The Last Karankawas(11)
“He freaking screwed us, whatever.” He turns, repeats the same words he has used for three years. They fall easily off his tongue. “He did it to himself, Mama. He’s the reason he’s not here, okay?” Can she not see how weary they both are, how rote this conflict? Same refrain. Same wounds. They dredge it over and over.
The fire dies from her eyes and she lowers them to the counter.
The microwave beeps, finished. He sighs, takes the hot plate, and holds it out to her. “Want some?” he asks, more softly.
“He’ll be calling Saturday, you know. You don’t have a game this time, so you’ll talk to him. You owe him that.”
I don’t owe him shit, he thinks.
“You’re a good player, Jesusmaría, a strong hitter, but you don’t have the discipline for the pros. You need to stop wasting time on the bay when you could be getting ready for the playoffs. There will be scouts there. You need to work harder, think less selfishly. Be better than you are.”
There is no heat in her voice. Only the weary. Somehow that hurts worse, and this time he feels tears well up despite his best efforts. She takes her mug and walks into her room, closing the door behind her.
Jess swipes at his eyes. William the Conqueror once cut off the hands and feet of citizens who had mocked his mother—the daughter of a tanner—by hanging animal hides on their walls in insult. The book said nothing set off his rage like disrespect to his mother.
His sisters sleep soundly on the couch. Blue light flickers beneath Mama’s bedroom door. She will be sitting upright in front of the TV, a cigarette smoking in the ashtray on the nightstand, the portrait from her wedding day propped beside it. In another life, he would kneel at her feet, lift her knuckles to the corners of his eyes, and promise to be better, to conquer every field he set foot on.
* * *
The Friday sun, bright despite the chill, beats down as Jess stands at the back of Miss Saigon. Country music thumps through the speakers, and Rey hums along. Vinh turns the boat in slow circles, dragging the dredge. They cull, Jess not nearly as quickly as Rey but getting faster. The pile of oysters in the pails at their feet grows steadily larger. They will make their quota, fifty sacks, by ten a.m. easily.
“Have you ever brought in only a few sacks?” Jess asks. “Or nothing at all?”
Vinh chuckles without humor. “Oh, sure. Usually red tide.” When the waters become too warm, too salty, red tide algae blooms. Jess is an islander, knows red tide means you can’t eat bay shellfish. “And hurricanes, of course,” Vinh says. “They wipe out reefs. Alicia was bad. We’re back to normal now, but it took years. Hurricanes”—he shakes his head, makes a gesture like a sloppy sign of the cross—“are very, very bad for oystermen.”
Jess loves the work at this point, the routine of it. Like baseball, a soothing ritual, one his body could settle into and remember. Muscle memory, his father used to call it, when he was in Little League working on his swing. Get your muscles to remember, mijo.
When they tie up at the pier, Vinh holds up a hand to stop him from jumping off. “You do good work.”
“Thanks.” Jess glances at Rey, who smiles.
“Back to school next week?”
“Yeah.”
Vinh’s eyes, squinting in his leathered face beneath his trucker hat, are direct. “Rey and I like you. You’re a steady worker, you don’t complain, and you learn fast. And the bay is good for you, I think. Watermen are meant to be on the water.” He indicates himself and Rey in a short nod. “Just so you know, you can come back and work for me, whenever you want.”
It is high praise from Vinh, and a flush of pleasure creeps up Jess’s face. “Thanks, but this was just temporary. I play ball, you know. I’m pretty good—I’m getting recruited to go college or pro.”
“Okay. You finish school. You play ball.” Vinh shrugs as if he doesn’t care about those things, and Jess knows he probably doesn’t. “But if you change your mind, you come see me.”
* * *
A descendant of Vikings, William of Normandy had a family tree made up of raiders and warriors; his great-great-great-grandfather raided and pillaged northern France in the early 10th century. Perhaps it was this heritage that drove him to land on Britain’s southeast coast at Pevensey on Sept. 28, 1066. William assembled a fleet and an army, but their advance was delayed for several weeks due to bitterly cold northern winds. Meanwhile, the Norwegian army invaded England from the North Sea, and King Harold rapidly moved his army north to defend against them. After defeating the Norwegians, Harold unwisely marched his troops back down to meet William, without a break, without any rest. This would be a key decision in his downfall.
William must have been frightened, Jess thinks as he closes the book that night. But he wouldn’t have let anyone see—not the soldiers who looked to him for strength, not the people who whispered bastard behind his back. He would have set his shoulders and raised his chin for war. If anyone saw him tremble, he would have said it was simply the cold.
They are coming to the battle scene now.
* * *
“A prisoner from the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville is attempting to contact you. If accepted, this call will be charged collect and may not exceed twenty minutes. Do you wish to accept this call?”