technological wizard in the two-woman family—demonstrated the mechanics of the most comfortable bed Juan Diego had ever encountered on an airplane. The two women virtually tucked him in.
I think they were both flirting with me, Juan Diego mused as he was falling asleep—certainly the daughter was. Of course Dorothy reminded Juan Diego of students he’d known over the years; many of them, he knew, had only appeared to be flirting with him. There were young women that age—some solitary, tomboyish writers among them—who’d struck the older writer as knowing only two kinds of social behavior: they knew how to flirt, and they knew how to show irreversible contempt.
Juan Diego was almost asleep when he remembered that he was taking an unplanned break from the beta-blockers; he was already beginning to dream when a mildly troubling thought occurred to him, albeit briefly, before it drifted away. The thought was: I don’t really understand what happens when you stop and restart the beta-blockers. But the dream (or memory) was overtaking him, and he let it come.
• 4 •
The Broken Side-view Mirror
There was a gecko. It shrank from the first light of the sunrise, clinging to the mesh on the shack’s screen door. In the blink of an eye, in that half-second before the boy could touch the screen, the gecko was gone. Quicker than turning on or off a light, the gecko’s disappearance often began Juan Diego’s dream—as the disappearing lizard had begun many of the boy’s mornings in Guerrero.
Rivera had built the shack for himself, but he’d remodeled the interior for the kids; though he was probably not Juan Diego’s father, and definitely not Lupe’s, el jefe had made a deal with their mother. Even at fourteen, Juan Diego knew there was not much of a deal between those two now. Esperanza, notwithstanding that she’d been named for hope, had never been a source of hope to her own children, nor did she ever encourage Rivera—as far as Juan Diego had seen. Not that a fourteen-year-old boy would necessarily notice such things, and, at thirteen, Lupe wasn’t a reliable witness to what might, or might not, have gone on between her mother and the dump boss.
As for “reliable,” Rivera was the one person who could be counted on to look after these two dump kids—to the degree that anyone could protect los niños de la basura. Rivera had provided the only shelter for these two, and he’d sheltered Juan Diego and Lupe in other ways.
When el jefe went home at night—or wherever Rivera actually went—he left his truck and his dog with Juan Diego. The truck afforded the kids a second shelter, should they need it—unlike the shack, the cab of the truck could be locked—and no one but Juan Diego or Lupe would dare approach Rivera’s dog. Even the dump boss was wary of that dog: an underfed-looking male, he was a terrier-hound mix.
According to el jefe, the dog was part pit bull, part bloodhound—hence he was predisposed to fight, and to track down things by their smell.
“Diablo is biologically inclined to be aggressive,” Rivera had said.
“I think you mean genetically inclined,” Juan Diego had corrected him.
It’s hard to appreciate the degree that a dump kid could acquire such a sophisticated vocabulary; beyond the flattering attention paid to the unschooled boy by Brother Pepe at the Jesuit mission in Oaxaca, Juan Diego didn’t have an education—yet the boy had managed to do more than teach himself to read. He also spoke exceedingly well. The dump kid even spoke English, though his only exposure to the spoken language came from the U.S. tourists. In Oaxaca, at that time, the American expatriates amounted to an arts-and-crafts crowd and the usual potheads. Increasingly, as the Vietnam War dragged on—past 1968, when Nixon had been elected on the promise that he would end it—there were those lost souls (“the young men searching for themselves,” Brother Pepe called them), who in many cases
I think they were both flirting with me, Juan Diego mused as he was falling asleep—certainly the daughter was. Of course Dorothy reminded Juan Diego of students he’d known over the years; many of them, he knew, had only appeared to be flirting with him. There were young women that age—some solitary, tomboyish writers among them—who’d struck the older writer as knowing only two kinds of social behavior: they knew how to flirt, and they knew how to show irreversible contempt.
Juan Diego was almost asleep when he remembered that he was taking an unplanned break from the beta-blockers; he was already beginning to dream when a mildly troubling thought occurred to him, albeit briefly, before it drifted away. The thought was: I don’t really understand what happens when you stop and restart the beta-blockers. But the dream (or memory) was overtaking him, and he let it come.
• 4 •
The Broken Side-view Mirror
There was a gecko. It shrank from the first light of the sunrise, clinging to the mesh on the shack’s screen door. In the blink of an eye, in that half-second before the boy could touch the screen, the gecko was gone. Quicker than turning on or off a light, the gecko’s disappearance often began Juan Diego’s dream—as the disappearing lizard had begun many of the boy’s mornings in Guerrero.
Rivera had built the shack for himself, but he’d remodeled the interior for the kids; though he was probably not Juan Diego’s father, and definitely not Lupe’s, el jefe had made a deal with their mother. Even at fourteen, Juan Diego knew there was not much of a deal between those two now. Esperanza, notwithstanding that she’d been named for hope, had never been a source of hope to her own children, nor did she ever encourage Rivera—as far as Juan Diego had seen. Not that a fourteen-year-old boy would necessarily notice such things, and, at thirteen, Lupe wasn’t a reliable witness to what might, or might not, have gone on between her mother and the dump boss.
As for “reliable,” Rivera was the one person who could be counted on to look after these two dump kids—to the degree that anyone could protect los niños de la basura. Rivera had provided the only shelter for these two, and he’d sheltered Juan Diego and Lupe in other ways.
When el jefe went home at night—or wherever Rivera actually went—he left his truck and his dog with Juan Diego. The truck afforded the kids a second shelter, should they need it—unlike the shack, the cab of the truck could be locked—and no one but Juan Diego or Lupe would dare approach Rivera’s dog. Even the dump boss was wary of that dog: an underfed-looking male, he was a terrier-hound mix.
According to el jefe, the dog was part pit bull, part bloodhound—hence he was predisposed to fight, and to track down things by their smell.
“Diablo is biologically inclined to be aggressive,” Rivera had said.
“I think you mean genetically inclined,” Juan Diego had corrected him.
It’s hard to appreciate the degree that a dump kid could acquire such a sophisticated vocabulary; beyond the flattering attention paid to the unschooled boy by Brother Pepe at the Jesuit mission in Oaxaca, Juan Diego didn’t have an education—yet the boy had managed to do more than teach himself to read. He also spoke exceedingly well. The dump kid even spoke English, though his only exposure to the spoken language came from the U.S. tourists. In Oaxaca, at that time, the American expatriates amounted to an arts-and-crafts crowd and the usual potheads. Increasingly, as the Vietnam War dragged on—past 1968, when Nixon had been elected on the promise that he would end it—there were those lost souls (“the young men searching for themselves,” Brother Pepe called them), who in many cases
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