Oscar Casares Read online

  The teenager put down the phone when he realized that the crazy man waving the dollar bills was actually yelling at him. Olivia told the boys to sit back and stop staring at their father. Junior, the older boy, was already rolling down the window. The attendant stood inside the doorway and refused to step outside for the money. Marcelo finally stuffed the end of the dollar bills inside the gas pump and stuck the nozzle right in after them. He started up the Oldsmobile and drove to the cemetery without saying another word for the rest of the trip.

  The dog stopped coming to Marcelo’s window at night. He only heard it barking from a distance as it ran through the neighborhood. When he called the police in the morning, they told him the city answered complaints only if the animal was threatening people. The woman at the dog pound said they’d send someone over, but if the dog was in its yard during the day, there was nothing they could do.

  These days Marcelo was patrolling a few miles from the mouth of the river. He had to be careful in the areas where the bank dropped off and the trail continued again a little farther downstream. If he wasn’t in a hurry, he might stop in the shade and watch the men on the other side of the river herding their cattle from one pasture to another. Some of the men had dogs to help them with the cattle. Marcelo’s father used to have a dog that killed rattlesnakes. The dog would bite a snake in the midsection and pound its head against the ground until it died. The dog survived more than a few bites over the years and finally passed away from old age. Marcelo laughed when he imagined Sanchez’s dog on the ranch. It wouldn’t have lasted a day. Animals had to work for their food like everyone else. It didn’t matter what Sanchez said, the dog wasn’t protecting his lawn mowers or the neighborhood. What the dog needed was to learn a lesson or two about respect.

  One Saturday morning Marcelo woke up early to work around the house. Olivia and the boys were sleeping late. He had planned to clean out the carport, but when he walked outside he saw Charro sleeping by the Oldsmobile. Marcelo was about to grab a stick and show the animal how welcome it was on his property, but he thought of a better idea. He walked back inside and grabbed two wienies out of the refrigerator. The dog swallowed the first wienie in one bite. Marcelo dangled the second one higher than the dog could reach. It leaped several times but never high enough. Then he opened the trunk of the car and tossed the wienie inside. Charro jumped in after it, and Marcelo shut the trunk.

  He drove on International with the radio turned to his favorite station. A few minutes later he was feeling the heavy rhythm of his tires rolling over the deep cracks on State Highway 4, the narrow two-lane road that followed the Rio Grande until it became the Gulf. Like most mornings, there was hardly any traffic. Dark gray clouds hung low over the flat brushland on both sides of the highway. Marcelo saw only two animals along the road. The first was a hawk perched on a rotting mesquite. He honked a couple of times to see if he could scare the bird into spreading its wings and flying off, but it stayed where it had landed. Later he drove around a bend in the road and had to swerve in order to miss what he guessed was a dead coyote, although by then it didn’t look like anything that had ever been alive. The highway ended more than twenty miles from the city limits. Marcelo drove from the pavement onto the sand at Boca Chica. The beach was deserted except for a rusted-out washer and dryer, a torched car, dirty Pampers, and the rest of the junk people always dumped there. Marcelo rolled down the window and let the Gulf breeze fill the car. He drove along the shore with his arm sticking out the window as he listened to his polkas. And at the farthest point—where there was no sign of life but an abandoned beach house that had somehow survived the last few hurricanes, where the jetty rose from the sand with jagged blocks of concrete, and where a quarter mile of choppy sea water separated this lonely beach from the resort hotels on South Padre Island—Marcelo stopped the car.

  He pulled the dog out of the trunk and it ran circles around him as though it wanted to play in the sand. “Ven pa’ca, perro desgraciado. Come on, here, dog.”

  It bolted in a different direction each time Marcelo went near it. He finally crouched on all fours to see if it would come closer. The dog turned its head to one side and stared at him as if it were looking into a mirror.

  “Ven, Charro, ven.”

  The dog inched closer and he grabbed it long enough to slip off its leather collar and ID tags. Marcelo used his hands to help himself climb the rocks on the jetty. He flung the collar and tags into the water. They floated for a few seconds before they sank. When Marcelo walked back to the car, the dog was still in the mood to play and it jumped high enough to put its dirty paws on his chest. He knocked the animal down and kicked it in the stomach, but even that didn’t stop it from chasing the car.

  “¡Perro chingado, cállate el hocico!” Marcelo honked the horn over and over as he watched the dog fade to a tiny brown spot in his rearview mirror.

  Two days passed before Sanchez knocked on Marcelo’s front door. He brought his little boy. They came to ask if Marcelo had seen Charro. The boy was crying to himself and chewing on a piece of his father’s pants. Marcelo felt sorry for him and said he was sure the dog would come back.

  Sanchez walked over again the next day, this time alone.

  “Ya te dije, Sanchez, I haven’t seen your dog. What more do you want?”

  “Torres, it’s not my fault you don’t like Charro.”

  “¿Y qué, everybody’s supposed to love your dog? I’m supposed to like the little presents he leaves in my yard every night?”

  “You can’t say for sure it’s Charro. There’s other dogs.”

  “¿Mira, sabes qué? Next time I’ll put it in a plastic bag and bring it over so you can look at it and tell me for sure.”

  “Torres, all I’m saying is that you might have seen what happened to him.”

  “Are you blaming me?” He opened the screen door, and Sanchez backed down off the porch.

  “No.”

  “It sounds like you are. It sounds like you’re standing in front of my house blaming me because your dog hasn’t come home.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “¿Entonces?”

  “All I’m saying is that if you see him to call me.”

  “For what? So he can wake me up in the middle of the night again?”

  “It’s the boy’s dog, Torres. Por favor, he misses his dog.”

  “Wait until he has a job and a family and see how much he misses the dog.”

  Marcelo thought he was dreaming when he heard the barking a week later. But looking out his bedroom window, he saw Charro staring straight at him. The dog was louder and more playful than before, as if its time away had been some sort of dog vacation.

  Marcelo ran outside with a broom just as Charro was hiking a leg on his bougainvilleas. The dog moved before he could hit it, and his first swing went into the bushes. When he finally recovered the broom, the dog began running large circles around him. Marcelo swung wildly like a kid trying to hit a piñata at a birthday party. “¡Méndigo…desgraciado…sanavabiche!” he yelled out after each swing. He was getting closer to hitting the dog when it suddenly turned and chased a cat down the alley.

  He walked back inside and rested on the bed. Olivia asked him what he was doing and he told her he’d been in the bathroom. She rolled over on her side and fell asleep. Part of him wanted to go back and look for the dog, but it was almost three o’clock in the morning. He stared at the ceiling and watched the fan go round and round. Another hour went by before he was able to fall asleep.

  The next morning, Monday, he overslept and arrived late for work. He had to hear his supervisor tell him, in front of the other men, that if he couldn’t be on time for their weekly meetings maybe they needed to talk. The room fell silent and all the men—except for Marcelo and the supervisor—looked down at the tips of their boots. Marcelo told him it wouldn’t happen again.

  Of all the things he’d learned over the years, he knew that playing around with a man’s work was something you
didn’t do. Marcelo rode along the edge of the river for an extra hour that day. All he could think of was how he wasn’t going to lose his job because of a dog. He remembered when he was fifteen and his family moved across the river to Reynosa. They’d been there a month when his father got into an argument with a man named Norberto Valdez. The men exchanged words after Valdez accused Marcelo’s father of stealing some cattle. Valdez threatened to report the Torres family to the authorities and force them off their ranch. The fight that almost broke out ended with both men warning each other about the trouble they’d started. Back at the ranch, Marcelo’s father gathered his sons, all five of them, and told them he was giving them each a gun. The first one to see Norberto Valdez was to shoot him. Benito, the oldest, was the lucky son. He spent ten years in the Reynosa jail. Nobody ever stopped to question whether it had been the right thing to do. All they knew was that their family had been threatened. Marcelo had to do something about the dog.

  He stopped at Lopez Supermarket on the way home. The meat department was located at the back of the store, next to the milk and cheese. They were having a special on H&H chorizo, his favorite. The wienies had worked the first time, but he wanted to try something different. The meat cutter said the ground round was fresh and had been put out that afternoon. The steaks in the glass case looked nice and juicy, but they were kind of expensive. Marcelo thought about the past two months with the dog barking in the middle of the night and he asked himself how he would feel after giving it something to make it sick. Would he be able to sleep at night, knowing that he’d killed an animal, a little boy’s dog? He couldn’t exactly answer yes, but he didn’t have any better ideas. He bought a medium-size package of ground round.

  Marcelo finished off two servings of carne guisada for dinner. Olivia had made her famous rice and reheated some pinto beans from the day before. He thought her flour tortillas were the best he’d ever tasted and he told her again that night. After dinner, Marcelo said he needed to check if he’d locked the doors to the truck. The sun had been down for a couple of hours. He used his keys to unlock the toolbox. The narrow metal container was suspended from both sides directly behind the cab. On one side of the box he stored hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, pliers, wire cutters, and a leather hole puncher. On the other side, sectioned off by a divider, he put away his bridles, bits, spurs, and leather gloves. This was also the side where he had hidden the meat.

  He reached underneath the toolbox and pulled out a large brown jug filled with a chemical he used to spray livestock for ticks. The solution was mixed with water before the treatment was applied. The ingredients on the label stretched out into extra-long words that looked like a foreign language to Marcelo. What he understood was the symbol of the skull and crossbones.

  Blood squished between his fingers as he rolled the meat into four little balls the size of tangerines. With his pinky, he poked a small hole in each meatball and poured in as much of the chemical as he could. He covered the opening by rolling the meatball around in his hands until it was nice and smooth.

  He lay awake in bed. Olivia was asleep. About 2:30 he heard Charro barking in the distance. The sound was getting closer by the minute. He heard the dog knock over what sounded like the Hinojosas’ trash can. A few minutes later it cornered an alley cat, which made every other dog in the neighborhood join in the barking. The meatballs were waiting in the yard, near the far end of the sidewalk that reached the curb, next to the mailbox, beside the fresno tree, under the bedroom window. He figured the dog would have its snack and walk off before the chemical made it sick. Somebody would find the animal in the alley the next morning. Marcelo told himself that at least he wasn’t trespassing onto anyone’s property. And if a dog happened to walk into his yard, where it shouldn’t have been in the first place but came anyway and ate something that made it sick, was that really his fault? Where did it say his yard was open for dogs to come do their business?

  Marcelo listened. The dog wasn’t making a sound, but he sensed it was close to the house. He felt as if he’d trained his ears to hear what couldn’t be heard, the way some people believed animals had the ability to see spirits that couldn’t be seen. He whispered in the dark, “Closer, Charro. Un po-quito más, Charro boy.” Marcelo fell asleep listening to the distinct sound of dry leaves being stepped on right outside his window.

  The next morning he was ready for a new beginning. Olivia made breakfast and he talked about his day while they ate. He had to check on some cattle off Southmost Road, visit an old man who owned a few Shetland ponies and gave rides at the flea market, and, finally, spend a couple of hours patrolling the river in the late afternoon. Before they knew it, it was almost seven o’clock and he’d have to hurry to be on time for his first appointment. Olivia walked him to the door and kissed him good-bye on the cheek. As he stepped onto the porch, his boot slipped forward and he had to hold on to the door so he wouldn’t fall. A puddle of red and brown vomit covered the Welcome mat. The dark liquid trailed down the steps and along the sidewalk, until it turned into tiny drops, barely noticeable. Where the driveway ended, Marcelo found an even larger puddle.

  He cleaned the mess by himself because Olivia felt sick as soon as she saw the porch. Junior refused to go out through the front when it was time for school. Marcelo acted confused about what might have happened. Flies had already gathered when he turned on the water hose to spray the porch and sidewalk. Except for some pieces of chewed meat that clung to the steps, most of what the animal had left behind flowed down the street and into the gutter. Marcelo tried to hide his guilt, but he couldn’t help feeling bad when he saw the specks of blood in the puddle. He told himself he was only doing what he had to, what any workingman would’ve done. Nobody could blame a man for trying to hold on to his job. It wasn’t his fault Sanchez hadn’t listened. He had fair warning. Marcelo poured a jug of Clorox on the cement and scrubbed it hard with a tire brush. It took most of a can of Lysol to get rid of the bad smell around the steps. He threw the brush and the Welcome mat into the trash can. When he was driving away, the dog rushed out of Sanchez’s yard barking and chasing him halfway down the street, past the red and brown stream and the gutter where it disappeared.

  This was the morning Marcelo gave up. He’d get earplugs. They’d move to another neighborhood if they had to. Anything, but he wouldn’t try to hurt the dog again. Charro barked on and off for the next few weeks. One night on, one night off. It was getting to where Marcelo could almost guess which nights the dog would come around. He began to accept the barking as part of his life. The noise never lasted more than fifteen or twenty minutes anyway. He used the time to go to the bathroom and relieve himself, instead of waiting until later, when he really had to go. He read the newspaper, which he never had a chance to do during the day. Sometimes he finished the paperwork he handed in every week. Once, he shaved. Another night he trimmed his toenails. He looked forward to his time alone. A couple of nights he even woke up by himself.

  He was getting to work on time, especially to his weekly meetings. The supervisor had been going over how the USDA was extending its air surveillance program to the lower Rio Grande Valley. Marcelo wasn’t looking forward to flying in a small plane once a week, but he figured he’d still have a few days to patrol on horseback. The other livestock inspectors were looking forward to a break from the heat. A younger inspector joked around and asked if the plane had an air conditioner. It was after one of these meetings that Olivia called the office. The supervisor answered the phone and said she sounded upset. Marcelo talked to her, but he couldn’t get her to calm down. All she could say was that she’d had an accident. The supervisor told Marcelo it’d probably be a good idea if he went ahead and took care of his family. They’d call it a sick day.

  Olivia met him in the carport. She was holding Arturo in her arms. The baby smiled and kicked his chubby legs when he saw his father walking toward him.

  “I never saw him, Marcelo. I never saw him.”

  Marcelo noticed
a lump of black and reddish brown hair sticking out from underneath the Oldsmobile. It looked as if someone’s fur coat had been run over. He walked around to the side and saw blood dripping from the dog’s mouth.

  “I didn’t mean to, Marcelo. Fue un accidente.”

  “It’s okay, Olivia.”

  “We were late for the doctor’s, and Arturo, he wouldn’t let me put him in the baby seat.”

  “He doesn’t like to be away from his mama.”

  “I looked back before I put it in reverse,” she said. “But then the car rolled over something and I heard the worst sound, like crying, like I ran over somebody. I thought about the little Gomez boy. He’s always running around in the streets. Me puse bien nerviosa. I didn’t know what to do, Marcelo. I put it in drive.”

  “Cacas,” the baby said and pointed at the backside of the dog.

  This only made Olivia cry more. Marcelo held her in his arms. She was shaking. He helped her inside the house, and the baby stayed with her on the bed.

  He walked back outside and squatted next to Charro. At least the body was far enough away from the street that the neighbors couldn’t see. He imagined himself having to tell Sanchez what had happened. He wished he hadn’t let himself get so mad the last time Sanchez came over. There was no way his neighbor would ever believe that it was Olivia who had been driving and that it was an accident. But what could he do? The dog was dead. Whether it was him or Olivia, nothing was going to bring the animal back to life. It was better if the boy believed the dog had run away again. At least it wouldn’t be a shock to him this time.

  Marcelo dragged the body farther into the carport and around the left side of the house, where the bougainvilleas blocked anyone from seeing him. Once he was in the backyard, he locked the wooden gate. Next to the cuartito, where he kept the water heater and all his yard tools, looked like a good place to lay the body. He walked back to the carport and used the water hose to spray the last traces of the dog off the concrete and into the grass. Then he pulled a shovel out of the cuartito and started digging a hole.