On his first pass by the labor corner, Tom Chen was just browsing. It was Thursday afternoon and the half-block between Burnside and Ankeny was crowded, as usual, with Latino men in diverse poses of waiting. There were men half asleep, slouched against the bowed cyclone fence, and men in pairs, drinking from wrinkled brown paper bags. There were men leaning on the retaining wall of the Plaid Pantry parking lot, scanning the traffic for potential jobs, or cops. A few feet away, a man in a grubby Raiders warm-up jacket stood alone, eating a hamburger.
Tom turned and circled the block, and once again the group of men swung into view. On this pass some of them noticed Tom’s car, a white, aging Porsche, and gamely climbed to their feet, waving their hands. “Hey! Hey!” they called, coming to the edge of the sidewalk. “What you need? Over here.” Tom pulled over and a small crowd mobbed the car.
“I need two,” Tom said, holding up two fingers. He spoke in a low, modulated, mildly ironic voice, amused by the flare-up of activity his arrival had caused. How often did a balding, middle-aged Asian guy in a Porsche hit the labor corner? Usually it was Russian contractors and gay guys and local farm bosses in pickups who did the hiring. Asians dealt with their own yard work. Or they had the kids do it. Or they paved the yard so there was only the occasional hosing to do, and you didn’t need Latinos for that.
“Whatever you need, boss,” said a moon-faced man in the passenger window. “I’m your guy.”
“Painting? Yard work?” said another man with reddish eyes and an unshavable cleft in his chin. “You need work? I’m ready.”
Among the selection — the wiry and the potbellied, the tattooed and the tired — Tom’s eye landed on one man in particular, a big guy with shaggy, black hair, mocha skin, and a beefy, squared-off head, like a gallon jug set on broad shoulders. He was not fat but wide all the way through, with a barrel chest and thick arms and a face that was fleshy but handsome, dominated by heavy, liver-colored lips and long eyelashes. He seemed slightly older than the rest of the guys, and he held a glimmer of self-possession in his eyes that suggested he was somehow above his current circumstances. He might be selling himself on the corner, but he was prideful, even regal, in his clean white T-shirt and blue jeans.
“How much?” Tom said, meeting his eye. “You. How much?”
“Ten an hour, boss,” the man said. He shifted his weight to indicate his readiness, but not so far as to assume he was yet hired.
From behind him another, slightly younger man appeared, squatter and darker, with severe Mayan features. His face was all harsh angles and flat planes, black bangs cut straight across his broad forehead, and his mouth was a wide gash, parting to reveal tiny, well-spaced teeth. He wore a soiled yellow T-shirt with a logo too faded to read and high-top sneakers at least six years old. He crossed his arms and stared at Tom’s car with glowering intensity, and then he squatted, a signal of his own readiness to be hired.
Tom scanned the group again. Already, a few of the men were turning away, retaking their positions along the fence. He came back to the big man and his smaller, darker friend. It seemed his decision was being made for him.
“How much, you?” Tom said to the small one.
“Ten dolares,” the man said.
Tom gestured at the passenger door, waving them both inside.
“Come on. Hop in, both of you. Los dos. We go.”
With some delicacy they climbed into the Porsche. The small one, who was named Javier, took the tiny back seat, and the big one, named Diego, the front, bringing with them a masculine smell of earth and gasoline and cheap deodorant that almost overpowered the interior’s scent of sweet leather and old sunlight. For a moment Tom felt a pulse of trepidation — two strange men were squeezing into his car and he was taking them home — but the feeling passed quickly. The men were utterly polite, even demure, and when Tom instructed them to buckle up, they obeyed immediately.
He pulled into the traffic of Grand Avenue and motored toward the Ross Island Bridge. On the way he asked Diego, the apparent spokesman, where he was from. Diego was from Puebla, he said, south of Mexico City, and Javier, his friend, was from the state of Michoacán. They lived together in North Portland, and they liked the Northwest, except it was too rainy. Diego had a strong accent, but he spoke slowly and clearly and seemed comfortable making conversation with the boss, holding his rounded, weathered hands in his lap without fidgeting.
“So you guys have been here awhile?” Tom asked. He was always curious to hear the outlines of his hires’ stories. His own career managing an insurance company gave him a special interest in the hazards that buffeted the majority of the world’s population.
“This time?” Diego said. “Two months for me. Five months for him.”
“And you always work together?”
“Nah,” Diego said. “Only sometimes. Sometimes I don’t see him for days. What about you? You’ve been here a long time?”
“I’ve been here all my life, Diego,” Tom said, accelerating. The supple action of the gear shaft under his palm was pleasing. “My dad came over after World War II. From China. He owned a grocery store not too far from where I just picked you up. He did pretty well for himself. And I’ll tell you something” — Tom paused, signaling to Diego that he should judge the merit of his coming words for himself — “He never could have done it anywhere else, Diego. Only here. Only in America. You work hard and you can get somewhere. That’s the truth.”
The clean wind battered the windows. “Good for him,” Diego said, without guile. He rested his big hand on the lip of the glass. “So you’re a native. You’re very lucky.”
Tom headed south on I-5, toward the leafy, affluent suburbs of Lake Oswego, exiting at Mountain Park, a maze of nested cul-de-sacs named after Renaissance artists and scholars — Da Vinci Court, Magellan Lane, Medici Circle — a pretension on the part of some long-ago developer that, like many dumb, obvious gestures, had actually worked out. The street names had attracted those they were meant to attract, and over time the development had aged into genuine prestige. The Mexicans, watching the bloated, first-generation pocket mansions roll by, with their hard-edged lawns and SUVs parked in front, were silent.
Tom’s house was on Bernini Circle, a three-story ’70s modern extending from the hill on cement stilts. The architecture was vaguely Western, with a steeply pitched roof, angular front windows, and exposed cedar siding all around. A narrow driveway cut down to a carport beside the basement, bounded on one side by a laurel hedge and on the other by a rocky incline that became the front yard, tufted with azaleas and hardy rhododendrons. A year before, the garden had been vibrant, a series of raised beds filled with neat, bushy arrangements of wildflowers and native grasses. Since Tom’s divorce, however, the garden’s fortunes had declined. The laurel hedge had gone without shearing and the beds had grown a diverse population of weeds. In the fall, a ten-foot cedar near the bathroom window had suddenly died, losing its needles and turning brittle and white. The tree doctor had come to look at it and could find no explanation for the event other than bad vibes.
Since then the dead tree had mocked Tom, a constant reminder of all the life that had once blossomed in the house hold, and which now, with the children grown and the wife gone, was resolutely in the past. With spring coming on, he wanted the house back in order. He wanted the tree removed. He wanted all the light that it continued to block from his bathroom for his own.
He zipped over the lip of the driveway, guiding the Porsche to a stop in the carport, and for the next fifteen minutes talked Diego and Javier through the afternoon’s tasks — the weeding, the bark dusting, the pruning, the excavation of the dead cedar. He showed them the pile of mulch that had been delivered the week before and the new wheelbarrow he had bought especially for the occasion, and then he found them trowels and hedge clippers. Then, without ceremony, he went inside, leaving them to solve whatever problems arose on their own.
From the kitchen, he peered out the venetian blinds to observe the Mexicans assembling their tools against the wall. He saw Diego eyeing the yard, plotting the best mode of attack, and Javier more or less following his lead. Satisfied, he poured himself a glass of white wine, tuned the kitchen TV to the day’s bike race in Norway, and got to work himself. He had guests coming, and much work on dinner left to do.
Tom opened the refrigerator and crouched before the deep shelves, filled with bowls of leftovers sealed like drums with Saran wrap. On the bottom shelf a large metal tray humped with aluminum foil took up the entire space, and with some effort Tom slid the bulky mass from its cove and transported it to the countertop.
He peeled back the foil and had a look inside. Underneath the foil, huddled in a pool of marinade, lay the body of a small, white suckling pig. Its legs were tucked tidily under its torso, its empty eyes bunched tightly shut. It looked almost fetal, curled on its haunches, and strangely peaceful. Tom drizzled some marinade over the length of its spine, and the fluid trickled and spread through the goose bumps. Then he returned the foil like a shroud and pushed the tray toward the oven.
On Thursday nights Tom hosted a regular dinner party — his friends Lana and Conrad came over around eight, along with whomever else they had in tow, selected from the handful of neighbors who had not already slipped into the premature senescence of suburban family life. The evenings were generally bachelor chic — meatballs in a Crock-Pot, macaroni and cheese, chili, copious amounts of good Scotch — but tonight, in honor of the one-year
anniversary of his divorce,Tom had decided to concoct an elaborate, surprise feast. The day before, he had spent the afternoon preparing the shark’s fin soup that was currently resting in a porcelain tureen in the refrigerator. A bag of fresh scallops would become a stir-fry with ginger and green beans. He had won-tons and shredded papaya salad yet to make.
The centerpiece would be the suckling pig, a dish Tom had never attempted, the main ingredient of which had been difficult enough just to find. There were no whole pigs at Albertsons, or Fred Meyer, or Safeway, and so he had been forced to order one through a specialty butcher in Old Town. It was locally raised on organic slop, they told him, and it had been killed only the day before. Dirt from the farm’s pen had still been clinging to the pig’s knuckles when Tom took possession, in an exchange that had seemed more like a kidnapping than a purchase.
Tom had brought the pig home and cleaned its hide and emptied its cavity of packed organs just as the recipe had instructed. For the past twenty hours the body had been soaking in a mixture of garlic, shallots, sugar, red bean curd and bean paste. It would cook for at least four hours and come out of the oven radiant, shining crimson, a succulent demon.
It was almost four o’clock now — he had gotten a late start — which meant it was time to get going. He wiped down the kitchen counters and collected his cooking implements from the cupboards: the glass mixing bowls, the tin measuring cups, his favorite, all-purpose chopping knife. And again he unveiled the pig, this time turning it over to reveal a belly split down the middle, and set to stuffing the cavity with sausage from the refrigerator. He enjoyed the mindless, preparatory work, and the wine wasn’t bad either. Occasionally, he glanced through the blinds to check on the Mexicans.
He was surprised to find how much progress they had already made. The weeding was practically done, and the bark dust was almost spread. Diego was crouched near a jasmine bush, pulling out dead leaves, and Javier was high on a ladder clipping the flattop of the laurel. It was a small yard. In its dis-use it had come to seem much larger. Tom remembered how his sons had managed to finish the weeding in a matter of minutes by the time they were teenagers. And their work habits paled compared with those of this peasant stock.
“You want a beer?” Tom stood on the concrete path running through the front yard, holding two cold Budweisers. The men had only been working for an hour or so, but it was past five o’clock and the sun was hot. Tom believed that hard menial labor should be rewarded quickly and often.
“Sure, boss,” Diego said, rising from the beds. He tossed his weeds toward the growing pile and wiped his hands on his jeans. Silently, Javier climbed from the ladder and followed him.
Tom stood around as the men cracked the cans and took their first sips. “Looks pretty good,” Tom said. He leaned over and plucked an errant weed from the walkway and tossed it on the pile. “The tree’s the big thing though. That’s going to be a real bitch. I want it out all the way at the roots. Nothing left. I’d give it some time.”
“You got some picks, boss?” Diego said. “Shovels? That would be good.”
“There’s a shed under the deck in the back,” Tom said, pointing. “It’s open. Whatever you can find in there is yours to use. And if you need something else, we can go get it. There’s a hardware store down the hill.”
Drinks in hand, the men drifted over and surveyed the dead tree, pushing on the trunk, inspecting the ground to comprehend the root system. Diego said something in Spanish and Javier snorted. Tom saw no reason that his role as the boss should bar him from inclusion in the day’s jokes.
“What’s so funny?” he said.
“Nothing, boss,” Diego said, his smile fading. Javier retracted his smile, too, and scowled at the dead tree.
“Come on. What is it?” Tom said, gruffly but with obvious warmth. Diego comprehended the tone and relaxed a little, letting him in.
“His girl,” Diego explained, jabbing his thumb at Javier, “she won’t let him play football this weekend. Soccer. She thinks he might get hurt. It’s true. He might. He might get hurt right now, too. Look at that tree. It might fall down on him. Break his little fingers.” He winked in the direction of Tom and Javier both.
Tom chuckled. “Don’t let her get the upper hand, Javier,” he said. “Believe me. Once she does, it’s all over. You both play soccer?”
Diego affirmed that they did.
“My kid played soccer,” Tom said. “The younger one. He was good, too. All-state. I always told him he should play tennis though.”
Tom fixed the side of Diego’s big face in his gaze, watching the hired man stare at the ground. “Tennis,” he said, “you can always get a game going. You don’t need twenty guys out there running around. You just call up a buddy and you find a court.”
“That’s true,” Diego said, eyeing the tree.
“He was good at tennis,” Tom said. “But soccer is what he plays. He’s in a league or something. They play in the park. What can you do?”
From the kitchen Tom watched the Mexicans disappear around the back and return with two picks and two shovels, approaching the tree and beginning to dig near the trunk.
The pig was sewn up, the skin had been rubbed with oil, salt, then oil again, and a small piece of wood had been placed in its mouth. The whole thing had been fitted onto a roasting pan. In four hours it would emerge, bright red and tender. Tom slid it into the oven and set the timer.
He turned to the ginger for the stir-fry, peeling the gnarled fingers and dicing them into stringy cubes. He beat some eggs for the won-tons. He poured himself another glass of wine. The Swede had begun attacking the leader on the final leg of the bike race when the phone rang. The caller ID told him it was Lana.
“Lana,” he said, cradling the phone so he could continue whisking the eggs and watching TV at the same time.
“I can’t make it tonight, honey,” she said. “I’m real sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” Tom said. “You’re making it.”
“I can’t tonight,” she said. “I’ve got certain… obligations.”
Tom understood this meant she had to stay home with her husband, whom she despised, due to some hysterical episode on his part.
Tom switched the phone to his other shoulder. Lana was an old friend, and once, years before and very briefly, a lover. She was now a successful banker in town, and her husband worked at the daily newspaper, having stalled out long ago in the suburban office where the driftwood collected. It was Lana who brought in the bulk of their family’s income and also captained the ship of her household — she maintained the books, did most all of the parenting, built their retirement fund — and as such, she was an object of great admiration in Tom’s eyes, a kind of hybrid creature, woman and man, all-American in her abilities and attitudes. Like him, she was impatient with any obligation outside family realms; and like him, she had an appetite for louche, operatic behavior. People who worked as hard as they did, they figured, were allowed certain latitudes; they were allowed to cut loose sometimes. It was an unspoken credo between them, a mentality of prosperity and reward. What was the point of making this money, of working so hard, if there was no plea sure to be taken in the victory? No privileges?
“I’m cooking tonight,” Tom said. His tone was placid but he knew she knew he was putting the screws on her. “You’re going to regret it if you miss out. This is not a meal to miss. I’m going all the way tonight.”
“Fuck. If it was up to me…” she said.
“Of course it’s up to you.”
“It’s not, really.”
“You’re punishing yourself, and there’s no reason. Listen to yourself. Listen to the true desire in your voice.”
“I know, I know, but I can’t do it. Shit. I might be able to do it. We’ll see. Don’t count me out, okay? But don’t count me in either. God. I know that’s so weak.”
“There you go. You’re coming. I’ll see you around eight.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“How am I supposed to eat all this pig?” But she had already hung up.
Tom hung up and a minute later Conrad called, also to beg out, which came as little surprise. Most likely Lana had given him the heads- up. Conrad was an old friend at this point, and good company — willful and crude, uncensored in his absurd opinions — but the rapport between him and Tom was still somewhat soft around the edges. Lana was their common denominator, their shared affection, and without her they were easily lost to each other, prone to uncomfortable silences and misunderstandings. They both loved Lana; each other, they happily tolerated. Conrad was out, he said, due to a prior engagement, which downgraded the likelihood of Lana’s appearance as well. Tom hung up, both relieved and annoyed by Conrad’s departure, but mostly just confounded by the sudden turn of events. The pig was already cooking, releasing its oils. The alchemical process had begun. Such was the cost of a good surprise, he told himself, cradling his wine glass, the risk of a genuinely grand gesture. The chance always existed that the surprise might not go off.
Tom poured himself more wine and tasted the distant trace of pear. He could find no good object for his anger. Lana and Conrad couldn’t be expected to read his mind, after all. But the pig would be done soon enough no matter what. He looked out the window at the Mexicans shaking the dead tree.
Part Two
The tree had a deep moat around it, and the men were rocking the trunk back and forth, loosening the roots in the earth. The tendrils popped and sprung, like snapping bones muffled in flesh, but the thick ones remained fastened securely in place. When the hole was wide enough, Diego took a swing at one root with the pick, revealing the root’s white meat under the caked skin, and chipped away until it was thoroughly severed.
Tom hovered on the front steps with his wine glass, watching the action. The big roots were dispensed with one by one. He enjoyed watching the labor, the spectacle of young, energized bodies exerting themselves. Each body held a different power, a different style of release. This was the lesson of tennis and bike racing as well. Diego
was strong and fluid, and Javier quick and harried. They rotated the use of the pick, making a game of the awkward chopping angles. Finally, the tree listed and drooped, the underground cables shuddering. With the major roots split, the trunk came out easily, ripping from the dirt, leaving a gaping socket where the tentacles of wood had been.
The yard suddenly appeared huge. The sun poured onto the ground and hit a section of wall that had not been touched in years. A seemingly indelible shadow was erased and Tom raised his glass. “Well done,” he said. The men raised their fresh beers in return. Before losing momentum they knocked what dirt they could from the tree and dragged it to the side of the house. Tom would get the neighbor kid to help him chop it to pieces. “You guys did it,” Tom said. “That was a big deal, the tree coming out. I’ve been needing to do that for a long time. It came easier than I thought it would.”
“Not so bad,” Diego concurred, inspecting the new hole in the yard. He kicked some clods of loose dirt into the basin.
“You’ve got some more time today?” Tom asked. “Or you guys have somewhere you have to be?”
“We have some time,” Diego said, squinting at the sky, happy to squeeze a few more dollars from the day. The long Oregon twilight always allowed at least one more task to be done.
“It’s your lucky day then,” Tom said. “I’d like you to stay for dinner tonight.”
The Mexicans shared a quick look. They were accustomed to all manner of unexpected events on their jobs. Sexual passes, family dramas — they saw it all. This was but a small disruption in the turmoil of their lives. Diego laughed off the invitation though, assuming Tom was joking.
“I’m asking if you two would like to eat with me,” Tom explained. “What do you say? The food here is very good. You won’t regret it.”
“I don’t know, boss.” Diego wiped his hands on his pants and placed them on his hips, reluctant to commit. “We’ve got some things to do. We maybe should get back to town soon…” His refusal was half-hearted though, Tom could see, more an act of etiquette than real regret. He was merely giving Tom a clear opportunity to retract the invitation should he have second thoughts.
“Don’t worry,” Tom said. “You’ll still be on the clock. All right? We’ll count this as work. Believe me, you’ll have a good time. You haven’t eaten like this before.”
“You’re sure, boss?” Diego said. But Tom was already at the front door, giving a final, impatient flip of his hand.
“Get in here,” he said. “You’re going to like it.”
The boys followed, conducting a rapid conversation in Spanish as Javier got up to speed. At the door Tom told them to take off their shoes and then he led them down the narrow, shadowy hallway toward the kitchen, passing old pictures of the kids, the dogs, the mountain cottage that had been sold before the divorce. He stopped at the bathroom door and let them each wash their hands, Javier first.
“Very nice house,” Diego said politely, waiting for Javier. “You’ve had it for a long time?”
“I’ve been here twenty-five years, Diego,” Tom said.
“Very good,” Diego said. And they stood awkwardly until Javier reappeared behind him, patting his damp hands on his shirt.
Tom and Javier stood in silence as Diego pissed loudly and washed his hands. When he was finished, Tom led the men the rest of the way down the hallway and guided them to barstools at the counter separating the open kitchen area from the TV room. They perched lightly on the stools, examining the architecture, awaiting further instruction. Tom went into the kitchen and headed directly for the faceted glacier of alcohol bottles under the cupboards.
“What’s your pleasure?” he said. “Another beer? A margarita? I’ve got some very good tequila I’ve been saving. We’ve got anything you want.”
“A beer?” Javier managed. He was busily admiring the interior of Tom’s house, eyes darting from appliance to furniture to art to appliance, taking in the layers of wealth.
“Straight tequila,” Diego said, shrugging. He smiled broadly. “Why not?”
“Now we’re talking,” Tom said, tying on his apron. “That’s more like it. I like you, Diego. You know what you want and you’re not afraid to take it. That’s the idea. Javier, I’m pouring you some tequila, too. If you don’t like it, too bad.”
Tom poured out the drinks. “I’m making a few courses tonight, boys. I think I can guarantee that you’re going to like at least one or two of them. This is a real Chinese feast you’ll be eating. My father taught me how to make most of these dishes. You guys like Chinese food, right? Doesn’t matter. You’ll like this. We’re having shark’s fin soup. This is a real delicacy in China. We’ll have a scallop stir-fry, too. That’s what I’m working on right now. You see these scallops?” He shook the bag of white buttons. “They’re going to melt in your mouth by the time I’m done with them. The main course is a suckling pig. You can smell it,can’t you? Maybe you have something like suckling pig in Mexico. In China, it’s a traditional wedding dish. It symbolizes virginity, for what that’s worth.”
“Smells good,” Diego said. “Really good. It cooks a long time? The pork?”
“It’s got a ways to go,” Tom said, chopping a bunch of scallions with flashing speed, swiping the fragments into a bowl and chopping another batch.
“It’s a funny thing about Americans,” he said, continuing to slice. “You should know this since you live here now. They think cooking is women’s work. Which is ridiculous. I don’t know where they get that idea. The fact is, women don’t really belong in the kitchen at all. They never have.”
Diego laughed and Javier attempted a belated, half-comprehending grin. They were already nearly finished with their first glass of tequila, and Tom, noticing, shoved the bottle within arm’s reach.
“I’ll tell my mother you said that,” Diego said. “She’d wring your neck.”
“No offense to your mother,” Tom said, peeling the white inner rind from a pepper. “I’m sure she’s a very good cook. I’m sure she’s very competent at what she does. But what I’m talking about here is real cuisine, the art. That’s a man’s job. You think I’m joking but I’m not. Scullery work, that’s one thing. Anyone can make a taco. Spaghetti. But real cuisine, it’s too complex for women to comprehend. They don’t have the attention span, the rigor. That’s
why most great chefs are men. Isn’t that right?”
“That’s right, boss,” Diego said. “Whatever you say.”
Tom diced the chili peppers and wiped the blade with his finger. “Well, there you go. The boss is always right. But in this case I really am right.”
“I worked with a cook in Santa Rosa,” Diego said, tipping the tequila bottle into his glass. “He wouldn’t let women even clean the plates.”
“He was an artist,” Tom said, returning to his chopping board. “That’s my guess.”
When Tom was finished chopping the ingredients and mounding them into piles along the cutting board, he led Diego and Javier outside onto the deck to take in the sunset, midway through its slow, gradient change into night. The sliding glass door opened onto a pine expanse overlooking a distant cow pasture and a deciduous forest dotted with glass office buildings, a new housing development, and an old farmhouse half devoured by blackberry
vines. To the southwest, an enormous white spire rose in the woods, surrounded by lacy scaffolding. The sky was hot pink and plum. Tom handed out cigars and brushed the fir needles from the railing.
“It’s a little early for cigars, I know,” he said. “But we’ve got some time to kill before I heat up the wok. That pig has a good ways to go. It’ll come together pretty fast in the end. You like cigars?” He struck a match and lit the men’s cigars. “I’m only recently a fan myself.”
Diego got his cigar going and savored a few puffs. “I could learn,” he said. Javier inhaled and coughed loudly.
“Don’t inhale,” Tom instructed. “Just let it sit in your mouth. Roll it around. Can you explain to him, Diego?” Diego explained the cigar-smoking protocols to Javier, whose next drag was expertly done. Over the pasture a flock of sparrows pulsed and scattered in the trees.
“It’s a very beautiful view,” Diego said. “You can see everything up here.”
“That’s a Mormon temple they’re building down there,” Tom said. “Those white spires. You have Mormons in Mexico?”
“We have Mormons,” Diego said. “Oh yeah. They come down, they set up a church, they go out with their little papers. Lots of souls down there. Lots of work.”
Tom laughed. “I hate the Mormons. I don’t see the appeal. No drinking. No boning. Their church looks like fucking Disneyland. ‘It’s a Small World.’ I don’t get it. When did you come to America, Diego? Your English is pretty good.”
“I come here all the time. This time? I been here two months now.”
“And you’ve come to Oregon before?”
“This is my first time in Oregon. He’s been here though.” Diego gestured at Javier, who looked startled, and Diego did a quick translation of the conversation.
“I have two times,” Javier said. “Two years ago, one year ago.” Satisfied, he went back to his cigar, rolling the smoke in his mouth, getting comfortable.
“And then you go back?” Tom said.
“Back, forth. We come and go,” Diego said.
“I don’t get you guys,” Tom said. He rested his feet on the empty lounge chair and rattled the ice in his glass. “You have to commit. You have to stay put. This back-and-forth thing. It’s bullshit. How do you think you’ll get anywhere with that? You get here, you stay, you make your fortune. What is it with you?”
“Coming and going. It’s not so bad. I love Mexico.”
“I hate fucking China. It’s a fucking nightmare over there. Ignorant, arrogant people. Dirty cities. Corrupt government. I spent a year over there on business. In Hong Kong. You couldn’t pay me to go back. My dad, he wouldn’t go back either. This is our home now.”
“Where I’m from in Mexico,” Diego said, “it’s very beautiful. Mountains, farms. I come up here, work hard, go back. It’s good. I’ve got friends everywhere now.”
“You have kids?”
“I have a daughter. She’s very young. Three years old. You?”
“No daughters for me. Just boys. Two boys. They live in New York and Minneapolis now. They’re big shots. The younger one’s in the restaurant business. He dates models. The older one works on Wall Street. He’s a real high roller. They left me behind, Diego. They couldn’t wait to get out of here when it was time to go.”
“Big cities. Big success. I’d like to see New York someday,” Diego said.
“They buried me,” Tom said. “That’s how it should be though. They should make their own way.” He drained his glass and stood up. “You talk to your family when you’re up here, Diego?” he asked. “You keep in touch?”
“Of course,” Diego said. “All the time.”
“That’s good,” Tom said. “That’s how it should be. Keep in touch.”
Part Three
Tom went inside and poured another round and checked on the progress of the reddening pig. He could hear Diego and Javier talking outside, a low babble of rapid-fire Spanish. He opened the oven to find the skin turning a golden pink and brushed more oil on the spots that seemed to need it. He used a needle to prick the skin and let out the excess oil. The smell of the pig was almost stunning in its savory power. He delivered the boys their drinks and returned to the kitchen. He pulled down the wok and placed it on the burner.
He was slicing some garlic into paper-thin slivers when he was surprised by the sound of the doorbell, a chiming clangor from cylindrical bells installed near the bathroom. The clock on the stove said eight-fifteen, which seemed late for the parade of canvassers and proselytizers that normally hit up his neighborhood, guilting the rich for Greenpeace or the Sierra Club, but perhaps they were on some special campaign this month. The doorbell rang.
“I had to get out of there,” Lana said, kissing Tom on the mouth as she stepped through the door. “What a fucking jackass. I’m not missing my one good night of the week for him. I hope we’re not too late, honey. I brought wine.”
“Never too late, my dear,” he said, shutting the door gently behind her. “The invitation always stands. It’s good you made it. We’re getting close on dinner.”
“Goddamn, this smells good,” Conrad said from down the hallway. “Tom, man, why did that woman leave you? Who cares what a bastard you are. She’s fucking crazy.”
The three of them converged in the kitchen, and Conrad and Lana deposited their bags on the counter and found their own glasses while Tom finished tending to the garlic. The night was shaping into something after all, he thought, much better than he’d even imagined. Sometimes, he told himself, a surprise surprised itself. He looked forward to the coming revelations, promising himself to allow the introductions to unfold naturally. No need to hurry anything along.
“You want some tequila?” he said. “We’re drinking tequila tonight.”
“I’ll help myself,” Conrad said. He pulled a narrow bottle of Scotch from the sheath of brown paper. “I got this baby in Scotland last year. Thought I’d break it out for the occasion.”
“Suit yourself,” Tom said. “The rest of us are drinking tequila.”
He couldn’t help himself.
“The rest of us?” Lana asked.
“We have some other guests tonight,” Tom said.
“Tequila and Chinese,” Conrad said, ignoring the cues. “Does that work? Seems weird to me. I’m sticking with Scotch.”
“Murray?” Lana said, accepting a tall glass of tequila and ice. “I thought he was out of town this week.”
“Not Murray,” Tom said.
“Who then?”
“I don’t think you know them,” Tom allowed. “I think I can guarantee that.”
Drinks poured, the trio adjourned from the kitchen to the deck, passing in single file through the dining room on the way.
“Chinese and tequila,” Conrad continued, prodding for conflict. “It seems weird to me.”
“The Chinese invented tequila,” Tom said, sliding the glass door on its rubber track. “Everyone knows that.”
“Chinese didn’t invent tequila,” Conrad said.
“We invented everything,” Tom said. “It was just so long ago we forgot about it. If you don’t know that by now, I can’t help you.”
Out on the deck Diego had moved from his lounge chair to the wooden railing and was staring out at the half- finished housing development in the trees. Javier was ensconced in a wicker chair, savoring his cigar, obscured by a hanging cloud of smoke. Both of them hastily came to attention as the new company arrived, standing up and putting their glasses aside for introductions.
“I see you replaced us,” Lana said, unflappable. She brushed the needles from a deck chair and took a seat. “Such a great view, Tom. Really spectacular.”
“Conrad, Lana,” Tom said, “this is Javier and Diego. They worked the front yard today. You may have noticed the dead tree is gone. At last. They did an excellent job, too. Not like all the lazy, snot-nosed teenagers around here.”
“Nice to meet you,” Lana said, inspecting the two Mexicans as she shook their hands, gauging in her mind the vectors of inappropriateness already traveled, and those yet left to go. The warmth in her voice was genuine though. She was democratic in all her dispositions.
Conrad shook the Mexicans’ hands enthusiastically. His warmth was sarcastic. To him, they were an excellent novelty and not much more.
“Boys,” he said. “Welcome to Tom’s house. I hope the neighborhood is treating you well. You’re getting everything you need.”
Diego and Javier murmured uncertainly, unsure what was expected of them next. They remained standing, prepared to exit, aware that the circumstance of their invitation had likely just changed.
Briefly, Tom entertained the thought of whisking them home. Clearly, they felt out of place and it wouldn’t take long to drive them back to town and deposit them on the corner where he’d found them. On the other hand, though, the food was nearly ready, and they had been having a good time. Furthermore, there was a principle at stake. He had already extended an invitation, and the invitation could not simply be rescinded now that it was inconvenient, now that the real guests had arrived. The Mexicans were his guests, even if paid to be so, and the idea of turning them out seemed wrong. They remained on their feet, ready to take his lead, which only made their continuing presence seem more integral.
“Sit down,” he ordered. “We’ve got a pig to eat. You boys need a new drink. Give me those glasses.”
Diego and Javier remained standing, giving Tom yet one more chance to change his mind. “I’m okay on the drink, boss,” Diego said. “Thanks though.”
“Sit down,” Tom said firmly “You’re my guests. Javier? You want a drink? You look ready.”
He pried Javier’s glass from his fingers, and Conrad stepped into the conversational void. “So you guys pulled that tree out? Nice job. About time. Tom was dragging down all our property values around here. Must’ve been a real bitch to extract. Was it a bitch to extract?” The boys stared at him. The cynical tone and the word “extract” were meant explicitly to trip them up.
“Conrad’s never worked in his life,” Tom said, reentering the house. “He has no idea what it means to use your own hands. He was born rich. What he’s got is called passive wealth. He just sits back and watches his stocks sweat for him.”
“I work my ass off, Tom!” Conrad said, unoffended. He turned back to the Mexicans. “He’s got some kind of Chink work ethic. I use my brain. No shame in that.”
Tom continued to the kitchen without comment, but he could hear the conversation through the screen door. Lana asked where the boys were from and a soothing murmur soon spread among the group when it turned out she had visited Puebla herself. “It’s a great city,” she said. “Beautiful zócalo, as I recall. My car got broken into down there. They stole all my CDs.”
“It’s a tough city,” Diego said ruefully. “A lot of poor people there. They don’t know any better.”
“It didn’t seem that tough,” Lana said. “It was beautiful. I just got unlucky that trip. That’s all.”
From the kitchen,Tom listened to the rise and fall of conversation, the monotone of exposition and the ensuing spikes of laughter, all of which pleased him greatly. A good party always contained some minor catastrophe, he believed — a small grease fire, a broken coffee table. In this case, the catastrophe was the guests themselves.
Tom checked the pig, which was progressing nicely, its skin blushing, grease sizzling below. He closed the door to find Lana in the room, holding four empty glasses.
“You left them with Conrad?” Tom said.
“He’s talking about his house cleaner. He says she steals from him and he wants to know how to deal with it. Incredible. I couldn’t really handle it. But Diego doesn’t seem to mind. And Javier has no idea what’s going on. His glass is empty though. So’s mine.”
“That was quick,” Tom observed.
Lana positioned herself at the counter, inspecting the array of bottles. “Don’t monitor me,” she said. “I get enough of that at home.” She poured four tall drinks and dropped a handful of ice in each.
“Extra for Diego,” she said. “You’re almost out of tequila,Tom.”
“There’s more in the pantry.”
“I’d bust it out if I were you,” she said. “I doubt this is going to be anyone’s last.” She headed back outside, sipping her drink, clutching the other three in one hand.
Tom set the table with the good, gilded china, moving agilely around the smoked-glass tabletop, folding the napkins, placing the burnished silverware, arranging the cut-crystal wine glasses, not fussily but with an eye for the symmetries of presentation. Outside, he could hear Diego talking, and judging from the responses, Lana and Conrad were rapt.
“I was living in Los Angeles,” Diego was saying. “I was working on a beautiful, beautiful house. Spanish style, white stucco walls, with the black iron fences. The red tile roof. Bougainvillea. Very beautiful, very handsome house.”
Tom dimmed the light on the chandelier, its marbled globes softening, and scooted the chairs to their settings. He began bringing out the side dishes and placing them on the teak credenza he had kept against his ex-wife’s virulent claims of ownership. The won-tons in their moist basket, the haystack of grated papaya. In a flurry of final preparation, he chopped a handful of peanuts, decanted the wine, and put a Coltrane CD on the stereo, moving from task to task smoothly, all the while catching swatches of conversation from outside.
“The man who owned the house,” Diego went on, “he was rich. A really famous man. You know him, I think.”
“Who was it?” Lana said. “Tell us.”
“What was his name?” Diego said. “Peter Fonda?”
“Peter Fonda? The actor?”
“Yes. That’s it. He’s a nice man. Very generous. We were like this, spending some time together. At the end of the day he fed us, too. I put on his leather pants. The famous ones. From ‘Easy Rider’.”
“You wore Peter Fonda’s leather pants from ‘Easy Rider’?” Conrad repeated. “Is that what you’re telling us?”
“They were tight. I almost ripped them.”
“Diego, you’re insane!” Lana said. “He’s insane.”
“Here’s to Peter Fonda,” Conrad said. “That fucking hippie. Tom, where did you get this guy? And when is dinner? We’re starving out here.”
Just then the buzzer sounded and Tom swung out onto the deck. The four faces of his guests looked at him expectantly in unison. Oven mitt in hand, he addressed them as one, “Dinner, my friends, is ready. It is time to get your asses inside.”
Part Four
The table was gorgeous, the stir-fry a swirl of glassy noodles hiding jewels of scallops and green vegetables, the dipping sauces a spectrum of earthy fluids, elemental juices trapped in wrought clay. Mounds of cottony white rice in cobalt-colored ceramic bowls dotted the length of the table. At the center of the composition was the suckling pig, resplendent on a gold platter covered in sprigs of parsley. The skin was a perfect surface of glazed crimson, the jowls plump, the ears folded. In the pig’s mouth, Tom had replaced the wood with a tiny apple.
The guests clapped spontaneously at the sight.
“That pig looks fucking pissed,” Conrad said.
“Tom, this is incredible,” gushed Lana. She sat facing the windows, and pulled Diego beside her, as Conrad took the opposite side, leaving Tom and Javier at the heads. The pig’s snout ended up pointing at Diego, which made him the guest of honor, and that seemed appropriate.
“I’ve seen better though,” Conrad said, opening his napkin onto his lap, and the group laughed more wildly than necessary. Only Javier seemed at all confused or out of place, but even he was obviously pleased by the table’s camaraderie.
“You know they used to call humans ‘the long pig’?” Conrad said. “We’re not that different from the pigs. As fetuses we’re almost indistinguishable. The long pig. I can see it. I bet we’d make good bacon. Right, Javier?”
“To the new yard,” Lana offered, raising her glass.
“Hear, hear, the new yard,” Conrad said. “And to divorce. The great liberator of men.”
“To divorce,” Tom said. “To second acts.”
“To the cook,” said Diego.
They all touched glasses and drank, and Tom set to carving with a special knife and prong. The plates were passed toward him and he sent them back heaped with meat, and for a moment a brief lull in conversation descended. The sound of silver on porcelain filled the room and the group was reflected in the black windows of the dining room.
“You hear Murray is selling his side lot?” Conrad said, passing a steaming plate to Javier. “He just put it on the market yesterday.”
“For how much?” Tom said. He was sorry to be lapsing into the inanities of neighborhood real estate so soon, the subject of last conversational resort, but he was curious for the figure.
“Five hundred grand.”
Tom whistled. “Good for him. Good for all of us. Keep it going. Let the bubble never burst.”
“There’s no bubble,” Conrad said. “Not here anyway. We’re in a hammock is what we’re in here. Until we get up to Seattle and San Francisco levels, we’re still undervalued. We’re still the crummy neighborhood of the West Coast.”
“I ran into Elaine yesterday,” Lana said, already bored by the topic. “She was at the wine store. She looks relaxed.”
“Great,” Tom said, hacking out a rib and going back for another. Elaine was his ex-wife. He had managed to avoid her over the past few months, although there were probably more near misses than he realized. They still shared a fair number of friends and similar habits, and the town was small. “She should look relaxed,” he said. The pig’s body was quickly getting whittled down, cratered with large divots. “What’s she got to do?”
“Elaine is a beautiful woman,” Lana informed Diego. “Real Swedish farm girl. Big knockers. Nice legs. She was a stewardess. They met on a plane. Can you believe it? They were such a beautiful couple. It’s sad when a couple like that breaks up. They were really something to look at. She said Billy’s having a kid, Tom. Congratulations.”
Tom had finished the carving and placed the knife and prong on the platter, taking his seat. “I don’t think she was supposed to tell anyone that,” he said, “but thanks.” He opened his napkin onto his lap and smoothed out the wrinkles.
“Oh God,” Lana said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was a secret. Don’t tell her I said anything. All right?”
“Boy or girl?” Conrad said, unfazed by protocol. “Have they scanned the bugger?”
“They don’t know anything yet,” Tom said. “It’s too early.” To Diego and Javier he explained, “This is my son in New York. He’s married to his high school girlfriend. They own a place in Brooklyn. Now that’s a real estate market.”
“Congratulations,” Diego said, raising his glass again. “Very good news, boss. Your first grandchild?”
“To my knowledge,” he said.
“Fantastic news.”
The table toasted again, with more solemnity this time, and then set to eating with gusto. All agreed the pork was delicious, perfectly soft and smooth, clean and well seasoned. The baby fat was almost too gelatinous, but one adapted to the texture. “Beginner’s luck,” Tom said. “Don’t know how it happened. Thank the pig.”
“I don’t see the problem scanning the kid,” Conrad said, returning to the last uncomfortable moment. “Why wait until it squeezes out? You know? It’s a surprise whenever you know.”
“I wouldn’t want to know,” Lana said. “Diego, will you pass the soy sauce?”
“I guess it makes sense,” Conrad said. “They’d probably abort it if it was a girl. Right? That’s the Chinese custom, right,Tom? Toss the girls in a pond?”
“That’s why we’ll rule this continent one day,” Tom said, his chopsticks hovering with a scallop near his mouth. “We’re building an army, Conrad. Only the strongest will survive.”
“Tell him what your mom used to say,” Lana urged. “It cracks me up.” Tom shook his head, refusing to indulge, but Lana pushed him. “Come on,” she said. “Don’t be that way.”
The table’s attention settled on him, and he took his time chewing his food, letting them wait.
“When I was a kid,” Tom finally obliged, “my mother used to come into my room at night and talk to me before I fell asleep. I’d be there in bed, nodding off. And she’d come in and lean over and whisper in my ear. She’d always say the same thing.” Here Tom’s voice changed into a shrieky, marble- mouthed register, muted in a whisper. “She’d say, ‘Tommy, Tommy. Listen to me. One day — China rule the world.’ “ He bugged his eyes and drew out the word “world” to give the full Chinese-mother effect, and Lana and Conrad cackled with laughter. Diego chuckled politely and Javier grinned as if some of the meaning had penetrated from the side.
“Jesus Christ,” Conrad said. “No wonder you’re such an asshole. What do you say, Javier? You think that’s funny? You like the pig? You haven’t said much tonight. Good food, right? I bet you understand everything we’re talking about. You’re just sitting there judging us.”
Javier, caught off-guard by Conrad’s sudden address, gave a warped smile. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he raised his finger in the air, signaling he had something to add. He cleared his throat and lifted his glass, bleary eyes darting sloppily around the room.
“Someday,” Javier said, holding his glass above his head, struggling to lean into the shared space of conversation, “someday, Mexico rule the world!” His gapped teeth flashed a wide smile and the laughter boomed throughout the room. Conrad laughed so hard he almost choked.
When the won-tons were gone, and the pig had been reduced to a pile of bones in a puddle of grease, the group, leaving everything on the table, migrated into the living room, with its high, peaked ceiling, cream carpet, and stone fireplace. Lana and Diego took the couch, sinking into its soft cushions, and Javier drifted to the fireplace, attempting to blend into the surroundings. Conrad wandered the outskirts of the room, looking for something to seize his attention, picking up various coffee table books and jade figurines. Tom crouched at the stereo, searching for a good soundtrack to accompany the next phase of the evening.
“Javier,” Conrad pestered, holding up a carved wooden dragon, “what do you think of this? You like it?” Javier smiled wanly and shrugged. “You don’t care,” Conrad said, releasing him. “You’ve got other things on your mind. I know.”
From the bookshelf Conrad pulled down a volume on primitive erotic arts and flipped through the pages. “You know, I think of you as a Mexican,Tom,” he said, “You’re my Mexican friend. You should see this guy in a cowboy hat, Javier. He could be your brother.”
Tom didn’t respond. From his small CD collection he chose “Bitches Brew,” dimly aware that its humid powers, its steeping black magic, might be appropriate for the night’s mysterious chemistries. He was already delighted by the license the guests were taking and hoped to see them push even further. Let’s see where it goes, he thought. Feed the flames. He loaded the CD into the magazine and the first sultry notes slid from the speakers, coiling in the air like smoke.
He stood to find Lana and Diego already dancing, Lana clinging to Diego’s beefy frame, and Diego holding his hands loosely around Lana’s waist, slightly embarrassed by the spectacle they were making. There was something undeniably sordid in the scene. The two blundered around the room, knocking into the edges of the coffee table
and the sides of the couch, as the three other guests watched.
Conrad leered and raised his glass.
Tom raised his glass in return. The trumpet was like a slithering, multi-hued snake. Lana tucked herself against Diego’s broad chest. Tom approved. What better way to heal yourself than the cauterizing fire of bad decisions? What better way to reclaim whatever eludes you in day-to-day life?
The pair stumbled along until Diego seemed to think it had gone on long enough and released Lana, gently but firmly. Lana looked confused, as if she had just awakened from a dream, and Conrad clapped four bleak claps, breaking what remained of the spell. Diego grinned sheepishly and took the opportunity to evacuate the room. On the way he lumbered into the wall with his shoulder and knocked a framed picture of Mount Hood askew.
Lana, finding her drink, glared hatefully at Conrad, blaming him for some unformed slight, and exited as well.
“You and me next?” Conrad said to Javier, and answered himself: “Maybe later.”
Tom found Lana in the kitchen, among the strewn cooking utensils and detritus of the night’s meal. She was pouring herself a new tall glass of wine, and when she was done, she corked the bottle. Tom took it from her and struggled to pull the cork out for himself.
“You know what you’re doing, I guess,” Tom said, without judgment. He figured it was his obligation to check up on her. If nothing else, his concern added to the sense of juvenile drama.
“You have a problem with what I’m doing?” she said. She smiled a drunk, lizardy smile as some everyday part of herself immolated in the far recesses of her brain.
“It’s not my problem,” he said, shrugging. “You’re a big girl.”
“I am a big girl,” she said, and took a large sip of wine. Her mouth and chin distorted behind the bubble of glass. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand. “And you know what? Big girl wants to fuck.”
Part Five
The last droplets of Tom’s piss splashed into the bowl and the toilet’s vacuum powerfully sucked the water away. He zipped and took a moment in front of the mirror, observing with detachment the harshly lit surfaces of his face. His lips were purplish from the wine, his eyes tired. Otherwise, not much to report. He splashed some water on his cheeks and dabbed them off on the towel.
Out in the hallway he spotted Diego and Lana at the head of the stairs leading to the basement den, engaged in a whispered negotiation of some kind. He averted his eyes, but couldn’t help notice Lana’s hand on Diego’s elbow, or the appetite etched on Diego’s face. Wordlessly, pretending Tom was not there, the two stumbled down the carpeted stairway into the gloom.
Tom drifted into the kitchen and piled a few dishes in the sink. Then, giving up, he wandered into the living room, which was empty save for Miles Davis. The lamp sent a balloon of light into the high corner, revealing a single strand of cobweb attached to the raw crossbeam.
The dining room was also empty, just the wreckage of the meal fastened to the tabletop. Tom could hear noise outside though, and opened the sliding glass door to find Conrad and Javier seated at the glass patio table, lit feebly by the living room window. It was getting chilly. They had located a deck of cards somewhere and Conrad was in the process of dealing a hand. Both of them were smoking new cigars pulled from Tom’s stash.
“You boys doing all right?” Tom said, dragging a metal chair to join them, the legs vibrating madly on the wood. “You need anything?”
“We are excellent,” Conrad said. He was scrutinizing his hand, rearranging the cards into a better order. “This is something we can both understand. Finally. We don’t need to talk for this shit. We play cards. We do math. This is plain luck against luck. We don’t need language for this. Am I right, Javier? Am I right?”
Javier, unaware he was being addressed, or not caring, grimaced at the hand he’d been dealt. A fuzz of mustache coated his wide upper lip, and the whites of his eyes stood out in the darkness. He licked his lips and fiddled with the cards. Conrad brushed a lock of blond hair from his forehead and returned to his hand.
“See? I’m right.”
Tom watched the hand play out. They were playing five-card draw, which was almost absurd with only two people, but they went at it with intensity, and on Javier’s part a kind of relief that the pretense of conversation was finally over. The shadows cloaked their faces, emphasizing the severity of Javier’s bone structure. Bare triangles on his cheeks, a rectangle on his forehead. He had grown up in a village in Michoacán and now here he was, sitting on Tom’s deck playing poker. It made the neighborhood seem strangely exotic.
The hand went to Conrad, and without pause, Javier took the deck and shuffled the cards expertly. The stiff riffle repeated three times. Without consultation, Tom was dealt in on the next hand.
“Okay. What are we betting here, anyway?” he said.
“Ten bucks to open,” Conrad said, watching the cards.
Tom watched the cards, too. “That’s a lot,” he said. For Javier, he knew, it was an hour’s wage. As host, he felt it was his duty to watch out for the well-being of all his guests.
“A lot?” Conrad said, scoffing. “What’s the point, then? Come on, man. You want to play or what? Javier’s cool with it. He’s the one who set the ante. Not me.”
“Is that true?” Tom said. He shifted his gaze to Javier.
As if to answer, Javier pulled out his wallet, a ruined slab of leather stuffed with dollars and cards and odd paper clippings, and emptied the bills onto the table. He picked out two five-dollar notes and pushed them to the middle of the glass. In the dim light, Tom could see a sharp intelligence kindling in his features, a fervid opportunism that had previously been hidden. For the first time Tom detected real will behind Javier’s eyes. He might be the canniest one among them, he thought. Who knew what well of experience was hidden inside his Spanish-speaking head?
Conrad clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now we’re talking. We’re all men here. Doing what men do. I like you, Javier. You’ve got some iron balls. Are you in or what, motherfucker?”
Tom pulled out his wallet and floated ten dollars onto the glass. Then he lifted his cards and spread them into a fan. He was in possession of two threes, the queen of clubs, and the four and eight of spades.
The hand moved through its cycles and Tom folded with three of a kind. The other two kept going — Javier raising Conrad two dollars and Conrad raising Javier another three, then Javier raising four, Conrad five. In the end, Conrad showed his hand. He had a full house, which soundly beat Javier’s three queens, and he took the seventy-four-dollar pot with relish.
Javier showed no emotion over the loss. Tom tried to read some clue into his style of play, some hint as to the outlines of his personality. Perhaps he had been bluffing, hoping Conrad would bow out. Or perhaps he had honestly believed his three of a kind was a winning hand. It was hard to say. He might be rash, or he might be clever, or he might be something else entirely, just testing the boundaries of his powers, taking control of the mental drama of the game from the gate.
“Boys,” Conrad said, organizing the new bills in front of him, “I’m going to call that first blood.”
“‘Rambo’,” Javier said flatly. The word came and went quickly, but there it was, his first casually offered response of the whole day.
“‘Rambo’?” Conrad said.
“‘First Blood,’ dipshit,” Tom said.
“Rambo!” Conrad said, pleased to have finally made verbal contact. “That’s right, Javier. Me, Rambo. You guys,Vietnam. This guy knows more than he’s letting on,Tom. Believe me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Tom said.
The deck had landed in front of Tom and he shuffled, enjoying the purr of the edges against his fingertips. He dealt proficiently and the men raised their hands. They chose not to speak anymore, even when the sound of Lana’s hoarse laughter floated from deep inside the house, followed by the thunk of a heavy spill. They were inside the game, facing each other as equals. All the deference and tension and misunderstanding of the day sloughed away.
Conrad took two cards and Javier took one. Tom took three cards and ended up with another crap hand, two eights and change. He glanced at the other men but neither revealed any plea sure or displeasure on their faces. He folded, and once again the other two fought on, hitting back and forth until the pot reached fifty-four dollars. This time, Conrad won with a flush of spades over Javier’s three kings.
“Second blood,” Conrad said, and Javier grunted, indifferent. Whatever strategy he was pursuing remained unclear.
Conrad was on a streak. He took the next three out of five hands. Why the cards ran hot and cold was one of the great mysteries of the universe, but there was no question the cosmic weather was on Conrad’s side. Soon, Javier was roughly pushing himself away from the table, shaking his head in self-disgust. He stared drunkenly at Conrad, searching for some visible sign of his powers, and then he scooted back to the table and looked earnestly at Tom. There was no need for talking. Tom pulled out his wallet and peeled a hundred dollars, rounding up, and threw in a couple more twenties as a tip. The way Javier’s luck was running, he figured, he would need all of it.
Javier made change with Conrad — twenties for tens, fives, and ones — and the game resumed. The first hand went to Javier, stoking thoughts of a wholesale turnaround, but then, immediately, the old pattern returned. Conrad hogged all the luck. Tom picked up a pot here and there, and Javier landed a small one now and again, but Conrad’s good fortune was too much to battle. It was a force of nature, overwhelming. Soon, Javier was again back at the bottom, having lost a big bet on a good hand and then making some bad gambles, trying to turn his luck from the inside. From the way he gritted his teeth and pressed his elbows against his ribs, it seemed he had lost his hold on the circumstances. Under the glass his free hand was clenched tightly, tapping his knee.
Conrad won yet again. He pulled the pot to his chest with an air of near-apology. Even he seemed astonished by the duration of his streak this night. Tom considered offering Javier some advice, urging him to back off, but figured it wasn’t his place to say anything. Javier was the captain of his own destiny. Reality had proven malleable on some fronts this day. Who knew where and when the next bend would occur? He seemed prepared to go all the way, though, to hit whatever wall, whatever floor, he was hurtling toward.
“Shall we continue the massacre?” Conrad said, emptying a tequila bottle evenly into the three glasses and mopping the spilled droplets with his shirttails. “I don’t want anyone to say I didn’t give them a chance.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Tom said. “We’re digging our own graves here.”
“Very well then. We continue.”
Javier dealt. He had enough money to ante up, but not much for the betting. If he could make a stand, he seemed to think, it might be possible that the whole world would pivot on its axis. The gods might yet change their minds.
Tom checked his cards. At first he saw nothing, just a loose bunch of red odds and ends. But then, as he arranged the cards in his fingers, they began to fall into a more promising order. The cogs clicked and the cards dropped into place and suddenly, to his plea sure, he found himself looking at a straight flush — hearts, six through ten. A mild buzz went through him. When he turned his cards moments later, he couldn’t help but let out a moan of plea sure. Javier, however, made a strangled noise in his throat and scraped his fist against his knee.
“Let that be a lesson,” Conrad said, tossing his cards on the table. “The god of poker is a bitch-goddess.”
“No doubt about it,” Tom said, taking his winnings.
Javier stood and swayed for a moment near the pine railing. He steadied himself, and with as much dignity as he could muster, he walked to the glass door, struggling comically with the screen, and continued down the hall toward the bathroom. The light went on, slapping the opposite wall with a block of color, and then the light
was extinguished by the closing door.
“Bad run,” Conrad said, gnawing his cigar.
“Tough breaks,” Tom agreed. “More than one.”
“I guess we’re done,” Conrad said.
“I think so.”
Conrad relit his cigar and set about counting his night’s winnings, shaping the mess of bills into a weathered pile. Tom picked up his cigar as well and replaced his own remaining bills in his wallet. The money organized, Conrad peeled off a chunk and tucked it in his pocket. Then, without a word, he took the remaining pile and slipped it into Javier’s coat, a windbreaker lined with pilly fleece still draped on the patio chair.
“What are you doing?” Tom said. He was in the midst of relighting his stubborn cigar yet again, and the sweet taste of the skin clung to his lips. The tobacco caught the flame and his mouth filled with languid smoke.
“Nothing,” Conrad said, pulling on his own cigar. “He was stupid tonight. The cards were against him. He should have quit a long time ago.”
“You can’t give it back,” Tom said.
“Eh,” Conrad said, and swatted the air with the back of his hand, causing whorls in the smoke cloud. “Payment for the pig.”
The two sat for a moment and Tom watched Conrad with growing contempt. On the surface the gift looked generous enough. But underneath was something vaguely insulting, too. They’d established the rules, hadn’t they? Someone had to lose. Just because Conrad wanted to make himself feel better was no reason to rob Javier of his
hard-earned dignity.
Tom leaned over and reached into the coat pocket and found the wad of bills. He pulled them out and tossed them back onto Conrad’s lap. “He’s a man,” he said. “He took his chances. This is yours.”
“Fuck it,” Conrad said, cradling the bills. “Let him have it.”
Tom shook his head. He stretched his leg under the table and pushed the metal chair with Javier’s coat out of Conrad’s reach. “It’s insulting.”
Conrad sat there with the money in his hand, more puzzled by Tom’s actions than anything else. “Come on,” he said. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a little cash.”
“Don’t do it,” Tom said, an edge entering his voice. “I’m telling you.”
Conrad glanced at the glass door. There was no movement inside. He took a deep breath, rounding his shoulders, and exhaled through his nose. He folded the bills and let them rest on his thigh, capitulating to Tom by degrees.
“I don’t know,” he said, but he didn’t move.
“He doesn’t want it,” Tom said, blowing a cloud of smoke. “It’s yours now. Keep it.” The smoke formed a bushy shape between them, and then drained upward into the sky, and was gone.
Inside, the stereo was silent. The house had a tired, hollowed-out feeling. The floor seemed slightly canted as Tom stalked the living room, straightening pillows, and it occurred to him that he had perhaps been somewhat compromised by alcohol.
After the living room he moved on to the bathroom to check on Javier. He stood at the door but no sounds came from the other side. “You okay?” he said. Probably Javier was passed out on the floor, he figured, or curled around the toilet, safely expelling the night’s poison from his body. He saw no reason to bother him just yet. Around the corner Conrad could be heard picking over the remains of the food. The clatter of a fork hitting the floor followed by a whispered curse. Then, after stumbling footsteps, the front door slammed and Conrad was gone.
Next Tom went downstairs, passing through the plush den — once the domain of his sons, the scene of many roughhousing tournaments and late-night TV sessions — until he arrived at the door to Billy’s room. Cautiously, he turned the knob and a blade of light widened, revealing the littered floor and the ceiling plastered in ancient skateboarding posters, and then Lana and Diego laying in the twin bed, wrapped in an NFL sheet dotted with team logos. The sound of their mixed breathing was off-kilter: Lana’s placid, Diego’s rough and ragged with apnea. The room was muggy and close with the funk of sex.
Lana groaned and rolled over, clutching the sheet to her chest. Her eyes slivered open and she looked glassily at Tom. Her expression was calm, or perhaps simply so boggled by alcohol she couldn’t see straight. Her hair fell over her face, and she seemed unsure where she was.
Tom said nothing. He was already resigning himself to the idea of overnight guests. Whatever awkwardness they faced, they could face in the morning. He closed the door and went back upstairs, plotting to leave out pillows and blankets on the couch for Javier, although he would likely endure the whole night in the bathroom.
Tom padded to the dining room and poured himself a final Scotch and soda and sat down near the window. Outside, a single pinprick of starlight was visible above the spire of the temple. Two clouds drenched in moonlight lurked near the horizon.
He left the lights off and surveyed the night’s damage. The last strands of papaya were drying out. The scattered wine glasses caught bits of moonlight. The clues were tell- tale. A forensic detective would have to conclude that a pretty good party had occurred.
At the center of the table lay the remains of the suckling pig, by far the most gruesome reminder of the evening’s progress. The bones had been completely stripped of meat, the entire spinal column visible. Little gobbets of fat were collected on the platter, mixed with the wilted pieces of parsley.
The only part of the creature that remained untouched was the face. The red cheeks, the empty eyes, the folded ears — all were just as they had started, lying on the cold metal, attached to a few bones glistening with fat.
Tom stared at the pig. He wondered about the rest of the litter, whether the brothers and sisters had survived, and if so, what had become of them. He wondered about the mother, too. What a life, he thought. Only a few weeks long, at best. Born to be devoured and nothing more.
He sipped his drink. A cloud moved and the pig’s face brightened. The image was ghastly, but it didn’t bother him so much. It made him think about the outlines of his own time on earth. On either end of his consciousness the edges resolved. The past tapered to nothing, the future tapered to nothing, and his hours became like a bright, tented wedge in the blackness. His boys, Elaine, Lana, all of them were there. And soon a new one would be coming, too, starting its own path from darkness to darkness. He and the new one would overlap only briefly, though. He was so far ahead he’d barely catch sight.
The moon dimmed and the shadows deepened in the pig’s eyes. Tom sat perfectly still. He could tell he was entering a new country now, a solitary country, and up ahead the devouring maw was almost in sight.
The pig’s remains gleamed in the darkness. Tom bowed his head and raised his glass. An ice cube popped.
It was late. The birds would be waking soon. He drank.
