I mean, I left this place just so I could survive. Because it was staying here that meant death. I'd probably catch a bullet before my twenty-third birthday, just like half the other cholos 'round El Barrio.
So what do I do? After I turn twenty-two, I leave the Massachusetts Academy and come back here. And I get shot. And now I'm dying.
Like I said — ironic.
Couldn't be a neat lil' through-and-through shot, either. Had to be a big motherfucking blattered hole in my side. Just my luck. The punk with the .22 misses, the vato with the .45 gets me.
Maybe it won't be so bad. At least I'll get to be with my Mama again. Y'think muties go to the same Heaven as all the rest of the normal humans? Think maybe when she sees me up there, wearing wings and a halo, playing the harp, she'll forgive me?
Think maybe I'm fooling myself and I'd better get ready for a more scorching climate?
It's all a pretty big joke. I'd laugh, if it didn't hurt. I can taste too much blood, clotting my throat, meaty, sickeningly warm. After all, I came down here to be with my Mama. And now I'm joining her.
"Are you sure you want to do this alone, Ange?"
I smiled for the umpteenth time at Paige's worried face, even though this whiny song of hers was really starting to get on my nerves. Didn't need her worry to make what I was already feeling any worse.
"Sure, Country Mouse," I grinned, looping an arm around her. "'Sides, Senora Frost is hooking me up with some amigo of hers down in LA — getting me a job and everything. I'll be fine. Just need some time off, alone, y'know?"
She tucked some of that gorgeous blonde hair behind her ear, still wearing a face like her prize sow went belly-up. "Yeah...Lord knows I needed time off too, when I went to stay with Momma...."
Tension. Just like always, whenever someone nearly mentions him. Jono.
My best friend Jono, who disappeared one night without a word to any of us — although he must've talked to Cassidy and Frost, because they didn't seem too concerned.
"Sure'n the lad simply needed some time to himself, children," Cassidy had explained in his patented "I Understand" tone while Frost stood behind him in tight-lipped, white-faced anger. I don't think she was quite as understanding.
Knowing Jono, he probably mouthed — er, psi-talked — her off something awful before he vamoosed.
Fucking bastard.
And it all rolled downhill from there. First Paige needed some time to herself, running home to Momma and the cows to recover from the loss of poor sweet goddamn Jonothon. Never mind the fact that he jerked her around all these years just so he could feel sorry for himself because a beautiful girl loved him. Never mind the fact that Paige mooned and moaned after him like he was the last guy on earth. Never mind the fact that bloody Jono wasn't the one who tended her when she got drunk, wiped her tears, held her through the night....
Anyway.
Then Jubilee and Everett decided they needed time to themselves, almost as soon as Paige left. Which was probably true enough. I guess they got tired of having to sneak outside every night to have sex, especially after a few nights of flash hailstorms.
And when Paige came back, Monet decided she was entitled to time for herself. Now that one I don't understand, 'cause with Monet, every second is for herself, huh?
When Ev and Jubes came back, grinning and all touchy-feely after what was no doubt two weeks of nonstop jiggy, I decided it was time for me to take a break. Cassidy wanted me to wait until Monet came back, but...circumstances changed.
So here I was, heading off to LA for my Mama's funeral.
"Just remember," Paige said, "you can come back anytime. You don't hafta stay there, Ange. I...ah'll miss you."
She flung her arms around me, kissing all over my face, and I caught my breath, feeling her mouth against my ear, smelling the warmth of her hair, tasting salt on my lips. I hugged her and then took a step back. Too many emotions, chica. Too many memories.
Time to go.
The window seat was nice. Frost even popped for first class, this being a death in the family and all.
Ah, I'm being too hard on her. She tries to be nice, she really does. I guess it's just stressful for her, balancing icy aloofness and...teacherly concern. Doesn't always get the mix right.
So anyway, I cranked my chair back, made good use of the first-class footstool and alcohol privileges, and stared as the plane dipped in and out of the clouds.
The inevitable thoughts came. About Mama. About how I never got a chance to explain to her, make it up to her, be her son again. I hurt her so much when I left...I don't think she ever got over it. My "death".
It's sort of...uh...karmic, I guess is the word. I mean, I made my Mama worry and grieve for years, for six years, over my death; and now I had to deal with her death. Only — I knew she wasn't pretending.
My eyes started to sting. Hot, prickly; but I didn't wanna start bawling on the plane. For sure not in first class. Another little bottle of scotch helped prevent the tears, made me drowsy. Which was good. I hadn't slept properly in...well, ages.
Back to Los Angeles. Back home.
No wonder I couldn't sleep.
Ahhhh, Dios....
How could I ever have forgotten what it feels like to take a slug? I'm having a hard time concentrating. Hard time thinking what to do.
Hell, I'm having a hard time just breathing.
What is it about this place? What is it about the City of Angels that reels me in jerking and jumping, caught fast and hard on its hook?
Why is it that this city always betrays me?
And this time it's not just in the form of flashing dark eyes and the cruelty of a wide red mouth. Nothing so easy for you this time 'round, Angelito. You get a bullet in the gut to remind you why you left and to tell you that you're one prize-winning, card-carrying idiot to come back here.
It's your own fault for getting involved....
The job was...well, it wasn't amazing. But one good thing about working as a mechanic in LA was that you were never lacking for customers. And it wasn't as if I was expecting Emma to find me a job as a CEO, in any case.
So, all things considered, the job was a pretty good one. Found a ratty little apartment quickly enough with the money I brought with me, settled almost too quickly into the pattern of work, sleep, errands. It was mostly hard work and not much time for lolling around--but the busyness and the tiredness kept my mind from working overtime. From thinking about Paige and Jono and all the other...complications that arose from coming to adulthood cooped up in the Academy, trying to get a handle on my ever-slippery powers.
For the first time since that long-ago, hot night when Angelo Espinosa had gone for a ride around the block with Torres and her crew, I was free.
No running. No hiding. No constant pain and reminders and unrequited love. Just living, for once; working and scraping to get by like any ordinary person. It felt so damn good to only be responsible for myself, to only be accountable to myself.
To be by myself.
At least, for a while.
The night was a sultry one, the heat of West Coast nights familiar, muggy after all those years in Massachusetts. The harsh, decaying smell of East LA — metal, marijuana, smog and garbage — was all around me as I walked, taking in the sights and sounds with a hunger that two months of living here hadn't knocked the edge off of yet.
At least, what with training and fighting supervillains and all, I knew how to project the look. The attitude that warned, "This ain't one to fuck with, vato. Find some easier target."
...I don't know why I went in. There was no reason for it. I guess I just wanted to see all the stuff again, all those candles and statues, the soaps and medallions and dried-up animals and flowers. I wanted to smell and touch those things again, remember my mama ignoring the black Maximon statues and reverently picking up a Guadalupe candle, selecting a "Run Devil Run" mixture to keep El Diablo from our doorstep.
Stepping inside the botanica was more like coming home than anything else.
I had to stop and breathe for a minute, calming the dizzy rush that went straight to my head the minute the smell of all those herbs and potions hit me. Senses swimming with the pungent aromas, I moved dazedly along the shelves, touching the cold smooth glass of the bottles and running my fingers through the clinking, jewel-colored beads.
The cross around my neck felt heavy, hot. Accusing.
How could I have gotten so far from this? From my life, from my God? How could I have left my faith behind, the only thing buried in that grave with my name on the tombstone? How could I have betrayed my mama so deeply and profoundly?
It had always just been a part of life. Going obediently to church every Sunday and festival day, saying grace before meals at my mama's table, biting my tongue to keep any sacrilegious profanity to keep from slipping out. Part of la vida loca in El Barrio; muttering your thanks to the Mother when you dodged a bullet or a knife fight or the dealers, getting her forgiving, soothing smile tattooed on your skin to protect you, a hopeful shield of colored inks.
When I left and ended up in Snow Valley, the issue of religion had never come up, mostly due to Cassidy's and Frost's policy of staying strictly out of our personal beliefs. Paige and Ev are Christian, although not really devout; Jubes, Jono, Monet...who knows.
I considered myself to be in the same category as them — stubbornly, childishly declaring to myself that God hadn't come through for me, so why should I bother with him? Why, when I'd had to depend on myself, and done a damn fine job of it? What did I need God for?
I'd only gone to church once, much later, when I turned twenty-one. Secretly, quietly — as if it were something to be ashamed of. Sneaking off to the city and creeping into the first Catholic church I found, crossing myself and kneeling awkwardly in the back pew, not even attempting to genuflect. Listening to the sonorous Latin of the Communion rites with the terrified feeling that any moment I was going to be found out, exposed, tossed uncerimoniously into the street. Choking on the words of the hymns, murmuring the Hail Marys with apprehension more than reverence.
You turned your back on La Madre, son. You were wrong to blame her.
And here I was now, surrounded by a shopful of her sorrowful eyes gently berating me for deserting her. For deserting my mama.
For deserting my faith.
The smash of glass on the concrete floor and the sudden sharp smell of rosemary and vinegar jolted me back to the here and now — which happened to be the bottle of hexing oil that had slipped from my fingers while I zoned out. The counter girl yelped and came skittering over with a bunch of hard dry brown paper towels, trying to mop up the mess and doing a crappy job of it.
"Uh, here — lemme help," I offered, picking up the bigger shards of glass and wrapping them in some paper towelling. She moaned incoherently and swiped at the oily slick, turning her big, black-ringed brown eyes up to me in despair.
"You're gonna have to pay for it!" she gasped. "You're gonna have to — ow!!"
She'd cut herself, naturally. I could tell it was going to happen from the minute she ran over and dropped to her knees, which was why I offered to clean up in the first place.
"Go put a bandaid on that," I suggested, catching hold of her hand as it darted back down to continue the ineffectual wiping. "This stuff's Cuatro Ladrones, it's mostly vinegar and camphor — if it gets in the cut you'll go nuts."
Instead, she sat back against the shelf, sticking the bloody finger in her mouth, drawing her knees up. Not the most demure position for a girl in a knee-length skirt, but hey — I'm a gentleman. I didn't look too long.
I went over to the aisle where I remembered seeing some salt and came back with a carton. "I'll pay for this too, okay?"
She didn't answer, so I just tossed some of it onto the spill and waited for it all to absorb. The girl lifted huge, teary, wounded-deer eyes, pulling her finger out of her mouth, leaving a smear of dark red across her bottom lip.
"I'm Dolores," she whispered.
"Angelo," I smiled briefly, looking away when her tongue followed the bloodtrail her finger had left. "Sorry 'bout the mess — I kinda spaced out there for a minute."
"Yeah. You're not from around here."
Dios. And here I thought I was fitting in admirably. "No. Well, I mean — I am, but I moved away for a long time."
She shifted, putting her legs down and tucking her feet under her as I started sweeping up the salt and glass shards. "And this is where you come back to? You missed the botanicas?" Her voice was puzzled.
Frowning, I went over to the garbage can, disposing of the tainted salt. "No. Why would you think that?"
Dolores got up, dusting her skirt in a childish way that was oddly appealing. "You seem to know what this crap is. I hate it. I hate the botanica."
"Then why do you work here?"
She smiled wryly and I knew what the answer was before she said it. "I need the money." What other answer is there to give in LA?
Dolores swished back over to the counter, perching herself on the stool behind it and staring around with a sigh. "But I don't know anything about this stuff. The customers don't like me. Diego's gonna fire me next time I screw up, I know it!"
The tears started up again and I lurched over to her, carefully patting her smooth hair. Don't bother with her, amigo, my brain warned ominously. You know what these chicas are like — they play you for a fool and you audition for the part.
But since when have I listened to my brain?
Dolores.
I should've known just from her name what she was going to bring me. I should've stayed away from her, concentrated on my job, my...well, whatever the hell else was happening.
But no. Sir Angelo had to play the fucking white knight. I don't think I'll ever learn.
Then again...the stink of blood and the heat in my side remind me that I might have screwed up my last chance at learning. Dios — the smell's making me nauseous now...thick and heavy and almost obscene....
Can't afford to stop, but I have to. That, or fall down splat in the road.
Stopping won't stop the pain, but at least I can catch my breath...
I hate running.
From then on, everything was about her.
When I had free time, between shifts, weekends, whatever — I'd head over to the botanica and help Dolores out. Explaining to the customers why an Orunmila statue was like a St. Francis of Assissi, how a Sagrado Corazon could protect them from evil influences, what sort of despojo was the best to bathe in for love or money or whatever.
And when the shop closed up, I'd stay and wander slowly through the merchandise and paraphernalia with Dolores, teaching her what everything was for.
It was my own vanity that made me stay in the beginning. It felt awesome to be so needed — for her whole livelihood to depend on me, on what I taught her and how much I knew. It felt good to be looked up to and adored; I lapped it up like it was fucking honey.
It's not as if I opened up to her or anything — in fact, I hardly ever talked about the Mass Academy or anyone at all. Not my family, not my friends. I didn't even tell her my last name, and she never asked. What more could I want?
I showed Dolores how to anoint the cash register, the door, the counter with Arab-ka to draw business. She kept up a steady stream of questions, all of them good ones. Frost would kill to have her in one've our classes; Dolores was attentive, curious, quick.
Not to mention sexy as all hell.
"What's that stuff, Angelo?" she'd ask as I crammed bits of incense under the register drawer, catching me off-guard with the breathy moan she made out of my name. I'd swallow, smile, keep my voice even.
"Kyphi."
"What does that mean?"
"Not sure. It's Egyptian. Made with raisins and honey and sandalwood dust and that kinda thing — but it attracts customers and keeps 'em coming back. And that's what you want, right?"
"Right," she'd smile, and the sight of her full, swollen-looking lips fluttering back over her teeth would almost do me in.
Her boss, Diego, was amazed with the turnaround in Dolores' performance. She went from being a favour to his high-school buddy to being his prized employee in less than a month. Dolores told me that it was because of the Areglar el Hefe — Boss Fix — that we'd done, but I knew better.
Now that she knew the merchandise, now that she wasn't a liability, she was damn good wife material. And that was just what Diego wanted.
Sure, he was old enough to be her father. Sure, he had a gut on him like a fucking redneck truckdriver. Sure, he only stopped being a pendejo when she proved to be good for business.
But I knew Dolores, and Diego's bank account and new Cherokee Jeep would mean more to her than his fat ass or his thick balding head. She encouraged his advances, flirted shamelessly with him, sitting perched prettily on the counter while I silently prowled the back shelves, avoiding him, waiting for her to close up shop. She laughed at Diego's stupid jokes and told him she admired his keen business sense. She tossed her rich brown hair and let her skirt creep up one leg for him to drool at.
And all the while her dark smouldering eyes were holding mine over his ignorant shoulder, boring into me, eating me alive.
It was only a matter of time.
Would it matter if I said we teased each other constantly during those late-night perusals of the botanica, dabbing Atrayente de Amor and all sorts of other lovey-oil nonsense on each other, flirting and playing and getting hotter and heavier each time?
Would it excuse my weakness if I told you that her mouth tasted of lemon and honey, and her fingertips were always shiveringly cold against my fevered skin?
I don't think it would.
I was drunk with the cloves-and-cinnamon smell on her, the feel of her wickedly hot breath against my hip, the open dark cavern of her mouth as she gasped my name, hands tugging at my hair. The scent of sandalwood and vanilla on our hands, on our bodies, in the air, everywhere. Her dark red fingernails scraping down the side of my throat.
She never said she loved me, and I never claimed to love her either. I still don't know if I love her or not.
But I did enough, for the space of that one night.
I can't move anymore. I'm gonna have to lie here in this stinking doorway until they come get me.
Which ones, though? Friend or foe? I dunno...I can't even think straight. I can't keep to one line of....
God, what I wouldn't give to see Jono again...I miss him so much... why didn't he ever see how I —
Oh Dios.
They're coming.
"I don't understand."
"Try to, Angelo. Diego wants to marry me. If he catches us hanging around together, if he catches you here after hours —"
"What? He'll assume I'm dogging you? He'll fire you?"
"Diego would never fire me now — I'm his best employee! I bring in more customers than he ever did before!"
"Yeah, you sure do, chica. You happen to remember why you're suddenly the star pupil?"
"I knew you would make a fuss about it. Angelo, you have to understand — I can't see you anymore. Ever."
"...."
"Don't be angry —"
"Why? Why shouldn't I be angry? You think this was just some kinda cheap fling for me?"
"Stop overreacting. You taught me what all this botanica shit is. I fucked you for it. We're even."
...and that was the end of that.
I didn't go back there. Why would I, unless I wanted to add "masochist" to my current resume of "sap"? See her with Diego's fat fingers all over her, with his ring on her hand. See them cuddling and canoodling and whatever nauseating shit went on with them. The thought gave me shudders.
So I went back to the lonely life; working and surviving, month after month. I still wasn't ready to go back to Massachusetts and pick up on where I left off, the pseudo-Angelo who was waiting for me in those hallowed halls. What did that chico have, anyway? Nothing. No best friend, no girlfriend — nothing.
Which was the same thing this vato in East LA had.
I had no reason to stay in South Central. I had no reason to go back. I needed to find one.
It found me first.
The sounds gettin' closer. Can't keep it together. Can't move, nothing.
I'm gonna die here.
Alone.
Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee....
The night was a cold one. A strange, eerie cold that settled over the city like a premonition, raising the hairs on the back of your neck and sending graveyard shivers through you every couple of minutes.
It seemed perfect as I levered open the window and slipped inside. It seemed fitting.
(Blessed art thou among women)
The crib was beautiful, brand-new. After all, Diego could afford the best.
And my daughter deserved the best.
(And blessed is the fruit of thy womb)
I knew she was mine even before I held her. Even before I picked up her warm, tiny body, snuggling her against my face, burying my nose in the sweet, milky smell of her. So beautiful, these liquid brown eyes, these miniature curled fingers. My daughter.
And then Dolores' voice, dropping cold into the darkness of the room, making my blood crawl hysterically through my veins.
"I know who you are, Angelo Espinosa."
(Jesus.)
"She's mine." I kept the edge of maniac out of my voice, kept it steady. Threatening. My nina batted her hand against my chin, yawning, the stretch of her pink mouth fascinating me. I could stay standing here looking at her forever.
"She's Diego's now." Dolores didn't move from behind me. "He couldn't have a child if he tried, the old panting fool. But he thinks she's his — and that's why he married me."
"I'm not leaving her here."
"You have to." The freezing shards of her words were like a fleet of glass piercing my back; I curled instinctively forward to protect my child from the venom. But I couldn't shut out what Dolores said next, soaking in cruel pleasure.
"Torres is coming for you."
(Holy Mary mother of God)
It hurt more than anything else. More than leaving my family and home, more than the bullet in my gut, more than any fucking thing I've ever been through. Ever.
I was half-tempted to just stay there, just take in the only time I would ever have with my baby girl before Torres and her crew busted in and blew my head off. Spend those last moments of my life cradling that tiny bit of humanity whose sweet chocolate brown eyes held nothing of her mother's viciousness or her father's despair. Or maybe I could take her with me, move fast and smart enough to evade the crew and spirit my baby off to the safe haven of Massachusetts....
But instead I chose to run.
(Pray for us sinners)
I manage to push myself up, sitting propped against the door like a rag doll. Holding my side with both blood-slicked hands, catching whooping, stained breaths that require all my concentration.
At least when Torres executes me, I won't be sprawled out on the pavement like roadkill. I'm gonna go with some dignity.
I deserve at least that much.
(Now and at the hour of our deaths)
She's here now and she's yelling and I can hear the lead screaming through the air. The guns are firing; people being killed. Torres never did give up easy, and she never did care if she capped the innocent bystander types.
God more death more blood and more condemnation....
And there's more screaming, and something like fire — a huge bright light — and I hear myself start to sob when the noise quiets down and he comes over and hauls me up, and I know everything's gonna be okay now and maybe we can even go get my daughter when I heal up, because with my best amigo Jono backin' me I can do anything, and he's stroking my sweat-soaked hair and telling me the same thing.
{{It's awright, mate. I'm here now. We're gonna get you fixed up. I'm gonna fix everything, Sunshine.
{{I'm here now.}}
Amen.
August 1999
I'm going to die here. Ironic, huh?
Does it make any difference to know how it happened?