5
Near the far end of downtown, a street cleaner lumbered alongside the curb, whirling up a torment of dust and trash. The few drivers out at this early hour avoided the machine and the billowing cloud left in its wake. Most of the dollar stores and fabric shops would not open for at least another hour. By now the shopkeepers on the other side of the river were tossing buckets of soapy water onto the sidewalks in front of their businesses, sweeping away the dust that had gathered overnight.
Socorro glanced at her watch and then down the boulevard that led to the bridge. A flock of wild parrots squawked as they formed a green tapestry against the grayish sky. The group maintained its pattern, flying in the familiar direction of his house, then dipped beyond her line of vision. Socorro tugged on her skirt and looked down the street. She had woken up early to give her mother the medicine and then make breakfast and still have time to get ready. It took her several minutes to find a nice skirt and blouse that she could work in, and afterward pinned up her hair instead of simply keeping it in a braid. She debated before the mirror whether she should just wear her usual blue jeans. She had taken the black skirt off twice when she noticed the time and had to rush to catch her bus.
Now Socorro wondered why she had rushed. All that worrying for nothing, as if she were some young girl. Behind her, the bridge was backed up with drivers crossing over to work or shop or bring their children to school on the U.S. side. Across the street, a few taxi drivers leaned up against their cars and vans, waiting for the next fare. Beyond them stood the hall where she had seen couples walking together to the dances on the weekends. She was still looking around for his car when a silver truck pulled alongside her and the driver waved, trying to get her to smile back. “Let me take you to breakfast,” the man said. She turned away, as if she hadn’t heard him. Just beyond the side mirror, black cursive letters informed everyone of the vehicle’s proper owner, but she saw this only as she searched for somewhere else to focus her attention. A figurine of a saloon girl on a tiny swing was dangling from the rearview mirror. He tapped the figurine with his finger, watching it sway to and fro. “Why work today? We have all our lives to work. Take the day off and come with me.” His thick mustache and long, dark sideburns looked as if they had been drawn with a piece of coal. She held on to the strap of her purse and turned her attention to traffic along the boulevard. Any second now her ride would be pulling up. Already it was past the time that he usually came for her. “A woman as pretty as you should not have to work so hard for her money.” The saloon girl rocked back and forth, her tiny red heels tapping against the smudged windshield. He liked what she was wearing. “The way it fits you,” he explained. “I don’t like my women too small, without enough to hold on to.” She dropped her left hand, tugged gently at her skirt. She heard a distant fluttering, and then another flock of parrots glided across the muted sky. “Why don’t you come over here, sit here next to me? You look about the right size.” He could tell she wanted to. “Only to spend a little time getting to know you, mamacita,” he said. “Look at all the room I have here for you.” He patted the vinyl seat. “Why do you want to be this way? There’s no reason to be afraid.” She felt flushed in that way she hated. Tiny beads of sweat were gathering along her neck and down between her breasts. She pulled at the collar of her blouse, hoping for any little breeze. She glanced behind her as if someone had just called her name. The sunlight shimmered off the razor wire above the back gates of the immigration offices. The serrated blades seemed newer and less rusted than the ones that lined the bridge. “Look, they just paid me last night. Come closer. Look, mamacita.” Some of the taxi drivers were staring now and one of them was saying something that they all found especially funny.
“Mamacita, I want to talk to you. Why do you treat me this way, what are the people going to say?” He reached out for her and she pulled away, walked a few steps toward the end of the block. He followed her, stopped each time she stopped, inched forward with each step she took, then backward when she reversed her direction. “And why not, mamacita?” He reached for her again, then a third and a fourth time. Socorro knew that if he touched her, she was going to do or say something that she would regret, maybe even before she managed to get it all out. Just one more time, she kept thinking. Just one more time. It was only when she crossed the street that he finally left her, but not before he called her a puta and then other ugly words that she herself might have said if he hadn’t driven away so fast.
She exited the bus, rubbing the key between her thumb and forefinger. Don Celestino had given it to her several months earlier when he dropped her off at the house one morning and then hurried off to make it in time for a doctor’s appointment. Maybe that was it — that he’d had an early appointment with the doctor. There could be so many reasons he had not come for her. Socorro knew it was a bad habit of hers to always imagine the worst. She walked a little faster and tried to put these thoughts out of her mind.
Along the boulevard, the 18-wheelers surged to and from the bridge. She thought she could hear what sounded like a siren in the distance but couldn’t tell if it was getting closer or farther away. From the bus she had to walk only two blocks past the school before she was on his street. She also cleaned the house of one of his neighbors, which was how she had come to clean his. La se?ora Mu?oz lived midway down the block in a small clapboard house surrounded by all shapes and sizes of plants, as well as the two papaya trees, a small palm, and a large ebony that dropped its pods and tiny leaflets near the street. Socorro could see a little boy crouched along the curb in front of la se?ora’s house. He had stopped to cram as many of the pods as he could into his backpack. The elementary school was several blocks away and he seemed too young to be walking alone. Socorro wondered where his mother could be. He was lost in his little world as he worked to stuff the pods into his backpack. She was about to ask if he needed help when the little boy finally stood up, but it was only so he could look past her at the ambulance that was headed this way.