Free Amigoland by Oscar Casares Page B

mother and aunt, still cooking and cleaning and shopping and going to the
     pharmacy for these pills or that salve that her mother might need. And her other life, on this side of the river, where she
     rushed about her day trying to finish early so she could spend some time with him in the late afternoon, before she had to
     walk back across the bridge. Times like this, she tried to remember what she had imagined her life would be like if they ever
     got together, because surely this hadn’t been it. To live her life in secret? As if she were playing the role of the mistress,
     only the role of the married man was being played by a widowed man? Not that she didn’t enjoy her time with him, because she
     did, but it also seemed like some fantasy that lasted only as long as they were together and then ceased to exist when she
     wasn’t in his car or house or bed.
    But after waiting for so long to find someone, she asked herself if she should be making demands of him or if she shouldn’t
     just be happy they were together and not care if these moments were fleeting at best. All these years of waiting, the men
     she knew had fallen into one of two categories: those who disappeared from one day to the next, and those who stuck around,
     but only because they were biding their time until something more promising came along, after which they disappeared from
     one day to the next. Maybe she was meant to be alone? It had crossed her mind again recently. Why else would God have sent
     her a husband who just wandered off like a mule without a rope? And then sent her an older man who wanted her but wouldn’t
     tell another soul about them, not even his own family? Was their friendship so shameful that he couldn’t at least tell his
     brother, the only one he had left? Neither one of them probably remembered what they had fought over. How much effort would
     it take him to at least do this for her?
    “Ay, he wants to fool you!” la señora called out at one of the women on television.
    Socorro hurried to finish the rest of the ironing so she could get paid and leave for the day. It was bad enough la señora
     was comparing her to these poor women in the novelas. She wasn’t mixed up with a man who was trying to deceive her or hurt
     her in some way. She wasn’t married to a man who got so tired of waiting for her to get pregnant that he found himself another
     woman. And she wasn’t involved with a man who wanted to run off on her. She didn’t have to figure out who was telling her
     the truth anymore. She knew the truth; she just couldn’t tell anyone.

10
    H e had never been one to walk around in short pants, showing off his legs to the world. So while the others wore shorts or
     exercise pants, Don Celestino preferred his blue jeans and an old short-sleeve work shirt. His black cushioned shoes were
     easier on his feet and still looked like proper shoes. The girl at the store had tried to sell him a pair that fastened with
     Velcro straps, but he chose the laces because he didn’t want to get in the habit of doing things the easy way.
    Cooder, on the treadmill to his right, wore running shoes, athletic socks that reached just below his knees, long pleated
     shorts, and a sagging muscle shirt that allowed tufts of his white chest hair to billow over the top. His black fanny pack
     hung loose on his hips like a loaded holster. “Ready to be young again, Rosales?” he asked.
    Don Celestino was turning side to side as if loosening his back before a long run. “What do you mean,
again?
”
    Cooder patted him on the shoulder. “Good answer.”
    Then each one hit the start button on his treadmill.
    Cooder jogged at a slow enough pace that it might have been confused with a fast walk. As he trotted along, he leaned forward
     as if he were carrying a sixty-pound car battery and desperately looking for a safe place to set it down. He chose the machine
     on the right because it was closer to the mounted television and the game