“Too hot! Ay! Too hot!”
“Dad!”
“Help!” he shouted. “Angel! Angel, come!” He thrashed. “Carnal! Help me!”
“Flaco, stop it.”
Little Angel rushed into the bedroom behind them. “Angel?” he said. “You okay?”
“Don’t come in here, Tío,” said Minnie, kicking the bathroom door closed.
Big Angel sat in the water, hands over his face. His back looked like a Halloween costume of gray bones. He shivered in the warm water.
“You wanted a party,” Minnie said. “Do you want to look good or not?”
“Good,” he said softly.
Perla leaned in with a huge soft sponge foaming with soap and reached between his legs.
“Better, Flaco? Sí? Feels good, no?”
“Don’t watch,” he told his daughter.
“Ain’t watching. I’m busy with your armpits.”
He lay back in the water and kept his eyes screwed shut.
“Nice and clean,” Perla said. “Como un buen muchachito.”
Big Angel covered his sagging breasts with his blackened hands. “Mija?” he said.
“Daddy?”
“Do you forgive me?”
“For what?”
He waved his hand in the air. “I’m sorry.”
“For what, Daddy?”
“All these things.” He opened his eyes and stared at her. “I used to wash you,” he said. “When you were my baby.”
She busied herself with the bottle of no-tears baby shampoo.
“I used to be your father. Now I am your baby.” He sobbed. Only once.
She blinked fast and put shampoo in her palm. “It’s okay,” she said. “Everything’s okay.”
He closed his eyes and let her wash his hair.
La Pachanga
sending for Perla to come to me
i didn’t care if she had two sons
sending for my Perla
i didn’t care if she was raising two sisters
and she came to me
finally
11:00 a.m.
Little Angel checked his watch. It was time to return to the store and get the birthday cakes. He was flummoxed when La Gloriosa tossed aside her dish towel and walked out with him, looping her arm through his.
He made a small sound like “Ung?”
He could feel her muscle. He tried to clench his arm so she would feel his. He smelled her hair. Felt her heat. He was back in high school.
“Ay, qué carro!” she enthused when she saw the massive Ford. She ran her hand along its long side. The Crown Vic was clearly a big winner. He opened the passenger door for her. “And a gentleman,” she said.
“I try,” he said lamely. Tried not to look down her blouse as she lowered herself into her seat. But she saw him looking. He made believe he was staring past her cleavage at the radio, as if remembering something interesting from his recent past.
“Did you buy this carrote?” she asked. Apparently, Mexicans really appreciated big vehicles with atrocious gas mileage.
“Just renting.” He closed her door and trotted around to his own side.
“Buy one,” she said as he got in. “For me.”
“For you, anything.”
“Eres rico, no?” she said.
“Sure…?”
“Okeh, bebeh,” she said. “Buy two.”
He guffawed falsely and way too loud. He was excruciatingly aware of his every movement as she gazed at him. Don’t drop the keys. Don’t flood the engine. Don’t crash into anything. Don’t slam on the brakes. Don’t fart.
“I’m not, you know, rich,” he suddenly chuckled. “Can’t just buy a fleet of cars!” Idiot, shut up, he told himself. Asshat.
“I only need one, then,” she said. “This one.”
“Hokay.” He managed to get the engine started and the shifter into D, and he pulled out as slowly as a cruise ship leaving port. He motored out of the little neighborhood and made the right turn that would take him to the main street. He came to a full halt at the stop sign and waited patiently until una Chevy pee-kah full of lawn-mowing equipment passed. He eased on out, the Crown Vic soft as a cloud as it drifted around the corner.
“Do I make you nervous, Gabriel?” she asked.
“No!”
“You driving slow.”
“Okay. Yes.”
“For why?”
“You’re La Gloriosa.”
She made a pshh sound with her mouth.
“You make everybody feel nervous,” he said.
“No. Don’t think so.”
“If they don’t feel that way,” proclaimed the King of Romance, “they must be dead.”
“Angel Gabriel. I could be your mother.”
“Come on. You’re only eleven years older than me.”
“This family? I could be your Mamá.”
“I don’t have mommy issues, I assure you.” Suddenly, further gallantry went off in him like a firecracker. “I have you issues.” That was rather piquant, he thought with deep satisfaction.
She turned a little in her seat and put her knee up on the leather. “Y eso?” she said. “Qué quiere decir?”
A fair question: what did he mean? He wasn’t sure. He rolled on down the main drag as if she hadn’t said anything.
He somehow managed to drive right past the Target turnoff and on into the dry hills beyond, which were covered in tumbleweeds and manzanita and clearly awaiting one thrown cigarette to explode in a conflagration. By the time he realized he was nowhere near Target, he was lost in a housing tract apparently formed entirely of cul-de-sacs. His hands started to sweat.
“Nice,” she said, pointing to various faux Southern plantation manses with pillars and porches. La Gloriosa seemed to think Little Angel had meant to give her a pleasant sightseeing drive. Real estate hunting in America’s Finest City. “Mira! Me gusta!”
He grimly craned his head to search down side streets for any path out.
“I like,” she said. “Ooh!”
She pointed.
“Our big carro in that drive-away. Sí?”
“Sure.”
He was distracted. Thinking about Big Angel. The little notebook in his pocket representing the Big Angel universe. Lines connecting names—it was getting too complicated to read. This woman beside him. Perla. Minnie. Lalo. The Satanic Hispanic. Pazuzu. But mostly his big brother. How suddenly, on the verge of losing him, he realized he had no true idea who Big Angel was.
But Gloriosa’s scent filled the car. He felt it like a caress. He spun like a lost moon.
“Go there.” She pointed. Her long nail caught sun and imitated a hard candy. He followed it around the corner.
The neighborhoods over here were named, and their names were etched into signs that feigned gentile charm. Some in anachronous Olde English typeface. The neighborhoods made no sense to him whatsoever.
Marina Shores and Malibu Harbor and Pacific Landing, even though any possible glimpse of the ocean was twenty miles in the opposite direction. All that these McMansioneers could see was rocky canyons and deracinated brown hills housing vast populations of rattlesnakes and poodle-gobbling coyotes. Brown unto the white-with-heat horizon.
A phony little dock with a plaster seagull standing in some kind of dry blue-tinged concrete pool was very close to being the last absurdity Little Angel was willing to abide.
“Where in the hell are we?” he said.
“The beaches.”
He snorted.
“Is beautiful,” she said.
“You have a positive outlook,” he said.
“Only selfish people are negative, Angel.”
His head was throbbing. He was suddenly sure he had brain cancer. Fortunately, the mushy ride of the Crown Vic gently bore them over all bumps as if they were in a tender cradle. The car—seeming as intelligent as the Batmobile—managed to find the main street again. Little Angel was basically hanging on to the wheel and hoping the car woul
d drag him to safety.
“I don’t want to think about the funeral,” she said.
“No.”
La Gloriosa put her hand on his arm. Her palm was hot. He was clammy with embarrassment.
“Qué sweet,” she said. “Tenk yous, Gabriel. For this nice ride.”
“My pleasure,” he said and glanced at her.
She smiled.
He took her hand in his and tootled down the road like somebody’s grandpa.
* * *
In Target, she became a teen. They seemed to be dancing. They laughed at everything. Giant human backsides in stretch pants delighted them. Old Mexican cowboys in overalls and straw hats. She insisted on looking at flimsy bras made of shiny gauze and greatly enjoyed his misery.
“You can see through,” she reported.
“God in heaven,” he sighed.
They collected the two cakes. The white one had purple and blue icing flowers on it. “What a nightmare,” La Gloriosa noted. It said HAPPY BIRTHDAY BIG ANGEL. The chocolate one had yellow flowers on it. It said CARNAL.
“Buy candles,” La Gloriosa said.
“And presents,” he said.
They moseyed over to the toy section, and Little Angel bought Big Angel a giant action figure of Groot, from Guardians of the Galaxy.
“I am Groot,” he said.
“Yo soy Grut,” she replied. She picked out a Who T-shirt. “This is funny,” she said. “Big Angel hates rocanrol.”
“Los Quienes,” Little Angel scored points by quipping.
They got Lalo’s snacks and booze and stopped at the cooler in front to collect Minnie’s sushi. Little Angel spied an in-store Starbucks and bought himself a second cardboard briefcase of coffee. Just in case. La Gloriosa had a grande skinny mocha latte, iced. No whipped cream. He thought: Five-dollar coffee!
“Never in my life,” he said, “did I ever expect to go shopping with you.”
“Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
“Qué bueno.” She grabbed big sunglasses off a rack and said, “Pleess?”
“Anything.”
“Okeh. These and the Ford. Nice and simple.”
A white woman stepped up to them and said, warmly, “You’ll be out of this country on your ass very soon,” then stormed toward the dog food aisle.
* * *
On the way back, Little Angel pulled over by the basketball courts. Ookie stood in the middle of the court, bouncing a ball. Nobody seemed to be hassling him. A klatch of kids just stood around or leaned on their bikes, rolling back and forth. Somebody had a boom box. The peewees apparently thought it was still the ’80s.
Little Angel waved at the shorties. “Ookie’s all right,” he said.
A couple of kids tipped up their chins. One waved back. Ookie stood in the key and threw in basket after basket. He never missed. The kids lounged around, watching him. He bounced the ball three times—blount-blount-blount—then fired it in a high arc, and it rocked through the hoop, clanging the chain net. A kid grabbed it and tossed it back to him, and he bounced it some more.
“Did you know he could do that?” Little Angel said.
La Gloriosa said that she didn’t.
“Excuse me,” he said. He got out of the car and walked to the court. “S’up?” he said and bumped fists with a couple of the kids, did the Raza slip-’n’-slide handshake with a couple of others. “How’s your mom?” he asked one of the boys.
“She’s a’ight.”
“You in high school now?”
“Chale—I’m at Southwestern College.”
“No!”
“How’s Seattle, Profe?”
“Good.”
“Good coffee, right?”
“Right.”
“You know Pearl Jam?”
“Not yet.” Little Angel was looking over at Ookie, who was crying, snot on his lip.
The boy shot again, sank another basket. Blount-blount-blount. “Purple haze,” he said. He bounced the ball, shot another basket. “All along the watchtower.”
“What happened to Ookie?” Little Angel said.
“Eddie Figueroa caught him in his house,” the kid said.
Shrugs all around from the others.
“Dude was stealing Legos again.”
They shook their heads, spat.
“Smacked him up.”
“Ookie—you okay?” Little Angel called.
“Little wing,” Ookie said. Blount-blount-blount. Basket.
“Ookie!”
La Gloriosa stepped up beside Little Angel.
“Ookie,” she said. “Hay fiesta.”
“Party?” Ookie said, pausing in his shot barrage.
“Big Angel’s birthday,” she said. “Lots of cookies.”
“Okay,” Ookie said. He shot a basket and let it bounce away. “Voodoo child!” he said and walked to the car and got in the back seat.
La Gloriosa wiggled her eyebrows at Little Angel from behind her new cheap sunglasses.
“How did you do that?” he said.
“Women,” she said. “We are very powerful.”
He watched her walk.
* * *
Noon
Lalo yelled, “Minnie’s eating cat food!”
She held a California roll in between her fingers and dipped it in soy sauce. “It’s called sushi,” she informed him. “You are not sophisticated.”
“Chuchi-fuchi. Puppet chow.”
Food was appearing all around them. People came through bearing aluminum tubs of grub. La Gloriosa and Lupita and Minnie and Perla had arranged for platoons of barrio ladies and their husbands to appear with party supplies. Little Angel was thwarted in his hopeless search for homemade Mexican food. In his mind, chicken mole and pots of simmering frijoles and chiles rellenos were to be displayed in pornographic lushness. But the reality of the day was folding tables groaning with pizzas, Chinese food, hot dogs, potato salad and a huge industrial party pan of spaghetti. Somebody was allegedly on the way with a hundred pieces of KFC. He noted Uncle Jimbo at his table with a paper plate heaped with noodles and buffalo wings. Somehow he had acquired bottles of mead.
Jimbo raised his bottle at him and hollered, “Skoal!”
Little Angel went over to where Perla was sitting.
She had been watching all the people coming and going. Feeling weepy about Braulio. But mostly fretting about her big warrior, her Yndio. Time was almost gone. She had been sneaking out to Yndio for years, and she didn’t know if Big Angel knew it or not. She wouldn’t put it past him. He knew everything, that Flaco. But he never said anything. It was killing her. Each of those proud cabrones refusing to apologize for whatever they were mad about. Each one waiting for some sign. And Mamá, in the middle, frantic. All she wanted was to see what was left of her family come together, before…Well, before.
“Perla,” Little Angel said.
“Mi baby,” she said.
“Are you okay?”
“I okeh.” She squinted at him and said in Spanish, “You look just like your father. He was so elegant. He always brought me flowers. La Gloriosa too.”
“He brought her flowers?”
“Pos, sure.” Churr.
“Everybody loves her.”
“Mi baby—you should marry her.”
He coughed. “Perla!” Course adjustment, stat. “Where’s the Mexican food?”
“What Mexican food?”
“Exactly. I was hoping you’d make something special.” He gave her his best grin. “You are the best cook in the world, after all.”
She stared up at him. “Yo no,” she said, shaking her head. “No more cook!” She waved her hands in front of herself. In Spanish, she said, “I was a cook for everybody for fifty years. I had to. Now I won’t have to cook for anybody ever again. Oh no, Gabriel. I am a refugee from the apron.”
It had never occurred to Little Angel that cooking masterpieces every day had been a chore.
“Get me coffee,” she said. “Sí?”
/>
Off he went.
“I eat hamburrgurrs now!” Perla called. “Subway! Cheerios!”
He waved over his shoulder.
Jimbo swilled his mead and announced: “Hammer of the gods.”
Little Angel thought it was all turning into an end-of-semester project for his multicultural studies course.
* * *
12:30 p.m.
It was as if a dump truck had spilled a ton of humanity into the yard. Bodies were jammed onto the patio, elbowing gently to get at the new macaroni salad and ignoring the mustard coleslaw.
Little Angel shoved his way out of the crowd to find more crowd milling around.
Big Angel was snoozing in the shade, hands folded over his tiny potbelly, his head bobbing slightly. Minnie sat beside him, fanning him with a bit of cardboard. She looked very sad.
A DJ had set up his rig in the backyard and fired up some P.O.D.
Big Angel opened his eyes and glared. He made the family monkey face of disapproval. He grabbed the ah-oo-gah horn Lalo had screwed to his armrest and squeezed the bulb for one brash honk. Then he went back to sleep.
MaryLú caused several waves of alarm when she strolled in on the arm of Leo, her former husband. “We brought mimosas!” she said.
They were dressed to kill: MaryLú had on a navy-blue dress with white dots and a pearl necklace. Leo wore a brown Tijuana suit with light yellow stripes, a cream shirt, a yellow tie with a tie tack in the shape of a dollar sign, a gray fedora, and two-tone brown-and-cream brogans. He had shaved his ’stache down to a slender worm of insinuation that seemed to nap on his upper lip.
“Muchacho,” he said, giving Little Angel a wan dead-fish handshake while the moochy-lip worm squirmed to life on the crest of his smile.
Visions of half-inch-long acorns came unbidden into Little Angel’s mind. “Leo el León!” he enthused. “You are a mighty oak of a man!”
MaryLú gave him a warning glare. Leo went off to the kitchen to mix the drinks.
“Got to go inside, mija,” Big Angel said. “Got to go. Now.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
“I’ll take him,” Little Angel said.
Big Angel put up his hand. “Brother,” he said. “Pee-pee time. You want to see my pee-pee?”
“I do not.”
“Me neither,” said Minnie.