Sure, I trembled for a while after that. I got it, I really did. But did good sense overtake me? What do you think? I was full-on into the Romeo and Juliet thing, and she was even worse. Parents—you want to ensure your daughters marry young? Forbid them from seeing their boyfriends. Just try it.
“Uncle Arnie,” as big dark Captain Arnulfo was called in Cuca’s house, started hanging around. A lot. I wasn’t, like, stupid. I could tell what was what—he was sussing me out (that’s a word Pope taught me). He brought Bass Pale Ale all the time. He sidled up to me and said dumb things like, “You like the sexy?” Pope and I laughed all night after Uncle Ar-nie made his appearances. “You make the sexy-sexy in cars?” What a dork, we thought.
My beloved showered me with letters. I had no way of knowing if my own letters got to her or not, but she soon found an Internet cafe in Nogales and sent me cyber-love. Popo was drying up a little, not quite what you’d call sober, but occasionally back on the earth, and he started calling me “McLovin.” I think it was his way of trying to tone it down. “Bring it down a notch, homeboy,” he’d say when I waxed overly poetic about his sister.
It was a Saturday when it happened. I was IM-ing Amapola. That’s all I did on Saturday afternoons. No TV, no cruising in the car, no movies or pool time. I fixed a huge vat of sun tea and hit my laptop and talked to her. Mom was at work—she was always at work or out doing lame shit like bowling. It was just me, the computer, my distant girlie, and the cat rubbing against my leg. I’ll confess to you—don’t laugh—I cried at night thinking about her.
Does this explain things a little? Pope said I was whipped. I’d be like, that’s no way to talk about your sister. She’s better than all of you people! He’d just look at me out of those squinty Apache eyes. “Maybe,” he’d drawl. “Maybe …” And I was just thinking about all that on Saturday, going crazier and crazier with the desire to see her sweet face every morning, her hair on my skin every night, mad in love with her, and I was IM-ing her that she should just book. Run away. She was almost seventeen already. She could catch a bus and be in Phoenix in a few hours and we’d jump on I-10 and drive to Cali. I didn’t know what I imagined—just us, in love, on a beach. And suddenly the laptop crashed. Just gone—black screen before Amapola could answer me. That was weird, I thought. I cursed and kicked stuff, then I grabbed a shower and rolled.
When I cruised over to Aunt Cuca’s, she was gone. So was Pope. Uncle Arnie was sitting in the living room in his uniform, sipping coffee.
“They all go on vacation,” he said. “Just you and me.”
Vacation? Pope hadn’t said anything about vacations. Not that he was what my English profs would call a reliable narrator.
Arnie gestured for me to sit. I stood there.
“Coffee?” he offered.
“No, thanks.”
“Sit!”
I sat.
I can’t relate the conversation very clearly, since I never knew what the F Arnie was mumbling, to tell you the truth. His accent was all bandido. I often just nodded and smiled, hoping not to offend the dude, lest he freak out and bust caps in me. That’s a joke. Kind of. But then I’d wonder what I’d just agreed to.
“You love Amapola,” he said. It wasn’t a question. He smiled sadly, put his hand on my knee.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
He nodded. Sighed. “Love,” he said. “Is good, love.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You not going away, right?”
I shook my head. “No way.”
“So. What this means? You marry the girl?”
Whoa. Marry? I … guess … I was going to marry her. Someday.
Sure, you think about it. But to say it out loud. That was hard. Yet I felt like some kind of breakthrough was happening here. The older generation had sent an emissary.
“I believe,” I said, mustering some balls, “yes. I will marry Amapola. Someday. You know.”
He shrugged, sadly. I thought that was a little odd, frankly. He held up a finger and busted out a cell phone, hit the speed button, and muttered in Spanish. Snapped it shut. Sipped his coffee.
“We have big family reunion tomorrow. You come. Okay? I’ll fix up all with Amapola’s papa. You see. Yes?”
I smiled at him, not believing this turn of events.
“Big Mexican rancho. Horses. Good food. Mariachis.” He laughed. “And love! Two kids in love!”
We slapped hands. We smiled and chuckled. I had some coffee.
“I pick you up here at 7 in the morning,” he said. “Don’t be late.”
The morning desert was purple and orange. The air was almost cool. Arnie had a Styrofoam cooler loaded with Dr. Peppers and Cokes. He drove a bitchin’ S-Class Benz. It smelled like leather and aftershave. He kept the satellite tuned to BBC Radio 1. “You like the crazy maricon music, right?” he asked.
“… Ah … right.”
It was more like flying than driving, and when he sped past Arivaca, I wasn’t all that concerned. I figured we were going to Nogales, Arizona. But we slid through that little dry town like a shark and crossed into Mex without slowing down. He just raised a finger off the steering wheel and motored along, saying, “You going to like this.”
And then we were through Nogales, Mexico, too. Black and tan desert. Saguaros and freaky burned-looking cactuses. I don’t know what that stuff was. It was spiky.
We took a long dirt side road. I was craning around, looking at the bad black mountains around us.
“Suspension makes this road feel like butter,” Arnie noted.
We came out in a big valley. There was an airfield of some sort there. Mexican army stuff—trucks, Humvees. Three or four hangars or warehouses. Some shiny Cadillacs and SUVs scattered around.
“You going to like this,” Arnie said. “It’s a surprise.”
There was Big Poppa Popo, the old man himself. He was standing with his hands on his hips. With a tall American. Those dark gray lenses turned toward us. We parked. We got out.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Shut up,” said Arnie.
“Where’s the rancho?” I asked.
The American burst out laughing.
“Jesus, kid!” he shouted. He turned to the old man. “He really is a dumbshit.”
He walked away and got in a white SUV. He slammed the door and drove into the desert, back the way we had come. We stood there watching him go. I’m not going to lie—I was getting scared.
“You marry Amapola?” the old man said.
“One day. Look, I don’t know what you guys are doing here, but—”
“Look at that,” he interrupted, turning from me and gesturing toward a helicopter sitting on the field. “Huey. Old stuff, from your Vietnam. Now the Mexican air force use it to fight las drogas.” He turned to me. “You use las drogas?”
“No! Never.”
They laughed.
“Sure, sure,” the old man said.
“Ask Amapola!” I cried. “She’ll tell you!”
“She already tell me everything,” he said.
Arnie put his arm around my shoulders. “Come,” he said, and started walking toward the helicopter. I resisted for a moment, but the various Mexican soldiers standing around were suddenly really focused and not slouching and were walking along all around us.
“What is this?” I said.
“You know what I do?” the old man asked.
“Business?” I said. My mind was blanking out, I was so scared.
“Business.” He nodded. “Good answer.”
We came under the blades of the big helicopter. I’d never been near one in my life. It scared the crap out of
