What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [24]
They talked for no more than fifteen minutes, her hand on her purse even though there was nothing to guard except her key, and when he parted, Teresa knew he would be back the next day. She let herself in and climbed the stairs, immediately going to the window to peek out, just in time to see his form make its way down the street and finally turn a corner, heading west, walking all that way to the side of town where men lived too many to a house.
The next day, when the Mexican men on the corner watched her emerge, the usual taunts began. “¡Ay, mi amor!” “¿Adónde vas con mi corazón?” She walked on but cast a quick glance to see if Cheno was in the group, attempting to quiet them. He didn’t catch her looking for him, but she was heartened by the uninterrupted catcalling, certain that Cheno had done no bragging of his own. That evening he appeared at the corner with two lukewarm bottles of soda, which he uncapped against each other, and this was the start of his small, edible gifts: candy bars and fresh peaches and cans of Kern’s nectar and dried apricots and shelled walnuts packed into an empty Gerber baby-food jar.
They’d eat these treats sitting on the curb in front of the green door leading up to her apartment, mostly in the early part of the week. The closer the days got to Friday, the busier the bowling alley became in the evening, and Cheno withdrew, as if he didn’t want to be seen by anyone. She liked this about him, as if their short evenings were a secret between them, despite meeting out in the open. As the days passed, her affection for him grew, the way his gentle fingers carefully handed over his latest gift, not wanting to touch and offend her, his round eyes taking her in like light. She began to notice mornings when he wasn’t at the corner at all, the catcalls uninterrupted, and these disappearances alarmed her at first, until she figured out that he was wheedling himself into more work. She left the curtains open one night so that the dawn light would wake her as she lay in her bed under the window. She hoisted herself up on her elbows to peer down, and sure enough, there was Cheno in the hushed violet of five in the morning with a few other hard workers, ready to go, and not ten minutes later, he climbed into a farmer’s truck and was whisked away, his head turning toward her apartment and his gaze steady on her window.
It wasn’t love. She knew that. But she liked the attention, wishing to herself that maybe time would transform her feelings into the kind of longing her mother had displayed, the longing that drove her back to Texas. When they had lived together, her mother had played old blues records with women singing the way only women could about love, love gone right, love gone wrong. Sixteen records that her mother cared for rigorously, searching for scratches, easing them back into their paper sleeves, bringing them out only when the mood struck.
Pull out the one with the red slip, her mother had told her one time. They sat on the bed, right underneath the window to catch the evening breeze, two glasses of water with ice long since melted. Man from Abilene, her mother had told her, a sad song, and the way her mother requested it, Teresa had known that sad music was something that you should listen to alone.
The crackle of the needle brought the easy strum of a guitar and a harmonica. Her mother hummed along but sighed and gave the singer space for her lament, not interrupting. The singer moaned, cursing Abilene, a whole story of pain that could have been avoided if she had ignored the deep brown eyes she still managed to sing about. The guitar strummed along, one beat after the other, a monotony, but easy to tap your heel to. Put it on again, her mother had said.
Outside, just like the morning Cheno rode off with his love-struck ambition, the street held violet