her friend Felix, and two neighborhood kids of eleven or twelve who seemed simply to have wandered into the house in time to eat. Platters of machaca and of sizzling pepper and onions moved steadily around the table. Mrs. Flores heated tortillas on the open burner of her stove, dropping them on, turning, serving.
His finger throbbed now. A big-nosed doctor had cleaned and bandaged it tightly. Very clean, he said. You may lose some feeling in that finger, but it’s going to be fine. We’ll give you a shot, antibiotics, just to be on the safe side. He looked at Mrs. Flores. Bring the boy back if he starts running a fever, sweating, drinking a lot, anything like that.
The boy .
Felix pushed the machaca toward him. “How’d you cut yourself?”
“Not paying attention.”
“How accidents mostly happen.”
Jimmie didn’t have much by way of social conversation but gave it a shot. “What do you do, Mr.… ?”
“Just Felix. Nobody calls me anything but Felix.” He exchanged glances with Mrs. Flores. “Drive trucks, mostly.”
“He helps people,” Mrs. Flores said.
“Like he did me, today.”
“It was nothing,” Felix said, then, smiling at Mrs. Flores: “Es nada.”
“I’m going to be a football player,” one of the kids said.
“And I’m going to own my own business,” the other said.
Jimmie asked him what kind of business.
“Don’ know. Big one.”
It was getting dark outside, trees going gray, fading into the grayness around them. Everyone said this used to be pure desert, then people moved in from elsewhere and brought along their trees and bushes and backyards. But everyone also said there used to be rivers here, and boats going down them, so go figure.
“I should be getting home,” Jimmie said. “Can I help clean up?”
“We can help, Mama Flores,” one of the kids said.
“Looks like we have it covered, then.” Mrs. Flores leaned close to him as she scooped dishes from the table. “Are you going to be okay?”
Jimmie stood, and nodded. “Thank you both, more than I can say.” He held out his hand, and Felix, looking a little surprised, shook it. They walked together into the front room. When Felix switched on the porch light and opened the door, a moth flew in. Without apparent effort or thought, Felix lifted his hand, intercepted the moth, carried it outside with them.
“Roshelle wants me to tell you,” he said, “you need anything, you just come right on back here.”
“I will. And thanks again.”
Felix let the moth go. “A pleasure,” he said.
Back at the house, Jimmie cleaned up the kitchen as best he could with one hand pretty much out of commission. The finger was thickly bandaged. The big-nosed doctor had cautioned him against getting the dressings wet. He felt every heartbeat there at the fingertip, like those cartoons where thumbs or heads blow up like balloons, deflate, and blow up again. He put the pot with the stew meat in the refrigerator, tossed the vegetables. He’d start fresh tomorrow.
Flipping the computer on, he thought about Mrs. Flores, Felix, and the kids, this ramshackle, sort-of family of hers, as it booted up. He thought of the moth Felix had taken outside, and remembered his mother proudly showing him her mason jar of mosquitoes.
Once when he was small, they’d been out walking and come across a pigeon with a broken wing. It must have just happened, he realized now, thinking about it. The bird would walk a few steps, then hop, trying to fly, as the wing just hung there, fanned out, at its side. The bird couldn’t understand: this had always worked. It took three steps, hopped again, fluttering the good wing. Jimmie looked over and saw tears on his mother’s face.
Now, remembering that, what came to him was the thought of how panicked the bird must have been, how lost, how the only thing it could do was keep trying.
He entered his password, travelR2, to check on orders. Four of them, including the set of luthier tools he’d figured
His finger throbbed now. A big-nosed doctor had cleaned and bandaged it tightly. Very clean, he said. You may lose some feeling in that finger, but it’s going to be fine. We’ll give you a shot, antibiotics, just to be on the safe side. He looked at Mrs. Flores. Bring the boy back if he starts running a fever, sweating, drinking a lot, anything like that.
The boy .
Felix pushed the machaca toward him. “How’d you cut yourself?”
“Not paying attention.”
“How accidents mostly happen.”
Jimmie didn’t have much by way of social conversation but gave it a shot. “What do you do, Mr.… ?”
“Just Felix. Nobody calls me anything but Felix.” He exchanged glances with Mrs. Flores. “Drive trucks, mostly.”
“He helps people,” Mrs. Flores said.
“Like he did me, today.”
“It was nothing,” Felix said, then, smiling at Mrs. Flores: “Es nada.”
“I’m going to be a football player,” one of the kids said.
“And I’m going to own my own business,” the other said.
Jimmie asked him what kind of business.
“Don’ know. Big one.”
It was getting dark outside, trees going gray, fading into the grayness around them. Everyone said this used to be pure desert, then people moved in from elsewhere and brought along their trees and bushes and backyards. But everyone also said there used to be rivers here, and boats going down them, so go figure.
“I should be getting home,” Jimmie said. “Can I help clean up?”
“We can help, Mama Flores,” one of the kids said.
“Looks like we have it covered, then.” Mrs. Flores leaned close to him as she scooped dishes from the table. “Are you going to be okay?”
Jimmie stood, and nodded. “Thank you both, more than I can say.” He held out his hand, and Felix, looking a little surprised, shook it. They walked together into the front room. When Felix switched on the porch light and opened the door, a moth flew in. Without apparent effort or thought, Felix lifted his hand, intercepted the moth, carried it outside with them.
“Roshelle wants me to tell you,” he said, “you need anything, you just come right on back here.”
“I will. And thanks again.”
Felix let the moth go. “A pleasure,” he said.
Back at the house, Jimmie cleaned up the kitchen as best he could with one hand pretty much out of commission. The finger was thickly bandaged. The big-nosed doctor had cautioned him against getting the dressings wet. He felt every heartbeat there at the fingertip, like those cartoons where thumbs or heads blow up like balloons, deflate, and blow up again. He put the pot with the stew meat in the refrigerator, tossed the vegetables. He’d start fresh tomorrow.
Flipping the computer on, he thought about Mrs. Flores, Felix, and the kids, this ramshackle, sort-of family of hers, as it booted up. He thought of the moth Felix had taken outside, and remembered his mother proudly showing him her mason jar of mosquitoes.
Once when he was small, they’d been out walking and come across a pigeon with a broken wing. It must have just happened, he realized now, thinking about it. The bird would walk a few steps, then hop, trying to fly, as the wing just hung there, fanned out, at its side. The bird couldn’t understand: this had always worked. It took three steps, hopped again, fluttering the good wing. Jimmie looked over and saw tears on his mother’s face.
Now, remembering that, what came to him was the thought of how panicked the bird must have been, how lost, how the only thing it could do was keep trying.
He entered his password, travelR2, to check on orders. Four of them, including the set of luthier tools he’d figured
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