Trouble Is...
Chapter 10
Marco’s brother Carlos opened the door. I looked past him into the apartment, but couldn’t see Marco. Carlos had a green, plastic dump truck. “Wanna play trucks?”
“Is Marco here?” I asked.
Carlos tried to hand the truck to me, but I ignored him. I could see Mrs. Quintanilla walking from the kitchen, drying her hands on a dishtowel.
“Who is it, Carlos?” she asked. “Oh, Ricardo, hello. Marco and Eddy went to buy sodas and Doritos. They took Miguel with them. The girls are here working on their poster. Do you want to come in?”
“Where did they go?”
“The liquor store on the corner. They should be right back. Come on in.”
I told her I had to go, hurried to the stairs, and raced down two at a time. I looked around as I ran to the corner. Except for traffic, it was quiet. A normal evening. My chest hurt and I couldn’t catch my breath. I stopped, bent over with my hands on my knees, breathing in and out as slow as I could. I had to calm down. Marco would think I was nuts.
That’s when I heard gunshots. Tires screeched. A blue car raced past the intersection. I froze. Everything went silent, like I had cotton in my ears. I felt dizzy. A high, painful hum started inside my head. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. I staggered the last few steps to the corner, stepped around to the window of the liquor store. It had been blown out. I made myself look inside.
The Hostess Cupcake display with the pink Snoballs on top was covered with glass and blood. I saw Mr. Yuen at the counter. His eyes were wide open and he was staring at the floor. One hand covered his mouth. The other clutched the almost-empty, plastic jar of beef jerky on the counter. When he reached for the phone behind the counter, he knocked the jar of jerky to the floor. It bounced silently. Up and down. I couldn’t see Marco. Where was Marco?
The hum in my ears increased until I thought my head would explode. Abruptly it faded. I heard the scratch of the plastic jerky jar on the floor as it rolled against the counter. The hum stopped. I heard screaming. A child screaming. I looked around. Marco’s little brother, Miguel, stood in the middle of the store, one fist clenched around a smashed, half-eaten Twinkie. Cream oozed out and plopped on the floor. I heard Miguel choke. He bent over, violently coughed up the half-chewed Twinkie, and vomited. He fell to his knees.
On the floor lay a six-pack of Coke, two cans shattered. Soda spread on the floor like a murky, brown lake. Beside the cans lay a bag of Doritos. No rips. Nothing. Just lying on the floor, as if someone had accidentally knocked the bag off the shelf. I saw a hand reach toward the Doritos and grasp it desperately. Miguel screamed again. The hand weakened and slipped off the bag. My eyes moved from the hand, up the arm, and finally to Marco’s face. White-gray and terrified. His eyes looked straight into mine.
“Marco,” I whispered. I ran in the door, turned toward the counter and saw Mr. Yuen on the phone. “Call 911,” I shouted. He shook his head yes, pointed to the phone, shook his head yes again. As I knelt beside Marco, I saw another body against the wall, beneath the refrigerated cabinet. Eddy. He wasn’t moving.
Marco reached for my hand. “Miguel?” he croaked, “…OK?” Miguel was still on his knees on the floor. I crawled over to him. He screamed again when I touched him. I couldn’t see any blood on him.
I crawled back to Marco. “I think he’s OK.”
Marco gripped by hand again. “Tell Mom it’s not my fault.” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.
I tried to say “I will,” but nothing came out. Marco closed his eyes.
Blood oozed around my knees. It was warm. Was I feeling Marco’s warmth come out of him? I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t know where to press, how to keep the blood from coming out. A bright light filled my vision. I was afraid I’d pass out.
From far away I heard Mr. Yuen tell Miguel to run get his parents. I looked as he pushed Miguel out the door and I heard him yell, “Run.
I cried out, “He’s bleeding. Help him.”
Mr. Yuen looked toward Eddy’s body. “I don’t know his name,” he said. “I don’t know his parents.”
“Help me! He’s bleeding!”
I heard glass crunch as Mr. Yuen hurried over to Marco and me. He took off his sport coat, folded it, and pressed it against Marco’s stomach. Marco moaned. Silence. He moaned again.
“Is it stopping?” I asked. “Did you stop it?”
Everything went in slow-motion. I felt I’d been holding Marco’s hand for years. Then I heard Mrs. Quintanilla scream and I looked up. She had both hands over her mouth. Mr. Quintanilla stood behind her, carrying Carlos, and holding Miguel’s hand. He set Carlos down. Mrs. Quintanilla ran across the broken glass to Marco and knelt at his head. She stroked his hair and whispered, “My baby.” Marco moaned again. Mr. Quintanilla took me by the shoulders, stood me up, and moved me away so he could kneel by his son. I backed toward the counter and leaned against it. Miguel and Carlos huddled by the door, staring at their big brother. Outside, through the shattered window, I saw the two girls in Marco’s American history group hugging each other in tears.
Sirens screeched louder and louder. The cops came in first, guns drawn. Mr. Yuen said something to them and they holstered their guns. One went to Marco, the other to Eddy. I knew he was dead. He lay on his back in a pool of broken glass and blood. The cop kneeled beside him, and when he stood up I saw Eddy’s face. Part of it had been blown away. His cheek, his nose, an eye. The other eye looked at me. It didn’t move. It didn’t blink.
Paramedics came in and the hum came back, pressing against the inside of my ears. I was burning hot. Red and blue lights flashed into the store. I wanted Frank. He would know what to do. I moved toward the outside air. Somebody said, “Son?” I felt the cool air on my face. I took another step. My vision turned gray at the edges and moved to black.
I reached out, grabbed for something to hold on to. My figures grasped at I the metal bars of the grate pulled down over the front of the pet store window next door. I gagged and threw up. I couldn’t stop. I threw up until I thought I’d never breathe again.
I felt a hand on my back. Somebody said, “Joe! Get one of the paramedics out here. This kid’s got blood all over him.”
I started to go down on my knees. Strong hands gripped my shoulders and helped me lie down. Then they were checking me all over, asking me if I’d been shot, and did I hurt anywhere. I told them no. It was Marco’s blood.
“Is he OK?” I asked.
“They’re taking care of him,” said the paramedic.
“Is he gonna die?” I tried to sit up, but he held me down.
“They’re taking care of him,” he repeated. “Just lie still for a minute.”
Then they shined a light in my eyes, took my pulse, listened to my heart. “It feels like he’s got a fever,” one of them said. “Have you been sick?” he asked me.
“A headache. Is he OK?”
“They know what they’re doing,” he said. “They’re taking care of him. You want to sit up?” He helped me lean back against the pet store wall.
A cop came outside the liquor store and walked over to us. He talked to the paramedic for a minute and I heard him say, “These kids are wiping each other out.”
Then the paramedics pushed Marco outside on the gurney. I stood up. I was dizzy, but I started to walk toward Marco. One of the cops caught me by the arm and told me to stay where I was. “I need to ask you some questions,” he said. I didn’t answer. I was watching Marco.
They lifted him into the back of the ambulance. Mrs. Quintanilla got into the front. The ambulance left, sirens screaming. Mr. Quintanilla picked up Carlos and took Miguel’s hand. He said something to the girls and they followed him around the corner. Getting his car, I thought. Calling the girl’s parents to come get them. Something. I didn’t know.
“I need to ask
you some questions,” the cop repeated. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket. “What’s your parents phone number?”
“I only have my brother.” I leaned against the wall. “Is Marco going to die?”
“They’re taking good care of him. What’s your brother’s phone number?”
I couldn’t think. I couldn’t remember Frank’s number. “Do you remember his phone number, son?” I patted the pockets of my jeans, then pulled out my wallet and opened it. My hands were shaking. On top I had a picture of Maria. She was at the beach, standing at the edge of the water, waving. A whole different life, a million years ago, like a different time or a different planet. I looked at my school ID card. I looked at it. I couldn’t think.
“Do you have cell?” asked the cop. “Is his number on your cell?” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and handed it to him. “Last name?” I told him and he scrolled through till he found Frank’s number and called him. The coroner’s van pulled up. They got out and went inside.
Then the cop asked me what I saw. I told him I didn’t see anything, that I was around the corner, heard the shots, saw the blue car go by the intersection. He asked me how many shots I heard. I said I didn’t know. Lots. I didn’t count. It seemed like lots. He asked me how I knew Marco and Eddy and I told him from school and that I didn’t know Eddy very well but Marco was my best friend. He asked me if there was anything else I could tell him and I told him no, but then I told him about Angel saying he was going to get Eddy for beating up Sandra and that he had a gun.
“Locos 18?” the cop asked.
I shook my head yes. “But not Marco. He was just here buying cokes and Doritos for an American history group.”
Frank pulled up. He talked to a cop outside the liquor store who pointed to me in front of the pet store. He walked over, and when he looked at me, I started crying.
The cops told Frank they’d want to talk to me some more, that they’d call. The paramedics told him it looked like I was coming down with something like the flu, but otherwise I was OK. Just shook up. Frank put his arm around my shoulder and walked me to his car. He opened the door, helped me get in the car, and closed it after me. I leaned over and sobbed.
At home, I stripped off my bloody clothes and put on the first pair of jeans and T-shirt I found on the floor. I didn’t care what they looked like. My shoes were red, bloody. I walked into the living room, my clothes and shoes in my hands, not knowing what to do with them. Imelda took them from me and said she’d see if she could clean them up for me.
Frank hung up the phone. “Marco’s in Emergency,” he said. “The trauma team is still working on him.”
“Will you take me?” I asked.
He nodded. “Find some shoes.”
I found an old pair of worn-out black boots under my bed. They were kind of small, but they’d work.
Driving to the hospital, Frank was quiet until we pulled into the hospital parking lot. “You start hanging around gangs, this is what happens.”
“Marco wasn’t hanging around gangs and he got shot.” I was angry.
“That happens, too,” he said. He pulled into a parking space. I didn’t want his lectures about gangbanging. Not tonight. Not with Eddy’s face half blown away. Not with Marco maybe dying. I opened my door, got out, slammed the door, and headed for the entrance. Frank didn’t stop me, but I could hear his footsteps following me.
The lobby was so big I didn’t know where to go. Frank was already at a counter that said, “Patient Information.” He motioned toward a hallway at the far end of the lobby, then led the way to the emergency waiting room.
Marco’s parents were sitting against the far wall. Carlos was on his father’s lap. Miguel sat beside his mother, her arms hugging him tightly. Mr. and Mrs. Quintanilla looked up expectantly when we walked in, maybe thinking we were doctors, maybe thinking someone was going to tell them Marco would be OK.
Frank shook Mr. Quintanilla’s hand. He bent down and kissed Mrs. Quintanilla on the cheek. Frank held her hand in both of his and spoke quietly to her. I didn’t know what to do or say. I was afraid that they’d know it was my fault, that I had made it happen because I was there at lunch, because I’d talked about where Eddy would be. Frank motioned me to a couch opposite the Quintanillas. We sat down. I didn’t feel good. My head hurt and I was cold.
“Is he OK?” I asked. My voice sounded strange. Scared, like it was coming out of somewhere deep and cold.
Marco’s mother looked at me. Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them with a tissue. Mr. Quintanilla said, “We don’t know.”
I put my elbows on my knees and rested my head in my hands. Frank rested his arm on the couch behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.
Later a doctor walked up to the Quintanillas. He said Marco had a kidney/spleen wound and had lost a lot of blood. They’d given him blood and stabilized him. He said they were taking him up to surgery now and they could come see him for a second.
Frank said he’d watch the kids. Marco’s parents followed the doctor through the double doors into the treatment area. I stood up and followed as far as the doors. I looked through one of the windows, down the long hall. I could see doctors and nurses pushing a gurney from the far end trauma center toward the elevators in the middle. When Mr. and Mrs. Quintanilla approached, some of the people moved away so they could see Marco. His mother bent down and kissed him. His father reached out and took Marco’s hand in both of his.
I looked back at Frank. He was paying attention to Carlos and Miguel, so I quietly pushed open the doors and stepped inside the hallway. I walked to the elevators, then stood with my back pressed against the wall as the gurney approached. Mr. and Mrs. Quintanilla followed.
I stepped out just as the gurney got to the elevators. “Can I see him?” I asked. They looked at me. One of them pushed the elevator button. “He’s my brother.”
A nurse moved aside and I stepped up to Marco. He had tubes and IV lines everywhere. He had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. He didn’t look as white as he had on the liquor store floor. I looked in his eyes. I wanted to tell him how I felt about him, but nothing came out. He reached up a hand and I held it for a second. Then someone said, “We have to go.” The elevator doors opened and Marco was gone.
Mrs. and Mrs. Quintanilla stared at the closed doors. I walked up to them. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. Marco’s mother reached out and pulled me into her arms.
Frank wouldn’t let me wait while Marco was in surgery because the doctors had said it would take hours. I argued to stay, but he said I needed to get to bed, that I was sick. He got some coffee for Marco’s parents, some soda for the kids, and they headed for the elevators to go to the surgery waiting room. Frank took me out to the car and drove me home. It was dark when I woke up. Everything was black. My pillow and sheets were damp with sweat, but I was cold. Shivering. I pulled the blankets up to my chin, stared at the ceiling. I remembered what I’d been dreaming about. I dreamed I’d pulled the trigger.