We just watched the one cloud for a while. I started thinking about all the horrible shit that happened, and it started getting me angry, so I asked Santos what it was like growing up in Honduras.
At first he didn’t want to say much. Just said it was nice, there was lots of mango and avocado to eat. I told him I only tried avocado once cause it cost an extra buck at the Mexican restaurant in town.
Then I asked why he came to Texas if he liked it in Honduras. He looked like he was scared to answer, so I told him it was okay, he could trust me.
He told me he grew up in a poor neighborhood just east of the capital. He asked if I’ve heard of Favelas in Brazil. I said no, and he told me he lived in something kind of like that. I guess there’s houses super close to each other going all the way up a mountain. Where he lived there wasn’t really even a road, just a stairway going down the mountain. Some spots had concrete but it was mostly old tires for stairs.
He told me his family was happy but there was only two rooms in the whole house. A kitchen and a living room. He said at night they pulled out a cot and he slept on the cot with his two brothers and his parents slept on the couch. Eli always said we were poor but we at least all had our own rooms. I couldn’t imagine only having one room for the whole family.
He told me about how he’d play soccer in the field down the hill from his house. I guess it was supposed to belong to some farmer but they took it over for soccer and the farmer just didn’t care.
“You saw the tattoo of the 18, right?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He told me there’s two big gangs in Tegucigalpa. I guess that’s what the capital is called. They are 13 and 18. There’s a big road going between two big hills, and 18 controlled one hill and 13 controlled the other.
“So… you were in a gang?”
“Yeah, the 18.”
He didn’t seem like he would. I must have looked confused, since he asked if he should keep telling his story. I said yes, I was really curious.
He said when he was twelve, his older brother told him it was time to join. Just like that. Imagine you go to sixth grade and your brother says it’s time to join a gang. He said boys were all supposed to join the gang. He said in Honduras the government doesn’t do a good job. All the cops are corrupt. So gangs take over and do the cops’ work for them.
He said his job was going to people’s businesses and collecting money. I guess they charge people for protection. That way, if someone in the other gang or anyone robs you, you tell the gang and they take care of the thief for you. I asked what that meant, and his eyes got really big. He thought for a second and drew a line along his neck.
“Did you ever… take care of someone?”
He looked at the ground for a while. I hope he didn’t know what I meant and that’s why he didn’t answer.
I shouldn’t have, but I asked Santos to go back to sleeping in the other room. I just got really uncomfortable listening to those stories. I really didn’t want to wonder if he’d killed someone before.
This is when it got really hard to be home. After my mom died, I could still talk to Santos. The couple of weeks we didn’t talk to each other were horrible. My mom was dead, I hated Eli, and I wasn’t even talking to Santos. I just went to my room every day and sat there. Staring at the ceiling mostly. Sometimes I’d look for shapes in the paint. But then one of the shapes would remind me of my mom and I would get all sad and have to stop.
One day I was feeling a little better—not really human, not really not—so I went out to work on the farm. I found one of the sheep laying there dead. I ran inside to let Eli know so he could test for diseases. I didn’t get halfway through the sentence before he was standing behind his desk.
He called me all sorts of horrible things. Said I was lazy and no help at all and that’s why the sheep died. Said I just let the sheep die just like I let my mom die.
I got sick of listening to it so I walked away. I shouldn’t have. It made him angry, damn angry. He had his stupid red face an inch away from mine and shouted all sorts of things I won’t even write here. He punched me hard in the gut and dropped me on the floor. I must’ve laid there for a few minutes just trying to figure out how to breathe. That’s always scary.
It didn’t go very well when I fought back the last time so I just laid there. He shouted some more and told me to get up and take care of the sheep. I went outside and got Santos to help me throw it away. I don’t think it’s allowed to throw a dead animal away but we didn’t know what else to do.
While we were lifting the tarp into the dumpster he shouted out the back door. Said that sheep was coming out of Santos’s pay. Santos glared at me and went to his room. I guess I deserved that, so I took care of the rest of the farm that day.
The three of us had been going to the new church together, but the next Sunday I ended up going by myself. I actually asked Santos if he wanted to go but he said no thanks. So I showed up and sat in the back like we all did.
In walked Mrs. Glass and sat right next to me. “Where two or more are gathered,” she told me while she gave me one of those awkward side hug things on the bench. Something about church makes old ladies say the most random stuff.
“Amen.” I smiled but she seemed to take it seriously. Turns out it really is just a made up word to say at church when you don’t know what else to say.
The sermon was alright. I was still getting the hang of the new church so I don’t remember much of what they said. Something about forgiving people who wrong us. It sure felt lousy going home to Eli after that.
After church Mrs. Glass asked how things are going. I know you’re not supposed to swear in church so I thought for a minute. I couldn’t think of a better way to say it though.
“Shitty.”
She looked offended, so I said sorry. She said if God could deal me the hand he dealt, he should give me a pass on saying “shitty” in church.
I told her what I learned about Santos. Asked if she knew about it.
She nodded and whispered, “Not here. Let me give you a ride.”
We got in her old station wagon and made it a couple blocks down the road. She turned to look at me (which was always scary—that woman needed to look at the road). “So he told you about the gangs?”
“Yeah. I thought I could trust him.”
“Who says you can’t?” I always hate questions like that. Old ladies are so good at guilt trips. “You ask him why the hell he’s in America?”
“No.”
“He hated being in that gang. They told him they’d kill his sister if he didn’t join. So he put up with years of horrible crap so they would leave his family alone. He came here cause his mom found a house on the other end of the country and that was his chance.”
I hate eating crow. I didn’t have anything to say back.
“I felt awful sending him to Eli when he got here. I bet he’s had nothing but trouble, huh?”
“You know Eli. Yeah, it’s been hard on him.”
“I thought hard about it. There was a spot for him picking berries up north but I wanted to keep my eye on him. You never know how these farms are gonna treat illegals. Eli’s an asshole, but at least he’d have you and your mom, I figured.”
She got really quiet and put on her sunglasses. I sat in silence all the way home feeling like hot garbage. Thinking about how to say sorry and get my friend back.