El Paso, 1942

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A short story


By DanielOlivas
Just before I was murdered, I’dlain with Federico.  The horror of mypast, the mistaken belief of my brother that I had raped Belén, my beautifulniece, had fallen away for a short while in the arms of my love.  When I’d settled in El Paso, Federico was the first man I’d dareto speak with for any length of time.  Ihad to be careful for two reasons. First, my brother, Adolfo, was stubborn, relentless—I’d seen thesetraits repeatedly while growing up—and I had no doubt that my brother would notgive up until he was avenged.  Second, mysecret life with men was always kept wrapped up in my chest, my covert selfthat, if discovered, could get me killed, too.
In El Paso, my situation was almostperfect.  Señora Espinoza’s boardinghouse for men became my home, a single room all to myself, a bathroom down thehall.  She served breakfast and dinnerfor her men, all seven of us who lived there. I think she liked having us around. We became the children she and her late husband could never have.  The señora seemed most blissful feeding us,inquiring if our beds were comfortable, wondering if we have all that weneeded.  She was of an indefinite age,her skin smooth and tight due to being very large.  I suspect that if she’d been a lean woman,her true years would have been more apparent. In any event, this was my new home and I made the best of it.
A month or so at the boardinghouse, I’d gotten use to the other men. They were all Mexican, save for one German who’d lived in Guadalajara his whole life until moving to Texas at the age ofsixteen.  The other men were of anassortment of sizes, ages and histories. And then there was Federico, ten years my senior, who moved in a weekafter I did.  We noticed each other,above the others, for reasons I can’t understand.  He listened intently to everything I said,even the silliest comments.  One evening,he visited my room to borrow a little tobacco, or so he said.  But that visit became the first night wespent together.  After that, we had to bevery careful, of course, making excuses to visit each other.  This was not too unusual because every man inthat house needed friendship since they’d left everyone behind in Mexico.  Sometimes one would visit the other’s room toplay cards or listen to Mexican records. Of course, the other men visited putas whenever they had extramoney.  One or two had realgirlfriends.  And I had Federico.  We had each other.  I was happy.
One evening after sharing his bed,I grew restless and wanted to go out and have a drink.  Federico just wanted to sleep.  So I kissed him and left the boardinghouse.  Down the road was a bar that Ienjoyed called La Bolsa Chica.  Men andwomen, almost all Mexican, came to eat and drink and dance.  I felt like I was at home once I had a fewcopitas of whiskey.  After having morethan was wise, I stumbled out of the bar. The street was virtually deserted, an automobile passing every fewminutes, two or three inebriated couples walking home.  I decided to take a shortcut, down analley.  The dark never scared me.  Never, not even when I was a child.  And it was in the alley, not two blocks fromthe boarding house, that I encountered a man. He smoked a fat, hand-rolled cigarette, obscenely large.  The man seemed harmless enough, lost inthought.  But his face became the last Isaw, when I was alive.
It took many years for Federico tobe with me again.  He’d lived a longlife, mostly alone, after I was murdered. But after he died, we were reunited. He smiled, said hello, and held me tight in his strong arms.  Federico chooses not to visit his loved onesback home.  He says he doesn’t want tointerfere.  I personally find this asuperior gift, being able to visit those I left behind, a gift that I shouldnot waste.  You agree.  ¿No?
[“El Paso, 1942” eventually became part of the novel, The Book of Want(University of  Arizona Press, 2011).]