A novel by Leo Gonzales
I look at myself in the mirror and see a little bumps comin’ in ‘round my chin and cheeks. I notice ‘em for the first time and when I take my pajamas off to shower I see ‘em ‘round my crotch. They don’t hurt, but they scare me. I’m thinking they’re a bunch of pimples or somethin’, but I think they’re a little cute though, like little sprouts coming up from the ground.
I go downstairs and on my way out I say bye to Ma. She doesn’t answer me and looks out the window, cleanin’ the dishes. “Stop.” She tells me to sit, sit, and I sit, and she makes me pancakes even though I’m not hungry.
Pa’s there.
“So how’s school going?” she asks, lookin’ out the window while she cooks. I tell her it’s goin’ good and she pours me some coffee.
“Ma, can I have some orange juice.”
She keeps lookin’ out the window and looks back at me like I just snuck in the room. “Huh?” she asks. The doorbell rings and she squeals like a hog gettin’ slaughtered. “It’s here! It’s here!” She clears her throat and pokes Pa. He grunts and starts cookin’ me dinner.
I get up ’cause she gets me excited and see her open the door for the mailman. His name is Bruce and he’s black with a deep and friendly voice. He’s all sweaty when Ma says hello. Bruce hands her a big rectangle, or maybe it’s a square, covered in brown paper.
“You want some milk?” I ask him. He wipes the sweat off his forehead real happy and says he’d love a glass. I bring it to him quick and he gulps it up so fast I ask him if he wants another.
“No thanks, Charlie, you’ve done plenty. Now, why don’t you run on upstairs and play with your toys.”
“I’m on my way out to see my friend, Paul,” I say to Bruce. Ma starts shredding the paper open so it’s hard to hear what he says.
“Who is Paul?” he asks, repeatin’ himself.
Pa calls out, “Boy, come eat your breakfast!”
I can see Bruce, but he’s a little further. I start hollerin’, “He’s a boy I met in the woods. He put me in his club even though I’m the youngest one. He’s real nice and always has lots of fun games to play!”
Bruce chuckles, walkin’ over with an empty glass. “Well, that sounds like a hell of a time.”
Ma follows him with a sharp look, clingin’ onto the brown paper. “Don’t you swear in this house,” she tells Bruce.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Nothin’ worst than speakin’ out in someone else’s home – my mama taught me better than that. I apologize.”
“My God,” Ma says. She finally takes all the paper off right there in the kitchen and sees a bright paintin’. She holds it up against the wall by the trash, lettin’ the mornin’ light hit it. “Now isn’t that lovely?”
The paintin’ is of me, smilin’, sittin’ in a field of flowers, and behind me are a bunch of hills and blue skies. “Where is that? Why aren’t there any trees?” I ask.
“I got it from a man in prison, you know,” she says to Bruce. “He was a murderer who tortured a few of his coworkers, but he’s better now because the Lord saved him. I heard of him through my church – there was a woman trying to pay for his lawyer and asked the congregation to donate however they could, especially by buying one of his paintings.” She looks at it and smiles for a long time. “He only paints portraits of angels and God all day long. I was quite moved and I sent him a photo of my Charlie boy,” she says.
“But I ain’t God,” I holler.
“Ain’t no angel neither,” Pa says, and we both laugh.
She tilts her head forward and I see she’s squinting her eyes at the portrait. She grabs me by the shoulder and sets me right beside the portrait so we’re both facin’ Bruce. “Is that not just a spitting image of my Charlie boy?” She pinches my cheek and I look back at the painting.
“When was that?” I ask her.
“Yes, ma’am it sure does look like him,” Bruce says. He starts to walk out and gives me a wink as he leaves. “I’ll see you ‘round, Charlie.”
Ma puts the portrait on the couch so it’s facin’ the TV. “Just look,” she says, gettin’ on her knees and pointin’ to some far off place beyond the farthest hill. “Don’t you see it? Don’t you see it?”
I try not to laugh and tell her I do see it and she believes me. “I’m goin’ out to play with my friend, Paul,” I tell her. When I get to the door, I hear Pa call my name.
“What?” I holler, but he don’t say nothin’. I walk into the kitchen and he says,
“Your Ma and I are so goddamn happy you’re home, son,” and he looks like he’s about to cry. He gives me a big ol’ hug and I wriggle out.
“Thanks.”
“Just look at those cheeks,” she says when I open the front door, and when I close it I hear her whisper, “Those eyes. Don’t you see it?”