man.
But the third…
The third person…
Brushes my head as he drags the hose, the water, coming now, gushing.
It’s my brother.
Julian.
“Boys don’t cry,” Damian said once.
“He’s wrong,” Abuelita told me, her voice fierce. “Good men cry because they care.”
I’m glad she said that, because I’m crying, really crying, now.
Angel thinks it’s about the fire. “It wasn’t your fault,” she keeps saying, her hands on my shoulders. “And those people will put it out.”
I can’t answer. I stand there, not even trying to hide the tears. I grab her arm, shaking my head. I feel the tick of my heart, because I’m afraid now for Julian, and the other two, so close to the smoke and the fire.
Over the flaming trees, water sprays in a thick arc, back and forth. Several branches split and crash to the ground. The heat is so fierce that Angel and I move across the street where several people have gathered, watching, pointing. No one seems to wonder about who we are, or care; they move over to make room for us.
Flashes of lightning zigzag across the sky, one after another, and there’s a constant rumble of thunder. But finally, I feel it…
Great drops of water on my head as rain comes at last.
I raise my face to it, open my mouth to drink it in, and watch as a few sparks continue to fly up, the flames lessen, and slowly, the fire dies.
My crying has stopped now, but not the rain. It comes down in torrents, bringing cool air.
The people scatter, and I know Julian will be coming back out soon. Did he see me as he went by? Or did he run his hand over the top of my head because I was just a kid standing there?
“All right now?” Angel says.
I nod and raise my hand toward the fire. “My brother Julian.”
“Oh, Matty!” she says, finally realizing and almost dancing around me. Her face changes, and I’m sure she’s thinking about her grandfather, and maybe how glad she’ll be to see him, to be home.
Now the three are dragging back the hose, and Julian stops, and of course he knows it’s me.
In two steps, he’s in front of me, his face filthy. He reaches out, his hands in thick gloves, and lifts me off the ground.
He’s not crying the way I did; he’s laughing, a wonderful sound as he swings me around the way I might swing Lucas in the kitchen.
Behind him is Elena, her head tilted. And Julian turns. “My brother! He’s come to find me. My brother Mateo, the writer.” There’s a catch in his voice.
She smiles at me, her eyes bright blue in her soot-covered face. “Sal’s boy.”
They wind up the hose; then we ride back in the truck, all of us squeezed together. It’s dark now, the headlights on, the windshield wipers sliding back and forth, and I don’t know where we’re going, but it doesn’t make any difference.
We could drive forever.
We sit in Elena’s kitchen at a round wooden table until the sun comes up through the window.
We never stop talking, interrupting each other, telling our stories as Elena brings lemonade and donuts, and then, in the middle of the night, hot tea and toast with butter and cinnamon.
The kitchen walls are covered with paintings: one is of a garden with an overhanging tree, birds sitting on the branches. I know Julian has painted it. It’s not hard to figure out, because under the tree, if you look carefully, you’ll see a small house on the edge of a creek.
Our house.
Next to me, Angel smiles. She knows how happy I am. I’ve finally found Julian.
“When Tomàs left, I had to stay here,” Julian says, “because I owed Elena money.”
Elena doesn’t understand Spanish; she looks from one of us to the other.
But I understand more than Spanish. I picture the money Tomàs put on our table.
The boss paid us a week ahead.
“Like the miserable woman’s broom,” I whisper.
And Julian puts his hand on my shoulder. “Yes.”
He tells us then about living in the cave because he thought he might be caught in the house, working at the
But the third…
The third person…
Brushes my head as he drags the hose, the water, coming now, gushing.
It’s my brother.
Julian.
“Boys don’t cry,” Damian said once.
“He’s wrong,” Abuelita told me, her voice fierce. “Good men cry because they care.”
I’m glad she said that, because I’m crying, really crying, now.
Angel thinks it’s about the fire. “It wasn’t your fault,” she keeps saying, her hands on my shoulders. “And those people will put it out.”
I can’t answer. I stand there, not even trying to hide the tears. I grab her arm, shaking my head. I feel the tick of my heart, because I’m afraid now for Julian, and the other two, so close to the smoke and the fire.
Over the flaming trees, water sprays in a thick arc, back and forth. Several branches split and crash to the ground. The heat is so fierce that Angel and I move across the street where several people have gathered, watching, pointing. No one seems to wonder about who we are, or care; they move over to make room for us.
Flashes of lightning zigzag across the sky, one after another, and there’s a constant rumble of thunder. But finally, I feel it…
Great drops of water on my head as rain comes at last.
I raise my face to it, open my mouth to drink it in, and watch as a few sparks continue to fly up, the flames lessen, and slowly, the fire dies.
My crying has stopped now, but not the rain. It comes down in torrents, bringing cool air.
The people scatter, and I know Julian will be coming back out soon. Did he see me as he went by? Or did he run his hand over the top of my head because I was just a kid standing there?
“All right now?” Angel says.
I nod and raise my hand toward the fire. “My brother Julian.”
“Oh, Matty!” she says, finally realizing and almost dancing around me. Her face changes, and I’m sure she’s thinking about her grandfather, and maybe how glad she’ll be to see him, to be home.
Now the three are dragging back the hose, and Julian stops, and of course he knows it’s me.
In two steps, he’s in front of me, his face filthy. He reaches out, his hands in thick gloves, and lifts me off the ground.
He’s not crying the way I did; he’s laughing, a wonderful sound as he swings me around the way I might swing Lucas in the kitchen.
Behind him is Elena, her head tilted. And Julian turns. “My brother! He’s come to find me. My brother Mateo, the writer.” There’s a catch in his voice.
She smiles at me, her eyes bright blue in her soot-covered face. “Sal’s boy.”
They wind up the hose; then we ride back in the truck, all of us squeezed together. It’s dark now, the headlights on, the windshield wipers sliding back and forth, and I don’t know where we’re going, but it doesn’t make any difference.
We could drive forever.
We sit in Elena’s kitchen at a round wooden table until the sun comes up through the window.
We never stop talking, interrupting each other, telling our stories as Elena brings lemonade and donuts, and then, in the middle of the night, hot tea and toast with butter and cinnamon.
The kitchen walls are covered with paintings: one is of a garden with an overhanging tree, birds sitting on the branches. I know Julian has painted it. It’s not hard to figure out, because under the tree, if you look carefully, you’ll see a small house on the edge of a creek.
Our house.
Next to me, Angel smiles. She knows how happy I am. I’ve finally found Julian.
“When Tomàs left, I had to stay here,” Julian says, “because I owed Elena money.”
Elena doesn’t understand Spanish; she looks from one of us to the other.
But I understand more than Spanish. I picture the money Tomàs put on our table.
The boss paid us a week ahead.
“Like the miserable woman’s broom,” I whisper.
And Julian puts his hand on my shoulder. “Yes.”
He tells us then about living in the cave because he thought he might be caught in the house, working at the
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