—Him who?

—The man who burned our garden, she said, as if he were once again holding a knife to her throat. She touched the scar on her arm.

—Are you sure?

—Certain, she said.

Don Chan went toward the man. He felt like a ghost. No one could see him, or hear the yell that blew out of Don Chan when the man’s body fell back with the blow of Don Chan’s fire. As if the bullet had penetrated Don Chan, traveling through his own body. The rage in Don Chan found an unexpected peace and comfort. The perpetual cloud of dust and insistent heat that surrounded them held Don Chan up so he wouldn’t fall. The gun gained the weight of another man. Too heavy to hold.

5

Quepasó Street

1997

Don Chan looked over at the pile of calendars on his nightstand. He had a calendar for every year since he moved to New York. There were six. He reached over and marked an X on Monday. Bobby’s coming home. Who’s Bobby? Don Chan juggled his brain, trying to remember why he would write such a thing on the calendar. He pressed his hand against the window. He needed a sweater. It was April. Had to buy the seeds for the beets, lettuce, and corn, get them all ready to plant. Before the tomatoes. That’s next month. He pulled out his notepad and made a list of the things he would pick up at the store. Caridad loves the perennials, maybe he could plant some of them on the side of the house.

Don Chan got dressed and walked out of the apartment. He waited for the elevator. He had forgotten something. Something didn’t seem right. He walked back into the apartment and into his bedroom. On his way out of the apartment, he remembered his coffee. But Esperanza was already in the kitchen. What was she doing there?

—I made some coffee. It’s not as strong as the one you make.

—No, it’s fine. Don Chan was confused but let her serve him a shot of espresso.

—I took off from work, because I’m picking up Bobby at the center. God, I miss him. It will be nice to have him back.

—I guess it would, Don Chan said. Determined to get to the nursery before it got crowded. There was nothing worse than a crowd of people trying to buy seeds.

Don Chan checked for his scissors and pad in his pocket before he exited.

The nosy old woman who popped open her door in the morning was waiting for him.

—Hola, Don Chan, she said, pushing her cat back inside.

—Buenos días, he said and remembered that he needed to buy his newspaper and arrive at the luncheonette before someone claimed his booth. And yes, Bobby was coming home. And things started to catch in Don Chan’s mind, like a bobbin and thread, one stitch at a time. All his markers were falling into place. His newspapers were ready; the streets were waking up from their slumber; the sanitation trucks swept the gutters; the cop ticketed the late birds who didn’t rise on time to move their cars; bodega owners pulled out benches to pile up crates of yuccas, greens, and onions; the gates from stores were halfway up as merchants set up for a day’s business; the young men who crowded up against the walls, as if they were responsible for holding up the building throughout the day, were still asleep.