Cuento de Mi Id

“Ripples”

I was eighteen when I first found out that my Uncle Alfonso had killed my father. I had heard hints before, but I had never picked up on them.

He and my other uncles always used to say certain things when they were drinking at my grandmother’s house, but they never -- as far as I knew -- said these same things in public. I always wanted to ask them what they meant, but they never volunteered any explanations and my mother -- Alfonso’s baby sister -- never encouraged me to hang around or eavesdrop on them when they were drunk.

“Stay away from your Uncle Alfonso,” my mother used to say. “He’s a bad influence.”

My mother knew about bad influences. In fact, she had a bit of a checkered past herself. But at least she was working and trying to pay her way through night school. Uncle Alfonso seemed to do nothing but drink beer, smoke Pall-Malls, tell dirty jokes and wake up people around two o’clock in the morning. He was not a nice person.

But then neither was my father. My Uncle Alfonso always used to describe him as the type of guy who would sell his own mother for cigarette money and his own wife for pocket change. My Uncle Juan just called him “that gringo s.o.b.” My other uncles, Luis and Felipe, never mentioned him at all in my grandmother’s presence but admitted that he was not a very nice person. My mother always changed the subject whenever his name came up, and my grandmother simply chose not to respond. By the way, this is my maternal grandmother I’m referring to. For obvious reasons, I never got to know my other grandparents and my maternal grandfather died before I was born.

So did my father for that matter. My Uncle Juan always used to joke that he had died nine months before I was born, but my mother never liked jokes like that.

“I was a good girl,” she always said. “I would have never given myself to him if we weren’t going to get married.”

Felipe would always chuckle if he heard this, but then nobody really paid much attention to Felipe. Luis was different. Luis was always silent. He kept my respect that way. Little things like that mean a lot to a growing boy.

Anyway my father had not exactly been well-liked. Nevertheless, he was my father. Whether or not my mother and he ever got married was beside the point as far as I was concerned. He was my father -- and no one else‘s.

So one night when I came downstairs and heard my uncles talking about how they had taken him down to the river one night, I stayed hidden and listened. Apparently my father had been beginning to act a little highhanded with my mother, trying to get her involved with drugs and stuff. There had also been a rumor that he was two-timing her with a little Puerto Rican girl down the street. That was one thing my uncles would not stand for. Premarital sex was one thing, but when you screw around with a Hernandez girl, you’d better be faithful to her and headed for the altar or else you’ll get your head handed to you.

So Alfonso, Juan, Luis and Felipe confronted my father one night and took him out to this boat a friend had tied up on the river. No one knew they were going there, and once they got there, they started pushing my father around and threatening him with bodily harm if he didn’t straighten up and fly right. Since they were not yet aware of my existence, they wanted him to leave my mother and stop messing around with her. My father refused.

It was probably not the smartest thing in the world to say “no” to a bunch of six-foot-four Mexicans who have you all alone on a boat in the middle of the Detroit River in the middle of the night, but at least it showed that my father had guts.

Perhaps that was why Alfonso killed him.

He even laughed about it. The way my father started praying when Alfonso picked him up and how he had screamed when he got thrown over the side. My father never knew how to swim and I suspect that my uncle knew that. There had been nothing but ripples to be seen after he went under, my uncle said. Nothing but ripples.

My blood ran cold then. My own uncle was a murderer. What's more -- my other uncles knew it.

But a true Hernandez never goes to the police. Even when the Puerto Ricans down the street killed our dog, the Hernandez family insisted on handling it our way. I knew my uncle would never be turned in and since there were no other witnesses, he would never be brought to justice. I couldn't even squeal to the police. After all, it was my word against theirs, and Alfonso would kill me if I ever tried to turn him in. Besides, as I said, my father was hardly the sort of person who was usually thought to be worth a vendetta.

But he was my father.

XXX

So I plotted my revenge.

How to do it? I asked myself.

I weaved elaborate fantasies involving knives, pipe bombs and various black market weapons. Then I abandoned them.

Surely it wasn't worth it, I told myself. Surely the blood of my uncle was worth more than the blood of my father. My father was a no-good bum who just happened to get my mother knocked up. Why bother with vengeance for his sake? Why, indeed?

Then at night, he would come to me. His hair dripping wet, his face was fish-belly pale, and his flesh scarred with the bites of a thousand various water creatures. I can't really say why I knew that this apparition was my father but I remember that him looking just like the old photos of him that my mom still kept in her photo albums. So it had to be him, right? Plus, he had blue eyes just like the picture in my mother's photos. And just like me. So it could not have been the ghost of some stranger who just happened to look like my father, could it?

I wish I could say that he told me something quite definite. "Avenge me!" or "Leave him to Heaven!" But he didn't. Like some figure in an old movie, he always seemed to be silently mouthing "You know what to do." But I was never quite sure.

So I went back to plotting.

There was a gun Uncle Alfonso kept in a shoe box on the top shelf of his bedroom closet. It was not loaded, of course, but the ammo was right beside it in the same box. He had several more just like it scattered throughout the apartment; a man ain't nothing in the Hernandez family if he doesn't own at least one gun. In addition to that, he had switchblades, bush knives, nunchucks, you name it. Alfonso was prepared for anything.

So it seemed a simple matter for me to steal a gun from his bedroom closet, load it, shoot him from behind and call it a suicide. Clever, huh?

I didn't think so. There had to be another way.

My father's visits grew more frequent. In the morning I would often wake up with my sheets damp. It wasn't always sweat.

I would yell out to him, "I owe you nothing."

And he would just stand there as if I had said nothing, just staring at me with accusing eyes.

Forget about it, I used to tell myself. He can't make me kill my uncle.

Then one evening, Uncle Alfonso went out. He always went out every so often and sometimes he would bring back cash when he returned. He never said when he was coming back when he did so and nobody ever asked him. You don't ask questions like that in the Hernandez family.

I went to my room early that night. There was a gun on the bed. A rusty pistol which looked like it had been left outside for a long time.

I told myself that it was a coincidence. It was one of my Uncle Alfonso's guns and it had been placed in my room by mistake. Either that or else it belonged to my Uncle Felipe. Or my Uncle Luis. Or...

Then I checked it. For an old gun, it was in remarkably good condition. I noticed a box of bullets next to it, and just for fun, I loaded it. Then I saw my father standing in the corner.

Again I asked myself if the figure I saw before me was really my own father or just someone pretending to be him. Yet deep down I knew I was just kidding myself. I already knew the answer to that question. I just wasn't sure what to do next.

So I concealed the gun in the waistband of my jeans and wore a jacket over it. Fortunately, no one else was at home. Mother and Grandmother were at church. My other uncles were out somewhere -- I didn't know where. Maybe at the pool hall. I locked the door behind me and went off in search of my Uncle Alfonso.

I told myself I wasn't going to kill him but already I knew better.

I looked behind the front stoop. No one there. I searched the back yard. Still empty. A large hedge and a chain-link fence hid the alley from view. I opened the back gate and saw nothing but scattered trash bags. No one there either.

I shut the gate behind me and started walking. I heard footsteps behind me. Someone was running up the alley. I ducked behind a trash can and saw my Uncle Alfonso running up to the gate. He had a gun in one hand and an armful of cash in the other. His left leg was bleeding.

It would be simple, I thought. Just walk up to him, pull out my gun and blow his brains out.

Yet I hesitated.

He seemed to be having trouble with the gate. The padlock which had been so easy for me to unlock was giving him trouble.

I stepped out from behind the trash cans, aware now that I presented a perfect target but also aware that even my Uncle Alfonso would not shoot his own nephew without cause. But what if he suspected? I thought. What if he shot first and asked questions later? What if he -- To drown out my questions, I pulled out my gun and aimed it at Alfonso's back. Just as he turned to look in my direction...

He laughed.

"What's the matter, Martin?" he said. "Thought I was a burglar?"

I said nothing. I had the drop on him but my hands were beginning to shake.

"Gee, what's the matter? Haven't you ever seen me with a gun before?" said Alfonso.

From far away, a voice seemed to come out of my mouth. "You killed my father."

"So?" He seemed very nonchalant about it.

"You have to pay for it."

Alfonso laughed again. "Well, if you feel that way about it, call the police."

"I have no proof. But I know. I heard you admit it yourself."

Now I had to kill him, I thought. If not, he would kill me the first chance he got. But still my finger would not pull the trigger.

"So that's what this is all about?" he said. "You suddenly took it upon yourself to play the role of divine justice. Well, forget it, Martin. Your old man wasn't worth it. He never even married your mother -- and he wouldn't have -- even if he had lived."

"He was still my father."

"So what? I once had a father too, remember? And not a bigger son-of-a-bitch has yet to walk this earth. But you don't see me weeping any tears over him, do you?"

"If the Puerto Ricans had killed him, you would have done something."

"Maybe I would have. But not if it involved hurting a member of the the family. You should never hurt a member of your own family."

My fingers tightened on the gun handle. One hand on the padlock, the other on his revolver, Uncle Alfonso could have blown me away any time he wanted to. Yet he didn't.

Why?

Because he thinks you're weak, a voice inside me said. He doesn't really believe you have the guts to kill him.

"I have to kill you now," I told him. "You know that."

Alfonso nodded. "Yes, I know." Then he grinned. "But you're making a mistake. I didn't kill your father. Luis did."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. Luis was right there. Sure I beat him up a little. But it was Luis who knocked him out and threw him over the railing, not me."

"You're lying. Luis would never do that. You admitted before to having killed him yourself. I heard you."

"I admitted to throwing him over the railing. But Luis helped, too. After he stabbed him, of course."

"You're changing your story now. You just said Luis knocked him out. You didn't say anything about stabbing."

"Well, what can I say? It was a very confusing night."

Alfonso was calm. Too calm. As if he knew something.

He went on. "You really think your Uncle Luis is such an angel? Ask your mom about that time he picked a fight with some Puerto Rican kid and how two of that guy's sisters threatened to cut your mother's throat in the girls' locker room because of it. Your Uncle Luis isn't a nice person, Martin. He wouldn't be a Hernandez if he was."

"No matter what he did, that still doesn't change the way you killed my father."

"No," he said with a sigh. "I guess it doesn't. But you can't be sure of that, can you? And you really wouldn't feel right killing me if you knew the whole truth, would you?"

I should have said something to that but instead I fired my gun.

Alfonso fell to one knew and dropped his money. He gestured idly with his gun. "Still can't be sure, can you?"

I fired again.

And again.

And again. Every other bullet kicking up dust or ricocheting off telephone poles but few actually hitting Uncle Alfonso. And yet he never fired back.

Because he's out of bullets, I thought. I fired my last shot then and I saw his head go down. Then I ran like hell out of that alley before someone got curious enough to investigate. You hear a lot of gunshots in my neighborhood. And you soon learn not to ask too many questions about them or cooperate with the police too freely when they come to investigate. Nevertheless, I did not want to risk some other poor slob catching me in the act of shooting my own uncle. Even when I heard yet another shot go off in the alley I had just left.

I threw my gun into a nearby storm drain and ran into the house. With luck, no one but me would ever know what had happened. With luck, that was. I didn't believe in luck. Instead I buried myself beneath the covers of my bed and waited for morning. It was a long wait.

XXX

It was the next day when my mother broke the story to me. About how the police had come and broke the news of Alfonso's death to her and grandmother. About how he had held up another Arab grocer and got shot in return. About how he had killed himself rather than risk leading his killers to his front doorstep.

I never told her about what I had done. I didn't need to. The family was sad enough as it was. Grandmother and Mother dressed in black for weeks and relatives I had never seen before walked in and out of the house for days. Somebody convinced the local parish priest that Alfonso had been a victim of homicide, not suicide, so they held a regular Catholic funeral for him.

I was there and remained as stone-faced as the other male relatives. Only the women cried.

After the funeral was over and the other relatives had left, my mother drew me aside and started talking about the old days. About how Alfonso had protected her when she was young and about how he had always been a good person even if he had done bad things.

"He didn't mean to rob that grocery store," she told me. "He did that for us."

"Sure he did," I said. I knew full well that most house expenses came out of my mother's and my grandmother's pockets and not out of Alfonso's. But I didn't press the point.

"You'd be surprised when your uncle would do for the family, Martin," my mother said. "Remember what I told you about your father?"

"No," I said, trying to look disinterested.

"Your father never really wanted to marry me. Not really. What happened was just -- er -- an accident. But Alfonso was concerned about the family's good name. For your grandmother's sake, if for no one else's."

"I see."

"A friend of Alfonso's had a boat that he kept down by the river and..."

My mother's words started blurring into one another. Any minute I expected her to tell me the real story of how my father died. And then what? Suppose it hadn't been Alfonso. Suppose it had been Luis. Had I killed an innocent man?

No, I thought. Alfonso had committed other crimes, crimes he never really paid for.

Then again I could say the same thing about Luis. And if Alfonso had not really killed my father and Luis had, how could I live with myself if I let Luis live?

Let it die, I told myself. One death in the family was enough. Wasn't it?

"I'm sorry, mom. I didn't catch that last part."

"Well, Martin, your father was starting to make a fuss and he had just cussed me out and --"

"Wait a minute! You were there?"

"Of course I was. Haven't you been listening?"

"Sorry, mom. I guess my mind's just slipping."

"Well, in view of the last few days, I don't blame you. I hope you don't tell anyone this, but Alfonso got so angry when your father cussed me out that he started hitting him. Then all of your uncles started hitting him. And in the middle of all that hitting, your father fell overboard."

"He fell overboard?"

My mother gave me a funny look.

"Well, yes. Your father pulled a knife and Alfonso wrestled him for it and then Luis joined in and pretty soon your father just fell overboard. Of course he couldn't swim and no one there wanted to go rescue him after he had pulled that knife so we just let him drown."

"We?"

"Well, of course. We all did. It's not something I'm especially proud of but that's what happened."

Alfonso had not mentioned the knife. Not even when he was dying. That meant my father's murder was actually an act of self-defense. My conscience eased up a bit. But not for long. For if I had killed someone who had killed my own father in self-defense, then what did make me? A murderer? An avenger of a would-be murderer?

Yet there was something missing in my mother's story. Something that just didn't make sense. Something that bothered me but I just couldn't put my finger on it.

"Did my father really fall off that boat or was he pushed?" I asked.

My mother avoided my eyes for a moment. "As a matter of fact, he was thrown in."

Magic question time. "Who did it? Alfonso or Luis?"

My mother paused a little longer this time. "As a matter of fact, Martin, we all did it. Even me. He was just struggling so much that we all had to help Alfonso throw him overboard. It was the only way."

She paused for a moment and looked at the ground.

Then she looked me in the face. "What's the matter, Martin?" she asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."