Until I Find Julian Read online

Maybe not. The man’s mustache is quivering. He’s ready to laugh. “Sweeeep.” He draws out the middle part, just the way Angel did.

  “Dust.” I wave my hand at the fruit stuck in cans. And then I’m finished. This language wears me out.

  The man bites his mustache. “What’s your name?” he asks slowly.

  Ah, I know that. I give him my northern name. “Matty.”

  He points to himself. “Sal.” He nods toward the broom in the back hallway.

  “Yes?”

  He says something back. Who know what it is? But I take a chance and dive for the broom, glancing back at him to see if he’s nodding, or frowning. But someone has come into the store. He turns away and I begin to sweep.

  In the factory, Miguel used to scream at Damian and me. “That’s the way you sweep? Everything just piled up in the corner?”

  Damian would wait until Miguel went to bother someone else. Then he’d push all the dirt into another corner. We’d laugh, thinking Miguel would never know the difference. And sometimes he didn’t. I remember once I fell over the broom, and even he had to grin.

  But in this deli with its blinking sign, with dust all over the soup cans, I sweep enormously, back and forth, until there’s not a speck on the floor, and Sal with the Abuelita apron is smiling. “Good job,” he says.

  He’s mixing up my words, but that’s all right.

  Without asking, I find a dust cloth in back. I dust every one of those cans of soup, and string beans, and corn.

  And then, a surprise.

  Sal beckons me into the back. “Supper.” He waves his hand at the table.

  There’s food on a paper plate: a roll with ham and cheese hanging out the edges. There’s a long skinny pickle and a can of soda. I haven’t had so much to eat since I left home. My mouth waters.

  I’m not sure it’s for me.

  “Go ahead,” he says.

  I don’t sit at the table. Instead, I lean forward, standing, and ram half the sandwich into my mouth. I look at the rest, thinking of Angel. “Home?” I ask, pointing.

  Sal shakes his head. “Eat it all,” I think he says. He goes out to the front and a few minutes later he’s back with another sandwich, three bottles of soda, three of water, and the same friendly soup in a can that Angel and I love. “Home,” Sal says with a sweep of his arm.

  I gulp down the soda, then keep my hands in my pocket so I don’t devour the other sandwich.

  He even gives me some money.

  Wait until Angel sees all this.

  I duck my head; I wish I knew what to say. “Spiffy,” I tell him at last, knowing he’s giving me much more than I deserve for a little sweeping and dusting.

  He nods, and I wonder if he knows I’m illegal.

  And then I’m on the way home, carrying the bag of food. I’m going to sit on the couch with a soda, as if I’m rich. What will I write? I think about the boy who took my money today, and a time long ago, when I took something too. I’ll write about that memory. Why not?

  I stole once. It was after we’d eaten, my homework finished, and I splashed through the creek, dragging my feet along the sand.

  And there was that miserable old woman’s house, her broom resting on the porch, both the woman and the broom ready to come after me.

  This time I’d go after the broom.

  I crept up on the porch, my bare feet leaving wet prints, and I reached, reached farther for it.

  Then it was in my hand. I backed down the step and ran along the edge of the creek in the growing darkness.

  “Too bad, old woman,” I whispered to myself, and threw the broom into the high weeds that lined the creek.

  It was so easy…

  Until I told Julian.

  “We can’t do that, Mateo,” he said. “What does she have but her house, her broom? No family. No one to care about her.”

  We went back to look for the broom, but it wasn’t there.

  “Maybe she found it,” I said.

  “I don’t think so.” He ran his hands through his hair. “It’s here somewhere, but it’s too dark.”

  Julian took the money he’d been saving in his sock and bought her a broom, a much better one that wasn’t filthy and falling apart. He carried it up to her porch with me in back of him.

  The old woman stuck out her lip, not a bit grateful. But later Julian said, “Why should she be grateful? We’re the ones who caused her broom to be lying in the weeds somewhere.”

  That was Julian. “We’re the ones,” he’d said, when he knew it wasn’t any of his fault.

  I took the coin Abuelita had given me for my name day and slipped it into his sock that night.

  The bedroom door is closed the next morning, so Angel must be sleeping. I tear a piece of paper from the notebook and scribble a message:

  A—

  Went to look at a factory. Don’t worry.

  I won’t get caught.

  I leave it in the living room on the scarred table in front of the couch.

  It’s a straight road, but it stretches a long way in front of me. It’s empty, no people, no cars, and after a while it loses its city look: no longer cement, but a dirt road that sends up swirls of dust and grit that I feel on my tongue as I walk along. I’m slower now. The sun feels as if it’s burning a hole through the top of my head.

  But then, ahead, I see evergreen trees, odd shaped and thin, packed together. They send cool shade across the road, and a wonderful piney smell.

  On the way back, I’ll step into that forest. But for now, I hope that I’m on my way to Julian.

  A few minutes after I pass the forest, the smell changes. It’s a choking kind of smell that makes me want to cough, that makes me want to breathe through my mouth so I don’t have to take in that thick odor of fertilizer.

  The factory. I see a long, low gray building with a chimney spewing yellow smoke. I watch for someone to come outside, someone who looks friendly enough to ask.

  I wait a long time until I hear a whistle. It’s so loud that I put my hands over my ears. The doors open; men and women pour out, coughing, and head for benches with their lunches.

  Could I just go over there? I look around. No policemen anywhere that I can see. I make myself walk to one of the benches. The four women sitting there glance up, sandwiches in their hands.

  I clear my throat, tasting the fertilizer. “I’m looking for my brother,” I say in Spanish, my voice hoarse.

  One of the women speaks, her voice as hoarse as mine. “What’s his name?” And another, “What does he look like?”

  And the one sitting at the end of the bench, her hair straight down her back, says, “He looks like this kid, I bet. What’s your name?”

  I can hardly breathe. “Mateo.”

  “Dark eyes…” She raises her hand to her head. “Hair…”

  She doesn’t want to say every-which-way hair.

  “And,” she goes on, “his name is Julian.”

  I sink down on the edge of the bench next to her. I can’t talk. I can’t open my mouth. I can’t say a word.

  She takes a bite from her sandwich. “You remember?” she asks the others.

  They shake their heads, chewing now, but they look at me carefully.

  The woman knows. I watch her. I wait.

  “He worked here, I remember,” she says. “A nice boy. A good boy. Gone now.” She takes another bite.

  My words rush out. “But where is he?”

  “I don’t know, child.”

  “Which way did he go?”

  I can see she’s becoming irritated, but I can’t help that.

  I point toward the road. Is it the way I’ve come, or do I have to go farther?

  She tosses the paper bag over her shoulder. It hits the litter basket, falls back, and lands on the ground. If it hadn’t been for Sal’s food, I would have gone after it, eaten that crust and been glad to have it.

  But one of the other women takes pity on me. “I think this way.” She points to the road, to the way I’v
e come.

  “Do you remember anything else?” Any tiny piece of information, almost like one of the chunks of chicken in Mami’s soup, will make a difference.

  But the factory whistle blasts again. The women stand. They have to go back to work.

  Next to me, a woman puts her hand on my shoulder. “I think he said he owes someone.”

  I hear the slap of my sneakers—He owed someone. And why do I keep thinking of the miserable woman with the broom?

  The sound of my breath—What kind of trouble is he in?

  Ahead are the green trees, bending toward me on both sides of the road.

  I run off the road, onto a much softer bed of sand and needles; I breathe in the sharp smell of the pines and slow down.

  Julian would love this spot. At home, Mami will be sewing at the kitchen table, worrying about him, worrying about money…

  Worrying about me.

  I touch Abuelita’s medal.

  The wind whispers to the branches with a sound like breaking glass. I veer toward a small path, putting one foot in front of the other.

  Something moves.

  I stand entirely still.

  It’s a deer, her color almost orange under the trees, her tail white, her ears high. She reaches up to pull a branch closer to her so she can nibble at the leaves.

  For just that moment, all the worry melts out of me. How lucky I am to see her, to be here in this hidden world, to write about it someday.

  I hear something and move behind the nearest tree, a tall one with zigzag branches. A twig gently scratches my cheek, and I reach up to touch it.

  There’s silence.

  I wait for what seems forever; then I raise my head slowly, my hands grasping the trunk.

  The deer is still there, no longer feeding. Her head is up, her ears twitching, her great dark eyes staring. She’s heard what I heard.

  There’s a screech. I jump, almost darting away, then stare up into the tree. A large bird perches near the top, its yellow talons wrapped around a branch; its eyes are hooded, angry-looking. A hawk, I think. It blinks slowly; then it glides away and the deer jumps effortlessly over a fallen branch.

  Both are gone and I’m alone.

  But not quite.

  I hear footsteps now, scratchy against the pine needles, so I stay where I am. A woman comes down the narrow path. Her streaked hair is swept up in back with a comb, and she’s wearing boots.

  She moves forward away from me, dropping fistfuls of seeds as she walks. The seeds are black, striped; I know what they are: tall yellow sunflowers grow from those seeds.

  I follow the woman.

  Why do I do things like this? It will surely get me caught.

  Still, I raise one foot and then the other as I walk, so the swish of the sand and the pine needles is quiet.

  The woman takes a long time going down that winding path, the pine bending over us. She stops, the seeds spilling through her fingers.

  Something hisses.

  I stand on tiptoes to see a gray striped cat, its back arched. It’s much larger than the stray at home. It must be a bobcat.

  The woman waits as the bobcat disappears up a narrow path, thick with fallen needles, and she follows slowly, giving it room.

  I go after her, watching as she tosses more seeds; then I take another path, narrower still, veering away from her to be sure she doesn’t turn and spot me.

  I circle around a few straggly bushes, arms out to feel the branches, and then jump over a silvery rock.

  I picture Julian here. I remember once walking along the creek together. I took big steps, trying to keep up with him, and he pointed to a silver fish swimming along, its tail flipping out of the water.

  Julian and I smiled at each other, picturing it safe from our fishing poles. Be safe, Julian.

  Just beyond me is a pile of gray rocks, and a narrow opening.

  A cave?

  I walk toward it quietly, shuffling through millions of old pine needles and sand, staring at the narrow slit in the rocks.

  Suppose an animal lives in that cave?

  The bobcat? A coyote?

  I have to go back. Maybe I could work at the food store again, although it doesn’t need sweeping now; it doesn’t need dusting.

  And Angel will be waiting for me. I wonder about her.

  All I know after all this time is that she has a brother, Diego, and yes, a grandfather.

  It’s hard to find my way out. One path leads to another, and then to another.

  I begin to run again, the pine needles scuffing up. But I’m not so far from the road, I’m sure of it; I hear the sound of cars rolling along on the pavement, the beeping of a horn, a dog barking faintly.

  I follow those sounds until I find the road, a car whizzing past.

  I head for home.

  Home?

  It’s amazing that I’m thinking about the house that way. We shouldn’t even be there. And suppose we’re caught?

  What a long day—the factory, the women having sandwiches at the picnic table, one of them knowing Julian. I think of the pines as I head away from them, losing that clean, clear smell. I wish I could show the forest to Julian.

  But then I stop. Julian lived here, right in that house, going back and forth to the factory.

  He’d have seen this pine forest.

  Wouldn’t he have walked here the way I have?

  And if he’s still somewhere nearby, wouldn’t he come back to walk along those needle-strewn paths?

  Unless he’s gone.

  But there’s something else: the woman with her streaked hair caught up in a large clip, her boots, the sunflower seeds she dropped for the animals in the forest.

  I’ve seen her before, haven’t I?

  I stop in the middle of the road, the black tar sticky in the heat. She was at the unfinished building, standing there.

  And she was crying.

  I wonder why.

  As I turn into the alley, I see a man and a woman standing halfway down, looking up…

  Toward our house?

  The woman has a camera. Is she taking a picture? Do they want to move in?

  My heart bounces up into my throat.

  I back away and go around to the front. Opening the door quietly, I slip inside.

  Halfway through the living room, I hear the bedroom door slam. It’s so loud, I wonder if the man and woman outside can hear it. Do they wonder who’s slamming a door in an empty house?

  “Angel?” I whisper.

  She doesn’t answer.

  I put my nose up to the closed door. “People are outside.”

  She opens the door a crack, her eyes flashing.

  “In the alley,” I say. “Two of them.”

  “I don’t care.”

  I push my foot in so she can’t slam the door again. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You’re the matter,” she says. “You’ve been gone forever. How was I to know if you weren’t caught somewhere? Never coming back?” She shoves her hair behind her ears.

  I look toward the living room and see my note on the table. An empty soda bottle rests on top of it. How could she not have seen it?

  “Look.” I point to the note. “I told you where I was going.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Under the soda bottle.”

  She pushes the door open, cranes her neck, and glances at the table. “I didn’t see it.”

  She had to have seen it.

  I hesitate.

  I look from the table and then at her.

  She steps away from the door, then tries to close it.

  “No.” I’m almost shouting, my foot holding the door open. “Tell me what’s going on with you.”

  “Nothing at all.” Her nose is in the air. She sees that I’m not going to let her close the door, so she pulls it open and stamps into the kitchen as if I don’t exist.

  I lean my head against the wall for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. Then I grab my writing book and fo
llow her. I slide onto a chair, the book in front of me. I act as if everything is all right. “I’m going to write some words here.” I smooth out a page. “It’s time I learned more English.”

  “A waste of time.”

  “You don’t have to write anything, Angel. Just spell out a few words.” I slide the book toward her.

  “I’m too tired.”

  “You could help me,” I begin, but I’m saying it to her back.

  She’s gotten up from her chair and lifted the curtain at the bottom of the window an inch or so. She stares out at the alley. “There’s no one there.”

  “They’re gone, then.” I’d forgotten all about them. “Help me, Angel.” I try to say it so she doesn’t know how angry I am.

  She sinks down on the chair again. “You should learn to say the words before you write them down, Matty.” Fresh voice.

  I’m ready to explode. “All you do is hang out.”

  She uncurls her bare feet from underneath her and goes into the living room.

  “You could just—” I begin, but she brushes past me and goes back into the bedroom. She doesn’t bother to shut the door and I can see she’s grabbing her bag and the sweater she picked up in the desert.

  Stamping into the kitchen, she takes a little of Sal’s money from the table. “I’ll pay you back; don’t worry.” She slams out the door.

  I watch from the window. She runs along the alley, her bag bouncing on her shoulder, and turns the corner. Where is she going?

  I can do that too.

  I go out the front door.

  It’s really late now, and the streets are empty: no people, no cars. It’s not that dark, though, so I run all the way back to the pine trees.

  I take that small path, breathing in the sharp piney smell to calm myself. A small animal crashes away from me.

  I sink down and huddle under one of the trees. What’s wrong with Angel?

  Last night, everything was different. She pulled me outside in the yard, past the junk that littered the lawn, and showed me small cactus flowers that were blooming under a rusted-out table.

  “You can hardly see them in the dark,” I said.

  She nodded. “I couldn’t wait until tomorrow, though. Don’t they look beautiful?”