all of them married and so poor it took everything they could scrape together to buy a few tires and rent the space. For the next dozen years, Raymundo busted his hump in the tire shop, his wife cleaned houses for the Anglos and raised a houseful of kids. Somehow they managed to save a little something every month, so when their oldest son Alberto turned sixteen they bought out the other two partners and put up the sign, Ortiz and Son , that still hung out front.
Alberto was not the great tire salesman his father was, but he followed orders and worked hard, so when he got a girl pregnant a few years later the family was able to set him up in the tiny house on Eighth Avenue where Rudy grew up. The store and both houses were in South Tucson, the square-mile city-within-a-city that was swallowed by urban growth during Rudy’s childhood. It was almost downtown now and much smaller than the sprawl of houses below I-10 that the locals called south Tucson without the capitol S.
Vanloads of illegal immigrants arrived in South Tucson every week. The ones that didn’t get caught and sent back stayed till they got established and then usually moved on. But Rudy’s family stayed in the barrio. In fact there had been Ortizes living in that part of the Tucson valley since the days of the first missionaries, his grandfather once told him proudly.
“How come we ain’t big shots, then, like Ronstadts and them?” Rudy was young then and said whatever came into his head. His own grandchildren did the same thing now and he could hardly bear to listen to them. They made him realize how foolish he had been once, never considering the wonderful possibilities of silence.
That day when Rudy blabbed his first thought, Raymundo had been deeply offended. Turning to Alberto he said, “Perhaps you could take the time to explain to your son how discouraging it is to work hard all these years, starting from nothing, and become the owner of a thriving business only to hear disrespect from one’s own grandson.” He had never liked Rudy, who resembled his mother, the woman Raymundo still considered a slut for her moment of weakness in Alberto’s arms. Raymundo didn’t speak to Rudy again until the middle of the following year, when Alberto lay dying of cancer.
That day he sent Rudy’s uncle Manuel to the house on Eighth Avenue, so crammed with Ortizes now that Rudy and his sisters never came home except to sleep. Standing in the doorway, looking guiltily out the window because he could not bear to see how Alberto lay suffering, Manuel told Rudy, “He wants to talk to you.” Manuel was too cowed by his father to call him by name.
Rudy followed him back to Raymundo’s house. Manuel stopped on the sidewalk by the front door, said, “He’s in the parlor,” and went on around to the kitchen door in back to let himself in.
“ Bueno ,” Raymundo said when Rudy stood in front of him, “Alberto has always been my right arm, my other sons are worthless. Now it must be you. I have never seen any sign of intelligence in you, but your mother and sisters have no one else, and your father insists that you can learn. So you will come to my shop tomorrow morning.”
Aside from the impossibility of arguing with his grandfather at such a time, Rudy was glad enough to drop out of tenth grade. Like most of the men in his family he could read and write adequately, and add and subtract rapidly in his head, and considered all other formal education a mysterious nuisance. He hated the thought of working for his overbearing grandfather, but promised himself it would not be for long.
Raymundo was astounded by how good Rudy turned out to be at the job. Rudy wasn’t surprised at all; he had always known he was a born entrepreneur, quick to learn, tireless and shrewd in the pursuit of profit. His sisters and classmates were not surprised either. Rudy had always grabbed the
Alberto was not the great tire salesman his father was, but he followed orders and worked hard, so when he got a girl pregnant a few years later the family was able to set him up in the tiny house on Eighth Avenue where Rudy grew up. The store and both houses were in South Tucson, the square-mile city-within-a-city that was swallowed by urban growth during Rudy’s childhood. It was almost downtown now and much smaller than the sprawl of houses below I-10 that the locals called south Tucson without the capitol S.
Vanloads of illegal immigrants arrived in South Tucson every week. The ones that didn’t get caught and sent back stayed till they got established and then usually moved on. But Rudy’s family stayed in the barrio. In fact there had been Ortizes living in that part of the Tucson valley since the days of the first missionaries, his grandfather once told him proudly.
“How come we ain’t big shots, then, like Ronstadts and them?” Rudy was young then and said whatever came into his head. His own grandchildren did the same thing now and he could hardly bear to listen to them. They made him realize how foolish he had been once, never considering the wonderful possibilities of silence.
That day when Rudy blabbed his first thought, Raymundo had been deeply offended. Turning to Alberto he said, “Perhaps you could take the time to explain to your son how discouraging it is to work hard all these years, starting from nothing, and become the owner of a thriving business only to hear disrespect from one’s own grandson.” He had never liked Rudy, who resembled his mother, the woman Raymundo still considered a slut for her moment of weakness in Alberto’s arms. Raymundo didn’t speak to Rudy again until the middle of the following year, when Alberto lay dying of cancer.
That day he sent Rudy’s uncle Manuel to the house on Eighth Avenue, so crammed with Ortizes now that Rudy and his sisters never came home except to sleep. Standing in the doorway, looking guiltily out the window because he could not bear to see how Alberto lay suffering, Manuel told Rudy, “He wants to talk to you.” Manuel was too cowed by his father to call him by name.
Rudy followed him back to Raymundo’s house. Manuel stopped on the sidewalk by the front door, said, “He’s in the parlor,” and went on around to the kitchen door in back to let himself in.
“ Bueno ,” Raymundo said when Rudy stood in front of him, “Alberto has always been my right arm, my other sons are worthless. Now it must be you. I have never seen any sign of intelligence in you, but your mother and sisters have no one else, and your father insists that you can learn. So you will come to my shop tomorrow morning.”
Aside from the impossibility of arguing with his grandfather at such a time, Rudy was glad enough to drop out of tenth grade. Like most of the men in his family he could read and write adequately, and add and subtract rapidly in his head, and considered all other formal education a mysterious nuisance. He hated the thought of working for his overbearing grandfather, but promised himself it would not be for long.
Raymundo was astounded by how good Rudy turned out to be at the job. Rudy wasn’t surprised at all; he had always known he was a born entrepreneur, quick to learn, tireless and shrewd in the pursuit of profit. His sisters and classmates were not surprised either. Rudy had always grabbed the
Similar Books
