Happy That It's Not True (11 page)

              The Filipino nurse stroked Adriana’s arm.  “That was nice.”

              “My daughter, Cara, felt so bad that she hadn’t been returning my calls, that she wrote me a five page apology letter.  I’ve been trying to read with my one good eye.”

              “Oh—you know how kids are at that age,” the nurse smiled.

              Adriana waved the maize colored legal pad papers, proudly displaying her daughter’s love.  “She’s a good girl—I’m just afraid that she’s not going to do anything with her life.  I want her to get an education and meet educated people and have the best possible life she can have.  You know, she was mad at me because she thought I had thrown away her drawing book.”

              The other nurses smiled, remembering their youthful irrationalities—tsk-tsk-tsk.

              “And then there is Alex—he’s so smart, I think he’s going to work for NASA.  Can’t seem to keep his weight down, though—which is funny because he doesn’t seem to eat that much.”

...

              Alex was walking home, dejected, carrying his manga and bag of M&M’s.  He squeezed the bag, feeling the air inside, his fingertips caressing the tiny bumps.  He had promised himself five to ten—and he would do even better—just one now—maybe another as he got closer to the apartment.  He bit a tear into the corner of the bag, and peeled an opening.  Then he tilted the bag with one hand and carefully let one yellow M&M fall into his other hand.  The chocolate felt cold in the heat of the afternoon. 

              Self-control—this would be a demonstration of self-control.  He would eat the one piece of chocolate slowly—smell it—allow the shell to dissolve—gently crack it open with the incisors, then back to the molars.  Swallow the sweetness and appreciate the taste filling his mouth. 

              The yellow piece went down faster than he had thought, forgetting to savor it.  What the heck—back to the original plan—five pieces—all at once—one explosion of chocolate filling his teeth and gums.  Alex quickly counted out five M&M’s and tilted his head back, slapping his open mouth. 

              Five more—the original plan called for up to five more.  He poured out more M&M’s and counted six in his hand—off by one—so what? —Who cares about one single M&M?  It would be silly to concern one’s self with one M&M...

Chapter Eleven

            
 
A girl stands in a field of flowers surrounded by playful creatures.  Baby koala bears dance among the blossoms, eyes closed as if sleepwalking.  Cara right-clicked and saved another image for her collection.  Cara carefully savored the exquisite lines and dreamscapes.

              Cara’s black drawing book—a little smaller than her laptop, cried out, begging for its pages to be turned.  Cara waits a moment—not so soon after viewing greatness, she piously decides.  Her renderings, although skillful and imaginative, lacked some sort of cohesion—story telling magic.  It’s a sketchbook—this is how to get good—the masterpieces will come—someday...

              The divine spirits had yet to speak and fill her with such inspiration.  There was no mythology or realm between dreams and visions, only the creativity that came from loving poetry and the work of the lowbrow pop surrealists as they were called.

              Cara thought of Matt and how much he was like a work of art, how on that strange night she saw him from so close—the pores on his face revealing that he was indeed not a painting, although she could almost see the types of brushstrokes it would take to capture his likeness.  How would Amanda Sheol paint him?  For a moment, Cara imagined Matt in muted hand-mixed pigments on a wood panel, the wood grain becoming a turbulent sky behind him—his eyes, sleepy—his expression trance-like.

              Why fall into an imaginary world like this?  What of the real Matt?  Somewhere in Miami, he was getting over heartbreak, and maybe there would be an opportunity to see him again before he left for law school.  Cara rolled on the bed with her arms around a pillow, embarrassed that there were no realities in her life—that she could obsess over art and love—all a world of dreams. 

              Cara had her hair in a bun once again, wearing a My Neighbor Totoro t-shirt and a pair of Alex’s old navy blue gym shorts, spending the day at home enjoying the air conditioning on a steamy Sunday—home to search for art on the web—to microblog—to add to her MP3 playlist.  Maybe she and Alex could watch a movie online later when he got home.  No drawing today—she would find something to snap herself out of her secret world.

              Cara heard a chime and walked to the front door, opening it enough to detect the smell of alcohol and then startled by a shirt that was barely buttoned. 

              She looked up, her heart pummeling blood through her veins—Luciano—his sweaty, hairy neck glistening in the sun, his toothy mouth smiling somewhere under his mustache.

              “Hey Cara,” Luciano said as if pretending not to be himself. 

              Cara, overcome by fear, could barely say the words.  “You’re not allowed to be here.”

              “Oh Cara, C’mon—I’m your step father.”

              “You can’t be here.”             

              “Let me come inside for a moment—I’m thirsty—le-me get a glass of water.”

              Water—Cara remembered Officer Velasco’s words:  even if he is dying of thirst and wants a glass of water—impossible—a prophetic policeman.  All things were working together to illustrate the obvious; there was nothing left to say and Cara pushed to close the door.  The shock of having the door return, crashing in her face, felt like a disembodied anger—a spirit of hatred which had entered the apartment.  Such hostility made her want to cry, feeling again like a little girl being pushed to the ground.  Fallen—humiliated—this time she could not get away from her oppressor.  Luciano was inside the apartment—the door closed behind him. 

              “You won’t let me into my own apartment?  I never liked you Cara—I never liked you!”  Luciano was quickly on top of her.  She kicked and screamed, shielding her face with her arms, hoping to avoid the type of injuries her mother had suffered.  The blows to the face never came, but instead, something worse—she felt Luciano pulling off her shorts.

              “No!” Cara screamed, hysterically moving her legs but unable to escape.  She abandoned the defense of her face and struck Luciano, scratching him above his lips.  She knew it was pointless.  She was powerless.  He could kill her at any moment—break her like a dry sickly branch.  In his eyes, there was annoyance, maybe just enough to make him hate her like her mother.  Maybe he would beat her instead of raping her, or maybe he would do both.

              “C’mon Cara—you really don’t like me?” Luciano smiled cruelly.  “I’m not going to do anything to you—just wanna have a little peek.”

              Cara was incredulous, convinced of Luciano’s madness—despising him with a ponderous hatred that she could feel turning her spirit into dust.  The smell of beer and cologne were suffocating—her panic adding to her inability to breathe. 

              “Leave me—Leave me alone!”  She had almost said his name, but thought it was too grotesque.  She grabbed her shorts as hard as she could while Luciano attempted again to pull them off.  What misunderstanding could there be?  What made Luciano think it was all right to do this? —to think that she had lived all these years with a savage lurking in the apartment.

              Luciano slapped her.  For a moment, Cara’s head tingled cold and hot, and she saw a double image of Luciano.  Her ear was ringing, her arms and legs felt rubbery—she was losing the battle.  Was this some kind of penance?  What had she done—who had she hurt?  Had she found too much satisfaction in the demise of Matt and Sheryl’s relationship?   

              The room became bright, which Cara thought was a sign that she was losing consciousness.  Luciano turned his head, having also witnessed the light.  A chair struck Luciano hard, the heavy oak breaking with a loud crack and inflicting a peaceful stupor upon his face, causing him to collapse like a large beast, trapping Cara underneath.

...

              “Wake up!  Wake up!” Octavio slapped Luciano’s face and massaged the back of his neck.  “Alex, what did you do to him?”

              “I think I hit a pressure point,” Alex said.

              “I didn’t know you knew jujitsu.”

              “I read about it on Wikipedia.  Some arteries have pressure sensitive receptors.”

              “Outstanding,” Octavio nodded with a bemused expression, unable to reconcile the thought of his son with the use of force.  He slapped Luciano again.  “Wake up Lucifer!”

              Luciano—dazed and nauseous—awoke to find himself seated with his legs crossed, leaning against a wall, his head tilted forward. 

              “Are you awake yet?” Octavio shouted as he slapped his face harder.

              Luciano grunted, “Y—eah.”  Octavio struck him in the face with a closed fist—Luciano grimacing in pain—blood trickling from his nose.

              “Can you hear me?” Octavio said. 

              Luciano nodded. 

              “You suck at baseball and you suck at life.”

              “That’s the way it’s always been,” Luciano said softly.  

              Cara stood a few feet away, studying the rare fear in Luciano’s face and the rage that was consuming her father.

              “You don’t even try being a good person?” Octavio lowered his voice.

              “I stopped trying a long time ago.”

              “What’s wrong with you?  Did your mother drop you as a baby?”

              “Funny you should say that—she burned me with cigarettes and cooking grease—like you really care.”

              Octavio nodded as Luciano stared at him, defiant, his face a mesh of bruises and blood.         

              “I have to tell you hermano, in the war—” Octavio paused to stare at him for a moment.  “I never wanted to kill anyone—I never wanted to kill anyone—but I had to.  Those people in Afghanistan had never done anything to me, but you—Luciano—I have to tell you hombre—I do—I do—I want to kill you.”

              Luciano glanced up at Octavio in acknowledgment, knowing that he was completely at his mercy—his body felt lifeless and his mind also felt close to death.

              “Don’t kill him Dad,” Alex said.  “You’ll go to prison.”

              “No.  I’m not going to prison.  Luciano’s not going to prison either.  Prison would only make him worse.”                           

              Cara and Alex became alarmed with the thought of Luciano preserving his freedom.  Luciano was dumbfounded.

              “In Afghanistan, a village has a tribal council.  They know how to deal with situations like this.  You don’t need a big elaborate justice system.  Maybe you’d get twelve lashes with a cane—maybe a hundred.  Today the leader of the tribal council is me.”

              Octavio looked at Cara and Alex.  “Guys—ever since I came back I’ve been in survival mode.  I want Luciano to move in with me for a couple of weeks.  He’s big and scary and dangerous.  He’s just what I need right now.”

              “I don’t want to move in with you,” Luciano said.

              “It’s either that or prison.  Which do you want?”

              “Fine.”     

              “Okay.  Let’s go for a walk,” Octavio pulled Luciano up to his feet.  “Damn, you’re big,” Octavio muttered.  Luciano felt his legs buckling, unable to support his weight.  “This is for Adriana and Cara—hermano—are you ready?

              Octavio didn’t give Luciano a chance to respond—his weight was already causing him to fall like a tree.  Octavio swung Luciano’s body hard—his face hitting the wall with a thud.  Luciano’s unconscious body crumpled to the floor in a rain of plaster.

Chapter Twelve

            
 
They had several brawls together in Octavio’s tiny apartment.  They fought physically and verbally.  They talked sometimes late into the night.  If a conversation became too cordial, Octavio would jab Luciano, to remind him of his animosity.  Eventually, they became more civil.  One evening, Octavio gave Luciano several pamphlets.  They were from a military chaplain, stressing the importance of staying in touch with one’s spiritual side during deployment.  He hoped that Luciano’s heart would soften—maybe even become an apostle one day, since in Tavi’s eyes, he was the chief of sinners.

              “You’re showing this stuff to the wrong person,” Luciano said.

              Octavio sighed.  “I would say that you’re beyond help—mentally ill—evil—I don’t know.  But why do you think people go to church and all that shit?  Hope.  People need hope.”

              “Maybe I’m hopeless.”

              “Maybe I should’ve just called the cops on you.”

              “You should’ve ended my life.  That’s what you should’ve done.”

              “I can still do that,” Octavio scoffed.