Barefoot Dogs Read online

  Justina, our nanny, who has taken care of us since we were born, is waiting for me in the kitchen. The small TV set where she likes to watch soap operas while cooking dinner is off, which immediately raises a red flag. Justina is past forty-five, but her round, bright face remains girlish as ever. Tonight she looks exhausted, as if a decade has run her over since the last time I saw her, that morning. Her eyes are swollen, redder than usual.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, kissing her on each cheek—my superb friends and I have been practicing kissing like Italians do, and I practice with Justina as well—and this makes her smile wearily, but instead of answering she asks whether I’ve already had dinner. I say I have, but she insists.

  “Fercita, are you sure you don’t want me to prepare a sandwich or some quesadillas for you?” she asks imploringly, as if by saying yes I’d save her life.

  I say I’m sure and press her further, for something’s definitely going on. Justina coaxes me into the living room. She says we need to talk. When we sit on the sofa, Justina says Mom and Dad are not home because they’re at Grandpa’s. He left his office yesterday to head out for lunch and didn’t return. He didn’t go home either. He hasn’t called. They’ve tried to reach him on his cell phone, but he’s not answering. Mom and Dad and my uncles and my aunts are at his home, waiting for news. I struggle to understand why this is all a big deal, Grandpa should be somewhere fun, hanging around with his friends, probably partying hard, he won’t call his children to tell them that, right? It makes no sense for Justina, and everybody else, to freak out.

  Then it hits me.

  This image of Grandpa taking a taxicab outside his office and disappearing into the city thunders into my head, but it makes no sense, I say to myself. Grandpa doesn’t need to take taxicabs. He never takes one—here. These things only happen to people who don’t have cars. These things don’t happen to people who live in Polanco, people like us, like Grandpa.

  “I’m sure he’s fine,” I say, but I say it more to myself than to Justina. “I’m heading to Grandpa’s to tell Mom and Dad there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No!” Justina raises her voice. “Your parents asked me not to let you go there, they think it’s better if you wait here, Fernanda.”

  “Then I’m going to call them and see what’s up!” I cry, and it surprises me to hear my own voice, cracking. “I need to talk to them, Jus!”

  “No, don’t do that, please!” Justina’s voice is higher than mine now, and as out of control. “They need to keep the phone lines open at all times, in case Don Victoriano or someone else calls with information. They said they’d call as soon as they can.”

  I don’t know what else to say. As I head to my room I feel my brain getting stuffed, turning heavy. I call Sash and Tammy and Jen from my cell phone, but I only reach Tammy. I tell her I need to see her because something’s happened.

  “What is it, cara mia?” she asks, but I can’t say it on the phone. Actually I can hardly speak. I try to remember the last time I saw Grandpa, and I can’t. Instead, I see him in the back of a taxicab, sandwiched between a couple guys with black balaclavas covering their faces, knives pressed against his ribs. “Okay, don’t worry, Fer. Let’s meet at Klein’s,” Tammy says. “I’ll try to get there as soon as possible. I’ll text Sash and Jen and ask them to reach us there. Ciao, bella.”

  I’m the first to arrive. I don’t know what to do with my hands, with my purse. I call the waiter and ask him to bring me a pack of Marlboros from the tobacco stand next door. I hate smoking, it makes me sick, but tonight I need it. In my head, Grandpa keeps asking the fat guys with balaclavas to calm down, everything can be worked out. I close my eyes and try to force myself to picture Grandpa somewhere else. I try to imagine him at a nightclub in Centro Histórico, going wild, I try to imagine him heading out to Acapulco with his friends for a crazy last-minute sugar daddies’ getaway, but nothing works, the image of him in the taxicab’s stuck in my head.

  It is the year all the members of my family will end up fleeing Mexico, following Grandpa’s disappearance, but at that point I don’t know for sure what’s happened to him. I just need to be around my friends. I need them to take care of me, to tell me our lives will go on as expected, Italy’s calling, it will be splendid. But when I think back on that night, I realize I’m there, waiting for Jen and Tammy and Sash at Klein’s at 10:30 on a Thursday night because I’ll need their help to learn the language I’ll be forced to use in the days to come, the tongue of the missing.

  Fifteen minutes pass and my friends haven’t arrived. When the waiter brings the cigarettes, I no longer feel like smoking. My brain feels twice its original size. I’m sitting at the table we always use during our conversations with Diane, overlooking the constant traffic jam on Masaryk. At the crêperie across the street, a couple’s been making out on the terrace since I arrived. I can’t see her face because her back is to me, but I could swear it’s Diane. I discard the idea. I can see his face and I simply can’t believe that he could be the man for whom she traded a life of glamour and sophistication in Milan. He’s slightly older than me and not especially handsome or refined. He’s wearing a hideous brown suit that fits him terribly, like cheap clothing always does. He could be a bank teller or an insurance salesman, so she definitely can’t be Diane—also, she could be his mother, for Christ’s sake! I always imagined the Italian polyglot dating a seasoned hedge fund manager, the irresistible cultural attaché of some exotic country or a renowned salt-and-pepper chef, but I’d never once considered she could fall for that. He beckons the waiter, waving the check-please sign in the air, while she fixes up her hair and takes a little mirror out of her purse and corrects her rouge. It’s her. In my mind, Grandpa’s now saying, “Please don’t hurt me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Please!” and I feel tears rolling down my cheeks. The waiter arrives with the check and the bank teller or the insurance salesman pays with cash. Next they rise and head down the street, and I can now see her face, radiant and full of peace. Diane rests her head on the ill-fitting shoulder pad of his suit and holds his hand as they walk away. She’s never looked more beautiful and triumphant. Grandpa’s lips are now bleeding, one of the fat guys has just punched him in the face. My hands are trembling, my heart’s about to blow. I still refuse to believe that the bank teller or the insurance salesman loves Diane back the same, but they stop and kiss under the pale moonlight of the night the city turned its back on me, and it astounds me to see how little they need to feel like a million bucks.

  OKIE

  Ms. Brinkman said that writing could help, and handed me a notebook. She was sitting on her desk, and I was standing in front of it. The other kids were already on the playground. She called it a journal, and said she had one at home. She wrote in it every night. Some nights, she said, it’s just a paragraph about a special moment I enjoyed during the day, others, I can write pages on end. It makes those happy moments even more memorable, she said, and it makes those not so happy ones feel less important. After I read them on the page I realize they’re not such a big deal, she said, and smiled. The classroom smelled like new carpet and sharpened pencils. Third grade had just started, and I was the only new kid in class. Ms. Brinkman said I didn’t have to show her what I wrote. Just write, sweetie. If you feel like showing it to me, I’ll be happy to read it. If you don’t, that’s okay. If you feel like talking about it, that would be great as well.

  I came home that night and told Josefina what Ms. Brinkman had said. I showed her the notebook. I explained that Ms. Brinkman had called it a journal. What’s the difference, Josefina asked. I’m not sure, I said. I guess you write regular stuff in a notebook and important stuff in a journal? Josefina wanted to know if I was going to use it. I don’t know, I said. It’s beautiful, she said. We were packed into the kitchen of the tiny house we’d just moved into. Josefina was loading the dishwasher with frying pans. She’d just learned how to use it. Why do you think
she gave it to you? Just because, I guess? I replied. Josefina said what she always did. Don’t lie to me, Bernardo. I know you. You can fool everybody but me. Please don’t tell my parents, I said. Why would I? she asked. I don’t know. Have I ever told them something you’ve asked me not to? No. Why would I start now? I don’t know, I said. We’re here now. So? Things are different now. I’m not different. I’m the same old Josefina. I supposed that was true. She kept wearing the blue-and-white uniform she did back home, she still braided her long black hair, she still looked sweaty all the time. Are you going to tell me why she gave it to you? I don’t participate much in class. I don’t speak with anybody at school. Why’s that? That’s what Ms. Brinkman wanted to know. So, did you tell her? No. I just don’t feel like talking to anyone here.

  After dinner I went to my room and opened the notebook. I had never seen one of these before. It was black-and-white and sturdy, and had the word Composition printed on the cover. I stared at the white page. Mom’s taking swimming lessons in the same pool as me, I wrote. I don’t like it. I closed the notebook and put it in my backpack. When my parents and my little brother were asleep I went to Josefina’s room. She was still awake, already in her flannel gown decorated with daisies, reading the Bible. Her room smelled like the rose hand cream she always applied after doing dishes. Hers was not in the back, away from ours, like at home, but next to the kitchen, and looked like any other room in the house. All the rooms, including hers, had rough beige carpet on the floor. If you knocked on the walls, even on the tiled ones in the bathroom, they sounded hollow and flimsy, as if they were made out of cardboard. I slipped into Josefina’s bed. It was cozy with the warmth of her big body. You’ve got to stop doing this, she said. If your parents find out they are going to be mad at me. I snuggled next to her. She sighed. She stroked my hair. Her hands looked older than the rest of her body. She put her palms together and I did too. We prayed Our Father and she turned off the lights.

  She woke me up early the next morning, before my parents had opened the door to their room. I went back to my bed and pretended to sleep while Josefina fixed breakfast for me and my brother.

  • • •

  A few days later, Ms. Brinkman asked me to stay in the classroom at the start of recess. When we were alone she asked me how the writing was coming along. It’s going okay, I said. Is it helping? I don’t know. Well, keep at it, sweetie. Have you made any new friends? I didn’t reply. Every time she called me sweetie I felt like a Muppet. That’s just fine, Ms. Brinkman said. It takes time, you know? My family lived in Oklahoma until I was six, and then we moved to California. It wasn’t easy, she said. You know what kids called me at school? They called me Okie. And it was almost the eighties. It took time. And now, look at me: I’m a true California girl, she said, but I didn’t note anything particular about the way she looked. I’d never heard that word before, Okie. I didn’t know what it meant. Ms. Brinkman had brown, curly hair, her eyes were so blue they looked like a doll’s. She dressed in those long colorful handmade dresses tourists like to buy from street vendors in Vallarta or Cabo. She smiled all the time. You’ll get the hang of it, sweetie, she insisted.

  I was alone, sitting on a bench away from the basketball courts, where the other kids played during recess, when a girl from class came over. Her hair was beyond blond, it was almost white. She was tall and very skinny. You’re weird, she said. Excuse me? I said you’re weird. I didn’t reply. See? You’re weird. If you weren’t weird you’d say something back.

  I only noticed Mom didn’t know how to swim when we moved to California. One day, while she was driving to the pool, I asked her why she had to take swimming lessons now. Because I want to learn, she said. But why? Because before I was afraid of the water, and I don’t want to be anymore. But why do you have to take lessons in the same pool, next to me? I like it, that we get to do something together. What’s wrong with that? she asked. It’s weird. Mom laughed. Weird? Where did you get that?

  It was after ten that night when Josefina put her Bible down and her palms together, and so did I. Why are we here? I asked when the lights were out. Why do you have to ask the same thing every night, Bernardo? Because I want to know. I told you already. Your mom and your dad decided to move, and asked me to come with you. They didn’t explain why. It’s none of my business. That’s not true, I said. You know why we moved but you don’t want to tell me. Josefina had cooked entomatadas for dinner that evening, and something about her, her hands or her clothes, smelled like poached onion, which made me think of home. Have I ever lied to you? I don’t know. Watch your mouth, young man, or else I’ll kick you out of my room. Have I ever lied to you?

  • • •

  The same girl approached me at recess again. What’s up, weirdo? Are you weird because you’re Mexican, or are you weird just because you’re a weirdo? I was sitting on the bench. She stood in front of me, casting a shadow on my head. Are you ugly because you’re güera or just because you’re ugly? I said back to her. What did you call me? I didn’t reply. Repeat what you just said or else I’m telling Ms. Brinkman. If you tell her that I’ll tell her you’re calling me weirdo. What did you call me? Güera. What does that mean? If you don’t know, that’s your problem, güereja. It was awesome, the face she made.

  Days later, one of the kids in my swimming class asked me why my mom was taking lessons there too, if grown-ups where I came from didn’t know how to swim. On the way home I told her that I wanted her to stop. Why would you ask me to do that? The kids in my group are teasing me. Why? Because you don’t know how to swim. Well, she said. She looked at herself in the rearview mirror and fixed her hair. It was still damp and messy from the pool and looked darker than usual. Next time they tease you, tell them to do it in Spanish. When they learn to tease you in Spanish, I’ll stop taking swimming lessons there.

  A few nights later I wrote in the notebook: Her name’s Ambrose and she showed up again today. She came over and looked at me but she didn’t say anything at first. What? I said. Nothing, I’m just looking at you, she said. Well, I’m not a monkey in a zoo, so stop looking at me, I said. She chuckled. You are. You’re a weird monkey. You’re a baboon. It was funny, the way she said it. Stop calling me weird. I don’t like it.

  The next day, Josefina came to pick me up. Instead of her uniform, she wore her Sunday best, as if she were going to church. It made me happy to see her at school, but I wanted to know where Mom was. She said she was at the ER with my brother. His kindergarten teacher had called to report that Maximiliano had jumped off the top of the slide and his arm didn’t look good. Back home, Josefina never would have picked me up just because Mom couldn’t. One of my aunts, or Dad’s chauffeur, would have. When Mom and Max came home that afternoon, his left arm was in a cast. He showed me the lollipops the nurses gave him for being such a sport. They were bright purple and green. That night I wrote in the notebook: Max is nuts. I’m sure he did that thing on the slide on purpose. I’m sure he doesn’t like it here either.

  A few nights later Josefina asked if I was writing a lot in my notebook. Not much, just a couple things. Can you tell me what you’ve been writing about? Silly stuff, that’s all. C’mon, tell me. If I do, do you promise not to tell anyone? It’s old Josefina you’re talking to, Bernardo, what kind of question is that? I told her I was writing about taking swimming lessons with Mom, and how much I hated it. Well, if I were you, I’d be proud of her, she said. You need to be very brave to do that when you’re a grown-up. Why? I asked. Because fear’s like a spell, Bernardo, fear can be paralyzing. I know what it’s like. I don’t know how to swim either. I imagined Josefina taking swimming lessons in the same pool, with me and Mom. I wish I were brave enough to do what she’s doing. You should be proud of her, she repeated. You should be proud of your parents, Bernardo. They are very brave people.

  • • •

  A few days later I wrote in the notebook: I lied. Ambrose is not ugly, she’s actually very
pretty. Today I told her that and apologized for being mean to her. I mean, I didn’t say she was pretty. I just said I didn’t mean to call her ugly. She said I’d called her some other name too. I said I’d called her blondie. What’s wrong with that? she said. Nothing, I said. Well, I still think you’re weird, she said, but like, good weird, you know? What’s the difference? I asked. I don’t know, she said. There’s just a difference.

  I see you’re now friends with Ambrose, Ms. Brinkman said during our weekly talk. This time we sat in the corner where we usually had story time, surrounded by shiny red, green, yellow, and purple square pillows. I told you it was just a matter of time, sweetie. I nodded. How’s the writing coming along? It’s going okay. Is it helping you feel better here, more at home? It was so annoying, the way she’d ask me questions. This is not home, I said. I’m feeling better, but this is not home. Ms. Brinkman made like she was going to touch my hair, but she didn’t. It will be, sweetie, she said. Even though it’s hard for you to see it now, it will.

  After my talk with Ms. Brinkman I went to the playground and found Ambrose sitting on the bench where we always met, like she was waiting for me. I told her about Mom taking swimming lessons. She swims from one side of the pool to the other holding a Styrofoam board with lots of colors on it, kicking the water hard. It’s just ridiculous, I said. Why do you hate it so much? My mom’s taking yoga classes where she’s with a bunch of people in a room that’s like, five hundred degrees, and everybody’s sweating like roasted chickens. Now, that’s embarrassing. And gross, I said. Exactly. What’s wrong with taking swimming lessons? Nothing. I just don’t like that she’s there at the same time I am. Does she wear floaties or something? We giggled. No, she doesn’t, but still.