Parable of the Talents

doctor— not even for themselves. So Inez herself worked on me. She worked so hard to save me—like a second mother. The man thought I would die. He thought it was stupid to waste time, effort, and valuable resources on me. But he loved her, so he let her have her way.

'These people were a lot poorer than we used to be, but they did what they could with what they had. For me that meant soap and water, aspirin and aloe vera. Why I didn't die of 20 infections I don't know. I goddamn sure wanted to die. I'll tell you, I'd rather blow my own brains out than go through that again.'

I shook my head. I had no medical training beyond first aid, and I doubt that I'd be much good administering that, but I'd lived with Bankole long enough to know how nasty burns could be. 'No complications at all?' I demanded.

Marcus shook his head. 'I don't know, really. Most of the time I was in so much pain I didn't know what was going on. How could I tell a complication from the general run of misery?'

I shook my head, and wondered what Bankole would say when I told him. Soap and water and aspirin and aloe vera. Well, a little humility would be good for him. To Marcus, I said, 'What happened to the Durans?'

'Dead,' he whispered. 'At least I guess they're dead. So many died. I never found their bodies, though, and I tried. I did try.'

Long silence.

'Marcus?' I reached over and put my hand on his.

He pulled away and put his hands to his face. I heard him sigh behind them. Then he began to talk again. 'Four years after our neighborhood burned, the city of Robledo decided to clean itself up. The Durans and I were squatters. We shared a big, abandoned stucco house with five other fami­lies. That meant we were part of the trash that the new mayor, the city council, and the business community wanted to sweep out. It seemed to them that all the trouble of the past few years was our fault—poor people's fault, I mean. Homeless people's fault. Squatters' fault. So they sent an army of cops to drive out everyone who couldn't prove they had a right to be where they were. You had to have rent re­ceipts, a deed, utility receipts, something. At first, there was a hell of a business in fake paper. I wrote some of it my­self—not for sale, but for the Durans and their friends. Most people couldn't read or write or at least not in English, so they needed help. I saw that some of them were paying hard currency for crap, so I started writing—rent receipts, mostly. In the end, it was all for nothing. Between them, the city and the county owned most of the rotting buildings in our area, and the cops knew we didn't belong there, no matter what papers we had. They drove us all out—poor squatters, drug dealers, junkies, crazies, gangs, whores, you name it.'

'Where were you living?' I asked. 'What part of town?'

'Valley Street,' Marcus said. 'Old factory buildings, parking structures, ancient houses and stores, all packed with people.'

'And vacant lots full of weeds and trash where people dump inconvenient dead bodies,' I continued for him.

''That's the area, yes. The Durans were poor. They worked all the time, but sometimes they didn't even get enough to eat—especially sharing with me. When I was well enough, I worked with them. We cleaned, repaired, and sold anything we could salvage. We took whatever jobs we could get—cleaning, assembling, constructing, repairing. They never lasted long. There were a lot of people like us and not so many jobs, so wages were terrible. Just food and water sometimes, or some old clothes or shoes or something. They'd even pay you in American money if they thought they could get away with palming it off on you. Hard cur­rency if they gave a damn about treating you right. Most didn't. Also, hard currency if they were a little bit afraid of you or of your friends.

'In spite of all our efforts, there was no way we could af­ford to rent even a shabby little apartment or house. We lived on Valley Street because we couldn't do any better. With all that, though, it probably wasn't as bad as you think. People looked after one another there, except for the worst junkies and thugs. Everyone knew who they were. I did reading and writing for people even before the fake-paper craze. They paid me what they could. And... I helped some of them hold church on Sundays. There was an old carport behind the house we lived in. It projected from a garage where three families lived, but as it happened, no one lived under the carport. We met for church there and I would preach and teach as best I could. They let me do it. They came to hear me even though I was a kid. I taught them songs and everything. They said I had a gift, a calling. The truth was, thanks to Dad, I knew more about the Bible than any of them, and more about real church.'

He paused, looked at me. 'I liked it, you know? I prayed with them, helped them any way I could. Their lives were so terrible. There wasn't much I could do, but I did what I could. It was important to them that I had recovered from burns and gunshots. A lot of them had seen me back when I looked like vomit They thought if I could recover from that, God must have something in mind for me.

'The Durans were proud of me. They gave me their name. I was Marcos Duran. That's who I was during my four years with them. That's who I still am. I found a real home there.