The Summer of Our Foreclosure

  Chapter Twenty

  “Nick, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought so. Good to see you! Come on in! I’ll get Chris.”

  His Mom was much more pleasant than he was. Certainly more attractive. She led me into the living room.

  “Can I offer you anything? Something to drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Okay. Great. Well, have a seat. I’ll go get him.”

  She seemed really happy that someone was calling on her son. She had been a regular, rather sunny presence at the block parties, while the Dad had continued to work throughout the summer send-off, often staying wherever his job was located for days at a time. There was still no foreclosure sign in their front yard.

  Chris wasn’t the least bit happy to see me, which was understandable. I wasn’t sure if I should first apologize for all the crap we had given him, or launch right into the main reason for my visit. Either way, I felt we should go outside before speaking, as I did not believe her for a second when his Mom said, “I’ll leave you two alone.”

  When I suggested we head out, he bristled.

  “I’m the middle of something up in my room,” he said.

  “Just for a few minutes,” I tried to say casually while looking at him in a manner that would communicate the importance.

  He wasn’t biting, though; or he wasn’t understanding my body and facial language.

  Sure enough, his Mom piped in from the next room. “Oh, go on, Chris. It’s a nice day. Go outside in the daylight for once this summer.”

  Chris sighed and complied. As soon as he closed the front door behind us, he asked me “What?” But I insisted we keep walking down the street past a few more front yards before I divulged my purpose.

  “Soren found your love nest,” I told him.

  “What are you talking about?” he tried to play dumb, but was too dumb to do it well.

  “In Shay’s house,” I said. “The sleeping bag, the candle.”

  “So what?”

  “So what…that he found it? Or that there’s a sleeping bag with princesses on it and a candle with vampires on it in Shay’s house?”

  “That he found it,” Chris confessed. “Why did he show you?”

  “He thinks there’s some sort of Mexican invasion happening, and that your stuff proves it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s why he was prowling around Shay’s house in the first place. He’s patrolling the neighborhood trying to find excuses to shoot someone.”

  “Come on…”

  “I know, right?”

  “Is he high?”

  “Kind of. Just not on drugs. Actual drugs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Never mind. Could you talk to him?”

  “About what?”

  “Tell him the situation. Let him know that Dulce just wants to fool around with you, she’s not bringing her family over.”

  “Her family hates me.”

  “You met them?”

  “No. We just figured they would hate me. And mine would hate her.”

  I almost laughed, since I had assumed as much; but he was so sincere in his assessment, and so saddened by it. I not only caught myself, but had an abrupt change in perspective. I felt a rush of empathy for him similar to the one I experienced for Dulce when I had taken a good look down at her sleeping bag on the floor of Shay’s deserted house.

  “Maybe her parents would surprise you,” I offered. “Or maybe yours would.”

  He shook his head. “Look at us.”

  “Yeah, look at you. You found each other.” I never imagined I would one day find myself imploring either of them to see the beauty of their relationship. “I’ll bet they’d be happy about that.”

  “You’ve met my Mom. Seen my Dad. They want me to grow out of this phase. They think I’m going to turn into something I’m not and meet some woman who doesn’t exist.”

  “At least you’ve got time to work on them,” I reminded him. “It looks like you’re staying in your house.”

  “They are,” he said. “I’m not. I’m going to art school this fall.”

  Now I was thrown off balance even more. I didn’t even know he had graduated this year, much less that he had any discernible talents.

  “Congratulations,” I recited as the news continued to sink in.

  “Thanks. But now I’m not sure I want to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of Dulce.”

  “What?”

  I sounded so astonished that I was afraid I would lose his confidence. I tried to backtrack.

  “I mean, it’s such a great opportunity, and you can visit her on the weekends, or on holidays.”

  “My parents don’t want me to come back. They want to visit me in the city. They want to see how much better my life is becoming.”

  “Well, that’s nice. I guess.”

  “How can my life get better without Dulce in it?”

  My rush of empathy slowed to a drip. The revelations about his school and his prospects prevented me from rooting as hard for their relationship. I decided to get back to the business at hand.

  “I’ve never been in love, Chris, so I don’t know what to tell you about that. But this thing with Soren…please. Talk to him.”

  “So now you’re my parent, too?” he snorted.

  “You said it yourself, you haven’t got much time left with her. Just make sure it’s because you’re leaving for art school, and not because you’re getting yourself killed. Or her. Think about Dulce.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes. He had Blaine under his wing, or under his spell. Under something. And he’s always wanted me there, too. I don’t know why.”

  “Because you’re so cool, Nick,” he wisecracked.

  Whatever chance we had at coming to some sort of bon voyage reconciliation was passing, it seemed, and now all I could do was implore him from a distance.

  “Could you just talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “You’re going to risk your lives because you don’t like me?”

  “You’re jealous and you’re full of shit,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, Chris,” I tried to make my exasperation sound like remorse. “I’m sorry we’ve been so mean to you, that I’ve been so mean to you. I think it’s really great that you got into art school, and really crappy that I didn’t even know you were an artist. I wish I could make it up to you somehow. I’m trying now, by telling you about Soren and how badly he wants to use his guns, and how he might use them on you and Dulce, but if there’s something else I can do to get you to listen to me, I’d like to know. What can I do?”

  He stared at me for a while.

  “Just leave me alone,” he finally said. “You had your chance.”

  I may not have convinced him to take my advice, but I appeared to provide him with satisfaction at having gained the upper hand for once during his time on The Ranch. He smirked and walked back home with a fulfilled stride.

  My past was exacting some retribution, and not solely by virtue of Chris refusing to listen to me. That wasn’t even the main reason, as far as I was concerned. What bothered me the most was learning that he was someone worth knowing. All that time I imagined him in his room smoking weed, getting drunk, when what he had really been doing was thinking about things and creating things. I had overlooked a kindred spirit thanks to my buzz over finally being the member of a flock. Chris probably didn’t even know where or how to get weed, and would have been too scared to buy alcohol from the willing cashier at the freeway ramp mini mart. It was just a way to try to get some attention. A terrible way, to be sure, but was it always up to the other person to present themselves to my liking? Shouldn’t I be able to brush off a bad first impression and dig for any hidden value?

&
nbsp; I wondered if there were any others amongst the remaining kids, particularly the cast-offs, with whom I should get in touch, and maybe keep in touch, before it was too late. I had never before anticipated a block party more than the one coming up that evening.

  My plans were waylaid before the first burger hit the grill, however, by Nub’s announcement that he was moving the next day.

  “And you’re just telling me now?” I barked.

  “I’ve tried to tell you, but when I stop by your house you’re out wandering around somewhere, and you hardly ever come to the parties these days.”

  I took a deep breath. Not only was I lousy at finding the right friends, I wasn’t very good at being a friend when I did find one. We stood there in front of his garage, unsure of what to say to one another. I looked around at the preparations going on for that night’s gathering.

  “Fourth of July is just a couple days away,” I said. “You’re not staying for that?”

  “We have to be in the new place Mom found before the end of the month, and Dad gets a big fat bonus for working on the holiday,” Nub shrugged. “He says we need it to help cover the rental deposit and the moving costs.”

  “Damn,” I sighed. “Down to the Nub…”

  He groaned and reached for a little bit of laughter.

  “I’ve been saving that for when you left,” I admitted. “It didn’t come out like I thought it would.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Sorry we kept calling you that: Nub.”

  “I deserved it. That was really stupid, peeing on that fence.”

  “I can’t imagine how painful that must have been.”

  “Just wanted to make everyone laugh. Be a part of the group.”

  “Join the club.”

  “Same thing.”

  “I know. I meant join the club as in, I’m in that same club of wanting to be part of a group, and doing really stupid things to get into it.”

  “Oh, yeah. I see what you’re saying.”

  “I should have put it a different way.”

  “Doesn’t matter. We figured it out.”

  “Yeah. We got there.”

  We both surveyed the block as it drew closer to assuming its nighttime identity.

  “Well,” Nub narrated what we were watching, “maybe we should celebrate all the stupid things we’ve done by doing something really stupid tonight.”

  “Like what?”

  “My Dad bought a couple cases of bottle rockets it looks like we won’t be using on the Fourth.”

  All my intentions of approaching these last days on Ranch Ranch with maturity and reflection vanished. Nub was no less excited to do something stupid. We managed to maintain our grip on enough sense to realize we couldn’t blow through two cases of incendiary devices on the sage-speckled open range over the fence. That was our arena last year and we started a brush fire that all of us were able to extinguish thanks to our concerted foot-stomping. Our numbers were far less this year, what with all the evictions, so as much as we would have liked to see Rancho Hacienda burn to the ground, we thought better of it and I mentioned the deserted block where Shay had found the empty house for our last night together.

  We emptied the bottle rockets into a canvas equipment bag and told the few parents who greeted us as we lumbered along that we were heading over to the empty block to play strikeout. This was somewhat true, as there were a couple of aluminum bats in the bag that we intended to use, along with some clear snowboarding goggles, but there were no balls in the bag. We softly imparted our plan to the neighborhood kids still left behind as we passed them by, then the small bunch of us loitered on the abandoned street until our folks cranked up their music.

  I batted first, and had a hard time making contact with such a small, fast target. Nub did his part by having pretty good aim as the pitcher. He didn’t actually use a bottle or section of pipe; he just gripped the end of the stick and let it fly from his fingertips when the lit fuse made contact with the rocket. Finally I measured the pace of the rocket and the location Nub was spotting consistently and hit a few. There was nothing to field, though, as the tip of the rocket would burst into glowing scraps of paper, which put the potential fielders on the ground in peals of laughter, anyway. I offered to switch places with Nub, but he was enjoying firing the rockets and offered to pitch to everyone. As the other kids donned the goggles and took their hacks, I ran to get some additional props to try out: an old seven iron Dad kept in his closet to swing at burglars, a cheap lightweight frying pan, one of those big plastic fat bats designed for little kids that still leaned in our backyard from the days when we had a neighbor whose dog would get into our yard and Mom would bonk him with it, and a ping pong paddle stripped of its rubber facing.

  The golf club was the hardest to make contact with, but fun because Nub would lay the rocket on the ground to light it and it would scoot along the pavement toward the point of impact. When we did manage to hit it, we could actually get the glowing leftovers airborne, since it was a seven iron and had some loft, so everyone could try to catch the battered remnants as they fluttered earthbound. The frying pan made a satisfying clang when the rocket would hit it, which would then echo for a couple of seconds. Likewise the fat bat provided a fun thump at the end of the rocket’s hissing trail as it would bump the hollow plastic barrel. The ping pong paddle sucked.

  Occasionally a rocket would explode before reaching the swinger, which would make him jump and everyone else laugh. Every time.

  I ran to get Miggy, ran right through the front gate and flipped a double bird to the camera. Miggy invited JD and Chuy to come along, and as we walked back through the gate I pretended to do a poor job of hiding them behind me as we passed in front of the lens.

  It was our Lord of the Flies days re-visited, a reunion that celebrated our freedom and our stupidity. And it only got better when Soren entered our ring.

  I was in the what we referred to as “the outfield” waiting my turn to swing something when he appeared, so I was closest to him and first to notice.

  “Oh no!” I shouted. “It’s the cops!”

  “You’re lucky I’m not a cop,” Soren said in his best steely voice.

  “They’d never let you be one,” I laughed, emboldened by how much fun we were having. “Wait! That’s it!” I pressed on. “You’re one of those guys who got rejected by a bunch of police academies, aren’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t have anything to do with any police department,” he said.

  “Oh my God,” I ignored his response. “Why didn’t I see it sooner? It’s so obvious.”

  It was dark, and the street lights cast a lot of shadows, so I couldn’t see his face all that well. But his body language spoke of tension.

  “You wanna play?” Miggy asked Soren.

  “What, and lose an eye?” he answered.

  “We’ve got goggles,” Chuy said, lowering the frying pan and pulling the goggles off his head to offer them up.

  “And lose a finger?” Soren stuck to his theme.

  “Don’t bother,” I waved them off. “You guys haven’t met Soren. Maybe you can’t tell in the dark, but he’s not a kid.”

  “He just likes to hang out with them,” Nub chimed in.

  “And lecture them,” I added. “Hey, Soren, tell us about firework safety. Please!?”

  “How about I just tell you about a kid I once knew who got burned on over eighty percent of his body while playing with fireworks.”

  “I call bullshit!” Nub yelled.

  “I call to arms!” I raised my fist in the air and ran to where Nub stood with the bag of bottle rockets. “To arms, men!”

  I grabbed one and snatched Nub’s lighter, aiming the rocket at Soren. It whizzed out of my hand in his direction, not coming that close to hitting him, but making him flinch as it blew up a few feet behind him. The other guys seemed a bit stunned.

  “Maybe I should talk to your parents,” Soren said.

  “Maybe I should tell
these guys how you feel about Mexicans,” I said.

  “Home safety and protecting your property and your family has nothing to do with race,” he bit back in a wavering voice.

  I swiped another rocket and lit the fuse while I extended my arm in his direction. He stood his ground as the fuse grew shorter and finally ignited. It went over his head and exploded just as he ducked. “Go home, fraud!” I yelled. “Go coach a soccer team if you want to yell at young boys.”

  I took another one and pointed it at him as I flicked the lighter. We again squared off while the fuse burned its way into the barrel. I went for the legs this time. He jumped to the side but just high enough for the desired effect.

  “Dance, bitch!” I screamed, no longer feeling cheeky about our exchange. I was instead filled with an exhilarating hatred for him. I reached for another bottle rocket, but Nub blocked my way.

  “That’s enough, Nick,” he said in a tone nestled between stern and lax that any parent would be wise to perfect.

  I scanned the rest of our playmates, their motionless half-lit figures making the block look like a sculpture garden at night. Soren was frozen as well. He looked in my direction and I looked in his, neither of us able to see the other’s expression in the hazy glow of the streetlights. I thought for sure Soren would insist on grabbing the last word before exiting, but he just turned and walked away after giving me what I assumed he imagined was his most intimidating stare. Not long afterwards, the boys from The Ranch who had followed me and Nub to the vacant block nodded their good-byes and headed back towards the noise of the block party.

  The silent aftermath that continued to immerse the rest of us was broken by JD blurting out a “Whoa!” We all looked to discover the source of his reaction. A patch of one of the dried front lawns was smoking, a grass fire trying to take root. JD started tramping on it, and we rushed over to join him. He had pretty much squelched it by the time we added our footfalls.

  Now that we had saved The Ranch from a fiery end, the guys wanted to know what my deal was with Soren, particularly the boys from The Barrio.

  “I’ve never seen you like that,” Miggy remarked.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I hemmed. “It’s just…the guy is living in a fantasy.”

  “And firing bottle rockets at him is supposed to snap him out of it?” Chuy chuckled.

  “You’re right,” Nub said, responding to my initial point. “He’s living in a fantasy. He’s a dork. So get over him.”

  “I think he’s gonna get someone hurt,” I maintained. “Or killed. He’s so determined to be a hero.”

  “Come on,” Miggy downplayed my prediction. “He doesn’t seem that crazy.”

  “You don’t have to be crazy,” I said. “Just desperate.”

  “He’s in your head,” Nub strengthened the chorus of opposition. “Don’t let him do that. He’s winning.”

  “I’m not in a contest with him,” I defended myself. “I just think if we were, like, in another time, another place, he would be part of a lynch mob or something, and he would say he was doing it to protect his family. Always with the family. I swear, some people just have a family so that any stupid shit they do they can say they were doing it for their family.”

  “Now you’re sounding crazy,” Miggy said.

  “If you had heard what I heard him say about the people in your neighborhood, Miggy, you wouldn’t be sticking up for him.”

  “I’m not sticking up for him,” Miggy snapped back. “I didn’t say he wasn’t a prick, I just said he didn’t seem crazy. And I don’t like seeing you let some prick get you all worked up. You’re better than that.”

  I exhaled and started to wonder if they had a point: if I was projecting way too much onto Soren; if I was the bigger psycho between the two of us rather than the bigger person. My most revealing interactions with him had been one-on-one; no one else had been there to second my opinions. And all of us were so deeply in our natural state just moments before, so in line with the way things were before The Summer of The Parent; if I couldn’t convince them to join me in chasing off Soren with bottle rockets at that point, I could be way off in my assessment of him, and of myself. I considered the thing which disturbed me the most about him: his certainty; how the possibility of being wrong never occurred to him. I didn’t care what it was grounded in, whether it was his failures or his childhood or some hidden birthmark. What I did care about was whether it was rubbing off on me. Was I being too sure about him? Becoming that which I despised? But then maybe that was the greatest weapon of the unflappably unquestioning person: their unwavering belief forced others to bend to their will, to overthink their own positions out of a begrudging admiration or jealousy over possessing a head so clear of doubt, a certitude about everything that most can’t adopt about even one thing.

  “It’s nice that you’re looking out for everyone,” Miggy shifted his tenor, sympathetic to the loaded pause I was unable to break.

  And as much as I appreciated his delivery, the words stung. Looking out for everyone was one of Soren’s themes. It’s what he imagined he was doing. Now my best friend was crediting me with the same impulse. At least he meant well.

  Miggy meant well, that is.

  Soren did not. Soren would look back on his life as a failure if he got through it without shooting someone.

  As for me, I wasn’t sure. I liked to think I meant well. I could even make a case for looking out for everyone. But I was afraid that what I really wanted was to be better than Soren, and for everyone to notice.

  “We’d better get going,” Miggy said, as my ongoing silence must have convinced him there was nothing more he could say.

  “I’m sorry I ruined the game,” was the only thing I could think of to say that would come out the way I wanted it.

  “The game was great,” he said.

  “Awesome,” JD agreed.

  “Soren ruined it,” Chuy said. “Not you.”

  “He was going to break it up somehow,” Nub added. “And besides, this was mostly your idea. I just supplied the bottle rockets.”

  “Thank you,” I said to the group, nodding as I did, and nodding for several moments afterwards in rhythm to a beat that was composed to keep tears from surfacing in my eyes.

  It worked until Nub broke the news to them that he was leaving tomorrow. Each then took turns giving him a handshake blended with a one-armed hug, and instead of preventing tears from falling, my nodding shook them loose. I made sure I was outside the beams cast by the streetlights, hiding in the dark, though I had a feeling the dampness may have caught some reflection, so I wiped my face by lifting the collar of my shirt over it when nobody was looking.

  As we parted ways with the three of them at the gate and Nub and I walked back to yet another party, I asked him if he needed help loading anything tomorrow, or with any last-minute packing. He didn’t, so I made him promise that he wouldn’t leave without saying good-bye, and that saying good-bye involved me standing by his car as he climbed in, and waving to him as the car pulled away.

  “I need a normal good-bye,” I explained. “Just one normal good-bye.”