Well, you may throw your rock and hide your hand
Working in the dark against your fellow man
But as sure as God made black and white
What's done in the dark will be brought to the light
— God's Gonna Cut You Down, Johnny Cash
February 1971
We're curled up in bed, and Gabi puts her head on my shoulder, before she drops the bombshell. If I thought she were capable of it, I'd consider it a pretty good piece of manipulation. "I think I should get a job."
At first, I laugh, assume she's joking around. "You been gettin' into women's lib? Don't tell me you're about to burn your bra in the backyard, too."
Look, I want to consider myself a reasonable, progressive kind of guy, not a damn caveman— some of that feminist stuff, like broads being able to get their own bank accounts, that makes sense. But a married woman, with a baby, heading out to work every day? That's one ain't-shit husband right there. Jesus, for all of Ed's many fucking faults, even he wasn't that bad at being common-law married.
"We need the money, you can't deny that at this point," she says, plays with one of the tassels at the end of our blanket. "Ximena said she'd watch Neni when I was out, and she's not about to charge family—"
My groan cuts her off before she can finish the sentence. "Look, you know I love Ximena, but I wouldn't trust her to watch my goldfish." She and Curly ran around for a few months, enough to make me question a chick's judgement for life, and the sheer amount of rum and cokes she's been pounding at Sig Nu parties lately isn't filling me with much confidence, either. (Old Man Lopez could be more put-out about her lack of dedication to her academics. He never made much of a secret of how he sent her to college to watch her walk down the aisle, not the stage at graduation— I think he's surprised she's nineteen and he's still paying to tuition fees.)
"This ain't the West side," she still presses, "a lot of women have to work to make ends meet." Yeah— single mothers, or mothers who'd be better off if they were single. "My old job at Our Lady of Grace, from when we just got married, I don't think they filled it yet. I could ask on Sunday—"
I didn't even like her doing that. "What put all this in your head, huh? You don't think I can take care of us by myself, querida?"
I want to say something you saw on TV, but to be honest, what's probably radicalized her is less Gloria Steinem and more the hole in our kitchen ceiling.
She bites her lower lip, before she speaks again. "I have a high school diploma, I graduated. I could get paid—"
"Less than me," I say, though maybe more for the sake of my pride than as an objective analysis. "You can pay a woman whatever you want, and that's if the boss ain't tryna pinch your ass all day in the bargain."
"It'd still be more… white-collar." She's using a real delicate tone of voice, to avoid pointing out that I haul around boards and sheetrock all day for pennies an hour, but I know what she's thinking. "They didn't pay me half bad when I was over there, and I don't remember any creeps… it'd take a load off you, at the very least. We can't afford a housewife."
"You're still sick," I say, and it comes out more high-pitched than I wanted. I splay my hand out over her stomach, moving subconsciously; she stiffens. "You almost died, Jesus—" I swallow hard, try to get a grip on myself before I start recounting a memory we'd both rather forget. "I worry about you," I admit, though it's hard— she's my wife, I have to admit a lot of things to her. "Just focus on gettin' better and let me handle the rest, okay?"
"I worry about you too, mi vida," she says with wide eyes, which is when she's really got me good. "Your back's fixin' to break, if you keep working these shifts. Twelve hours a day on a construction site?" She pulls away from me, cups the side of my face with one hand. "This can't go on forever."
Fourteen, some days, but she doesn't need to know about that. I sit up and scratch the back of my neck; she's not going to like what I say next, even if I try to keep it casual. "I was thinkin' of goin' on an oil rig, maybe."
"No." Her response is immediate and sharp; her grip on my upper arm tightens, and she digs her nails in hard enough to sting. "What, you left slingin' just to run straight back into danger?"
"It's good money," I say, though the more I think about it, the less I like it. My other options aren't looking any more appealing, though— enlisting in the army? Selling a kidney? Male prostitution wherever Soda Curtis is sucking dick for smack? "It wouldn't be forever, neither. Just 'til the hospital bills get paid off."
"If you'd just let me see them—"
"It ain't nothin' so bad," I change tack, "I wouldn't lie to you, baby," though I'm lying through my fucking teeth and wish I had some shame about it. The bills are— well. Every time I look at them and want to pull out my lighter, I imagine paying for a double funeral instead, and that cheers me right up. "Nothin' I can't handle."
She slackens, lies close to me again; I breathe in the clean, sweet scent of her shampoo and mentally smack myself for my ingratitude, like I have a care in the world compared to what I could be dealing with right now. She speaks again soon enough, though, broaches the last taboo— or close to it. "My daddy—"
"I'm not gonna ask your daddy for money," I say, and that's with genuine finality. Her old man's hated me ever since I was a cocky eighteen-year-old kid, dropping her home hours past her curfew with hickeys on her neck, and sealing the deal with marriage did nothing to endear me to him any more. Back in the day, I used to think he was a real uptight asshole— delighted in the knowledge that I was debauching his eldest daughter, the one he relied on for everything, giving her a taste of the wild side. Now that I have a daughter of my own? Jesus fucking Christ, some little cholo with a scar across half his face gets within a mile of my property, looking for a date, I'm chasing him off with a shotgun.
Still not enough to make me apologize, though. Or take a cent from him.
I'm a high school dropout as well as a convicted felon— the fact that I earn what I do at all is mostly because Darry Curtis, channeling his daddy, took another chance on me. But I've been in a lot worse positions than this, and I'll manage, I always do. So I raise an eyebrow at her, real slow, and smirk. "You really wanna be talkin' about this in our marriage bed?" is my line of seduction. "Ain't there better things we could be doin' in here?"
It's a pretty desperate gambit, but it works, because she smirks back at me and falls into my arms. And at least for the next hour? God, the last thing I want to be thinking about is my fucking bills.
My bra's just barely off when Neni starts crying, and I groan; she always picks the best moments. "I gotta go feed her or change her or something, don't I?"
I should know the difference between all of her cries by now, according to my baby book. I don't.
"Remind me why we had a kid again?" he asks teasingly, but a powerful flash of numbness courses through me all the same, hits like a lightning strike. "It was easier sneakin' around my mama's house than it is gettin' past her, I swear."
Reluctantly, I pull away from him, throw my shirt back on and go in search for my daughter— she's in the room next to us now, what I like to call a nursery, though it's a refurbished closet. At least we're not keeping her in a dresser drawer. "Hey, little lady," I say in a sing-song as I take a cautious sniff— it's a diaper— "your daddy thinks you got real bad timing. What do you have to say for yourself?" And I keep chattering aimlessly, distract myself, until she's clean and I can finally go.
Tim's passed out cold once I'm back, and while I'm tempted for a second to wake him up, I don't, just kiss the border between his hairline and temple and pull the blanket over him— he works so much already, I'm loath to disturb whatever little rest he can find. I get under the covers myself and lean against the warmth of his body, stare at the lumpy cottage cheese patterns on the ceiling, and face the truth I've been dodging with everything in me. The real reason why I want to get a job, get out of this house for at least a few hours at a time, that has nothing to do with our dire financial straits.
Tim never wanted the baby. And, maybe because of that, I don't know if I love her, either.
I mean, what kind of mother— what kind of monster?— doesn't fall head-over-heels in love with her own child? I was willing to die for her, though I know Tim never would've made that choice, but now that I'm responsible for keeping her alive, I feel like I can't get up from the weight I'm under. The hospital bills were enormous— the word astronomical is probably more appropriate, though he refuses to let me see them. A few years ago, I might've found it sweet that he didn't want me to worry, but now a hot wave of annoyance washes over me every time he deflects; I worry he doesn't even see me as an adult at this point, just another in a long line of children he's had to take care of, or worse, an adult who can't act like one. Like his mama.
Though I hate to admit it, but if I didn't romanticize what it'd be like, to be the mother of a newborn. I swear I had a Gerber commerical playing in my head the whole time I was expecting, visions of taking a cooing baby out on walks in a stroller and cooking pancakes with her in a high chair, sunlight streaming in through the windows. No one warned me about how she'd turn out to be a nonstop crying, pooping machine demanding to be fed at all hours, how the lack of sleep would make me feel like I'd just stepped out of Night of the Living Dead, how I swear I left my own body behind in the hospital and got swapped with a completely different one. I remember the blowout fight we had at the beginning of our marriage, when I figured we were going to finally put our sinning aside and have as many kids as God gave us, the same way Father Patrick taught; Tim shot right back at me that he wasn't about to fuck an entire baseball team into me, and I could justify that to Jesus however I wanted. Back then, I thought he was selling himself short as a potential father, and maybe could use a little more respect for the Lord, while he was at it. Now, belatedly, I realize he was right. I'm barely qualified to raise one child, by the skin of my teeth, much less a busload of them.
Maybe it's because I don't have a mother anymore, something Jasmine and I have in common. We're trying to stumble towards being mothers ourselves, without an ounce of guidance, and making a fine mess of it in the process.
I want to shake myself, remember what a brat I'm being— Tim's a good man, though he refuses to consider himself one, he would never hit me or drink up all the rent checks or do a million other things that are all-too-common in this neighborhood. I have a perfectly healthy daughter, which I should be getting on my knees and praying for more than I am right now. I don't know what I expected, in retrospect. A baby to put the ribbon on top of the happy ending, something out of a romance novel? Notorious rake Tim Shepard transformed into a devoted husband and father by the power of my true love? I feel like a whiny kid, begging for candy for dinner, told by her parent that it'd give her a stomachache— I want a baby now, and I'm going to get one. Except now the consequences are so much worse than I could've imagined— me, lying almost dead, though I don't remember half of it, a daughter neither of us were prepared for, a suddenly distant marriage. And none of it can be taken back.
I snake a hand down past the waistband of my pajama pants, and touch the C-section scar splitting my pelvis all the way across. Almost immediately I withdraw it— it's like my eyes and ears have have filled with static and the world's narrowed into a pinhole, my breath struggling to come into my lungs. I can't think about it, I just can't. I won't. It's something I barely even have the capacity to acknowledge, much less process.
"I want to love you," I whisper towards her, "like you deserve"; no one can hear me, except maybe God. "I'll keep workin' at it."
I rub the sleep out of my eyes with a fist, try to focus my gaze on Curly, who's for some godforsaken reason on my porch right now. He looks good— obnoxiously good— these days, in a leather jacket I swear he rubs oil on to prevent cracks, that's worth more than I make in a week. Still slicks his hair back, too, though the trend's dying out. "The hell are you doin' here?" I ask blearily, stifle a yawn. Two hours before I have to go to work, I remember on autopilot. "This better be important."
He gives me a wheedling, apologetic smile. Here we fucking go. "Listen, can y'all watch Mike next weekend? Luis is throwin' a big party, kind of a pre-Valentine's thing, we can't really get out of it."
I doubt they tried very hard, though.
Between you and me, they should've just named that kid Draft Dodger Shepard, because I'm convinced that's the only reason he and Jasmine popped him out— Luis told them to get on making one. He, Alberto, and I were all long since out of the running in the lottery, as felons, but as Curly's still somehow managed to avoid getting one of those on his record... I'm sure Luis probably offered him the choice between that and just shooting him in the kneecap. He's real generous like that.
I'm being too harsh, maybe. Curly genuinely loves that kid, but he loves him in the same way you love a puppy— something fun to play with, that you can easily drop off and fit around your busy lifestyle. I don't know how either one of them is going to manage when he gets larger than a loaf of bread, God forbid a mind of his own. Oh, wait, give me a minute. That's going to be Uncle Tim's problem.
I smile tightly back at him. "You didn't come down here at five in the morning to ask me that, Curls. You could've called at a normal hour, on the phone." He brandishes an envelope from his pocket, gives up the ghost, and I snatch it from between his fingers. "The fuck is this?"
"I know y'all are havin' trouble with bills lately, and you watch Mike often enough, figured you deserve somethin'—"
I offer him a stare that could turn hell cold. "When I need my kid brother's help to pay my bills, I'll drop you a line, how 'bout it?"
"Would you quit bein' so goddamn stubborn, it ain't just all about you now—"
"You think I can't look after my own family?" Then the metaphorical lightbulb ignites over my head. "This ain't comin' from you."
"Of course it is," he starts trying to bullshit me, but I'm the only person he never learned how to manipulate or lie to. I guess I just know him too well. "Who else would it be from?"
"Let me rack my fuckin' brains for a second, there." I cuss under my breath and ball my fists up; he might as well have written 'I love you, from Tío Luis', for all the subtlety this operation has. "I can't believe he's sendin' you to do his dirty work for him. For all that he is, I never pegged him as a coward."
I can't believe he's contacting me after so long, when I haven't spoken to him in close to two years now; my official punishment, issued by the upper echelon of this Ramirez outfit, is shunning. I long-suspected he'd been secretly hoping for this, getting me out of the way so that Curly could inherit the not-so-metaphorical throne. When he went looking for adventure back in la patria, it was me he took along with him, the one he needed to keep an eye on, while Curly held down the fort at home— the one who never stopped running his mouth, questioning him. As he'd beaten into me at age thirteen, the liability. I don't know what he's playing at now, and don't particularly like it.
"All right, fine," he snaps, "yeah, it's from Luis, you happy now?" He exhales then, tries to regain his composure. "He misses you, Tim— don't look at me like that, he does." He waves his hand for emphasis. "You was always the brains of the operation... and we're doin' real good now, trust me, he got money to spare."
Rumor has it that Luis is strutting around the barrio with both a fur coat and a capuchin monkey, and I believe it. If there's anything he has in spades, it's the fucking audacity. I sigh, drag a hand through my hair. Curly, he wants to be everyone's friend, that's his biggest problem— play family peacekeeper. If he's not begging me to reconcile with Ma and Ed, 'she misses you', 'he's been goin' to AA again', it's roping me back into speaking terms with our uncles. I don't know when he's going to realize that some bridges need to be burnt to the ground. "I ain't never goin' back, so you take this right over to Luis and tell him to shove it up his ass, I don't need his blood money for anything." I look him straight in the eye. "I want you out of all this shit, too. You know that."
"Think we both know I'm not goin' anywhere."
"I can put in a good word for you, where I work, say you're my brother and you need a lucky break." I'm not too proud to beg, not when it comes to him. "It's rough at first, I'm not gonna lie, but you won't be dodging bullets anymore—"
"I mean in life." The bitterness in his voice startles me. "C'mon, Tim, everyone's always said you're brilliant, you got all them lectures at school 'bout 'livin' up to your potential'... even Ed was pissed you dropped out. What'd Ponyboy call me in that theme of his, your average downtown hood? Not real bright?" I don't have a problem with any of the Curtises, we're supposed to be in-laws and all, but I'd kill to put my fist through that kid's nose right now. "I've got a pretty good deal here, I make good cash. What else am I gonna do, dodge landmines in Nam? I finally managed to get Jasmine a decent-sized rock, I'm lookin' at a new Chevy…"
I swallow hard, look away from him before I say it. "I'm afraid you're gonna do somethin' you can't take back, mano. That you'll never be able to get out after that."
I want to tell him that no matter what he's tried to convince himself of, he's no cold-blooded killer. That I'm also afraid I'm going to end up attending his funeral the way Luis and Alberto ended up at their brother's, or that I'll have to visit him behind a pane of glass in Big Mac for the rest of his life, or that over the years he'll morph into someone I can no longer recognize just to survive. I want to tell him how much I love him.
But we're Shepards, and none of it comes out, and Curly just gives me a wry grin. "Awh, don't worry 'bout me, Tim," he says, claps me on the shoulder. "I liked that other line he wrote. That I can take anything."
