I thought the best thing about my father getting out of the Air Force was we would be able to go to Dodger games. He had been stationed at Edwards. Edwards didn’t seem that far from LA, and I had friends whose fathers would take them. But my father would say it was an all-day thing. Between a couple hours to get to the ballpark and a couple more to get home. . . well.

I said when Tommy Sexton’s dad takes him they spend the night in the Ambassador Hotel.

This was before Bobby Kennedy was murdered there.

I said in the Ambassador they have shows, with big stars. You could do what Tommy’s dad does: leave me in the room and go see the show.

My father got angry and said Charlie Sexton is a colonel. My mother said you could go once and it could be a motel. He said so you want me not to give you grocery money for a week?

When he started talking about getting out of the Air Force, she would say it’s only three more years to get your pension. He would say screw the pension, I’ll make plenty of money in civilian air traffic control. She would say my father dug ditches during the Depression. She would say you should never turn your back on more money.

He would laugh and say it’s not the Depression anymore and FDR’s not President. He would say we’ve got that idiot in the White House and he’s got us in a war we shouldn’t be in. She would say you’re not a pilot, you’re in air traffic control so you’ll be fine. He would say but I don’t believe in the war and you don’t either, and she would press her lips together just like when he asked if she didn’t want him to give her grocery money.

Sometimes when he said it wasn’t the Depression anymore, he would also say that she didn’t need to worry about Shirley Temple not getting adopted. Shirley Temple was a rich Republican now, he would say, and maybe I’ll make so much money in civilian air traffic control that I’ll become a Republican too.

He was talking about how she always said that when she was a little girl, she didn’t like Shirley Temple movies because she was scared they would end badly.

He would tell her she was scared the Shirley Temple movies would end badly because your father was a drunk and you were afraid that the man who might adopt her would be just as bad. She would press her lips together while he put his arm around her.

One time she pulled away and said it’s not really the war, is it? She said I think the real reason you want to get out is that you’re fed up with taking orders. He said, laughing like she had said something stupid, so that means the war is all right? Then he walked away.

He thinks I married him so I could give him orders, she said to me.

He got his discharge around the time school ended in ’66. My mother had been acting like she accepted him getting out. I think that was because she thought the same as I did, that it would mean moving to LA. She hated Edwards. She had started saying there would be things for her to do in LA besides sweat and pretend to like my father’s friends.

Then his discharge came and he said we were going to stay in Edwards for a while. My mother wanted to know how he was going to make good money doing civilian air traffic control there, LA was the place to go. He got a job as a dispatcher for a trucking company for what my mother said was half the money he had promised he could make in LA. He wouldn’t say why. So I asked my mother who said that’s not his brain thinking, but a different part of him. Then she gave me a funny look like she had said something she shouldn’t have.

We didn’t move till the fall of ’66 so I never saw Sandy pitch in person. Before we moved, at the press conference where he said he was done, people cried. I cried too but tried to think about the next season. We were in LA, so my father would take me to some games.

But it turned out there was something wrong with his heart. A little thing, he said, but for air traffic control your heart has to be perfect. He got a job with a different trucking company and I knew there might be some Dodger games, but not many.

 

The next year I got to see Drysdale on a Sunday early in June, against the Braves. In the first, he walked somebody and Aaron hit one out. There was no more scoring until the eighth, when the Braves pitcher fell apart and gave up three runs. In the ninth, Aaron came up with two out. Another homer would have tied it, but he struck out on a fastball above the letters.

That’ll teach him, Hutton shouted. Drysdale was mad after that first-inning homer.

I had thought I was going with my father, but before the game he took me to a house I’d never been to and said I was going with the boy who lived here. His name was Hutton and I didn’t know him. I didn’t like him because he acted like he had a right to be named Hutton. My friends were named things like Tommy or Jimmy. I’m Jim now but I was Jimmy then.

We had walked part of the way to the game before getting a taxi. While we were walking, Hutton stopped in front of an empty-looking house. Nobody had mowed the lawn in a long time.

Want to look in the windows? he said. Maybe we’ll see a dead body.

We might miss the first pitch, I said, trying to make my voice casual, like his.

Bet you’d pee your pants if you saw a dead body. Or if you were looking in the window and suddenly there were eyes looking back at you.

I was bigger than Hutton. But I would forget and he would make me nervous again.

He pushed against the gate that was set into a low chain-link fence.

Locked, I said, but Hutton had already climbed over.

I followed, jumping more than climbing because I wanted to be fast. We went up the stairs. They needed paint. I found a chair after Hutton had said Dibs and sat down hard in the middle of an old porch swing like I’d been racing him for it.

After a minute I said, Shouldn’t we go?

You worry a lot, Hutton said, and I said, No I don’t.

He said, That proves it: you’re worried about what I think.

There was nothing to do but wait. Hutton dug a hand into his pocket.

Found this in one of my mom’s drawers, he said.

He held up a balloon. He dangled the sealed end from his thumb and index finger.

You don’t know what it is, do you?

Course I know, I said, and he said, Then what is it?

I said, Now who’s worried? Why do you care?

Hutton laughed. He switched the balloon to his left hand and thrust the index and middle fingers of his right hand as far into it as they would go. I realized that it wasn’t a balloon.

Is it a Sheik? I said, and Hutton looked surprised.

I had sometimes found them hidden in a drawer in my parents’ room, usually in a little box that was almost like a matchbox. I think I hadn’t recognized the one Hutton had because he made me nervous. Or maybe because I hadn’t found any in my parents’ room in a while.

Sheiks are the best, I said.

Saying something like I knew about it even though it didn’t make me feel like him. He looked at me differently. But then it was like he remembered that he was Hutton.

I don’t use them, he said. I like to feel the flesh. You will too, when you start doing it.

I hated him for saying that.

How old are you? he said, and I said, Almost fifteen.

He was already fifteen.

He said, Bet you’ve never felt a girl’s. . .

I batted his hand away before he could touch my chest.

He said, Or her. . .

He tried to touch the front of my jeans but I blocked him again and said, Stop.

Stop! he said, making his voice go high.

I said, I didn’t sound like that.

He laughed. He held the Sheik open and spat into it and threw it down on the porch.

If somebody finds it, he said, they’ll think. . .

At the game we had great seats: pretty close behind home and a little toward first, giving us a perfect view of Aaron’s homer. Saying that he shouldn’t spend so much, my father had gone all out with the seats and with more money than we could ever spend on food and the taxi. The seats made up a little for going with Hutton instead of my father.

I was feeling better about Hutton when we got back to his house because all we had talked about in the taxi was the game.

Then he got out of the taxi and into another car that was waiting for him.

Spending the night at a friend’s house, he said.

What’ll I do? I said, and he said, How should I know? Ask your dad.

When my father answered, he blocked the door so that I couldn’t go in. Behind him, in what looked like a hallway, I saw a woman. She was in the shadows and all I could make out was her piled-up blond hair, like it was on top of a ghost’s head. Then she went into a room.

Is that Hutton’s mom? I said, and he said, Yeah, but we have more work to do.

For the trucking company?

Really boring work. Enjoy being a kid so you don’t have to worry about that stuff.

He was wearing what’s called a wife beater now. Back then we called them undershirts.

It’s hot working in here, too, he said. Her air conditioning isn’t great.

Beads of sweat were clinging to the dark hair that spilled out the top of his undershirt.

Hungry? he said, and I said, I ate at the game.

He handed me some money even though I already had plenty left over.

There’s a Taco Bell two streets down, he said. On Orange.

For anyone who doesn’t know, every town in Southern California has an Orange Street.

Stay there, he said. I’ll pick you up.

At the Taco Bell, I was going to sit and not eat, but that would have felt funny. I thought about walking around, but then my father might come when I wasn’t there. So I ordered two tacos, thinking I would eat them slowly to make them last. They were good, but you know how it is to eat when you’re not hungry. I could only eat one. I thought about throwing the other one away but I also thought about how my mother would always say it was a sin to waste food.

I decided to walk around by walking back toward Hutton’s house and then back and forth.

Halfway there, I saw a girl from my school. I didn’t know her but I thought she might be somebody to talk to.

She was sitting on the curb next to an empty driveway. Her feet were in the street and she was barefoot. I didn’t know what else to say, so I said, How come you’re barefoot?

She looked up like it was a stupid question.

She said, Why don’t you take your shoes off? so I sat down beside her.

What’s in the bag? she said.

I had rolled it up tight so it was no bigger than the taco.

Taco from Taco Bell, I said. Want it?

I got the same look as when I asked why she was barefoot.

Why would I want that when my mom makes real tacos? she said.

I thought maybe I wouldn’t untie my shoes, but instead get up and keep walking. It seemed like talking to her was going to be a lot of trouble. Then I thought about how long I might have to wait for my father. I untied my shoes and took them off and peeled off my socks.

Your feet smell, she said.

But not in a mean way. More like she thought it was funny.

I started taking Spanish this year, I said. I can finish with a B+ if I get an A on the Final, but I haven’t done that great. I think it’s only because the teacher is nice.

Mr. Rodriguez, she said. My mom and dad know him.

I had an idea. I couldn’t look at her to ask.

Maybe you could teach me this summer, I said, and she said, How much you gonna pay?

But I could see it was like when she said my feet smelled, so I said, I’d like to try your mom’s tacos.

She only said, Say something in Spanish.

I thought for a minute and said ¿Puedo usar tu baño? How’s that?

She said, I guess if you can’t ask for the bathroom, you shouldn’t even try.

She lay back on the sidewalk. She was wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt. The hem of her T-shirt rose above her navel. The skin on her stomach was brown and smooth like on her legs.

Okay if I use it? I said, and she said, As long as you flush.

She stood up fast—bouncing up, like she was showing off—and started up the driveway.

Is this your house? I said.

No, some stranger’s house. I don’t want you stinking up my bathroom.

I said, I don’t have to do that.

The front door opened into the living room. You didn’t pass through a foyer, so the kinds of things you might find in a foyer were crowded against the wall just inside the door. The curtains were closed, and in the dim light my eyes needed a minute to take in all the pictures and knickknacks. She stood with her hands on her hips.

You going to make me name everybody in the pictures? You won’t remember anyway.

This is weird, I said, not looking at the family pictures.

What’s with the skulls and skeletons? I said.

Their colors were vivid even in the shadowed room.

It’s my mom, she said. When a relative dies, she keeps the body around until all the meat falls off the bones. Then she makes little replicas.

I turned to look at her and jumped. A skull mask covered her face.

My mom can’t wait till I die, so she’s already made this one of me.

She explained the skulls and skeletons. I had never heard about that before.

She crossed her arms and said, Do you know my name?

I only kind of knew that it ended in a. There were four Mexican girls at my school and they all had names like that.

I recognized you because you’re one of the—

I stopped but she knew what I meant. She screwed up her lips so that it was like she was smiling only with the left side of her mouth. It brought out the shape of her lips. I had the same feeling as when she had stretched out on the sidewalk.

Could you guess if I told you the first letter? she said. E.

Just tell me, I said.

She said, Elena.

That’s pretty, I said.

She said, I know your name because one of my friends likes you.

My heart started beating faster and I said, Which one?

Yolanda. She’s in your algebra class. She said you helped her with a problem once and you were really nice.

After I had helped Yolanda a friend of mine named Bobby asked what I thought of her. I said she seemed nice but she wasn’t pretty. Bobby said he didn’t mean her face. He said you don’t fuck the face. Until Hutton told me he liked to feel the flesh, it was the only time I had heard someone my age talk like my father might have talked.

Want to watch TV? Elena said.

Sunday afternoon? There’s nothing on.

Wild Kingdom, she said, and I said, Right.

Well, she said. My mom and dad will be home soon.

I thought maybe she meant that if we were going to do anything, we needed to go fast. Or maybe she was warning me not to try anything. Either way, it made me nervous.

You don’t have to keep standing, she said.

Two sofas formed the long sides of a rectangle whose short sides were formed by the TV and a plush armchair. I thought the armchair was probably her father’s so I didn’t want to sit there. She sat on one of the sofas and pointed to the other one. I sat facing her. She slouched down, stretching her legs toward me in a way that made me have to cross mine.

She put on Wild Kingdom but after a few minutes said, This is no good.

Want to go for a walk? I said. Spy on my dad?

Spy on him doing what? she said, and I said, I want to make sure before I say.

A mystery! she whispered.

When we went outside, she said, Like we’re in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

At the next street we waited for a car to pass.

I’m fifteen, she said. What about you?

I felt her hand brush against mine. I thought it was an accident, so I started to pull away. Then she took hold. I worried that my hand was sweaty but she seemed fine with it.

 

Hutton had a corner house. When we got there, Elena looked up at the street sign.

You don’t live here, she said. Yolanda told me where you live.

I glanced over my shoulder at the Chevy parked in the street.

Our car, I said, and she said, You need a new one.

I went toward the tall fence at the side of the house and unlatched the gate.

No dog? Elena said.

Straight back along the side wall just before you got to the corner there was a window air conditioner sticking out. I guessed that was Hutton’s mother’s room. I put a finger to my lips and Elena rolled her eyes like I didn’t need to tell her to be quiet. The air conditioner was old and loud and we couldn’t hear anything from inside. The window was too high.

I can stand on your back, Elena said.

She was still barefoot. I got down on my hands and knees.

Does that hurt? she said. You’re strong.

You see anything? I said, and after a second she climbed down.

Your dad looks like you, she said. We should get out of here.

I was still on my hands and knees so she had a head start. I caught up on the sidewalk.

Was there a lady? I said. Blond?

She was walking back to her house.

What were they doing? I said, and she looked at me and then looked away.

At her house we sat on the curb. Her parents hadn’t come home. She put her arm around me but we didn’t talk much. Except I said my mother was a good cook but she never made tacos.

After a while I saw our car. My father stopped. He had the passenger window already rolled down, and looking through it I could see he was surprised. Elena took her arm off me and he drove a little farther so he could park. He came toward us. I stood but she didn’t.

Who’s this? he said, and I said, Elena. Elena, this is my dad.

How about that? he said. Almost the same as Hutton’s mother. She’s Ellen.

He realized that Elena wouldn’t know who Hutton was.

Hutton is a friend of Jimmy’s. I was just at his house, doing some work with his mother.

Elena touched her hair.

Ellen because she’s not Mexican, she said. Bet she doesn’t have black hair, either.

My father’s eyes opened wide.

That’s okay, he said after a minute. Your hair’s nice.

His eyes shifted back and forth between us.

You don’t believe in standing? To show respect for your elders?

He smiled when he said it. He didn’t believe in that stuff. He was more the kind of person who wanted people younger than himself to like him. What he said next was more like himself.

You don’t have to stand. And you don’t have to call me Mr. Bauer. It’s Jim.

She looked at me and spoke like my father wasn’t there.

Jim and Jimmy. Just like your dad. Little Mr. Bauer.

She looked at me like she had said something important. I didn’t understand because there were a lot of Jims and Jimmys in those days. I never knew a James until college.

We should go home, my father said. Your mother will wonder where we are.

Elena didn’t say anything when he said, It was a pleasure to meet you.

We got in the car. He looked in the rearview mirror so I turned around. Elena was standing. My father backed up. She stared at her bare feet. Through the rolled-down passenger window he said, We’ll see you again, but she kept her head down.

He started driving.

Tell me about the game so your mother will think I went, he said. And don’t say anything about Hutton or his mother. She thinks I work too hard already and wouldn’t like me getting that involved with the company.

He looked at me and said, Okay? and I said, Sure.

Elena, he grinned. Well, you’re old enough now.

I didn’t look at him and I didn’t ask old enough for what.

Funny how I told you to go to Taco Bell, he said. Found yourself a real taco belle.

 

I couldn’t wait till the next day. Monday and Tuesday would be for review, with Finals the rest of the week. I was sure about getting A’s in everything but Spanish even though thinking about Elena made it hard to study. And she would teach me Spanish in the summer, so the next year I would get an A.

There was a break between second and third periods. The Mexican girls always hung out in the same place. I waited till the warning bell scattered everybody so she would be alone. I went up to her smiling and she didn’t smile back. I touched her hand and she let it hang. I thought maybe she had argued with Yolanda because Yolanda liked me. But they had looked friendly during the break. I made up something dumb to say.

I told my dad you’d give me Spanish lessons and he said we could pay you.

Maybe it wasn’t dumb. When there’s a problem between two people, talking about something that has nothing to do with the problem can calm things down. Sometimes.

Jimmy, you’re nice, but. . .

She made a face to remind me that we had to get to class.

I’m really busy this summer, she said.

For a minute I forgot where I was supposed to go. I was lucky that it was Spanish because Mr. Rodriguez didn’t mark me late.

I think it was July when my father asked why we hadn’t seen my taco belle.