What did he mean? Why the hell should he stay off the streets? “No,” he had written to Luz, “the streets are mine.” Luz had agreed. “Damn right,” she’d said, “they think everyone can afford a car.”
Now he was less afraid. Luz had said that the border patrolmen were just a bunch of pendejos who had reached their highest station in life. “Some day somebody is going to write a story about them,” she said, “and they’re going to let the whole world know what a bunch of assholes they are.” But nobody will ever write that story, Diego thought, never write it because El Paso was too far away from all the places in the world that people liked to read about. Nobody would ever want to read a book about the border and the migra—it would all be too strange, too foreign, too dull and hot, too poor and desolate to be considered exotic. People liked exotic, Diego thought.
He finished his second empanada. He played with the mango in his hands tossing it from one hand to the other. He would save the mango and eat it for dinner. He walked slowly toward home on San Antonio Street. He found himself standing outside the county jail, a tall, gray, concrete building with tiny windows. It was supposed to be escape proof, and as far as Diego was concerned, it was. Luz had brought him here once and pointed at it saying: “This is a giant dick, my Diego, that’s exactly what it is: a giant dick they use to screw the Mexicans.” He didn’t know what to think about that. Sometimes she said things because she was as much an actress as Mary, but he appreciated the logic behind her words. He once told Luz that Mary and she were very much alike in the way they thought. She had gotten so angry that she shook him by the collar and threatened to hang him up by his balls on the flagpole at the bridge: “The American flagpole,” she had yelled, “as a warning to other assholes.” He had apologized and she had forgiven him.
Outside the jail, he saw mothers and children and old people gathered around the benches as if it were a park. Some were eating lunch and drinking soft drinks. Some were waving toward the windows as if they were waving at soldiers in a parade. Every day, there were people gathered here, happy and waving at windows and making signs—and behind those windows stood husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles. Their tongues were useless, here. All they had to speak with were their arms and hands. Diego felt close to them. He loved to watch them. A girl asked her mother which window was her father’s. The mother answered: “Over there, the one at the very top. He can see everything. Right now, he can see you.” She smiled at her daughter and took her up in her arms. Diego walked over to them and handed them his mango. The little girl laughed. He walked away reluctantly wondering why they weren’t angry or sad or ashamed.
11
L IZZIE STOOD at the entrance to the rectory of Mission Dolores. She looked around nervously and stared at the outside of the church. For some reason, looking at it made her nervous. She pulled her eyes from it, wondering at her strange attraction to that building—it was as if she carried a memory of it around in her. But it was not possible that she remembered her own baptism. A chill ran down her spine. She looked away from the church, rang the bell, and walked in just as the sign instructed. A dark-haired woman in her late fifties with a friendly voice was sitting behind the desk. She asked Lizzie if she had an appointment with one of the priests.
“No,” she said, opening her mouth to say something more—but stopped.
The secretary watched her for a moment. “Would you like to make an appointment—or are you here to pay for a Mass?”
Elizabeth paused for a moment, “Well,” she said, “neither. You see—well—I’m looking for some information.” She had carefully planned out the encounter, but now she felt stupid for playing this childish game. She was too old to be
Now he was less afraid. Luz had said that the border patrolmen were just a bunch of pendejos who had reached their highest station in life. “Some day somebody is going to write a story about them,” she said, “and they’re going to let the whole world know what a bunch of assholes they are.” But nobody will ever write that story, Diego thought, never write it because El Paso was too far away from all the places in the world that people liked to read about. Nobody would ever want to read a book about the border and the migra—it would all be too strange, too foreign, too dull and hot, too poor and desolate to be considered exotic. People liked exotic, Diego thought.
He finished his second empanada. He played with the mango in his hands tossing it from one hand to the other. He would save the mango and eat it for dinner. He walked slowly toward home on San Antonio Street. He found himself standing outside the county jail, a tall, gray, concrete building with tiny windows. It was supposed to be escape proof, and as far as Diego was concerned, it was. Luz had brought him here once and pointed at it saying: “This is a giant dick, my Diego, that’s exactly what it is: a giant dick they use to screw the Mexicans.” He didn’t know what to think about that. Sometimes she said things because she was as much an actress as Mary, but he appreciated the logic behind her words. He once told Luz that Mary and she were very much alike in the way they thought. She had gotten so angry that she shook him by the collar and threatened to hang him up by his balls on the flagpole at the bridge: “The American flagpole,” she had yelled, “as a warning to other assholes.” He had apologized and she had forgiven him.
Outside the jail, he saw mothers and children and old people gathered around the benches as if it were a park. Some were eating lunch and drinking soft drinks. Some were waving toward the windows as if they were waving at soldiers in a parade. Every day, there were people gathered here, happy and waving at windows and making signs—and behind those windows stood husbands, fathers, brothers, uncles. Their tongues were useless, here. All they had to speak with were their arms and hands. Diego felt close to them. He loved to watch them. A girl asked her mother which window was her father’s. The mother answered: “Over there, the one at the very top. He can see everything. Right now, he can see you.” She smiled at her daughter and took her up in her arms. Diego walked over to them and handed them his mango. The little girl laughed. He walked away reluctantly wondering why they weren’t angry or sad or ashamed.
11
L IZZIE STOOD at the entrance to the rectory of Mission Dolores. She looked around nervously and stared at the outside of the church. For some reason, looking at it made her nervous. She pulled her eyes from it, wondering at her strange attraction to that building—it was as if she carried a memory of it around in her. But it was not possible that she remembered her own baptism. A chill ran down her spine. She looked away from the church, rang the bell, and walked in just as the sign instructed. A dark-haired woman in her late fifties with a friendly voice was sitting behind the desk. She asked Lizzie if she had an appointment with one of the priests.
“No,” she said, opening her mouth to say something more—but stopped.
The secretary watched her for a moment. “Would you like to make an appointment—or are you here to pay for a Mass?”
Elizabeth paused for a moment, “Well,” she said, “neither. You see—well—I’m looking for some information.” She had carefully planned out the encounter, but now she felt stupid for playing this childish game. She was too old to be
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