HALF-BLIND

“I’m leaving because I would rather be angry in my house than to be here staring at your faces. Why would I stay here if I’m not fed properly? I haven’t even been given a bowl of beans,” said Tia Chula. 

“Tía, I already told you. We gave you chicharrones and beans about an hour ago. This is the third time I’ve told you,” I reply with frustration.

“Bullshit. You don’t want me to eat or see my son. Ever since that doctor told Maribel I have dementia, you all think that I’m a fucking idiot.”

Tía Chula darts a sharpened glare toward her daughter Maribel.

“Remember this when I’m dead Maribel, you will understand how scary motherhood is once you have babies of your own. A mother never forgets the love for her babies.”

Babies.

My Tía Chula still called her drug-dealing, murderer son, a baby.

“I have been in town for almost a week and I still haven't seen this motherfucker,” said Tia Chula.

This morning I noticed she was restless. Despite the trip only lasting for six days, she was still hoping that she would see Tuerto, her youngest son. 

“Now that he’s grown and living freely in Casa de Piedra, this boy thinks he can choose when to see his mother.”

I see Tia Chula pacing through the house and I feel like I need to sit. My breathing shortens when I see my aunt waiting for her son because the family does not know if he is alive or not. 

Tuerto usually sits the pot of beans over the stove so that Chula has lunch after traveling back to Casa from Oakland. The drive from the airport to Casa de Piedra is over three hours and Chula usually arrives tired and hungry. My family lives closer to the outskirts of town where the roads are not paved yet. We live in the areas near the canal that is clogged with other people’s garbage. It has been like that for two weeks now.

In comparison to cities like Guadalajara, Casa is a tiny speck on the map. The town is hidden between fields of sugarcane and corn that sweeten the morning breezes. We live a simple life that consists of family, community and God. Spanish style architecture adorns the downtown area and paved roads enclose beautiful rose gardens. Throughout the center square, there are tall bronze statues of the Spanish settlers that arrived in the area in the early 1500’s. After Sunday mass, people usually exit the Church and enjoy snacks from local vendors. As a kid, my mom and I watched how different mariachi groups secretly competed against each other to see who serenaded more families. However, since the narcos took control of downtown Casa, the town has not been still. My uncles in the U.S.A. are scared of the constant disappearances of civilians by mafiosos that traffic drugs across the border. 

The truth is that my aunt has a reason to be worried. Disappearances bring uncertainty and restlessness because no one knows if the missing person is alive or not. At least when a person is killed, the family can grieve and heal.

“I don’t give a fuck if the flight is not refundable. Do not pack my shit, Maribel.”

I told Tía it was stupid to miss out on the money she spent on the flight back to Oakland. Maribel says she and Tia Chula are struggling to pay the mortgage ever since prices spiked after COVID -19.

“Tía Chula, please sit. Perhaps Tuerto has jobs out of town. You knew this trip would be short. Maybe there was no way for him to arrive in time to see you,” I explained to her.

Tía Beibi’s birthday celebration was the only thing the family in the U.S.A. would fly down for on such short notice. It has only been six months since her death and we’re  still grieving. The wounds from her loss can only be healed with tears, tequila, and mariachi. 

Six months prior, all of Casa followed Beibi’s casket in a procession through the town streets. The locals heard of the family that had flown in and sold the only bar in town out of chicken wings. It was odd to see a Mexican family bring back the younger pocho generations to experience the slow pace of Casa de Piedra. I always laugh at how the pochos speak Spanish because their stutters remind me of the young narquillos that would beg me to not kill them.

“I don’t need him here.” Tia Chula went on. “God blessed me with two working legs at my age. I still know how to move around. Tuerto could be a bus ride away, but you cowards think I’m too stupid to ride alone or use a phone. I just need to hear his voice.” 

As much as I want to tell her that Tuerto is nowhere to be found, I know that it is wrong to do that. At her age, bad news can sting harder than a belt against skin.

The more that I see my aunt yell at Maribel, the more I picture my own mom crying and wailing during my disappearance. Thank Our Lady of Talpa I was one of the few that came back home.

“Where the fuck is the alcohol?” I ask Maribel.

“The tequila bottle?” 

“No, sugar cane alcohol. Bring it with a glass, prima.”

There is very little that I can do with the information I know. I spoke to the men who saved me from getting my head blown off. They’re keeping an eye out for moles inside the cartel. 

As far as we know, Tuerto had no problems with the cartel. The family is convinced that Tuerto was made to disappear because of personal bullshit. He was well liked. The bosses knew his experiences running the streets of Oakland were valuable in México. They had a bilingual gangster who knew how to kill and keep quiet. I organized jobs alongside him before and saw how he used his intelligence and strength to complete them. 

He was - he is a true hood intellectual. 

I see Tía Chula talking to me, but I can’t understand what she’s saying. Her tone is angry and she’s yelling louder than before. She yells like my mom used to yell at men and my siblings. I imagine her screams must have made the walls shake. But, did she really cry for me? She must have. I was gone for months. I want the earth to split and swallow me whole. Why do the women in my family go through this? Who deserves a son like me and Tuerto?

Tia Chula’s screaming gets louder. As I realize the alcohol bottle is empty, my mind flashes back to when I was kneeled over a ditch with a gun against my nape. The ground becomes quicksand as I quietly pace toward the bathroom. 

 I am not there. I am here. I am with my family. I’m in Casa. 

I splash my face with water to distract myself from the tightness in my chest. My head feels fogged. My eyes cry tears as thick as blood. Dizzily, I look at myself in the mirror and see Tuerto’s face sitting on my neck. He’s staring blankly at me.

Hysterically, I sprint out of the bathroom and fall to the floor of the living room where I see Tia Chula heading toward the door. She stops, turns and looks deeply into my eyes. She must feel my pain. 

“Mijo. Qué te pasa bebé?” she asks. 

I stare back into her eyes as she caresses my cheeks and forehead.

“Nothing is wrong, Tía. It’s just that you remind me of my mom. I miss her. La quiero mucho mi Tía Chula,” I hold on to her.

She says nothing back to me. A single drop of cold sweat runs down my spine and lands on my lower back. Her eyes are fixed on my face. My face, I try to convince myself, not Tuerto’s. Her caresses make flowers bloom in my chest. But, even during this peaceful moment, I cannot ignore her piercing stare. 

Who does she see?