Free 2007 - The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Díaz Page A

and wind just walked right into the bungalow and got under your blankets or jumped in the shower with you. It was awful. I kept having these stupid visions of my brother trying to cook for himself. Don’t ask me why. I was the one who cooked for us, the only thing Oscar knew how to make was grilled cheese. I imagined him thin as a reed, wandering around the kitchen, opening cabinets forlornly. I even started dreaming about my mother, except in my dreams she was a little girl, and I mean really little; I could hold her in the palm of my hand and she was always trying to say something. I would put her right up to my ear and I still couldn’t hear.
    I always hated obvious dreams like that. I still do.
    And then Aldo decided to be cute. I knew he was getting unhappy with us but I didn’t know exactly how bad it was until one night he had his friends over. His father had gone to Atlantic City and they were all drinking and smoking and telling dumb jokes and suddenly Aldo says: Do you know what Pontiac stands for? Poor Old Nigger Thinks It’s A Cadillac. But who was he looking at when he told his punch line? He was looking straight at me. That night he wanted me, but I pushed his hand away. Don’t touch me. Don’t get sore, he said, putting my hand on his cock. It wasn’t nothing.
    And then he laughed.
    So what did I do a couple days later: a really dumb thing. I called home. The first time no one answered. The second time it was Oscar. The de León residence, how may I direct your call? That was my brother for you. This is why everybody in the world hated his guts.
    It’s me, dumb-ass.
    Lola. He was so quiet, and then I realized he was crying. Where are you?
    You don’t want to know. I switched ears, trying to keep my voice casual. How is everybody?
    Lola, Mami’s going to kill you.
    Dumb-ass, could you keep your voice down. Mami isn’t home, is she? She’s working. What a surprise, I said. Mami working. On the last minute of the last hour of the last day my mother would be at work. She would be at work when the missiles were in the air.
    I guess I must have missed him real bad, or I just wanted to see somebody who knew anything about me, or the cat piss had damaged my common sense because I gave him the address of a coffee shop on the boardwalk and told him to bring some of my clothes and some of my books.
    Bring me money too.
    He paused. I don’t know where Mami keeps it.
    You know, Mister. Just bring it.
    How much? he asked timidly.
    All of it.
    That’s a lot of money, Lola.
    Just bring me the money, Oscar.
    OK, OK. He inhaled deeply. Will you at least tell me if you’re OK or not?
    I’m OK, I said, and that was the only point in the conversation where I almost cried. I kept quiet until I could speak again, and then I asked him how: he was going to get down here without our mother finding out.
    You know me, he said weakly. I might be a dork but I’m a resourceful dork.
    I should have known not to trust anybody whose favorite books as a child were Encyclopedia Brown . But I wasn’t really thinking; I was so looking forward to seeing him.
    By then I had this plan. I was going to convince my brother to run away with me. My plan was that we would go to Dublin. I had met a bunch of Irish guys on the boardwalk and they had sold me on their country. I would become a backup singer for U2, and both Bono and the drummer would fall in love with me, and Oscar could become the Dominican James Joyce. I really believed it would happen too. That’s how deluded I was by then.
    The next day I walked into the coffee shop, looking brand-new, and he was there, with the bag. Oscar, I said, laughing, you’re so fat!
    I know, he said, ashamed. I was worried about you.
    We embraced for like an hour and then he started crying. Lola, I’m sorry . It’s OK, I said, and that’s when I looked up and saw my mother and my tía Rubelka and my tío walk into the shop.
    Oscar! I screamed but it was too late. My mother already had me in her