A So-Called Vacation (8 page)

“This place isn't so bad. But it's a shame our neighbors are such a bad influence.”

“You said it,” said Gabriel. “Those Borrados are a bunch of weasels.”

She stared at him, not quite believing what she had heard. “I meant our other neighbors. It's bad enough that Señor Serenata likes the sauce so much. But to think think that his oldest son—”

“His name's Victor,” said Gus. “He's the only one who took my side after I screwed up with the crew boss.”

“Yes, I heard him. But he's headed down the same path as his father. Be careful. There's something about him I don't like.”

“You got your neighbors mixed up, Mom. Gabi's right. Victor's an okay guy.”

“I didn't say he was okay!”

“Fine, but you did say it was the opposite neighbors we should worry about.”

“You mean Don Pilo?” asked Paula.

“No, the old man's harmless. It's his kids.”

“How can you say that?” asked their father. “They're great kids.”

“To you grown-ups they look nice.”

“Did I say nice? I said—”

“Okay, Dad, to you they're great. But they're actually like those bad seed kids in horror movies. They're evil.”

“And all we're saying,” said their mother, “is that we're glad they're next door. They balance out the bad vibes from that other young man.” Before Gus could remind her that he had a name, she added, “Victor.”

Gabriel tried hard not to grin, but the harder he tried the worse it became, until his mother asked outright: “Did I say something funny?”

“I just had this mental picture of us sitting on a sofa. The whole family. On one side there's a little angel, floating next to our heads. And on the other side a little red devil, just like in a cartoon.” He grinned again. “Anyway, I can imagine Victor with horns and a tail. That doesn't take much imagination. But I just can't come up with a Borrado—any Borrado—wearing a halo and angel wings.”

“You're just not trying hard enough,” said Paula. “Just like when you're out in the field.”

Gabriel was too tired to argue back. Besides, he wanted to enjoy the nice green countryside. They had not left camp until after lunch, and twice they lost their way on the unmarked country roads. By the time they arrived at the handful of stores on Main Street a few had already closed.

Their father first dropped the women off in front of the supermarket. “Get a head start on the basics. We'll come back in a while. And remember, don't get anything that spoils.”

“But that means we'll have to get canned goods,” said Paula.

“So?”

“So they've got lots of sodium.” When their father continued to stare at her with a blank look, she added, “Salt, Dad. Canned goods have too much salt.”

“I'd rather have too much salt than food poisoning.”

“Oh, right,” murmured Gus to his brother. “Like that mayonnaise bull on the way up.”

It was hard to tell whether the auto parts store was open since there were no cars on the curb outside. Its cluttered aisles and modest assortment of merchandise reminded Gabriel of the way his father described their hometown when he was their age.

His father went to the door, then signaled them. Gabriel joined him, but Gus simply made a face that suggested a stomachache.

“Come inside, Gustavo! You might learn something.”

“What's there to learn, Dad? We're just getting points and plugs, something we should have done back home.”

“Plus a valve cover gasket. And whatever else I may need.”

By the time Gus finally entered, their father was already asking for a gasket. Gus noticed the confused impatience on the balding Anglo's face, so he repeated their father's request. While the man joined his helper in the stockroom and while their father was distracted by a ratchet wrench set, Gus said under his breath, “Why'd you let Dad open his mouth? They'll think we're
mojados.
”

Gabriel was about to say that their father sounded nothing like someone raised in Mexico when the man returned with a teenager who looked enough like him to be his son, with the same coarse eyebrows and high forehead. “This what you need?” the boy asked in a perfunctory tone.

Gus nodded, then asked the man not to ring up the sale yet. The stock boy disappeared around an aisle corner, but
it was not until Gabriel noticed him watching his father on a ceiling security mirror that he understood Gus's discomfort. Then he saw Gus looking at their father just as intensely as the stock boy, but with a seething silence.

“Hurry up, Dad,” said Gabriel. “I think they're about to close.” He was hoping the Anglos would contradict him and encourage the browsing. Instead they seemed to agree through their silence, and the older man even reached behind his back, as if trying to untie his work apron.

The older man was adding up the items when their father asked, “You got any good mechanics around here?”

The man nodded without a word, while the younger one asked, “Why, you need one?”

“Oh, no. I'm one myself.”

The older man placed the change on the counter and slid it toward him. “We have enough here.”

“Let's go, Dad!” said Gus. “We need some stuff from the general store across the street.”

Gabriel glanced toward the small supermarket and suspected that Gus had called it a general store to mock their town.

Gus held the door open for two Anglo women who entered the store. He gave the first girl a closer look, but the other one had already given him her own once-over and, not liking what she saw, called the girl to her side.

The balding Anglo greeted them by name, and as Gabriel neared the door he heard the older woman ask, “Were you about to close?”

“Not at all.” The man retied his apron strings. “Not for another hour at least.”

G
abriel spent much of that evening in a sullen mood, and it smoldered into the next day. Finally even Gus, who harbored no illusions about their predicament, offered some uplifting advice.

“I don't know what's bothering you, Gabi. But tomorrow we're going back to the fields, so make the most of the weekend.”

“I'm still pissed off about that shopkeeper.”

“He's from another generation. They'll die off soon.”

“Yeah? His son wasn't much better.”

“Well, you know what pisses
me
off even more? That two-bit town they're from.”

“You think the other hicks who live there are just as bad?”

“That's not the point. I mean we came all the way to California for that. What's worse …” He stared out the screen door. “For
this
. No wonder the workers actually look forward to going back home. We could have stayed back in the Valley and been a lot better off. There's movies—”

“What did you expect?”

“So now you're siding with Dad.”

“No, Gus, I'm just saying that this is where migrants work. It's not like we were coming to pick crops in L.A.”

“Fine. And you let go of that episode at the auto parts store. Besides, it was all Dad's fault.”

“What's Dad have to do with those Anglos?”

“Well, if he'd kept his mouth shut …”

“He was just there to buy stuff, Gus! If they didn't want him there, how come they took his money?”

“Don't worry about it. The whole thing went over his head.”

Gabriel did not reply, but instead recalled the times his father had talked about his own childhood, when whites had run things back home. At that moment, and despite all the times he had locked horns with his father, he felt a sad, inexplicable bond between them.

He paused at the door and asked, “By the way, where is he?”

“He was headed for that open field where the kids play kickball, by that old barn. He's got his tools on display.”

“You mean he's setting up shop?”

“It's more like advertising. He wants to let the camp know he works on cars.”

“Let's hope it does the trick,” said Gabriel.

“Sounds like you have your own doubts.”

“Well, it's not going to be a cakewalk for Dad, that's for sure. It'll all be uphill.”

“Now you're starting to sound like me,” Gus sounded smug.

“I'm just being realistic. There's a lot of stuff we didn't think through before we made the jump.”

“I'll say.” But Gus did not offer any points of his own. Instead he waited for his brother to explain.

“Dad was blinded by the thought of making money, just like we were blinded by a vacation at the end of the road. He heard about how much money a family could make each month here, but he didn't realize it's only for a few weeks. Most of these guys go back home and work on odd jobs the rest of the year or collect unemployment.”

Gus nodded seriously yet said nothing.

“Before we left, Dad and I saw this migrant worker's pickup out in a parking lot. It was pretty impressive, like some of the trucks we see here.” Gabriel regarded their surroundings with an unsentimental eye. “But you don't see the places they have to live in to earn the money for those fancy trucks.”

Gus nodded again, then added, “Or the hard-core houses they have back home. Jesus, Gabriel, why didn't you tell him all this before we came up? Why didn't you tell me? Maybe we could have stopped the old man in his tracks.”

Gabriel pushed against the screen door and let in a flood of light. “Like I said, I didn't know all this until now.”

But as he stepped off the porch he knew otherwise. He had considered some of those arguments back in Texas, at least partially, but Gabriel had feared that Gus might have used his ambivalence to derail the trip. And perhaps, Gabriel now believed, Gus had wanted to be proven wrong. Maybe Gus truly wanted their father to succeed despite all the discouraging signs.

Gabriel found their van parked under a shade tree across the street from the abandoned barn. His father wore his mechanic's overalls and had slid open the van door to showcase two large toolboxes with overlapping triple trays.

“Wow. What are you going to do, Dad, transplant a transmission?”

He guided his son's gaze to a handful of tools he had already set aside for a tune-up. And even though no one was around, his father said in a low but excited voice, “I wanted to bring out the big guns. For show.” Then he
pointed across the open field that served as camp commons.

“They say a white preacher will be here in an hour. He's giving a sermon in that run-down barn.”

“How's his Spanish?”

“Probably as creaky as that old barn. But you know those Anglos. They pick up a few words in Spanish and think they're experts.”

“So while the preacher is fishing for souls—”

“I'm fishing for customers.” For once he seemed to savor the fact that his son had seen through his tricks.

Gabriel observed him for a while, then said, “You should do TV commercials, Dad. You look like a real mechanic.”

“I am a real mechanic.” He turned casually to show off the tools bulging from his back pockets. He even had on the garage cap he hated to wear because it plastered his hair in an unflattering pattern.

“What I mean is, there's lots of mechanics out there, but they usually don't look like the real thing.”

His father did another slow circle, then froze, like a muscle man proud of his profile. “I'm more real than the real thing. I don't need to work in a garage to prove it.”

But despite the comings and goings of curious gawkers who wandered to and from the sermon, his efforts barely attracted a trio of men, including one who kept offering contrary advice. Gabriel became so annoyed that he whispered to his father under the hood, “Why even bother answering this idiot?”

“I'm always getting guys like him at the shop. He's testing my expertise.”

“He's no expert, Dad. He's just a jerk.”

“I'm not doing this for him,” he whispered back. “This way everyone will know how much I know.”

Gabriel was not convinced but he still said, “I guess you know best. Anyway, do you need help?”

“Thanks, but I'd better do this myself. Otherwise they'll think I pass off my work to you guys.”

After Gabriel left, a teenager with the uneasy air of a loner lingered on the fringes, saying absolutely nothing but making the father so uneasy that he did little more than check his toolbox. In the end he was left to supervise two hyperkinetic kids whose parents had sent them outside to ventilate their energy. They so tried his patience with their preschool inquiries that he finally packed up and left.

He returned to their shack as the last smudge of sunlight was fading. He never mentioned how things went, yet the manic streak in his conversation got the best of Gus, who quizzed his brother with a curious head cock.