“Yeah, that’s a long time,” he said.
I glanced over at him. I longed for the words that would take us back to the beginning.
“I’m sorry,” I said to his stooped back.
Ysrael stood up without responding. He picked up his guitar. In a graceful arc, he swung it up over his head, letting the strap fall across his chest and shoulder. The guitar nestled along the curve of his back. He walked forward a few steps and then turned back, waiting for me.
We walked silently toward the water’s edge. Suna was crouched in the distance, at the edge of the shoreline, digging her hands into the wet sand. Her head was bowed in concentration and though I waved, she did not look up.
Ysrael clasped his hands behind his neck and rocked back on his heels, anticipating the ocean crash against his ankles. I hooked my thumbs in the front pockets of my shorts and tried not to sway as the wave hit my shins. I spoke to my wiggling toes.
“I used to hate the beach when I was little,” I said. I could feel Ysrael looking at me. “I thought the sand made the world too tipsy.”
Ysrael laughed. A clear, shining, one-note bark that broke with the sea. “And now?” he asked.
I turned to him. “I feel like I can breathe again.”
Ysrael stared at the horizon and nodded silently. We stayed that way, not speaking, not moving, just let the sea lap around us. The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the sky still held on to the memory of the light. The brilliant colors balanced on the crests of the waves.
“It happened when I was a baby,” he said. “Back home. In Mexico. My mama says I had just started walking, getting into trouble when she wasn’t looking.”
He paused, cut his eyes to me before looking back at the sea, buried his hands into his back pockets. “There was this pig. Mean as hell. I remember how my brothers and I used to poke at it to see him get angry. Stupid what we do as kids.”
I reached out to tell him that he didn’t have to tell me anything. That whatever had happened to him was in the past. And yet, I couldn’t bring myself to touch him.
“They had to kill it before it could kill me. I don’t remember anything about the attack except sitting on the fence.” He turned to me. I tried not to stare at his scar, keeping my eyes on his eyes.
“Kids used to come from all over, chase me down to try and touch my face for good luck. ’Cause I survived. ’Cause I was some freak with half my face bitten off. A walking miracle, looking like that. I wore a bandage, but that didn’t stop the kids who just wanted to scare themselves. See if what was under the cover was worse than what they had imagined. Worse than what they had heard from other kids.”
Ysrael smiled. “I got to be really fast running away from all the teasing. Not even the adults could catch me. Then this relief organization from the U.S. came looking for me. They had heard about the pig boy even in Mexico City.” He shook his head. “They’re so arrogant, these American doctors. They think they can fix the world. They took me to L.A. and a couple of operations later, they sent me back to Mexico City to show off their handiwork. The newspapers said it was the best modern medicine had to offer.” He jutted out his chin at me. “What do you think?”
The harshness and anger in his voice forced me to step back. Ysrael immediately lowered his chin. “What did they expect? That closing the hole in my face would make my life better?” Ysrael closed his eyes. “You know, I was happy when I first saw the doctors. I thought they had come to help us ’cause my mama was sick. But it wasn’t her they wanted to see. They wanted me. I tried to tell them that my mother needed the doctors more. But they kept saying they weren’t the right doctors for that kind of sickness. They couldn’t do anything about her stomach.”
Ysrael stated quietly, “She was in so much pain at the end. Where was the best of medicine then?”
He told me how he left Mexico with his older sister and her husband, leaving their father behind in that small village, traveling with a guide, a coyote, for a week before they finally landed in San Diego, half dead to the world. “These scars are nothing compared to what it looked like,” he said, raking his knuckles along his jaw. He pressed his thumb into the crescent moon of his scar. “I’m nothing like what I used to be.”
• • •
The library parking lot was dark and nearly empty except for a few cars when we returned from the beach. I slowed down and pulled into the parking space next to his Ford. I turned off the engine and sat silently, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. Suna stirred in the back, a soft snoring coming from the corner.
“Are we okay?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I said.
The outline of his profile turned to me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.”
“You sure?” he asked.
“I wanted to know,” I said.
“See what you get for being nosy,” he said.
I smiled. I could see the flash of whiteness from his teeth.
Ysrael opened the car door and turned to leave. “See you tomorrow,” he said.
I nodded. “See you.”
I drove home thinking about Ysrael’s story. Woke up Suna and helped her into the apartment and could still picture Ysrael’s eyes, the jut of his chin. He’s lived so many lives, I thought as Suna and I entered our bedroom and got ready for bed. So many lives and I can’t even figure out this one.
suna
SOMETIME IN THE AFTERNOON, after the lunch rush,
