Chapter 5
Forgiving
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez is god. He owns El and Sands. I am a lowly peon worshipping at his feet. And oh yeah, I have no money. I'm getting ready to quit my second job because I'm sick and tired of being tired all the time, and plus, it's eating into my writing time.
Rating: R for language and mild violence
Summary: El celebrates Christmas.
Many thanks again to everyone for their wonderful reviews. Vera, if you're reading this, I'd love to respond to you but I don't have an e-mail address for you.
And Melody, my lovely beta reader – you're the best, girl.
****
Christmas was a disaster.
El kicked himself for it later, for having high hopes, for letting himself forget who he was dealing with. But he was bitterly disappointed, nonetheless.
Sands was already awake when El rose around seven o'clock. The agent was slouched in the armchair. The TV was on, but the volume was turned down so low El could barely hear it.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
"Shut up," Sands snapped.
El closed his eyes in defeat. It was too much to ask, apparently, for Sands to remain happy. The good feeling of last night had probably just lasted long enough for him to grow suspicious of El's motives. Possibly he had decided El had been mocking him.
"We could go out again tonight," El offered, hoping this would raise Sands' spirits.
Sands drew his gun so fast El barely saw his hand move. "If you would like your balls to remain where they are, then I suggest you shut the fuck up. Never mention that to me again, or you'll be eating your own dick for Christmas dinner. Savvy?"
El was shocked by the virulence of Sands' hatred. He had not heard the agent sound like that in a long time. "Fine," he stammered, and went into the kitchen.
He will not let me in, he thought. Nothing I say, nothing I do makes a difference. I can only get so close, then the door slams in my face.
Out in the living room, the front door slammed. "Feliz Navidad!" Chiclet shouted. "Merry Christmas!"
El forced himself to put on a happier expression. It was Christmas. He had to be cheery, for the boy's sake, if nothing else.
****
As it turned out, Chiclet stayed for only twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes. That was how long it took for Chiclet to open his presents, and for everything to turn bad.
El knew it would happen, the moment he saw the small wrapped object in Chiclet's hand. He tried to speak up and stop the boy, but his voice seemed paralyzed, and he could say nothing.
"Here," Chiclet said, holding out his gift. "This is for you. Feliz Navidad, Señor Sands."
Sands scowled. He snatched the badge from the boy's hand. "What is it?"
"Open it," Chiclet encouraged. He was smiling, his naturally sunny disposition shining through, despite his worry over how his gift would be received.
"Don't," El managed, but it came out only as a hoarse croak. No one paid any attention to him.
Sands unwrapped the leather billfold and turned it over in his hand. "What the hell is it?"
Chiclet opened the flap, and El noticed how Sands moved his hands back so he would not touch the boy. "Here." Chiclet tapped the laminated photo. "It's you. CIA. I found it, the day...that day. I wanted you to have it back."
Sands' face darkened so quickly that Chiclet stumbled back, finally realizing his error.
El rose to his feet, intending to defend the boy -- physically if it became necessary. He had a good feeling it would.
He was too slow. Sands threw the badge, and always, his aim was spot-on. The leather billfold struck Chiclet right between the eyes. The boy dropped to the floor with a squeal of pain.
"What the fuck is this?" Sands shouted. He stood up, batting the crumpled wrapping paper from his gift off his lap and to the floor. To El's horror, he drew one of his guns. "First El, now you... What are you people doing to me?"
He's going to shoot us, El thought sickly. He really is.
He stepped between Sands and the boy. Without looking behind him, he said, "Go outside. Now."
Chiclet scampered out the front door.
"Put that away," El said. He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle Sands, and give the man a reason to pull the trigger.
"Oh, fuck you," Sands said wearily. "Get out." He waved the gun at the door. "Just get out. Leave me alone."
"I live here, too," El said. "And no one is leaving until you apologize to the boy."
"I said, get out!" Sands made a feint forward, and El pivoted to the side. He let his fist fly, and felt his whole arm jolt as his knuckles connected with Sands' jaw.
Sands spun around with the blow and dropped to the floor. His sunglasses fell off, but he did not lose his grip on the gun. With his other hand he immediately began searching for the sunglasses.
El stomped on them. The crunching noise they made as they broke filled him with mean gladness.
"You son of a bitch!" Sands raised the gun, and this time, El knew, nothing would stop him from pulling the trigger.
He kicked the gun from Sands' fingers, trying hard not to hurt the agent as he did so. The pistol flew across the living room and landed on the glass-topped coffee table that had been Ramirez's favorite, shattering the glass.
But Sands, even on Christmas morning, wore two guns. And El did not stick around to see if he would use the second one. The mariachi turned and ran for the front door, escaping outside just as two bullets embedded themselves in the doorframe behind him.
Chiclet stood on the porch, crying. A large bruise was already forming on his forehead. El grabbed his arm and ran with him down the steps. "Let's go," he said.
****
So instead of the quiet, happy holiday he had envisioned for the three members of his little family, El Mariachi spent Christmas with Chiclet's large, noisy family.
****
He waited a day before returning to the house. Chiclet's parents were more than happy to let him stay with them, although it was clear that they were curious about why he even needed the shelter in the first place. But they were good people and they did not ask questions, for which El was thankful.
He spent Christmas night on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about his lost Carolina.
The next morning he went to church and made confession. He confessed to the sin of pride, and the padre told him to say two rosaries as penance.
When he returned to Chiclet's house, he told the boy he was going back. Chiclet began to cry. "I don't want you to," he said. "I want you to stay here."
Surprised, El looked down at him, and the bruise on his forehead. "Why?"
"I hate him!" the boy cried. "He's always so mean to me!"
El knelt down. He took the boy in his arms and let him cry. He had often wondered if this day would ever come. Chiclet had a generous heart, but no one could withstand the rejection he received on a daily basis, and not be affected by it. And Chiclet, for all his apparent maturity, was still only a child.
"Stay here," he said. "I will go back and talk to him."
"He'll shoot you," Chiclet sniffled.
"He may try," El said, knowing this scenario was very likely. More than likely. In fact, at this point, it seemed inevitable. "But I will be all right. Don't worry."
"I don't want to go back," Chiclet said. He rubbed at his nose. "I don't want to see him anymore."
"You do not have to," El said. "You do what your heart tells you." He stood up. "Now my heart tells me I must go back."
"Be careful," Chiclet said.
"I will," said El.
****
When he turned up the driveway, he saw the agent right away. Sands was sitting on the front porch. He was wearing an older pair of sunglasses. A gun rested in his lap. "Hello, El," he said evenly.
El stopped just shy of the steps leading up to the porch. He was not fooled by the agent's deceptive calm; the danger was not past yet. Even if he had felt inclined to take a chance, all he had to do was look at the bullet hole in the third step, where Sands had once shot at Belinda Harrison, a mere hour before killing her.
"Have a nice Christmas?"
"Yes. You?"
"Not so bad," Sands said. A dark bruise shadowed his jaw where El had hit him. "What are you doing here?"
"I live here," El said. He still did not step onto the stairs.
Sands nodded contemplatively. "Fair enough." He slid the gun back into its holster.
"You should know," El said, "that the boy does not want to see you again."
Something flickered across Sands' face – regret, maybe. "Is he hurt?"
"What do you think?"
"I mean physically."
"He is bruised. He will be fine."
"Was that your bright idea? The badge?"
"No. He showed it to me, and asked me what I thought he should do."
"What did you tell him?"
"I said nothing," El said. "I did not know what he should do."
"Do you know...can you even imagine what it felt like...to realize what that was?"
El looked down. He stared at the grass under his boots. "No."
"Joining the CIA was my own little coup d'etat, if you will," said Sands. "I had to work for that. Harder than I've ever worked for anything in my life. I had to fool them all, you see. Here was something Daddy's money couldn't fix. I had to get in on my own merits, convince them all I was one of those slightly twisted geniuses, a bit unstable, but only because I was so damn brilliant. Do you see what I'm getting at, El my dear friend?"
He shook his head. "Tell me."
"I earned that badge. And now it isn't even fit to wipe my ass with."
"I understand," El said.
"Shut up. You don't understand anything." Sands spoke in that careful drawl, which made El more nervous than if he had shouted. "If someone came up to you and handed you a scrap of bloody fabric and said, 'Here, this is from the dress Carolina was wearing the day Marquez killed her. I kept it all these years but now I thought you should have it,' what would you say? What would you do?"
"I see your point," El said.
"No!" Sands snapped. "That isn't good enough. What would you do, El? Tell me."
So El thought about it. Truly thought about it. The very idea made him feel sick to his stomach, even though he knew it could not happen, because he had burned the dress that had been stained with Carolina's blood.
"I would be upset," he admitted. "I might even kill the one who gave it to me.
"And I understand what you are saying," he continued, "but Chiclet does not deserve to be treated so badly."
"You don't understand anything," Sands repeated bitterly.
"I do," El insisted. More than you know, I think. Because if you did, you would have shot me the moment I approached the house. He felt brave enough now to mount two of the steps. "But if you felt all that yesterday, why did you not say anything? Why did you have to make everything so ugly? I thought you were going to kill the boy."
Sands' mouth tightened into a thin line. "I would never," he said. "And fuck you, if you think that I would."
El looked at him. He did believe that Sands would not hurt Chiclet willingly. But he also believed that Sands was not always in control of what he did. Like yesterday. And those were the instances El felt justified in worrying about.
But he let this one go. Now was not the time. "Chiclet cares about you. Why does that frighten you so?"
Sands gave a bitter laugh. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Really?" He let his disbelief weigh in his voice. He knew he was right. No one said, What are you people doing to me? without a good reason. Again he longed to know what Sands was hiding. Why the man found it so hard to trust. Why he could not completely trust even an innocent little boy.
"You frightened the boy; he does not want to see you ever again."
That regret crossed Sands' face again, and this time it lingered. He bowed his head, and his hair fell forward, hiding his expression. "I can't help it," he finally said.
El wanted to feel sorry for him. He knew the battle Sands fought with his madness, but he had reached the end of his patience. And there were some things that just could not be allowed to happen. Threatening Chiclet was one of them. "He is just a child!" he snapped.
"You think I don't know that?" Still Sands did not look up. He reminded El of a child himself then, being chastised for something he had done wrong, something he had known was wrong, but that he had done anyway.
The image sickened him. Angry with himself, with Sands, with a world that would allow things like this to happen, he growled, "Then act like it." He took the remainder of the stairs, so that he stood a few feet away from where Sands sat. "He told me he hates you now," he said coldly.
Sands winced. He offered El a sickly smile, but he still did not look up. "That's it. Good. Twist the knife a little. I was beginning to think you didn't have it in you."
"Oh, I'm just full of surprises," El drawled. Before Sands could say anything else to him, he crossed the porch and went inside the house, slamming the door behind him.
****
El spent the remainder of December in town whenever possible. He visited Chiclet, bringing the boy's guitar with him, although when the visit was over he always took the guitar back to the house.
There was not much music during these visits, however. Chiclet had no interest in music anymore. He did not say much at all, in fact. He seemed pleased to see El, but when the mariachi got up to leave, he did not seem to feel anything about it, one way or the other. Once or twice El thought he could have walked away and Chiclet wouldn't even have known he was gone.
But if Chiclet was miserable, it was nothing compared to what Sands was going through. The agent sat outside all day long now, and all night. He was there when El went to bed, and he was there when El got up. He didn't eat, and he didn't sleep, and only El's sense of self-preservation kept him from going up to the man and saying something. Not that it would have mattered. Sands did not speak anymore.
He still wore his guns, and more than once El found himself standing at the screen door, staring at his friend. He did not think Sands would resort to suicide, not now, after everything they had been through, but he still worried. When Sands was left alone with his thoughts for too long, the results were never good.
For the first time, it dawned on him that the attachment between Sands and Chiclet was not a good thing. He knew the reason Sands sat outside all the time. He was waiting for the sound of the bell on the boy's bicycle as it came up the driveway. He was waiting for a sound that was never going to come again.
New Year's came and went. El made no more resolutions.
On the third day of January, he started to take down the Christmas tree, and stopped before he had removed half the ornaments. He just shook his head, and left it in the corner.
This had to stop. He walked out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. On the porch, Sands did not even flinch. El stalked past him without a word. He intended to drive into town, get Chiclet, and bring the boy back here.
He was just getting into the car when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the bicycle turn into the driveway.
He scrambled out of the car, feeling his heart start to beat faster.
Chiclet did not ring the bell. When he rode by, El saw he was crying. He dropped his bike into the grass and ran up the porch steps.
On the porch, Sands sat up, looking more alive than he had in days. His head turned from side to side, seeking the source of those running footsteps.
"Señor!" Chiclet ran the last few steps. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" He threw his arms about Sands, and Sands returned the hug so fiercely El feared for the boy's ribs.
"I'm sorry," Chiclet wept. "I'm sorry."
Sands said nothing, but he buried his face in the boy's neck, and El heard him make a sound, a sound he had heard only once before, on a terrible day long ago in Puerto Vallarta.
And maybe he did say something after all, because Chiclet shook his head. "I won't leave you again," he vowed. "I promise!"
El ducked his head, giving the two figures on the porch some privacy. He wiped at his eyes a little.
When he deemed it was safe, he walked up onto the porch. As he came near, Chiclet raised a hand to the stubble on Sands' cheek. "You should take a bath, Señor. You smell like my little brother."
Sands chuckled, a little rustily. "Yeah?"
El smiled at the boy. "I am glad you came," he said. "I was just going to get you."
Chiclet's eyes widened, like he was going to cry again. "I couldn't stay away," he said. "I missed it here."
"We are glad to have you back," El said. "Now you can play your guitar properly, like a true mariachi."
The boy's face lit up. "Yeah!" He looked at Sands. "Play with me," he said. "Please?"
"In a little bit," Sands said. He pushed himself out of the chair. "I think it's time I go inside." He started across the porch, but he paused when he reached the door. "I won't be long," he said.
Chiclet smiled at him. Some of the blind adoration was gone from his gaze now, never to return, but this was not necessarily a bad thing, El thought. In its place was a calmer, more understanding emotion.
When Sands had gone inside, El looked at the boy. "Did he apologize to you?"
Chiclet nodded.
El raised an eyebrow. "He actually said the words?"
Abashed, the boy dropped his eyes. "No. But I know he meant it."
"He did miss you," El said.
"I know," Chiclet said. He looked up at El, and El saw something there that took his breath away. Chiclet had stayed away, not because of his own misery, but because he had known it had to be done. He had finally realized that by coming back, no matter how Sands yelled at him or cursed at him, he was only giving the agent permission to keep doing it. Chiclet, with all his child's wisdom, had understood that sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.
El just shook his head in amazement.
****
Two hours later they were sitting on the porch, the remains of their lunch spread out around them. El and Chiclet were haltingly making their way through "Malagueña." It was the first time in weeks that they had tried to play a song together, and they were not having much luck.
"Did you know," El said, "I once played this song for El Presidente?"
Chiclet's eyes widened. "Really? Did he like it?"
"Sí," El said. "He requested that song specifically, when I asked if there was anything he wished to hear."
"Wow," Chiclet breathed. "Imagine being good enough to play for El Presidente!"
"Oh, he wasn't good enough," Sands drawled. "He was more interested in playing bodyguard to El Presidente, weren't you, El?" He had showered and shaved and changed into clean clothes. He still looked tired, but there was spirit in his voice again. He was especially attentive to Chiclet, and at least twice El had seen him bite off the curses that sprang so naturally to his lips, when it came to dealing with the boy. El knew this forbearance wouldn't last, but he was pleased to see it, nonetheless.
Chiclet lost some of his excitement upon realizing that El's tale was related to the coup. He didn't like talking about the coup. What would have been a fascinating story to any other boy would always be diminished for Chiclet by the knowledge that his best friend had been badly hurt on that day. "Did you ever see him again?"
"El Presidente?" El shook his head. "No. But before he said good-bye to my friends, he said we were all welcome in Mexico City, if we wished to visit him there."
"Did you ever go?"
"No," El said. "There was no need."
"Did your friends go?"
El looked down. "No," he said.
"Oh, gosh, Chiclet, let's not ask El about his friends," Sands said. He spoke in that deceptively light voice he used when he was trying to hide something deeper. "Let's add that to the list of things we should never talk about again, why don't we?"
Chiclet nodded. "All right."
Then he looked up, and pointed. "Who is that?"
El followed the direction of the boy's gaze, and blinked in shock. The car pulling up the driveway was unfamiliar, but he knew the driver very well.
"Who's there?" Sands demanded, sitting up alertly.
"A man," Chiclet said.
The car stopped and the driver got out. His long curly hair was secured into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wore dusty clothes that had obviously seen better days, and sunglasses pushed to the top of his head.
He looked straight at El, and spoke the mariachi's name.
Sands jumped. "Christ," he swore. "Didn't think I'd ever see him again."
"Neither did I," El said. He stood up slowly, handing his guitar over to Chiclet.
The man walked up the driveway, and onto the porch. At the top of the steps, he stopped. He looked from Sands to the boy and back to El.
El stared at his old friend. "Hello, Fideo," he said.
******
Author's Note: I'm so sorry to leave everybody on a cliffhanger like this, but it will probably be a few days before I update. I will be posting chapters 6 and 7 together, due to their nature (you'll see what I mean), and I haven't even finished writing chapter 7 yet. They are *very* difficult chapters, both to write and to read, and I need some time to get them right. But I'll post them as soon as I can. Thanks for hanging in there with me.