Bret Anthony Johnston

I never repaired the roof on the Caddy, and after a month of delivering tacos, I'd forgotten my father had ruined it. Summer in Corpus is glomming. Thick, viscous heat, and there's no rain unless a hurricane is churning in the Gulf, so I just left the top down. I enjoyed smelling the baking asphalt, the far-off briny bay. When I saw someone I knew, I saluted them from behind the wheel. Or I turned up the stereo and pretended not to recognize them.

In July, Mrs. Martinez catered a wedding in Portland, the little shrimping town across the ship channel. It took me two trips to deliver all the food — 200 enchiladas, vats of beans and rice, and bags of flour tortillas that I had to stash in the trunk. (A bag had flown out of the backseat on my first trip. When the wind lifted it into the night, it looked like a jellyfish swimming in black, black water.) By the time we'd set up the buffet it was ten o'clock. I'd thought I might drive Melinda home, but she had to serve coffee to the guests. She said, “If you stay, you can ask me to dance.”

“I don't know how to dance,” I said.

“Then stay and you can ask me not to dance.”

I spent the next hour pacing outside the reception hall, pretending I'd just married Melinda. I stole glances at her serving flan and leaning down to ask if people wanted decaf or regular, and the simple fact of her knowing my name amazed me. The prospect of meeting her after dessert sent my heart kicking. I wondered if she was a virgin, if she knew I was. I almost vomited into a pot of azaleas.

When I looked up, Mrs. Martinez was standing over me, telling me to drive back to Corpus and make sure Carlos had locked up. The last time he'd been in charge of closing, he'd polished off a fifth of tequila and pushed each of the refrigerators into the dining area. She said, “Next morning, what do I have? Rotten food and a cook in the hospital with a hernia.”

“Can Melinda come with me?”

Mrs. Martinez touched my cheek. She said, “Sweet Jay. Melinda just left.”

As I drove back, moonlight marbled the slatey sky and the bay under the Harbor Bridge stretched out like an endless expanse of deep, rich soil. I imagined Melinda riding beside me, her long hair whipping around us. I heard her small laugh that always reminded me of a sparrow bouncing into flight. With the Caddy coasting along Ocean Drive, I could almost feel Melinda reaching for my hand across the smooth seats. I'd only kissed one girl at a homecoming party, and I'd been too nervous to enjoy it. Our teeth knocked and scraped together, and her mouth tasted of meatloaf and wine coolers; after a few minutes of kissing, she fell asleep and I tiptoed out of the room, feeling simultaneously relieved and despondent. I thought Melinda's mouth would taste of cinnamon. “Melinda,” I said aloud. “My Mexican lover.”

I thought nothing of the few fat drops of rain that pelted me, nothing of the first thunderclap or the shudder of pink lightening or the heavy, muscular-smelling air that precedes a storm. But within a mile, rain was bouncing off my dashboard and drenching the seats and pooling under the accelerator. The windshield wipers sprayed the water back into my eyes and face, and the Fleetwood fishtailed around corners. Out of dumb instinct, I flipped the switch to raise the roof. The hinges lurched and moaned, a low steel-on-steel grinding like a hurt animal, and eventually the jagged strips of wet, ruined vinyl slapped down against me. I was a mile from home, but with the blurring rain and the wind pushing water over my windshield, I could only inch forward. I had to pull over when I couldn't see the lanes. The ragtop draped over my shoulders, like I'd gotten stuck in an automatic carwash.

When I unlocked our front door, the phone was ringing. I'd heard it when I was hustling up the slippery driveway, but I'd figured it for the sound of traffic sloshing by. My father's antique grandfather clock — another boon from the pawnshop — was about to hit midnight. For a beat, I allowed myself to believe Melinda was calling, but I knew better. In two years, my mother had never grasped the time difference between Corpus and Phoenix.

When I picked up, I heard, “Julian. This is Carlos, the cook from La Cocina.”

I hadn't even said hello. I'd almost fallen trying to answer before the phone woke my father, and I was shivering in my soaked clothes. A puddle formed around my shoes.

“Is everything okay, Carlos?” With the storm, I'd forgotten to check the door at the restaurant.

“I'm calling to say we've never had a better driver. When I own the restaurant, I'm going to give youÉ” His voice trailed off, and it sounded like he was knocking a bottle against his forehead, trying to jog the word he wanted. I thought he might say promotion or raise, but he said, “A trophy. When I own La Cocina, I'm going to give you the blue ribbon.”

My teeth wouldn't stop chattering. I said, “Thank you.”

“Julian,” he said, “the true reason I'm calling is for a small favor.”

A ride, I thought. Through the front window, I could see the Fleetwood parked by the curb. In the streetlamp's amber glow, with the rain streaming over its body, the car looked immaculate and reposed. The upholstery was getting ruined and I was to blame, but seeing the car like that, I felt an inexplicable pride.

Carlos said, “What I need, what I really need, is for you to bring me an accordion.”

“An accordion?”

“This is life or death. I truly need this instrument,” he said. “I wonder if your mom or dad plays the accordion, Julian. Maybe they have a spare.”

“We're not a very musical family,” I said.

“Because here's my idea,” he said, then took a long pull from his drink. “When I own the restaurant, we'll have girls posing by the door in Santa costumes. They'll wave in customers. Or maybe they'll be naked except for Santa hats, and they'll play carols on accordions.”

“The health department might frown on that, Carlos.”

He knocked the bottle against his head again, then drained it and dropped it in the trash. I heard him pop a top with a bottle opener. Sounding suddenly sober and grim, he said, “Julian, you're right. Even with pasties, we'd be in trouble.”

“Unfortunately.”

“You're an idea man, Julian. Manager material. When I'm the boss — ”

The line went dead. I was about to call Carlos back when my father said, “How was the old girl tonight?”

I didn't know how long he'd been behind me. He was leaning against the sink, wearing pajama pants and no shirt. The scar where he'd had his gall bladder removed looked like a centipede on his stomach. I said, “That was Carlos, from work.”

“The cook calls you at midnight?”

“He was drunk. He wants an accordion. I told him to check Blue Water.”

My father wasn't listening. He was peering over my shoulder, seeing the Fleetwood in the rain. Wet tallow leaves were stuck to its hood like leaches. The tattered roof looked like a busted garbage bag.

Our air-conditioner cycled on. I crossed my arms over my chest, which only made me colder.

My father said, “Pop quiz.”

“Ready, professor.”

He fixed me with his eyes again, then averted them to the car. He said, “What happens when a yacht fills with water?”

The question seemed deceptively easy, so I considered each word individually. Yacht. Fills. Water. But I couldn't think of any answer beyond the obvious one. I said, “It sinks.”

“Touchdown,” he said. Then he left me alone, trembling.

* * *

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