The House of Broken Angels

  * * *

  Perla got to her man just as he collapsed. She and Yndio. She was about to crack like a porcelain plate. She cried, “Angel!” and “Yndio!” and “Flaco!” and “Mijo!” Yndio took Big Angel up in his arms. He weighed nothing. He was all balsawood and paper. They put him back in his chair.

  Perla was crying.

  Little Angel picked up his brother’s notebook and stood there, helpless.

  Yndio looked at his hand. His knuckles were bleeding. His hand crunched as he opened and closed it. That hurt, but felt good at the same time.

  “Hero,” Minnie said.

  He put his forehead against hers.

  Perla slapped him.

  “Ma!”

  “Ten years!” she shouted, then fell upon her husband again.

  Minnie bent to the pistol and picked it up. Turned it back and forth, recognized it as Lalo’s. Walked over to Lalo, watched him snore, and said, “Jerk.” She went to the rain barrel, pried open the lid, and dropped the gun in the black water. “Try to find it now, Hungry Man.”

  And that was it for Big Angel. The string was cut. He felt and saw sparks rise around him. Now he knew why he was not dead yet. The sparks whirled. He thought he had stayed alive to enjoy his own wake. He thought he was still alive to make his amends. He thought he was alive to try one last hour to unite his family. But now he knew. What a pretty little tornado of light.

  He was alive to save his boy’s life. His youngest son. He had just done the most heroic thing in the world. He grinned now with joy, not rage. He had outdone the heroics of all those detectives in all those books. He had outdone his own father. He had shown Little Angel what he was made of. In front of everybody.

  And God had even forgiven him by bringing Yndio home. To his family.

  He started to laugh. His shoulders shook. He wiped his eyes. “I said, ‘Shoot me here!’”

  “Loco!” Perla scolded.

  Little Angel let out a long breath and started laughing too. “Damn, Brother!”

  “I know!” Big Angel said. He reached to Yndio. “You punched him like The Destroyer!”

  “Who?”

  Big Angel waved his hand, then touched Yndio’s arm. “Like a mule kick, mijo.”

  Yndio flushed. Well, yeah. He had to admit. He had busted that homie up with one blow. Damn. He felt proud. He felt good every time Big Angel called him “mijo.” Why was he all shaky? Everybody kept staring at him—he’d thought he would like that, but it was making him nervous.

  “Yndio, I am so tired,” Big Angel said. “Can you help me get to bed?”

  Yndio reached down and gathered up Big Angel in his arms. The family followed him down the hall, just to watch him carry his father.

  “You need to go on a diet, Old Man.”

  Big Angel actually laughed. “Good one,” he said.

  “Just kidding around,” Yndio said. “You know.”

  They entered the room.

  “I missed you,” his father said.

  Yndio remained silent.

  “Did you miss me?”

  Yndio laid the patriarch down.

  “I was afraid I’d never see you again, Son.”

  “You knew where I was,” Yndio said, not unkindly.

  “So did you, mijo. So did you. Thank you for carrying me.”

  They all watched this conversation, holding their breaths.

  Big Angel called to his brother, “Carnal, visit with me before I go to sleep.”

  Yndio was astounded when his uncle crawled into bed next to Pops.

  “We’ve been doing this,” Little Angel told him.

  “Cool,” Yndio said, but honestly he was a little appalled.

  “Mija,” Big Angel said, and Minnie climbed into the bed.

  Yndio stood with his fists clenched, watching this scene unfold. This wasn’t the family he remembered. His mind flashed on Braulio—he imagined his bro having a cruel laugh over this display. He stared again at his father.

  Perla stood behind him, running her hand up and down his back. “You,” she said. “Go.”

  “Nah,” he said. “That’s all right.”

  “Go, mijo.”

  “I’m okay.”

  “Where is Lalo?” Big Angel said.

  “Right here, Pops.”

  Lalo didn’t wait to be invited and crawled up onto the foot of the bed and curled around his father’s feet.

  Perla wasn’t about to climb into bed with everybody. She moved away from Yndio but beseeched him with her eyes. His face was burning. Perla moved to the head of the bed and stood close to Big Angel’s side and reached her hand out to him. Big Angel took it, pressed his lips to her knuckles. She patted his mad hair down with her palm.

  “Son?” she said.

  Yndio turned away but couldn’t step out the door.

  “Son,” Big Angel finally said. “Why aren’t you in here with me?”

  Yndio finally turned.

  And they all made room for him in the family bed.

  Coda

  And that was the end of the story.

  In a week, Little Angel stood holding Minnie’s hand, staring in disbelief at his brother, turned away from them in a hospital bed. The smell of antiseptics. His temples black, his hands dark. Tubes and hoses running into and out of his body, his mouth. A monitor making a terrible, constant cry. Flat.

  Big Angel, curled in on himself, one hand up, one down. Already seeming dense, denser than he’d been in life. Absorbing the light out of the room.

  Perla, collapsing slowly to the floor, seeming to float as if she were made of down as her boys tried to hold her up.

  * * *

  There were other things, though. There were always more details trailing any good story. Like tin cans on the back bumper of a newlywed’s car. Rattles and pings and wonderful small moments spinning in the wake of a great life. Things they would talk about forever.

  How Big Angel’s funeral was more beautiful than his mother’s had been.

  How the cousins brought white doves in cardboard carriers and let them fly over the grave. And Lalo said, “What—they bought pigeons in a box?”

  How Father Dave’s sermon was so beautiful, so brilliant—full of things nobody could remember later but that had made them cry all the same.

  How the mass was lovely, and the little rat-faced priest stood aside for Father Dave.

  How the pallbearers were all in white. Yndio and Lalo at the head of the coffin. Pato and Marco in the middle. Little Angel holding up his back corner, looking across at Minnie. Her hair was pulled back. She stood tall. Pants and a satin vest. Nobody was going to tell her women didn’t carry coffins.

  How Perla never wavered, never needed her sisters to hold her. And how she made good on her promise to abandon the kitchen.

  How El Yndio shoveled the first dirt into the grave.

  How they laughed and cried as they passed his notebooks among themselves.

  How that night, after reading his lists, Minnie smelled his aftershave in her living room. Just one gust, there and gone. “Daddy?” she said.

  And later, how Perla cut apart all of Big Angel’s pajamas and used them to create small teddy bears for each of the kids. Her children, and her children’s children. Even Giovanni, that little cabrón. And her two sisters. Little Angel hoped to get one but was too shy to ask. It was Minnie who sent it to him.

  What they really talked about, though, was the later mystery of Flaco and Flaca’s wedding anniversary. Months after Big Angel was gone. How the biggest, most beautiful flowers arrived on that day. How the note was signed by him. And how a handwritten letter from him was delivered that same day by UPS. A letter that Perla never showed anyone but that put her in bed for two days.

  Nobody ever knew who had helped Big Angel arrange that miracle. They half believed he had found a way to reach back to them from heaven. Big Angel—they remained in awe.

  * * *

  After they had all crept from Big Angel’s bed on that last n
ight after the party, Little Angel went looking for La Gloriosa but couldn’t find her. Instead, he found Minnie standing alone on the patio, crying.

  “Tío,” she cried and fell against him. She sobbed into his shoulder.

  He patted her back, her hair. “It’s okay,” he said.

  “No, it’s not!”

  He held her tight as she snuffled and cried. When she calmed down, he let her go.

  “I got snot all over your jacket,” she said.

  “It’s all right.” He took her hand. “I want to show you something,” he said.

  It was time for a little magic. Ookie’s paradise. Just to gild Big Angel’s legend a little more for his dear niece.

  “Come on.” He led her across the yard. They stopped outside the shed. “You’re not going to believe this,” he said, and he swung open the door.

  Inside, Leo the Lion stood with his back to them. His trousers and flowered boxers were pooled at his feet. His pale buttocks wobbled as he thrust.

  Pazuzu was sprawled facedown on the worktable. She was snarling, “Faster! Harder! Ride it, cabrón!”

  Leo rutted away like a donkey gone mad. He leaned back and spanked her generous behind with one hand.

  Little Angel and Minnie backed away and shut the door.

  “Thank you, Tío,” she said. “That was very special.”

  * * *

  Later that same night, lying in his hotel bed, Little Angel was nervous. He had no idea what was going to happen. He didn’t really know what it was he wanted to happen.

  Leaving the party, laden and somber, he had found La Gloriosa leaning on the wall. She was shivering.

  “Is it over?” she said.

  He nodded.

  “You don’t even know me,” she told him.

  They simply stared at each other.

  “What don’t I know?” he said.

  “Anything.”

  He was weepy and small. He took her hand.

  “My name no es La Gloriosa,” she said. “My real name is Maclovia. Did you know that?”

  He admitted he didn’t.

  “You like?”

  “Maclovia. Beautiful. Yes.”

  She squeezed his hand back. “Take me away,” she said.

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “I can’t go home. Not now.” She rested her head against his chest. “Take me with you.”

  And now, as he lay in bed, she was coming out of the bathroom, wearing one of his T-shirts. It hung just above the bright rainbow of her underwear.

  He swallowed. “Wow,” he said, fully returned to his thirteen-year-old self.

  “Nothing crazy,” she said. She stood beside the bed and looked down at him. “Get up,” she said.

  He rose. He wore running shorts and a black T-shirt.

  “Take off your shirt,” she said. “I want to see you.”

  He paused, searched her face for a moment. He should have done more planks, he realized. But he pulled the shirt over his head. He tried to suck in his gut, but it was too late for games. So he just stood.

  “Shorts,” she said.

  He laughed a little, embarrassed.

  “Show me,” she said.

  His face turned a vibrant pink.

  “Do it,” she said.

  He dropped the shorts, kicked them away. He wore black briefs.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Muy sexy,” she said. Her gaze was frank and open.

  He pulled down his underpants and tried to keep his hand from covering himself.

  “Qué grande!” she said, because that is what you said to the men. Though it really looked like a bedraggled bird sitting atop two eggs in a nest. “Are you crooked?” she said.

  He blushed ferociously.

  She pulled her shirt over her head, threw it aside, and stood topless before him. “Is okay, Angel. Look.” She pointed at her left breast, which was lower than the other. She dragged off her underwear.

  There they were.

  “We are not children,” she said.

  “No.”

  She put her finger upon the scar at the edge of her pubic hair. “My baby, Guillermo,” she said.

  He pointed to a scar on the edge of his abdomen. “Appendix.”

  She took his hand and pulled him onto the bed, then crawled in beside him. She showed him her leg. “Veins,” she said.

  He pointed to his chest. “Man boobs.”

  She pulled the sheet over herself. He hugged her close; she put her head on his shoulder. Her hair was rich with her perfumes, and her own scent, and cilantro and rain and wind.

  He breathed her in.

  She pressed up against him, and they were ageless. They were a hundred years old. Her mouth against his collarbone.

  * * *

  She spoke.

  How Big Angel’s son Braulio and her son Guillermo had been more than cousins. Best friends. Almost twins.

  How that night they had been running around having fun. It was a Saturday. They’d borrowed Big Angel’s car. She knew they’d eaten pancakes. The whole family was pancake crazy. How they’d joined some girls at the Bay Theatre down in National City. There was a Tom Cruise movie. Lots of crazy boys from Tijuana came up to see movies. Who knew who all was there. But somebody was. Somebody bad.

  Uncle Jimbo had a little liquor store by Plaza Bonita mall. Just a silly little shop where he sold Wild Turkey and cheap cigars and magazines and lotto tickets. She and her sisters scolded him for it, but he loved for the boys to come in. When they were underage, he thought it was fine for the boys to have a beer once in a while. So he’d let them into the cooler, and they lurked in there behind the cold cans, stealing Buds and feeling like wild men. As they grew older, it became their weekend ritual.

  After the movie, they went to Jimbo’s. She didn’t know why. Who could ever know? Beer? Jimbo kept the really naughty magazines in the storage room beside the counter. Stuff he couldn’t show the public—it was a good family-type shop. So maybe they wanted to look at girls after cuddling with their rucas in the balcony. But somebody caught them outside and shot them both.

  It was Jimbo who called the police, who sat with her poor Guillermito as he died. He covered both boys with cleaning cloths and sat on the curb until the cops came. And he drank himself blind.

  “I never told my baby good-bye,” she said. “I never said ‘I love you.’”

  And when she was done speaking, what they had thought would happen became something more tender, even beautiful.

  * * *

  On that last night, after the partiers had finally left, after the women had picked up the mess and Minnie had tossed Lalo into his bed in the garage and driven to her house at one in the morning, Big Angel and Perla lay together.

  “Flaca,” he said. “Be naked with me.”

  She was out of this habit and embarrassed. But they undressed and lay close to each other, close enough so they could feel each other’s heat.

  “Flaca,” he said. “No hay más.”

  “Sí, mi amor,” she said.

  “This is it,” he said.

  They held hands there in the dark.

  “I like being naked,” he told her.

  “Ay, Flaco. Me da pena.”

  “What could you be shy about, Flaca? How many times did we make love?”

  “Ay!”

  “Guess.”

  “Ten thousand times.”

  “That was the first month!”

  She smacked him lightly.

  “And then, after you had the baby—”

  “Don’t say it, Flaco.”

  “You had milk.”

  “Flaco!”

  “Milk everywhere!”

  “Cochino!” she scolded.

  He was so happy. “So delicious. Coming out of your body. So hot on my face.”

  She thought: I am as old as the hills, and he still makes me tingle.

  He turned his head to her. “I loved that,” he said, his voice almost as low as it used to be.


  She put her head against his arm.

  He put his hand on her face. “I’m sorry I can’t anymore,” he said.

  She shushed him.

  “I can’t be a man for you.”

  “You are always a man for me. My man. Be quiet now.”

  He sighed. “May I touch your fountain?”

  She nodded against his arm and opened her legs for him. His hand went to her like a shadow—she could barely feel it.

  “You on top,” he said. “How I loved that.”

  “You’re bad, Flaco.”

  “So I could look at you.”

  “Ay.”

  They remembered. Even though his body was aflame, though agony had wrenched his veins into knots, he thought he might be able to perform his husbandly duties after all. One last time. He just might. It moved a little.

  But, no.

  “A good life,” he finally said. He lay back and withdrew his hand and clutched the warmth of her in his empty palm.

  She lay beside him, making that happy sound lovers know so well. “What was your favorite part?” she said.

  “Of the party?”

  “No, Flaco. Of our life.”

  He responded immediately: “Everything.”

  She thought about it. “Even the bad?”

  “There were no bad times,” he said. “As long as you were there.”

  She kissed him. “Poeta,” she said.

  “I did bad things,” he confessed.

  “Yes, you did.”

  “I remember the first time I saw you,” he said.

  “Was I pretty?”

  “The prettiest girl I ever saw. And you still are.”

  “Ay, viejo.” She was going to say more, but his phone chirped.

  “Qué es eso?” he said. It chirped again. “Who the hell?” he said, irritated now. He scrabbled among his bottles on the table.

  “Leave it, Flaco.”

  Still it chirped.

  “Could be an emergency, Flaca.” He opened it. Squinted at the screen.

  “Ay, cómo eres,” she scolded.

  “It’s my brother,” he said.

  “Pato?”

  He shook his head, then answered it. “It is midnight!” he said. “I’m dying!”

  “Listen,” Little Angel said. “You are not going to die tonight.”

  “Yes, I am.”