American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [69]
“We’re not just Peruvians,” George said then, standing there with his chin pushed out, two hands thrust in his pockets. “We’re Americans like you.”
“Yes, you are, but better,” Birdseye shot back.
“Better?”
“Well, sure, son. You two are hybrids. You know what that means? Half-breeds, half and half. In scientific terms, you’re better specimens for that.”
“Half and half is better?” I squeaked.
“You bet it is,” said Birdseye. “In the natural world, you bet. Take botany. You want to make a strong plant? Get two weak ones. Cross ‘em. You’ll get a hardier species every time.”
I looked at George quizzically, trying to imagine my brother as a plant. How could he, as big and strong as he was, possibly be any stronger than Mother or Papi? But Birdseye continued, working as he talked, whittling the stick to the size of others that splayed out from the incomprehensible edifice on his table. “And then, of course, Peruvians are half half. Half Spanish, half Indian. A little Chinese. A little Arab. Americans are half this, half that, too. Down, down, down, five million years through the generations. It’s the cross-fertilization that improves things. Haven’t you heard about mules? They’re stronger, can take more weight, do more work. They’re hybrids. Half donkey, half horse. You’re a couple of mules, you two. Stronger than plain old Americans. Stronger than Peruvians. Mixing! See those flowers over there?” He pointed to a pot of roses, standing amid an army of labeled plants. “The hybrids are the proud and straight ones. See what I mean? Like you! Mix it up, mix it up! That’s what makes us more advanced. It’s a scientific fact. And you can tell anyone I said so.”
He went back to his whittling, but when he looked up, he saw us staring at him, still in thrall to his words, little minds reeling at the thought of our superiority. Laughing, he put down his knife. “You’re good listeners, you two,” he said. “Almost as good as Tommy.”
George and I sneaked looks at each other. Tommy?
Birdseye peered at us over his wire-rimmed glasses, and I pointed a tentative finger in the direction of the house across the street. “That Tommy?”
“Yes. That Tommy,” said the old man unequivocally.
“The loco?” sputtered George.
There was a long silence, and then Birdseye took off his glasses and placed them carefully on the table in front of him. “Martha?” he called. “Martha, are you there?”
“Yes, dear.” A white head bobbed up in the greenery behind, and Mrs. Birdseye wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. She drew herself to her feet and set her spade down carefully. “I’m here.” She came toward us, clapping her hands and dusting them off.
“These fine children, Martha, seem to think that Tommy Pineda across the street is a loco.”
“Oh, no, no, little ones.” The sweet lady came at us, bending over so that we could see the gold flecks in her eyes. “Tommy’s not a loco. He’s slow. That’s very different. It’s something that happens to children sometimes, a sickness. He was born that way. He has a little trouble eating and a lot of trouble talking, and maybe he makes loud, funny noises. But, well! He’s a big boy, seventeen, after all. And he brings Dr. Birdseye the most interesting things—beetles and bird feathers. You see, everything in this world has a sound explanation, a good reason. You mustn’t believe everything you hear. He’s not crazy. Oh, no. And I tell you this with all the confidence in the world: He wouldn’t hurt a flea.”
“How about a dog?” George asked.
“Nor a dog. No.”
“They found a dog floating in the Bowling’s pool,” George ventured. “There was no blood in him. Wong said he was dry as salt shrimp.”
“It certainly was no fault of Tommy’s,” Mrs. Birdseye said.
“Our ama says he flies through the night looking for love,” I said.
Mrs. Birdseye seemed physically drawn up by that remark, and then, just as suddenly, her shoulders relaxed. “Well, yes, he very well might,” she said. “And wouldn’t you if you were locked up in that