Angelito

  by Ann García

     Wind whipped snow at passersby, who winced and squinted against the pellets and  pushed on. They were all at odd angles trying to minimize their resistance and still look dignified.  Joe stood turtle-like on his corner.  His head shoved down into his shoulders, no hat.  Eyes and forehead just visible over his turned-up collar. Elbows back, hands pulled up into his sleeves. When he put them in his pockets, the wind  found the gap of flesh between sleeve’s end and his pocket.  No gloves.

     Up and down the street paper hawkers and shoeshine boys stood at their stations. None dared leave his turf unguarded during a business day.  The U.S. Postal Service had nothing on Las Vegas newsboys.  Bad weather was no excuse.  It was just bad business not coming to work.  Joe won his prime location thanks in part to the Hong Kong flu and the fact that he was an early riser.  Now he would not give up his spot without some form of divine coercion.  This storm didn’t qualify.

     Occasionally a boy ventured a weak “Paper, mister?” or “Shine, mister?” as the wind blew a shopper by, but the sound and the shopper were quickly carried off.

     Joe said nothing. It was best just to stand, watch, and protect his corner, prime real estate next to the bank.  Once it was dark enough, and darkness would come early today, all the boys could go home.  He only had to wait.  Braced against the bank wall, he occupied himself by calculating his Christmas fund and making out his short shopping list in his head and humming “Oremos, oremos, angelitos eremos”.

     It was a good year.  The Optic sold few subscriptions.  Lots of bad news and scandals, so papers sold.  The stock market was good, so lots of papers sold.  University students looking for apartments, jobs over Christmas vacation, used cars, so lots of papers sold.  He’d given up buying candy and lemons. He missed the lemons, but he’d rationed his Halloween candy and made it last.

     The largest portion of his savings were for Kirina. He ticked off the gifts he would buy: catnip, a squeak toy, a dozen cans of tuna fish.  Since it was a gift, his mother couldn’t scold him for wasting money.  She expected Kirina to survive on table scraps and all the mice and birds she could catch.  Kirina stayed on, never complaining.

     Joe  loved all animals, but Kirina was special. She was the thing he valued most in the world.  He had first brought her home in his jacket pocket. Had traded two rubber bands and a marble for her. No living thing understood him like Kirina did. She left him alone most of the time--which was exactly what he wanted. At night, in the dark, she leapt onto his bed, curled against his chest and fell asleep. She didn't seem to mind much when he wet the bed. She  got up with him, lay patiently on the floor while he stripped his bed. Then, rejoined him after he had changed the sheets.

     No gift would be enough to repay her this single kindness.

     Headlights flashed on. It was time to go. He noticed now that his toes were stiff. He knew to move quickly or he would never get home.  The longest part of the walk was through New Town. Its streets seemed to go on forever. His feet were so cold now, they seemed to freeze to the pavement. If by some chance he were to fall, he felt he would not be able to stand again. He laughed at an image of himself on his back, turtle-like, trying to right himself again. The cold against his teeth cut his laugh short. At this moment even the Christmas lights strung across from street light to street light seemed cold and unpromising. Blocks of businesses, then apartments, then houses, more businesses, the university, finally Old Town.

     Snow pellets stung his forehead. He saw he was nearly in Old Town, the original part of the city. Old and familiar, it was the first social and commercial center of Las Vegas. There was a plaza at its center. To get in or out of Old Town or to any business still left there, one had to drive or walk around the plaza. At its center was a park and at its center a bandstand, perfectly round and gingerbread ornate. His grandfather had built it many, many years before he was born. Ahead of him he knew was the Home Cafe although he could not really see it. In Old Town he always had a sense of where he was. 

     And there it was. So warm inside, the windows heavily fogged, HOME was the only thing visible in the glass. He had to warm up.  Mentally he calculated how much he'd made that day. Not much.

     Painfully he pressed the latch, threw his weight against the door, and pitched forward into the restaurant. People glanced up quickly and just as quickly turned away, more surprised by the cold than  curious about who came in. Joe shuffled toward an empty booth near the kitchen where it was warmest. Startled by the reflection in the mirror above the cigarette machine, he watched his head emerge from his turned-up collar. There were glistening beads of water on the tips of his hair. He shook snow off his jacket before taking a seat in the booth.

     On the table there was a small jukebox, ketchup, salt and pepper,  a napkin dispenser. He pulled out one of the menus tucked behind them.  Again he checked his mental ledger, compared it against the right side of the menu and decided a bowl of posole to be just right all the way

around. Cinnamon hot chocolate tempted, but would empty his pockets.

     The waitress, Lupe, came around to take his order. She was a friend of his sister. “¿Qué quieres, Jose?”

     “Posole.”

     “¿Y pa’ beber?”

     “Agua.”

     When the posole arrived, he cupped the bowl in his hands, inhaled, allowing the steam to warm his face. Posole. After a fiesta or a night of celebration, the party usually ended here with a bowl of posole.  His father told him posole cured hangovers. Joe had no first-hand experience of this truth, either the disease or the cure. Right now, he knew it was hot. He ordered extra chile piquin and broke it into his bowl. He liked it hot and hot.

     He hunched over his soup, ate slowly and savored each mouthful— there was a good reason this was called the Home Cafe. The soup was as good as mama’s. 

     So focused on his eating, he didn't notice the woman standing next to his booth until she said “Hey kid, wanna make quarter?”

     “How?” he asked.

     “I need somebody to carry my Christmas tree upstairs.”

     “Sure.”

     “Yeah, the man's ready to get rid of 'em, so I got a big one.”

     “Okay, let's go.” He picked up his bowl and drank off the broth then wiped his face quickly on his jacket sleeve.

     She walked out ahead of him. They walked a block to the tree seller’s, where a few faded and lonely trees lay in the middle of the vacant lot. He'd seen the man standing over his oil drum fire when he walked to new town to sell his papers.

     “Hey, I got somebody to help me. I'm gonna take it now, okay?”  the woman called to the man.

     He nodded. “Con mi bendición,” he growled and waved them out of the lot.

     She pointed to a very tall, very uneven tree leaning against the building. Joe nodded, carefully grabbed the trunk and waited to be told where to take it. He could feel the resin stick to his fingers.

     “I live over the Home,” she said.

     They walked back without conversation. The tree was awkward.  Cold wind blew the stiff needles against his face and the backs of his hands. She led the way upstairs and opened the door to a nearly empty apartment. Two small boys lay on the floor watching a television which was also on the floor. A little girl sat in a large chair near  the window, the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the television and a rickety dinette. When the little girl turned around her eyes were red, her cheeks tear stained. She was silent, focused on her mother and seemed not to notice the tree.

     “Did you see her?” the girl asked as they walked in.

     “No.  Now shut up about it.”  Her mother spoke sharply. 

     The two boys, seeing the tree, stood up. Joe leaned the tree against the wall where she pointed. The boys rough-housed around him, shoving each other, careful of both him and the tree.

     “Ain't that a nice tree, mister?” 

     “Yeah.” He held back his laugh. He wasn't that much older than they were. 

     “Mama said she didn't think we could have one this year, then she went out and bought the best one. Huh mister?”

     “The best one in the lot,” Joe replied.

     “Yeah.  Bet it weighs a lot, huh?”

     Joe was studying the little girl and only half listened to what the boys said. She hiccoughed, as though she'd  been crying for a long time.

     “Your sister get hurt?” he asked.

     “Nah.  She lost her cat." they both replied.

     “Mama says she can't look for it. She's too busy and we’re too little to do it,” said one.

     “She said we're too young to go chasing after a sonso cat,” said the other.

     Joe regarded the girl with new interest.  With the cat gone he knew the apartment must feel very empty.  “What kinda cat?”

     The boys answered, “Pintada.  She has lotsa colors.”

     She’s just little. Mama called her Miniatura. Luisa just calls her Kitty. She gotsa funny line down her back that makes her look like they cut two cats up and sewed them together.”

     The mother snapped, “I just got too many other things to worry about.”  She handed him the quarter.

     “Thanks.” He was warm now. He could walk some more. It wouldn't hurt him. “Cat’s name Kitty?”

     “Yeah,” she sniffed and shook her head. She put her head down and Joe could see her smiling a little at the floor.

     Joe left the apartment and followed the pine needles out of the building.

     It wasn't as cold in the alley where the wind was blocked by buildings on either side. He trudged up and down, paused by dumpsters and trash cans. He knew it was getting late and his mother would be worried. 

     She wouldn't say much to him when he got home, but he

recognized the look in her eyes. The woman tonight, she didn't have that look. She'd been embarrassed for feeling the way she did but proud of that scraggly tree. Parents. He knew that they always wanted for you what they thought you should have. If you were lucky, it might turn out to be what you were thinking you wanted. 

     He knew only what he felt. Need was like . . .like that feeling in his belly when he hadn't eaten all day. But he knew. When he worked hard at his papers or traded valuables with the other boys, the ache was not there. It wasn’t there either when he was with his mama or his abuelito. Or Kirina.

     He could smell the Home. The smell of fried corn tortillas. There were stacks of empty boxes by the back door. Wilted and frozen lettuce leaves clung to their corners. Icicles threatened from the windowsills. White smoke rose from a black pipe and climbed and climbed.

     He walked slowly past the boxes. Rubbed against them with his shoulder. “Kitty, Kitty, Kitty,” he whispered.  Ssss, ssss, ssss, he whistled through his teeth.

     He heard a muffled meow, like a question from the ground.  She had climbed into the first box out to keep warm. Someone in the Home had stacked more boxes on top. He lifted them off and opened the lid.  She was huddled in the corner nearest the wall. She was very small. In the dim light, she looked like half a cat. She had dark fur on one side of her body and light on the other. What a sight.

     He closed the lid and lifted the box.

     The woman opened the door.

     “I found the gato,” he said.

     She looked puzzled. “Menso. The cat woulda come back by herself.”

     “Not this time.” He showed her the frozen lettuce on the corner.

     Again she shook her head and took the box. “Gracias.”

     “Yeah.”

     The woman stepped back and pushed the door closed with her hip.  Joe started back down the stairs. Behind him a door opened.

     “Oye.”

     He turned around and watched her come down the stairs toward him.  She handed him a dime. “That was nice what you did.”

     He looked at the dime and made a quick mental calculation and checked his list. “Buy the kids some candy for me. Okay? From the Baby Jesus, okay?”

     “Yeah.” she said. “Dios te bendiga.”

     Yeah.