41
The old man swished his mug about until the coffee turned to a muddy brown color. He was used to adding cream and Sweet’N Low, but here they had only evaporated milk and sugar. He supposed it was something he could get used to with time. Certainly there were more difficult things in this life that a person might have to endure; nobody had to explain this to him. Earlier the granddaughter had made him some huevos a la mexicana with just enough chiles and spices that he realized he had forgotten what a real breakfast was supposed to taste like. She wasn’t his granddaughter, he realized, but her name had gotten away from him again, and in any case, she treated him like he imagined a granddaughter might treat a grandfather. Just yesterday evening when they had already left the store, it had occurred to her to turn the truck around and go back so she could buy him a pack of cigarettes, just in case he ran out in the middle of the night. And this morning after his breakfast, she had brought the coffee to where he was sitting outside, smoking. A few feet away the chickens walked inside their small fenced-in yard, pecking at the feed she had scattered for them.
Dew still hung from the lowest branches, making it seem as if the tree were as crouched over as the old man who sat beneath it. This was the first chance Don Fidencio had had to examine the tree without someone talking to him or asking that he make up stories. The trunk itself was wider than the house it loomed over. It was no wonder they had built it several feet away and left room for the long horizontal roots that stretched far beyond the base of the tree. He strained to look up past the first forty feet of the trunk, as the branches became more dense and entangled, eventually blocking out most of the rising sun and leaving only a narrow passageway to see where the sky opened up.
He looked down when he heard barking coming from somewhere off in the distance. The dogs had met the taxi at the end of the road and were now growling and yapping at the grille. Carmen finally yelled at them to back away from the doors.
“I hope this isn’t too early,” Don Celestino said over the last of the yelps.
She opened the gate to let them pass. “We were waiting for you since earlier. I made some food, if you would like to come in.”
“I came only to get my brother and say good-bye,” he told her.
She nodded as she led him to where the old man was sitting on a metal chair with his cane hooked on the armrest. Her grandmother had opened the side door of the house and was waiting for some help getting into the yard.
“You had a good visit?”
“We talked for a long time, until late in the day,” his brother said.
“You remembered more of the story?”
“Some, but later we discussed other things.”
“Then we have something to talk about in the taxi.” Don Celestino handed him the cane, but his brother only held it between his legs without moving.
“And the girl?” Don Fidencio asked.
“She left earlier this morning.”
“Without you?”
“Because of her family,” Don Celestino said. “Her brother came home and she wanted to see him. He was only going to be there a few days.”
“And you let her go, just like that, by herself on the bus?”
“She wanted to,” he said, trying to avoid his brother’s gaze. “It was her idea.”
The old woman and her granddaughter were now standing near them.
Don Celestino reached down to help him get to his feet. “We should get going, eh?”
“You have to go alone.”
“Why, you feel bad?” His brother wasn’t moving from the chair.
“Not because of that,” the old woman said.
“And then?”
“They invited me to stay, to live here in the house.” Don Fidencio poked at the ground with his cane.
Don Celestino tried to smile at the two women before he looked at his brother. “But we have to go back, remember?”
“What I remember is where I have to go if I let you take me back.”
“Maybe Amalia will change her mind, after she sees you were strong enough to make the trip.”
“That’s what I was thinking when we started talking about coming here,” Don Fidencio said. “Then last night they took me into town so I could use the phone to call her.”
“Knowing that she was just going to blame me?”
“She never mentioned you. All she cared about was that nothing had happened to me. I told her it was my idea to leave, and now this, what I told you.”
“And she believed you?”
“What else was she going to do? She argued with me like her mother used to, but I told her I had made up my mind. Then she told me that if I came back I could live with her and her family, that she would talk to you know who.” The old man laughed to himself. “Suddenly I have so many places to live — everybody wants me for themselves.”
“That’s what you wanted, no? To go live somewhere else?”
“It was, but I can see now it wouldn’t last and they would send me back and this time for good. No, it would be better for me to just stay here.”
“You talk like this is already decided,” Don Celestino said, then reached for his brother’s arm. “It was nice that they offered this to you, but the decision isn’t for them to make.”
“If the man wants to stay, tell me who else needs to decide?” the old woman said.
“I only want to do what is best for him, to make sure he’s taken care of.”
“And you know better than he does?”
Don Celestino looked back at his brother, hoping to put an end to this discussion. They would have been halfway to the bus station by now if he had simply gotten into the taxi. “Can I talk to you over here?”
Then he helped him to stand up from his chair, and together they walked toward the shade. The sun was filtering through the branches, causing the delicate light to shift from one brother to the other.
“Why are you doing this, Fidencio?”
“Just to live in peace.”
“You can do that back on the other side,” he said. “We need to go now.”
“Then go.”
“Not without you.”
“What you need to do is go find the girl and stop worrying about an old man.”
“This wasn’t how we planned it.”
“And tell me, what is it that happens exactly as we plan it? Do you think I planned to be so old, with my body failing me in so many ways? Who plans such things?”
“They can take care of you better over there, when you need to go to the doctor’s office or if you have to go to the hospital.”
“Ya, I have seen all I want to of those places,” Don Fidencio said. “And anyway, if God is good to me, it won’t matter.”
“These poor women are going to get tired if you keep talking that way, always about being sick or dying.”
“Whether I open my mouth or not will not change things.”
“We never said anything about this, only about the trip to see the ranchito, nothing more.”
Don Fidencio placed his hand on his younger brother’s shoulder. “You were good to offer that. But you also promised me that I would never have to go back.”
“I only promised to take you on the trip.”
“So you took me, now I want to stay.” He smiled and patted his brother’s shoulder.
“You were never going to go back with us, were you? You planned this, knowing that you would find a way not to go back.”
“What does it matter?”
“You could have at least told me.”
“How many times did I say I wanted out of that place?” he said. “And how many times did you listen to me?”
“I wanted to help you.”
“You did,” he said. “Now you should worry about you and the girl.”
Don Celestino wanted to argue with him but wasn’t sure what to say anymore or if there was anything left to say. They headed back to where the women were standing and together walked toward the taxi. When they arrived at the fence, Don Celestino turned aside and leaned on one of the posts until his brother was standing alongside him. He felt his arms wanting to tremble in the moment and was calmed only when he finally held his brother’s frame.
“Take care of yourself,” Don Celestino said.
“You do the same.”
“Maybe me and Socorro could come see you later?” he said as he pulled away. “Now that we know how to find the place.”
The old man began to say something, but then stopped and only nodded. “Yes, maybe you will.”
Isidro had come around to open the taxi door, and without turning Don Celestino stepped in, forcing himself to not look back at the others waving from under the tree.
“Go on,” he said.
“To the station?”
“Tell me something,” he said, leaning forward. “How long would it take if you were to drive me to Ciudad Victoria?”
Isidro turned to look back. “That’s a long way, maybe an hour and a half, maybe a little more.”
“But still faster than the bus?”
“Much faster.”
The taxi began to coast away, moving slowly in order to make room for the dogs that were barking at the tires. They had traveled only to the end of the road when Don Celestino noticed his brother’s plastic shopping bag on the floor, and he said, “Wait, stop the car.”
Isidro slammed on the brakes in the middle of the road, sending up a haze of gravel and dust. But when Don Celestino looked inside the bag, the pill dispenser was still packed and the extra vials hadn’t been opened. Everything was the same as it was when they left the pharmacy five days earlier.
“Then what?” the driver turned to ask. “I go back or not?”
Don Fidencio and the two women were standing beneath the tree, gazing at the idling car. “Maybe he forgot something,” the granddaughter said.
“Who forgot?” The old woman tugged on her granddaughter’s shoulder. “Tell me what you see, what did he forget?”
But just then the brake lights faded and the taxi continued down the road.
“Nobody,” Don Fidencio said, and then he waved. “Nobody forgot anything.”
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to so many of you. To Becky, for making room in our lives for this novel. To my family, immediate and extended, for always being there for me. To Armando Leal Ríos, José Skinner, Dr. Victor M. Gonzalez Jr., Dr. Carlos Pestana, Mando Hinojos, and John “TJ” Gonzales, as well as the staffs of the Hays Nursing Center, Spanish Meadows Nursing and Re hab, and Ebony Lake Healthcare Center, for all their expertise, and graciousness in sharing it. To Tony Zavaleta, Jim Priest, and Shawn Isbell, for providing shelter and a place to write. To José Limón, Jim Garrison, and Richard Flores, for their support at a crucial time. To Richard Abate, for his vigilance and friendship. To Reagan Arthur, for her patience and wisdom. And to tío Nico, for remembering.
About the Author
Oscar Casares was born in the border town of Brownsville, Texas, the setting for his critically acclaimed story collection. The recipient of a 2006 National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellowship, Casares is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and now teaches creative writing at the University of Texas in Austin, where he lives with his wife and young son. This is his first novel.