count.
We crossed the road and went down into a field of guineo; the cobrador was shouting after us and we stayed in the field until we heard the driver say, Forget them.
Rafa took off his shirt and fanned himself and that’s when I started to cry.
He watched for a moment. You, he said, are a pussy.
I’m sorry.
What the hell’s the matter with you? We didn’t do anything wrong.
I’ll be OK in a second. I sawed my forearm across my nose.
He took a look around, drawing in the lay of the land. If you can’t stop crying, I’ll leave you. He headed towards a shack that was rusting in the sun.
I watched him disappear. From the shack you could hear voices, as bright as chrome. Columns of ants had found a pile of meatless chicken bones at my feet and were industriously carting away the crumbling marrow. I could have gone home, which was what I usually did when Rafa acted up, but we were far—eight, nine miles away.
I caught up with him beyond the shack. We walked about a mile; my head felt cold and hollow.
Are you done?
Yes, I said.
Are you always going to be a pussy?
I wouldn’t have raised my head if God himself had appeared in the sky and pissed down on us.
Rafa spit. You have to get tougher. Crying all the time. Do you think our papi’s crying? Do you think that’s what he’s been doing the last six years? He turned from me. His feet were crackling through the weeds, breaking stems.
Rafa stopped a schoolboy in a blue and tan uniform, who pointed us down a road. Rafa spoke to a young mother, whose baby was hacking like a miner. A little farther, she said and when he smiled she looked the other way. We went too far and a farmer with a machete showed us the easiest loop back. Rafa stopped when he saw Ysrael standing in the center of a field. He was flying a kite and despite the string he seemed almost unconnected to the distant wedge of black that finned back and forth in the sky. Here we go, Rafa said. I was embarrassed. What the hell were we supposed to do?
Stay close, he said. And get ready to run. He passed me his knife, then trotted down towards the field.
4.
The summer before, I pegged Ysrael with a rock and the way it bounced off his back I knew I’d clocked a shoulder blade.
You did it! You fucking did it! the other boys yelled.
He’d been running from us and he arched in pain and one of the other boys nearly caught him but he recovered and took off. He’s faster than a mongoose, someone said, but in truth he was even faster than that. We laughed and went back to our baseball games and forgot him until he came to town again and then we dropped what we were doing and chased him. Show us your face, we cried. Let’s see it just once.
5.
He was about a foot bigger than either of us and looked like he’d been fattened on that supergrain the farmers around Ocoa were giving their stock, a new product which kept my tío up at night, muttering jealously, Proxyl Feed 9, Proxyl Feed 9. Ysrael’s sandals were of stiff leather and his clothes were Northamerican. I looked over at Rafa but my brother seemed unperturbed.
Listen up, Rafa said. My hermanito’s not feeling too well. Can you show us where a colmado is? I want to get him a drink.
There’s a faucet up the road, Ysrael said. His voice was odd and full of spit. His mask was handsewn from thin blue cotton fabric and you couldn’t help but see the scar tissue that circled his left eye, a red waxy crescent, and the saliva that trickled down his neck.
We’re not from around here. We can’t drink the water.
Ysrael spooled in his string. The kite wheeled but he righted it with a yank.
Not bad, I said.
We can’t drink the water around here. It would kill us. And he’s already sick.
I smiled and tried to act sick, which wasn’t too difficult; I was covered with dust. I saw Ysraellooking us over.
The water here is probably better than up in the mountains, he said.
Help us out, Rafa said in a low voice.
Ysrael pointed
We crossed the road and went down into a field of guineo; the cobrador was shouting after us and we stayed in the field until we heard the driver say, Forget them.
Rafa took off his shirt and fanned himself and that’s when I started to cry.
He watched for a moment. You, he said, are a pussy.
I’m sorry.
What the hell’s the matter with you? We didn’t do anything wrong.
I’ll be OK in a second. I sawed my forearm across my nose.
He took a look around, drawing in the lay of the land. If you can’t stop crying, I’ll leave you. He headed towards a shack that was rusting in the sun.
I watched him disappear. From the shack you could hear voices, as bright as chrome. Columns of ants had found a pile of meatless chicken bones at my feet and were industriously carting away the crumbling marrow. I could have gone home, which was what I usually did when Rafa acted up, but we were far—eight, nine miles away.
I caught up with him beyond the shack. We walked about a mile; my head felt cold and hollow.
Are you done?
Yes, I said.
Are you always going to be a pussy?
I wouldn’t have raised my head if God himself had appeared in the sky and pissed down on us.
Rafa spit. You have to get tougher. Crying all the time. Do you think our papi’s crying? Do you think that’s what he’s been doing the last six years? He turned from me. His feet were crackling through the weeds, breaking stems.
Rafa stopped a schoolboy in a blue and tan uniform, who pointed us down a road. Rafa spoke to a young mother, whose baby was hacking like a miner. A little farther, she said and when he smiled she looked the other way. We went too far and a farmer with a machete showed us the easiest loop back. Rafa stopped when he saw Ysrael standing in the center of a field. He was flying a kite and despite the string he seemed almost unconnected to the distant wedge of black that finned back and forth in the sky. Here we go, Rafa said. I was embarrassed. What the hell were we supposed to do?
Stay close, he said. And get ready to run. He passed me his knife, then trotted down towards the field.
4.
The summer before, I pegged Ysrael with a rock and the way it bounced off his back I knew I’d clocked a shoulder blade.
You did it! You fucking did it! the other boys yelled.
He’d been running from us and he arched in pain and one of the other boys nearly caught him but he recovered and took off. He’s faster than a mongoose, someone said, but in truth he was even faster than that. We laughed and went back to our baseball games and forgot him until he came to town again and then we dropped what we were doing and chased him. Show us your face, we cried. Let’s see it just once.
5.
He was about a foot bigger than either of us and looked like he’d been fattened on that supergrain the farmers around Ocoa were giving their stock, a new product which kept my tío up at night, muttering jealously, Proxyl Feed 9, Proxyl Feed 9. Ysrael’s sandals were of stiff leather and his clothes were Northamerican. I looked over at Rafa but my brother seemed unperturbed.
Listen up, Rafa said. My hermanito’s not feeling too well. Can you show us where a colmado is? I want to get him a drink.
There’s a faucet up the road, Ysrael said. His voice was odd and full of spit. His mask was handsewn from thin blue cotton fabric and you couldn’t help but see the scar tissue that circled his left eye, a red waxy crescent, and the saliva that trickled down his neck.
We’re not from around here. We can’t drink the water.
Ysrael spooled in his string. The kite wheeled but he righted it with a yank.
Not bad, I said.
We can’t drink the water around here. It would kill us. And he’s already sick.
I smiled and tried to act sick, which wasn’t too difficult; I was covered with dust. I saw Ysraellooking us over.
The water here is probably better than up in the mountains, he said.
Help us out, Rafa said in a low voice.
Ysrael pointed
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