facing Aguilara’s store, “that Saint Isidore here began as a commune in the early nineteen hundreds. Each resident got two acres. They all had a say in how the community was run. They pooled their harvest and sold their crops in San Diego, sharing the proceeds. If somebody moved out, they forfeited their land.”
“Looking down this major thoroughfare, I would say that concept died somewhere along the way,” I said.
“The commune was wiped out by a flood. Eventually the city of San Diego swallowed up the area.” Thuy turned her head. “Hey, gringo at four o’clock.”
We swung our heads to watch a tall, skinny white guy in brown and yellow plaid shorts, a yellow t-shirt, and black-and-white sneakers stride by the car. He pushed through the door to the pizza joint.
“I am going to check in Aguilara’s store. Maybe Gordon is in there and we missed him.” I opened my door.
“I think me and Thuy will grab something to drink from the Seven-Eleven there. Meet you back here,” my brother said.
As I approached the door, I saw a small sign by the handle that read in English: “Handcrafted Arts of Mexico.” When I pushed through, I smelled Gordon. His Hugo Red cologne permeated. All my senses heightened, as if my hair were on fire. As I wended through the displays of ironware furniture, red, yellow, blue and green glassware, pottery, sculptures and statues, tiles and murals, I strained to see my father’s skinny back and male-pattern-baldness gray head, hear his high-timbered voice, and feel his nervous, Chihuahua-like presence. When I arrived at the counter at the back of the store, a light-complexioned man in a starched white dress shirt, carmine-red tie with dark blue diagonal stripes, and a stringy black comb-over sat in a swivel office chair a few feet away. He lifted his head and nodded. “Buenas dias!” he said.
My father’s smell was fainter, but still there. “That smell. In the air. Can you smell it?” I sniffed a couple times.
“¿Que?”
“The scent. Cologne.” I did not have enough Spanish to pull it off.
“Hugo Boss?” the man said with a smile.
“Yes. Do you know where that man is?” As I spoke, I looked behind the counter for the disk.
“And may I ask who you are?” The man walked to the counter.
“Are you Alejandro Aguilara?”
“Mi hijo. Again, I am sorry but I must ask who you are to be asking such questions.”
My father would have loved this man’s discretion. “I am Julian Laigle. I am Gordon’s son.”
“Señor Laigle. El Espantaparajos. The Scarecrow was just here. Not two minutes ago.”
“My father was just here? Did he bring the black disk? The mirror?”
“He walked out just as you came in. It is extremely strange that you did not see each other.”
“Did he leave the mirror with you? It is important that we get it back.”
“My name is Alejandro Aguliara. Señor Drescher from Beverly Hills called me to say that Señor Laigle was coming with the Mayan mirror.” Aguilara walked back and reclined in his chair behind his desk.
I leaned over the counter, into the open space between us. Aguilara’s desk was covered with papers, books, coffee cups, and various art objects. I searched for the disk in the pile.
Aguilara sat forward, folded his hands in his lap, and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Señor Laigle showed me his mirror.”
“It is not his mirror. It belongs to my mother. My great-grandmother was a bruja in Tabasco. She used the mirror in her rites and rituals.”
“Sí, I see your concern.” He sat up in his chair. “It is a rare piece, this tezcatl.
“I must know. Did you buy the mirror, Señor Aguilara?”
“Mi hijo, take a step back. Por favor.” He stood and walked back to me. “This mirror as you call it is not a common object to be bought and sold. It is far too powerful. It must be in the right hands.”
“So, you have the mirror or you don’t have the mirror?”
“Patience, hijo.”
“Considering the condition that my father is in, El Espantaparajos, as you call him, I am not sure how patient I can be.”
“Yo comprendo. However, the essential point here is not whose hands the tezcatl is in, but who is in the hands of the tezcatl.”
“What does that mean?”
“The tezcatl is a powerful ally. It reflects the spirit and the intent of the beholder. Intention is quickly followed by action. The tricky thing about the spirit of the tezcatl is that the more self-serving the intention of the beholder, the more the spirit asks for in return.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you never heard, `there is always a price to pay’? In your father’s case, I’m afraid it is a stiff price. Very expensive. Perhaps the ultimate price.”
I looked at the clock on the wall above Señor Aguilara’s desk. If my father left just as I came in, he had a headstart.
“Señor, I appreciate your perspective on the situation. But, I am concluding that you did not purchase the mirror from my father. It would seem that he and the spirit are locked in some kind of treacherous embrace. I have to catch my father. Thank you for your time.” I turned up the aisle.
“Con mucho gusto, El Sabio,” he said.
I ran to Thuy’s car in the parking lot. My brother and she were not there. I looked toward the street and saw them waving to me. When I got there, Johnny shook his head. “We had Dad. He was here, with the mirror.”
“What do you mean? You let him go? Where is he?” I looked left and right down East San Ysidro Boulevard, but didn’t see him.
“He was like a blind raging animal,” Thuy said.
“I yelled in his face. I grabbed his arm, to get his attention,” Johnny said. “It was like he didn’t see me. He didn’t know who I was. He pushed me away and ran up the street, hugging his velvet bag.”
"The bus station,” I said, heading for the car.
I sprinted into the Greyhound terminal and saw my father standing in line at the ticket window. Whatever energy he had was gone. His shoulders were slumped forward, his head hanging, the mirror tucked under his arm. He looked tired and defeated. I might have felt sorry for him, but that kind of sentiment was long gone. He had shown no regard for Mom, Johnny and me, while he positioned himself for his new prosperous single life. For Gordon, it was never about affection. It was about business, the edge, the bottom line. It had always been that way. It was the father I grew up with.
He looked up as I approached.
“Hello, Gordon. What’s up?”
“Go away,” he mumbled. “You have no business here.”
“Nice to see you, too. Do you know that we have chased you all over Southern California?”
“Nobody asked you to get involved in anything.”
“You have not had enough? Two art dealers in the U.S. would not touch that mirror. It is running you ragged and ruining your health. Where are you taking it now? Quintana Roo?”
Gordon raised his head on his ropy neck and shuffled forward as the line moved. A woman stood in front of him, at the head. My father’s rank body odor obliterated his expensive cologne. As the woman moved toward the window, Dad stepped to the head of the line.
“Come on, Dad. We will drive you back to L.A. We can figure this all out.” I grabbed a pinch of Gordon’s shirt sleeve.
The ticket window cleared and my father stepped toward it. He did not turn his head as Johnny and Thuy ran to where I stood.
I leaned into Thuy. “Bring your car to the back where they load the buses.”
“What are you going to do, Little Man?” my brother said.
“We are going to kin-nap our own father.”
When Gordon came out of the station to board his bus, Thuy drove her car near the bus’s door. As my father stood at the bottom of the stairs, waiting to climb aboard, Johnny ran up behind him and grabbed his arms. He turned him and penguin-walked him toward th
e open back door of the Corolla. Dad was too concerned about keeping the mirror secure under his arm to struggle. People around the entrance to the bus watched the abduction silently, as if it was something they witnessed every day. “Drive,” Johnny yelled. He put his arm across Dad’s chest, to keep him pinned in. I leaned in back and yanked the mirror in the velvet bag from under his arm. “Hey. Give that back, damn you,” Gordon screamed. Johnny kept the Old Man subdued.
“You guys are assholes,” Dad said.
“Thank you,” Johnny said. “I think we have always known how you feel about us.”
“Don’t be stupid. You know that is not true,” Dad said. “But you have no idea what you are getting involved with.”
As we drove on to the freeway, I sat shotgun with the velvet bag in my lap. I reached in my hand and put my fingers on the black onyx disk. It was cool to the touch. I slid it out and held it in front of my face. It was not like a brilliant and clear reflecting mirror that we might use to comb our hair or check our teeth. The reflection was deep, dim and amorphous. The shadow of a face I saw looking back at me might have been the spirit, Jose Maria, that my mother described, but to me it looked more like an old Bob Dylan album cover I remembered, where Dylan looked into the camera from above, holding his guitar with one hand and doffing his hat with the other. The reflection shifted and I heard my Nana’s voice, as resonant and vital as if she were sitting beside me. I felt her hand stroke the top of my head. The porch swing we shared rocked gently. I smelled mown hay and looked out over the wide, lush meadow of her farm. As I