He was dressed in sweatshirt-gray gym shorts and a tank top. He looked tanned and fit, slouched on the one upholstered chair in the room, feet propped on the bed as he watched television. I went around to the end of the building and entered the corridor, passing a door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY. On impulse, I tried the knob and found it turning in my hand. I peered in. The room was the equivalent of a huge walk-in closet, with linen shelves along three walls. Sheets, towels, and cotton bedspreads were stacked in neat packets. There were also mops, vacuums, irons, ironing boards, and miscellaneous cleaning supplies. I pulled out an armload of fresh towels and carried them with me.
I found Brian’s room along the inside corridor and knocked, standing at an acute angle to the fish-eye in the door. The sound from the television set was doused. I stared off down the hall, allowing him time to cross to the door. He must have tried peering at me through the lens. A muffled “Yes?”
“Criada,” I called. The word was Spanish for “maid.” I learned that the first week of class because so many of the women taking Spanish were hoping to learn to speak to their Hispanic maids. Otherwise the maids did anything they felt like, and the women were reduced to following them around the house, ineffectually trying to demonstrate cleaning techniques the maids pretended not to “get.”
Brian didn’t get it, either. He opened the door to the width of the chain, peering through the crack. “What?”
I held a batch of towels up, concealing my face. “Towelettas,” I sang in Spanglish.
“Oh.” He closed the door and slid the chain off the track. He stepped back, leaving the door open between us. I moved into the room. He didn’t look at me. He indicated the bathroom to the left, his attention already riveted on the screen again. The show seemed to be an old black-and-white movie: men with high cheekbones and pomaded waves, women with eyebrows plucked to the size of hairline fractures. All the facial expressions were tragic. He crossed back to the set and turned up the sound. I went into his bathroom and checked it out as long as I was there. No visible guns, claw hammers, or machetes. Lots of sun block and hair mousse, a hairbrush, a blow dryer, and a safety razor. I didn’t think the kid had enough hair on his face to shave it. Maybe he was just practicing, like prepubescent girls with little training bras.
I set the towels on the counter and went out to the bedroom, where I took a seat on the bed. At first, my presence didn’t seem to register. Terminal disease music was swelling, and the lovers stood together with their two perfect faces side by side. His was prettier than hers. When Brian finally saw me, he was cool enough to suppress any surprise. He picked up the remote control and muted the sound again. The scene continued in silence, many animated speeches. I’ve often wondered if I could learn to read lips that way. The lovers on the screen were speaking directly into each other’s faces, which made me worry about bad breath. Her mouth was moving, but Brian’s words came out. “How’d you find me?”
I tapped my temple, trying to divert my gaze from the television set.
“Where’s Dad?”
“We don’t know yet. He may be sailing down the coast to pick you up.”
“I wish he’d get on with it.” He leaned back in his chair and raised his arms, lacing his fingers so his hands were resting across the top of his head. The gesture made his biceps bulge. He propped a foot up on the edge of the bed, kicked his chair back an inch. The tufts of hair in his armpits seemed oddly sexual. I wondered if I was reaching an age where all young boys with hard bodies would seem sexual to me. I wondered if I’d been that age all my life. He reached over and picked up a pair of clean socks, which had been rolled and folded to form a soft wad. He threw the ball of socks against the wall and caught it on the fly when it bounced back at him.
“You haven’t heard from him?”
“Nope.” He flung the wad again and caught it.
“You said you saw him day before yesterday. Did he say anything to indicate he might be leaving?” I asked.
“No.” He dropped the wad from his right hand, straightening his arm abruptly so that the socks bounced off the anterior aspect of his elbow. He caught it as it popped up, and he let it fall again. He had to watch very carefully so he wouldn’t miss. Bounce. Catch. Bounce. Catch.
“What did he say?” I asked.
He missed.
He shot me a look, annoyed at the distraction. “Fuck, I don’t know. He’s selling me this whole line of horse-shit about how there’s no justice in the legal system. Then he turns around and tells me we have to turn ourselves in. I go, ‘No way, Dad. I’m not going to do it, and there’s no way you can make me.’”