Rust by Julie Mars Page B

irrigation ditch, on his old nag Negrita, and he made a split-second decision to make a U-turn when the light changed, park in the dirt lot at the head of the trail by the river, meet up with Wilfredo, and go along for the ride. This was an unusual, but not a rare occurrence. Rico felt a small sense of responsibility for his young neighbor, who lived alone with his mother, Dora, and seemed to crave some man-to-man contact. They had done building projects together, played one-on-one basketball in Wilfredo’s driveway, and attempted to keep Dora’s Chevy Cavalier in running order through routine maintenance.
    He had already parked the truck and was waiting when Wilfredo crossed the ditch and arrived at the entrance to the trail. “Yo, Wilfredo,” Rico called, trying out a genuine New York vocabulary word, “you got room for two on that stallion?”
    Wilfredo broke into a grin that stretched from ear to ear as Rico came toward him. Wilfredo rode bareback, probably because there was no money for a saddle. There wasn’t really money for a horse either, but Dora had inherited this one as part of the deal when she bought the property. It wasn’t so easy for Rico to swing up behind Wilfredo, but he would never tell him that.
    “Take care of your cojones ,” Wilfredo advised as Rico got situated, and they both laughed.
    “You take care of yours. You might need them some day.” It was a thing they always said when they got on the horse.
    Wilfredo made a clicking sound, and Negrita headed for the dirt path to the Rio. It was dusk, and the cottonwoods along the riverbank were filled with huge black crows. They squawked up a storm, making such a terrible racket that once in a while Rico felt an uneasiness about moving past them deeper into the bosque . There were so many of them—thousands and maybe tens of thousands—and if they should take it into their heads to dive-bomb intruders on their home turf, there’d be nothing left but bloody pulp. Rico had never heard of such a thing happening, but he knew that nature was unpredictable, and all the flying, walking, and creeping beings who lived by the Rio, whose environment was getting destroyed, were getting desperate. Anything could happen.
    Still, Rico enjoyed these rides with Wilfredo. He could sense how important it made the young boy feel to be in charge, to hold the reins and control the speed of the animal. And just riding along the river was soothing. The bouncing of the horse seemed to jar loose the tensions of the day, and the little breeze created by the forward movement blew them away.
    “¿ Qué pasa contigo ?” Rico asked after a while. “Anything new?”
    “I have a novia, ” Wilfredo responded. “I think.”
    “No shit,” said Rico. “Aren’t you a little young?” And then, before Wilfredo could even answer, he added, “Stay out of that game, hombre . Once you get in it, you never get out again.”
    “I haven’t really been in it,” Wilfredo said, with great emphasis on the word in , and Rico laughed and replied, “Are you talking dirty, Wilfredo?”
    “No, Rico. I’m just telling you,” he said.
    They slid off Negrita, and Wilfredo led her down the bank to a place where the water formed a good drinking puddle.
    “How old were you when you had your first novia ?” Wilfredo asked.
    “At least twenty. Maybe thirty,” Rico responded.
    “Come on, Rico, tell me the truth.”
    “I don’t remember, Wilfredo. Older than you, though.” He watched Negrita slurp up the muddy brown water of the Rio for a while, and then said, “What’s her name? This girl you like?”
    Wilfredo turned to him. The sun was heading for the horizon in the west, and one ray of it slanted across Wilfredo’s face, lighting up the sweat along his hairline and turning his skin a shade of gold. He looked so innocent, so childlike, so unequipped for what he was rushing toward that it was all Rico could do to keep a straight face. “Jennifer,” Wilfredo said, as if he