the white honky,” and treated ourselves to steak dinners at Sands Restaurant. But the best part? Letting the gringos know in no uncertain terms that we were more than faceless laborers.
The road opened once we passed the A&W Drive-In. I rolled my window down all the way. Nothing cleared the head like the mountain air in the San Felipe Valley. This was the hottest summer I ever remembered, and I’d lived in La Puente my whole life. I always found comfort in the wind, the sway of the Valley’s potato and wheat fields, and the mountain ranges that flanked our town on nearly every side.
Tío took another drag and crushed the cigarette butt in the ashtray. “Just remember, sobrino, you’re not the only good guy. Not by a long shot.”
I studied him from the corner of my eye. A small paunch rounded out his shirt. His hairpiece was slightly lopsided. None of that mattered when it came to drawing the ladies to him, and I thought for sure we’d be heading to Jake’s Billiards or the Blue Bear Pub for that very reason. But the first couple nights, brother and sister had parked themselves on the couch, where they’d spent the evenings smoking and drinking, conjuring the past, and caressing frozen images in framed photographs. One night, after I’d gone to bed, I was roused by Ma’s weeping. The two were still sitting on the couch. Domingo was hugging her, and Ma was telling him to save his money. Juanito is doing good, she told him and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief before adding, I’ll never forgive his father for making our son become a man too soon. I was glad Ma said what she said, and I guess Tío could act like a good guy when it suited him. Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if being good was all there was for me. I left them in a room backlit by black-and-white images of Errol Flynn flashing across the television screen.
“Good to know, Tío. I guess I’ll tell Ma you’ll be getting a job and sticking around for a while.” I pretended to elbow him like I was joking, like when you pretend something isn’t serious when it is.
He laughed. “Mira no más. JB, the comedian.”
Tío punched me in the arm, I howled in mock pain, and our nervous laughter was swallowed by the wind. The breeze whipped the flame of his lighter, and Domingo cupped his hand around the cigarette. It had felt good to say my piece, like the air had been cleared, and we could drive in relaxed silence.
I turned left onto the road leading to Martinson’s farm. Pavement turned to gravel, and a few dogs chased the truck as we bumped along. We were surrounded by mountains. Chamiso, wiry and scrawny, marked the land on either side. We drove by a single-wide trailer whose front lawn was littered with signs that read Coca-Cola or that featured the state flag of Colorado. Soon chamiso gave way to lush fields of wheat. I coaxed the pickup into the u-shaped front driveway, slid the gear into park, and honked twice.
“Let’s go,” I said and got out of the truck. I angled toward the barn, my footsteps creating a dust storm. Domingo trailed behind me.
Inside the barn, my boss was feeding hay to the horses. Next to him stood Buddy, a large German Shepherd that growled at my uncle.
“I brought a visitor,” I said.
Martinson let the hay fall to the ground. I patted Buddy on the back, feeling pride in my employer. He was a fair man who was teaching me to be fair in my dealings with local businesses, whether buying tools at the hardware store or picking up lumber from Gray’s.
“Whadda you say, JB?” Martinson pulled off his work gloves and shook my hand. “Looks like you brought reinforcements.”
“It’s just my uncle,” I said, careful not to mention that Domingo had jumped, uninvited, into the cab of my pickup this morning.
The dog stuck close to Martinson and kept emitting a low growl. “Quiet down, Buddy,” he said while extending his hand to my uncle. “Theldon Martinson.”
Tío told him his name, and they shook hands.
“What brings you to La Puente?”
“My sister phoned and asked me to come.” Domingo spread his arms. “Here I am.”
“Showing up when called. That’s one measure of a man,” Martinson said and gestured toward his crops. “JB shows up too, no small thing, especially when it comes to tending to a couple hundred acres of wheat.”
I put on my work gloves and lifted bales while Buddy sniffed around me, both of us keeping a wary eye on Domingo. This was only my second summer on the farm, but this was the last job I ever hoped to have.
Martinson called Buddy over to him. “If you got time, Domingo, I’d like to show you around the place.”
There’s a real gentleman, I thought, someone who could make a body feel at home. I wondered, though, if the old man was being nice for my sake or if he saw something in my uncle that’d escaped me. Maybe Martinson saw some good in a man who never stayed in one place too long, even one drenched in Terrain cologne. I clapped my uncle on the back, and he didn’t push my hand away.
As we headed toward the wheat fields, me walking in the middle, a little ahead of them, Martinson started joshing with me. “At the rate you’re going, you’re gonna own this farm someday.”
“I’m gonna be king,” I said.
“Whoa,” Tío said. “Big talk, young man.”
Surprisingly, I didn’t hear an ounce of sarcasm in my uncle’s voice, and then Martinson said, “Well, now that we’re talking.” He called Buddy over and said, “Consider yourself promoted, JB. We’ll work out the details later.”
It came so fast, so unexpectedly, that I could only bumble a thank-you. You earned it, he told me, and I said, “I won’t disappoint you.”
“We’re proud of him,” Domingo said.
I couldn’t tell if his mouth was curling into that snarl others often mistook for a smile. I wondered whether he ever could be a man like Martinson.
The closer we got to the wheatfields, the more sullen Tio became. Out of nowhere, he asked if I remembered when he’d taught me how to ride a bike. “You weren’t more than this high,” he said, holding his hand at thigh level. He told Martinson that he, Domingo, had been like a father to me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and pretended to cough, or else I would’ve burst out laughing. This was a classic Tío move, always having to come out on top, like a shiny penny, Ma once said about him.
But my employer didn’t see it that way. Martinson, leaning against a tractor tire, said, “You’re lucky. Family is everything, isn’t it?”
Tío Domingo agreed with him, and out of respect, I didn’t utter a word about Martinson’s wife and the rumors of her infidelity. I sauntered over to the tractor whose tires were wider than me and propped myself against one just the other side of Martinson. A bit later, I picked up a stick beneath the tractor and heaved it across the field. “Catch, Buddy.” I followed the dog into the wheat fields, leaving those two to fight over me; a cheap thrill, but I wanted to feel it anyway.
By the time I returned, the pair were eyeballing the ground, deep in talk. They greeted me, and we headed back to the barn and then the main house. My uncle surveyed everything—tractors and other farm equipment, a toolbox and assorted tools, animals, acreage—his body heavy with greed, his eyes gulping in all he saw.
“Anyway,” Martinson said, once we had reached the driveway, “we could use some help around here if you’re looking. It’s getting close to harvest time.”
“He’s already got a job,” I blurted. I didn’t want Domingo anywhere near the farm, familia or not. I couldn’t believe Martinson was that gullible. Maybe that’s another reason his wife had left him.
“Thank you for the offer, sir,” Domingo said, shooting me a dirty look. “As my nephew said, I’m exploring other prospects. Speaking of which”—and here Domingo inspected his watch—“I’d better get to my next appointment. JB—” My uncle looked right at Martinson when he said “JB”—I heard the sarcasm in the slow pronunciation of those two letters—“throw me the keys.”
I hadn’t bargained on him taking the vehicle. I stood there, rubbing Buddy’s head, thinking about how to stall. In the end, I couldn’t leave Martinson with a bad impression of my own family. I drew the keys from my pocket and tossed them high and far. “Pick me up at six,” I said, as Domingo chased after them.
“Yessir,” he said, jogging back, saluting me with his free hand.
Tío Domingo once again shook hands with Martinson. He turned around, keeping his back to the older man as he clapped me on both shoulders. “Keep making our family proud,” he said. I was expecting him to press his thumbs into my shoulders, letting up right before I winced, like he usually did. But the hug was genuine, solid. I was not as overwhelmed by the cologne.
He revved the pickup’s engine and then rolled out of the driveway. Buddy barked and chased the vehicle to the farm’s entrance before trotting back. I looked up in time to see the pickup fishtailing down the gravel road.
I worked harder than usual that day, both to impress Martinson as a newly promoted employee and to shake off the time with Tío. When he was driving away, I was unexpectedly seized by the desire to chase after him and go wherever he was going, like I used to, whatever the outcome. The feeling was fleeting, the size of a kernel of wheat, but I resented that he had this way, just by being himself, of messing with my head, making me want to follow him even when I didn’t. I threw myself into cleaning the barn top to bottom and even stayed late to check the center-pivot sprinklers. There was nothing glamorous about farm work, even with the promise of a promotion. By the time I closed the barn door that evening, I’d remembered that Ma deserved a house for all she had done for me, and that I got to keep working at what I wanted most, to be a touring songwriter-guitarist for Los Tigres del Norte or a group like them. These were the rewards of being a good son and staying the course, I guess.
By six o’clock, after Martinson and I surveyed the crops for damage, I was exhausted, and Domingo was nowhere in sight. At seven, Martinson offered to drive me home.
The next day, I learned that Domingo had spent the entire time at Jake’s Billiards. There would be no job offer. This knowledge left a taste in my mouth as sour and stale as the alcohol and cigarette smells that clung to our walls. I forced myself to vamoose by six every morning to avoid seeing him. All week, I shut myself in the bedroom and practiced guitar, imitating the plaintiveness of Roberto Griego’s ballads, writing my own lyrics in a spiral notebook, imagining myself performing my songs and wailing on guitar on stage. Eventually, the clang of pots and pans would invade my music-making. I’d place the guitar in its case, go stand next to Ma who was all alone and hunched over the sink, and afterward, set my alarm for work the next day.
A week or so after Tío Domingo’s arrival, I slipped into the cool air at the usual time. The sky was dark. Domingo and Ma were asleep. I opened the truck door.
“Boo,” Tío said.
I jumped back, nearly falling over.
“Pendejo,” Domingo said. “Pay attention.”
“You scared the hell out of me.” I straightened my chaqueta. “You can’t go with me.”
“Martinson invited me.”
Domingo, like the rest of us, had what was called selective memory, something I read about in the psychology magazines delivered each month after Ma had won some contest. You remember the shit that makes you look good and conveniently forget the shit that makes you look like a jerk. Maybe that’s why Domingo spent so much time at Jake’s—its dark interior washed away the bad, making him a winner all the way around. For him, each moment could be fresh, as if the past had never happened the way it did.
I turned the key in the ignition, “You left me hanging the first night. Do you think Martinson would forget that?”
Domingo shrugged. “That ain’t nothing I can’t fix”—and he snapped his fingers—“like that.”
“It’s manual labor, Domingo. Surely someone like you has better ways to earn money.”
“For once, you’re right, kid.” He lowered his voice. “I got this idea. We can make big money and leave this hellhole.”
“What in the hell are you talking about? Ma would never leave the Valley, and I’ll never leave Ma. You know that.”
“We’ll bring her, too. She’ll get over it. You want more money, don’t you?”
“Everyone wants more money,” I said, which Tío took as permission to tell me the whole plan. Afterward, I said, “I’m not screwing over Martinson.”
“He’s part of the system, kid. You’ll strike a blow for gente all over the world.”
Yes, I’ll do it, I wanted to say, for people like me who wanted something that purposely had been put beyond their reach. Listening to him, I couldn’t help but feel that old tug again, that desire to hit the gringos in the wallet where it would hurt them the most.
I pumped my fist in the air. “¡Viva la raza!”
“That’s it, kid. You’ve got it.”
“I’m practicing.”
“For what?”
I looked over at my uncle and said, “My speech to the pigs when they throw my ass in jail for your pendejadas.”
Domingo whistled. “You almost had me, kid,” he said as he shook his finger at me. “But like I said, just leave the barn door open one night, and I’ll do the rest. Your skinny ass won’t even be involved.”
I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Back then Tío had said that white people had screwed us out of our land, our history, our memories. They owe us. I’d said, Fuck them. He’d said, Simón, ese. I still meant it. That’s what it meant to me to “screw the system,” as my uncle put it. I told myself I was just going about it a different way now.
I changed the subject. “Let’s go see the house, Tío.”
“It’s your deal, bro. I’m just along for the ride.”
“I promised you anyways.” Maybe seeing my future, and his sister’s, would change his outlook on this bizarre scheme.
I turned off Commerce, and the truck dipped down a hill and bumped over the railroad tracks. We were in the Bow-Wow, but Tío Domingo seemed lost in thought. I parked across the street from the house. “This is it.”
He looked at the house, and I tried to see it as he would. Beige stucco shaped like a square, blue trim, a fence of concrete blocks around the front yard, patches of dried grass for lawn, some rusted car parts, a couple cottonwoods.
Domingo sat there for a long time without speaking. I told him we were almost ready to make the move.
“It’s nice. A real home. Connie made a good choice.”
I thought I heard something new in his tone. My uncle had never said a word after my dad left. I had no proof, but I always believed he’d never forgiven my father for breaking his sister’s heart and making her own living conditions worse, and mostly, for forcing him, someone who could not settle down, to be the only reliable man in her life.
I put the truck in gear and drove back the way we came, veering left onto the main drag on the way to Martinson’s.
Not two minutes later, my uncle picked up where he’d left off. “He won’t even know the toolbox is missing. Just do what I said, and you’ll be out of it after that.”
The toolbox was bright red and made of steel, the size of a large chest of drawers. Its ten compartments were filled with expensive tools. All of it was worth my savings and a couple of Ma’s paychecks combined. “I suppose Martinson won’t hear you haul it away in the middle of the night either.”
“He won’t be there.”
“He lives there, wise guy. It’s his farm.”
“One of the guys at Jake’s overheard Martinson say he was leaving town for a few days.”
“I haven’t heard about it.”
“You’re a hired hand, bro. Don’t ever think you’ll ever be more than that.”
Damn. I wished Tío could see that I was worthy of respect. Who cares what people think, hijo? Ma always said. I don’t, I always told her. But Tío Domingo needed to remember that I worked for one of the most admired men in the Valley, that I had just been promoted, that my word was as good as the old man’s. All this made me someone who was admired too, and that was a righteous feeling, better than any two-bit con job.
I parked in front of the donut shop. This time I offered to pay, but he held up his hand, and soon I was watching him through the storefront window. The guy had been replaced by a cute girl. My uncle was all más suave, putting on a display just to make a point. But I had other things on my mind. What if I was playing into this white man’s hands? What if I’d settled for a low-level job with only a promise of a future, no matter what the old man said? What if I was being screwed over by the white man, and I didn’t know it?
Domingo returned with coffee and a baker’s dozen. “Fringe benefits,” he said and winked.
“This is the last time, bro, I swear,” Domingo said after licking icing from his fingers. “I just need to straighten a few things out, and I’ll be out of this business forever.”
I watched the sun rise while munching on a glazed donut. “Martinson knows everything that goes on. You think he’s an idiot?”
“He’s no idiot. But he’s not as great as you make him out to be either.” Domingo stressed how much money the toolbox and the tools were worth. “This chance won’t come again.”
“Okay, okay, Tío. I get it.” Any fool could see it made no sense to blow up my life again, but Tio was wearing me down. I honestly was afraid I’d say yes just to shut him up, if nothing else, and then Ma and I really would be screwed. I slammed on the brakes in the middle of Commerce, across from the A&W Drive-In.
Coffee spilled onto Domingo’s lap. “What the hell!”
“Get out of my pickup. Now.”
“Cálmate, kid.”
I leaned over and pushed him toward the door. “You heard me. Get out.”
“Don’t touch me, motherfucker.” Domingo got out and slammed the door. “Just another coconut. That’s you, white boy.”
I screeched down the highway. Glancing in the rearview, I saw him cruising toward the restaurant, as if it were an ordinary day. The steering wheel was shaking, and I forced my hands to stop. By the time I turned onto the gravel road, I’d cooled down. Martinson was out on the tractor, so I tended to the horses. Maybe the promotion was on his mind because Martinson called me over and explained that the wheat crop had dried to a reddish-gold and was nearly ready for harvest. He broke off a seed-head and rubbed it between his hands to release the seeds, a few of which he dropped into my palm. We each bit into one and they were crunchy, indicating a ready crop. Martinson said he would reveal the next steps in due time. That afternoon, surveying fields of near perfect wheat stalks, I felt something inside me become firm.
Martinson turned to me and said he had some business to take care of in Denver.
My stomach tightened, recalling what my uncle had told me. When Martinson asked me to watch the place in his absence, saying he’d pay double, I almost puked on the wheat. “You can bunk in the spare room,” he said, pointing toward the house. He added that Troy, a farmhand from Albuquerque he’d hired a couple seasons back, would stop by every day to help. I didn’t know who this Troy guy was, but I almost hugged my boss in the middle of the wheatfield. Take that, asshole, I said silently to Tío Domingo as I shook Martinson’s hand.
The room was spare but clean, like the rest of the house. There was a twin bed, with a white bedspread and a single pillow. Ma had pressed some extra shirts, which I hung in the closet. Jeans, boxers, and t-shirts fit in the drawer of a small wooden dresser. Martinson had said, “Make yourself at home, JB.” But I felt awkward filling the refrigerator with the food Ma had packed: bear claws, bologna, a gallon of milk, cokes. My bag of potato chips, loaf of Wonder bread, and Cap’n Crunch cereal box looked out of place on the counter.
The other rooms were tidy like mine, though the door of the master bedroom was locked. Maybe it was filled with his wife’s belongings because the rest of the house was forest quiet and empty. There were no photographs, no sign that anyone lived there. I prided myself on staying out of my employer’s personal matters, so I shut the front door and headed to the barn. I also hadn’t mentioned anything about this gig to Domingo, and I’d even sworn Ma to secrecy.
Opening the barn door, I half expected to see my uncle, and was relieved to find horses staring at me with their mournful eyes. I slipped the feed bags over the horses’ snouts and went about the daily chores. I was checking the fruit trees when a pickup chugged into the driveway. Out jumped this stranger.
“How goes it?” he said.
I stood up, wiping my hands on my jeans. This had to be the worker that Martinson had hired a while back. Who is he? I’d asked that afternoon. But Martinson was charging into the fields, complaining about the irrigation system for the wheat, and the question was left hanging in the air.
I introduced myself and told Troy that I’d show him around. Walking ahead of him, this younger-looking version of my employer, I asked him how he knew Martinson. Me and a friend worked here a while back, he told me, and figuring I’d never get more than that, I rushed ahead and arrived first to the barn. I turned to make sure Troy was still with me. If anything, he’d slowed down to a stroll, as if he was on vacation in the tropics or some other place I’d never been. I stifled my envidia as I watched his easy gait and his unruffled confidence, as if he’d been born with it.
We went inside where Troy proceeded to check out all the equipment, the livestock, everything. A vague feeling of déjà vu tugged at me, but I brushed it away. I was paranoid about my uncle and reminded myself that not everyone was like Domingo. It was my second day on my own here, and already I’d grown weary of jumping at every creak and groan that the wind made happen.
By the end of the afternoon, we’d strung a barbed wire fence around the field to mark the land’s boundaries. Martinson had received reports of the neighbor’s errant cows crossing onto his land, and both owners had chipped in for materials. I was glad for the help and the company, and I said as much to Troy.
“Just doing my duty,” he said, climbing into the cab of his pickup.
I returned to the task of figuring out how to prevent mice and rabbits from chewing the bark off the few apple trees in the small orchard behind the main house.
I bunked in the barn the first couple nights, just to keep a closer eye on things. But I slept poorly, and my work suffered the next day, so I took up residence in the guest room that Martinson had prepared for me. Troy came by every day, and together we lined the gravel driveway with rock, shoed one of the horses, and planted marigolds and bacopa to discourage ravenous deer.
Ma called during that time. No word from Domingo. I was sure my uncle hadn’t forgotten, but maybe too many late nights at Jake’s made it impossible for him to face the long, hot days. Maybe he’d gotten the message that I’d either banish him or hand him a shovel. I played my guitar, chuckling at the thought of Tío Domingo digging holes for fence posts. Relaxed, I fell asleep fully clothed on the twin bed, the guitar resting on my chest and Buddy running around outside.
If it hadn’t been for my guitar, I would have slept through that night. I must’ve rolled over, which sent the instrument thudding to the ground, sounding its discordant twang. I leapt out of bed and nearly stepped on it.
“Buddy,” I called, but the dog didn’t come.
I grabbed a glass of water and looked out the kitchen window. A light was burning in the barn. “Damn it,” I said, and threw on some clothes, then ran toward it. I pulled open the door. Troy’s pickup was backed into the building, and he was standing in the truck’s bed. At first, I was relieved. The guy must have left something or had come back to finish a job. But then I saw the head of black, shiny hair near the back of the pickup and Buddy muzzled with duct tape.
“Cabrones,” I yelled.
Troy jumped down. “We’re loaded,” he said and gave the truck a double slap.
I shut the barn door to prevent him from leaving and ripped the duct tape from Buddy’s muzzle. The dog leapt for Troy, barking and trying to tear at him. I grabbed the nearest thing to me, a rake, and went for Troy who by then had kicked the dog and jumped into the driver’s seat. I lunged for him, aiming to gouge him with the rake’s tines. But he shoved me back and took off in the pickup, the red toolbox and tools tied down in the back.
I had barely gotten up when Domingo came toward me, looking stoned out of his mind, his hair flapping back and forth across his head. When he was close enough, I swung as hard as I could. The punch landed in his gut, where I’d wanted to place it on that first day at the house. He staggered, and I reached for the rake, which had fallen a few feet from us. Domingo had the same idea, but I knocked him out of the way and got there first. Holding it in front of me, I said, “Go ahead, you pinche coward.”
Something inside him blew up, and he threw himself at me. I stepped back, tripping over a flashlight or something. Down went Domingo and then me. I couldn’t get up fast enough, and Domingo was on top of me. I pushed him off me using the strength that working on the farm had helped me build. I managed to push him down and jump on top of him. I let loose, punching and screaming, even scratching. He tried to gain the advantage, but I was a wild man, unrecognizable even to myself. “Holy shit,” Tío Domingo said when he couldn’t recover his stance. His breath smelled of beer and pot. I gut punched him again, putting all the anger I’d been holding since my father had left and my uncle had unceremoniously waltzed into our lives. We wrestled, spit spraying, arms flailing, legs pushing, grunting and groaning. I managed to pin him down until I felt his body go slack, and I knew I’d won. Then I walloped him once more for old time’s sake. We lay on the barn floor, our chests rising and falling. He was too sore, too tired to move, but I felt like going another three rounds.
I pulled myself to a sitting position and saw Domingo patting his head. I thought he had cracked his skull or something. But then he fell to his knees, and I realized he was searching frantically for the hairpiece, that sad-ass pelt.
“Hey, pelón,” I said.
I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks, bits of hay flying from my mouth like tiny streamers. Domingo started laughing too. I left him there and headed to the house. When I looked back, he was still crawling through the hay. Let him follow me for a change. I found Buddy, went back to the house, and sat in Martinson’s chair on the porch. Domingo made his way over, holding the toupee, and I didn’t help him. He lowered himself onto a nearby stool. I went to the kitchen and grabbed a couple glasses of water plus a bottle of aspirin. After swallowing the aspirin, he placed the fur rug on his leg and pulled a joint from his pocket. He lit the joint and inhaled. I nodded, and he passed it to me. We went back and forth until the joint became a roach.
“Last toke,” Domingo said and handed me the butt. “You’re never too good for la marijuana, bro.”
Afterward, I staggered into the house, and Domingo followed me. We gobbled two bowls each of Cap’n Crunch cereal. I filled two more and placed one in front of him.
“You won’t rat me out, will you?” Domingo said, spooning cereal into his mouth.
That question had glowed beneath every utterance, every laugh, each time my fist connected with Domingo’s body. I’d been mulling the answer since I’d opened the barn door, while we smoked grass, now that we had the munchies. I’d even dredged up a rare memory of my father, his sadness when I preferred to sit and sing songs instead of joining him and Ma in the potato fields. I couldn’t admit to myself, much less to Domingo, how much it had meant to me to go out on jobs with him as an equal partner, not a kid, how much I still longed for that.
“I’ll be talking to Martinson tonight.”
Domingo slapped me on the back. “What would your mom think about that?”
“You made the same promise, Domingo, that we would take care of each other, which includes her.”
“Blood is thicker than water, bro. Always.”
“You’re not free and clear. Like I said, Martinson will be back tonight.”
Domingo snorted. “You’d choose a gringo over your own uncle?”
“Don’t put this on me. Come clean, and we’ll work it out. Troy too.”
“Don’t worry about Troy.” Domingo flicked the cigarette butt into the dirt. “Loan me the pickup and we’ll come for you tomorrow.”
“You’re on your own. And so is Troy if that’s even his real name.”
“I’ll see you around, bro.” He stood and pointed to his head. “Don’t tell anyone about the piece.”
“Ya, sure,” I said.
“Nephew,” Domingo said.
I looked up.
Domingo stood at attention, his fist raised. “¡Viva la raza!”
The black patent leather shoes bobbed up and down as he meandered down the dirt road. I returned to the barn and plopped onto a bale, nuzzling Buddy and trying to figure out how to explain the missing toolbox to Martinson. I’d made no promises to my uncle, told him I’d snitch. But if I told Martinson the truth, would the old man believe me? Would I still get that promotion once he saw the space where the toolbox had been?
I glimpsed a bright light outside and thought Domingo had had a change of heart. Relieved, I petted Buddy. “Let’s see who’s there,” I said and opened the barn door.
The wheatfields illuminated the sky like a fireworks display gone haywire. I lurched toward the fire. The flames singed the hairs on my arms and head. I hauled myself back to the house, coughing and spitting up, and dialed the firehouse. There was a sprinkler system, I remembered finally, and my hope of saving those golden fields was revived. Later, piecing together the night’s events, I would come to understand that Troy hadn’t been watering the wheat enough each day, and the sun had dried the earth irredeemably. I would figure out that my uncle had flicked a couple lit cigarettes into the wheatfields, that he and Troy likely had doused the fields with gasoline beforehand. The suspicion of arson to collect the insurance money would cling to Martinson like wet, burnt wheat stems, and I didn’t know then that this same suspicion would cling to me. At the time, and forevermore, I pictured Tío Domingo and Troy heading north in the truck, passing a joint between them and laughing their asses off, caring only about themselves, about getting back at me, not giving the slightest thought to Ma and what she had lost.
In that moment, I felt only terror, followed by a nauseating pity for me and Ma, doomed to live forever in our sad, cramped rental on the Southside. Everything—the house in the Bow-Wow, this and possibly any job, the income, our savings, those years of clawing my way back to respectability, and most of all, the respeto itself, all of it gone. I dropped the phone, ran outside, and turned on the spigot. Water flushed from the hose. I dragged it toward the wheatfields, as fire engines screamed down the dirt road.
