Читать книгу Give It To Me - Ana Castillo - Страница 12

6

I miss you, baby. Most of his texts were like that, short and sweet and possibly sincere. She didn’t know what to make of them. Palma would have preferred that her lil cous’ pick up the phone and make an old fashion call, although obviously, he already had his cell in his hand when texting. Why was he calling her baby? She didn’t text back. The current object of his affections figured he was sending texts out like e-blasts to every female who gave him her digits. One day he sent a picture of himself. A kind of man-on-the-street pose. No message. He was fine, no lie, but Palma already knew that. What conceit. She saved it to her phone. Another day she got an animation of two kids on a park bench. The boy slid over and kissed the girl on the cheek. Hearts appeared like bubbles. That did it.

Palma called. Why did you send me this? She pretended to be irritated. What? He said. It’s cute. It’s to let you know I’m thinking of you. Palma considered the thought. Maybe time had stopped when he was in the joint and he thought he was still twenty-two, the age when he got arrested. It’s fucking childish, Palma said. She used the F-word for emphasis.

Another thing he did to let her know he was thinking of her was send cold, hard cash. Not literally. It came in a cashier’s check. Apparently the forty grand he mentioned that first time they met again had come through. The Post-it attached read, Your share. Palma deposited the eight grand into her account. Pepito called and asked, Did you get my gift? She understood. Yeah, she said, it fit beautifully. (Thanks to the Patriot Act you never knew who might be listening in on your cell phone.) What did I do to deserve it? She asked. Whoa, he said. Whoa yourself.

Ain’t that what family is for? He replied.

How would I know? She asked. What should I do with it?

Why don’t you use it to take an art class? He suggested.

No time, she lied.

Buy yourself that Chanel suit you always wanted, he said. (He remembered. When she was in high school she tried to sew one from a pattern on Abuela’s Singer. Sewing, as it turned out, was not her thing, and the discarded fabric in Abuela’s hands made expensive seat covers). Depending on how thrifty she’d be (and taking any page out of the Abuela Book of Ultimate Frugality—from buying day-old bread to getting the kids’ socks and underwear at the flea market), he’d set her up for six months. We’ll see, Pepito, she mumbled.

I don’t go by Pepito, anymore, He-Who-Reinvented-Himself reminded his older cous’. That was a child’s name. He was grown. I go by Joe now, he said. In prison they called me Chi-Town José to distinguish me from all the other Josés. But you can call me Pepito, Prima, he said. She imagined the smile of white, even teeth, made whiter against a reddish dark hue. He had a smooth face. Palma began to trace it with her mind’s eye. The square jaw and even hairline. Tell me you love me, she heard herself say. It wasn’t something she had ever told anyone herself, maybe not even him as kids. Maybe she had. Was there a pause? A nano-second hesitation?

I love you, Pepito said, with a voice that nearly sounded as if he had left his body. A macho had to be the loneliest creature on earth. He never let anyone in. Women mistook the aloofness as the result of a man being wounded. Pobrecito, they said. And like the snake the old lady cared for, which once it was healed . . . people were surprised when they got hurt by such a man. Pepito’s upbringing was no better or worse than anyone else’s, but the macho could not let people get close because he perceived himself at war with the world.

Go to hell, she said. They hung up. Palma was at war, too. Possibly MIA. Saving Private Piedras. She went to the stereo and put on an old CD. Whitney belted I’ll be your baby tonight.