Page 79 of And Still Her Voice
Streaks of dirt slid down the windshield, the wipers smearing a muddy rainbow across the glass, blurring the remnants of the afternoon.
“I was going to wash the car before—”
“Can you take me to the beach?”
“You’re not thinking about drowning yourself, are you?”
“Don’t you dare think about it,” Grandma whispered. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about how I’d finally be free if I were to drown.
Just as suddenly as it dumped on us, the rain stopped. Heading west, the sun played peekaboo behind the breaks in the gray clouds.
“Any particular spot?” Ruben asked.
“Not really.”
The traffic on Wilshire Boulevard slowed. The streets gleamed, the grit and grime on the city’s surface washed clean for now.
“He seems like a nice fellow,” Grandma whispered. “A real sheik. Your mother would be pleased.”
For sure. That would satisfy her need for at least one of her daughters to find a nice Mexican boy to marry, even though she’d married a gringo. But then again, maybe she’d learned her mistake.
“So, you met my dad at AA?”
“In jail, actually.”
So much for “nice Mexican boy,” but then I thought of Jesus behind bars before he was brought to face Pontius Pilate. “I’m not assuming anything,” I said.
“I was arrested during one of the student walk-outs. Your father was in for a DUI. We became fast friends. After he got released, he bailed me out. I went with him to an AA meeting. He wanted to be able to show the judge he was a changed man. After that, I’d go with him every week. I got a lot out of those meetings. Like I said, he made some good coffee.”
“So, you’re not an alcoholic.”
“It’s a label, but I suppose. I mean, that’s one of the prerequisites for attending, admitting that you are one.”
“Hmm.”
“Anyway, we ended up going once a month down to the VA hospital in Long Beach. We pushed wheel chairs around. He’d play the piano.”
“My Dad was a vet.”
“Yeah, he told me, but that he never saw any action. Never left the port in San Diego.”
I wondered if Dad also told him about his hospitalization up in Oakland because everyone thought he was crazy—because he was. Because when you grow up listening to your dead father talk to you and using you to exact revenge for his murder, you sort of lose it. Because when you try to explain your situation to a head doctor that you share your father’s consciousness, you’re only going to get a lifetime supply of lithium. That’s why I kept my mouth shut.
“What about you? Did you see any action?” I asked.
“I’m more of a pacifist.” He laughed. “I’m in college so I didn’t get drafted. At least, not yet anyway. Freddy didn’t have it so lucky. It should have been me. He never had a chance.”
“Freddy, my cousin?”
Ruben nodded.
“He was my compadre.”
“I’m so sorry. I was on the road when I got the news and couldn’t make the funeral.”
“It was quite a turnout. A popular kid. Drafted as soon as he graduated high school. He’d barely turned eighteen. Hadn’t decided on college yet. He loved working with his hands. Wanted to be a mechanic. He worked on this Chevy,” Ruben said, tapping the wheel.
“You must have some sort of survivor’s guilt? Is that why you drink?” I tried to make a joke in light of the topic.
